Sweet Summer Sights

It's hot here and the humidity has been hovering just below 100%.  At least it's not raining -- all the time. 

Yesterday, I went for a walk at the new 100 Acres Art & Nature Park at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.  Two artists are living in a floating island in the lake right now. I'll have to go back again with the intent to bring something to trade and make a visit to the island. You can read about their project "Give and Take" here.

The camera, of course, was present on my walk. It's amazing the things you see when you start looking for them.

When I got home, I spied this beautiful blue creature on my patio table:

And these, that came home from the Farmers' Market:

which reminded me, as plums always do, of the poem "This is Just to Say", by William Carlos Williams. They were so sweet and so cold.

Felled!

As longtime readers of this blog may know, I live in the woods, on a beautiful piece of land I call, rather tongue-in-cheek, 'Old Oak Hill'. It isn't the grand plantation or manor home that the name suggests, but there is a grand oak tree that crowns the hill and can be seen from a half mile away, towering over the other trees in the woods. When the weather is icy, I refer to my homeplace as Mount B----- (the name of the street I live on). Mount B seems like a Cat 3 climb in a difficult Midwest winter.

I drove by Old Oak Hill on my daily commute for seven years, always admiring the trees that shrouded the house three seasons of the year, the deer that sometimes jumped out of the ravine and into the road, sometimes a opossum or fox that would scamper once the headlights of the car would beam around the bend. When the For Sale went up when we were looking for a new home, I called my realtor although I was skeptical that the place could actually be mine.

We looked at the house in September, when all the leaves were still on the trees. My son, then 10, was excited that he could identify 27 different types of native trees on the property, thanks to a recently completed tree unit in his science class. When we went back for a second visit before making a bid, I noticed two tall trees stumps, about 15 feet tall and 15 feet apart, standing totem-pole like at the edge of the drive. Neither tree had any branches; when the surrounding trees were in leaf, you wouldn't notice immediately that these were stumps. In the late fall, once the leaves of surrounding trees had fallen, they stood like sentries, guarding the woods behind them.

Over the last 11 years I've watched myriad birds perch on the sides of these stately stumps: robins, wrens, sparrows, and crows, yellow-belly sapsuckers, red-headed flickers, and pilated woodpeckers. Squirrels and chipmunks would crawl up them. For a few years, before the insides began to rot, they spent time sunning themselves on the tops on warm spring days. Snow piled on top of them during winter storms, looking like caps with earflaps hanging down the sides. I've taken a lot of pleasure looking at these trees, not only watching the wildlife, but also imagining how magnificent they must have been when they had leafy crowns.
Over the years, though, the insides have started to rot. The flickers and woodpeckers finding food in the crevices of the bark were a sure sign that lots of small inhabitants of the insect world had made their homes inside the trunks. The flat tops of the stumps caved in, leaving ragged edges. Large sections of bark fell this spring, reveling the decaying insides. It was interesting to look at the cracks and crevices in the rotting tree. The variety of textures on one tree -- smooth, cracked, powdery -- revealed nature's progress at returning the tree to the earth. But, while Mother Nature was doing her things, decomposing the tree slowly over time, it became clear that either tree could easily be toppled in a storm, presenting potential dangers to people, property, or other still thriving trees. Sometimes being a good steward of the land means you need to remove a tree. And that is what was done yesterday.

As the tree trimmers felled the more solid of the two, I heard them laugh. One reached over, picked something up and held it for me to see. "A little mouse", he laughed, as he gently set it down at the edge of the woods. "He had a nice home, there". So, I was not only destroying a perch and pantry for birds and a playground for squirrels, but a home for field mice.

When I woke today I heard the birds chirping and the squirrels squeaking. "Where's the big tree", I imagined they were saying. I walked to where the trees had been to survey the area this morning. The negative space where the trees once stood looks stark: only bark and sawdust shavings remain, and two large holes in the earth.

