It is April 1, do you know where your eggs are?

I don't know which are more beautiful; the pink, green and blue eggs given to me by Robin and Fan who both raise Aracana hens right here in Lincoln (talk about local) or the eggs we dyed last week inspired by the Ukrainian method called Pysanky using beeswax and strong dyes. Either way, the egg is an ancient symbol of rebirth, the coming of spring, and hope.

Folklore has it that the entire universe exists inside an egg. The yolk is the sun and the white is all the stars and the moon. What an efficient package. And it's biodegradable! Those hens are really ahead of the curve.

Happy April Everyone. No more photos of snow on this site for awhile. Amen!

more on this

I love this picture. I realize that, except for my three siblings, no one else knows the story that goes with this photo.

It is set on Lake Memphremagog on the Canadian side where we summered during my childhood and where our mother and her family also spent their summers. On the far right is my mother, Martha, with her mother, Ruth, and her two sisters, Barbara and Peggy. Betsy, our Irish Setter is curled up in front. Just look at the comfortable ease they share, a closeness grown out of a lifetime together. On a personal note, the gesture of my mother wiping her eyes as she enjoys a good story; that would be me. Watery brown eyes swimming in laughter due to an over zealous eye hydrating system.

Behind them stands my brother Donny. The basket slung between the trees has a baby in it. The baby is me. At three months old, I was placed in a basket slung between two venerable hemlocks. I'm sure that early view of light filtering through hemlock needles and a blue sky above made a permanent impression on me. The view of family faces looking down at me must have been imprinted somewhere, too.

As for imprints, let's not forget Owl's Head.

For Mom 1916-1989

one sister and two brothers

Writing with Ruth in Telluride, Colorado


Lincoln, Massachusetts with John


Boulder, Colorado with Donny

What is it about writing? We all do it. Ruth teaches writing to middle school students, coaches teachers through the Oregon Writing Project, writes memoir and is also writing "Bobo and Danny" stories for the grandkids. She is a great story teller as her nieces and nephews and anyone who has been around her for more than five minutes can tell you. And does she ever have material! I've lived a daring life vicariously through my big sis. Skinning snakes, sneaking out at night, the list goes on.

John wrote songs and accompanied himself on his ukulele in middle school. He even made a vinyl recording of "Goodbye My Jill". But as he got older, he was not encouraged to write. Let's face it, it is not a promising profession. He got the message loud and clear to "get serious." So he did get serious for 35 years. Finally his story refused to stay inside and out it came, hour after hour, month after month, it willed its way onto the page. The Viet Nam experience that we had only heard fragments of came to life. Look for his book, Loon, A Marine's Story by Jack McLean published by Random House coming out on May 19.

As a kid growing up, I rushed to the front hall table after school to look for letters from my older brother, Donny. He did not disappoint. During his two years in the Peace Corps in Thailand he sent me letters and postcards. I ripped off every colorful, exotic postage stamp. I sure wish I'd saved those letters. Then came his years of working as a loan officer for banks which made it possible for him to live in the Phillipines, Australia, and Korea, and he traveled widely from those home bases. He sent me funny postcards and even created ficticious friends who wrote to me. I still have some cards from Rosa Rodriquez! He is a keen observer of the world through words and photos.

When I was in third grade my grandmother gave me a "five year diary" with a brown cover, gold edged pages and, best of all, a lock and key. I was grateful for the lock, I didn't want my older siblings reading my most private thoughts. Looking back on that now, I realize they weren't the least bit interested! But the diary stayed locked just in case. When she gave it to me, Grandma gave me one directive, "always start by recording the weather." Which I dutifully did and occasionally still do. I have written in diaries and journals ever since. I have attended writing workshops, read about writing and shared what I have learned with others. It may be that writing became my medium from an early age because, really, with two parents and three talkative older siblings, there wasn't much air time!

full circle

I saw Natalie Goldberg at the Brookline Booksmith tonight. She is on a tour promoting her book on memoir, "Old Friend From Far Away". I have traveled to New Mexico four times now to study writing with Natalie. I have been a fan of hers since she wrote, "Writing Down the Bones" in 1986. I discovered in 2002 that I could actually study with her. She teaches in Taos, New Mexico. It is a special thing to find a teacher whose words go right to your heart. What an unexpected thing that that person would be Nat. I never would have guessed it, and I am never disappointed.

