is there room enough?

Sometimes I am a virtual-babysitter for my young grandson, who will turn 4 years old in a few months. Occasionally his mom will initiate a FaceTime call to me and then dash off somewhere within their home to bring in the dog or to put clothes in the washing machine, etc. It is my task to (via IPhone) creatively engage the preschooler, who lives 120 driving miles away.

Flashback to a day when I learned to temper my virtual play: Grandson is about two years of age and I intone, “I’m watching you,” in a semi-spooky voice all the while slowly moving the IPhone camera lens nearer my eye, the sight of which causes him to squeal with laughter, albeit a laugh tinged with wariness, not unlike perhaps, the reaction elicited by a well-timed “peek-a-boo.” In his frightened glee he tumbles to the floor.

[Note-to-self # 263: Do not overstimulate a grandchild via FaceTime to the point of falling when both of his parents are completely out-of-vocal range.]

He picks himself up, “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! Are you okay, buddy?” “Yes, Mimi.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.”  "Alright, then let’s dust ourselves off.”  He follows my cue and we both make the semi-slapclap motion one might use if one were to satisfactorily remove the final dust from one's hands, I clean my hands of it, it’s time to move on. Only he says excitedly, “Do it again, Mimi. Make your eye big again, Mimi."

Today, nearing the age of four, he is savvy enough that if he can manage to get his hands on Mom’s phone he can FaceTime me all by himself. So as I loll in bed on a cool Fall weekday morning, reading a captivating bit of fiction, the phone rings. The clock reads 6:45 a.m., about the time that Grandson’s Dad would have just left the house for work:

“Hey, buddy, good morning."

“Mimi, will you watch, ‘Room on the Broom’ with me?”

“Where is Mom?”

“She is here. She can put it on the television for us. Hey, Mimi, look at this!” He walks, IPhone in hand across the living room and places his back up against the television, knowing to hold the camera so that I don’t lose sight of him. “Look, Mimi. I’m glued to the television,” he says laughing. A minute or two later, still immobile, “See, Mimi, I’m still glued to the television” he repeats in a lilting voice.

Mom tunes the television to Netflix. Grandson and I will be viewing a televised version of a book I first read to him a year ago, “Room on the Broom,” written by Julia Donaldson and illustrated by Alex Scheffler. As Mom goes about her morning prep, Grandson carefully places me, Virtual Grandmother, by his side on the sofa and together we watch the 25 minute show. (Mom peeking her head in every so often to check on our wellbeing.)

I'm familiar with the book, but it's my first viewing of the movie version. I'm pleased to find how carefully it follows the book’s plot, narration and theme. I sip coffee as we watch and I keep a running commentary (to let Grandson know that I am fully attentive.)

The theme is about developing friendship and the positive results of kindness, sharing and unity. The verse utilizes Seussian rhythm, rhyme and repetition, rendering it ideal for the open minds of young children (or even closed-minded adults).

Here is a sample of the cadence and rhyme:

"The witch had a cat and a hat that was black,

and long ginger hair in a braid down her back.

How the cat purred and how the witch grinned,

As they sat on their broomstick and flew through the wind."

From the above verse you can see that a witch and a cat live a harmonious life and that they traverse on a broom.

As the witch “cooks," (my interpretation of the witch’s bubbly and sometimes experimental cauldron concoctions) the witch keeps an array of earthly delights at her disposal. The ever-wanting-to-be-helpful cat angrily shoos away insects, that happen to be caught in the act of nibbling leaves the witch has gathered. Seeing the cat’s reaction, the witch indicates that there is enough for everyone by giving a whole leaf to each bug.

I ask Grandson, "Is the witch nice or not nice?" "She's nice," he responds.

In flight, the witch loses a series of personal objects that are of meaning or importance to her. As witch and cat search, they meet unique characters who assist them in recovering the lost items.  As each distinctive newcomer  joins the group, friendships are formed and each asks, “Is there room on the broom for a _____ like me?" The witch welcomes each newbie to share a spot, despite their added weight and the depletion of space on the broom.

