Looking at pictures of years gone by, the mind wonders, "Dear God the years have quickly passed!" I don't long for the years of youth, I relish the memories. Remembering the winters in the northeast, bitterly cold, building snow forts, that if covered with water, would last a lifetime or at least until the warming rays of the springtime sun. Ice-skating the entire winter, bonfires were set at the edge of this endless sheet of ice, keeping toes tingling from the winter harshness and chilly cold noses at bay. For the most part, winter was enjoyed, just not the heavy layers of clothing or early darkness that helped rejuvenate the world at sleep. Neighborhood friends played and planned there lives together, insisting "things would never change", our lives would be endless days of school, playing outside, building forts and destroying "enemy" ones. In the spring, baseball bats and gloves replaced winter boots, ice skates and sleds.
My Dad an avid baseball fan, passed that love onto me. Although females weren't supposed to play anything other than softball, Dad made sure my skills of throwing, fielding, batting and my passion for catching, were second to none. Playing a game of hardball with the local boys, always challenging, their intent was not a good game of ball, but a lesson for me: "go play softball with the girls!" My mother, mortified, when she learned I had whipped the ball at Stanley, "the Town Crier," of course true to his reputation, he balled his eyes out. Concerned my mother would prohibit me from participating in my favorite past time, I asked why I had to remain benched for a week. Surely she didn't think a week would dampen my desire to" knock it out of the park!"
Recalling those series of events, valuable lessons were learned: Don't ask the question unless you are fully prepared to hear the answer; Political correctness is a virtue-and there is a gray area here. I simply murmured, "Mom it's not fair, why do I have to sit out a week's worth of baseball fun, no big deal, I only made him cry, he deserved it!" As this very petite five foot woman, with eyes of steel, whose gentle nurturing smile could heal all, whirled around standing directly over me, her words will forever be ingrained in my brain, "Don't you ever tell me, young lady, it's not fair. NEVER and I mean NEVER, pick on the meek, do you hear me? "Geez Mom, you don't have to yell!" I remember the lesson learned here, political correctness: Had I said, "I'm sorry Mom, I won't do it again," her anger might have been redirected. The gray area being, at that point I was the meek and being "picked on," albeit deserving!
Although only February, a southern spring season has already begun. New lime green leaves on the sweet gum trees look almost good enough to munch on, The canopy of the preserve is again filling in allowing the moisture to remain trapped, a perfect greenhouse temperature for the multitudes of ferns sprouting up everywhere. Red bud spring, lasts not much longer than the blink of eye around this part of the world, cool air now warmed by the ever increasing angles of the southern sun.
In the northern climates we'd look for the first signs of spring to be the budding of the pussy willow trees. Those fuzzy little buds resembled the softness of a rabbit's foot and would last forever if picked at the proper time. Mom would allow us to give them a light coating of hairspray, preserving their beauty. A tradition, until we opted for the southern climates. But it was the awakening from a cold winter's sleep, that first hint of spring time warmth, having the most profound effect on my memory. The landscape barren and gray, mud everywhere as the thawing moisture oozed from the once frozen ground. As children, we'd head for the muddy garden, collecting the thawing vegetables, left behind in the autumn harvest. These made great weapons of mass destruction on enemy forts. This little known practice, not a favorite with the adults cleaning the battered clothing of the hearty warriors. Dad didn't mind, the garden got the necessary cleaning prior to him tilling the soil for the springtime planting of early peas, lettuce and radishes.
My own children we forest foragers as well. Living in very close proximity to the riverbed of the Shetucket River, the treasures found, as it meandered through the green valley were numerous. As the winter ice melted, much like the debris left from the retreating glaciers of the ice age, my kids collected everything. These artifacts adorned bedroom window sills, serving as reminders of their childhood expeditions. The finding of an occasional arrow head, a prized bounty, created a "gold rush" flurry to the woods, word spreading like the flames of a windblown wildfire. These prizes made great show and tell conversations in classrooms. Stones worn smooth, by the pounding of the swift currents during winter snow melt and springtime flooding, also prized bounty. Remembering back, these stones ranking just as high up on the scale of valuable treasures as the smooth pieces of glass, brilliantly sparkling as the rays of the sun bounced off their different colors. The riverbed and forest serving as playgrounds for the neighborhood, with territories clearly marked out and hide-a-ways cleverly disguised!
