The Memory of Frost...

John Crane Watercolour

I think about all the winters of my youth, replete with overloads of snow.  None of this two to three feet business, but five, seven or ten feet of it...all in one storm.  I remember the winters of the 1950's in Iowa and for me, they were magical.  I had the best snowmen - over fix feet tall.  There were rides down Duck Creek Park hill on my aluminum saucer with my Boston Bull terrier Mickey scrambling after me all the way down.  He just hated that saucer!

And there was always a fire in the fireplace, stories by the firelight and hot chocolate with the mini-marshmallows in it.  I can still smell the cookies baking in the kitchen and see my family around the table for supper  (dog smacking his lips under the table). Those were the days we actually ate supper together.  No television - right to the homework.  Basically television was only for Saturday and Sundays.  Music was always playing, however and once in a great while, Dad would get out his Benny Hill recordings.  Mom was aghast at those, because they were too "blue" for her taste and naturally I was too young to hear such raunchy things.  But if anyone knows me well, they will tell you I can hear dust falling!!  I just loved those albums!!! And now they are classics!  And boy, are they tame!

But in school, I will always remember reading the poetry of Robert Frost.  His thoughts were so simple - nothing complicated or obtuse.  No wonder he was an American Poet Laureate.  My very favourite one is "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."  And here it is:

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping there

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Those wonderful nights when I could walk through the deep snow, listening to the snow falling on the ground, tweak memories of being in love, sharing those walks with someone who was also attuned to the falling snow and enjoyed such a simple pleasure with me.  I hope that wherever he is, he will still take the time to wander through a snowy footpath in the pristine snow, listening to those frosted flakes of diamond encrusted snow as they fall on the branches.

Robert Frost reminds us to savour the simple pleasures of life...snow, nature, a child's smile.  And perhaps, as I have grown older, I can appreciate those memories in a deeper way...innocence, wonder or love.  Those are the warm fuzzies of my childhood and a fantastic base for being an adult.  I'll never give up those dreams and memories - they will be tucked away in that tiny place in my heart where the good things are kept forever.

I'll stop by the woods on my way home tonight and smell the fresh air God has created for me. And I'll never take this for granted...nor the snowy woods on a winter's evening.

The "Holidays" are for the Birds

Why do people always celebrate "The Holidays?"  You have Hanukkah which is a beautiful celebration of Hebrew Tradition.  You have Christmas, which is the birthday celebration of Jesus Christ.  Then there is Kwanzaa - a celebration of the African culture.  And last but certainly not least, there is the New Year's Day celebration - football at it's finest and another day off from work.  The only "holiday" in here is actually New Year's Day.  The others celebrations of culture and one birthday..they aren't holidays.  I suppose I should mention Boxing Day - December 26th as a holiday, because people have that off (unless you are in retail) and people shop 'till they drop, so technically that IS a holiday.  But not everyone has Boxing Day to celebrate, so it's really only one.  It's not here in the United States.  But you can find it in the UK and other countries - just not here.  So one holiday will have to do.

 This is what holidays mean to me.  It's a vacation on the West Coast of Ireland..in Connemara.  I've been all over the world with my family and as a travel agent, but I always seem to come back here to give me peace in my life.  I wind down, I relax and soak up the tranquil atmosphere that is the Wild West.  Mick and I find commonality here.  He was a seminarian in Galway, Ireland with the Redemptorists.  Back in the 70's, Mick and I were actually in the same place at the same time, but never met.

Yes, it seems rather odd, but that's how things sometimes happen.  But if asked where we would want to retire (other than the UK, of course), it would he here, with friends and family along the Atlantic sea coast.  There is something familiar about it, something historic and ancient.  While thoroughly modern, there is a laid back attitude and "Irish Time" we love.  There are places where time has stood still and I feel the generations of my family still with me as I walk along the rocky pathways near the shore.  The beach beacons as I trudge through the grasses, then onto the sand and the tide pools show me a world I never knew existed.  How fun to simply be and see God's handiwork everywhere I look.  What do I see here?  There are tiny sea creatures in the tide pools, plus wonderful shells and other sea debris.  There are tiny fish who seem to leap at me in joy.  The seaweed has unfurled itself in a dense green display, ever shifting as the tide washes over it. There is always something new to see here.

As I become older, my memories fade just a bit, but most of them are still vivid.  Ten years ago, my sister Deb and I made our sisters' pilgrimage to the Republic to see the sights and visit my old haunts.  It was wonderful.  We toured through the Waterford Glass Factory, stayed in THE most unusual and delightful B&B in Ardmore, County Waterford.  And of course, we had to spend a good deal of time at Ben View House in Clifden with my friends Eileen and Des Morris.  They grew up in the house.  Deb and I drove up to Westport and had lunch on the Quay.  We went to Kylemore Abbey and took hundreds of photographs.  We also went up to Sligo then back down to Kleggan and Clifden, all the while seeing the rugged coastline, the awesome mountain ranges and the plethora of sheep - many of them in the road as we drove!  Now that's what I call a holiday.

Clifden, Connemara, County Galway, Ireland from the bay 2000.