The characters:

Witch: An mature woman who is kind, generous and accepting of others, peculiarities and all (or should I say “warts and all” as the witch, herself, has a prominent wart on her nose.) 

Cat:  The feline’s protective nature toward the witch is encumbered by his suspicion and jealousy of each seemingly odd newcomer.

Dog: Like most dogs he is eager to please (he also seems to suffer from itching due to fleas?) He incites uncertainty in, and yet displays respectful admiration for the cat, perhaps like a younger child might to an older sibling.

Bird: A lonely displaced green-feathered bird, who seems to have been subjected to painful rejection by her black-feathered flock.

Frog: An obsessively clean amphibian who dislikes the polluted swamp into which he’s been born.

Dragon: A villainous, hungry beast with a particular hankering for "witch and chips for my tea” (did I mention that the author is from the U.K.?)

From the moment the dragon spots the witch, his intention is to devour her, to abate or satisfy his hunger. He seems disinterested in her companions.

At some point the crowded broom cracks under the weight of its diverse occupants. The broomstick snaps in two and they fall to the ground. The witch and her motley misfits, on different broom sections, become separated.

The dragon, spotting the witch alone and vulnerable, and moves in for the kill.

As the dragon lifts the dazed witch with his claws, her companions, who have collectively fallen into a murky bog, emerge clinging together as a single form, unrecognizably mired in gunky muck. The dragon senses danger in the large, looming creature with multiple, odd-shaped limbs, heads and eyes, wide-open eyes, all fixed upon the dragon. And thus the dragon’s false bravado is exposed.

The not-so-brave-after-all dragon releases the witch and slinks away, you know the head down, mumbling to oneself, tail-between-the-legs kind of shameful retreat.

Reunited with the witch, the animals alight and rinse the muck from their bodies with fresh water. They take a look at the irreparable broom. The ever-optimistic witch begins to cook up a potion. Being aware of the array of diversity before her, she asks each companion to choose an item to share, something of meaning or value to add to the cauldron. Someone, perhaps the frog I guess, tosses in a waterlily. The dog, of course, throws in a bone, and so on. The witch takes a stir of the potion and pauses, perhaps sensing that something is yet missing.  She espies a red mushroom with white spots, an item with which she has previously had potent reactions, she plucks it and tosses it into the cauldron and incants, “Iggity-ziggety-zaggety-zoom."

**POOF**

Out comes a much improved, super duper state-of-the-art broom AND it has room to comfortably fit everyone (it even has a built-in shower for the frog.) 

My take on the magic of the spotted mushroom is that it is some kind of game changer, like love or, perhaps it is vulnerability, or compassion, but whatever it is: look out and hold onto your seat, because it is some kind of powerful...

The story is a good moral lesson about the benefits of helpful kindness toward others. A tale that recognizes the power of unity, and what can be accomplished when everyone’s input is valued, when we are fully accepting of the natural differences inherent in all beings and when we make an effort to discern what will best benefit everyone.

***

Happy Halloween!

and happy 5 year blogiversary to me ;)

***

the "Room on the Broom" witch's favored & powerful red mushroom

A real life "fly agaric" mushroom -thought to be poisonous or to possibly induce hallucinations?
It almost looks cartoonishly fake, does it not?

Is there room on the broom for a dog like me?

...for a skeleton like me?
...for a scarecrow like me?

...for a ghost like me?

I'm watching you...

---

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble."

-- Shakespeare, Macbeth Act IV

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” 

—Anaïs Nin

"...As we live a life of ease, everyone of us has all we need...” 

— John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Part of Me...

Part of me is delighted to find a cute Halloween bag at my doorstep. It is filled with sweet treats and a note from a phantom ghost wishing me a “happier fall.”

Part of me basks in that sweetness for a moment...

