Winter silence

Reaching for the leafless branches and twigs sticking out of the frozen earth, I carefully inched my way down the incline to the frozen brook.  For the Northeast, our winter had been rather unusual with nary a flake or flurry of snow.  Until a day or two ago, that is when not only did we have snow but also freezing rain.  The perfect condition I’d been waiting for. 

Wrapped up in my Cape Cod sweatshirt and wearing Arnold Schwarzenegger like hiking/snow boots, my hat pulled down in front like my daughter, Lesa, who lives in Montana, showed me, I had that I am strong hint of confidence coursing through my body that being in the urban wild can bring.

Getting away from my desk and inhaling the brisk, clean air reminded me how much I loved the thrill of challenge.  I remember many years ago my Uncle Albert climbed to the summit of Half Dome in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Yosemite National Park.  That was awe inspiring to me, and I so wished for that level of mastery.  But, dealing with chronic disease …well, that may be too lofty a goal.  Hiking gentle grounds and soft slopes around Pascack Brook to photograph natural ice sculptures and try to capture the magic of the barren woods would have to suffice.  At least, for the time being, that is.

Advancing farther into the woods brought great fulfillment for this want to be photo journalist.  I found myself ducking under a barrage of branches; sprawling spread eagle on the frozen brook to snap what I hoped would bean Ansel Adams shot.  This free spiritedness brought about release and soon, my child within escaped.  I found myself maneuvering sexagenarian acrobatics for scooting across boulders and rocks and sliding across a floe to photograph miniature glacier like formations.

And then, it happened.  An object in the distance caught my eye.  Climbing over a pile of dead wood, tree trunks and other debris from the swift waters of days gone by, I came upon a football.  Possibly, it had belonged to a youngster and had gotten thrown just a little too far never to be united with its owner again. It was now my trophy of the day.  Just why my find was so exciting was a mystery.  It had no particular value.  Not like a lost Rolex watch or a hundred dollar bill nestled against the frozen leaves.  Nevertheless, I found myself erupting with glee and smiling over my new treasure. 

Sitting on a rock at mid-afternoon in the quiet and absorbing winter forest speak is something that continues to still my soul and lift my heart.  

           

"A pocket-full of patience"

After sharing a cup of Starbucks coffee and saying good-bye to my sister, Lezlie, at FAT (Fresno Air Terminal) in Fresno, California, I made my way toward security.  Along with everyone else, I started removing my jacket and shoes to place in the gray bin.  Relieved to survive my rite of passage, I headed down the long walkway to my assigned gate.

However, upon arrival at my gate, I became suspicious.  There was no signage indicating my flight number, departure time, or destination city.  Hum, should I be concerned?  Being uncharacteristically early, I decided it was premature for worry and that, in time, the electronics would kick in and all would be well.  For now, I’d just center down amidst the gaggle of other passengers and recall the wonderful time I’d had going home for the holidays.

However, as you may know from your own travel experiences, things don’t always go peachy at airports.  In fact, packing a pocket-full of patience along with food and water in your carry-on is paramount.  Stuffing in a sense of humor too can also be fruitful.

 By now, a crowd had gathered with people intermittently glancing at the still empty information board.  No flight attendants, pilots, or other officials were to be seen.  It was time to get answers.  That’s when I fished out my cell phone from my handbag, dug up my itinerary, and called the 800 number for the airlines. A couple of ladies standing around me were smiling and nodding while giving me thumbs up.  One of them, Theresa, who was also going to Newark, became my new best friend.

I learned from customer service that our flight was delayed due to high winds in Las Vegas.  Humph.  Not good.  At least I wasn’t stuck in Denver trying to get home for Christmas like my sister had been.  She didn’t make it home until Christmas night!

