Fifty-Degree Swing

Frost one morning, summer the next.

Maybe it's our Irish blood, but rain calms us more than sun.

Over the first cup of coffee, we hear the farmer working his field. Camera in hand, we cross the yard, fording a molecular stream of lilac perfume as we head toward the cornfield.

We kneel in deep grass and take a few as he passes. If he waved, we missed it.  The ground is dry for the last of April, and the tines raise dust.

Walking back, heads of dandelions popping against our shoes, a shadow crosses our path. We shade our eyes and see the red-tailed hawk gyring between us and the sun.

We turn for the long view, always good advice. If it rains tomorrow we'll come back to look for arrowheads gleaming in the wet. We found one like that once. Once fosters hope.

copyright 2010 J. O"Brien, all rights reserved

Big Events

Last frost of the month overnight; we awoke to white in the shadows.

At least we assume it's the last. The full moon makes us think so.

Each day brims with big events: bullfrogs emerging from the mud, star chickweed blooming in the beech grove, wild cherries planted in the field by the birds and holding up their fleur-de-lis to the racing clouds.

One last. Many firsts. A proper balance.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

April While We Can

It won't last long. Busy with deadlines and schedules, it's easy to miss.

We've been putting it off all day. One more accomplishment, and then we'll go, we tell oursleves. We are surprised to look up and see the long shadows of evening crossing the yard.

So we step away from the computer and the emended pages. We abandon the house and its electricity for the energy of wind and growth.

The end of April in these mountains vibrates with a delicacy unlike any other week, tender and gleaming, quaking with life. We go to be in it while we can.

In the woods there is less sky by the hour. The crowns are filling in. Soon in the forest it will be dusk all day. But for now, backlit by corridors of sunlight, the ground is bejeweled.

Join us.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Surge

Leaves are pooling in the pools of light, a race in the woods, a competition for the magic of the sun before the canopy closes in.

Colonies of May apples now well established, their parasols open and crowding, we like to imagine ourselves an inch tall and wandering in a forest more astonishing than James Cameron can create, and real.

We kneel, yesterdays rain soaking through our jeans, to look beneath the umbrellas at the web of veins and cells not so different from our own, not so different.

Perhaps our pulse is motor-driven, but the surge is the same.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Lady Rain

Two inches of rain overnight, the gauge tells us. We heard the gutter overflowing, water slapping on the porch roof. The green world takes a long drink.

Soft and steady by morning, this is what the elders call a lady rain. We step outside, as we do upon awakening, and are cheered by the accordian notes of the jays. The rain falls silver on the field.

The darkened woods changes by the hour. Every time we look up, the crowns are thicker, the hues richer. Everything looks better in the rain, the colors of the opening leaves as pleasing as in autumn, and holding more promise.

In this dripping, beaded world, even the stones shine. And in the evening, when the edge of the cloudsheet lifts from the hills, we understand that we, too, have been nourished.

copyright 2010 J. O"Brien, all rights reserved

Return

We cut the grass before we left, but it's deep again.

And it's cool, and bright with dandelions, and soft with violets.

We unload the car, return our portable possessions to their places, and start the washing machine.

We take off our shoes and socks and walk the yard, and we know, between our toes, the familiar comforts of home.

More tired than we expected, we give up on organization and climb the hill in the dusk to watch the thunderstorm approach, the dog shivering against our legs. The apple tree has bloomed while we were gone.

We see the yellow flashes in the south, and we feel the ground quiver. We hear thunder, and peepers, louder than before, and the dryer going, and the dog panting.

So much has changed in just two days, and everything's the same.

The rain begins in the dark. We find it welcoming.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Gettysburg

On July 1, 1863, Confederate generals Gordon and Ewell converged at the Gettysburg town square, having stampeded the Army of the Potomac which fled down Baltimore Street.

"Are you hurt, sir?" Ewell famously asked Gordon.

Today the square in Gettysburg vibrates with tourists, troops of Boy Scouts, wailing emergency vehicles, and an unrelenting stream of traffic.

