Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Auspicious autumn
The sun is stair-stepping its way through thin strips of clouds that stretch upward from the mountain tops.
Dark is a recent memory. I had to turn the pole light on to get the newspaper. I have a habit of running out in my barefeet to grab the paper which means dodging acorns littering the sidewalk like painful mini land mines just waiting to bruise my tender flat feet.
Squirrels have turned our yard into their personal winter warehouses. Every flower bed has mysterious holes that have been not so carefully covered by squirrels more worried about quantity than quality.
Between the oak tree out front and the walnut tree beside the driveway, we have variety and abundance to maintain a thriving squirrel population.
Every time I open the front door, squirrels scatter like furry insurgents searching for a place to hide. Sometimes leap-frogging over each other in their haste to reach their lofty lofts.
Fall is here.
I can feel it in the air. That electric crackle of cold to come. The rich, earthy smell of rotting leaves triggers a shower of autumn memories. My mother has always loved fall. Sweater weather. Bold red oaks and fiery orange maples. When my brother and I were kids, she packed us in the car - sometimes with Aunt Ruthie or Grandmom - and we took off for Hot Springs to see her favorite, perfectly shaped maple tree wearing its autumnal splendor.
As a young journalist, I was assigned a story about fall in the Valley. I met with a US Forest Ranger who explained to me - for the first time - that the color we see is always in the leaves. We aren't actually seeing them turn red, orange and yellow - we are seeing the leaves lose their green camouflage. Shorter days bring an end to the photosynthesis process which created the green chlorophyll in the spring and summer.
The bright reds and purples we see in leaves are made mostly in the fall. In some trees, like maples, glucose is trapped in the leaves after photosynthesis stops. Sunlight and the cool nights of autumn cause the leaves turn this glucose into a red color. The brown color of trees like oaks is made from wastes left in the leaves.
Not a very romantic way of viewing the colors of fall. I think facts must be full of chlorophyll.
When I left work today, I marveled at the tapestry effect of the trees dotting the mountains at the Edinburg Gap. The sun, already weak and sputtering at 5:05, tried its best to throw a few rays on the mountain. The light gave the impression of an Old Master tapestry - gloomy at first glance, but a second look revealed warm colors - reds, oranges, golds, yellows, browns entwined to create the blended look.
It's my habit to pay attention to my surroundings. Next to my typing fingers and my percolating brain, my wandering eyes are great contributors to my written rambles. An art class in college instructed was my wake up call. The professor embarrassed me when he looked at my drawing of the model and pointed out that the face I had drawn was all out of proportion. The ears were too high, the nose too low. I wasn't imitating Picasso. I was looking superficially.
It was an eye-opening (literally) observation for me.
There are a lot of perks that accompany living in the Shenandoah Valley. One of those perks is being surrounded by museum-worthy vistas. Green fields dotted by hay bales. Gently folding mountains that encircle the Valley with maternal majesty. Delicate Dogwoods in the spring. Sunny black-eyed Susans, whispy Queen Anne's lace and blue cornflowers that line the rural roadways, nodding pleasant hellos as cars whiz by. Frosted pine trees, glowing with snow and ice against slate gray skies.
We are lucky to sample all of the seasons in our Shenandoah Valley. Nature is giving us quite a show right now. Take a moment to look at it with open eyes.
Dark is a recent memory. I had to turn the pole light on to get the newspaper. I have a habit of running out in my barefeet to grab the paper which means dodging acorns littering the sidewalk like painful mini land mines just waiting to bruise my tender flat feet.
Squirrels have turned our yard into their personal winter warehouses. Every flower bed has mysterious holes that have been not so carefully covered by squirrels more worried about quantity than quality.
Between the oak tree out front and the walnut tree beside the driveway, we have variety and abundance to maintain a thriving squirrel population.
Every time I open the front door, squirrels scatter like furry insurgents searching for a place to hide. Sometimes leap-frogging over each other in their haste to reach their lofty lofts.
Fall is here.