Thus began many trips over the course of the next few hours for supplies.  I made one trip downstairs for a bottle of water.  Another trip was upstairs for milk to go with the half of peanut butter sandwich my niece, Merri Elizabeth, made.  Then, back downstairs for a toothbrush and tooth paste.  Must be prepared.  My sister suggested getting a book.  I had my journal but decided she’s right.  I might need a good book for distraction!  That meant a trip back upstairs.  Since I’d already eaten the persimmon cookies mom tucked in, I’d need more snacks.  By the time it was all said and done, I’d worn myself out with travel and I hadn’t gone anywhere except to the concession stands!

  Finally, the information board lit up.  Flight attendants and pilots appeared.  And, an announcement was made that we’d be boarding shortly. 

My concern now was making the connecting flight in Las Vegas to Newark.  Earlier, when I was on the phone with the airlines associate, she assured me our since no planes were taking off or landing due to the high winds, our plane would wait for us.  It didn’t. 

            The next plane to Newark wasn’t until midnight … seven hours away.

Now just where did I pack that pocket-full of patience? 

Until next time…Jennifer

 

"Beyond the Door"

Rounding gentle curves that make up Rt. 304, we were headed to our favorite Nyack nook for brunch.  Though my “to do” list was expanding off the page, I’d agreed to some holiday merriment and was enjoying the easy Sunday sensibility.  After all, it was only December 3.  What better way to spend quality time the special man in your life than having brunch at The Strawberry Place, a decades-old, charming café on South Broadway? 

But, after settling into our seats, my thoughts went haywire.  A cloud of heckling guilt attempted to jinx my joy.  My stress level was demurely elevating and soon my toe was a-tapping.  And, it wasn’t to the tune of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

That is, until December brought a burst of crisp, clean artic air.  Not the freezing kind of oxygen but the invigorating kind that makes you want to breathe in every conceivable wonder that life holds.  The kind that puts you in the Christmas spirit have fun kind.  It was that kind of North wind that had swept into the Northeast making it hard to not go with the jingle of the season.  Especially, when the man you’re with is that rare mix of gentility from a bygone era.  You know the kind…debonair, kindhearted, and handsome, a sense of humor, agreeable and who still has hair and teeth.

When my Rob, my chivalrous escort, extended an invitation following brunch to continue celebrating the season by driving up to Cold Spring, I’d hesitated answering.  What was that about?  It wasn’t like me to not want to see what’s around the next corner, see how the day might unfold, or see what’s beyond the door.  But, there is all that work waiting at home for me to tackle.

However, once outside the café and the pristine air brushed my face there was no stopping the hitherto festive mood.  Soon, we were crossing the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Bear Mountain Bridge.  We passed Boscobel, then Garrison.  In a short time we were approaching the quaint historic village of Cold Spring nestled on the banks of the scenic Hudson River and driving down picturesque Main St.   

    Stepping back outside after a particularly engaging experience with the sales help in an outdoor kayaking type store, we felt as if we’d bumped into old friends we hadn’t seen in a while.  We met Teri, the owner who, like me, is a native Californian and who introduced us to the performance enhanced features of Merrell footwear.  Then, we met Bevan, the clerk, whose natural charm and joviality while ringing us up had us almost registered for a kayak class!  Their home spun friendliness and fireside like charm brought us so much fun they had us dancing with laughter on our way out the door.  

The cold dusk of early evening and an almost full moon glowed against the darkened night.  It’s funny.  We hadn’t won the lottery, found a pot of gold or stumbled upon an endless pile of Christmas presents.  But, as we buttoned up our coats and I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck, I realized the earlier guilt that tried to stifle my spirit had completely dissipated.  And now I couldn’t have been more ecstatic that I’d not only stepped out of my box but also risked stepping beyond the door.

 

 

Serrendipitous Song

Suddenly, I found myself rising from my seat at the IHOP restaurant in the Brick, NJ waiting area just inside the front door and turned around to face the old man in the wheel chair.  He was parked somewhat in the middle of the room with his back to the people sitting on the benches that lined three walls.  He was toothless, had hollow cheeks, and had thinning gray hair that slightly brushed the tops of his ears.  A younger looking beach-comber type man with a dark tan appearing to be around forty-five sat in back of him with both his hands holding the arms of the wheelchair.  He was positioned so that when the waitress called their name he could easily wheel the older gentleman to their table.

