Poetry

Today we bid farewell to national poetry month. Having waited until the last possible moment to get in on the poetry love,  I do want to point out that I am technically not late since this is being posted on April 30th.

A couple things: I am not a poet. I used to be, back when poetry meant producing rhyming couplets and calling it a day, but after we were supposed to outgrow that stage, I lost interest and talent and have been defiantly wading in the shallow waters of my rhyming pool ever since.  Occasionally I have turned out works of what I like to call poetry, and will continue to defend them as such. You, of course, are free to think otherwise. I will not judge you for it.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I will.

Two notes on the poem below: 

1) The picture is of Caravaggio's painting, "David with the Head of Goliath."  2) It should be "thee," not "thou" in the second line, but I wrote it as thou before I thought about it and I sort of thought it was funny that way. Also my friend Sarah told me she thought it should stay thou, and she's smart and has a great sense of humor and also generally makes sense, which are compelling reasons for me to listen to her.  (Interesting side note: when John Lennon was singing "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" to Paul McCartney, he accidentally sang "two foot small" instead of "two foot tall," which was what he had written. Paul liked the phrase as it was sung, and said it should stay that way. And it did. So there you go.) 

David with the Head of Goliath And Mother (offstage)

God’s name, what has he brought home now?

Young man, I've had it up to here with thou!

Don’t thinketh thee can bring that in

Thou dost not knoweth where it’s been!

Goliath or Gabriel, I don’t care.

His head stays outside, is that clear?

I’ve just spent the morning cleaning,

Last thing I need’s a head that’s bleeding.

Thou waltzeth back here from a fight,

Disheveled and thine hair a sight,

Expecting–what–Congratulations?

Hmph! What thou needs is castigation.

I do not calleth thee a winner.

What I calleth thee is late for dinner.

Now return that head where it belongeth,

Then wash thine hands, and run alongeth.

And if you've read this far, here is a poem by Ogden Nash as a reward for your perseverance:

Further Reflections on Parsley

Parsley

Is Gharsley

Was there ever a better poet? I ask you! 

Happy last day of Poetry Month!

O, the Dramatic Irony of it All!

It's a good thing that I have friends who are so on the ball that they not only create their own memes, but that they invite the likes of yours truly to write an essay for their blogs, since I have been lacking and slacking in my own posts lately.  Today's Post Hoster is Anna Urquhart at The Silent Isle, and if you haven't heard of her, I imagine it will only be a matter of time before you do. She is nothing short of brilliant, and it is an honor to be invited to write for her series, "Had I But Known..."
I hope you enjoy my cautionary tale and I encourage you to check out the other 3 essays (but counting!) in the series. Thank you for reading!

A Guest Spot at Nested

I have the honor of a guest spot over at the wonderful Katie Pilkington's blog Nested for her theme "That's When I realized. . ."  

  I hope you enjoy the post,  and if you can, you should check out more of Katie's blog. She is hysterical, clever, and a super talented writer.


Nested: And that’s when I realized… I would probably never be a fashion maven.

Does this corset make me look gay?

Fraud

My hobby is feeling unworthy. About pretty much everything. I am a champion of inadequacy. I am a varsity level worrier. If I can feel confident about anything, it is in my sense of fraudulence. Just to prove it, the title of this post is not even my own. I ripped it off from the late, great David Rakoff. He was a much better curmudgeon than I am.

I adopted this habit at an early age. From many careful and meticulous hours of observation I gleaned, for instance, that genuine girls were creatures who wore bows and headbands and ruffled dresses(!!) and played with each other’s hair in class, and liked dolls and pink horses, and had inherent rhythm for games like pat-a-cake. 

I on the other hand, while born a girl, had none of these attributes. I dressed in corduroys and tee shirts. I cut my hair short. My parents gave me a Miss Piggy doll one Christmas and I spent a delightful afternoon tossing every single one of her clothes into the roaring fireplace. I would have hucked her in too if I hadn’t been caught just then by a very apoplectic mother.  I even went through a brief(ish) stint in kindergarten of standing up to pee, which is as difficult to pull off as it sounds. I never bothered to inform anyone what I was doing behind closed doors, and if my parents ever wondered about my brother’s appalling inability to aim or about the mysterious splatter patterns that suddenly graced the wrong side of the toilet bowl, they (and my brother too) must have been relieved when the problem just as mysteriously cleared up on its own.  

