Floriography

“The rose speaks of love silently, in a language known only to the heart.”

—Unknown

Yellow roses for friendship, pink roses for grace, red roses for love…every year on Valentine’s Day, millions of people send flowers, most notably roses, to express their feelings.

The tradition of sending flowers on Valentine’s Day can be traced to the 17th century, where interest in floriography or the “language of flowers” took root in Victorian England. Gifts of flowers and plants were used symbolically to send coded messages to recipients, allowing the sender to convey feelings which couldn’t be spoken aloud in Victorian society.  

As a timeless flower imbued with many meanings, it’s no wonder the rose became a popular choice for Valentine’s Day. It's said that the rose was created by Aphrodite, the Roman Goddess of Love, though the actual cultivation of roses is believed to have begun in Asia, around 5,000 years ago. Confucius wrote of cultivating roses in the Imperial Garden, while their cultivation was renowned during the Han dynasty. Also prized in Ancient Egypt, rose petals as well as paintings depicting roses have been discovered in tombs. In addition, the rose became the symbol of England during the 15th century civil wars in which the House of Lancaster took the symbol of the red rose, and the House of York took the symbol of the white. Later the two roses were combined to create The Tudor Rose, one of the most recognizable symbols in the U.K.

Roses are the royalty of the flower industry, and it’s estimated that more than 250 million are produced for Valentine’s Day alone. Because of their hardy nature, their alluring scent, and their vibrant colors, they have become the ultimate symbol of love and passion. So, if your sweetheart sends you roses for Valentine’s Day, here might be the hidden message:

Red roses for love and romance

Burgundy for unconscious beauty

Yellow for friendship and fidelity

Pink for grace and elegance

Peach for sincerity and gratitude

White for purity and innocence

Ivory for refinement and charm

Lavender for wonder and enchantment

Orange for energy and desire

2022 Reading Challenge

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies…The man who never reads lives only one.

                        -George R.R. Martin            

I thoroughly enjoyed the 2021 challenge of reading a book for every letter of the alphabet. (Results and recommendations below.) Surprisingly, J and K turned out to be the most challenging letters/books for me to find. This year, I plan to read 26 books again, but will change it up by filling in the letters of alphabet using the author’s name. I hope you’ll join me.

Here’s how it works:

·       Commit to reading twenty-six books.  

·       Fill in each letter of the alphabet with the title of a book that begins with that letter.

·       Alternatively, fill in each letter of the alphabet using the author’s name.

·       Or, mix and match, using both book titles and author’s names.

·       Articles—a, an, the—don’t count.

·       Lesser used letters like Q, X, and Z can be anywhere within the title or author’s name.

·       Books can be read in any order, can be any genre, and in any format, including audio.

·       Share your recommendations.

My 2021 Reading List

A.  American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins (Most relevant to current events)

     Arcadia by Lauren Groff (A book I’d read again for the beautiful language)

Apples Never Fall by Liane Moriarty

B. The Barrytown Trilogy by Roddy Doyle (Most humorous)

C. The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett

     Called to Question by Joan Chittister (Favorite memoir)

D. Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid (Best throwback)

E.  Euphoria by Lily King (Favorite author discovered this year)

F.  The Far Field by Madhuri Vijay

     Falling Upward by Richard Rohr

G. The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams

H. Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell (Favorite historical fiction this year)

     The House of Broken Angels by Luis Alberto Urrea (Favorite opening line)

I.  In the Woods by Tana French

    In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (Favorite classic of the year)

J.  Just My Luck by Adele Parks

K. The Kindest Lie by Nancy Johnson

L.  Lila by Marilynne Robinson

     The Last Thing He Told Me by Laura Dave (Favorite page-turner)

M. The Mystery of Mrs. Christie by Marie Benedict

N. The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead (Most eye-opening)

     Normal People by Sally Rooney

O. The Outside Boy by Jeanine Cummins (Favorite book of the year)

     Oh, William! by Elizabeth Strout (Favorite author)

P.  The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue

     Post Traumatic Church Syndrome by Reba Riley

     Philomena by Martin Sixsmith

Q. The Queen of Hearts by Kimmery Martin

R. The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend by Katarina Bivald (Favorite opening paragraph)

S. The Secret History by Donna Tartt

T. The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris

     Together by Judy Goldman

U. Us Against You by Fredrik Backman

     The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

V.  The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

W. Where the Past Begins by Amy Tan

X.  X by Sue Grafton

Y.  Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks

Z.  Z A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese Anne Fowler

I’d love to hear from you—how did the challenge go for you? What were your favorite books of 2021?

Shush

Sunday morning of Christmas week I wake to the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the roof. The opened window reveals a low gray sky, skeletal trees whose few remaining leaves flutter like tiny flags, the shush of the rain on the deck and through the rain pipe. A dear family friend, a priest, once told me that in Ireland, a day like this is called “a soft day.”

This soft morning brings to mind my parents, long gone now, how they would sit in lawn chairs in the garage and gaze out at the rain for hours on end, hypnotized by the sound, absorbing the fresh air, breathing in the petrichor—that distinctive earthy smell of rain. “Cogitating” was the word my dad would use for what they were doing, meditating, reflecting, stopping for a moment to allow the soft rain to ease their troubles.    