Once inside the waiting area my friends, Marie, Anna, Lorraine and I, looked for a seat.  There wasn’t room for all four of us together, but I found a spot on the other side of the almost filled seating area next to the man with his hands on the wheel chair.  Within minutes, Marie’s attention went to the wheelchair and she commented on what a nice chair it was due to the updated style.  Almost simultaneously, everyone turned their head and all eyes were on the wheelchair. 

And, that’s when the impetus to rise hit me.  Everyone was talking about this man’s shiny, steel wheelchair as if he wasn’t even there.  Perhaps it was something I’d learned from my nurses training from over forty years ago that you speak directly to people in wheel chairs and that you make eye contact.  That being in a wheelchair doesn’t mean a person is deaf, dumb, or blind.  Or, perhaps it came from my inability to sit still.  Or, maybe it was just the excitement of having a couple of days away at the New Jersey Shore for rest and rejuvenation and getting caught up in the fun and frivolity we were enjoying as friends

But, what really stood out as I leaned over to make myself eye level with the old man in the wheelchair, was his black ball cap with the bold, gold lettering.  It read, WW II.  I was stunned.  Right in front of me sat a veteran who had fought in a war over sixty years ago.  Wearing my own ball cap of stars and stripes to cover a bad hair day, I slowly shuffled around so not to startle him and stood off to the side. 

 Cheerily, I greeted the veteran and asked his name.

 “Jooohnnnn”, the man in the wheel chair replied. 

It was then that I saw his murky blue gray eyes.  What they must have seen during war times.  Unsure of what was driving me to engage in conversation with this old man, I continued making polite conversation, “How old are you, John?” I inquired with a smile.

“85”, he said, though his response was more mouthed than spoken.  Still, I heard him loud and clear.

“Wow!” I said, amazed.  “Eighty-five years old”.  Sixty years ago on the battlefield, he would have been in his early twenties.  So young; so brave “It’s my birthday”, he said, with some effort.  Now, I was in over drive. 

“Your birthday”! I exclaimed.  “Ok, everyone, let’s all sing Happy Birthday to John.”  As our voices rose in unison, a roomful of strangers became united in spirit.

We didn’t learn why John was in the wheel chair but when his party was called, the man I’m assuming to be his son, spoke up with heartfelt emotion,  “Thank you very much”, he nodded to me while pushing the wheel chair past us and through the door to their table.  The simplicity of the moment was so powerful tears began welling in my eyes.

Yes, my girlfriends and I laughed, talked, walked the Point Pleasant Boardwalk stopping at Jenkinsons for black licorice, had ice cream at The Music Man in Lavallette, ate pizza, strolled along at the craft fair in Avon by the Sea, and even went to a concert to see Ronan Tynan, the Irish tenor, in Ocean Grove at the Great Auditorium.  But, the silly, serendipitous conversation that began over a steel wheel chair that took on a life of its own, left us all a little prouder to be an American living in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

 

Three feathers, two teens, and one fish.

"Three feathers, two teens, and one fish."

 

It’s barely one week into summer and already the living is easy.  Last night as I was leaving the Shop Rite supermarket in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Hillsdale, NJ, the carefree tug of a June evening caused me to succumb to my inner child that is never far away.  Besides, what was my rush?  To get home, go inside, and spend the rest of the evening missing the possibility of who knows what?  So, I made a right at the corner and headed for the local walking path at Wooddale Park. 

Adding to the tug was the warm wind and an evening sky of dark hued clouds that gave way to hints of the occasional clearing followed by more mystery with slate grey creations swirling from east to west.  But, it was the soft whispers of the wind that I found inspiring.  With each drift blowing through my hair and kicking up my skirt, it seemed to be whispering “good-by” to any dark clouds that may have taken up residence in my head that day.  The gentle drifts seemed to push out worry and fretting while letting in peace and serenity.

