Ground Fog

It was eerie, driving down the road of our complex right after the intense rain. The night was dark with barely a half moon peeking out from behind the angry clouds. The blacktop, still hot from the beating sun of daytime, became a steam iron of reaction to the cooling deluge. Wispy columns of thin fog rose lazily from the pavement, dancing dreamily in front of our headlights.

It was a scene straight out of Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. I half expected our slow pace to be suddenly interrupted by Oberon chasing Titania across the grassy meadow just beyond the stand of pine trees at the end of the loop. Even Drew remarked on the magic of the night. Perhaps we would slide right into Narnia and have an adventure!

But alas, the only adventure waiting for me was the thrill of cleaning up the kitchen and taking out the garbage. No goosebumps and unicorns in my destiny tonight. When at long last I lay down for the night, listening to the rain pattering now and again against the roof as the storm front rolled past in waves, I could smell the freshness of the air washed clean of grime and pollution.

Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove's soft whrr echoed sadly, unanswered. The whole scene was vaguely reminiscent of nights spent at Gramma's house, sleeping in Aunt Lil's room (it was always called Aunt Lil's room long after Aunt Lil had passed away), inhaling the sweet air tinged with chicken coop and garden fertilizer, lulled to sleep by the gentle tap tapping of the dark green windowshade against the wood sill as the night breeze fluttered the sheer curtains out and in, moving them as if some sleeping giant were inhaling and exhaling just on the verge of falling asleep.

I am not so far from that little girl growing up in the comfort and security of an old clapboard house tucked near the edge of a sleepy Route 50, surrounded by the rows of corn and tomatoes, iris beds and lilac bushes, the old red barn and the steel garage with its inviting piles of stone and sand.

On a magic night like this, I can almost get back there, almost smell the oil of Grampa's automotive shop, almost hear the chickens clucking themselves to sleep, almost taste the warm juicy tomatoes straight out of the garden, almost hear my Gramma calling up the stairs through the curtains hanging at the bottom step, "You alright, Sis?"

Yes, I am. I am alright. I am still alright. A magical night indeed. I roll over and take a deep, satisfying breath.

Sundae Lunch

Our lives had briefly intersected last fall when I provided some instruction for her honors class, a pleasant introduction. I sensed at once that that here was a person of integrity and character, well worth getting to know, but we travel in different worlds, she and I.

And so my first year unfolded with ever so scarce times of seeing her in action directing faculty workshops or nodding hello across a crowded seminar room. I came to hear some of her honors students' presentations, an impressive array of thought provoking topics, she the proud educator watching her fledglings fly on their own.

A few weeks ago, she came to talk again of instruction for her honors class, and brought the texts she was considering using. We had a wonderful exchange about the required reading texts, about the wide ranging span of intensity (or lack thereof), about the changing landscape of administrative expectations. A refreshing dialogue.

I waxed bold and asked for a lunch date. A flurry of email exchanges later, we had decided to skip lunch and go right for dessert - Abbott's frozen custard to be exact (a woman after my own heart). Despite the pouring rain, I picked her up at the designated hour and we hied ourselves off campus to the unassuming building on Buffalo Road where we both ordered strawberry sundaes, and settling in for some meaty conversation.

Like compatriots in crime, we savored bites of cold vanilla smothered in strawberries and whipped cream while we explored all sorts of topics. Especially interesting to me were the discussions of the women who had sacrificed careers in order to create a library for a struggling young institution that did not know how desperately they needed such a resource. By sheer willpower and determination, Ms. Ora Sprague and her sidekick had spun gold from straw, building collections, forging policies, creating a respectable library.

This woman across from me had sat under their tutelage as both student and faculty, learning, absorbing, becoming fast friends. She bemoaned the fact that the institution scarcely remembers the hours and hours of toil, the sacrifices they made, the incredible dedication.

I value her perspective, recognizing in her elements gone missing in our instant and 'cutting edge' fast paced society. I appreciate her dedication to people, to drawing the best from them, teaching eager minds to think well, to make longterm commitments towards things that will really matter in the end, to find the keys in the rubble that will unlock the life they long for.

She is not so unlike the women whose stories she told with such clarity. We chatted well beyond my usual hour lunch, every minute delicious. I look forward to further conversations of exploration as we connect in ways beyond the classroom and into the universe of life.

Puddles and Lace

After the night's drenching rain, I knew my morning walk would present a few challenges. Everything was dripping wet - trees, grass, bushes, sidewalks, blacktop. I worried that there would be flooding like we encountered the week we moved in where half the parking lot was submerged with creek overflow. The parking lot was fine, but every indentation in the ground cradled a puddle. The sides of the road were highly decorated with little mirrors of water all along my path. I should have thought bugs would be rampant, but not a wing fluttered.

Not a leaf nor a blade of grass moved. Everything lay still and sleeping, exhausted by the night's storm. Even the weeds by the woods hung down weighted with water, nodding wearily in the aftermath of pelting cloudbursts. Purple thistles protruded from pockets of underbrush, their spiny faces stoic. Silence shrouded the landscape. Not a swallow or sparrow flitted or twittered. Not a single cricket, June bug or tree toad sang.

So it was that I came to the wooded section where the sun rarely shines. How peculiar to find such lush growth in the shadow of the overhanging trees. Suckers and saplings braced the base of every tree, thick with greenery. Blackberry brambles twined about trunks, hard green buds showing where berries would soon appear. Thistles forced their way out of the tangle, menacing passersby.

Halfway around the curve, a raft of Queen Anne's lace skirted the shoulder of the road, each white head bowed as if before royalty. Some of the delicate blossoms had curled tightly together, protecting its fragile flowers from the onslaught of wind and rain. I stooped to see them better, these lacy landscape decorations. I inhaled. The air smelled pungent and woodsy. As I sat still gazing, a tiny movement caught my attention. There on the thin green stem of the largest flower crawled a little lady bug, black and red, her pincers trailing behind, her mouth working steadily.

I watched for awhile, then suddenly, she opened her wings and flew off, just like that, into the underbrush. Even in the aftermath of a horrible storm, there are folks who quietly go about their business, unaffected by the devastation about them. I walked on, the strains of Kyrie Eleison ringing in my ears.