I can feel it in the air. That electric crackle of cold to come. The rich, earthy smell of rotting leaves triggers a shower of autumn memories. My mother has always loved fall. Sweater weather. Bold red oaks and fiery orange maples. When my brother and I were kids, she packed us in the car - sometimes with Aunt Ruthie or Grandmom - and we took off for Hot Springs to see her favorite, perfectly shaped maple tree wearing its autumnal splendor.
As a young journalist, I was assigned a story about fall in the Valley. I met with a US Forest Ranger who explained to me - for the first time - that the color we see is always in the leaves. We aren't actually seeing them turn red, orange and yellow - we are seeing the leaves lose their green camouflage. Shorter days bring an end to the photosynthesis process which created the green chlorophyll in the spring and summer.
The bright reds and purples we see in leaves are made mostly in the fall. In some trees, like maples, glucose is trapped in the leaves after photosynthesis stops. Sunlight and the cool nights of autumn cause the leaves turn this glucose into a red color. The brown color of trees like oaks is made from wastes left in the leaves.
Not a very romantic way of viewing the colors of fall. I think facts must be full of chlorophyll.
When I left work today, I marveled at the tapestry effect of the trees dotting the mountains at the Edinburg Gap. The sun, already weak and sputtering at 5:05, tried its best to throw a few rays on the mountain. The light gave the impression of an Old Master tapestry - gloomy at first glance, but a second look revealed warm colors - reds, oranges, golds, yellows, browns entwined to create the blended look.
It's my habit to pay attention to my surroundings. Next to my typing fingers and my percolating brain, my wandering eyes are great contributors to my written rambles. An art class in college instructed was my wake up call. The professor embarrassed me when he looked at my drawing of the model and pointed out that the face I had drawn was all out of proportion. The ears were too high, the nose too low. I wasn't imitating Picasso. I was looking superficially.
It was an eye-opening (literally) observation for me.
There are a lot of perks that accompany living in the Shenandoah Valley. One of those perks is being surrounded by museum-worthy vistas. Green fields dotted by hay bales. Gently folding mountains that encircle the Valley with maternal majesty. Delicate Dogwoods in the spring. Sunny black-eyed Susans, whispy Queen Anne's lace and blue cornflowers that line the rural roadways, nodding pleasant hellos as cars whiz by. Frosted pine trees, glowing with snow and ice against slate gray skies.
We are lucky to sample all of the seasons in our Shenandoah Valley. Nature is giving us quite a show right now. Take a moment to look at it with open eyes.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Issues? Who has issues?
It has become a favorite phrase.
"She has issues." "He's a really nice guy, but he has issues."
"Issues" is a bland seven-letter word used as a blanket to cover a world of quirks, problems and malfunctions in one all-explaining two-syllable word.
I'm not sure if the etymology of the word "issue" would explain its current use. The closest definition in the Merriam-Webster dictionary is one of the last ones which reads that issue is a vital or unsettled matter or the point at which an unsettled matter is ready for a decision.
As a writer I am interested in words as stand alone creatures. I like to trot them out in the show ring of my mind and move them through their paces. This is a long-established hobby. As a child I would find the biggest books on the bookmobile, lug them home and then spend days pestering my mother.
"What does this mean?"
"Wait let me spell it for you."
"Mooommm, what is this word?"
Since she was enrolled at Concord College at the time, she probably did not need to explain Greek mythology to a third-grader. But with her assistance I probably was youngest readers of The Golden Fleece, the tale of Jason and the Argonauts, in the history of the Athens, W.Va., bookmobile.
But I digress. Back to the "issue" at hand.
My husband has adopted "issue" with enthusiasm. He sprinkles it liberally in his vocabulary in reference to certain topics upon which we disagree. Thus these topics become my "issues."
For instance, according to the Ump, I have many "issues" when it comes to eating. In fact, I can probably trace this whole "issues" thing back to a time when I mentioned that I am not the only person in the world who has texture issues about certain foods.