After pulling into the parking lot I hoped out of my Jeep to join the steady progression of walkers.  There were couples arm in arm with some carrying a cane for steadiness, young lovers, kids on bikes whizzing past, the token male jogger, and mothers pushing buggies with babies, all circling past me.  Rounding the first bend, I noticed two teens fishing and found myself wandering down the small slope to the waters edge.

“What are you catching”, I called, intrigued, by the young lads who were fishing with such earnest.

“Sunnies,” came the reply from the taller of the two.

“Want to try?” he quickly added.

              “Ohhhh,” I said, intrigued and somewhat surprised as I didn’t expect the offer.  I hadn’t inquired about the sport of fishing, or acted like I knew a thing about catching a fish, yet right in front of me on this balmy, summer evening, was an opportunity not to be missed.

“Sure,” I exclaimed enthusiastically.  I’d love to cast a line and see what happens. 

After laying my cell phone and keys off to the side, Brian, 13, whose name I later learned, promptly placed his fishing pole in my hand.  His fishing buddy, Justin, helped place some bread bait on the hook

            “Just lower it,” Brian said confidently wit a nod of his head.  “Don’t cast or anything and you’ll get a bite.”

            “Hum.”  These two are experienced fishermen. 

Carefully, I slowly dropped the pole with the bread bait into the murky waters upon which swarms of sunnies appeared.  In less than a minute, the bait was gone!

            “Do you want to do it again?” Brian offered.  You bet I did!  Didn’t take me long to catch the fishing fun, bug.

            After a few more tries, I did catch a sunnie and whooped with glee before the slim fish flopped off and back into the lake.

            “Beginners luck,” Justin grinned.

            Whoa, been down that path, while grinning back, but I wasn’t about to bore these boys with stories.

            While saying my good-byes to my new fishing friends, I discovered that the two teens lived on the same street and had been fishing pals for several years. 

Continuing my walk, my inner child was still at work when I came across a small, soft grey feather.  In less than twenty steps, another was at my feet.  As I reached my Jeep to head home, a third perfectly positioned lay in my path.  Once inside my apartment, I headed straight for a suitable container for displaying my quills as a reminder that at 61, we can still enjoy the whimsical wonders along the byways of life. 

I’ll never know what prompted the two young teenage fishermen to extend a fishing invitation.  But, I do know it was an experience that filled my spirit and still puts a smile on my face.

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Spring Surprises in Big Sky Country and over the Continental Divide

You may notice that I've not written since when I wrote about the wolves and my visit with my daughters to Howler's Inn in Bozeman, Montana.  After catching my breath after the start of 2006, and then a trip to the West Coast in early February to visit my parents, I was about to settle down to work on my second book when an early morning phone call altered my plan.  I was needed back in Bozeman for a family matter. 

 As you can probably attest, life goes on even during a crisis.  And so it did for me during the month of March in Bozeman.  Though it was a time of stress and matters beyond my control, I felt showered from time to time with those little unexpected surprises that seem to lift your spirits.  In the beginning, when quiet and rest were needed, the first blessing came in the form of house sitting in a beautiful and serene setting with sun setting on the Spanish Peaks.  When my daughters and I needed light moments, joy and celebration was our friend when my daughter, Leas, performed in The Vagina Monologues.  More special surprises came when I sat in with my oldest daughter, Nicole, during her shift as a 911 dispatch operator.  I had the privilege of seeing her handling emergency calls with calm professionalism.  I was so proud of them both.

On one occasion, while headed toward Billings, I ended up having a marvelous experience in spite of a somewhat challenging two hour ride.  I was on I-90 going east and hit fog.  Then, I passed a logging truck around Livingston, enjoyed the Absaroka Range, and watched the Yellowstone River dip back and forth from one side of the road to the other.  The open prairie and rolling hills seemed vast yet there was plenty of excitement for snapping photos along the way.  Somewhere around Big Timber, or beyond, a sleek train roared down the tracks just north of the Interstate.  To the south, the rugged Beartooth Mountains jutted in the far distance.  Just past Reed Point in Sweet Grass County, I snapped a photo of an old car that caught my eye.  After arriving in Billings, I snapped a photo of the Rimrocks, the most striking natural feature that rise 400 feet above the Yellowstone Valley and run the length of the city and beyond. 