I'll miss seeing these trees from my house. Soon the negative space will fill in with other trees and ground cover. The woods will recapture the holes and all sorts of interesting things will grow. The birds, squirrels, chipmunks and deer will still visit the woods, foraging, nesting, resting on or under other trees as they have always done. Still, I think I'll put out some extra bird seed this afternoon for my feathered friends -- and their furry woods neighbors.

Holy Water

A guest post, by David J. Marsh

Knowing how nearby Walden slept, I had gone to bed the previous evening like a grade schooler – hopped up on the stimulant of an impending field trip – the pillow proving an obnoxious barrier between myself and wonder. Late into the night, I had flipped from one position to the next like a fish in the grass. And having no memory of having found sleep, I was shocked to consciousness by the blare of my wife’s cell phone alarm. Unlike that little kid, I had a most miserable time getting out of bed, and a foundational need for strong black coffee. Tall Americano. No, make it a grande – big day today.

Sunlight flickered across the dash, pulsating within and slightly warming the cabin of the rental car as we made our way up Route 126, having left Marlborough after a light breakfast an hour or so before. I was drowsy, relaxed and happy.

If my map reading skills and recollection prove trustworthy (you’ll not risk insult by checking), Route 126 becomes Concord Road just south of Concord, and before reaching the Pond transforms itself into Walden Street, preparing to meld into lovely Concord, Mass. At some point a few miles south of town, nestled in-between spacious lawns, is a lush community garden plot. It must be several acres, announcing itself with a sort of arch, lettering painted or pinned to it, declaring its purpose. As I anticipated the day ahead, I found this to be especially quaint, as we don’t see this sort of thing so much in the Midwest. We read about it in progressive magazines, but somehow we fail in the execution. I suppose I may have over-reacted a bit in response to this cultural artifact. Forgive me, for I was by that point brimming with the anticipation that I surely must be within only a few thousand yards of the hallowed kettle. I should mention that we were on a family vacation, a road trip. The back of the car was packed with our three offspring (our very greatest legacy), and all the trimmings. Our final destination was Cape Cod. I had lobbied long and somewhat hard for this detour in the itinerary. The stop was for me. Sure, someday the kids would come to recognize where they had been, and my wife had a passing knowledge of the importance of the place, but it was I who felt the urgency to visit this cathedral of American letters.

I knew little of what to expect. I had read the book, of course, and had been to the web site, sparse though it is. As we drove, I could not recall if his cabin was still there. That would certainly be an embarrassing question to ask. (I did ask. I asked an overly youthful attendant at the bathhouse. I figured I may not know about the cabin, but I had read the book…more than once. Surely the scoreboard would favor me.)

We arrived well ahead of many other visitors. I wondered what other visitors would mark such a milestone in their lives with a visit today. The bookstore was not yet open. All the cars in the lot could have parked in my driveway. Crossing the road and descending the incline, my first view of Walden Pond saw not a human in sight. She lay in the clear morning, a diorama, not a ripple, still – like one of those fake ponds behind the stuffed bear in a state museum, made out of some sort of epoxy that slowly fades into a landscape painted on the wall. The Pond is large – much larger than you think. Where I call home, northern Indiana, such a body of water would be termed a lake. Ponds are tiny and overgrown as far as my kin are concerned…certainly not large enough for a boat, and in no way suitable for human contact.

What a fine job of preservation she had enjoyed. Many women, I know, would delight in the opportunities she has enjoyed at being aided in retaining her youth. Either a diligent conservationist had been through the evening before, or there was a sacred understanding that littering here would bring existential turmoil. (Allow me to prefer the latter, won’t you?) The site is pristine, an outdoor, interactive American original. No discolor, no odor, no scum…would that I had a vat of her in which to soak my feet at the start of this New Year, or better, I suppose, a winter visit to see the bubbles trapped under the edges of her icy skirt.

As I reviewed the map, I thought, how fortunate is Walden. There seem to be others who could have stolen her glory. HDT could’ve set his compass on Flints or Farrar. If he’d desired less H2O, there may have been Crosby, Goose, or any number of others vying for his attention. Walden, however, was easily accessed; it was on the rail line, fell nearly due south of town (remotely at the time) and was only a short hike from his parent’s house. Location, location, location.

