Lately I have been considering what it must be like to hibernate like a little furry animal in a knothole or like a bear, cradled in the warmth and black oblivion of its own fur.
There are many theories as to why I am always so cold. My family likes to speculate on why I am always dressed in multi-layers. Why does she always have a sweater on—even in July? I confess: today I have on three.
Just after Thanksgiving I hauled out the laundry basket I keep in my bedroom closet that holds all the Christmas stuff: curling ribbon and scraps of left-over wrapping paper, candles, the crèche set and spare cards.
The trunk from Russia currently sits in my bedroom here in French Woods, NY. In the off season I store our winter coats and snow clothes in it. Sometimes I stash Christmas presents in the old, heavy trunk. It rests, inconspicuously, in the corner under the east window.
The fall leaves seem muted this year. We have not yet reached the peak of brilliant color so anticipated in our region. Perhaps this is due to the unseasonable heat and dry days of September. Instead, the leaves have already started coming down.
I work on the night shift now and sleep during the day, so there was something especially peculiar about being woken up at two in the afternoon on August 21 by my eclipse-enthralled family, specifically to go outside to watch the sky grow dark.
A little brown bat (Myotislucifungus) has taken up residence on my front porch. It can be seen sleeping in the daytime, if you look for it. It hangs upside down, as bats do, up near the ceiling. It’s sheltered behind a block of wood that serves as a phoebe defense.
Did you know that a giraffe’s tongue is purple to protect it from sunburn in hot climates? Or that a giraffe has seven vertebrae in its long neck—the same as other mammals including people?
I didn’t. That is, until the giraffe April brought all things giraffe to my attention.
St. Francis deSales cemetery has a new grounds crew. This summer, St. Paul’s parish is using a local herd of sheep to maintain the grass in its historic cemetery in French Woods, NY, a community about five miles north of Long Eddy.
My son Sam’s “launch pad” is back. By “launch pad” I am referring to the sudden metamorphosis of one of our living room sofas to a staging area for Sam’s belongings and all-purpose rubble. It is both the essence of home and a point of departure for his frequent comings and goings.