          Exactly once did I volunteer to wear a dress to school (a decision sprung entirely out of a desire to please my mother). I spent the entire day regretting my generosity and then threw up all down the front of it just before my mom arrived to pick me up.  I was a fraudulent girl. I felt it to my core.  And yet, nothing aggrieved me more than to be mistaken for a boy. Because I wasn’t actually trying to be a boy (my adventures in the bathroom notwithstanding), I was just trying to be me.

As I grew older, I found other things to feel inadequate about and in expanding my repertoire, discovered that inadequacy was both inexhaustible and almost universal in its applicability. There were the trivial, mundane worries of no consequence that I pondered just to stay in practice and keep the habit up: things like my inability to run more than twelve yards without getting a headache, the pace at which I read books, or my taste in lowbrow movies. Others were more significant; they stretched my muscles of ineptitude and expanded the very limits of my unworthiness: my ability to be liked, to have friends; my intelligence; my usefulness to the world as an individual, as member of society, as a human. Things like that.

I went into the sciences and felt like a fraud from the get-go. Oh sure, my degree was in geology, like that proved anything. All other geology degrees anywhere else in the world were earned. I only got mine because somebody somewhere made an error and overlooked my incompetence. Surely. Surely.

            Now that I’m in the humanities, unsurprisingly, little has changed. I worry that I will never be worthy enough to call myself an artist, let alone a writer. I worry that it is only a matter of time before I am either discovered by others to be a fraud, or that my house of cards will soon enough fall down on its own.

           

Enter Lesson 1:

 In his own way, my dad is also often mistaken for something he is not. In his case: a hardware store employee. Is it the dead paintbrush hair? The oversized glasses? The look of abject joy that graces his countenance as he leisurely peruses the aisles? I swear, no matter what hardware store he enters, it is only a matter of time before someone, thinking he works there, asks him for help finding something. Growing up, my third favorite field trip destination was the hardware store (after the grocery store and science museum. In that order). 

      I loved the thick columns of sticker-backed letters and numbers meant for the mailboxes. I loved the plastic signs that proclaimed things like No Trespassing, House for Sale and Private Property. I loved the Pepto-Bismol rolls of insulation that I’d immediately paw through as soon as my dad’s back was turned. I think I spent enough allowance money on stickers and plastic signs at Concord Lumber to fund a small expedition to the moon.

Hardware Stores. Better than chocolate.

            In one of my many tagalongs, after witnessing yet another exchange between my dad and a grateful looking stranger, I asked him what he was doing.

            Oh, he said. I was just showing the fellow where to find something.

            But why did he ask you?

            Well, he thought I worked here.

            But you don’t. 

            Dad shrugged. I know, but he didn’t know that. Besides, I knew exactly where to find the thing he was looking for.

            I nodded, satisfied by that anwer, and thought no more about the matter. Certainly, if there was a lesson or moral buried in there somewhere, I couldn’t be bothered to dig for it. Instead, I turned back  to my newest acquisition of slanted sticker letters and bendy No Parking sign, pleased with my evening’s haul.

Enter Lesson 2

            It wasn’t until college that I became comfortable with actually being a girl. (and, having finally achieved that, it would be several more years yet before I would fully acquiesce to being known as a ‘woman.’). It was not ironic that I chose a women’s college. It was a challenge. A challenge born of unconscious desperation, perhaps, but a challenge all the same. It was a challenge to myself to find a way to embrace both the sex I was born to and also the person that I knew I was. It was a challenge to myself to find a way to claim a right to the words female and girl (yeah okay, and woman too, fine). It was a challenge to find adequacy in my own skin. It was a challenge to become the female/girl/woman that I didn’t think could possibly exist, but that my friends and family had always seen in me. With quaking nerves and sometimes little else but persistence, I embarked on a long slog towards accepting, owning, and embracing my femininity. I’m still occasionally mistaken for a boy by people who don’t understand that short-hair is a choice, not a genotype, but I am no longer aggrieved by their mistake. I only pity them for the narrowness of their vision.

we can't all look like pin up girls, but lord knows some of us just keep trying! 