The morning saw us hike the entire circumference of the pond, taking the better part of a couple of hours. All along there were small places to sit – enough of an easement for only one or two – a few steep steps made of rock to lower you to water’s edge – a promotion of solitude. At one point was a pass, a land bridge just enough to separate the pond proper from a marsh…such a marsh as could’ve been a watering hole to mammoths, so untouched.

The sun overhead, we returned to the car to grab our swimsuits and change. It was here, that a graceful old gentleman, with an accent that sang a tune under his words, gave my son a beachball he had found. He was careful to explain that he would have had to either take it home or bequeath to another, as to leave it to the elements would not be an option in such a place. My son was delighted. I imagined myself living closer to the Pond, balding, retired. My respect even greater than it is now, I would come each evening and carefully inspect her shoreline for foreign objects and clear her eyes of splinters. I would tell no one. It would be my contribution to her office, my way of rubbing elbows with the ghosts who rest just a few miles hence in Sleepy Hollow.

Late afternoon, I climbed up out of the water, past the many other bathers and sat down in my lounge chair, to warm myself in the sunshine. I had just gone swimming with my kids in Walden Pond. I turned to my wife, and said (borrowing from Kurt Vonnegut Jr.),

“If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is”.

Today....and tomorrow

Two things about today ....

Today is the last day of the long holiday weekend, and like most end-of-holiday weekend, I greet the evening with a mixture of sadness that it is over and relief that is. Sadness because visiting family have returned home, the trappings of the weekend put away, my son has departed to go back to school, and Thanksgiving is over for this year. Relief for much of the same reasons. Sometimes the break from the routine, even when you enjoy it, is too disruptive. While I would relish a few additional vacation days -- I'm down to only a few more that I can take off from work -- there is something about the rhythm of the normal routines.

Today is the first day of Advent, the start of the Christian holiday season. While retailers have been promoting the secular Christmas for what seems like weeks, the official 'kick-off' of the season generally starts on the day after Thanksgiving. The lights have gone up on trees and houses around the neighborhood. Our neighbors across the street have decorated a very, very tall evergreen with white lights. Not to be outdone, the house next to them have strung lights on two tall oaks. On one multi-colored lights merely twist around the trunk towards the top branches. On the other, white lights encircle the trunk, while green lights at the top form an outline that makes the tree look like a palm tree. I'm not sure that there is any symbolism to a palm tree, but I like the idea of something reminiscent of warmer climates on the snow-sprinkled slope of a ravine in the heartland of the country where palms are only found inside conservatories.

Light: it seems a natural that many people in northern latitudes would have celebrated the idea of light during a time when the hours of sunlight decrease so dramatically in the weeks before the solstice. How could one not recognize that rhythm of the earth? No wonder that as the Roman Empire spread throughout Northern Europe, church officials co-opted the feast of Saturnalia to fit their new religion. The cycle of light - dark - light, paralleling the fertile - fallow - new growth patterns of crops, is so obvious to a casual observer, much less people whose lives were ruled by the seasons, any effort to block out such celebrations would have been futile. Even knowing the origin of the light and new birth symbolism in the Roman's Saturnalia, I can embrace these metaphors as part of my faith because they make sense to celebrate. Nor was this concept of light and illumination vs. darkness unknown to the early Christians; one can find it in the Hebrew Scriptures as well. If you're interested in such things, you may want to check out Jan Richardson's blog, The Advent Door during this season of liturgical preparation for Christmas.

Two things about Tomorrow...

Another kind of light, that of the night sky, will provide a treat tomorrow. Jupiter and Venus will be in conjunction, appearing close together in the early evening sky. This occurs twice (once in morning sky, once in evening sky) every two years. Tomorrow, December 1, not only will they be in conjunction, but they will form a triangle with a slivered crescent moon. If the sky is clear enough, you will be able to see the rest of the moon as well. Sometimes referred to as earthshine, the phenomena also is called the old moon in the young moon's arms. Isn't that a lovely description of it? Read more about the conjunction and the brilliantly lit trio at Space.com or see this Yahoo article. Here is a picture of how the moon, Jupiter and Venus will be aligned tomorrow.