I have started leading writing groups based on what I have learned about writing from her. People I meet want to write but have a terrible time getting started. The inner critic is loud, and clear and forceful. So quick to sabotage our wildest dreams.

"Keep your hand moving" says our teacher.
"Don't be tossed away" she reminds.
"Stay true to first thoughts"
and finally,
"Enter the heat of the words and keep your pen
moving across the page."

Year after year, I have kept up this practice of moving my hand across the page.
I write with family members, I write with friends, I write with students, I write alone.
Sometimes I am surprised and thrilled by what appears.
Other times bored and disappointed, but I keep doing it.
Writing has become a practice.

After traveling many hours and miles to New Mexico to see Natalie,
it felt right to see her in old familiar Brookline; the town where I was a teenager.
In those days, I wrote fervently in journal after journal after journal.
I haven't changed much since then, though I may look a little different.

Her face lit up when she saw me in the front row.
She signed my book; NG, Boston, Mass.
Odd to put that name with that place when
I associate her with the high desert of the southwest, cottonwood trees, the Rio Grande,
cozy adobe buildings and walking meditation under a black sky filled with stars.
It was good to see her.
What else could I do when I got home but write?

What's New in the Lew

As I walked into breakfast this morning, the cover of the Lewiston Sun Journal caught my eye.

A golden retriever named Ginger had wandered away from its home yesterday and fallen into a hole in the ice of Lewiston's Androscoggin River.  Onlookers quickly called the fire department, who arrived on the scene and pulled the dog out.

This story made me smile not just because of the dog's uncannily Niki-like forlorn brown eyes, but also because of a distinctly similar Niki memory it brought to mind.  Niki's first summer in Isle au Haut was one filled with newfound freedom and discovery.  She'd gallop around the island's open fields and busy forests, sniffing and digging frantically.  We'd never seen her so happy.  One morning, she ran down the gang-plank onto our little dock, and propelled herself straight into the water, thinking the placid surface was land.  It was painfully cute to see her shocked and embarrassed expression as my dad hoisted her pathetic little body out of the water.  These pictures took me straight back to that magical place, the beautiful summer day, my wonderful little dog.

early spring

There is stirring in the ground. Calley frantically sniffs a stone wall, digs a little, stops and listens; cocking her head from one side to another to get the best reception. She is determined to catch the small creature hiding there, just waking up from a long hibernation. She is a detective discovering all kinds of changes in the landscape that have occurred in the last few days.

Sap buckets are hooked on maple trees all over town. I pulled over to help Fan and Verena empty the clear sap into the large plastic containers in the back of Verena's truck. Tonight they will be boiling sap for hours in Richard's well equipped sugar house to reduce it down to pure maple syrup. When I hooked the bucket back on the tree I listened for the pinging sound as sap hit the empty pail. Funny that a small, somewhat suburban town like Lincoln can appear so authentic. The commercial sugaring operations in Vermont run tubing between the trees and the sap runs to one central holding place. This efficient system is left up all year, so maple woods are filled with this spider web of blue plastic. I love the old pail with it's metal top. A sign that days are warm and nights are cold.

Heading home, I saw that someone had put up the salamander sign on Conant Road. There are a few designated roads in Lincoln near wetlands across which salamanders migrate. On a night that noone can foresee, the salamanders decide to leave their cozy vernal pool and head into the woods, which are often on the other side of the road. Experts know it has something to do with warmth after a light rain. I have driven home at night and seem the beams of many flashlights on Conant Road belonging to the observers who are lucky enough to catch this yearly migration. Salamanders are small but they are an integral part of the web, participating in the mysterious natural order of things. I like living in a town where people create salamander crossings!