Part of me reads more of the note and sees that it is a “chain” and thus further action, on my part, is suggested, further action within a 24-hour period.

Part of me becomes becomes piqued.

Part of me tries to think it through from the kind donor's viewpoint.

Part of me reasons that perhaps they envision a community of houses “sweetened” by good wishes and such a vision would require some kind of community involvement.

Part of me enjoys the goodness of that thought, too.

Part of me likes that thought enough to hope that every house is a recipient of such kindness.

Part of me knows that my participation will, however, necessitate my making two photocopies of the note, a 14-mile round trip by car to town to buy cute halloween bags and treats, assembling of the bags and then choosing a couple of friends to whom to deliver the bags.

Part of me is tired just thinking about the process. 

Part of me is also grateful that I don’t have a whole heck of a lot of friends out here.

Part of me wonders if that neighbor that so many people complain about on the far west end of the community will get a bag.

Part of me doubts it.

Part of me thinks that it would be a good idea for me to donate my bag to that phonophobic neighbor.

Part of me reasons that it would be an even better idea to give similar bags to every house in a neighboring small town that has an indication of children residing inside, like toys on the lawn, or kid’s artwork taped to the window.

Part of me thinks isolated farming senior citizens, like the widow who lives alone, from whom I buy fruits and vegetables, would benefit from such a sweet surprise.

Part of me says, you’d better shut your thinking up right now, and remember that sensible part of yourself that didn't want to drive to town to buy bags and treats and begin an assembly line.

Part of me wonders if this “you’ve been booed/phantom ghost” is some new phenomenon and looks online.

Part of me wonders why I never noticed all the folderol that proliferates online.

Part of me reasons that it’s because I don’t use FaceBook.

Part of me rereads the note and is shocked to notice in the verse: “Deliver at dark when there isn’t much light…Ring the doorbell and run, and stay out of sight!!"

Part of me is surprised such an action would be encouraged after the recent overreaction when a census taker came and rang someone’s doorbell in the evening arousing such fear that there was immediate talk of “gating” the entire community to keep stranger-danger out.

Part of me remembers that I have never been a fan of the “ding-dong ditch” prank.

Part of me virtually pats myself on my own virtual back.

Part of me wonders if I have any control whatsoever of my mind.

Part of me is happy that the weather will be nice for a couple of days and I can meditate and attempt to regain my senses as I work in the yard.

Part of me is hungry from all of this pondering. That part of me reaches into the bag, takes and bites into a snack size Reese's peanut butter cup...

---

Thank you, Phantom Ghost!

***

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”― J.R.R. Tolkien

(I know I used this quote recently, but part of me said, "Sorry, I got nuthin' else.")

Purging and Reacquiring

When we moved from our house in the city to the rural countryside, Helpful Husband and I had planned to downsize. Now empty nesters, we no longer needed a larger home, such as where we’d raised our three children.

The new house we'd chosen had less closet space, one less bedroom, a much smaller kitchen with fewer cabinets and, it did not have an unfinished basement that spanned the breadth of the entire first floor. A basement that could easily serve as an indoor roller skating rink during cold Chicago winters… -but, I’m getting off track here. 

Basically, we’d traded a older bungalow with a generous indoor capacity and a typically small city lot for a newer, smaller house with a spacious outdoor scape. No problem, I reasoned, we'll usually have guests during the warm summer months and after cozying down at night for sleep, our guests can all spill outdoors during the day. It amazes me just how rosy my positive-spin mind can paint a scene… 

We’ve all read the tales of Baby Boomer collectors, like Helpful Husband and I, who have then gone on to spawn Gen X-ers and Millennials who abhor “clutter” of any type. Nostalgia-based-on-tangible-objects is the enemy of my children, at least. On the other hand, I feel there is some hope for my three grandchildren who can accumulate and re-clutter with the best of them. Older Son and Lovely Daughter-in-Law laid out the rules early on, if their children were to be recipients of any new toy, said children must first purge an older toy, passing the discard along to a friend or family member, or by donating the castoff to charity. 

