I have managed to carve out an hour of solitude in which to write, and as I sit here with a mug of tea I am reminded of E. B. White (Charlottes Web and many, many more short stories) who would sit in his cliff top stone cabin and tap away at an old Olivetti typewriter recording his thoughts and stories in perfect solitude.
I have neither a stone cabin or solitude, my eyes can see only woodland and greenery as long as I strategically place the computer screen before the house across the street, and my solitude is about to be broken by smallish feet, still sandy from the beach we played at yesterday, begrudgingly leaving it as the sun sunk, and arriving home too late to shower before nodding off in-between friendly sheets.
Mr. White recorded his activities daily, from the running of his fish farm to the naming of his many chickens, ruminations on the progression of WWII and concerns/updates on the measles (the measles are taking tea in the nursery this afternoon, the measles are feeling well enough to run outside in the sunshine this morning), and is the very epitome of what I would like to think Muddy Girls was going to be… way back when, before I decided that 2 children were not enough and took on a few more!
And so, after a week’s vacation I find myself with a stolen hour before the children wake up (and I know it won’t be long… I can hear beds creaking) traveling back in time through pixilated moments captured in digital glory with the thought of finally having a moment to download and post them to Muddy Girls, and I am whisked away to the start of winter, to ice encrusted twigs and snow covered hills and the giggling over Nanny Joy’s silver tea tray flying over moon-lit midnight snow.
Next are a set of photos capturing a white pine tree which has in turn captured and splintered our fence. Lying down on its side, how it missed the prettiest dogwood tree in the yard and the compost bin I do not know. Brought down in a rage if spring time fury it lays awaiting patiently its fate as James wields the chainsaw. In one, Maggie earnestly measures herself up for a stump to sit on, and the next shows Emma breaking out in a sweat rescuing a table and rolling it over to the sitting room, canopied by blossoming cherry trees. Moss has been used to cover oozing sap which they swear is enough of a barrier, although my weeping washing machine begs to differ as it curses through load after load of sticky denim.
A row of glass jars, sunlight glinting – so the photographs reflect, have been lovingly placed over spring’s newest addition to the garden. Persuaded on a sunny day early in the season to go to the garden center we came back with broccoli and strawberries for Maggie’s piece of garden where she planted with great abandon, dirt trapped under finger nails. Her smile of contentment was in contrast to the panicked consternation just a few days later when we ran out ahead of yet another ice storm to cover the baby leaves and protect them with a couple of mason jars and one big cookie jar for the strawberry plant (let me tell you, she has great plans for those strawberries!).
Just as we had twigs captured in ice, a little further on are imagines of budding plants, struggling to move the clock further into spring. New green tips pushing their way through dark moist soil, dark fringed tips lifting leaves to escape the confines of winters sleep. These plants are making a superhero’s effort to demand sunshine, and I can’t help but feel their desire and agree with their plans this year.
And then we come to bear feet and granules of sand, not trying to push the metaphoric aspects of sand slipping through the glass grain by grain, again, I can’t help but reflect that spring this year seems to have been a tad slower than most to warm our hearts. Images of sand drifting through fingers only remind me of that fact that almost, almost it is here.
Brightly colored kites take to the air, made brighter by the cloudless blue skies, a heart shaped stone captured wet and shiny. Handstands by the water and dolphin sighting all have made it into the time traveling capsule, along with a boat trip, bouncing over the waves as we fly along side pelicans and glimpse red beaked oyster pickers.
The last images are the more surprising ones, for they are of five baby possums, just three months old that have been rescued from their dead mother. Don’t ask me how my oldest daughter does it, but we were out shopping and she just happened to start up a conversation with a store owner who worked as an animal rescue shelter, last week she had a red tailed hawk in the store recovering from a fright with a motor car, this week possums. The blind and naked bodies beg from me not a moment of maternal sympathy, but Emma, I think is just about to offer every single cent of her hard earned pocket money in order to pay for their keep. Having promised her we will visit the rescue center soon we move on.
And so, like E. B. White I find myself out of time. Two hungry children are hopeful in their anticipation of pancakes and strawberries, and so pancakes I will produce. I have at least whittled out the photographs I am going to post tomorrow, but today these letters typed on an electric keyboard must suffice. Hopefully I have at least been able to offer you a glimpse into the last three; maybe it has been four, months. Time traveling is quite a pleasing way to traverse moments, hopping from one memory to another, choosing which deserve to be reflected upon and which are to discard.