The thing is, it is easy to feel like a fraud. It is disturbingly easy. It takes very little effort and it can become such an entrenched habit that it feels like the only normal you have never known. On the other hand, it takes courage to decide to assume a mantle of worth. Of course, I feel like a fraud even saying that because I certainly don’t feel worthy to assume a mantle of such declarative authority. But here's where my dad’s hardware store adventures come in because it turns out there is a lesson there after all. Because he could have laughed off his customers’ mistake, or corrected them, or been embarrassed or annoyed, or even just handed them off to a real employee, but he didn’t because he knew he could help them. And so they continued to believe he was an employee, because it never mattered that he wasn’t. He rose to the challenge of their expectation, and he succeeded.

            Last month, when I was at a writer’s conference, I was stunned to hear other writers––writers whose prose and skills I deeply admire––esteem me not only as a person, but as an equal, a peer, a colleague. They think I have it in me. They think I can do it. They believe in me. Some days I think I can do it too. Some days, heck. I even believe in myself. Other days, I’m not at all sure. But what I need to remember is that in those moments when I’m not sure I have what it takes, when I feel like an inadequate fraud, when I am not sure that I even believe in myself, I have a choice. I can give up and give in to the old habit of feeling inadequate. Or I can take a deep breath and rise to the challenge. 

Challenge (And Nomination) Accepted!

I feel like I’m still in floaties, splashing around on in the shallow end of the blogsphere pool (just to prove it: I keep wanting to call it blog-O-sphere instead. You have to admit, that does sound more lyrical than Blog. Sphere. Seriously, blogsphere sounds like the noises my cat makes when something unpleasant is about to come out of her. But I digress). I’ve been doing it for less than a month and I still am not entirely adept at even the most basic things such as arranging my homepage, or including links and sidebars and those sorts of things. I need an IEP for my technology.  

I still look admiringly at the bloggers in the deep pool and wonder when I might be capable/accomplished enough to venture over to the deep side. Someday, I think. Someday. And then just yesterday, I’ll be a fleck-feathered turkey if my dear friend (and, dare I say, blogging mentor) Anna at THE SILENT ISLE didn’t give me the equivalent of a water pistol squirt across the buoy barrier. It was an encouragement, an affirmation, and a challenge. She signaled to me that I am not only ready to come on into the deep end, but that I have been there all along. Yes, I may still be doing the high panic paddle but I am afloat, doggone it! 

She nominated me for (my very first!) blogger award.

“The Sunshine Award is an award given by bloggers to other bloggers. The receivers of the Sunshine Award are bloggers who positively and creatively inspire others in the blogsphere.”

I am honored, I am pleased, I am tickled, and I am ready for the challenge of doing right by the spirit of the award. Undoubtedly the nomination is a little bit premature and speaks perhaps more to my potential than to the scant fruits of my efforts thus far, but bless her heart, Anna knows how to motivate a girl to succeed.

One of the conditions of the award is to share seven (7) facts about myself and then nominate other blogs. So here goes. (Let’s pretend we have already gotten past the part of the acceptance speech that drags on and on about how thankful I am to all those who have made this moment possible, and how much my friends and my family’s support mean to me, etc.etc while I look admiringly at my award, which I suppose has been printed out on glossy paper in vibrant color.)

1) I am ridiculously pleased to be left-handed. It’s like I have automatic membership into an exclusive club that allows me to bask in a sense of elitism that I have neither earned nor deserve but am more than happy to assume. I am attuned to left-handedness wherever I see it. I keep an extensive mental list of famous left-handers throughout history, just in case one of them should come up in conversation: 

    eg:   Napoleon Dynamite is my favorite movie. 

           Did you know Napoleon the emperor was left-handed? 

     or:

            I think my car needs new brakes. 

            Henry Ford. Another lefty! 