Oh, but it is often with agony that such decisions are made, for each toy seems to hold some precious value. “No, puh-leeze, Dad, not my one-eyed stuffed snake!! I cannot give him away!” 

As we prepared for our move, Helpful Husband and I began the painful process of purging our treasures. 

We are now beginning our 6th year in our new home and I am embarrassed to say it is showing signs of being filled to capacity. Closets, nooks and cabinets are stuffed.

Our carpenter friend was here recently to install a sliding door and handrail, and to resurface a wall and such. He asked if he could store the scrap material overnight in our garage as he’d forgotten to attach the trailer to his truck, necessary to haul away the refuse. “Certainly,” said Helpful Husband, “Give me a few minutes and I'll move some things around in the garage to make room.” His head thrown back in laughter, Carpenter Friend said, “Wait, what is this 'move some things around’ business? I thought I built that new shed for you last year for the specific purpose of your then having ample elbow room in your garage! What is with you guys!?"

On occasion Helpful Husband and I make a day trip to one of a handful of quaint and not-so-quaint river towns that dot the edges of the Mississippi River. We usually stop somewhere in town for lunch and then take in the sights. When it comes to antique stores in a river town, (as the saying goes) you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one. Audrey’s is a go-to favorite of ours. It’s a large two-story “antique, collectibles and useables” shop. I think I read somewhere that it takes up an impressive 18,000 square feet. 

Sometime back on a visit to Audrey’s I became smitten with a half-dozen little glasses I'd found tucked in a corner on her 2nd floor. The glasses were identical to glassware that I'd given away when we purged our city house of “stuff” years back. I just had to have them. The curve of the glass had the perfect feel in my hand. And you know it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if I was actually buying back my own, once purged, merchandise.

As I was purchasing my little glasses, Helpful Husband was standing about 20 feet away taking a last glance at merchandise near the entrance door. Audrey said to me, “Where  did you find these?” “On the 2nd floor,” I responded, indicating the north side of the building. “Why, I had a customer looking for these recently. I told her they were on the second floor. She must have missed them. You know those are wine glasses, right?” 

From his adjoining spot, Helpful Husband calls out, “Well, if they’re wine glasses then you certainly have the right buyer.” Really, Helpful Husband, really? I hardly know this woman and yet you feel a need to paint me with this unflattering broad swath? But, I chuckle aloud, as does Audrey. 

Just around the corner from Audrey’s we discover a new place. The purveyor sells a mix of vintage clothing, secondhand household furniture, and odds and ends. Price tags are attached to items with an original price & three additional dates, all with corresponding “non-haggle” but very reasonable prices. Every so often the price reduces. So if you desire an item you check the date. It’s gives an indication of how long the item has been for sale. Then you may gamble and wait for the final reduced price, hoping no one else has purchased it in the interim. Or you may grab it immediately, if it’s something you feel you cannot be without.

In our first visit to the the “just around the corner” shop, Helpful Husband quickly spots an object in which I, at some point, verbalized an interest. The item is in its first round of prices, with an opportunity to come down a few dollars, if I am willing to chance it and wait. Helpful (Financially-Astute) Husband reminds that we recently saw a similar one at Audrey’s for twice the amount. Too good to pass up, I grab it.

Helpful Husband’s critical thinking is invaluable to me on our forays among “junque." When I show him an item I can immediately detect from his facial expression whether it is merely a whimsy or whether it is something likely to bring some form (no matter how short term) of gratification to me or to our lives. He is also handy for keeping a running list in his brain of items in which I’ve expressed an interest. He is a much better “spotter” than me. Why I twice walked right past these darling sangria glasses that his trained eye spotted at once.

On our way back from Iowa recently we passed a new “antique” shop somewhere just west of Elizabeth, Illinois. Helpful Husband spotted it and made a quick (and legal) u-turn.