The din of battle could have been no louder than the trucks now rounding the center of town.

We are not hurt, sir, but our hearing may be permanently impaired.

Common Day

There is glory in the common day few of us can know
unless we're in it,

The sun and wind on our skin, birdsong in our ears,
the sky in our eyes.

I know it, every moment a privilege.

This I share, pausing even if you can't,
being still, hoping to pass along
a little ordinary wonder.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

City of Champions

The game was over, really, by the second inning. The hometown pitcher had been booed off the mound, and resignation had set in among the chilled faithful.

But no one was leaving early. These few thousand, properly insulated for an April night in Pittsburgh, were here for baseball. We can forgive them if from time to time they occupied themselves with their electronic devices or turned around to watch the Penguins game on a distant monitor in the luxury boxes hung from second level.

On the concourse, an employee of the Pirates was conducting a survey.

"What brought you to the game tonight?" he wanted to know. I asked him what the choices were. He scanned the list -- Family and Friends; Recent Winning Streak; T-Shirt Giveaway; Dollar Dogs; Fireworks; Post-Game Concert -- many of which did not apply.

"How about 'Baseball,'" I asked. He consulted his clipboard.

"Have to put that under 'Other,'" he said.

Before the game I had conducted my own research, curious to learn the mood of the city concerning their quarterback. I like arriving early enough to sit at a sidewalk table at a favorite Irish bar across the street from the ballpark and sip a pint of plain before the game. The menu is working-class healthful, which is to say the organic chicken sandwich comes with a mound of fries. Yet Mullen's is classy enough to feature a bathroom attendant. I asked him.

"This is a sports establishment," he told me, looking up from his newspaper and beginning cautiously.

"All kinds of sports figures come in here: fans, employees, broadcasters, athletes -- and their opinion is the same."

His tones were measured, until now.

"Big Ben is a #@*!%*#@*%!" (insert the most colorfully descriptive four syllables you can think of.)

Good to know in the City of Champions, winning isn't the only thing.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Doing Nothing

As many evenings as possible, we sit at the top of the field-returning-to-woods and watch the sun set, another click further to the right in this season, toward the abandoned silo, which marks the summer solstice.

The field, unmowed, is testament to the longevity of the earth, despite our manipulations.

The species increase. One summer's growth nourishes the next. Moles and worms cultivate the ground. Insects abound. Birds nest. Voles return. Mice and rabbits multipy. As do the predators -- foxes in the weeds (all honor to the name), hawks patrolling overhead, and us sitting quietly, resisting the urge to interfere.

In the woods, too, life increases. Windfall is left to rot. Snags are left standing. We neaten nothing, having long ago surrendered the vision of a manicured park as ideal. Wildness is what we're after.

The woods floor is rich with infants, and we walk delicately among them. Today we saw the first white violet.

In just a few decades, our woods and field have taken on a distinctive look, appreciated by some.

"Beautiful," some say. "How do you do it?"

"Easy," we say. "All you have to do is nothing."

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Perspective

Never out of the thirties today. A steady breeze penetrates our buffalo plaid and sends us back to the house for old leather.

Overcast. Everything slowed, including us, and it feels fine. No need to rush the seasons.

In the fallow field, the first leaves of asters and goldenrod show themselves through the thatch of last year's stems.

On the path, the first bluets of the year stand shivering. We kneel for a closer look, and then lower, astonished at the unobtrusive beauty that surrounds us, so easy to take for granted.

A change in perspective helps us see.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Unknown Caller

 I answered it anyhow.

"Mr. O'Brien, this is DirecTV calling. Because you've been such a loyal customer over the last year, we want to reward you with a special offer."

You could almost hear the page turn.

"For a limited time, you can add 26 bonus channels for your viewing pleasure, free for the first 30 days. We know many of us can't get out as much as we used to and..."

Enough.

Outside, the wind was booming. The sun uncovered from behind fast clouds. White petals tumbled high over the house.

Though they are no more than points of color in the  diaphanous woods, I heard for the first time this year, the rush of leaves.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Warm April, Few Words

Yesterday the juncos left, headed for the Arctic Circle.