"What's that?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"Well, you know. When you don't like the way something feels in your mouth," I tried to explain to a man who has never met a vegetable he didn't like - except parsnips. And not liking parsnips certainly is not a big deal. I have never seen a meal plan that called for a lot of parsnips.
I, on the other hand, have not been able to get beyond certain impressions set in childhood. I despise the stringy feel of the banana. I do not like the mealy texture of lima bean innards, nor do I like having said bean pop in my mouth. Asparagus feels slimy. So does certain seafood.
These, I explained, are texture issues. He latched onto that explanation and now anytime I object to any type of food, he trots out the term "texture issue" and I feel like a boob.
It has migrated into other forms. When I complained once because he poured milk from an open container we bought at the beach into the open container of the milk in the refrigerator at home, he scoffed at my protests. "Oh, you have an issue with that? Is that a texture issue?"
I tried to explain that it is, in fact, a botulism issue, but he does not believe it. The man has never looked at an expiration date in his life. So pouring milk with one expiration date into a container with a different date is not cause for pause in his mind.
Shortly after we started dating in 2001, I decided to fix dinner for him one night at his home. In the refrigerator was an army of expired food just waiting for the opportunity to attack. He still complains because I threw away a jar of mild pepper relish that had a 1998 expiration date. "It was fine!" he declared after he discovered I deleted his favorite garnish. "It hasn't killed me yet."
I explained that he only has to be wrong once for that argument to lose its punch, but he wanted to make the whole incident into one of my "issues."
He likes to think that he has no "issues" but he does.
I am simply too polite to make an issue out of them.
"She has issues." "He's a really nice guy, but he has issues."
"Issues" is a bland seven-letter word used as a blanket to cover a world of quirks, problems and malfunctions in one all-explaining two-syllable word.
I'm not sure if the etymology of the word "issue" would explain its current use. The closest definition in the Merriam-Webster dictionary is one of the last ones which reads that issue is a vital or unsettled matter or the point at which an unsettled matter is ready for a decision.
As a writer I am interested in words as stand alone creatures. I like to trot them out in the show ring of my mind and move them through their paces. This is a long-established hobby. As a child I would find the biggest books on the bookmobile, lug them home and then spend days pestering my mother.
"What does this mean?"
"Wait let me spell it for you."
"Mooommm, what is this word?"
Since she was enrolled at Concord College at the time, she probably did not need to explain Greek mythology to a third-grader. But with her assistance I probably was youngest readers of The Golden Fleece, the tale of Jason and the Argonauts, in the history of the Athens, W.Va., bookmobile.
But I digress. Back to the "issue" at hand.
My husband has adopted "issue" with enthusiasm. He sprinkles it liberally in his vocabulary in reference to certain topics upon which we disagree. Thus these topics become my "issues."
For instance, according to the Ump, I have many "issues" when it comes to eating. In fact, I can probably trace this whole "issues" thing back to a time when I mentioned that I am not the only person in the world who has texture issues about certain foods.
"What's that?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"Well, you know. When you don't like the way something feels in your mouth," I tried to explain to a man who has never met a vegetable he didn't like - except parsnips. And not liking parsnips certainly is not a big deal. I have never seen a meal plan that called for a lot of parsnips.
I, on the other hand, have not been able to get beyond certain impressions set in childhood. I despise the stringy feel of the banana. I do not like the mealy texture of lima bean innards, nor do I like having said bean pop in my mouth. Asparagus feels slimy. So does certain seafood.
These, I explained, are texture issues. He latched onto that explanation and now anytime I object to any type of food, he trots out the term "texture issue" and I feel like a boob.
It has migrated into other forms. When I complained once because he poured milk from an open container we bought at the beach into the open container of the milk in the refrigerator at home, he scoffed at my protests. "Oh, you have an issue with that? Is that a texture issue?"
I tried to explain that it is, in fact, a botulism issue, but he does not believe it. The man has never looked at an expiration date in his life. So pouring milk with one expiration date into a container with a different date is not cause for pause in his mind.
