A Screen Door Slamming

Oh, our mothers’ cries

and laments of “how many times

have I told you not to slam

the door?” and the extremes

to make sure we complied, opening

and closing, quietly and gently,

one hundred times, and again,

one hundred more, and again and again,

though we never learned, never stopped,

the screen door slamming behind us

hurrying out and hurrying in, “I’m home”;

and ours, too, our cries and laments

in later years, adult years, parents

ourselves, crying to our children,

“How many times,” who, like us,

hurry in and hurry out, the screen

door slamming behind them;

and our guilt, too, even now when,

slipping from our grasp, the door

bursts out loud, loudly set free,

the resounding slam of the screen door

and the sharp ring of wood on wood

shouting out, but that feeling diminishes

with age, receding now, taking us

back toward those childhood days

when a slammed door, a door slammed

was but our own shout, calling out

that we were here, “I’m home! as now,

hurrying in, “I’m home” echoing, though,

these days in empty rooms, leaving

us remembering the slam of the screen door,

“how many times have I told you?”

the sharp ring of wood on wood, calling out,

reminding us now of what we have lost,

again and again reminding us,

like a door slammed shut behind us.

What We Must Embrace

What we must embrace

is simplicity, simply 

knowing as a child knows,

untainted, unspoiled

by age and experience,

simply knowing and

simply accepting what is and

what could be, what should be,

because it’s all we know

as children, wide-eyed

and full of wonder,

open to possibilities,

wise in their simplicity,

in their simple faith believing

what is and what can be,

and making it real,

a simple reality

untainted and unspoiled

by age and experience,

embracing, as we must,

simplicity, simply knowing

and believing, simply doing.

Spring Has Settled into Camp, Finally

Spring has settled into camp finally. The snow has melted, mostly, except for a few shrinking patches sheltered under the trees. And the ice is “out,” the lake open, though it’s too cold for swimming, or even wading along the shallows. Too cold even to put the dock in properly, but we brought it over from the other lot where it’s sat all winter, buried under a foot of snow, and tied it to a couple of trees, readied it to anchor out from the shore – properly - when the water warms up a little more. I need to get waders for times like this, but never think of it, except when I need them, like now, of course, when the water's too cold. But Memorial Day is coming soon enough, plenty of time to get the dock secured for the summer and granddaughters, and the first swim of the season.

I did put the canoe back in the water, though - no dock needed for a canoe launching - and took a short trek out around the islands and back. Worked up a sweat in the rising temperatures, rising into the sixties and hovering there before cooling off after the sun goes down, cooling to the forties, spring weather requiring a sweatshirt, the winter coats now put away in the attic until November. It felt good to be out on the lake, alone and propelling myself across the cove, not having to share the lake with anyone else, the summer folks not due for a few more weeks. There was a slight breeze, but otherwise, the lake was calm for paddling about and avoiding the springtime chores I should have been doing, chores that will get done when I get to them, just not today.

The streams have slowed down now, quieted down, the mountain snows melted and migrating to the lake, a down-hill coursing carrying with it the detritus of last fall. The vernal pool, too, is open, refilled by springtime melt, and the frogs have returned to life, awakened from their winter hibernation, their chatter a-clatter all night with frog mating, the noise of procreation. Their spawning, filling the night air, is cacophonous, a noisy background behind the shrill peeping of peepers, those little tree-frogs unseen in the springtime air at dusk, short, shrill peeping mingling with new life beginning, new life begun in noise.

The loons, too, have returned to the lake, their warbling and hoots echoing down from the head of the lake, and their long, mournful wails echoing off the surrounding hills, low mountains ringing the lake. And in the silence between their calls and calling back, a branch snaps in the darkness of the woods, a fox most likely, but perhaps a deer crossing to the lake, or a moose looming unseen. Or just an unseen snap startling the dog and me out at night, our nightly ritual before bed, her, her business and me, an excuse to get out, one more time before tucking myself under the covers to stay warm in the cooling nighttime temperatures, one more time to listen to spring settling in around me.

Yes, spring has settled into camp here at Hebron, finally. The trees are sporting fresh buds, a little green forming, a greenish tint among the branches, and the forsythia is blooming yellow. Still a lot of open space under the trees separating us from our neighbors without fresh underbrush to hide us, but that’s okay; summer’s lushness has begun in the wetness of spring, those April showers late coming this year, after a longer and colder winter than we’d expected, a lot more snow than we’d planned on. But “spring has sprung,” as they say, and with it, the noise, the sounds of spring settling in, settling in here at camp.

The Carousel

In childhood, we climb aboard

the merry-go-round, brightly lit,

a calliope of music, a wooden track, spinning

wooden horses, carved and frozen, forever prancing,

riding a brass pole up and down

and up again, merrily turning clockwise

like the hands of a clock, the hands of time,

moving forward, around and around and around

till we grow older, growing up

and putting away our youth and childhood

for the thrills that take us

higher and faster and away;

but age catches up with us, years

passing by, and restless now, we return

to climb aboard the carousel, age’s amusement,

a calliope of music, a wooden track, spinning

wooden horses, carved and frozen, prancing still

and riding a brass pole we clutch

in aging hands, up and down and up again,

counter-clockwise turning, turning backward,

turning back the years, rewinding,

turning back the clock and time,

time remembered, remembering time and seasons,

the seasons of our lives remembering.

Mr. Potato Head, Lincoln Logs and Legos

Mr. Potato Head, Lincoln Logs, and Legos,

an Erector set, and GI Joe, an American Hero,

little plastic men, soldiers and farmers

and their little plastic animals and tractors,

jeeps and tanks, and matchbox cars and Tonka Trucks,

electric trains and cars, bats and balls

and gloves, hand-me-down bikes, a toy wagon, skates

and skis, and books and games, the Game of Life,

Parcheesi, Mouse Trap, Twister, Candy Land

and Uncle Wiggly, a roll of the dice advancing,

and cards, shuffled and dealt, a luck of the draw,

Old Maid, Go Fish, Solitaire, playing alone, 

and a bed-full of stuffed creatures at bedtime,

Lassie and Smokey and Yogi Bear, and a stuffed elephant,

a birth toy once pink and gray and plush,

the only one to last past childhood,

a childhood filled with toys, like innocence,

long since lost or discarded, all but

an old gray elephant, faded, patched, and repaired,

the only one surviving to keep me company

in the waning years of age.