Tonight a thunderstorm will wake the bullfrogs into dreaming.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

No Music Without Coal?

I'm driving back from town with the window down, one hand on the tuner, searching for the game, and I hear an advertisement for coal. That must be it.

"Without coal, you flip the switch, and all you get is this......"    A cricket sings. Nice.

"Talk about the day that music died!" says the incredulous announcer, who must think we all have been hoping for a rousing ballad from Dropkick Murphys.

Tranquility is still in favor in Upper Turkeyfoot. No sweeter music to us than crickets in the dusk -- a sure sign of summer, and six weeks away.

I shut off the Soob and walk the fieldstones to the house. It's a new moon tonight, and the stars will have no competition.

Yardlights are coming on in the valley and on the facing mountainside. I count nine where there used to be none.

This yard is dark, which is why we can see so well, if you know what I mean.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Poem for the Wives of the Upper Big Branch Dead

"If there's any comfort at all with this horrific explosion, it was that the rescuers told me that not one miner suffered. It was so instantaneous," Gov. Joe Manchin said. "If that's the only comfort you can get out of something, that's pretty pathetic."

–Weirton Daily Times

THE EXPLOSION

On the day of the explosion

Shadows pointed towards the pithead:

In the sun the slagheap slept.

Down the lane came men in pitboots

Coughing oath-edged talk and pipe smoke,

Shouldering off the freshened silence.

One chased after rabbits; lost them;

Came back with a nest of lark's eggs;

Showed them; lodged them in the grasses.

So they passed in beards and moleskins,

Fathers, brothers, nicknames, laughter,

Through the tall gates standing open.

At noon, there came a tremor; cows

Stopped chewing for a second; sun,

Scarfed as in a heat-haze, dimmed.

The dead go on before us, they

Are sitting in God's house in comfort,

We shall see them face to face ––

Plain as lettering in the chapels

It was said, and for a second

Wives saw men of the explosion

Larger than in life they managed ––

Gold as on a coin, or walking

Somehow from the sun towards them,

One showing the eggs unbroken.

––Philip Larkin

Lull at 4 p.m.

So quiet in the woods we stop to hear it.

Like being underwater.

No engines.

No wind.

No barking dogs or men.

Only the splendid silent sun.

Only the faintest rustle in the leafmat.

Only the rising green.

And in our veins, the universal hum.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Spring Without

It's one of those rare spring days when we step outside, coffee in hand, and into bright silence.

From across the greening field the woodland tints thrill us, infant leaves as yet unfurled, backlit by the sun.

Call it a condition of maturity, of living long enough to have our ghosts within us, but on such mornings as this, we think of the beloved dead, those with whom we still want to share the news that the pear tree has bloomed, or that we have just tasted the first green onions of the year.

And yet, splitting firewood at the cabin, pausing a moment to brush the maple blooms from the step, there is the sense of sharing. Mystery and wonder are entwined.

A few lines by Philip Larkin come to mind:

The trees are coming into leaf 
Like something almost being said...
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Honoring Each Other

Two weddings in one day make us consider the species and its continuance. How uplifting to see the faith we put in renewal, in the young, especially.

At such events, children are the center attention, in the flesh or dreamed of. As it should be.

Such a tribal thing, our ceremonies -- friends and family of the bride on one side, friends and family of the groom on the other -- and how heartening to count beings dear to us on both.

Consider the pressures felt by those responsible, wanting everything to be perfect, hoping for a worthy beginning to a union of souls. So many thinking about what others are thinking, necessary for a functioning society.

I'm thinking, if any two were unconcerned with that, it would be the young man and young woman, unique in that both had once considered a life of celibacy in the service of their god, and now in the process of creating their own sphere, a center around which the universe will revolve, with faith in each other, knowing themselves to be good, and kind, and well-intended, a society of two. They honor each other in that way.

We have every reason to celebrate that, and to hold it holy.

copyright 2010, J.O'Brien, all rights reserved

The Elements

Snow today. An onion snow, the old folks call it, beads of freezer frost on the green shoots, and whitening Blue, the black dog.

