They (whoever ‘they’ are) say that in order to recover, you must first admit you have a problem.
My problem is: I want to cry every time I hear the buzz of a chain saw ripping into an innocent tree.
I know. I know…it is not safe to ignore trees who may appear lovely from the exterior, but whose interior may be full of rot, and therefore a danger, if Mother Nature decides to kick up a storm.
But, surely there is a gentler way to bid farewell to a natural wonder which has given years of shade from a sweltering sun, whose roots gripped the earth and held erosion at bay, and whose branches were home to a variety of birds. If squirrels could speak (our language), I’m sure they would beg that their playground not be destroyed in such a violent way.
And yet, I hear the grinding, buzzing, ripping taking place down the street, and I find myself once again, tearing up over the tearing down.
All at once, I am reminded of one of the advantages of living in a town designated as:
“Tree City USA”
. . . a new sapling will be put in its place very soon.
The rumbling and swooshing and screeching woke me long before the alarm clock sounded.
Did a freight train jump the tracks? Was there a terrorist attack? A horrible traffic accident?
In a stumbling, drunken-like stupor, I made my way to the open bedroom window to discover the source of the fearsome cacophony . . . It sounded like a thousand needles prickling the predawn sky.
Standing there in the cool darkness, I realized, as the latest gush surrounded me and pushed past — The last of the brown, crumbling, dead leaves were being hurled and smashed to smithereens against any barrier standing in their way by . . .
Mother Nature, blowing Autumn off and making way for the entrance of Winter!
(I understand she has an important job to do . . . but, couldn’t the bitch have waited until after the alarm went off? Geez.)
This was one of those Halloweens that seared itself into the recesses of my mind, just waiting to bring a smile upon request by my consciousness.
I make that request every year at this time.
Wasn’t it yesterday that I said, “to hell with it!” and cut a good white sheet to drape over my little boy’s frail frame? And wasn’t it that same yesterday when I taught my little girl the Roaring Twenties song, “Anything Goes?”
I can still hear him roar as he raised his stretched arms, because, to him, that would be much more frightening than simply shouting “boo!”
Placing the dark brown wig over her bright red tresses to hide her identity from her classmates was the only demand my little flapper made.
To ensure the whole Halloween experience would be absorbed into their own memory-banks — I reminded him to roar at each door . . . and her little girl voice belted out: “In olden days a bit of stocking was looked on as something shocking…now, heaven knows —anything goes!”
This Halloween season, I hope you share your own recollections with friends and family, and keep building on those “Misty, water-colored memories.”
I’d also love to read them in the comments section of this post, if you’re so inclined, Dear Readers!
The kind of day where the last of the dry, dead leaves are ripped from the trees and are tossed high in the air, and tumbled over and over before they come to rest on the brown, crisp, dying lawns of the suburbs.
Raking occupied the last three weekends. Too soon.
But—the current windy day (one of the last of its kind this autumn) has decided to conduct one more performance by rustling the uppermost leafy branches of its arboreal orchestra.
The sky provides a bright blue curtain behind the pine, maple, oak, and dogwood musicians.
I watch and listen again to the wind as it takes its last gasp of warmth before winter.
For some reason, I always hear a balalaika playing “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago.
It’s August, and parents all over the country are crying.
Some are crying tears of joy…finally summer is over and the kids are heading back to school.
Some are crying tears of fear…their “babies” are heading off to Kindergarten.
But the most all-encompassing tears are being shed by parents of young adults who are moving into dorms in preparation for their first year of college. — Their tears cascade over their cheeks in an unexpected gush of joy, pride, anxiety, anger, awe, and yes . . . fear.
Joy for their offspring, as they see their beaming smile while they unpack in the closet posing as their new home.
Pride for producing such an obvious genius compared to all the other losers wandering the halls, unable to find their assigned rooms.
Anxiety about all the sage advice they worry they may have forgotten to impart . . . oh, and about that unusual looking character covered in tattoos and piercings who was part of the welcoming committee for their child’s dorm.
Anger due to frustration with the roommate’s parents, who insist their child must take the lower bunk because of ‘back issues.’
Awe, as they take the campus tour given by their brilliant child, who remembers the name and location of each building after only visiting the campus once before . . . six months ago.
And finally —
Tears of Fear, as they slump into the front seat of the family car, preparing for that emptied-soul, heartbroken, lonely trip home, and then wrench their necks as they try to get one more glimpse of their “baby,” . . . which raises the fear they may have to visit the chiropractor at the college medical facility before they can hope to be able to drive back home . . . where they will be able to cry, sniffle, and wail noisily, without embarrassing their very own newly-minted college freshman!
Photo Credit: Sue Panzone Rosica, Belmont University, Tennessee
AS A “BACK YARD BIRDER” TWITTER HAS A VERY DIFFERENT MEANING FOR ME!
FATHER’S DAY WAS YESTERDAY AND SUMMER ARRIVES TODAY!
TO MARK BOTH OF THESE IMPORTANT DATES ON THE CALENDAR—I DECIDED TO SHARE SOME SPECIAL “TWEETS!” Pour yourself a cool refreshing lemonade, iced tea, or something a little stronger, perhaps? And please do enjoy!