As I stare out the window this morning, other memories come to mind—sitting on the deck of a cruise ship and watching a glacier calve, the great cracking sound of ice breaking away and crashing into the sea; arriving at a mountain waterfall after a difficult hike, the absolute power of cascading water forceful enough to shape giant boulders through the centuries; observing a boundless sheet of stars in a country night sky while camping—other moments when I’ve been so mesmerized, my worries seem to slip away.     

Lingering in bed, the drizzling rain seems especially significant today. There is still so much to do before Christmas—last minute gifts and stocking stuffers to buy, grocery shopping, prepping and baking food, gift wrapping and yet a little more decorating, cleaning the house in preparation for family. Like many, my list is long. But the rain on this soft day reminds me to be still, as it says in my favorite Bible verse, Psalm 46:10. It cautions me to pause and step away from the hustle and bustle, to remember the reason for the season.

Like the comforting word of a mother, shush, this moment says. All will get done; all shall be well.  

Ask Me…

The tables and shelves in my local bookstore are arranged to help me select my next great read. There is a section of bestsellers, book club favorites, new and noteworthy books, and staff picks. As if that’s not enough, a clerk standing behind the counter wears a round button on her lapel that says, “Ask me for a recommendation.”  

Though I would be curious to know what she would recommend, three people are vying for her attention, so I opt to browse. I look through the fiction and classics section, through memoir and biography, through diet and health, stopping at the bargain section. I’m drawn to a paperback with a New York Times Book Review 100 Notable Books stamp-of-approval. The cover of the book is colorful and appealing—a silhouette of child alongside a man with a cane, a green backdrop illustrated with flowers and swirls and birds. The title draws me in, the synopsis on the back catches my interest, and several well-known writers and publications have endorsed it with complimentary blurbs. I open the book and read the first sentence: “Big Angel was late to his own mother’s funeral.” I’m immediately hooked. Who is Big Angel? Is he intentionally or accidentally late to his mother’s funeral? What happened to his mother? I anticipate with pleasure reading The House of Broken Angels by Luis Alberto Urrea.

How do you select the next book you’re going to read? 

I asked my sister, Carmel, who tells me she picks books based upon her mood—whether she wants to read something light-hearted, motivational, or by the theme of the story. Though I appreciate most genres of books, of late, I’m in the mood for an engrossing book of fiction, a story that will take me away, teach me something about another culture or time in history, capture me with its prose. Humor always appeals, even more so, a book that straddles the line between humor and pathos.

I picked up The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend by Katarina Bivald, another bargain book, because I liked its catchy title (a book about recommending books!), but it was reading the opening paragraph that sold me:  

The strange woman standing on Hope’s main street was so ordinary it was almost scandalous. A thin, plain figure dressed in an autumn coat much too gray and warm for the time of year, a backpack lying on the ground by her feet, an enormous suitcase resting against one of her legs. Those who happened to witness her arrival couldn’t help feel it was inconsiderate for someone to care so little about their appearance. It seemed as though this woman was not the slightest bit interested in making a good impression on them.   

I’m captured by the presumptuous voice of the narrator, and want to read more, predicting that by the end of the novel the “thin, plain figure” will turn out to be a person the residents of Broken Wheel will come to be admire.

Book reviews are a great way to find your next read whether The New York Times, NPR, or Kirkus or in on-line communities like Goodreads and Bookstagram. A laudatory book review is how my sisters’ book club found Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell, a work of historical fiction that imagines how William Shakespeare came to write Hamlet. The fact that the novel won the National Critics Book Award, The New York Times 10 Best Books of 2020, and The Women’s Prize for Fiction made it all the more appealing. My sister, Una, and sister-in-law, Pat, tend to go with their book club picks though Pat also participates in an author series called A Moveable Feast, and often reads the featured author’s book.

One book begets another and another. Hamnet led me to a fascinating second book by Maggie O’Farrell, a memoir titled I Am I Am I Am, about the author’s seventeen close encounters with death. (Better odds than a cat!) In fact, the book is more a celebration of life, than an examination of death, and I will certainly seek out more of O’Farrell’s work.      

Mary, another sister, tells me she selects books strictly by author, and like her, I will read anything by my favorites, eagerly anticipating Ann Patchett’s These Precious Days and Lily King’s Five Tuesdays in Winter. I believe I’ve read Elizabeth Strout’s full oeuvre, some of her books more than once, and can’t wait to dig into her latest, Oh, William!

It’s said that you can’t judge a book by its cover, but that’s not necessarily true. My niece, McCaffrey, an artist, likes to browse used bookstores, and selects old books with the prettiest covers. I’ve read that book publishers put much time and consideration into the cover of a book because, as Mac’s experience shows, it can influence sales.

The cover, the title, the blurbs, or a combination of all three can sell a book—I couldn’t resist Sherman Alexie’s wonderfully titled The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, a coming-of-age story about a budding cartoonist (illustrations included!) growing up on the Spokane Indian reservation. I was curious—how can one be a part-time Indian, and how come ‘true’ needs to be qualified? Amy Sedaris gave it a blurb, saying, “I laughed consistently from beginning to end.” So did I.

