Dear Jane,

I hate to tell you this, dear lady, but your oeuvre has been tampered with while you’ve been moldering in your grave all these years.  Yes, it’s positively scandalous what our 21 st Century “mash up” writers have done to two of your best known works–Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility.  You see, apparently most modern readers are incapable of reading your understated and elegant prose, but due to the fanfare your novels have enjoyed over the past fifteen years following their televised presentations on the BBC,  such folk believe that they should at least attempt to read them.  And so, enter  two enterprising young hack writers eager to ride the trendy wave of your popularity by fusing your carefully crafted plots and brilliantly drawn characters with modern readers’ obsessions with vampires and zombies.  Their names are Seth Grahame-Smith, author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and Ben Winters, author of Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters–both of these travesties are New York Times bestsellers!

But wait, knowing how incredibly witty you actually were and how much you relished undermining established conventions, I just realized you might actually approve of this literary tampering?  In fact, at the Smithsonian sponsored panel discussion I attended last night with my daughter and neighbors–all huge fans of your actual novels, by the way–the topic of plagiarism arose.  These two male writers who were obviously quite impressed with themselves and their success on your “coattails” or more aptly “skirts,” defended their books as extensions of what has been in the “public domain” for nearly two centuries.  They believe they are bringing an entire generation of reluctant young readers back to the classics such as your masterpieces by adding gore, slime, and explicit sex.  At least 150+ people were in attendance at this event–each one a fan of yours who rereads your books faithfully.  No one seemed annoyed by the monsters now appearing in these versions of your works, and some noted that your novels actually featured human” monsters” such as Lady Catherine de Bergh.

So, I don’t believe you will be resting too easily under those marble slabs at Winchester Cathedral.  You’ll either feel compelled to come back zombie fashion to punish us for our literary transgressions or perhaps praise us for fanning the fires of your immortality.

Quite a few entries back, I described the antics of one of our daughter’s hens, a so called “Easter egger” breed named Dorothy (the little hen that could) after my recently deceased mother.

Dorothy was the runt of the flock upon her arrival last August as a newly hatched chick.  She resembled a golf ball sized fluffy orb on green legs.  Despite her diminutive size, she earned due fame within hours of her arrival for being the first chick to learn how to drink water–a feat she accomplished with characteristic panache.  Eventually, her sister chicks followed her lead, but since then, Dorothy has placed last in subsequent developmental stages in a chicken’s life including egg laying.

A month ago her sister hens, Frances and Annabel, each proudly laid her fist egg prompting speculation that Dorothy might be feeling a bit inadequate in the female department.   About a week ago, however, we noticed Dorothy’s appetite increasing.  She even took to imitating her sister hens as they perched atop the nesting box in a classic laying position.  Yesterday at noon Dorothy was found sitting on top of Annabel and Frances’s daily eggs as if she were a broody hen.  An hour later she produced her own specimen–a smallish but perfectly shaped green egg.  My husband and I were thrilled.  We took a photo immediately and quickly posted it on the Internet for everyone to admire.

As the world turns, one chicken’s long awaited first egg seems such a trivial thing, but as a symbol of nature’s way of replenishing this tired old earth, a mere egg holds special meaning.

While this record breaking harsh winter with back to back blizzards begins to melt into our collective memories, one egg is laid in the nesting box by the smallest hen in the coop.

The egg is green, and it is beautiful–a job well done, Dorothy.

It was Day 7 of the historic double  blizzards blanketing the D.C. area with nearly three feet of compacted snow, sleet, and ice; and still no sign of a snow plow.   Our normally quiet Northern Virginia cul- de- sac, where residents typically keep to themselves as they struggle to juggle the daily routines  of suburban living,  had experienced snow falls before, but nothing like this.  President Obama had renamed the first blizzard “Snowmaggedon” on Day 2.  The Washington Post carrier stopped delivering by Day 3.   By Day4–a Monday– our stoic mail man Mike had resorted to trudging through two feet of snow by foot having left his truck elsewhere just to make sure the mail got delivered.  He would not reappear until Day 8.   By Day 5 when the second blizzard struck, adding another foot of snow and causing several hours of white out conditions, the outside world could not physically access us.  Thankfully, the power gods continued to smile upon us, and we were able to stay “connected” with friends and family online, but cabin fever was beginning to take its toll.

During the evening hours of Day 6, we watched two ill equipped snow plows attempting to carve out a path at our end of the cul-de-sac only to give up after repeatedly spinning out on the ice packed asphalt.  At that point we realized our fate was sealed:  VDOT would more than likely abandon us , and we would have to dig ourselves out or hunker down indefinitely.