The multi-room shop is housed in a old schoolhouse, and construction workers were busily making repairs and updates near the front of the building. As is usually the case, the other dozen or so customers inside were people our age, retirees. Younger people simply have no use for old stuff.

But, to me it is like a museum visit. As I pass a woman, she looks at me with wide eyes and says, “It is all just so overwhelming.”

I smile and nod in agreement as I think, yes, just who is it that accumulates all of this stuff?

But, I immediately know the answer: It is me. 

And more is the pity for my children, who will have to give away, sell or donate all of it when Helpful Husband and I take leave of planet Earth.

***

"A bargain is something you can't use at a price you can't resist."
--Franklin P. Jones

darling sangria glasses (& a "bargain" at 6 for $2)

a full-basement/roller rink

four-stage pricing

must have, reacquired little glasses

metal watering can bought at "just around the corner" store  & outfitted ala Pinterest idea

"Junque" in an old schoolhouse

note the gymnasium floor?

***

"You can't have everything--where would you put it? "

--Steven Wright

I'd almost forgotten to post this photo of our shed (meant to alleviate insufficient garage storage)
built by our amazing Carpenter Friend -I described what I wanted to him and he built it exactly as specified...

a walk upon mulch

I swore I wouldn’t write another word about him. He possesses the opposite of a Midas touch, what you might call a “tainted touch,” as he spoils everything he puts his small hands upon. He is not worth your thoughts or words, I tell myself.

***

Portage Park occupies 36.5 acres on Chicago’s northwest side. It’s a public park and it has a bit of everything for everyone, tennis courts, ADA-accessible playgrounds, an inline skating slab, a dog play area, bike paths, baseball/football/soccer fields, a gymnasium, a cultural arts center, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, open grass areas and an enclosed nature walk/sanctuary.

One October the park hosted an all day family-themed fall festival, with music, food, live farm animal exhibits and a spacious pumpkin patch.

In what I thought at first was a clever idea, the festival planners housed the pumpkin patch inside the park’s fence-enclosed nature walk/sanctuary. For a nominal fee, I don’t recall exactly, maybe a quarter, attendees could purchase an entry ticket, stroll about the sanctuary and pick from a thousand or more pumpkins scattered throughout the enclosure.

The nature sanctuary was developed some years earlier as a garden respite within the park, intended to provide a tranquil spot for reflection or meditation; a zone where those in recovery from illness or perhaps experiencing undue stress could find a bit of solace or comfort within a clamorous, bustling city. This park-within-a-park is filled with plants, grasses and trees native to the area. It has a couple of different meandering paths that divide and circumvent the multi-layered plantings. The paths are surfaced with densely packed mulch, designed so that someone in a wheel chair could easily navigate the terrain.

Sweet Husband and I took our grandson to the Portage Park Fall Festival that year:

As Grandson streaks ahead of us checking out pumpkins, some placed up on slate seating areas or amongst the native plantings and boulders, a young girl approaches from the opposite direction, her father walking directly behind her. The pathways are barely wide enough for two, or maybe three people abreast. As I spot her I reach forward to grasp Grandson’s hand, “Slow down, buddy, someone is coming this way.” The girl is about seven or eight and she is using one of those walkers that have wheels on the front and stopper legs in the rear.

Now this sanctuary may have been designed for wheelchair accessibility, but the planners had probably not given thought to a youngster perambulating with this type of walker.

Yet she is beaming, her cheeks flush with color, as she approaches us, calling out happily to her father who walks closely behind her. His face is a bit more on the grim side as he carefully watches his daughter navigate on her own. She is small in frame, closer to frail and fragile than to hale and hearty. Her arms seemed to have some spasticity or maybe inelasticity, so that it takes a bit of finesse along with her concentrated effort and strength to lift the rear stops slightly, as she leans her upper body forward a bit to help propel the wheels and the walker just the right distance over the packed mulch and away from her torso. She then lowers the stops and gratefully they do their job, holding properly on the decaying compost. She then hoists her body forward to again meet the front of the walker. She earnestly but happily repeats this process, over and over and over, just to traverse a few feet.