Sometimes influencers—Oprah, Reese, GMA—can sway me in my selection, especially if something else factors in. I purchased The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles, which had a “Read with Jenna” stamp-of-approval on its cover, but also because of the synopsis:  

In June 1954, eighteen-year-old Emmett Watson is driven home to Nebraska by the warden of the juvenile work farm where he has just served fifteen months for involuntary manslaughter…Emmett’s intention is to pick up his eight-year-old brother, Billy, and head to California, where they can start anew. But when the warden drives away, Emmett discovers that two friends from the work farm have hidden themselves in the trunk of the warden’s car.  

This premise intrigued me. Since I loved both of Towles previous novels, A Gentleman in Moscow and Rules of Civility, I was sold.

When I posed the question to my sister, Helen, she said she also selects her next book by reading the synopsis. My niece, Lani, a working mother with two grade-schoolers, chooses books based upon what’s available through her library on Kindle, while a neighbor tells me she gets all her books through what’s available at our local library.

I heard a statistic that the foremost way people select a new book to read is by word of mouth. I believe it. Just yesterday, another neighbor stopped me on my afternoon walk and recommended The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner. Coincidentally, the book showed up this morning in a newsletter from a women’s fiction group I participate in. A double recommendation—I will definitely have to check it out.  

I keep a TBR list of recommendations by family and friends on my I-phone. I read American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins because of a recommendation by my brother’s girlfriend, Leigh, also an avid reader. Published in 2019, it’s a relevant story about a woman and her son who are forced to flee Acapulco to America because of threats from a drug cartel. That book led me to an earlier work by Cummins, The Outside Boy, which imagines the life of an Irish tinker child. If you were to ask me for a recommendation, I’d certainly suggest it.   

By sampling the exquisite prose or by reading a glowing review, because a book matches your mood, through a recommendation, or simply by following your curiosity, how do you go about selecting your next great read?

Puzzling

As a distraction from the isolation of the pandemic and the barrage of troublesome news of late, I’ve become hooked on putting together jigsaw puzzles. I love everything about them from selecting an appealing picture, to sorting the pieces, to fitting together the edges and filling in, to, best of all, the satisfaction of pushing in the final piece. I have a dedicated space on the large coffee table in my basement, and can hardly walk by it without being drawn in. Hours may pass and I’m still engaged, barely aware of the lapse in time.

What is it about a jigsaw puzzle that is so addictive? I suspect it has to do with flow, that “state of concentration so focused that it amounts to absolute absorption in an activity” described by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in his groundbreaking book, Flow. When I’m building a puzzle, I’ve noticed something he’s observed: “Both the sense of time and emotional problems seem to disappear, and there is an exhilarating feeling of transcendence.”

I tend to stick with 500-piece puzzles which, for me, hit that sweet spot between doable and challenging. Depending on the picture, however, a 500-piece puzzle can be almost as difficult as a 750- or 1,000-piece puzzle when there are wide swatches of monochromatic color, or conversely, multicolored scenes. I’m looking forward to building my skills and trying advanced puzzles like 3D, murder mystery, or WASGIJ puzzles (jigsaw spelled backward) where the picture on the box is only a clue to the puzzle inside. Another advanced challenge is “blind puzzling” where you look at the picture only once before putting the entire puzzle together. I might pass on that one—part of the enjoyment for me is looking closely and spotting the minutia in the big picture.

For the serious puzzler there are now myriad accessories to aid in solving. On a recent trip to a super store, adjacent to the large assortment of puzzles for sale, I found sorting trays, puzzle scoops complete with magnifiers and LED lights, and puzzle roll-ups made for easy storing of unfinished puzzles. There are also a variety of glue products and frames to preserve your finished puzzle.

Puzzle sales have increased during the pandemic, and it’s no wonder. It turns out, jigsaw puzzles are good for you. Research shows they:

·       Help with cognitive and spatial ability, reasoning, analysis, and problem solving

·       Exercise both the logical and intuitive sides of the brain, enhancing your ability to learn and remember

·       Help with short-term memory, and have been shown to help people suffering from Alzheimer’s disease

·       Can put you in a meditative state and relieve stress much like the practice of meditation, where cortisol and blood pressure levels drop

·       Are a way to collaborate with others,

·       Or conversely, are a satisfying solitary activity

What’s not to love?

Made in Ireland

In 1998, my mother and I were shopping in Cocoa Village, FL, for a mother-of-the-bride dress for my wedding. Passing by an antiques and collectables shop on Brevard Avenue, something in the window caught her eye. Inside, she asked the clerk to lift an ivory piece of china out of the display. It was a small dish with a glossy finish shaped like a maple leaf. When my mother turned it over, she verified it was a piece of Belleek china with a “5th Mark,” indicating its provenance. This was a good find for a collector.

My mother, an Irish immigrant, had been collecting Belleek china from as far back as I remember. It’s a type of Irish porcelain that came into renown in the mid-19th century. A mineralogist named John Caldwell Bloomfield, who inherited his father’s estate in the town of Belleek, County Fermanagh, sought to provide his tenants with an occupation at the end of the Irish Famine. A survey of his land showed he had the minerals necessary for the clay that produces pottery, and later, with the addition of two partners, the business expanded to include porcelain. With many changes of ownership and iterations of the products over the years, Belleek is now the oldest china manufacturer in Ireland.