After sleeping on this unsavory prospect and eating a hearty breakfast the next morning, we launched ourselves into action.  Armed with garden spades, snow shovels, rakes, and sheer will power, ten of us went to work.  We were a motley crew for sure–a youngish couple with their 14 and 11 year old daughters, a middle-aged mother and her two adult children, our 26 year old daughter, my husband and I–both in our early 60s.  Ahead of us loomed at least  150  feet of veritable iceberg that had to be broken into chunks and hauled out of the roadway so that at least one car could pass through.

We dug, chopped, hauled,  and shoveled for nearly three hours, occasionally stopping to munch freshly made chocolate chip cookies, rest our backs, and share neighborhood news.  Fortunately, the sun shone down on this herculean undertaking melting some of the ice.  The temperature, however, never rose above 28 degrees whch meant we had to keep moving or freeze.  What started out as a seemingly impossible notion gradually became reality as the black pavement slowly reappeared.

The young ones cheered our accomplishment while the older ones smiled, reconfirming their belief in the power of determination and camaraderie.  One of the neighbors commented, “Let’s get together under more pleasant conditions when all of this thaws.  How about a community bar-b-cue?”

“For sure,”  I exclaimed.

I’d like to think that those of us who banded together to clear our cul-de-sac realized that a street is more than just a place free of obstacles, but a community of human beings who need each other not just during the bad times, but  always.  In the mean time, I’ll continue to “Think Spring!”

As the world still struggles to comprehend the unfathomable devastation unleashed upon Haiti two weeks ago today by a 7.1 earthquake, I cannot help but wonder how much sorrow and hardship people can endure before they completely crack up.  I have marveled at the survivors’ indefatigable will to live and carry on despite seemingly insurmountable odds.  They have lost everything–homes, families, keepsakes, friends–yet, they are holding on to what little they have if anything, strengthened by their faith and their common bond as survivors.   They say the only real hope for Haiti’s future is whether or not they can reinstall its education system; otherwise, the young will become increasingly vulnerable to violence and despair.  I’m hoping their natural resilience and resourcefulness will contribute to their comeback.

I witnessed these traits as a young bride on our honeymoon aboard the NCL’s Skyward back in January of 1973.  This luxury ship’s first port of call out of Miami was Cap Haitian, Haiti where we observed first hand the ugliest, most abject poverty I had ever seen through the windows of a dilapidated old Plymouth as our animated cabbie  attempted to drive us to the ruins of Sans Souci Palace.  We passed by bedraggled families living in tar paper leantos and half naked children with their hands outstretched, hoping we’d toss a few centimes their way as we drove by.  At one point, the car broke down in the middle of a  heavily rutted dirt road.  I remember feeling like an alien from another galaxy as we waited for some kind soul to bring us the necessary part we needed to get back to the port before the ship departed. Magically, some one appeared on an old donkey carrying an insulated bag full of  Cokes which we happily paid more for than they were worth.

Needless to say, we never saw the ruins from the Haitian revolution of the previous century, but we experienced the marvel of people doing everything in their power with what little they had at hand to help us get out of our “ruts” and back to the ship so that we could continue with our Caribbean excursion while they returned to their daily struggle to survive.  I have never forgotten that phase of our honeymoon.  The other ports of call are a total blur to me now, but that one sidetrip in Cap Haitian has haunted me throughout the past 37 years.  If today’s  Haitian people possess the same resourcefulness of that cab driver and cola salesman, I’d like to think there is plenty of hope for today’s Haitians despite their dire circumstances.

This year’s Christmas celebrations and traditions were somewhat  sabotaged by a record setting blizzard that unloaded over 16 inches of powdery snow on our area in just one day.  Parties were canceled; Christmas cards undelivered; and last minute shopping became impossible in the face of ice-encrusted side roads and frigid temperatures.  Fortunately, our daughter and her man had already bought and erected a magnificent fresh Douglas fir tree in our parlor prior to this great weather anomaly.  And, we had made the requisite pre-holiday Costco trip several days before the storm which ensured that our pantry, refrigerator, and cupboards were bursting with frivolous foodstuffs and  various vinos.

Despite the hardships we encountered in maneuvering around great mounds of plowed snow, we rejoiced in finally having the assurance of a true “White Christmas” unlike the ones we’d had before.  So, as Christmas Eve progressed, I found myself completely swept up in a flurry of activities typical of the holiday–wrapping packages, stuffing stockings, baking cookies, calling family and friends, preparing the traditional meal for the evening–standing rib roast with Yorkshire pudding, roasted rosemary potatoes, steamed brussels sprouts in balsamic reduction…Thankfully, our daughter had volunteered to make one of her signature apple and cranberry pies for dessert with her boyfriend by her side as sous chef.

