Snow!

It started early, before 8:00 am this Sunday morning, while we were still in bed and enjoying the late start to the day (hey, when the old man usually gets up ay 4:30am, 8 is late!). A fine dust was shaking from the clouds, a sure sign that this snow would be here a while. Other signs: "rain (or snow) before 7 ends by eleven" but this one started later. "Red sky at morning" held true; when I got up at 7 to look outside, the dawn was definitely pink.

We watched the snow fall and pile up for a while, then got up and made breakfast, got the fires stoked up and watched the snow some more. This is the first real snowfall this year, way overdue. With fires going well, the animals fed and eggs gathered, there wasn't much else to do but watch it snow.

Thereis something completely relaxing about watching snow. Everyday sights become new again, the dogs run and roll in the whiteness, everything is clean, unfamiliar. Bushes are full and round, the walks are soft and curving, the distant mountains are smooth and mysterious in the haze of falling snow.

It was a good day to stay inside, so of course we didn't. By one o'clock we decided to take a trip to town, and the old 4-wheel drive carried us over snowy, icy roads. Staying home is nice, but so is traveling about to see what people are up to in the snow. They were busy! Mark was out feeding horses, kids were building snowmen, several people had managed to slide into ditches, and Derek and friends were cooking out, weather be damned.

Home again, we reloaded stove and fireplace, cooked dinner, and watched dusk settle blue on the hills. It was a relief to have the first snow behind us, and to know that nothing had changed much after all--people still did the same things they did before when it snowed, the world still looked beautiful for the white coating, and although older, we still enjoyed it all as much as we ever did.

Snowman

Children roll a snowball
enormous
up a hill
just to roll it down again
and watch
as it disintegrates
against their father's truck

Then they start again
roll another one
bigger
to stand in place
a tribute
for anyone passing to see

They can build
They can create
They can control
They are the masters
of snowmen
they will never complete


Winter on Elk Fork

Snow on water
the fishermen's boat
cuts a dark path
seeking fish
or peace
on a white January day


Bedded Down

Listen
a woodpecker drums
then stops
a tree looses its burden
of snow
in a rush of white noise
then quiet as
Winter blankets all
in a drift of silence

Winter blossoms

The japonica bush in my garden came into full bloom last week. I had brought in some twigs and evergreens to make arrangements to replace Christmas in the house. The twigs blossomed almost overnight, coral blossoms on gray stems. What a treat in mid-January! I put some in a silver ice bucket in front of the picture window in the kitchen, and more in the log room, in the west window. One thing my mother taught me is that real flowers do more for the heart than silk, and even winter greens beat the man-made fake blossoms lining the aisles at dollar stores.

I wrote this poem after my twigs came into bloom. A few days later, the whole bush was in bloom outside, an incredible sight in the gray of winter. Unfortunately, I was not able to take any photos because I leave too early and come home to late to have enough light for that. But I saw the flowers, and that was enough.

Even though the cinnamon vine covers it in summer, that bush will stay as long as it likes. What other garden plant has half the nerve of this old-timer?

“Sometimes Blooms in Winter”
--plant nursery catalog

Sweet japonica’s twisted stems
Yield soft rose blossoms
In the deep of January gloom
An unexpected Japanese painting
On my country kitchen windowsill

Grant me this!

It's mid-January, and prime time for arts grants. I'm working on two right now, both for storytelling events, and both from ORBI, the Ohio River Border Initiative. This group gives grants to arts organizations in the counties bordering the Ohio River between West Virginia.
(www.orbi.org)

The West Virginia Storytelling Guild (http://members.tripod.com/storytellerwv/ may write a grant too. Currently we're working on the West Virginia Book Festival (http://www.wvhumanities.org/bookfest/bookfest2.htm). The guild has become a strong part of that festival, and we're excited about our third year of particiaption.

Donna Wilson (http://www.oopstorytelling.org/events.htm) and I are developing a storytelling circle for tellers in the Jackson County/Meigs county areas along the river. So far--three members! But I think we'll grow with time, and it's giving us an opportunity to lay the groundwork.

I need to decide soon if I'm doing a grant for professional development. This year I got one to attend a ballad conference in North Carolina and that's exciting. I sing ballads but I've never been trained in any way, learning through my own research and practice.

What else is going on? The phone's been out of order since Saturday, bummer since we were waiting for Tommy to call from Germany. He finally got me on my cell and sounds good. He said Ramstein looks a lot like WV.

Enough for now. Time to get on the road home, 50-plus miles from here.

Lost in the Sea of Green and Blue

He's gone now, the last of my five sons to leave home. He flew away yesterday to his first duty station in Ramstein, Germany, just one young man amidst a sea of green and blue duffel bags and uniforms. I saw his face one last time, turned to me above that sea, and I saw his hand raised in farewell.

Good-bye, my son, and Godspeed. You are on your chosen journey now, and I am left standing on the shore to wave you on your way.

The Day Before Leaving

Today is a holding day--holding onto memories, holding onto time, holding onto my youngest son as he prepares to leave for his first Air Force duty station--Ramstein, Germany. He is the fourth of five sons to serve in the military, the second AF. Being a mother of military sons is not easy. It's a lot of waiting, watching, and worrying. It's also a lot of pride and satisfaction to see them proud of their choice, and later on finding another path in the civilian world.

It's a mystery how my sons should choose this life. I raised the first four without guns, not evn toy ones, in the house! Perhaps this is their way of getting to play with guns since Mom didn't allow it. By the time our youngest son arrives, thirteen years after his brothers, we had hunting guns around so he had his own 30-30 by the time he was 15. I'm not a fan of arms or military, but I have always supported my sons in their life choices and continue to do so.

Today I will cherish the time, enjoy listening to him talk, and begin planning a trip to Germany to visit. Always look ahead--remember the past, live in the present, and look to the future is the rule for mothers everywhere.

First day, first post

It's a new year, and time for beginnings. I will be using this space to reflect, remember and renew, sharing stories, thoughts, memories, poems, book reviews and whatever else comes along.

I am a storyteller, a writer, mother of 5 and granny of 12. I work to live the life I love. I work full-time as a librarian, but storytelling, writing and the quiet life of the country are what my job supports.

For this first post, here's a poem for this time of year. We're supposed to get our first snow of the year today.

January Ice

Ice crystals sprayed from a can

My grandson showed me how it works—

hold six inches from the window and spray

Frost appears on glass,

just like Jack Frost painted on windows

in the old drafty house with single-paned windows

that let in every puff of winter's breath

funhouse windows that provided a waved and bubbled view

of Quarry Street and the houses across the alley

We stared in amazement then at the icy fronds

and ferns etched in delicate ice,

glinting pink with the first rays

December's morning sun

We dreamed of Russia, the Snow Maiden and Silverhoof

Sometimes

the ice was half an inch thick

at the bottom of the glass,

mounded in ribs like a frozen tree trunk,

spreading thinner as it climbed the glass

branching with pale tropical foliage

until finally a thin sheet of clear ice

we licked it with warm red tongues, melted it with fingertips,

lifting off pieces with fingernails,

tasting winter and frozen window grime

This can of spray lists directions and ingredients

But nowhere do I see Russia

or magic