If I see a person on TV or the movies, I will lean over and whisper to Gina in a triumphant voice, ‘Look! She’s left-handed.’  I admit my unbridled zeal is probably one of my less charming qualities. At least Gina probably thinks so. But then she would, wouldn’t she. Poor thing is a righty.

2) I can ride a unicycle. It took me a very long time to master it, and I still can’t ride backwards, but I can go off-road pretty well. I used to ride my unicycle to classes when I was in college because I was a shameless show-off but I had no idea how ridiculous one looks actually riding a unicycle. It’s hard not to get all bunched up in the crotch. My advisor in college could also ride a unicycle and on my last day of college, we rode around the quad.

3) Facebook makes me go fetal. I am not a social butterfly anyway, but something about that site makes me break out in a cold sweat and want to crawl under a rock to die. But apparently Facebook is already becoming passé to the kids these days, which makes me happy. Of course, it is being replaced by newer, hipper sites and through other means of “networking” that are probably just as horrifying. I was listening to an NPR talk show about this very subject yesterday. The show discussed the instantaneousness we demand in our communication and information these days and the newest zippiest ways of hooking into it all. I was listening to it on my ipod touch. This is technology. Then it occurred to me that I was listening to it the day after it aired, as a podcast. This is irony.

4) I take Halloween very seriously. At least the dressing up part. Not to be scary, but to be in costume. While I am not often caught dead in a dress in my real life, I am more than happy to don one as a costume because part of the beauty of dressing up is letting a drastically different persona take a moment in the spotlight. As RuPaul says, you are born naked. The rest is drag. My everyday drag is practical and reflective of who I predominantly am. But every so often another persona wants to bust loose and be free. 

Hedwig from Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Marie Antoinette and Axel von Ferson make a lovely couple, don't you think?

5) I burned my house down. I had bought a modest and poorly insulated, 1930’s pre-fab cottage that I referred to as my McHovel. At first I had romantic notions of renovating it and converting it into something livable, but quickly saw the folly of that decision and realized the best course of action was to get rid of it and put something else up. I went to the fire department to get the permits to raze the building and the fire chief looked up from the paperwork and said, “You own that house?” 
And I said, "Yes," and he said, “I’ve had my eye on that place as a training exercise for the fire academy. If you want to tear it down, you think you might let us use it for that instead?” 
 “Wait, you want to burn down my house?” I said. 
“Well, yes.” 
"Wow. Cool."  And I signed a release saying I wouldn’t sue my town for burning my house down. In case you are wondering, it is a great way to meet the neighbors. Kids and parents turned out for the event, the boyscouts showed up to sell Christmas wreaths. It was a good time.
 

6) I cut my own hair. I started cutting my own hair when I was a park ranger up in Maine. I  actually ventured into the lone hairdresser in Millinocket to see if I could get an appointment and the pinch faced blue haired bitty who was manning the joint looked me up and down skeptically and with a grudging sigh allowed as how she might be able to fit me in sometime five days from then. The place was completely deserted. So I walked out, went to KMart, bought scissors and had a stab at it (literally, at times.) myself. Luckily, I’m not a demanding client. Every ‘do comes out a little differently and I’ve had some real doozies. But it’s hair. It will grow out.

7) I am supremely afraid of heights because when I am near a high edge, I feel an overwhelming urge to hurl myself over the side. Not because I have a secret death wish, but because I am so curious about whether I am actually ballsy enough to do it. And frankly, I am impulsive enough that I don’t really trust myself not to. On the other hand, I am equally terrified of heights even if I'm behind a big thick piece of glass or something. I mean, how can I know that the glass won’t shatter from me leaning on it and send me hurling down to my death? No matter how irrational it may be, I don’t trust that safety measures will actually be safe. Which is probably why I have the desire to throw myself over the edge. For the sense of control.

Okay, now I have to nominate other blogs. I love the spirit of nominating blogs that haven’t already been nominated. Unfortunately, I am still so new to this world that I don’t know very many blogs, and so I am afraid there will be double dipped sites.

Anna at The Silent Isle. Seriously, I wouldn’t be blogging if not for her and

Karen at The Wordshop

Also:

Amy at Addled

Kate at Nested

Kristi at The Winged Pen

Allie at Hyperbole and a Half

Vihart

How Do You Get So Little Done in a Day?