Earlier that day, the two of them had escaped to our local lake for an invigorating romp in the snowdrifts.  They returned in time to make the pie, work a  crossword puzzle, muck out the chicken coop, and fix my computer prior to sitting down in our cozy dining room for the dinner of the year.

So, when that moment arrived, I was completely focused on capturing some Christmas Eve magic with candles flickering, silver serving dishes shimmering, and my loved ones’ smiles widening while I delivered this year’s toast thanking God for our many blessings and good fortune.  And, as I finished, our daughter interjected another toast announcing that she and her man had become engaged earlier in the day while on their walk beside the lake.  She quickly held out her hand so that we could see the sparkling diamond ring I had failed to notice most of the afternoon while I whirled around the house immersed in my Christmas prepartions.  We all laughed over my astonishing myopia, and then we hugged our new “son-in-law” to be, welcoming him into the family fold.   From that moment on, the dinner I had spent most of the day preparing became an “after thought” as all I could “digest” was the reality of our daughter’s total happiness.  They both glowed in the light of their love for each other–a timeless gift joyfully witnessed on this unforgettable Christmas Eve.

The other day I found myself in our back yard garden supervising my daughter’s trio of 17 week old hens while they had the run of the place.  Normally they stay cooped up in a newfangled contraption called an Eglu, manufactured in the U.K. for yuppies like her with a highly developed “Go Green” mentality.  My husband and I were initially restistant to her poultry plans, but since this project has become a reality, we have embraced it whole hog.

There is something mysteriously therapeutic about watching chickens!  Maybe it’s the fascinating patterns on their feathers.   I forgot to mention that these ladies are not just any old hens;  these  gals are American bred special breeds whose feathers are visually spectacular.  The golden Wyandotte Annabel Lee’s feathers mimic the patterns of a monarch butterfly’s wings except in the full sun,  where their black tint shimmers to a deep neon evergreen shade.  She also flashes lovely sherry tinted eyes that seem to forever be on high alert.  Frances, the barred Plymouth Rock hen, is the largest of the three. She typically cocks her head constantly as if inquiring “What’s new with you?”  while she struts around proudly showing off her black and white fluff topped off with a bright red comb.  What a looker she is!  And, rounding out the threesome is the smallest hen, the so called Easter Egger, Dorothy.  Supposedly her breed will lay either light green or pale blue eggs.  She sports peculiar looking tufts of feathers sprouting from her cheeks which give her a rather silly expression all the time.  Dorothy is the most neurotic hen who like Henny Penny, seems convinced that “the sky is falling” at any time causing her to race around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off!  Unfortunately for her, she is the runt of the trio and often treated as such by her larger sister hens.

So, as I watched them scratching and pecking away for bugs and other surprises, I noticed a bit of bullying going on in the garden.  Far too often poor Dorothy would be shoved aside when the others discovered some horde of tasty treats.  At one point Annabel found some promising specks on top of an overturned bucket.  She quickly hopped on top of it to secure a better angle for pecking, but before she could establish herself on that perch, Dorothy followed her lead, and there the two of them teetered tottered atop the bucket until the larger Annabelle managed to shove Dorothy off.

Undaunted, Dorothy shook out her beautiful blue gray feathers and proceeded to figure out how she could get the upper “wing” over the haughty Annabel.  She strutted along the inner border of the split rail fence, tiny eyes scrutinizing its heigth.   Within seconds, she spread her lovely wings and landed firmly on the top rung of the fence, at least three feet above the still gloating Annabel.  And there Dorothy posed perching proudly above the garden’s perimeter as if this act was her greatest achievement.  She even practiced strutting back and forth, raising each talon gingerly as if she were having an avian “I’m queen of the world” moment!

A couple of months ago I knew I would be dreading the upcoming holidays so I signed on with our local hospice to take a workshop hoping to get some advice on coping with holiday cheer when I knew I’d be feeling anything but cheerful.  My instincts screamed, “Get out of town and as far away from any reminders of your mother as possible!”  She died last year right before Christmas week after a prolonged, agonizing battle with Alzheimer’s Disease.  Somehow I managed to spin through last year’s season in a state of suspended animation just going through the motions of decorating, shopping,  and entertaining.  I kept myself so busy that I couldn’t even think about her and how much she loved Christmas.  This year is very different.