On a more serious note, and quite the opposite of light and life, tomorrow is World AIDS Day. UNAIDS estimates that there are an estimated 33 million people infected with HIV. 22 million of those infected live in sub-Saharan Africa. While AIDS can be a manageable disease that one can live with in the West, in developing countries, it remains a death sentence for most. If you read or hear anyone saying how there is too much money going to AIDS, that the infection rates have slowed and that people can now live with this disease, don't accept that at face value. That is true if you exclude Africa. What is the difference between AIDS in the West and Africa? Money, access to appropriate healthcare, treatment. Educate yourself about the facts. Avert.org is one place to start. Read the executive summary of the 2008 UNAIDS report on the global AIDS epidemic. An excellent book to read is 28 stories of AIDS in Africa by Stephanie Nolen. You can read about a remarkable program in Eldoret, Kenya here.

What can you do to recognize World Aids Day? Educate yourself and others. Raise Awareness. Raise funds. Donate.

Flyaway Bird

I was seated at my dining room table this morning, reading the newspaper.

"Stupid Bird", my husband said.

I looked at him puzzled, and turned around towards the window.


As I was turning, there was an enormous crash as a bird slammed into the picture window. I saw two other birds, large, black grackles, turn suddenly upward and fly over the house. At the same time, a big squirrel with a bushy tail jumped several feet, away from the edge of the pond, scampering down the wall. I didn't see the bird that hit.

"I meant the bird looking in the empty feeder. Not that one," my husband said.

I looked for but didn't see the bird that had mistaken my dirty window for clear air. He had hit hard and it would have been about a 15 foot drop to the patio below. I didn't think that he had survived.

I watched the squirrel on the driveway. He looked to see if there was a present danger before scaling the stone wall again to slink near to the edge of the pond. At first he sat on the edge of the skimmer. Then, he slyly edged towards the water. I wasn't sure whether he was wanting a drink or wanted to fish.

Not trusting that he was only thirsty, I cracked open the casement window. Usually the noise from unlatching the window is enough to scare a chipmunk, but this squirrel was brazen. I opened the window further, and leaned out to scream at the squirrel.

"Leave my fish alone", I yelled. He turned, scampered down from the terrace and ran across the drive to a big ash tree. Apparently, only small rodents will listen to me (and not every time).

As I leaned out the window, I saw a bird perched at the other edge of the pond and chirping. I thought it was a pigeon or maybe a catbird. I couldn't be sure. Suddenly, I saw a bunch of feathers on the opposite side of the pond. It wasn't moving and I couldn't see its head.

I ran out to the garage and grabbed the flat, fine-meshed net we use to pull leaves out of the pond and ran to the side of the house. I jumped on the wall, ran along the edge of the rocks, to the side of the pond were the bird was. I fished the bird out as quickly as I could and gently dumped it out of the net onto the ground. "It's a robin!" I shouted to my husband who had now caught up with me outside.

I could tell from its markings that it was a female. She opened her mouth but made no sound. She stared at me. She looked scared.

I wasn't sure that she was going to make it. My husband suggested that I put her back in the net and he'd take her towards the woods. I gently scooped her up, talking to the bird. "We're trying to help you, birdy", I said in a quiet voice. I know it is silly to talk to creatures, but I do. I'd like to think that she sensed that I was trying to help her.

My husband walked toward the edge of the woods and put the bird on the ground. In a few moments, she had recovered from her crash and near-drowning, and flew away.


NOTE: Spouse just informed me that I am not living up to some sort of journalistic integrity, that I misquoted him. He claims that he did not say "Stupid Bird", rather than he felt sorry for the bird on the empty feeder. Not to take liberties with quotations, but I don't remember it that way :)

Note II: He says that I'm really saying that I never admit that I'm wrong!

