Springtime makes you feel weightless…
Mesmerized by seductively warming temperatures, you scamper about in a pair of Bermuda shorts and tank top, yet the thermometer only reads 60.
Open wide the garage door and sweep winter’s dirt from cluttered floors. Drag out lawn chairs, which have hung sullenly from rafters for more than a season. Dust them off and sit a spell, watching cars, strollers and bicycles go by.
Crank open windows, inviting breezes to flow through, welcoming sudden gentle rushes of soft, warm fresh air.
Old familiar voices fill the sky with an electrifying intensity, as robins, red-winged blackbirds and sparrows telegraph a new day.
Rows of black-capped chickadees form long lines on utility wires high above – males vocalize thin repetitive whistles, while females reply with musical songs.
The kitchen sounds off, too. Echoing through screened windows, sashes raised, dishes clap, pots and pans clang, cupboards pop open and slam shut, chairs scoot.
Springtime loosens you…
Liberated now, you push away lingering memories of a hard winter past, while every part of you merrily calls out.
From the front porch, you greet neighbors; from your vehicle, you happily honk, recognizing old friends.
Outdoors, it is no longer silent with hammering of rooftops, dribbling of basketballs, barking of dogs and creaking of swing sets. There’s giddy chatter over fences and chuckles from patios, too.
Springtime makes you feel young again…
Inhaling intoxicating fragrances of lilacs, irises, apple and cherry blossoms, you petition summer to make her entrance quickly.
Budding shelterbelts, hedges and tree stands progressively turn from muddy brown to vibrant green.
Rain pattering above amply teases nostalgia for a good storm. Yet, claps of thunder and flashes of lightning pose as strangers in your midst.
Springtime makes you feel playful…
Running barefoot through tall grass. Falling to your knees, triumphant over winter’s slumber, embracing its passage with a joyful heart, you render it non-existent for the time being.
Gratefully, you vow not to complain. Not one word, dare you utter, of what this turning season foreshadows – mosquitoes, crickets, spiders, humidity, flooding, mildew, heat and more heat. Shush now.
You hail this time of the year with new wonder, marveling over how frozenness thawed into lush emeralds, vibrant reds and splendorous purples. Once solid, waves push over shorelines, while sunlight stretches long into evening.
Instilling a refreshed spirit, a sense of newness sends you gliding beyond yesterday and into tomorrow. You love springtime; it loves you back.
Springtime gives you permission…
You plan and hope again; because of springtime, you have promise.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns received eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Gritty menacing source of pleasure
There’s a lot not to like about sand. It makes your teeth feel gritty and your eyes smart. It settles in your sneakers and grinds away at your heels and toes.
Negatives aside, I love sand.
It comes in various colors, consistencies and sizes, depending on the rock sources and conditions where it’s found.
In Hawaii, sand formed from volcanic rocks is black. In other places, such as the Bahamas and Bermuda, it’s pink. You’ll find white sands in New Mexico.
In South Dakota and Nebraska, sand is a light earthy color.
For many, sand is a toy that inherently transforms beaches into an artist’s pallet and playgrounds to a construction zone.
Remember spending hours digging, building, creating, sculpting and shaping?
The other day, as I emptied a bag of sand into our grandchildren’s sandbox, childhood memories came flooding back to me, like giant waves, one after another, curling in from ocean depths…
…It’s Friday afternoon, I am at home on my lunch break. My three Dachshunds are romping around the yard, basking in the warmth of May’s bright, cheery disposition, while I open the plastic-coated bag and pour out the coarse damp sand.
That little pile easily yields to my compulsiveness as I carefully and systematically smooth it all the way to the corners of the sandbox, raking it into a flat plain.
For a moment, I allow myself to dream during this brief respite – this island oasis of yet another work day.
What will I make in the sand today? A castle? A fort? A highway? A lake? A statue?
I could bury my feet in it, trying hard to wiggle my aging entombed toes? Or will someone bury me, submerging my entire body, save my head?
Yes, there I will lie, deep in the cool underground, as my cohort scoops, piles and pats me into a sandy mound. My eyelids fail to bat away sand particles; my lips, now tightly squeezed shut, unsuccessfully hold back grit.
I feel the weight of damp sand draped over my legs, tucked under my arms, around my waist and between my fingers.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, I hear the sullen coo of mourning doves. A lingering glee comes over me, and I heed to the distant call of work.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Negatives aside, I love sand.
It comes in various colors, consistencies and sizes, depending on the rock sources and conditions where it’s found.
In Hawaii, sand formed from volcanic rocks is black. In other places, such as the Bahamas and Bermuda, it’s pink. You’ll find white sands in New Mexico.
In South Dakota and Nebraska, sand is a light earthy color.
For many, sand is a toy that inherently transforms beaches into an artist’s pallet and playgrounds to a construction zone.
Remember spending hours digging, building, creating, sculpting and shaping?
The other day, as I emptied a bag of sand into our grandchildren’s sandbox, childhood memories came flooding back to me, like giant waves, one after another, curling in from ocean depths…
…It’s Friday afternoon, I am at home on my lunch break. My three Dachshunds are romping around the yard, basking in the warmth of May’s bright, cheery disposition, while I open the plastic-coated bag and pour out the coarse damp sand.
That little pile easily yields to my compulsiveness as I carefully and systematically smooth it all the way to the corners of the sandbox, raking it into a flat plain.
For a moment, I allow myself to dream during this brief respite – this island oasis of yet another work day.
What will I make in the sand today? A castle? A fort? A highway? A lake? A statue?