For too long, I knew my mother only as the stranger in my own mother’s skin.  This “Dorothy” resembled my mother only physically. During a span of some six years, we  knew her as a kind of alien being from some far off planet whose stay seemed interminable.  I had forgotten who she really was while being so distracted by her many needs.  When she died, I felt mostly relief and numbness, but as the year progressed, I slowly and deliberately attempted to find her again.  I sought her true self by going through old memorablia, by gazing at her many paintings that I’ve proudly hung around our house, by reminiscing with family and friends about the good times, and by learning to watercolor–one of her favorite artistic mediums.

Gradually over time, she has returned to me not as a spectre in white but as a palpable internal force–like part of my conscience.  Gone is the image of her depleted in her last weeks, flopped over in her geri chair, hair plastered on her scalp, and eyes wide with terror….Now I’m seeing her true self in my mind’s eye-the talented, independent, brave, beautiful, and wise woman she really was.  Oddly enough, this shift in my perception has triggered more grief  rather than assuaged it.  So, as the first anniversary of her death approaches, I knew I would need some help.

As I sat in the gathering room of the hospice building surrounded by 34 other grieving souls, I felt a special peacefulness.  Everyone  had come willing to surrender up their  Saturday morning to share their grief and in turn feel the comfort that comes from knowing they aren’t alone in their pain.  Many tears were shed, and many hands were held, and many hugs were given.  One woman spoke of her profound love for her young husband who died too soon; another adult daughter described her artist mother’s ability to fire a piece of pottery with a beautiful glaze that would last an eternity as she hoped her mother’s spirit would.  I sat next to an 86 year old woman who had nursed her husband 0f 57 years through seven long years with Alzheimer’s, yet there wasn’t any sign of bitterness, anger, or fatigue about her….Another woman wept because her ten month old son will never know his grandparents.  Two tall brothers saluted their father and his love of gardening, lips trembling throughout their remarks.  Every one of us gathered there paid tribute to our departed loved ones.  I spoke of my mother’s having taught me to truly see Beauty as a sustaining force in life….

I came away from this grief workshop feeling the ties that bind–the ties of grief which are rooted in love, and since Christmas is the season of God’s love, it must also be a time to feel and face grief not as a feared enemy but rather as a friend who will eventually lead me out of the darkness into the light of Christmas Day.

 

 

I’m learning to see all over again,

Eyes wide open but vision lacking.

At 60 plus, the old vitreous has peeled away,

Much like the white puckered membrane

Within a pomegranate newly cleaved….

 

A year ago I walked the parapets of old Dubrovnik;

My gaze fastened on the vast vista of the Adriatic

And the pomegranate trees below heavily laden

With Persephone’s fruit–a late fall harvest to appease

Those so fearful of winter’s loss like the grieving Demeter.

 

Oh, ancient fruit–your rough mottled skin

Conceals unparalleled perfection of form and hue.

I remember encountering you

Growing wild on the slopes of Epidaurus

While traveling  in Greece with my mother and daughter.

 

Now I try to capture your mystery

Atop a grey metal table in the late morning sun,

Here in a newly minted gallery

Where once hardened prisoners served time

I  float in more French aquamarine onto  alarazin crimson

So that my still life pomegranate

Will glow and glow and glow…

Teaching me the Truth I yearn to know.

Last Tuesday morning, I found myself hiking along the pristine shore line of the Chesapeake Bay in the Hughlett Area Preserve on Virginia’s  Northern Neck–birthplace of both George Washington and Robert E. Lee.  My husband and I were visiting old friends who had moved to this area, and this was our day to explore the sights.  I have never been so “up close and personal” with the fabled bay before, although I’ve crossed it via the twin bridges probably hundreds of times in my life en route to our family beach house in Ocean City.  Over the years I’ve paid close attention to those who’ve studied its decline like Tom Horton whose many books on the bay have inspired me to make regular financial contributions to the Chesapeake Bay Foundation ; their efforts have truly made a difference in saving the bay.  I’ve read William Warner’s Pulitzer Prize winner, Beautiful Swimmers twice, never tiring of his detailed descriptions of the molting stages of the bay’s most famous denizen, the blue crab.

So, I felt more than ready to pay witness to the myriad wonders I knew I would see in such a tidewater wilderness setting as the Hughlett preserve.  To access the beach region, we first had to meander through dense forest of loblolly pines, ferns, native bayberry, and oaks.  Soon we found ourselves in the great wide open, face to face with the vastness of the Chesapeake in all its stunning splendor.  The shoreline snaked in and out depositing the tide’s flotsam and jetsam in a scalloped garland-like manner.  I quickly assumed the typical beachcomber’s pose upon stepping onto the beach, hunched over like an old crone.  Cormorants and gulls of all types circled above us while I patiently sorted through the tide’s offerings of the moment.  There amid the eel grass were tiny exoskeletons of blue crabs at various stages of molting.  Like a giddy child, I proceeded to collect as many as I could stuff in my sunglasses case for future display in my shell cabinet back home in suburbia.