Every so often, that elusive day arrives when the stars align and I have a legitimately and completely free day and I think, this is terrific. I   am going to be so productive. The world is my oyster.  But then somehow or other, it is evening again and I have gotten, like, one tenth of the things accomplished that I had set out to do. How on earth does the day fly by so fast?

I have a theory: 

5:30 Hit snooze alarm. Repeat.

5:40 Resolve to get up the next time alarm goes off.

5:58 Rouse from deep slumber to receive goodbye kiss from wife who is about to leave for work. Hit snooze.

6:00 Ignore whimpering dog who has just woken up and is afraid she is all alone and has been forgotten about.

6:08 Celebrate cat’s highly unusual desire to cuddle in the bed and purr and be cute, never mind her poor timing. Resolve to get up in one minute.

6:09: Must. Not. Disturb. The. Kitty.

6:10 Remind self when you accidentally annoy the kitty and she jumps off bed in a huff that she was already disturbed and has been for ages. Do not give in to her guilt tactics.

6:20 Get dressed, go downstairs and feed dog and cat. Reward productivity with cup of coffee.

6:40 Let dog out.

6:40:47 Let dog in.

6:50 Let dog, who has frightened herself by pushing the trash can over with her nose, back out.

6:58 Resolve you will be at your computer and writing by 7:00.

7:00 Pour second cup of coffee. Amend productivity time to 7:30. Justify decision to surf internet instead of working by convincing self that web is hotbed of inspiration.

7:30 Stare blankly at screen.

 

7:56 Begin writing.

8:30 Delete everything. Rewrite.

9:00 Decide it’s a perfect time to walk the dog. Search for shoes.

9:10 Locate shoes. Repeat search for hat, coat, and leash.

9:30 Begin approximately half hour walk with dog.

9:40 Lose dog to taunting squirrel.

10:00 Locate dog. Resume walk.

10:15 Wait for dog to finish inspecting same canine urine hotspot she has smelled every day for the past two months.

10:20 Finish half hour walk with dog. Return to computer.

10:30 En route, notice dirty on counter, table and in sink. Observe overflowing dish rack. Lock eyes upon crumby counter. Feel motivation, joy for life, ebb.

10:30-11:30 Daydream about writing while you clean the kitchen. Savor the anticipation of reward. Clean the living room while you’re at it. Enjoy the martyrdom. Stupid Puritan.

11:30 Reward cleaning spree with lunch. Read a chapter or two from one of many novels you are currently reading. Justify decision as inspirational motivation.

12:00 Compare own writing unfavorably to beloved author’s.

12:05 Put dirty dishes in sink. Sit back down at computer. Stare at current writing, which now seems like drivel after masterful author’s piece read at lunch.

1:00 Wonder why fingers stop typing. Realize they’re blue. Recall turning off thermostat last week in fit of thriftiness.

1:05 build fire in wood stove.

1:15 Air out house until smoke alarms turn off. Shoo frightened dog outside. Ignore kitty’s reproachful look from hunkered spot under chair.

1:30 Return to desk.

1:31 Let dog, who has begun to bash at door, in.

1:55 Remember your fire, now dying in woodstove. Stab desperately with poker.

2:15 Achieve small flame. Rejoice.

2:17 Blow on flame, accidentally extinguishing it. Despair.

2:18 Let dog, who is keenly attuned to your despair and has become utterly unhinged, out.

2:30 Coax dog, who is currently clawing door to splinters but hesitates to come back inside because faint odor of smoke persists, back in.

2:40 Come upon her covertly munching kitty’s food. Scold.

2:45 Trip over cat who is on her way over to mow down dog’s food. Give up and return to woodstove.

2:50 Achieve fire.

2:55 Collect wood from woodpile. Repeat twice.

3:00 Regain balance after dog, frightened by wood being brought indoors, bolts out.

3:10 To pre-empt door bashing, invite dog back in. Repeat in higher tones when met with baleful look. Check frustration at simpering and feigned confusion. Return reproachful squints.  Hold door open. Demand. Cajole. Beg. Plead.

