The Reindeer Keeper

Between the ice, the wind and the snow, this past winter was a harsh one. Not only on us humans, but on the trees, roads, homes, barns, and whatever else was outside at the mercy of the elements all winter long. Some days when I'd look out the window, I was unable to see familiar sights, like the old barn out back and a little blue swing approaching its 12th summer hanging from a maple tree, providing lots of fun and lots of memories involving two little children who grew up playing around or near or in that plastic swing hung from a sturdy branch when the oldest, now twelve (in the bottom picture) was but a toddler. A few weeks ago, when early signs of spring were becoming noticeable, I went out back to check the garden and take a good look around. That look around included the maple tree holding on to the little blue swing. I discovered the twine rope attached to the swing, wrapped around a branch of the maple tree was severely frayed. I noticed that branch holding on to the swin

When I was seven years old my grandfather made me a simple pine desk for Christmas. It came with a stool, two side shelves and a single drawer. Inside that drawer was a pad of paper and two yellow, sharpened #2 pencils. That was the moment I knew I wanted to be a writer. I really didn't know what that meant. I think the pencils had a lot to do with it. I wanted to draw with them. Write. Scribble. Fill that pad of paper with original artwork. All kinds of artwork.  I fell in love not only with my desk that Christmas morning but with pencils as well and the infatuation has never gone away.  So, when I discovered there really is a "National Pencil Day" I had to celebrate it by sharing my infatuation for pencils with anyone who might like to read about it. I have a "few" boxes of pencils. Colored pencils. Broken pencils. Really sharpened pencils. Pencils with erasers. Pencils minus erasers. Pencils with funny erasers. And lots of yellow #2 pencils. I also have a few

Besides the robins, tulips, daffodils and geese, kids playing in and walking through puddles created by melting snow are a sign of spring despite occasional snow squalls and the wind howling. I bet most kids would say playing in those puddles is a favorite thing to do as Mother Nature tries her best to turn Winter into Spring. I know my nine-year old grandson would agree. The top photo shows him at age three, standing in one of those puddles after jumping up and down, laughing with his hands flying, losing his breath when some of the flying melted snow splashes him in the face. But kids don't feel getting soaking wet in a puddle. They just keep jumping and laughing, eventually racing inside to get warmed up with a cup of hot chocolate. The 2nd photo shows my grandson the other morning after sleeping over the night before. Nine years old now, he didn't jump up and down, but he did make waves with his boots. Then he took a stick and looked for fish or other fantastical creatures

I've always been drawn to remnants of places sitting in silence along country roads. As I drive by those haunting structures, I wonder who lived there. I wonder why they left. I wonder how they walked away. Each one of those abandoned places has a story. Just like we do. Most of us have been abandoned in one way or another at some point in our lives by someone we loved, by a boss, a friend, a community. My first realization of abandonment came when my aunt cared for a foster child-a little baby. I might have been twelve at the time. I never knew babies were abandoned. It was a rude awakening. That was followed by my sister finding a puppy alone, cold and shaking and hungry in my grandfather's old barn shed. I wondered how someone could do such a thing to a puppy. Since becoming the mother of a mentally ill son, I've learned even more about the harsh reality of abandonment by so many who either fear such an illness or are embarrassed knowing someone with such an illness. Wha

  BUT THEN, LIKE MAGIC They say change happens right before our eyes. And more often than not, we never see it happen. For some, waiting for spring after a long, hard winter is tedious to say the least. One day brings sunshine: the next a blizzard. Ice covers the roads and sidewalks. Schools are closed. The wind howls. The temperature goes below zero. Oh, those heating bills. Then, the ice and snow turn to water flooding the basement. Snow piles turn into mud piles. Grass is scraggly and frozen in place. Shades of browns and greys; heaved roads, dirt and debris; cold winds, tired people still wrapped in scarves and wool hats and mittens all make it appear as if Mother Nature is asleep on the job. But Then, Like Magic, daffodils show their yellow faces, adding color to the dreariness. Robins come back. Crows squawk. Geese honk. Fields are being plowed. Tulips pop up out of the ground. The scent of lilacs is in the air, and then, more Magic. One day we go outside, and our hearts are warm

  A few weeks ago, I posted a photo of our Christmas tree after dragging it outdoors and standing it up by the bird feeders. I secured it to the post holding the feeders, thinking it would offer additional ways and places for me to feed the flock. After one of our windy, snowy, icy storms I looked out one morning and saw the tree had blown over. It was on the ground not too far from the feeders. After a while I went out to get it standing back up again beside the feeders. But I couldn’t budge the tree. It was frozen in place. I knew I’d have to leave it there until we had a warm spell. I thought that was that. But then, the funniest, strangest thing began to happen. It’s still going on as winter is far from over. The Christmas tree turned into a hotel. A busy and spacious Bird Hotel with a marvelous view of the field. It appears to be patronized by Cardinals, Sparrows, Blue Jays, Chickadees, Woodpeckers, Mourning Doves, Rock Doves, Crows, even Squirrels and Chipmunks. Some days I’m