***

I work hard to keep negative thoughts from forming in my mind. Maybe it’s a selfish exercise, as I am the chief recipient of any benefits that my positive thinking can produce, perhaps Sweet Husband receives secondary benefits, I don’t know.

“Look for the good in everyone” is a Quaker maxim that appeals to me. I try, oh how I try.

But when I read something about the leader of my nation, I also think of that brave, beautiful little girl and then I think about the time he mocked a man with an affliction similar to this heroic child. It’s like a chain reaction in my head. I see him, I see her, I see him again. “You petty, cruel, vindictive, bully of an excuse of a human being…” -I try to stop my thoughts, wishing I had a styptic pencil or some similar apparatus or drug I could apply to arrest the blood oozing from the cut to my brain. Then I remember, “Okay, he, too, has problems. He’s emotionally delayed. He is bereft of love, of humor, of generosity, of humility, of compassion. He is broken on the inside. Just puhleeze, someone, please get him out of the office of the president of the United States of America. I beg of you!”

***

Sweet Husband and I know this police officer, actually he is a “tac officer,” a member of Chicago’s gang tactical squad. We met him when he married a longtime family friend. He possesses a magnetic personality and is a handsome man, with a face that belies his years as he nears retirement eligibility. I’ve met his tac partner, also youthfully handsome and charming. And I wonder if that’s a requirement for their job. When they don their “plainclothes” uniforms and attempt to blend in with the city’s toughs, does it help if you are good looking, fit and amiable? Anyway, suffice it to say that his is a perilous profession, fraught with danger. He is a good and brave man and it's a privilege to know him.

***

I glance at the news headlines this week and I see that the leader of my nation has proclaimed that:

“We cannot keep FEMA, the Military & the First Responders, who have been amazing (under the most difficult circumstances) in P.R. forever!”

Did I mention that my tac officer friend, about whom I worry, is of Puerto Rican descent and has friends and loved ones living there?

And then the leader of my nation turns around and virtually hurls a hand grenade at The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act's subsidies, knowing full well that doing so will devastate millions of American families, and perhaps impact negatively the family of the young girl we saw at the pumpkin patch.

This same man has attempted to sell his nation for a wheelbarrow of rubles.

Aargh! There goes my mind, “These are our fellow human beings, you buffoon! You- you petty, cruel, vindictive, bully of an excuse of a human being, you lily-livered, draft-dodging…” Where is my styptic pencil?!

“Remember, Ranell, breathe in, breathe out… go now and pull some weeds… wax on, wax off… remember mindfulness and your best effort in everything you do, no matter how seemingly mundane… see yourself in others… look for the good, Grasshopper, always look for the good…”

***

Okay, this is really it! Done! Finis! I’ve vented and I’m moving on. I shan’t ever waste another word on him.

***

You're walking. And you don't always realize it 

But you're always falling 

With each step, you fall forward slightly 

And then catch yourself from falling 

Over and over, you're falling 

And then catching yourself from falling

-Laurie Anderson

***

“How sad, a heart that 

does not know how to love, that

does not know what it is to be drunk with love."

― Omar Khayyám, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

***

Grandson watching & listening as musicians tune up at the 2016 Portage Park Fall Festival (I recall that as the sounds of the instruments reached Grandson's ears, he froze in this position, long enough for me to pull out my cell phone for a pic)

Inside the Portage Park Pumpkin patch, up on a slate seating area

***

“What are kingdoms without justice? They’re just gangs of bandits." 

- Augustine of Hippo (The City of God)

a walk among timber

He parks the car, exits and immediately heads toward an open area, a large field between 100+ year old buildings. I notice that he is  walking at an unusually, for him anyway, brisk pace. He scans the grounds, seeking out any tree that is both visible to his eye and that also has an adjacent, identifying placard. The placards are placed on 3-foot posts and most contain the common and scientific names of the corresponding tree.