The Frost is on the Pumpkin

Suddenly, it is cold and windy. The air feels like fall. Last week, it was cool, but not cold. It smells like sleep today, a friend said. I understood: that cool, crisp air, retaining the heat of the day's sunlight, merely suggests that cold weather is on the way; it relaxes and soothes and makes you feel as golden as the sunlit leaves.

Today, though, it didn't smell like sleep. The air smelled like cold, wet dirt mixed with the advancing edge of a Arctic cold front, still three or four weeks distant.

Driving home the other night I was caught up in the setting sun's dappled light upon the trees on my street. The sun sparked amber lights across the tree tops while casting long shadows underneath. Today, I walked through the woods, listening to the leaves crunch beneath my feet. They provided a dry barrier on top of the loamy woods' floor. I'm glad I had my camera in hand. I'll share some of the pictures over the next few weeks.

This evening, before bed, it seemed like a perfect air for hot chocolate. Here (more or less) is my recipe for hot chocolate. Reading it I'm sure you'll understand why I'm not a baker.....

Take two mugs & fill with milk. Dump into pan. Add 3 - 4 heaping teaspoons of Dutch Process Cocoa (my favorite everyday cocoa powder is Penzey's) and some sugar (or about 4 packets of Splenda. Quantity dependent on sweet tooth.) Dissolve into the milk. Add a few sprinkles of cayenne pepper -- the secret ingredient of the Mayans -- and the bewitching heroine in the film Chocolat. Add a dash of salt -- just a teeny, tiny bit! Stir in a splash of vanilla extract and then heat, stirring constantly. A moment before it begins to boil, turn off heat, add about 1/2 mug of cold milk to cool and to take the edge off if too chocolaty. Pour into mugs and sprinkle 1/2 a dash of cinnamon on to top of each mug. Delight in sipping your yummy hot chocolate.

This week's To-Do List, with pictures

To Do List:

* Get to airport on time. [Just barely.] a

* Make difficult decisions, such as:

Walk North a


Walk South a


* Take lots of naps.a

* Hug some trees. [metaphorically] a

Palm trees...

Swamp fig on cyprus

Cyprus


* Swim in the sea. a

* See the sun kiss the water. a



* Eat plenty of seafood (Grouper, Flounder, Shrimp, Oysters...) a

* Go to my favorite Audubon Sanctuary, Corkscrew Swamp and observe nature. [alligators, birds, anoles, frogs, plants, spiders, racoons. Heard a bear growl.] a

Red-Shouldered Hawk
Green Tree Frog (hiding)

* Ignore Blackberry. Let others work. a



* Stop and smell the flowers. a
Water Lily

Narrow-leaf sunflowers

Orchid

Alligator Flag Blossom
White vine


* Lie on the beach under the full moon and stare at the stars. a

* Work on personal projects, not work projects a

* Observe two birds I haven't noticed before [Black Skimmers, Common Yellowthroat] a

* Read. a

* Favorite line of poetry this week:
...from what we cannot hold, the stars are made -- WS Merwin Youth

* Take pictures. Relax a

Old trees hold many tales....

A 3 x 5 greeting from Mother Nature

I was walking on my driveway today when I spotted an amazing Luna Moth with wings like a marbled paper. She blended in with the mossy stone wall. The markings on her wings looked like eyes. Across the top of her five-inch wings her feathered coloration looks like a twig. Adaptation in nature never ceases to amaze me with its ingenious beauty.

LUNA CLOSEUP


Her body was like a long, white cotton puff that glowed through her translucent wings.
LUNA BODY


Although Lunas are common, they are rarely seen, living only 1 week, during which they don't eat. They live only to mate. She'll rest until it is night, giving off pheromones to attract a male. She'll mate with him for 4 hours.

LUNA ON WALL, RESTING UP FOR THE BIG NIGHT


Maybe the short life of a moth isn't so bad: beauty & pleasure. Okay, so I'm anthropomorphizing a bit, but just try to tell me that she isn't beautiful!

