Walking in the predawn hours,

I startled at the sound of an owl’s call

in the woods to my left.

There is something primeval

about an owl’s song.

Predatory, watchful —

owls can wait patiently

in the dark

for just the right moment

to strike.

The morning’s encounter

lifted me from the ordinary

suburban streets

back to the woods of my childhood —

where sounds were larger

the darkness deeper.

With equal measures comfort and thrill,

I stopped to scan the trees,

the elusive owl

just out of sight.

Yet, the rhythmic, measured hoots

assured me

my company remained.

Afraid to break the spell,

my dogs and I stood still

for several long minutes

before the pull of the day ahead

dragged us forward.

With the sun up and shining,

my mind continually wanders back

to the owl in the dark.

Where is she now?

What happens to the magic of night

when the world pushes on?

Isolation Journal Prompt #142

Select a text to erase. Study the page, and se what rises up.

“As we age, we are bound to find comfort from the notion that it takes generations for a way of life to fade. We are familiar with the songs our grandparents favored, after all, even though we never danced to them ourselves. At festive holidays, the recipes we pull from the drawer are routinely decades old, and in some cases even written in the hand of a relative long since dead. And the objects in our homes? The oriental coffee tables and well-worn desks that have been handed down from generation to generation? Despite being “out of fashion,” not only do they add beauty to our daily lives, they lend material credibility to our presumption that the passing of an era will be glacial.    

But under certain circumstances, the Count finally acknowledged, this process can occur in the comparative blink of an eye. Popular upheaval, political turmoil, industrial progress — any combination of these can cause the evolution of a society to leapfrog generations, sweeping aside aspects of the past that might otherwise have lingered for decades. And this must be especially so, when those with newfound power are men who distrust any form of hesitation or nuance, and who prize self assurance above all.                                   

A Gentleman in Moscow p. 144

As We Age

As we age,

the notion we are familiar with…

songs favored by our grandparents,

festive holidays,

recipes decades old

written in the hand long dead,

–in the comparative blink of an eye–

have newfound power.

When hot August days grew short,

my mother piled my sister, brother and me

into our Country Squire station wagon

for a trip to Bruce’s Variety store.

Notebooks, pens, pencils,

metal lunchboxes, erasers and loose-leaf paper

spread out before us,

occupying two whole aisles of the eclectic dime store.

My brother headed straight for lunch boxes —

the choice could speak volumes in the elementary classroom.

Superheroes, cowboys and The Partridge Family splashed across tin pails

that when unlatched, revealed a thermos nestled in its top.

I, on the other hand,

stood in reverence before trays of pens, pencils,

colored pencils, ballpoint pens,

markers and plain old number 2 pencils.

My mother limited us to the essentials for the first week of school.

I argued one could never have enough writing instruments.

At home, I carefully unwrapped my bounty

onto the soft comforter of my brass bed.

A multi-colored bag served as my pencil pouch.

I thought carefully about the scribing tools needed

on the first day of junior high school.

Today, thinking back on long ago shopping trips,

I need only glance up at my wide array

of writing implements to realize

I may never be cured of this simple obsession.

Knitting came into my life

with the first baby sweater my grandmother crafted.

The creamy white sweater

boasts three small buttons

and a spray of spring flowers — candy pink, lemon yellow, sky blue.

The flowers rest on perfectly knit rows

like iced decorations on a petit four.

When I turned ten,

my grandmother presented me

with two long wooden sticks and a rosy red ball of yarn.

It was time I learned to knit.

My first efforts were weak.

Holes dotted my early scarves,

where I let stray stitches wander away.

My grandmother chatted amiably as we knit —

about new plants in her garden,

purchasing corn for the ducks of the nearby pond,

plans for a family mystery trip on the weekend.

Occasionally, she would reach over

to examine my stitches.

She was generous with praise,

but quick to school me on corrections.

“You only get better with practice.”

I did not knit through my middle and high school years.

When a college roommate wanted to learn,

I picked up wooden needles

and my hands fell into

familiar rhythms – knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one.

This evening, I will sit on the couch —

soft, silky cashmerino wool in shades of smoky gray

dancing across my needles

as I knit the lace pattern of a muffler

to guard against an early spring chill.

I can almost hear my grandmother’s voice

regaling me with stories of the ordinary,

woven with two sticks and a ball of yarn.

We are tossed at sea

in this pandemic.

Humanity strained,

hugs abandoned.

