Whimsical serendipity

     Several years ago I was listening to Joan Hamburg on WOR radio 710 AM, when she mentioned a place of sanctuary called CedarHeart Lodge in Rosendale, New York (currently under new ownership with a new name).  Perhaps it was the combination of Mrs. Hamburg’s personable style and velvet voice that captured my attention.  She told the listening audience that the lodge was surrounded by cedar and white pine, was located near the famous Mohonk Preserve, Lake Minnewaska, and spectacular Catskill Park.  At that time, I didn’t know a thing about that area of the Hudson River Valley.  But, the word heart was in the name of this hidden treasure and that touched a chord.

     As Mrs. Hamburg continued describing the grounds, she talked of a pristine spring fed pond ideal for reflection and quiet contemplation.  She mentioned there were 17 acres of beautiful open woodland available for hiking or meandering.  As well, she, talked about a natural amphitheater nestled among the trees and of gazebos built with local stone and cedarwood.  Gazebos combined with heart; how could I not check out this haven?

     One thing that was stressed during the broadcast was the simplicity of CedarHeart Lodge.  Also, how the lodge adhered to the strong tradition of environmental activism that was popular in that area.  Which all meant that if you were expecting a Hilton or Marriott atmosphere with saunas, spas, and room service, you may want to rethink your stay. 

     Still, I couldn’t get this serene place of retreat out of my head and called the number that Mrs. Hamburg gave out to request a brochure.  When it arrived with a drawing of the Swiss style lodge on the front surrounded by pine trees, I knew it was time to get my name in their reservation book. 

     The excitement of embarking on a journey into the unknown is like beginning a treasure hunt without knowledge of the prize.  Rounding bends and discovering the breathtaking beauty of a brilliant sunset, quaint settings, or scenes that speak to your soul delivers blessings untold.

     I remember turning left off the Thurway toward New Paltz and feeling that thrill of getting closer to my destination like it was yesterday.  Passing the sign for Huguenot Street, along with a historic marker that told of the distinction of it being American’s oldest street dating back to the 1600’s, was mind-boggling. 

     Continuing on, I managed to find Route 32 North to Route 213.  As indicated, I turned left across the bridge to the intersection at St. Peter’s Church.  It’s so heartening to actually pass the landmarks listed in your directions.  After the final jaunt up and down a rather mountainous road, I arrived without a hitch at my destination.   

     Indeed, CedarHeart Lodge was environmentally friendly.  The wainscoting and railings were from fallen cedar trees, locally milled.  Other amenities included TREX decking-100% recycled material, Interface commercial carpet non-toxic and recycled, 100 % cotton bedding and bath linens, non-toxic cleaning materials, recycled paper products, cooperatively grown organic coffee, and local produce in season. 

     Though rustic indeed, the tranquility, clean air, and blue sky of CedarHeart Lodge perfectly suited my agenda.

     Since breakfast was the only meal served, I got recommendations and directions for dinner in High Falls, nearby.  Eating out by myself was challenging, but I knew I could do it and found myself at The Eggs Nest, a unique eatery unlike anything I’d ever seen before. 

     Not exactly being my nature to not talk to strangers, I ended up conversing with some of the locals who pointed me in the direction of the falls.  A street that began nearly 300 years ago had nothing on the steely blue of endless rushing waterfalls over an embankment that dates back to the Ice Age.

     In spite of the stillness and indelible quiet that night, I resisted drifting into slumber.  The anticipation of new adventure tomorrow might bring, kept dancing in my head.

After an organic, fiber healthy, fruit laden breakfast, I set out with my notes and directions from the previous evening.  Not only had the locals led me to the falls, they mentioned Woodstock.  Wow!  Historic Woodstock.  Not that I was ever a sixties groupie or flower child, heaven forbid, but I was so close.  If I waited until I got back here, I might never travel down this path again.  The day was mine and risking missing out on whatever serendipity lay ahead didn’t seem optional. 

     The allure from winding around scenic country roads was an experience I wouldn’t have missed for anything.  While trying to decipher my scribbled notes in one hand with arrows pointing here and there, and drive with the other, my heart was filled. The day had barely begun.  How could it get any better?

     While making a stop at a country store type gas station, a band of motorcyclists rolled in.  Men and women appearing to be in the baby boomer age range decked out in black leather from head to toe, descended their bikes.  This was no Kodak moment.  Jaw dropping was more like it.  But, as luck would have it, I did some deep breathing while subduing my prejudices and ended up exchanging polite pleasantries.  I discovered they too were headed to Woodstock. 

     What could be more serendipitous or American than a California girl following a gang of motorcyclists from Long Island into Woodstock, New York?  Until next time...Top Blonde taking the day...

 

Finding our "best self"

Have you ever noticed how many times you’re ready to head out the door only to discover you can’t find your keys?  Or, you’re ready to wrap a birthday gift and can’t locate the scissors and tape?  Or, maybe you’re like me; if I could only remember what I’ve forgotten I’ve lost…then maybe I could find it. 

We’ve all been down the road of “lost and misplaced possessions.” I’ll bet you have a few of your own stories.  Once, when on a trip to Washington D.C., I’d misplaced my sun glasses and asked the clerk at the hotel desk if anyone had turned in a pair.  The attendant on duty promptly grinned, as if on cue, and pulled out a basket literally brimming with lost designer lost sunglasses from Rayban to Gucci.  “See any you like?” He cheerily quipped.