Eventually we meandered over to a tidal pool about fifty feet from the shoreline where we could easily spot schools of baby fish–probably stripers or maybe bluefish.  And then, we saw him–the biggest blue crab any of us had ever seen.  He must have measured at least eight inches across his carapace.   With eyes like submarine periscopes, he never let us out of his line of vision while proceeding to entertain us with his antics which seemed more like some strange courtship dance than anything else.  This huge crab scuttled to the right, then to the left as if dancing a do-si-do.   Finally he came within five inches from our feet at the edge of the pool and simply remained still with his great claws folded in front of him as if to make peace with us. We were completely mesmerized by this creature’s behavior in that tidal pool.  In a minute he disappeared back into the murky depths, and  I came away determined never to eat another steamed crab again and humbled once more by nature’s marvels.

One of the delightful perks of this retired life I lead is being able to say yes when spontaneous opportunities arise.  So, when my friend asked if I’d like to join her on her upcoming business trip to Boston, I immediately accessed Expedia and began looking for the best air fares.  I realized we would have only a day and a half to see the many faceted sights of fabled Beantown; concentrating on only a couple of them seemed the way to go.  Although I’ve longed to spend a day at the Museum of Fine Arts, my cousin, who once lived on Beacon Hill in her youth, recommended that we focus on the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, saving the MFA for another trip.

By mid morning of our one free day, after our hilarious Boston Duck tour, we hopped on the “T” and soon found ourselves in the neighborhood of the Gardner.  We weren’t prepared for its rather plain exterior, but once inside were immediately astounded by its exquisite interior, especially the inner courtyard with its authentic Venetian windows and Pompeii style villa garden.  Earlier in the summer I had read  John Berent’s tribute to Venice, The City of Fallen Angels, and became fascinated by his take on heiress Isabella Gardner’s love affair with this hauntingly beautiful city, the Palazzo Barbaro, and its timeless artistic heritage.

As my friend and I strolled through the various salons, each one dedicated to a particular period of art history, we were stunned by the sheer vastness of Mrs. Gardner’s collection–over 2500 precious works of art from all over the globe are displayed with Gardner’s own personal touch exactly where she wanted them placed.  I especially loved the way she had set a Giotto or a Bellini  upright on a side table with a chair placed somewhat casually in front of it so that one might linger over the masterpiece while seated.  Of course, one of the most arresting sights awaited us in the Dutch room where Vermeer’s masterpiece The Concert and Rembrandt’s only seascape The Storm on the Sea of Galilee once hung in all their glory. In 1990 these paintings were stolen during a sensational early morning heist along with some 13 other major works, none of which has been recovered since.  However, the frames which contained these paintings are still hanging where Mrs. Gardner had placed them.  It’s difficult to conceive of someone being brazen enough to carry off such a crime not to mention selfish enough to deprive others of such a spectacular artistic legacy.  Fortunately, these thieves didn’t take the  other priceless treasures such as Botticelli’s Madonna of the Eucharist, or Titian’s masterpiece Europa, or Rembrandt’s earliest self portrait, or one of John Singer Sargent’s most beautiful portraits–Mrs. Fiske Warren and Her Daughters, which was actually painted in the museum’s Gothic room.  And, of course, the most breathtaking of all of Sargent’s works, El Jaleo, deserving of its own wing running parallel to the inner courtyard and framed by a Moorish cornice– so beautifully illuminated that it appears as if the dancer is ready to step off the canvass.

Our guide throughout the museum was most knowledgeable and frequently stopped to show us photos of Mrs. Gardner working along side her construction laborers helping them install one of the windows for instance.  We learned of her heartbreaking personal loss–her only child’s early death and her subsequent debilitating depression.  Gradually she resurfaced, determined to establish for herself a different type of legacy–a truly immortal one secured by amassing a phenomenal art collection covering the most ancient of Egyptian antiquities to the modern works of Matisse.

I was fascinated by her good friend Sargent’s controversial portrait of her which her husband hated and made her promise not to show to the public until after his death.  It’s situated in a prominent spot in the Gothic room surrounded by a dizzying array of sacred art.  Isabella gazes out as if she were some sort of pagan goddess with her head back lit by a golden glowing fabric.  Her arms seem to encircle her barren womb as if to acknowledge that although she produced no heirs, her progeny are of a different sort that are as Keats claimed “a joy forever.”  She appears to be mouthing the words that are inscribed over the central portal of the museum, “C’est mon plaisir.”  To which I must gratefully reply, ” Merci, merci beaucoup.”