3:13 Watch as strictly indoor cat charges out between legs and through open door.

3:15 Calmly approach cat. Resist anger when she dilates her pupils and gallops in a serpentine fashion all around the yard.

3:45. Ignore yowls of indignation and extended claws when carrying her back inside. Unstick from sweater. Return to desk.

3:50 Write.

4:20 Reward productivity with Facebook break.

4:30 Sink into depression with realization that friends’ status updates prove own life is utterly unaccomplished, meaningless, and futile.

4:35 Under lens of depression fueled self-doubt, open minimized word window with story on it. Re-read. Delete.

4:45 Over consoling cup of tea, ruminate on story unfolding on radio. Listen to analysis and commentators discuss in depth. Make sudden and insightful connection between piece and your story. Charge back to computer.

4:50 Write. Get lost in the piece. Marvel at how good it feels. Rebuke self for not buckling down earlier.

5:30 Hear door open and wife walk in. Psychologically connect wife’s arrival home with end of the working day. Feel all motivation flood out of you.

5:35 Cuddle on couch with wife and relate accomplishments of your day. 

Can't you see I'm hard at work?

Finding Magic in Mud Season

In some parts of the country, I hear tell that they have this lovely time of year that begins about nowish, and continues for several wonderful months. It is called Spring. It sounds magical indeed. It is full of buds and birds and bunnies and sunshine, and smells like hay and gardenias and coconut-flavored sun block. The name even sounds good. Spring. Spring to life. spring with joy. It is vibrant, energetic, and wholesome. It is warm and welcoming. It is polite to old ladies and never mistreats animals. It probably dotes on its mother.

Spring. Sprrrrrring!

We, alas, don’t have anything like that in New England. Instead, the transition that sees us through from “sweet jezum criminy it’s cold enough to freeze your hoo-ha off”  to  “ooh, lilacs!” is interminable and awkward and ungainly. It has all the grace and beauty of a dump truck splashing down rutted roads. It has all the charm of gnats gnashing, black flies biting, and chilling dampness seeping into your core. It has all the romance of wet socks. If I could personify it, it would be me at thirteen: braces, bad skin, ill-fitting clothes, and an inexplicably truculent attitude towards the world. We don’t have “spring” here. What we have is a season that warrants a different name, but one that like spring, reflects itself perfectly.

We have mud season.

Mud.

As in: thud. As in: bugs and floods, and crud. Rhymes with splud, which is the sound your shoes make between February and May. Splud: like tires slapping and sloshing down a dirt road. Splud: like wet snow jamming up a blower. It is the sound that fills the dreary cavity between winter and summer.

Looks like we got a good harvest, fellas.

The crocuses that were brave enough to start sprouting in mid March were crushed under one last (surprise!) dumping of snow that landed like a wet blanket. It was so slushy that throughout the land you could hear strains of that old favorite classic coming off peoples' lips: Oh splashing through the snow…

Our cars, our coats, our floors and our dog have been pretty much wearing the driveway since early March, because no matter how hard I scrub, a sickly brown tinge coats our entire lives. Five days ago, it was seventy-two degrees and gorgeous out, and then four days ago it dropped back down to twenty and we had to fish out our heavy sweaters all over again and turn the heat back on.  (Well, okay, I lied about the heat bit, but Gina made me build a fire in the woodstove.) It is the time of year when the snow finally melts but the earth hasn’t come back to life yet and the world is just wet and brown. Insert imagery here. All things considered, I would just as soon fast forward straight through from Lincoln’s birthday to Memorial Day.

           

 But! Here is where I proceed to have to eat my words because sure enough, just as I was hunkering down for another soggy and joyless slog through to summer, I’ll be a ribald peahen if old mother nature didn’t bust a new move on me. Out of nowhere, I was blindsided. I admit it, I got schooled.

            

We were up at “the farm” which is shorthand for Road's End Farm which is shorthand for one of the most awesome places on this planet.  I am fortunate enough to have stumbled upon the farm because I had the good sense to marry Gina and visitation rights are part of her dowry.  She was a camper there, then a counselor, then lived there for many years and we go back and visit regularly. In point of fact, we went up to visit just the weekend before last.