Amused, I say, “Silly, stop and observe."

He continues, not unlike a curious child, hop, skipping and jumping, or so it seems to me, from one tree to the next.

“My dear, you are missing the point” I call out through laughter. “At least take a moment or two to observe the tree and not just its name. Look at its shape. Look at its trunk. Look at its seed pods. Look at its leaves. It has a personality, so it's best not to snub it.”

He listens to me for a moment, then defiantly dashes away. Again he reminds me of a child, “I want to find the chestnut trees!”

Okay, fine, go. I lose myself in the timber. I become aware of each tree I pass, from any visible roots to the highest point on its canopy. I stand back to take in the basic shape of the tree. I move in to look at the texture of the trunk, the style of leaves or needles. I discern the flowers, fruit, nuts or seeds it distributes to begin its reproduction process. Then, I look at its name. Sometimes I already know the genus, like oak, but often I do not know the species, such as post oak or bur oak.

I introduce myself.

Within minutes I am drinking and breathing them into my very being, or they are drinking and breathing me into them. I never know which. I forget the rest of the world.

Any ache, hurt or even itch disappears from my physical body. I move fluidly and effortlessly about, like a ghost. I hear what the trees have to say, although no words are spoken.

I spot a tree that has the shape of a woman who has put her arm up to push a lock of hair into place. “Yes, you are beautiful,” I wordlessly tell her. “So lovely that I want to take your photograph, but I oughtn’t.” “Oh do,” she urges.

Some time later I happen upon my male companion. I’d forgotten that we’d even come here together. We've been wandering about the acreage, each in our own world. And now we've stumbled upon each other again. Oh yeah, you. I’d almost forgotten, although we are happy to have reconnected as we realize we have been bounced back to planet earth.

And now, we have somehow managed to accidentally stumble across the three American Chestnut trees and the reason we are here. These true survivors are adjacent to the empty maintenance building. Some being, most likely a human, has pried away the identifying placard and thus a useless 3-foot post stands in front of the triplet trees. Do they not want people to know?

“Are you sure these are American Chestnut trees?” he asks. “Yes, dear, look at the seed pod. Look at the leaves.” He bends to pick up a seed pod that had fallen near his feet, “Ouch!” he says as his bare fingers reflexively let it drop. “Yes,” I chuckle, “That is an American Chestnut seed pod.”

***

like little children they pull me in,

“come, play”

I wander

making new friends

amidst dilapidation I hear,

“look, look”

“look at me!"

“see how I've thrived."

do they miss the youthful energy?

students?

fervent minds?

yes, adaptation

I continue my stroll, finding peace

aware

life prevails

life is precious

---

More than a century ago, nearly 4 billion American chestnut trees were growing in the eastern U.S. They were among the largest, tallest, and fastest-growing trees. The wood was rot-resistant, straight-grained, and suitable for furniture, fencing, and building. The nuts fed billions of birds and animals. It was almost a perfect tree, that is, until a blight fungus killed it more than a century ago. The chestnut blight has been called the greatest ecological disaster to strike the world’s forests in all of history.

 -The American Chestnut Foundation

***

“All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive.”

-Yann Martel, Life of Pi

***

placards

one bad apple

broken concrete... was it once a game court? a parking lot?

having a handsome hide

love found on an abandoned campus

authenticated surviving American Chestnuts trees

survivors of the blight

a maintenance building in need of maintenance

building rotting from inside and outside 

watch that first step, it's a lulu

sculpture aptly named "transitions"

the name says it all

the "v" tree

like lip prints or fingerprints, no two are the same

up & down school staircase

is that gnome mooning me? are they trapped in the crumbling brick building? 

buckeyes

she popped up, just as we were leaving, to wave goodbye