Summertime, Ponds, Reflections

Over the weekend, we celebrated a friend's birthday by attending Symphony on the Prairie, the annual summer offerings of the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra, performed at Connor Prairie Farm, a living history museum. Like most summer outdoor symphony concerts, this series is mostly pops, with a little classical music. It is a very casual atmosphere, with picnic baskets, fireworks, and a few mosquitoes. My music purist spouse doesn't care too much for outdoor concerts; he doesn't like it that the crickets don't pay attention to the conductor. Me? For an occasional summer evening, I find it a relaxing way to spend a few hours with friends.

In browsing through the program, before the lights went down (that'd be the sun), I found two quotes about summer, both that I have read previously, but was delighted to come across again:

"Summer afternoon -- summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language." -- Edith Wharton

"In summer, the song sings itself!" -- William Carlos Williams

I complain too much in the summer about the heat. Where I live, if the temperature edges past 80-85, you can safely bet that the humidity will be over 90%. There is no such thing as 'dry heat' in the Midwest. Yet, the longer hours of daylight, the flowering gardens, even the occasional pesky mosquito, seem to inspire a slower pace. Despite the heat, I do like summer. "Summer afternoon" are two beautiful words, especially if they are lazy summer afternoons where all obligations are put aside for at least a little while so you can hear summer sing.


I picked up a book today that has languished on my bookshelf for about a year, Philip Gulley's Porch Talk. It is a collection of essays by Gulley, a Quaker minister, who writes in a humorous, down home style. I first read Gulley for a book discussion group a few years ago, and was prepared to detest him. I was sure that it would be overly sentimental drivel at best, or worse: sermonizing. But, what I found is that while his Quaker philosophy infuses every page of his essays, his essays are not chances to preach, but opportunities to brighten up corners of the world, in spite of the darkness that may be there. Sometimes his essays are not those kinds of enlightening opportunities, but just a few pages that will make you laugh.

In "Pond Life", Gulley writes about his desire to bring a little bit of the natural world to his yard by building a pond. As a pond owner, I could predict the direction this essay would take, so I began reading with a smile in place.

'Let's build a pond', I suggested to Joan. 'We could fill it with fish and water lilies and have a little waterfall and listen to the gurgle of water. It would be just like living beside a mountain stream.
...
We read a book about goldfish and koi and how not to kill them, then spent a tidy sum of money buying a dozen fish to stock our pond. We followed the book precisely, gradually acclimating the fish to our pond, fine-tuning the pH balance to provide the optimum environment. The third morning, Sam rushed in the house to share the happy news that our fish knew how to swim on their backs. The second bunch of fish lasted nearly a week before a wandering herd of raccoons eviscerated them. The fish that replaced them died of a gruesome fungus, and the batch after them was a midnight snack for a great blue heron -- pp 29-30, Porch Talk: Stories of decency, common sense, and other endangered species, 2007

I remember our first fish. As I was trying to empty the bag of water & fish into the pond, I dropped it. One fish flew through the air and smacked its head on rock. The other flipped onto the driveway and was washed downhill by the accompanying water. Both survived for a few seasons, but, that first day, after the gentle sedative, placed in the water for the trip home, wore off, I'm sure they wondered what sort of partying they had done the night before. I still have a few of my original fish, although the koi, which had grown from about two inches to 12 after 4 years, went fins up during a particularly cold snowstorm last year. Looking in the pond the other day I noticed there there were some fry; two little gold guys flitting around between the rushes, trying to stay hidden and out of the way of the big fish while still grabbing at pieces of food floating on the water.

We've seen animal tracks on the ice in the winter, leading directly to the air hole in the ice. Blue herons live nearby and I'm sure that they and other fisher-birds have enjoyed sushi served from my pond. We've fought string algae by floating pantyhose filled with straw in the filters, rigged strange apparatus with netting to capture leaves in autumn, and have tried to figure out sources of leaks. Still, I find it pleasurable to sit on the porch, or near an open window, to hear the water gurgle down the stream into the pond. I've often thought that tinkering with the rocks lining the stream must be similar to maintaining a zen garden; each movement of rock alters not only the flow of the water, but the sound as the water cascades over the small waterfall. That sound fills the space around you and quiets a busy brain.


