Each time I have rolled up my jeans, pushed my feet into a pair of rubber boots, and made my way to Penn Cove at a low tide this summer, I have wondered why it took me so long to discover the joys of harvesting shellfish.
When Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger saved his crew and their 155 passengers by ditching US Airways flight 1549 into the Hudson River last year, the term “bird strike” and the dangers of birds coming in contact with airplanes suddenly moved into the average American’s awareness.
Twenty years ago, when my husband and I began putting in a yard and designing flowerbeds, we designated one location exclusively for roses. After walking around the house numerous times and watching the movement of the sun throughout the day, we chose a spot in our yard that gets a nice dose of afternoon sunshine. We knew the blooms would appreciate the warmth. We then headed for a local nursery, charmed by the abundance of colors and names like President Lincoln, Queen Elizabeth, John F. Kennedy and Lucille Ball. Eventually we set our bushes in the ground, envisioning the day we would see blooms through the bay window in our dining room. It seemed like a nice touch, bringing the outside in.
Dear Katie,
As you read this letter you will be driving off Whidbey Island, beginning a road trip that will take you to a new home, job, and community. I will stand in the driveway with your dad and brother to see you off. I’ll harness the strength of heaven to wave with enthusiasm before returning to the kitchen table, to sip my coffee and cry while your dad performs a happy dance, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen.
We’re rather nostalgic at the Klope house these days. With child number two preparing to move and our high school senior graduating in June, then moving away to attend college in the fall, there is a lot of sorting and packing going on. This week we ran across one of our all-time favorite children’s books: Fireman Small.
“Hey! There’s a minus tide later today. Get your license and grab a pair of rubber boots. I’ve got a bucket for you. It’s clamming time!”
This week I quietly celebrated 51 years of life. While I never envisioned myself as middle-aged, I have no problem revealing my age because I view my life as a gift. An adventure. A complete blessing. I wouldn’t change what I’ve experienced during this half century of living because even small changes might threaten the love and gratitude that fills my heart to the brim and hallmarks this birthday.
This week my son walked in the house with graduation invitations in one hand, his cap and gown in the other. In a few short weeks we will grab our jackets and settle ourselves somewhere in the stands of the beautiful Wildcat Stadium. There we will watch the parade of seniors in purple take the walk that moves them a step closer to adulthood.
“What’s it like living on YOUR island?” Jason asked over dinner as we sampled Hawaiian appetizers he enjoys eating with family and friends when they gather for celebrations. A native of Kauai and a U.S. Dept. of Agriculture employee, Jason described the joys of a kickback culture and warm, tropical weather year round as we sat out on Lanai a couple of weeks ago. He also lamented the need for air travel to bring goods onto his island and move residents off when they want to go anywhere else in the world.
I don’t recall paying one bit of attention to Easter Lilies when I was a kid. That’s because I lived in a sun-drenched community and flowers were a regular part of the landscape. Our own yard was filled with perennial bushes because they were easy to maintain. When my family occasionally yearned for additional color we’d purchase pony packs of Marigolds and Johnny Jump-ups and plant them around the edges of our flower beds.
Although I have never successfully learned a language beyond English, it is always language that first catches my ear, and therefore my interest, when I travel. My recent trip to Kauai included self-guided travel and the unique Hawaiian language surrounded us at every turn. Known for its beauty, gentleness and melodious nature, hearing it reminds you of the trade winds and swaying palm trees when spoken by those born on the island.
When my son is in a playful mood and decides he’s hungry, he’ll occasionally say to me, “Chop! Chop! It’s time to make me some food!” before laying on a big bear hug.
I’m frequently drawn in by his charm and I love to cook. I also understand that before long he will begin college on the “east side.” Too soon I will only hear “Chop! Chop! I’m hungry mom” within the confines of my memory.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge was a much admired poet and it seems he got caught up one day in a discussion about religion and children with a house guest who believed kids should not be provided formal religious training. They should, he argued, be set free to select their own religion once they reach adulthood. Coleridge, as the story is told, decided to use his garden as an illustration, rather than debate the point.