I could bury my feet in it, trying hard to wiggle my aging entombed toes? Or will someone bury me, submerging my entire body, save my head?
Yes, there I will lie, deep in the cool underground, as my cohort scoops, piles and pats me into a sandy mound. My eyelids fail to bat away sand particles; my lips, now tightly squeezed shut, unsuccessfully hold back grit.
I feel the weight of damp sand draped over my legs, tucked under my arms, around my waist and between my fingers.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, I hear the sullen coo of mourning doves. A lingering glee comes over me, and I heed to the distant call of work.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Mother's Day Tribute...
Dear Mom...
Even though you have been gone for six years, I sometimes feel you are near.
It boggles my mind to consider all we didn’t talk about in our 52 years together. There are so many things I wish I had asked.
Did you actually fall in love with Dad or did your family think it was a good idea to marry him in a match-making sort of way?
What was your original Italian name – the one your parents gave you before the nuns in elementary school changed it to something they could pronounce, like Lillian?
Your favorite color was sage green, which I thought matched your eyes. What were your favorite fabrics? Mine are polyester and wool.
Remember when you’d place a wool scarf on your arthritic shoulder? You said it helped chase the pain away. I do that now, too.
I still make your spaghetti sauce and pasta fagioli, but those are the only recipes I have. If only I knew how to make your meatloaf, your stuffed peppers and your coconut cream pie.
Over the years, you were a mentor to many young women. Besides telling them to trust God, what other advice did you give them?
Remember our daily jaunts? The littlest – either Anita or Eli – in the stroller and the rest of our brood tagging along at your side. I marvel at how you’d run errands with all six of us in tow. How did you manage?
I always thought we walked everywhere because you loved the outdoors, like I do. Later, I realized it was because we were a one-car family and Dad was on the road.
Why didn’t you tell me about losing the house and everything in it to bankruptcy? I would have been there for you.
So much has happened in the six years since you passed away. The kids are doing fine. Our granddaughter, Gracie, is 14. She still refers to you as “Old Grandma.” And, we have a new grandson, Oliver. You would love holding him.
Dad didn’t last long after you were gone. Even though we called him daily, sometimes more, he sunk into melancholy. He was so lonely; it really didn’t seem to matter what we did or said. Seventeen months later he died.
From time-to-time, you visit me in my dreams, and we’re together again. I know better, but I want to arbitrate your return. I wish I could convince God that your death was a mistake and you are needed here.
Funny how I still reach for Mother’s Day cards at the store. I stop and look, as though in a time warp, then wander by, feeling the sting of your absence.
Today, I came home from church smelling like other women’s perfumes from all the “so good to see you” hugs we exchanged. It reminded me of your lovely fragrance that would carry me home after our visits.
One of your sweaters is tightly sealed in a zip-lock bag I keep tucked away in the closet of the spare bedroom. Every once in a while, I take it out, hold it close and reminisce. Why is it that I never expect the tears to come, but they do?
Mom, when I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful face…I can feel your soft cheek against mine. There are so many things I want to ask you.
Wish you were here…
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Even though you have been gone for six years, I sometimes feel you are near.
It boggles my mind to consider all we didn’t talk about in our 52 years together. There are so many things I wish I had asked.
Did you actually fall in love with Dad or did your family think it was a good idea to marry him in a match-making sort of way?
What was your original Italian name – the one your parents gave you before the nuns in elementary school changed it to something they could pronounce, like Lillian?
Your favorite color was sage green, which I thought matched your eyes. What were your favorite fabrics? Mine are polyester and wool.
Remember when you’d place a wool scarf on your arthritic shoulder? You said it helped chase the pain away. I do that now, too.
I still make your spaghetti sauce and pasta fagioli, but those are the only recipes I have. If only I knew how to make your meatloaf, your stuffed peppers and your coconut cream pie.
Over the years, you were a mentor to many young women. Besides telling them to trust God, what other advice did you give them?
Remember our daily jaunts? The littlest – either Anita or Eli – in the stroller and the rest of our brood tagging along at your side. I marvel at how you’d run errands with all six of us in tow. How did you manage?
I always thought we walked everywhere because you loved the outdoors, like I do. Later, I realized it was because we were a one-car family and Dad was on the road.
Why didn’t you tell me about losing the house and everything in it to bankruptcy? I would have been there for you.
So much has happened in the six years since you passed away. The kids are doing fine. Our granddaughter, Gracie, is 14. She still refers to you as “Old Grandma.” And, we have a new grandson, Oliver. You would love holding him.
Dad didn’t last long after you were gone. Even though we called him daily, sometimes more, he sunk into melancholy. He was so lonely; it really didn’t seem to matter what we did or said. Seventeen months later he died.
From time-to-time, you visit me in my dreams, and we’re together again. I know better, but I want to arbitrate your return. I wish I could convince God that your death was a mistake and you are needed here.
Funny how I still reach for Mother’s Day cards at the store. I stop and look, as though in a time warp, then wander by, feeling the sting of your absence.
Today, I came home from church smelling like other women’s perfumes from all the “so good to see you” hugs we exchanged. It reminded me of your lovely fragrance that would carry me home after our visits.
One of your sweaters is tightly sealed in a zip-lock bag I keep tucked away in the closet of the spare bedroom. Every once in a while, I take it out, hold it close and reminisce. Why is it that I never expect the tears to come, but they do?
Mom, when I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful face…I can feel your soft cheek against mine. There are so many things I want to ask you.
Wish you were here…
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)