Darkness to Light

Darkness to Light

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At 6:45 there is barely any light in the sky. Holiday displays mark the boundaries of street and yard. Our beacon, as they’re intended to be. As for other illumination, it’s still scarce. How easy it is this time of year to think that darkness is winning.

I look out my office window, can barely make out each tree trunk. But the longer I stare, the more individual limbs and branches begin to show themselves, a filigree of darkness against the lightening clouds. The sky is a blotter sopping up the light. Darkness still reigns on ground level; nothing distinct down there yet. No trampoline, garden bench or witch hazel tree. All of that is out of sight, a void. Instead, my eyes are drawn toward the sky, and toward a faint blush of pink gathering around the tree line.

My window faces south, so the big show is out of sight, to my left. I walk into the other room, peer out the window. Dawn barely underway. A smudge of red on the horizon. But walking back in here just 15 minutes later, what a change. Now I see the covered garden bench, the limbs of the witch hazel tree, the white husks of the shells bordering its garden, the azalea and its entourage. The border of leaves and grass.

By 7:12 it is unqualifiedly morning. What a difference 28 minutes can make.

Recipe Hunter

Recipe Hunter

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Like my address book, my recipe box is in need of some serious pruning. I pull out both this time of year: the first to address cards, the second to find my standard go-to Christmas cookie recipes. 

But this year I’m in search of something a little different: instructions for spritz cookies, for instance, for which I’ve drawn a complete blank, even when I delve into Mom’s old recipe box. Ideas for savory snacks, also nada.

Which means I turn to that great recipe box of cyberspace. Online recipes, anyone?

For Copper

For Copper

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Seventeen years ago today we took into our home a dog of uncertain heritage and even more dubious temperament: a bundle of nerves, a combination of dog parts that never seemed to fit together. Long body, short legs. Perky ears, plume tail. 

A dog that fooled us from the beginning, behaving so well at the Loudoun County Humane Society shelter that you barely knew he was there. A week later he would bark at anything that moved.

He had the powerful shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, could bound over the couch in one leap: preferably into the arms of my mother, visiting for Christmas, sipping a glass of red wine and no fan of rambunctious animals.

In his first month with us, Copper would consume shoe leather, eye medicine, a pair of pink panties, and the contents of a colostomy bag. He sometimes ate dog food, too. He barked, he nipped, he escaped every chance he got. 

But none of that mattered. Because we loved him right from the start. Loved him fiercely. He was joy incarnate, you see. And now … he’s gone. 

Shattered!

Shattered!

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They are such fine-boned things, the glass so thin and delicate. But I always place a few old-fashioned ornaments on the tree. Most of them are vintage, ones from my childhood. All of them reflect the lights, make the Christmas tree a kaleidoscope of shine and sparkle.

I felt this red one slipping from my fingers as I tried to attach it. Had it landed on the carpet it might have been saved, but it didn’t. And though part of it survived, a considerable chunk of it became sharp shards and pieces so tiny I can only call them glass crumbles. 

What to do? Nothing but sweep it up, mourn its long life, and be glad that I was the one who broke it … 

Binge Watch

Binge Watch

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Right now I can use the excuse of recuperation, but I do it anyway. Binge watch, that is. Immerse myself in a show, viewing a couple episodes (or more) at a time. Biking around London with a team of nurse midwives or suffering through the latest scandal of the Royal Family — while also enjoying the sumptuous interiors of Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle.

It’s fun! It’s immersive. But it’s also addictive, the high fructose corn syrup of entertainment diets. After an evening of binge watching I feel as I do after Thanksgiving dinner: stuffed but not nourished.

There must be something in our psyches that cries out for the tidy narrative arc: the setup, the conflict, the resolution. And when that’s artificially stimulated, when I’m left hanging to the point that I have to watch more (even though I know the next episode will leave me hanging again) at some point I need a palate cleanser: a nice, simple, self-contained film. 

(Photo: Wikipedia)

‘Tis the Season

‘Tis the Season

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‘Tis the season of group sings and holiday parties, of crowded cashiers in stores that are only crowded once a year. ‘Tis also the season of rhinovirus and adenovirus and respiratory syncytial virus. Put these together and you have a noxious stew.

As one on the receiving end of this special kind of holiday giving, I can say … 

I’m glad I was felled when I was. With any luck, I’ll be fully recovered in time to mail the cards, wrap the gifts, bake the cookies, and enjoy the cheer. 

Until then … aaaaachoooo! 

Badge of Courage

Badge of Courage

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Long before Shout, my go-to stain removal substance, and the little Tide pen I now carry with me on trips, there were stain removal charts. Mine is tacked up in the laundry room and is still my best source for wild and wacky — but often effective — stain removal tips.

From it I learned that the remedy for ballpoint ink stains is glycerine. I once had an old bottle of the stuff that worked wonders, saved a yellow linen shirt that I paid way too much for and was almost ruined by an inky gash across the front.

I used that old bottle until I couldn’t anymore, but I regret to say that the new stock I ordered — proudly described as vegetable glycerine — isn’t nearly as effective. I scrubbed and scrubbed and managed to mute the stains slightly, but the ink stain isn’t gone … and probably will never be.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Ink stains are a badge of courage, not a blot of shame.

(A lovely painting — by Edmund Blair Leighton — but an ink stain ready to happen?)

Surprise Snow

Surprise Snow

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Sometimes it pays to forgo weather reports, especially when it means you can wake up to a surprise snowfall like we did this morning. Although from what I can make out, even some forecasts weren’t expecting yesterday’s rain to turn to snow in the wee hours of the morning. 

But there it was, glimpsed first at 4 a.m., when I woke up briefly, and now certified in the clear light of day.

It’s the most snow we’ve had in two years, and I doubt it will last long, but for now, it’s coating branches and grass and making the world outside look just a bit like a snow globe … finally.

Split Rail

Split Rail

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A frosty walk this morning, a split-rail fence beside me part of the way.  Surely this is fencing lite, only the barest barricade, I think, as I amble beside one of the more open models (two horizontals). 

Though now they now seem more decorative than anything else, split-rail fences have a long history in this country. They were used to mark property boundaries, protect crops and livestock, and, during the Civil War, troops burned them to keep warm. 

In my neighborhood, split-rail fences are the only kind allowed in front yards. In the back you can go wild with a picket or other plank styles, but the front must be open, natural — much like the snippet of yard I photographed this morning. 

It’s a fence … but barely. 

The Books Themselves

The Books Themselves

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Last night was my book group’s annual book picking, held at a local bookstore cafe. It was fun to meet in person and catch up on news. But as usual, the stars of the show, the books themselves, were in short supply. Since we discuss each book we suggest and pass it (or a description of it) around, this was a problem.

I’d spent an hour or so finalizing my suggestions earlier in the day, printing out a page each for Bittersweet and The Book of Charlie. This was a good move because the bookstore didn’t have the former, a 2022 bestseller just out in paperback, and had to search high and low for the latter, just published and chosen as a best book of 2023 by the Washington Post. 

I’d also printed out the book list of a fellow member who emailed us her regrets at the last minute. The 2022 bestseller Solito was another challenge for the sales clerk to locate, but she finally found one copy.

On one hand, I’m grateful to the bookstore for letting us sit in their cafe and chat for 90 minutes. On the other, I wish the ratio of books to toys and accessories was slanted more heavily in favor of the books themselves.

(No lack of books in this bookstore.)