Belleek china is ivory in color, very thin and delicate with a glaze that gives it a somewhat translucent appearance. The basketweave and shamrock design is the most familiar of the patterns, though there are many other styles. Authentic Belleek includes the “mark” on the bottom showing the Irish wolfhound whose head is facing a round tower and an Irish harp which sit upon the “Belleek” banner. Below the banner is a ribbon with the words “Co Fermanagh Ireland.” The mark has evolved in detail and color since the original mark in 1863, and is an indication of the date of manufacture and value of the piece.   

 A favorite pastime of my mother’s was to search through knick-knack, consignment, and antique stores for pieces to add to her collection, and she had an eye for finding them. She kept her extensive collection of Belleek displayed on the built-in shelves in the living room. Vases, plates, teapots and cups, bowls, candlestick holders, frames, figurines, and more crowded the shelves, and were often stacked upon each other. Dusting the collection was a tedious operation that could take hours. The shelves were low to the ground and easily reachable by the tiny hands of her thirteen grandchildren. If you looked closely at her collection, you’d see several of the pieces had chips and cracks made by those tiny hands. (You’d also see the obvious repairs my father attempted to make with super glue!) My mother indulged her grandchildren’s curiosity, letting them handle and admire, even allowing a tea party or two—her solution was to turn the damaged sides to the back of the shelves.

There are names for almost every kind of collector—a lepidopterist collects butterflies and moths; a discophile collects records and music; a philatelist collects postage stamps. Though she wouldn’t have known it, my mother was a virtuoso—a collector of curios. For many years, she worked in a gift and collectables shop, and had a broad knowledge of curios. The shop carried Precious Moments, Lladro, Swarovski, Hummel, and Hallmark, but my mother’s personal tastes ran toward items made in Ireland. Along with Belleek, she collected Waterford Crystal, Royal Tara giftware, and Irish pottery. She displayed her Arklow tea set, pieces of Galway crystal, and Irish Dresden around the house.   

People start collections for a myriad of reasons—for fun and enjoyment, for the thrill of the find, for appreciation of the beauty or history of a piece. I could surmise my mother collected for those same reasons, but in retrospect, I think it was mainly out of nostalgia, a way of connecting with her past while handing hand down her Irish heritage. As her seven children married and moved out, my mother started each of us on collections of our own.

I have a modest collection of Belleek with just over twenty-five pieces. A favorite is the maple leaf we found many years ago—“something old” given to me from my mother as a bridal luncheon gift. The maple leaf as well as a creamer and sugar bowl are the oldest pieces, dating to somewhere between 1955 and 1965. I have a commemorative piece that I treasure—a butter dish shaped like a thatched cottage with a yellow roof, chimney, and red door. It has the “10th Anniversary Mark.” Strictly decorative, I keep my Belleek on a narrow shelf in my kitchen where I look at it daily, and occasionally give it a dusting. The value of my collection is entirely nostalgic—it’s a way of remembering and connecting with my dear Irish mam and our heritage. 

Through her love of collecting, my mother passed something else along to her daughters—we all have a love of scouring antique and collectables shops. Not too long ago, my sister, Helen, and I were combing through a consignment shop on Hilton Head Island when, in the back room amongst the overstock of chairs, headboards, and artwork, we found a shelf with four Belleek teapots, each one unique, each in perfect condition with the “11th Mark.” Helen and I both selected one and purchased it that day. The next day, having had second thoughts, we went back for the other two. These were good finds for collectors, too good to pass up.

            What do you collect?

2021 Alphabet Reading Challenge

“Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.”—Joyce Carol Oates

I’ve been looking for new ways to challenge myself in 2021, and I came across this one that’s ideally suited to one of my interests—reading. I hope you’ll join me.

Here’s how it works:

·       Commit to reading twenty-six books—that’s one every two weeks.

·       Fill in each letter of the alphabet with the title of a book that begins with that letter. (See Y below.)

·       Alternatively, fill in each letter of the alphabet using the author’s name. (See B below.)

·       Articles—a, an, the—don’t count.

·       Lesser used letters like Q, X, and Z can be anywhere within the title (or author’s name).

·       Books can be read in any order, can be any genre, and in any format, including audio.

·       For fun, rate your favorites with the “star system,” five being the best.

·       Share your recommendations.

·       At the end of the year, compare notes.

Happy new year of reading!

A.

B. Brooks, Geraldine, Year of Wonders

C.

D.

E.

F.

G.

H.

I.

J.

K.

L.

M.

N.

O.

Q.

R.

S.

T.

U.

V.

W.

X.

Y.  Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks

Z.

The Great Stillness

We needed a change of scenery after so much isolation. For nine months, my husband and I hadn’t gone further than my nephew’s house, two hours away, on a day trip to pick blueberries. Late this year, when it was our turn at our shared beach condo, we were more than ready to go.

Arriving after a four-hour drive, we unloaded the car, bringing our luggage and supplies upstairs to the eighth floor. Inside the condo, my first order of business was to pull back the curtains and slide open the balcony doors to view the ocean. Low tide, late afternoon, with temperatures in the high 60s, I quickly unpacked, and headed down to the beach. Crossing the sugary sand to the edge of the ocean, I slipped off my shoes and stood in the water, breathing in the fresh salt spray, mesmerized by view, the gentle waves. I walked a quarter mile down the beach, stopping at the wide sluice to watch the sunset, and it was there I began to notice an inner quietude, the stresses of the year sliding off my shoulders. For me, for many of us, the beach is a place of healing.    

