the end of July

The only thing I love about this time of year is that the chicory is in bloom. Beautiful periwinkle blue, delicate flowers, on sturdy stems line the roadside... 

And their partner Queen Anne's Lace, waves in the breeze; taller than the chicory. 

And the elderberry bushes are on the cusp of harvest-ability.

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time was

time was we could get in the car and drive to someone's house without calling first, and they were always happy to see us. i miss those days. it's a different world. i want to go back.

"let's go visit someone".... followed by a long car ride. music on the radio... AM radio had more music in those days. i knew all the words to all the songs. i could identify the make and model of any car by the rear view of it...they didn't all look alike back then. it's a different world.

i miss the adventure of following familiar routes to pleasing destinations. visiting people i loved who loved me. i do not belong in this world, so very different from the world of my youth. how did we ever end up here.

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so very lonely

there is no solace in the day

no

one

is

listening

as I plead for someone to talk to

face to face interaction is so important to mental health

I am so alone

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still lake

still lake
calm
azure sky

blue

serenity

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Slow Mary

On March 21, 2020 my employer asked all of us to work from home due to the coronavirus.  I was a bit surprised, because I am the receptionist, but we had already started to keep the door locked at all time, so no one could enter the offices.  As it turned out I did not have the internet service level required to support the telephone system, so on April 2 I returned to the office, and have been in the office every week day since that day.

To get to work I drive approximately 50 miles down the I-90 Illinois Toll Road.  This toll road is 3 lanes in each direction for the entirety of my trip. 

I have come to “know” some of my fellow travelers… most noticeable is one woman I call “Slow Mary”.  Slow Mary drives a grey minivan, with a “Q” in the license plate digits. I don’t know why, but Slow Mary goes only about 55 miles an hour.  All vehicles wizz on by her, as she plods along. Every other vehicle on the toll road is going more than 65mph, a few of us are doing at least 80mph, and a small number are going in excess of 90mph.  But Slow Mary plods along at a turtles pace.

On rare occasion I have seen her in the morning, on her way to wherever she goes….

Yes, slow and steady wins the race, but I cannot imagine have my commute take longer than it already does.  Therefore I cannot fathom this woman,… is she afraid? Does she think she is saving fuel? Does she really have all the time in the world? 

It is a comforting site, though, to see Slow Mary every evening somewhere beyond the Hampshire truck stop, but before the Genoa Road exit.  The familiar is a comfort.

The Magnolia Tree

Half an hour by car.
Driving slowly into town.
Past a log cabin in the park.

We knew the house by the magnolia.
A tree in the front yard.
It shaded the front room windows.

Pink in bloom.
Large flowers.
A place of quiet comfort.

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Trees

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

 -- Joyce Kilmer

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Who was Joyce Kilmer - link to wikipedia

picking elderberries

Late of July they always came.  A couple in a car, parking on the roadside, quickly quietly cutting off the small branches of elderberry off the bushes. Many bushes and shrubs grew along the roadside bordering the farmers field.

Some years he did not see them, there in the distance, filling their pails with berries. He knew, they took the fruits and made pie and jelly, possibly wine. It was good. The farmer remembered his wife doing such things.

Early every August the farmer would sit in his kitchen and silently cry for his long dead wife.  His children gone, he carries on, farming his land.

One year the couple did not come for the elderberries.  The farmer knew when the birds carried the berries in their spoor to his driveway, leaving the evidence for him to find. He wondered, briefly, what happened to that couple and the little girl they brought with them. 

Later that same year he went out by the road and cut down all of the bushes and shrub growing there.

Many years later the child grew her own elderberries. Late of July she could be seen, driving her lawn tractor past the massive elderberry bushes, reaching out for a handful of the berries to eat. This made her supremely happy.

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i miss my elderberry bushes