If our species

relies on connection,

What binds us together in times of trouble?

Love.

Hope.

Stories.

These are the things that hold us together.

Love and hope are intertwined —

each strengthening the other.

And, stories feed us when we are apart.

The pandemic will end.

But,

we will always require

Love.

Hope .

Stories.

Inspired by Alice Dunbar-Nelson’s poem “Hope“.

Not long ago,

my father sold his summer home of thirty years.

The large, rambling seaside abode

witnessed fourth of July fireworks,

games of flashlight tag, barbecues and bonfires.

My father called to say five or six boxes

were headed my way.

You see, reader, I collect memories,

family moments documented

in sepia or engraved on old debate trophies.

When the boxes arrived,

I peeled open the cardboard shell

to reveal a lifetime’s worth of gold.

There is my great uncle Nate, 1942,

clad in WWII Marine khakis on Oahu just after Pearl Harbor,

the rifle in his hands

incongruent with the waving palm trees;

my young law clerk father, 1959,

beaming along side Chief Justice Earl Warren;

my mother, 1966, impossibly beautiful,

resting on Cape Cod’s sandy shore.

This summer, I will revisit each moment,

jotting notes for my son and future generations

before the images no longer represent reminiscence,

but rather hold strangers.

Memories are ephemeral.

We must capture them while we can.

Yesterday was my son’s birthday.

His one request for dinner tonight:

Boston cream pie.

Through the years I have tried a host of recipes.

Boston cream pie is actually a yellow cake

with custard layers and chocolate ganache drizzled on top.

Never have I made a Boston cream pie that satisfied me.

Today, I rose early, walked the dogs,

visited the market for a few final ingredients,

and took to the kitchen armed with a new recipe.

In fact, the recipe is a revelation.

Ina Garten, a favorite cook & East Hampton acquaintance of my stepmother,

added Boston cream pie to her latest cookbook.

But, it is Garten’s lengthy essay, included with the recipe,

that gives me confidence and comfort.

Garten spent six years trying to perfect a Boston cream pie recipe,

only to be disappointed year after year.

Finally, with a suggestion for a “cake soak” from

“an extraordinary baker”, Garten found success.

In my sunny, moss green kitchen,

I spent the morning going through the paces of Garten’s recipe.

I realize now…

folding pastry cream, melting chocolate,

baking a cake light as air —

are all signs of love.

Tonight will tell if the intricate recipe

produces an exquisite desert.

But regardless,

I spent the morning thinking of my son

with each additional ingredient —

I consider it a win already.

For the past year,

my mother has existed solely

in old, worn photographs.

The mother of joy and connection,

craft projects and mystery trips,

bare feet and clay sculpture.

Just one year ago,

the mother I encountered

was a shadow of this younger woman.

Drink, despair and disease

had robbed us all of her true self.

But now,

as time passes and her death

adds distance to the darker days,

the mother of my childhood

returns in vivid color.

Any pain from the last twenty years

is falling away,

leaving only the gleaming

portrait of a mother whole.

As a child I collected treasure on walks —

sea glass, acorns, driftwood, shells.

My mother honored my discoveries by creating

small tableaus throughout the house —

a woodland scene on the mantle,

a beach scattering on the kitchen counter.

Today on my walk

I found a large pine cone

nestled in a bed of pine needles.

Even though my hands were full,

two rambunctious pups on leashes,

I stopped to scoop up this find

and carry it two miles home.

Pine cones have one primary job —

encase pine tree seeds

in a fortress of woody leaves to protect

them from winter and wild animals.

It takes nearly three years for a pine cone to mature.

Yet, once the pine cone falls,

it opens its stiff scales,

allowing the gentle seeds to move on.

My abandoned pine cone, a parent and vessel,

now sits on the mantle so we can honor

its role in replenishing the earth.

If quarantine has taught me anything,

it is the pleasure of small things.

There is an order to the day,

absent when schedules are rushed.

A pot of Love Supreme coffee from Chicago,

Art Pepper’s jazz warming the room,

two pups asleep on the plush rug at my feet.

Outside the tangerine sunrise

melts into the horizon.

My desk by the window holds all I need —

pens, extra sharp pencils, an open journal.

A year ago, this comfort was only possible

on Sunday mornings.

But now, I rise at 5 am for a long walk —

dogs, birds and neighborhood foxes in tow.

I will miss the solitude, the order, the peace of mind

when the world reopens fully.

For now, I sip my coffee

and appreciate the comforts of home.