My Dad an avid baseball fan, passed that love onto me. Although females weren't supposed to play anything other than softball, Dad made sure my skills of throwing, fielding, batting and my passion for catching, were second to none. Playing a game of hardball with the local boys, always challenging, their intent was not a good game of ball, but a lesson for me: "go play softball with the girls!" My mother, mortified, when she learned I had whipped the ball at Stanley, "the Town Crier," of course true to his reputation, he balled his eyes out. Concerned my mother would prohibit me from participating in my favorite past time, I asked why I had to remain benched for a week. Surely she didn't think a week would dampen my desire to" knock it out of the park!"
Recalling those series of events, valuable lessons were learned: Don't ask the question unless you are fully prepared to hear the answer; Political correctness is a virtue-and there is a gray area here. I simply murmured, "Mom it's not fair, why do I have to sit out a week's worth of baseball fun, no big deal, I only made him cry, he deserved it!" As this very petite five foot woman, with eyes of steel, whose gentle nurturing smile could heal all, whirled around standing directly over me, her words will forever be ingrained in my brain, "Don't you ever tell me, young lady, it's not fair. NEVER and I mean NEVER, pick on the meek, do you hear me? "Geez Mom, you don't have to yell!" I remember the lesson learned here, political correctness: Had I said, "I'm sorry Mom, I won't do it again," her anger might have been redirected. The gray area being, at that point I was the meek and being "picked on," albeit deserving!
Although only February, a southern spring season has already begun. New lime green leaves on the sweet gum trees look almost good enough to munch on, The canopy of the preserve is again filling in allowing the moisture to remain trapped, a perfect greenhouse temperature for the multitudes of ferns sprouting up everywhere. Red bud spring, lasts not much longer than the blink of eye around this part of the world, cool air now warmed by the ever increasing angles of the southern sun.
In the northern climates we'd look for the first signs of spring to be the budding of the pussy willow trees. Those fuzzy little buds resembled the softness of a rabbit's foot and would last forever if picked at the proper time. Mom would allow us to give them a light coating of hairspray, preserving their beauty. A tradition, until we opted for the southern climates. But it was the awakening from a cold winter's sleep, that first hint of spring time warmth, having the most profound effect on my memory. The landscape barren and gray, mud everywhere as the thawing moisture oozed from the once frozen ground. As children, we'd head for the muddy garden, collecting the thawing vegetables, left behind in the autumn harvest. These made great weapons of mass destruction on enemy forts. This little known practice, not a favorite with the adults cleaning the battered clothing of the hearty warriors. Dad didn't mind, the garden got the necessary cleaning prior to him tilling the soil for the springtime planting of early peas, lettuce and radishes.
My own children we forest foragers as well. Living in very close proximity to the riverbed of the Shetucket River, the treasures found, as it meandered through the green valley were numerous. As the winter ice melted, much like the debris left from the retreating glaciers of the ice age, my kids collected everything. These artifacts adorned bedroom window sills, serving as reminders of their childhood expeditions. The finding of an occasional arrow head, a prized bounty, created a "gold rush" flurry to the woods, word spreading like the flames of a windblown wildfire. These prizes made great show and tell conversations in classrooms. Stones worn smooth, by the pounding of the swift currents during winter snow melt and springtime flooding, also prized bounty. Remembering back, these stones ranking just as high up on the scale of valuable treasures as the smooth pieces of glass, brilliantly sparkling as the rays of the sun bounced off their different colors. The riverbed and forest serving as playgrounds for the neighborhood, with territories clearly marked out and hide-a-ways cleverly disguised!
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