Shortly after we started dating in 2001, I decided to fix dinner for him one night at his home. In the refrigerator was an army of expired food just waiting for the opportunity to attack. He still complains because I threw away a jar of mild pepper relish that had a 1998 expiration date. "It was fine!" he declared after he discovered I deleted his favorite garnish. "It hasn't killed me yet."
I explained that he only has to be wrong once for that argument to lose its punch, but he wanted to make the whole incident into one of my "issues."
He likes to think that he has no "issues" but he does.
I am simply too polite to make an issue out of them.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
5 good years
Just when I think I have truly given up all hope that the Ump will become a romantic person, a little flicker rises from the ashes.
Hope truly does spring eternal, I guess.
As our fifth wedding anniversary approached, I braced myself for an underwhelming celebration.
You see, it is football season. And if it doesn't happen on the football field during football season, forget about it.
My birthday is on Aug. 29 - less than a month later is our anniversary. The Ump forgot my birthday this year, so I was fearful of a repeat performance. Well, he didn't exactly forget it. We celebrated with family on the weekend before my birthday. And I received flowers at work on the Thursday before my birthday (on the following Tuesday - which made for a lot of explaining to the girls at work. "Yes, they are my birthday flowers. No it's not my birthday..."
I didn't want to seem ungracious when I thanked my husband for my flowers, but I could not resist asking him why he sent them so early. I should have kept my questions to myself.
"I was afraid I would forget," he told me. "I wanted to get it over with."
I know he didn't mean it the way it sounded, but...
So on the morning of my birthday, I waited for him to wish me a happy birthday. I told myself not to prompt him. Give him some time to wake up. He'll remember.
I was like an exotic hunter waiting for the tiger to fall through the blind and into the pit.
And he fell right in.
He didn't remember until he went home at lunchtime to let the dogs out and listened to a message from my Mom on the answering machine.
I know it's silly, but it did hurt a little. No wife likes to play second fiddle. Especially not to a game.
I was hopeful that our anniversary would not be a repeat occurrence. And it was not.
He remembered to wish me a happy anniversary - even sang me a little song. You know, the one that the waitresses sing in chain restaurants: "Happy ann-i-ver-sary. Happy ann-i-ver-sary. Happy ann-i-ver-sary. HAAAAAAAA-py ann-i-ver-sary!" At least he didn't clap.
I'm not delusional enough to expect candles and rose petals or anything like that. Definitely no romantic dinner.
You know why? Because our anniversary was on a Friday night. And Friday night is football. I sat in the rain watching a game by myself on our anniversary.
At halftime, as I was walking down the stairs I heard the announcer say "And happy anniversary to..." and for a moment I thought the Ump had told them to announce the fifth anniversary of our blissful union. But our names were not called.
First thing in the morning, when I arrived at work, there was an email in my inbox from the Ump's best friend - he was the best man at our wedding. He wished me a happy anniversary and told me that he knows how much the Ump loves me and that it is evident how much I love him.
I was really touched by that email. I sent it to the Ump. "Isn't this nice?" I wrote atop Marty's email.
His reply. "Yes, very nice. Thanks for five good years."
I choked.
Thanks for five good years? I wrote him back. "That's something you tell your insurance agent or your Congressman. Not something you tell your wife!"
Five good years.
That's what you say when someone asks about your lawn mower. "Well, it's given me five good years."
He did amend his statement later that day. I received a beautiful bouquet of flowers (on our actual anniversary) and the card read Thanks for five great years.
I guess great is better than good.
It was not until Sunday that we exchanged anniversary cards after our anniversary breakfast.
I was shocked to open my card and find a rather lengthy passage that he penned himself. I usually push him to express his feelings, but this year (with the football over-riding everything, I didn't make that request.
Tears welled in my eyes as I read:
"Five years to some people may be a short time and to some people a long time. For me it has been five of the best years of my life... We can't relive yesterday or live tomorrow. We need to live one day at a time and enjoy and cherish the time we have."