I’ve been thinking a lot about thresholds lately, thresholds as middle places, as the boundary between two things, like the edge of the beach.  

In literature, examples of famous thresholds are Platform 9 ¾, where young witches and wizards cross from the world of muggles to the wizarding world of Hogwarts; or, in fairy tales, a ring of mushrooms called a “fairy circle,” signifies the threshold where humans can enter the fairy world; or, the looking glass in Through the Looking Glass is the threshold where Alice passes into a fantastical world where everything is reversed. In story, thresholds are points where decisions are contemplated and made, where changes begin. Often, they are the first test on the hero or heroine’s journey, where the challenge to move forward is accepted or not.

Most of us would agree that the year 2020 “stink, stank, stunk,” to quote Mr. Grinch. It’s certainly been a threshold year, a boundary between the way things were and the way things will be. It’s been a year of being in-between, in limbo, on hold. It’s been a painful year for many, a year of devastating loss. This year, we’ve pared down, cleaned out, and we’ve decided what we can and can’t do without. We’ve had to find innovative ways to connect, to educate, and to do business. Some will be lasting; some will fall away. My brother, who works for a tech company, tells me this year will change the way they do business going forward.

Today, we are on the brink of another collective threshold. The Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere begins at 5:02 am EST December 21st, the shortest day of the year. The solstice happens at one specific moment—when the north pole has its maximum tilt away from the sun. It’s been called the extreme of winter and the day where dark trumps light. From the Latin, sol means “the sun” and sistere means “to make stand still.” The Winter Solstice is the day the sun stands still, or the great stillness.  

From ancient times, people have honored the Winter Solstice in celebrations and rituals—feasts and dancing and story-telling. In sacred places like New Grange and Stonehenge, people show up to watch the passage of light through the chambers or stones. Modern rituals include holding a candle-lighting ceremony, or a fire-releasing ceremony, writing down the things you wish to be rid of and tossing them into a fire. (2020 perhaps?!) Another ritual is to turn off all our devices for some period of time, embracing the darkness as a time of self-reflection, a time to let go of the old and set intentions for the coming year.  

Though it’s the shortest day and longest night of the year, the Winter Solstice also marks a turning point, a moment when one cycle ends and another begins, where the coming days begin to lengthen and lighten. It’s no coincidence that the rebirth of the sun coincides with the birth of the Son, the Christmas season, the season of hope, the season of light.

As we come to this collective threshold, may it be a time of healing for the world, and may we take comfort in knowing brighter days are ahead.

Unison Calling

My fascination began when I entered my sister’s neighborhood for the first time. Located on a small lake in a chain of lakes in central Florida, I drove through the neighborhood entrance, down a broad street with ranch-style houses and manicured yards, and an established canopy of trees fringed in Spanish moss. When I rounded a corner on my sister’s street, I had to quickly brake because a flock of tall birds looking like pieces in a yard art display was lazily crossing, in no hurry to get to the other side.

The mature birds were heron-like—four-feet tall, gray and worn-looking, with dark frond-shaped bills and patches of red upon their heads, a Red Hat Society of the bird world. The two juveniles in the group were rusty-brown with downy feathers but lacking the red patches. Whereas herons are quick to fly away when approached, as I inched forward, these birds refused to be urged along, oblivious to my presence. They weren’t herons. After what felt like minutes, they reached the other side of the street and I continued on my way, forgetting about the birds in my excitement to see my family.

My sister and I visited and caught up, and that evening, we went to watch her daughter’s ballet recital. As we left the neighborhood, I saw the birds again, and asked about them. They were Florida Sandhill Cranes, she told me, a species that made their nests along the lake somewhere and spent much of their time foraging for food in the neighborhood. 

That night, I shared my niece’s bedroom on the front corner of the house, and the following morning, I was startled out of a deep sleep by an otherworldly reveille, a loud, resonant hakakakaw. My niece sighed and rolled over, a bit irritated by Mother Nature’s alarm clock. I got up to look out the window and saw the birds again, perched on a high mound in the adjacent yard pecking the ground for their breakfast while making a rattling noise deep in their throats.

A little research revealed the Florida Sandhill Cranes are a non-migratory subspecies of cranes that inhabit freshwater marshes throughout peninsular Florida. They are social birds who live in groups or pairs. The adults are monogamous, with a lifespan of up to twenty years. They are omnivorous opportunistic feeders, I read, with a diet consisting of seeds and roots, insects, snakes, and small mammals. Interestingly, they do not “fish” like herons. In the state of Florida, the Sandhill Cranes are designated as “threatened” due to the loss of some of their natural habitats. They have had to adapt. The cranes are preyed upon by alligators, and as they have become habituated, they fall prey to humans driving in cars, too impatient with them as they cross the street or dawdle in the middle.

I encountered the birds every time I left the house that weekend, whether walking or driving. They had no colorful plumes, no pretty trills, and a herky-jerky way of walking, and still I was mesmerized by them. I once saw two of them clumsily running to take off in flight, and it was there they showed their beauty with wing movements as graceful as ballerinas, with long necks that stretched out like swans and feet en pointe, trailing like kite tails.    