It comes as no surprise. Mid-April is the opening of trout season in Pennsylvania, and there's usually ice on the line and snow flakes vanishing into the creek.

It feels natural, weather as it should be. Good weather to run in, to fire up your own furnace and blend with the elements. It's uplifting to finish your route and stand steaming in the onion snow.

My route is the dirt road I live on, a perfect 5K from one end to the other and back to the house. I have always been drawn to the gates along the way; farm roads pull me in. I take my time, enjoying the scenery, the same scenery as yesterday, but changed, and always something new.


Be blown on by all winds, Thoreau wrote. So I ran, and I cooled down, and I belonged on the earth, sure of my place.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

A Softer Day

Colder today. Clouds under clouds. Rain darkening stones and blackening the bare trees. It seems just right.

A softer day, more delicate, more suited for April. No hard ground, no dust on the road, no strong light burning the skin.

The dome of sky opalescent, like the inside of an oyster shell, but rich with grays like the birds that have wintered with us -- the nuthatches, chickadees, titmice, and slate-colored juncos -- reminds us we will see snow in the air still. And besides, the juncos are still here.

A day of subtlety when the small openings of color in the woods, like the tiny blooms of the spice bush, seem to shine.


An easier pace, and it calms us. All things in their time.

Time for the leaves to open over the woodland floor.

Time for the fields to rise over the voles and the rabbits and the countless small life forms of the world at our feet.

Time for us to pause in the day and regain our astonishment at consciousness.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Ovation in the Woods

"I never had a bad day in the woods," Thoreau wrote. And neither did we.

Walking in the woods steadies us, reminds us of our place in the continuum, and of just how little it takes to make us happy.

We expected yellow violets today, and we found them blooming in the leaf litter, soaking up the sunlight before the crowns fill in.

The pale blue will be next to show themselves along the path, then the purple thick in the field, and the white along the treeline where the limbs hang over the old plowline.

Today we do not bother with names and classifications, with common, threatened, or endangered. Today they are all precious. As are the Maypoles rising, and the trees gaining color in their crowns, and the wind in them, and the crow overhead, and the sun on our skin.

Towhees arrived today. Peepers will sing tonight. The pace accelerates.

At the ballpark last night we were part of 30,000 cheering a walk-off single. Then we drove home into the mountains and were thrilled again by the natural dark of the night and its satin feel under the constellations.

This morning, on the path to the cabin, we hear an ovation of another sort. It comes from deep within us, or is it from deep within the universe, and is there a difference?

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Awakening

I feel ladybugs crawling on me. But they're not.

That was an hour ago when I vacuumed another 200 or so off the south window. It's almost dark now. Now they're gathering around lights. So I've left the florescent on in the laundry room as a lure. It's working. I'll have to empty the bag before midnight.

We have become accustomed to their company throughout winter, since that first sunny day after the first cold night last fall when they stopped what they were doing and headed for shelter.

What they were doing was feasting on soft-bodied insects, like aphids. We have a field full of asters and goldenrod, hence a lot of aphids, hence a lot of ladybugs. I'd tell you more about them --they're immigrants, you know-- but this is not the Bug Blog, and I am not the Electronic Entomologist, so we'll just say we don't mind them much because: 1. they might also eat woolly adelgids, another invasive species that has been attacking the native hemlocks; 2. we have no choice, they're here to  stay; 3. they'll all be outside soon anyway.

So we consider the end of their dormancy an indicator of spring. Just like the snow fence rolled and stacked by township workers. Just like the female blackbird piping at us from the willow bush when we approach the pond, which mean she's building her nest in the cattails. And just like the water striders scooting about on the surface tension of the pond, looking for a catch.

I could go on about water striders, too -- perhaps another time. For now we'll just add them to the list of the rejuvenated. We're on it, too, and easily pleased. How happy it makes us to walk around the yard picking up sticks. Or to stand amazed under the stars, shaking out our filter bags.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Opening Day

Change is inevitable. Yet sameness is the allure of baseball.