The days are longer, it's still light at 7pm thanks to the time change last weekend. The snow is almost gone. We can see the ground for the first time in months. The birds are busy and loud, the air smells different. Calley's feet are muddy and she won't get out of the car after a day's adventure. She wouldn't want to miss a thing. Eventually she drags herself in and collapses on her bed in the front hall and sighs. Perhaps grateful for a break from sensory overload.

bottles in the trees

Scrolling down you will find recent posts of plastic bags in trees in NYC. So I was especially amused to see Bates students put bottles in trees to make the case against using bottled water. I wish I could find the photo I have seen from the Phillipines of children walking on a beach ankle deep in plastic bottles.

There is a lot of bad news about the environment but let's not forget the progress we have made. Cottages along lakes used to pipe sewage right into the water. As a kid, we washed our laundry with cakes of Ivory soap and rinsed our clothes in the lake leaving a white soapy film on the service of the water. And as for old cans, we'd row our boat far away from the dock, fill each can with water and watch it disappear down down down to the darkness at the bottom of the lake. This was not something we did in the dark of night, this was accepted practice. It was one of the of the jobs that kids were given to do. Now the environmental police appear out of nowhere in their boats if there is any kind of transgression. Trees along the lakeshore are protected, septic systems pipe the waste up hill away from bodies of water. There is good news. Here and there.

"Paper or plastic?"

Neither is a good option, but at least paper bags don't end up in the trees. I probably don't have to remind this readership to carry your own bag when going to the store. Plastic is okay if you reuse it; you can scrunch it up in your pocket and pull it out at the store when the bagger asks the big question, "paper or plastic?" If they ask at all, CVS only has plastic and Whole Foods only has paper. Paper is made from trees of course. Trees produce CO2 which cleans the air. That IS useful I must say. I'd rather bring my own bag and let the tree breath in the bad air and breath out the good.

The above photos were taken on a recent trip to NYC to visit Carrie. This is nothing, you should have seen the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina! Trash has to go somewhere and it often doesn't stay put. A good wind can spread it far and wide. Into the trees and out to the ocean. Sea turtles and dolphins have a lot of trouble digesting those things!

Sorry to be preaching to the choir. But it's fun up here in the pulpit!


Calley wants everyone to know that she recycles bones.

Take Back the Tap

Today, Wednesday March 11th, marks the beginning of the end of bottled water at Bates College.

There will be no bottled water sold or distributed on campus today. Not at Milt's, not at the Den, not in bag lunches, and not at any catered events. This day will show us that we CAN do without bottled water - that it is easy to do and better for us.

The Bates chapter of Take Back the Tap is making moves to end the use of bottled Water at Bates College. We are urging the administration and Dining Services to enact a ban on this plastic ridden, morally bankrupt personal convenience by the beginning of next school year.

We hope you will support the cause. Check out our water bottle infested tree outside Commons, our posters around campus, the dialogue going on in the library, and the taste test tonight in Commons.

love,
Take Back the Tap

I just had to pass along this email that Eliza forwarded to me today. Catered events that I have attended on college campuses have been rife with bottled water. The barbeque on the quad on Parent's Weekend always includes that ice filled barrel of green labeled Poland Spring bottles. I have felt virtuous grabbing one instead of a can of Coke. But environmentally, the can of Coke is better because it will be recycled. Not so the thin plastic water bottles. Most don't qualify. Where does all the plastic go? Imagine a day when catered events don't include this option. I imagine a large water cooler with a spout where people can fill and refill their (yes) disposable (and biodegradable) paper cups with water. One campus multiplied all across the country. I see change a foot.
All the best,
Barbara

the burn pile

As the year progresses, the "burn pile" grows. Branches, sticks and twigs that have been blown down by storms, branches removed from trees due to our own pruning efforts are thrown armload by armload onto the pile. Day lily stalks and perrennial refuse from my flower garden that are too big to compost and prickly buckthorn that we don't want in the compost pile are thrown on as well. Burn those seeds! In early January the Christmas tree gets carried out and is placed next to the pile. Wreaths are thrown on top. Then we wait for the perfect day after January 15, the official opening of the burning season, to light the fire.