I’ve observed the birds on every occasion since that first visit. On a spring morning, I sat on the screened-porch drinking my coffee while watching a small flock in the side yard. They pecked at the soil constantly and walked in their slow rocking rhythm, their backward-bending knees kicking their legs spasmodically forward. One bird crouched down and then hopped up and back, flapping its wings in an awkward Elaine Benes dance. This was a courtship dance, I learned, an elaborate pretentious display both enchanting and amusing to watch.   

What I’ve found most fascinating in all these years is their song. In pairs or family groups, the cranes tilt their heads back and open their long throats making clicking noises which crescendo into full-throated bugle sounds, the same sound that woke me on my first visit. It’s a behavior ornithologists term “unison calling,” a strange syncopated song started by the male, followed by the female, and if present, the juvenile. The female calls out twice for every one call of the male. Ancient and haunting, it’s a sound that resonates on some deep level.     

Unison calling. I can’t help reading into the phrase. I’m struck by the term and all its connotations—those of being in accord, in agreement, in community and cooperation, in harmony, even sympathy. I’m compelled to permutate the phrase, to rearrange it into ‘calling unison,’ to parse it into ‘calling for unison.’

So, while this is a story about birds, it’s also not a story about birds. It’s a story with a beginning and middle but no proper conclusion, just an observation. In this year of the pandemic, of protests and deep political divides, when we’re all having to adapt and our resilience is constantly tested, many of us echo the crane’s primordial call, the call for unison.    

Tsundoku

Hoarder. Junkie. Addict. I admit I have a problem.

My husband tells me there’s a more accurate word for people like me, a word he learned while watching an episode of Jeopardy! It’s Tsundoku—a Japanese word meaning “people who compulsively buy more books than they can actually read in a lifetime.”

I’ve had a love affair with books from as far back as second grade when Mrs. Falk read aloud The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe from The Chronicles of Narnia. Perhaps it was her rich contralto voice and her faultless elocution, or her ability to speak in differing characters’ voices, but it was then, at eight years of age, I became conscious of a deep desire to hear and read more, to imagine vivid pictures in my head, to escape to another world through the door of a wardrobe or the crack of a book spine. I went on to read all the Bobbsey Twins on the school library shelf, and then the Nancy Drews, and when I’d finished the library’s collection of those books, I graduated to my mother’s Agatha Christie novels. I’ve had a book in my hand ever since.

With COVID-19, the closures, and recommendations to isolate, this year seemed the perfect year to do something about my problem. For several months, I went cold turkey and didn’t buy a single book, instead focusing on the ones I already owned, books that have been on my shelf for years, books I had every intention of reading when purchased but hadn’t yet gotten to. I began keeping a list of the ones I read—sixty to date—making note of when I read them, how long it took, and rating my favorites with a system of stars. Here are just a few I loved:

• The Bells by Richard Harvell, was published in 2010, and tells the story of Moses Froben, born to a deaf-mute mother, the keeper of the bells in a Swiss Alpine church. It’s assumed that Moses is deaf, too, but he possesses “a singular sense of hearing,” and at the Abbey of St. Gall, in a Vienna choir, Moses becomes the protegee of the choirmaster. The choirmaster (spoiler alert) becomes so obsessed with Moses’ soprano voice, he has him castrated, making him a musico for life, Lo Svizzero, who becomes the most famous opera singer in the world. Harvell writes, “For if we know perfect beauty, with our eyes and with our ears, even for a second, we’ll come that tiny bit closer to being it ourselves.” You can almost hear the music in the language, which was one of the best parts. The novel is face-paced and theatrical, and gives a behind-the-scenes look inside Europe’s celebrated opera houses.

• Another favorite is The Clockmaker’s Daughter by Kate Morton, a historical mystery and the first pick in my sisters’ on-line book club. An archivist (doesn’t that sound like the best job?!) named Elodie Winslow discovers a leather satchel containing a sketch of Birchwood Manor by Victorian painter, Edward Radcliffe, along with a picture of an unnamed girl wearing the famed Radcliffe Blue pendant. This sets Elodie on a journey to uncover the mystery of both. The novel spans a century and is told in multiple viewpoints—from pick-pockets to Victorian school girls to treasure hunters—each voice deeply realized in a kind of jigsaw puzzle construction, with Birchwood Manor binding all the characters together. Though it’s so much more, it just happens to be about a haunted house with trapped spirits in the form of ghosts, making it a perfect recommendation for Halloween.

• By far, my favorite read this year is State of Wonder by Ann Patchett. Published in 2011, it’s the story of Marina Singh, a 42-year-old lab researcher for the Vogel company, who is sent to the Amazon by her CEO/boyfriend to investigate the mysterious death of her colleague, Anders Eckman. Eventually making her way to a remote tribe deep in the Brazilian jungle where Anders was last seen, Marina becomes reacquainted with a brilliant if elusive former teacher, the researcher Dr. Anna Swenson. Anna, also an employee of Vogel, is working on a drug which is shrouded in mystery but when developed, will change the lives of millions. As twisty as the Rio Negro, the novel depicts wrestling with an anaconda and narrowly escaping a tribe of cannibals. It’s a deep immersion in all the flora and fauna and singular atmosphere of the Amazon rainforest, (and very topical as the rainforest biome is currently being threatened). This was a page-turner I won’t soon forget.