            

Our schedule while up there pretty much falls into a familiar routine. We wake up and Gina goes up to the barn to do chores, while I stay inside and, erm,  “write.” After an hour or so, I head up to the barn where, if my timing is right, feeding will be over and so there’s little left for me to do but awkwardly pat the remaining stragglers and let them stare back at me with kind pity in their eyes.  Or, as Gina puts it, I prance around with the horses and look cute.

I Love it When Gina Takes Me to Road’s End Farm!

On the Sunday of our last visit, the weather was typical for late March which is to say we could see our breath but not quite feel our fingers. It was cold. Not cold like dead of winter cold, but cold enough that snow still lay on the ground and icicles hung from the roof and the few foolhardy plants who had tried to sprout and flower were seriously rethinking the wisdom of their decision. After chores were over, Alicia, who runs the place with Tom, suggested we walk down to fetch the paper. Their mailbox is, like, a third of a mile down the road, so it was not just a stroll to the end of the driveway. It was a legitimate jaunt. Not that that’s super important, but I’m trying to set the scene here.

Despite the temperature, the sun was out, and the sky was that beautiful deep monochromatic blue that Crayola could just never do justice to when I’d try to recreate it as a kid with magic markers. The horses, fat and happy, were back out in the pastures. They composed our backdrop since their pasture extends along the side of the road for a long while. 

Road’s End Farm at a more temperate time (with dog for scale)

The deep rutted trenches of the road were more or less frozen and so we could stumble freely over the ridges rather than wade through the gulches. I don’t remember what the conversation was about, but it was pleasant. It involved laughter, mirth, that sort of thing. And then Alicia stopped in mid-sentence and also in mid-stride, directly below a low hanging branch. In the crook of a twig and branch, we could see an icicle had begun to form. More of a web than a sickle. A broken end of a twig hung down, and she stretched up to reach it. Finally getting purchase, she lowered it until she could free the icy web from the tree’s twiggy clutches.

Gina and I, and our friend Harriet, who was visiting too, didn’t think much of it. Alicia is a great person, and just the sort of soul who might free trees from random and menacing looking ice clumps. We began walking again. Alicia offered Harriet the ice chunk that she now held in her hand.

Harriet looked skeptical. What, your icicle? I’ve had icicles before. No thanks.

That’s when Alicia explained it to us simple suburban creatures as gently as she could and with small words: It’s frozen maple. 

Say what?

            

We all took a slurp. She was right. A gentle taste of maple flavored the misshapen icicle. It was subtle. It was smooth. It was amazing.

I know about maple sap. Sure I do. I even boiled it down once with my family when I was five. I don’t remember much about that episode except I was incredibly bored the entire time and I don’t think my palate was really ready for the exotic taste of syrup because after waiting an eon for it to be ready, I didn’t even like it. I have since come around on the matter. I have used a straw to surreptitiously suck liquid sap out of a tap bucket. I have bought maple sodas flavored with actual sap. But I have never before in my entire life on earth experienced a maplecicle. I mean, it was an icicle. But maple flavored. Stunningly obvious and at the same time completely mind-blowing.

How did I not know about maplecicles until now? Because they are not processed or packaged and sexy? Because they haven’t been commercialized yet? Because they just exist in a pure state of unassuming modesty that makes them easy to miss? Because I just never thought to even think they might even exist at all until now?  Maple icicles form when the tree has a small wound somewhere in a twig or a branch. I like how Alicia puts it. She says they form when maples weep. 

It’s not super common that the conditions are right for it. Or maybe it is, but they look a lot like ordinary icicles and frozen chunks of water, and in a frozen landscape, they are easy to overlook. I should know. I have overlooked them for thirty-three years.  But then Alicia showed us, and suddenly, my world grew just a little bit. Because there I was, sucking on a bit of maple flavored ice in a magical land that once was Gina's experience and Gina's memories,  and Gina's world but now is ours together. Our experiences, our stories, our friends. And our maple icicle moments.

It is magic.  No, it is better than magic because it is not an illusion, it is real.

It is not the size of the moment. It is the wonder of discovery.