Swing, swang, swung...

The sight of a swing unfailingly brings a smile to my face. Rubber seated, rusty chained schoolyard swings, rope swings, frayed and worn, tire swings with their pungent smell, or poetic beauties like the one pictured here. One glance and I am 8 again, pumping my legs to make the swing go high then higher... head thrown back, hair flying, hands gripping for dear life. I used to worry that I'd go so high the swing would flip right over the top of where it was fastened, and then what would become of me? It was a thrilling sort of worry.

My mother bought a wooden glider swing for my dad for fathers day one year when I was a teen. It was a two-seater; 4 adults could share it, facing each other and go for a gentle ride. I have a vivid memory of my parents sitting side by side in the sun, holding hands. My dad smiled sweetly at me and said, "holding hands with your mother has always been the very most romantic thing." Later, when I left them alone there, moving slowly to and fro, I turned in time to see mom throw her head back in a joyful, spontaneous laugh at something he had said. Dad's eyes were twinkling with pleasure at her delight.

Swing set memories make me smile.

Water music...

This is the season when the snow pack melts and cold rain falls. Wherever I go in Maine my travels are punctuated with water music. Every culvert, steam, brook and river are overflowing and moving fast. The sound of rushing water on granite speaks to my very soul.

Happy as...

A few months ago, during a very cold spell, my husband set up a kerosene heater in the basement to help prevent our pipes from freezing. All was well until shortly after he left for work, when the heater malfunctioned and filled the house with blue-gray soot. The walls, ceilings, windows, everything, had a dull cast of greasy yuck. My white poodle, not so white!

Long-story-short, we filed an insurance claim and this week the cleaning crew is here removing the soot from the building.

This means that I have taken every curtain down and washed them, every picture off every wall has been taken down, washed and stashed. I pulled all the furniture out from the walls and cleaned under and behind them. While I was at it I purged lots of things I no longer want or need. Chris took every single item out of our basement, so it can be cleaned as well. We have worked very hard.

Rachel said to me, "Mom, when this is all over and the house is pretty and clean, you will be happy as a duck!" The expression struck me as funny. She noted my mirth and asked, "What? Isn't that an expression?" I responded, "It is now!"

So, yes, as the house is going from grimy to sparkling, I am feeling tired but as happy as... happy as a duck!

Bony soil...

One of New England's many charms is its abundance of stone walls. They began as somewhat of a vertical landfill, as farmers working this soil toiled against the "bones" in it... boulders that hampered the growth of crops. At first farmers would just stack the rocks in an unused area, but eventually they began to make meandering walls from them. Walls that marked land boundaries and had the added benefit of keeping livestock, such as sheep, from roaming.

Historians say that most of these walls were built between 1775 and 1825. They crisscross every farm, line most roads, and are found overgrown and tumbled-down on walks through lonely woods. Decorated by lichen and moss, the stones stand in silent memory of the men who founded this land and left ageless, beautiful reminders of their passage.

My neighbors are pigs...

Isn't that neat?

And something you may not know about me...

Is I am quite a good shot with a gun!

A quarter of a century, and more...

Yesterday I turned 49. And... my sweet husband and I celebrated 25 years of marriage. This means that I have now been MARRIED more years than I was single. And I am so thankful.
My wedding band is wearing thin, and his is scratched, scuffed and dull. I was a bit horrified to realize it is our silver anniversary. I remember thinking that people who reached their "silver" year, were so... so... OLD.

When I was 24, Chris asked me what I wanted for my upcoming birthday. I told him I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. So, on my birthday, we eloped.

My college professor married us in his yard in the Blue Ridge mountains. The sun shone, the birds sang, and daffodils bloomed in riotous patches. I wore a tea length ivory dress, and high heels that hurt. As our minister spoke, my feet felt funny. Like they were not touching the ground. At first I thought my shoes were too tight, too HIGH. I glanced down, but all seemed well, my feet seemed to be firmly attached to the greening grass beneath them. Chris, holding tight to my hand, chose that moment to whisper to me, "Do you feel it?" I shot him a questioning glance. He repeated, "Do you feel it?" Then he added, "Are you floating too?"

To this day we cannot explain it, but at the moment that we were lawfully wed, we floated above this bright spinning planet for a moment. I like to think it was a sign, a message that our vows were right and true and meant to be.

Yesterday I began my 50th year on this beautiful earth, and 25 years with the love of my life.
Sometimes I think I am still "floating, too."