home

who was it that said "you can't go home again"?

whoever it was, was right.
i came "home" on my road trip and realized that
i only want to spend a little time here.

it is fun to catch up with people from my past,
but that is where they reside....in my past.

i sometimes think that it would be great to
live here again....there are some great natural
resources here,
the beach,  the country, the great weather in the summer.

but NO (emphatically NO)
i must go back to
life as i know it.

my gypsy life

my grandmother's lilac

for all of my life, there has been a lilac bush just outside the kitchen window of my grandmother's house.

with the window open in the springtime, the sweet smell of the lilac bush mingled with the pot roasts, meatloaves, and apple pies.

some days the fragrance was overpowering, but we always awaited the blooms to indicate that spring was finally here.
i wish this were a scratch and sniff photo!

last year there was only one bloom, this year 7.  nearby, along the side of the garage is a more recent lilac bush that was full and lush this spring.

small town hate crimes?

i am ashamed to say that hate crimes may have come to our small midwestern town.
as reported in yesterday's paper, an investigation continues in the vandalism of the
black church in our community.
i thought we were above this type of behavior.

what is this world coming to?

along the creekbed

saturday morning started with a steady drizzle.
i was anxious to get to the farm, driving much too fast as the mud spattered under the edges and over the sides of the car, tires all the while spinning deeper ruts in the road.

in short time, the drizzle turned to full-fledged
drenching rain,
boots and raingear required.

when the rain let up, we walked down
to the creek, listening to the birds who
welcomed the respot.
to the left and right we watched the creek movement.
no trout were seen, perhaps they were
downstream near the rapids.

a breathtaking patch of ferns, orchids and mayapples appeared as we neared the end of the path.
wouldn't it be lovely to sit here for a while?

the asparagus pick

for a number of months, i have been involved in a planned "asparagus pick" in my hometown.
2 of us were arriving early in the week, one from wisconsin, one from michigan.   i was coming in on thursday for a long weekend.
we met thursday evening, along with the two hometown guys,
the five of us sat on the deck until dark catching up on each other's lives.
3 beers and a pizza later, i said goodbye with plans to meet again at 8am. (ish)
at 8:06, i picked up the 2 fellows who were ready and we headed for the farm.
a quick lesson in picking and we were off.   there were already 2 pickers out with buckets full.
it was going to be a good pick.
by 9:30 we had picked about 150 pounds of asparagus and we were ready to wash, sort, and bundle the "gus" for delivery to the markets.
it was the best of times.
tomorrow:  same time, same place, same plan.

the field awaiting picking

beautiful stalks

a tub full after only 1/2 hour

weighing in

wash/sort

bundle

the local market

weight for market

open for business

trunkful to deliver to the upscale marketplace

railroad crossings

i grew up hearing the sounds of freight trains.
there were two major rail lines in our small town,
and my father worked for one of them.

at an early age, he instilled in each of us
the precautions to be taken at a rail crossing.

stop.  look.  listen.

at each crossing,
an approaching train would warn us
with its whistle.

hwhooooo, hwhooooo, hwhoo-hwhooooo
long, long, short-long
the sound carries long distances.

we had street crossings every block
through town, about 20 altogether,
so once a train was on its way,
it seemed as if it was one long whistle

hwhooooo, hwhoooooo, hwhoo-hwhooooo,
hwhooooo, hwhooooo, hwhooooooooooo

if you were driving (or in most cases when i
was young, walking) and were unfortunate
enough to be "caught" by a train,
you counted cars, never a finite number,
and waited to catch sight of the caboose
to indicate the end of the train.

50 years later, there are only a few
trains each day.
i still count cars, but, alas,
there are no cabooses anymore.

i love the sound of a passing train,
the rythm of the wheels on the track, the
haunting whistle.
i especially like it at night,
it lulls me to sleep.

often, i hear the sound in unexpected places,
at the Y, along the road running paralell to
the tracks
i can pick out the train whistle in a movie

i can hear it now,
in the library, and
i feel
at peace.