Today was the day. The conditions were right; 50 degree temperatures, fast melting snow but enough left to prevent the fire from spreading across the ground plain of oak leaves, and a spontaneous visit from Eliza and Brodie last night. What better thing to do on a Sunday morning after a leisurely breakfast then to watch a major conflagration? It did not disappoint. The four of us stood transfixed by the terrifying power of fire to both sustain life and eradicate it. The orange flames were a pleasure to my eye after months of looking at a stark white and brown landscape. The ritual fire marked the end of winter. The final "launching" of the Christmas tree, thrown on top of the pile, sealed the deal. We burned old man winter in effigy.

It is dark now but I can see the smoldering embers from the window. There is something so cozy about the remains of a bonfire. Flames long gone, grey ash is lit from below by orange embers too hot to touch. In past years, we cooked hotdogs and marshmallows with whatever children and friends we had gathered. Eliza and Brodie had to get back to their academic responsibilites before the fire had burned down, and somehow, making s'mores with David just doesn't feel right. So we are heating soup on the stove and reading the New York Times huddled around the woodstove.

Snow and Sleet forecast for tomorrow. Happy Spring everyone!

my bed

I love my bed so much that I could just eat it up!!


Oh, I guess I already did (and the rug was pretty tasty, too)!

Heads Up

I just wanted to let everyone know in advance that Maddy and I will not be airing our radio show this Friday as we usually do.  She is taking an impromptu trip to Toronto, and I am hoping to be summiting Mt. Washington by 10am Friday morning!  We just couldn't pass up our respective opportunities.  Sorry to disappoint faithful listeners, but we'll be back again next week, Friday from 8-10 AM EST at wrbcradio.com!  Can't wait to hear from you all then!  Love, Eliza

What I Wore

Rules were being challenged in 1968. This included the dress code at The Winsor School for Girls on Pilgrim Road in Boston. After many heated debates (there were students who didn’t like the idea, too radical!), the student body voted to include pants in the dress code. What could the administration do? This was democracy in action. Then came the issue of blue jeans. Were they allowed? If yes, only if they were clean; no paint or bleach stains, and no rips.

I was glad I could wear my favorite outfit of well worn bell bottom jeans to school. They were as soft as velvet, delicate, about to rip. When the knees did wear out, the red tights underneath showed through. I wore a fatigue green turtleneck that was stretched out at the neck and a reddish/orange button down sweater bought at a thrift shop in Brookline Village. Around my neck I wore a string of tiny colored glass beads that I had strung myself. The beads were sold in small plastic vials at George’s Folly; a store a mile from our house in Coolidge Corner which also sold Indian bedspreads, silver jewelry and hookahs locked in a glass case. If it was chilly, I wore my Dad’s khaki army shirt as an extra layer. I wore my long hair pulled back in a loose braid.

My class of fifty girls stood out in many ways. We challenged everything. We rejected the old yearbook model of the formal oval photos of girls in white blouses looking off into the distance next to a list of the school clubs and teams they were part of.
Not for us. We each had candid art shots of ourselves (most of which I took, being “into” photography at the time) and quotes from the Beatles, Bob Dylan, and Joni Mitchell.

As graduation neared, we decided we did not want to wear the customary white dress. Ours had been the first class in Winsor’s sixty five year history to include African American students. Our four afro sporting soul mates started this rebellion convincing the rest of us that it was racist to assume that everyone would want to wear white; a traditional symbol of purity. The rest of us agreed! We voted and we had our way! On that lovely June day when the members of the Class of 1971 walked down the aisle to accept our diplomas, we each wore a dress of our own choosing, signifying the individuals that we certainly were!

A friend of mine is now the Chair of the English Department at Winsor. I told him of the non-white dress graduation. He has looked for our graduation photo among the others which are prominently displayed on the wall near the admissions office and can’t find it anywhere. The only ones there show demure girls dressed in white each holding a red rose, all the way up to last June! I’m sure ours is deep in the basement archives. A time the school wishes to forget.

Coping with the Cold

In response to Sylvia's incredibly balmy looking photos of Davis, I thought I'd respond by providing an update of the status of the weather here in Maine.

Incidentally, college kids tend to have somewhat of a backwards thought process than normal people, choosing to embrace the cold rather than shut it out...