If only all men (my man) could clearly comprehend that sharing their feelings is an emotional gemstone that women will replay and polish in their minds - especially when the romance tank is on empty. It's better than a present.
And maybe I was a little hasty. A little too quick to be critical. Words are my passion it is easier for me to express my feelings.
And you know what else? They really were five good years.
Hope truly does spring eternal, I guess.
As our fifth wedding anniversary approached, I braced myself for an underwhelming celebration.
You see, it is football season. And if it doesn't happen on the football field during football season, forget about it.
My birthday is on Aug. 29 - less than a month later is our anniversary. The Ump forgot my birthday this year, so I was fearful of a repeat performance. Well, he didn't exactly forget it. We celebrated with family on the weekend before my birthday. And I received flowers at work on the Thursday before my birthday (on the following Tuesday - which made for a lot of explaining to the girls at work. "Yes, they are my birthday flowers. No it's not my birthday..."
I didn't want to seem ungracious when I thanked my husband for my flowers, but I could not resist asking him why he sent them so early. I should have kept my questions to myself.
"I was afraid I would forget," he told me. "I wanted to get it over with."
I know he didn't mean it the way it sounded, but...
So on the morning of my birthday, I waited for him to wish me a happy birthday. I told myself not to prompt him. Give him some time to wake up. He'll remember.
I was like an exotic hunter waiting for the tiger to fall through the blind and into the pit.
And he fell right in.
He didn't remember until he went home at lunchtime to let the dogs out and listened to a message from my Mom on the answering machine.
I know it's silly, but it did hurt a little. No wife likes to play second fiddle. Especially not to a game.
I was hopeful that our anniversary would not be a repeat occurrence. And it was not.
He remembered to wish me a happy anniversary - even sang me a little song. You know, the one that the waitresses sing in chain restaurants: "Happy ann-i-ver-sary. Happy ann-i-ver-sary. Happy ann-i-ver-sary. HAAAAAAAA-py ann-i-ver-sary!" At least he didn't clap.
I'm not delusional enough to expect candles and rose petals or anything like that. Definitely no romantic dinner.
You know why? Because our anniversary was on a Friday night. And Friday night is football. I sat in the rain watching a game by myself on our anniversary.
At halftime, as I was walking down the stairs I heard the announcer say "And happy anniversary to..." and for a moment I thought the Ump had told them to announce the fifth anniversary of our blissful union. But our names were not called.
First thing in the morning, when I arrived at work, there was an email in my inbox from the Ump's best friend - he was the best man at our wedding. He wished me a happy anniversary and told me that he knows how much the Ump loves me and that it is evident how much I love him.
I was really touched by that email. I sent it to the Ump. "Isn't this nice?" I wrote atop Marty's email.
His reply. "Yes, very nice. Thanks for five good years."
I choked.
Thanks for five good years? I wrote him back. "That's something you tell your insurance agent or your Congressman. Not something you tell your wife!"
Five good years.
That's what you say when someone asks about your lawn mower. "Well, it's given me five good years."
He did amend his statement later that day. I received a beautiful bouquet of flowers (on our actual anniversary) and the card read Thanks for five great years.
I guess great is better than good.
It was not until Sunday that we exchanged anniversary cards after our anniversary breakfast.
I was shocked to open my card and find a rather lengthy passage that he penned himself. I usually push him to express his feelings, but this year (with the football over-riding everything, I didn't make that request.
Tears welled in my eyes as I read:
"Five years to some people may be a short time and to some people a long time. For me it has been five of the best years of my life... We can't relive yesterday or live tomorrow. We need to live one day at a time and enjoy and cherish the time we have."
If only all men (my man) could clearly comprehend that sharing their feelings is an emotional gemstone that women will replay and polish in their minds - especially when the romance tank is on empty. It's better than a present.
And maybe I was a little hasty. A little too quick to be critical. Words are my passion it is easier for me to express my feelings.
And you know what else? They really were five good years.
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