Another day, my destination was the Butte area.  Another town I'd not driven to before.  But, in my mind, it seemed reasonable that if one could survive the New Jersey Turnpike, one could certainly handle the Interstate in Western Montana.  However, that declaration was made before driving to Butte because, boy, was I in for surprises.  

Once you get past Manhattan, Montana and Three Forks, there isn't much out there except the Lewis and Clark Caverns.  Once you start going through Deer Lodge National Forest and crossing the snow covered peeks of the Continental Divide, you feel as if you could almost touch Heaven!  I'd crossed the Continental Divide once before in Yellowstone National Park, but didn’t have any photos for posterity.  This time, I had my digital camera at my fingertips and readily clicked away. 

My month in Montana and Big Sky country, even in March with still freezing temperatures and snowy days, changed my perspective.  Walking the land where the West was won helps gives someone, even a California transplant, renewed fortitude to forge ahead.  

Top Blonde taking the day...see you next time!

 

 

 

 

"Women who Run with The Wolves"

Going to Bozeman Montana to visit my three grown daughters, Nicole, Lesa, and Aimee, for Thanksgiving a few weeks ago, was reason enough to be excited.  The snow capped mountains that surround Gallatine County made Big Sky country more inviting than ever. 

 

Another reason for my excitement was a little plan of mine to treat my daughters to a night away at Howlers Inn Bed & Breakfast and Wolf Sanctuary, thirteen miles outside of Bozeman.  Living on the east coast meant I didn’t get to see my daughters very often.  So, I wanted to do something unique and really special to celebrate them and their lives. Once I came across the web site for Howlers Inn, I knew it was time to make a reservation. www.howlersinn.com

 

Howlers Inn offers a haven for the stress laden and a hearth for warm relaxation all with a wolf pack serenade to lull you to sleep. The simple abundance of the spacious rooms, the log cabin set on 42 pristine acres of natural beauty, and the engaging hospitality of the inn keepers, Mary-Martha and Chris Bahn, was just the kind of experience I was seeking.

 

It had started snowing.  My daughter, Lesa, was driving us in her Jeep Cherokee in 4-wheel drive, but it was still slow going due to the increasing snow.   Once we spotted the Inn nestled up on the hill our excitement grew and we piled out with enough scarves, hats, gloves, satchels, boots and bags to start a boutique! 

 

Upon entering the kitchen and being greeted by Mary-Martha, my daughters and I were immediately enveloped by her friendly and welcoming charm.  The pine dining table was by large windows with a view of the three acres enclosure that held the wolves.  We could see them heading up their well trodden path to the boulders, trees, and seasonal creek that is their home.  Howlers Inn houses 6 wolves that could not survive in the wild and are cared for by Mary-Martha and her husband.

 

That evening after another snowy drive, we enjoyed a wonderful evening of fun and great food at Montana's Rib and Chop House, in Historic Livingston.  Bewteen the stretch limo out front and the TV stars dining a few tables away, it was a nice addition to our already affable time.  We caped off the wintry night with a dip in one of the many amenities, the hot tub, and the soundest sleep you could imagine.

 

The keystone of our visit to Howlers Inn was when the wolves treated us to their signature howling.  It was an incredible gift to hear six wolves howling in unison and then each stopping simultaneously as if on cue by an orchestra conductor.  It was the most amazing symphony we’d ever seen and heard. 

 

After breakfast the next morning of a scrumptions blueberry french toast souffle with crisp bacon and steaming hot coffee from our wolf mugs, we relunctly bid good-bye to our delightful host and enlightening mountain retreat.  Somehow, we all knew ... we'll be back. 

 

Top Blond taking the day…Jennifer