St. Francis deSales cemetery has a new grounds crew. This summer, St. Paul’s parish is using a local herd of sheep to maintain the grass in its historic cemetery in French Woods, NY, a community about five miles north of Long Eddy.
My son Sam’s “launch pad” is back. By “launch pad” I am referring to the sudden metamorphosis of one of our living room sofas to a staging area for Sam’s belongings and all-purpose rubble. It is both the essence of home and a point of departure for his frequent comings and goings.
Last week I snapped a photo of the stubborn slab of gritty snow that is the final vestige of the blizzard of ’17. This crust of snow is found wasting away in the sudden spring heat at the side of the Tops supermarket parking lot in Hancock, NY.
Red-wing blackbirds are back, creating a riot at my bird feeders. The snowdrops are about to bloom. Sap is running. Wild watercress, now growing in our muddy streams, is a respite for our winter-weary eyes.
Was 2016 some alternate reality? A dream? A fantastic trip down the rabbit hole?
The holidays are over and the Christmas ornaments have gone back into their tissue-paper layers. The cow’s tooth, the clothespin reindeer, the crystal seahorse and the slender, antique tear drops were all packed away and sealed into their Rubbermaid totes.
I am not a car person. It’s so bad I can’t even remember the color of my current car, much to my children’s astonishment. My standards have never been high: I’m happy as long as the car is running from point A to point B.
I bought a Thanksgiving turkey on Election Day after casting my ballot. I had on my silly “I voted” sticker as I sorted through the frozen, plastic-wrapped, bulbous-shaped turkeys—so strangely removed from their real-life stateliness of puffed and upswept feathers.
When I went to college—oh so long ago—I recall waiting for the moment when the daily mail would be delivered. I could hear shuffling feet behind the wall of metal post-office style boxes in the mail room located in the dorm’s basement.