I’ve made a pretty good dent in reading the books I’ve purchased, but must admit I fell off the wagon sometime in June and began acquiring more books as my shelves got depleted. I’m really looking forward to reading Redhead by the Side of the Road by Anne Tyler, The Stationary Shop by Marjan Kamali, and The Exiles by Christina Baker Kline. I’ll get to them…eventually.

Of course, there are support groups for people like me, groups where we gather around in a circle and pass out chips, and coffee and tea, though some choose to imbibe, and we read from big books, but medium- and small-sized books, too, and we admit we are powerless to resist the words of our favorite authors. Though we go by many names—The Page Turners, The Spine Crackers, The Shelf Indulgers—we’re collectively known as book groups.

Perhaps we’re kindred spirts. Perhaps you get it, and you’re in such a support group. Perhaps you understand part of the addiction of Tsundoku is the sheer anticipation of that next great read, and so we are compelled to hoard books and keep our shelves stocked knowing it might indeed take a lifetime.

Sigh…so many books, so little time.

Have you read any good books lately?

Taking a Leap

I don’t know what compelled me to want to do it. Without thinking, I’m climbing across several other rafts to get to the base of a 20-foot cliff which I’m about to scale in order to jump into the river below. I’m gripping at roots and skinny trees, twisting my way up the side of a wet, slippery slope, while members of the rafting crew offer helping hands. I’m in my fifties, and in reasonably good shape, and as I reach to grasp a clump of muddy grass, I understand the necessity for getting out of the boat. I’m tired of being a spectator, content too often to stay in my comfort zone. I want to participate.

I’m at a family reunion on a whitewater rafting excursion, and on this day trip, my family numbers twenty-one, including five of my six siblings. The bus to the river is crowded and on the forty-five-minute drive, the crew members, using red megaphones, entertain us with funny stories and loud music. There is a buzz of excitement, high energy as we pass through scenic mountains in western North Carolina into eastern Tennessee. The windows are down, the air is blustery and the hair on our heads spins like pinwheels.

Once there, our family is divided—ten in my raft and eleven in another, along with a guide in each. Our boats are school-bus yellow with big buoyancy tubes around the perimeter for us to perch on. Smaller groups of rafters in blue boats make up our little armada. We all wear vivid orange life vests, and with our swim suits, we are a rainbow of colors against the silvery waters of the Watauga. The river has a Class 1 classification of difficulty, “family friendly,” chosen because we have children with us, one as young as five years old. It’s such an easy trip, our guide tells us in advance we won’t have to help him paddle. 

The water is freezing, and as we settle into our boat, members of the crew fill twenty-gallon buckets with river water and heave it at us, hoping to add excitement and set the tone for a fun adventure. This wasn’t part of the description. I want to be a good sport but it seems cruel. As a young girl, I remember a time when my uncle sprayed me with cold water from a hose and I had a total meltdown. That wouldn’t be pretty. I’m wearing a new broad-brimmed sun hat, and with what I hope is quick thinking on my part, I warn them not to get it wet.

Remarkably, they don’t. A female guide with a full bucket stops mid- throw, and I’m spared for the moment it takes to push off into the river. Later, though, my hat will make me a target. 

To make the trip interesting, we are provided giant water guns, and the water wars begin almost immediately. My older brother, John, also in our raft, is like an excitable kid with the water gun, not only targeting the other half of our family, but all the other rafters in our group. I can still see the dimple-cheeked mischievous boy in him. No one is spared.

The guide in our other boat stands out because he has hair like a Norse Viking, long, blond and flowing, and John takes great joy in targeting him, his mission to mess up those perfect locks. Everyone retaliates, and those of us in the boat with John suffer in the cross-fire. We girls—me, two of my sisters and four of my nieces—huddle and squeal in the center of the raft. The two youngest nieces shiver and turn blue. My new hat is a sodden mess, and hangs flaccid around my face like dog ears.

Exhausted and freezing, there is a natural break in the action as everyone regroups, and we float peacefully along. Two of my nephews sit on the leading edge of our raft, and during the lull, our 20-something-year-old guide gets it in his mind to sneak up and push them over. As he moves to the head of the raft, John can’t resist the action and attempts to push the guide in. They wrestle for what seems like ten minutes. Other rafters stop to watch and cheer them on, their money on the young guide, I’m certain, until both the guide and my brother end up in the water. My brother, with his ready laughter and joking, has the ability to bring fun wherever we go.  

We meander down the Watauga though we’ve yet to come upon anything that resembles a rapid. I see the cliff ahead, a tall rocky outcrop on the right bank of the river. Jumping off the cliff is another way of adding interest to the trip, to challenge those who want more than just a gentle float. We pull over to the upstream edge as people make their way across other boats to reach the base. I remove my sunglasses and hat, leaving them in the raft, and scramble across to join in.

At the top, I find myself in a line of people waiting to jump. I suddenly notice how badly my legs are shaking. My heart wallops as I realize what I’ve gotten myself into. From below, it didn’t look so high.  