The game taught to me by Joe Polansky with his sons in the barnyard is the same game his father taught to him, and the same I taught my son, and he to his. And so it will continue, so long as there are fathers and sons and open fields.

But the product that is Major League Baseball has changed a great deal.

Gone is the quiet grace of the game. The dimensions have not changed, and the rules have remained mostly intact, but the sounds of the sport have disappeared in a cauldron of amplified music and pitchmanship.

No longer can  you hear the slap of the ball in the mitt. No  longer can you hear the players calling out to each other. And most tragically of all, no longer can you hear your own thoughts, for every moment not filled with explosion and fanfare is considered a lost opportunity to market and astound.

I have always loved the pace of the game, the lulls between action, the way the situation reshapes itself with every pitch. Pleasure exists between innings, the outfielders playing catch, the ball making slow parabolas between them as the infielders take grounders and throw across the diamond. You can see the forces of physics at work.

I want to hear the pitcher make the ball pop in the catcher's mitt and watch the hitters loosening their muscles with weighted bats. Yet management goes to great lengths to divert our attention. Now between innings there are giveaways and contests and, once every home game, the strangely mesmerizing and pointless footrace of foam rubber pierogies.

Costumed characters launch hotdogs from cannons into the crowd. Lights flash. Sound effects rattle the beams. And most bothersome of all, the designated talking head appears before us 50 feet tall shouting scripted enthusiasms at the top of his lungs.

I still love the game in spite of its new noise, but it's harder. I still think of Joe Polansky putting his lunch bucket on the well cap, stripping down to his undershirt, and pitching to us against the barn before supper. And I still buy peanuts and pass them down the row to my son and my grandson.

 So, in spite of the orgy of merchandising and feasting, the traditions continue. I have initiated a new one: earplugs.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Enjoying The View

I propped my feet up on the balcony railing and enjoyed the view of the harbor one last time before we left the city. Or rather, the partial view, which is how a realtor would describe it.

Below me, the human drama of Easter Sunday unfolded on the parking spaces. A man cleaned out his garage. A woman broke into a momentary spasm to the thumping bass of Jay-Z as she strapped her child into an Escalade. Another man stood stoically with one hand in a blue newspaper sleeve and the other holding the leashes of dogs squatting on the asphalt.

Urban life is far too hectic for me. I looked forward to the simple pleasures of home. We packed up, made one last stop at Safeway for the bargains made possible by high volume, and headed up 95 for Pennsylvania.

The trip was uneventful. Especially for me since I dozed most of the way. And finally it was grand to sit in my own field at sunset and let the peace of the countryside renew my soul.

That happened after a four wheeler stopped roaring up and down the road, and the dogs stopped giving chase, and a neighbor gave up trying to get a jump on summer by mowing his fallow field.

Ah, wilderness.

It's only been gone two weeks, but in some ways I already miss winter.

copyright J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Amidships

We toured Annapolis Harbour underdressed on a fake steamship in a chilling breeze off the bay, keenly aware our boat was made of steel. It was warmer in Baltimore.

A tour is for, well, for tourists. Yet it's a good way to get your bearings before you wander off in search of seafood sandwiches and microbrews. So we did it, gaining our sea legs on the top deck as we churned up the Severn River past the Naval Academy, did a 180, then down into the Chesapeake for few a minutes, then another 180, and back to Main Street where the scooters are lined up in the morning, and the Harleys in the afternoon, and where Midshipmen walked about in double file looking for lunch and admiration, and getting both.

Irish pubs abound in Maryland near the water, and we have toured a few of those, too. The Midshipmen, as far as we could tell, drank water at lunch, their hats on the floor as James Joyce looked down upon their burgers.

I bought a gray T-shirt that says "NAVY" for half off, and a crabcake sandwich and a Smithwicks at full price. I checked out a cupcake shop to discover what all the buzz is about and was surprised to find them stocked with just cupcakes.

Annapolis is a busy place. Baltimore is a busy place. Home tomorrow, and its quiet comforts. I'm wondering if the juncos will be gone.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved