The Reindeer Keeper

Off in the field just outside our back door wild asparagus plants grow. I've cooked a few spears and somewhat enjoyed them. But the real enjoyment of having them as neighbors is watching them throughout the year. As autumn draws to a close, they turn a colorful canary yellow as shown in the 2nd photo. Those wild asparagus plants endure all sorts of weather. The field where they live is wide open to all the elements so when the wind howls, they take a beating. Sometimes they end up flat on the ground. Sometimes they lose lots of their ferny. Sometimes in winter they get buried in snow. Or covered in ice and lose more of their ferny. Spring rainfalls can get treacherous. If the wind picks up, I hesitate to look over in that field, not wanting to see if they survived. So far, so good. One morning a few weeks ago I looked out and discovered it had snowed overnight. A winter wonderland was in place, even on those wild asparagus plants. With my winter gear on and phone for photos in my h...

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...

  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 ...

I am a Winter Lover.  The more it snows and blows the better. The beauty of the season has always taken my breath away, from sunrises and sunsets to frosty fields and ice-covered landscapes, as well as snowdrifts up to the hips. However, this winter has found me complaining, just a little. You see, where I live in northern New York, the consistent temperature has lingered way below zero for days and nights. By below zero I'm talking 25 to 35+ below zero. The house moans and groans. The furnace goes nonstop, and I continue to try to stay warm. Homemade soups, coffee (more than usual), hot chocolate, more soups and casseroles with homemade breads, long johns, candles, piles of blankets, and turning the heat up all continue to come to my aid. But most soothing, day and night, have been my sweaters. I've always loved sweaters. Before this winter, comfort was most important in a sweater. Now, after the month of January set record below normal temperatures, warmth has taken over as m...

Two little ones came to stay for a while this afternoon. The first thing they asked was if they could make cookies. I'd anticipated the question. I had the dough chilling in the refrigerator. It wasn't long before the cookie cutters were on the counter and the fun began. It was obvious from the start that thing called Wonder had returned. The Season of Christmas was in their eyes, their smiles, their laughter. It was contagious. After they'd packed up their cookies and headed home, I discovered some of that Wonder was still about the kitchen; inspiring me to make my little, faceless gingerbread men and put them in the old tin sitting on the table by the front door. As I mixed the dough and smelled the molasses and cut the little guys out, baked them, cooled them down and filled that tin, my mind wandered back to that precious time of Wondering. We remember the red suit, the beard, the ho-ho-ho. We remember leaving cookies and milk on Christmas Eve. But when you're...

There’s a particular tree out behind the barn whose leaves are the first to turn when summer fades to fall. I took a few pictures as that process began again and as I did I found myself looking at that magnificent tree with even greater wonder. I’m not sure why. It could have been the softness of the sun or the quiet of the small meadow where the tree stands tall reaching to the heavens with late season wildflowers spreading about in the tall grass. As September rolled on, the tree kept pulling me back to take more pictures as its leaves became drenched in vibrant colors and the scents of pumpkins and apples told the story of a most magical season evolving into the next. When I went out back one day this past week I found the tree about barren. It looked tired in October’s shadows. I couldn’t figure out how that had happened. It seemed like only yesterday that its branches were dressed in leaves of oranges and reds. Its spirit seemed strong no matter how hard the wind blew or...

I knew this photo existed. I just couldn't put my hands on it until one day last week-one day during the month of July. Finding the photo in a pile of old photos in a trunk kept in the garage has led me to believe there really can be Christmas in July! Before I thought it was just hype. A great phrase to use as a marketing tool when sales slack off in the heat of summer. But now I feel differently. Finding the photo of me in my nightgown opening a gift on a Christmas morning and my mother sitting on the couch nearby with her hair done up in bobby pins was like opening a gift on Christmas morning with the snow coming down and Bing Crosby and Dean Martin and Andy Williams taking turns with the entertainment. While today-at this very moment as I write this post-there is no snow outside or pile of unopened presents in the living room stacked beneath a tinsel-laden Christmas tree decorated with ornaments bought at Newberry's and Woolworths and while there is no Santa ...

Because my father was a Funeral Director back when funeral directors were always on call we rarely went on vacations. When we did it was unusual if we went very far. The North Pole was only two hours away so we made that trip a few times. Every time was magical. Of course Santa Claus lived there. Although I knew that, one year on Christmas morning I was convinced my father was the real Santa. The night before had been disappointing. Oh family members came. Piles of presents were under the tree. I hung my stocking and put the milk and cookies out with my brother. But it was raining outside. Any snow on the ground had been washed away. I'd never known a Christmas without snow in all my seven years. Besides the lack of snow, my father had to work. He made it home just as our mother was telling us it was time to get ready for bed. I was standing by the Christmas tree when he came in soaking wet. After pulling a package out from under his coat, he took th...