Karla Jones, a professional organizer, speaker and seminar leaders, says, “Physical clutter is called Visual Noise.  Just as it is impossible to work and live productively with constant noise, so is it impossible to live and work productively when your environment is in chaos.”  Granted, de-cluttering one’s environment and better organization can do wonders. 

It’s always intrigued me how much time we spend each year looking for lost keys… but I can’t recall where I put that folder to give you that figure!  It must have sprouted little feet and moved itself.  Perhaps I should follow the suggestion I saw on the Internet, “setting up a database for lost and misplaced items.”  Can you imagine?

Is it the daily overload many of us carry around that freezes our brain from functioning?  Perhaps, it’s not enough down time?  Or, not enough quiet time?  Except we all know that quiet time is virtually non-existent in the Northeast or any other mega-metropolis.  Thus, we waste time trying to locate important documents, looking for a pen, or trying to locate the grocery list all while keeping the mad mystery of looking for things alive.

My daughters laugh at me as I keep a running list of things to find; keys, my passport, a 40’s style fur trimmed sweater that belonged to my eclectic Aunt Roberta, my headache pills, my reading glasses, and a glove.  That’s right; one glove.  Right now a solitary brown Fownes leather glove with black fir trim lay atop my dresser along side my list of things to find.  I thought I dropped the mate right in my own drive way while getting out of my Jeep one day.  But, ah, I know just where it is…the parking lot at the Weehawken Ferry Terminal.  I inadvertently dropped it while rushing out of the car when trying to keep up with a date to catch the ferry to the city...and hasn’t been seen since!  Neither has the date which turned out to be a positive item to lose.

  But, what if our challenge is less memory and simply more the daily dollops that fall into our lap?  I recently read that, “The main reason people misplace keys is actually not a failure of memory.  Factors such as fatigue and stress also play a part.  If you go without sufficient sleep, neglect goodeating habits, worry excessively, suffer an emotional upset, your mind will lose itsfocus.  The first solution is then preventative.  If you take steps to reduce stress and take better care of yourself, this would help one to return to the state of ‘best self’.”

Wonderful!  That sounds easy enough.  I’ll just add ‘best self’ to my list of things to find.

Until next time… Top Blonde taking the day…

The king of rolling pins

The range of my imagination is incalculable.  It never fails me… let’s just say it never falls short for painting a dramatic portrait of the human experience filled with all the flair life exudes. 

And so it was on a recent Sunday afternoon when Rob, my special guy, and I were strolling the streets in the river hamlet of Coldspring.  With the winter wind still nipping at our necks we found ourselves dipping in and out of one quaint shop after another.

Upon entering the next stop, Country in the Valley, we were pleasantly enveloped by the cozy charm of country decor.  Stars, scented candles, kitchen linens, jars of jelly, cute mugs, and walls lined with homespun looking wreaths and other antique artifacts made us feel like we were in a cottage in the country.  Over by the wall, a small table with a red gingham cloth had pots with hot coffee and a basket of crackers alongside a jar of seedless red raspberry jam as gratuity for the patrons. 

The wood floors and farm feel make for a hardy hominess that was only magnified the deeper we walked into the store.  What one would think of as the front of the shop, where the counter and register would hail, was in the back.

It was when we stepped up into that back room that our eyes grew wide.  We had a jaw dropping experience of simultaneously spotting the most unusual item either of us had seen in a long while.  A giant wooden rolling pin, the size of Paul Bunyan’s arm, lay diagonally across the counter. 

Mind you, I’ve seen a few rolling pins in my day.  I’ll bet you have too.  You can’t raise a family without a few variations of this nostalgic kitchen utensil.  I remember my mom’s rolling pin with the smooth wood and strong handles for rolling out the perfect crust for her infamous strawberry cream cheese pie.  My current rolling pin is the one with the handles painted that old fashioned green from the fifties. Though slightly dented, the smudge of flour caked on the handle ridges gives it distinction.  

My friend, Anna, surprised me last year with a beautiful ceramic blue and white rolling pin reminiscent of Blue Delft, which I treasure.  It has pedestals to position it on for display.  In light of my drop ability capability, I’ve not christened it just yet.

Kim Olert, the proprietor, told us that just before we arrived, an older man, whose name was Bill, was going by the store and felt that he was to bring her the monstrous masterpiece he had in his car.  She said that Bill told her, “It’s going to bring the store luck”.   We learned that Bill is an antique dealer, a writer, that he lives on a farm, but wasn’t from the area. 

As mentioned above, it doesn’t take much for my imagination to slip into overdrive.  I envisioned that the previous owner of this large capacity rolling pin must have been an Amish woman from the Pennsylvania Dutch country devoted to giving love, care, and nourishment to her family.  Ig so, she arose earlyto bake world class pies fit for a king.  For clearly, like a man or a woman with apast who God has redeemed, that rolling pin likely has a colorful history.  Yet now, its work accomplished, it is set aside and worthy of awe.

We may never know the mystery of Bill, the history of the giant rolling pin, or the truth about the hands that rolled this way and that to flatten the dough with back breaking accuracy for a favorite family delicacy.  What I can tell you is that once your eyes gaze over the smooth dark wood grain of this amazing relic, your imagination will no doubt fill a delicious slice of life.  You might even find yourself digging up your own rolling pin to bake a pie.

Until next time...Top Blonde taking the day... 

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.