Gulley jokes about the work of maintaining a pond, but he also writes about the emotions that the pond evokes. His pond reminds him of summer days as a child spent near a pond with his best friend. But it also reminds him of the death of his friend and the possibilities that died with him.

Sometimes, while sitting by my pond, I think of Tim and our pond life. I think of the wife he never married, the children he never had, and it occurs to me that, although some things (houses, fields, lakes) diminish over time, other things (loss, grief, the heartbreak of lives cut short) do not. There is much good to recollect while seated by my pond, and much sorrow too, and sometimes they are one and the same. pp. 34.

Gulley writes about ponds, tooth fairies, life, death -- even taxes. His essays are quick little bites of reflection. I think I'll keep Porch Talk on my desk for awhile so that I can quickly sample an essay whenever I need a five-minute respite from workday worries. I think it may be similar to listening to my pond.

Three Beautiful Things

Unexpected joys of summer:



Fresh Watermelon. Lovely taste. Slicing this juicy melon reminded me of my grandfather teaching me how to slap melons in the market to tell if they were ripe. Finding a seed in this seedless melon made me smile.





I like watching blue dragonflies flit from plant to plant around my pond & porch. I am not a good enough photographer and I don't have the right equipment to capture the graceful ways his wings flap, making blue arcs across the garden. Maybe there isn't a photographer or camera that could capture his true beauty. Part of the pleasure of watching them, I think.




I am awed by spiderwebs, especially when they catch the last few drops of rain.

What three beautiful things did you hear, see, say today?

Summer Pleasures

Lovely Lily of Blog posted recently about summer pleasures. One of hers is iced coffee. One of mine: Iced Sun Tea.


In this case, black current, brought to me by a friend on a trip to Russia, purchased in duty-free shop in Hamburg, with Finnish wording on the Lipton package. I was amused by the package; love the tea.

I'm particular about how my tea is brewed and rarely buy iced tea in restaurants, particularly now that so many places where I live (not even in the South) serve that beverage abomination known as Sweet Tea. Unsweetened tea is a 'special request'. Ugh! Sun tea, more accurately cold-brewed tea, is a simple pleasure. I don't make mine in the sun; just place the tea into cold water and let it stand for about an hour. Watching the tea slowly sink to the bottom of the pitcher can be mesmerizing, if you're in one of those "don't have anything I really want to do right now" kinds of mood.

Even though I don't make Sun Tea outside, I think of this as a summertime pleasure. It is light and soothing and feels appropriate for the season. After I snapped this picture, I realized how perfect this picture was. Unintentionally framed in the picture is one of the tiles in my kitchen. With the flash from the camera a reflection was created resembling a sunset with a palm tree superimposed on the glass. What could be more summer-like than that?


The tile, actually, is of a May Apple (Podophyllum peltatum). One of the first things I noticed when I looked at this house was the hand-painted tiles in the kitchen. The owner explained that all of the represented flowers grew on the property. At closing, she gave me a book used by the painter for most of the tiles.



Thinking about summer pleasures and iced tea, made me realize how these tiles are one of those everyday pleasures in my home. They make me smile. I haven't seen wildflowers in the woods to match each of these tiles, although some, like the may apples make their appearance each year. Some I know would not be classified as wild because they are not native plants. Still, the tiles remind me that hidden in the woods throughout spring, summer and fall are little blooms that, when stumbled upon, will make me smile.

What do you see every day that makes you smile?

Blue Violets; White LadySlipper
Marsh Marigold;
Eastern Trout-Lilly;
Bluebells;
Red Trillium

Dutchman's
breeches







If you know the names of those I haven't identified (2nd, 3rd down on right), please let me know. Also if I've identified any incorrectly.