I’ve always had a fear of falling, hating that moment of gravity defiance when your insides rise up as your body falls. Though it looks exhilarating, I doubt I will ever sky-dive. I detest roller-coasters, zip-lines, and high-dives, something I’m only recalling in this moment. As a kid I remember climbing back down the ladder of the high-dive at the public swimming pool to the irritation and name-calling of the others on the ladder—the teasing was preferable to jumping. It occurs to me to do that now, but I think I’m well past the point of no return and besides, I’m pretty sure the crew won’t allow it. There is only one way down.

I look around for a sympathetic face and realize, hopelessly, none of my siblings have decided to make the jump. The small armada is parked downstream of the cliff now, and they’re all below watching. Why aren’t they here? What do they know that I don’t? I’m never the brave one. Their absence only reinforces my fear.

Two of my nieces are in line before me, and the seven-year-old, Caera, turns to me, crying and terrified. She’s come to the top of the cliff and doesn’t want to jump either. Since I’m as terrified as she is, I don’t know how to comfort her. I feel helpless to protect her. Her older sister, Rebecca, says, “Watch me,” and leaps, doing a fearless spread-eagle off the side, making it look easy. There are some people like Rebecca who take every physical risk that’s presented. She does trapeze and rock climbing, she once went to Cirque du Soleil school, and one of her moonlighting jobs is to teach aerial silks to students brave enough to put their faith in a strip of fabric. I wish I had her aplomb.

Caera is still terrified after Rebecca jumps, crying now. I try to convince her how much fun it will be, as much for her sake as mine, but before I can comprehend what is happening, the guide, standing on the ledge, picks her up and tosses her off the cliff, not giving her a choice. Holy crap! I could do nothing to stop him. I want to be angry but at the moment I’m even more terrified, fearing he will do the same to me if I don’t hurry up.

With Caera safely on the raft, wrapped in her mother’s arms, it’s my turn but I’m frozen. I feel the irritation of those in line beating on my back; I feel the annoyance of those in the boats who are ready to move on. My family down below starts to chant. “Jump, jump, jump!”

Stepping down to a lower ledge where the guide waits, I take his hand hoping he’ll be kind enough to allow me to overcome my fear on my own and not toss me in. My hand is sweaty in his, my breath is shallow, and in my head, I’m cussing like a sailor. I look back. I look down. I make the decision. The world goes quiet for a minute, and I leap.  

In seconds I’m enveloped by the silvery cold of the Watauga. Underwater, my first thought is, I did it! That wasn’t so bad. I surface and swim to the raft where I’m immediately grabbed under the armpits and hoisted aboard by the crew. As I catch my breath, my family high-fives me; my brother-in-law, Roger, tells me I was brave. Bravery, I know, is relative, but as we continue to float down the river where we eventually hit some rapids, I can’t help smiling, and reflecting on the day.   

One step, that’s all it took. And, isn’t that often the case? Sometimes we just need to dare to jump.      

Notes from the Queendom

Up the stairs, just outside the door hangs a sign that reads, “Welcome to the Queendom.” Step inside and you’ll see it’s not a tower in a castle. It’s not the typical queendom of fairy tales, although fairy tales may be written or told here. You won’t find a throne, a crown, or a scepter. It’s not a place of finery. This queendom is furnished with overstuffed, mismatched bookcases topped with special gifts and memorabilia. An old farm table, constructed with reclaimed wood from a chicken coop, works as place to make art, and a round gateleg table, piled high with papers and notes for various works-in-progress, functions as a desk. This space has a cozy Kelly-green sofa with lots of pillows, and the only thing gold in the room is the fabric on a chair and ottoman. The yellow walls don’t have royal portraits, though there is one portrait. These walls hold the paintings and photos given to me by my nieces and sisters. The Queendom is an ordinary space where extraordinary things happen.

Virginia Woolf wrote that in order for a woman to write fiction one of the things she needs is a room of her own. The Queendom is my room of my own, my creative space. To someone else, it’s just the bonus room above the garage, but to me it’s the place where I primarily write, but also where I read, paint, work on crafts, or relax with a cup of high tea and consider my subjects.    

At least one battle has been fought over this space. When we built this house, my husband wanted to claim the Queendom for his own, but as the room was framed-in and sheet-rocked, and I had a better sense of the space and light, I knew we would have to negotiate. My husband came around to my way of thinking when I offered him the dungeon, err, the basement, twice as big as the bonus room, where he could practice his woodworking and build his model train layouts, and where he can house his massive collection of tools. In the peace talks, I might have agreed he’d never have to clean up.   

Naturally, the Queendom is a feminine space, a celebration of feminine energy and right-brained thinking. This is where the women in my life gather when they come to visit—my sisters and nieces, in-laws and friends, and maybe even a princess or two. It’s where we talk, where we laugh and cry and tell secrets and support each other. We’ve been known to stretch out on the floor and tumble and do yoga. We have danced and played music and told stories. It’s not unusual for us to break into spontaneous song.  

The Queendom—it’s where I’ll be writing my blog. This is a new experience for me, an exciting adventure where I hope to share with you my thoughts about writing and reading and anything else that comes to mind. I promise there will be no decrees or proclamations, just topics to spur ideas and prompt conversation. I hope you’ll check in often and share your thoughts, too.   

Welcome to the Queendom.