Mountain Laurel

Mountain laurels are one of my favorite trees. Luckily they grow wild in the woods nearby. The air is full of their grape pixie-stix smell. Or grape Kool-Aid, whichever you prefer.

We don't have bluebell woods here, so mountain laurel season might be the closest thing to the same effect. We do have nice wild flowers, but they grow in full sun. It's rare to find such colorful blossoms in the shade.  

There's a fairy-tale sort of feel about them, their luminous color and of course, the scent. It's as if the air itself is purple, like these filters make it seem...

The blooms only last a few weeks, but they are lovely while they last.

Fun With Chalk

Last week, we had a chalk bomb battle. It was epic. We all won.

When it was over, we couldn't resist the chance to get a bit arty.

Even the household ghosts got into the act.

I swear, one day when I have my dream house, it will be just these colors. I won't even care if the neighbors complain. We'll just sic the ghosts on 'em.

The Secret Box

We all have one, I bet, those of us who are attached to material things. A container filled with objects that are meaningful, if not valuable.

Mine is an old cigar box that I blagged off a tobacconist. It's decorated with mosaic tile, which most everyone agrees is not a success. Well, no matter. It's all right if no one likes it but me. It's my secret box, after all.

The kids sometimes look at it in fascinated bewilderment. What is this, they ask, unable to perceive meaning in the contents. What are these pebbles and scraps of paper? All these scribbled notes? Why do you have a receipt dated August of 2002? Just for some incense and a china cup? Fortune cookie fortunes? Broken jewelry and Mercury dimes? Why would you keep these things?

To which I reply, well, that's the point of a secret box, innit? It's none of your beeswax, You don't have to explain. That's the rule.

The secrets of the box remain, more or less, secret. Anyway, explanations would only disappoint. It would hardly mean anything to them that (for example) the day of the incense and china cup, the sun glinting on the summer air made me so transcendently happy that I wanted to remember. Of course it would lack meaning to anyone else. These things are only the property of the experiencer, however sacred or mundane.

One day, they'll understand. By that time, I'm sure, they will have their own secret boxes.

Conversations With Strangers

In town one day, an elderly man came up and said, "If you fall, I cannot catch you, but if you fall, the OM can catch you."

It took a little while, but I finally understand what he meant.

The Next Footfall

This was a phrase I read on a political blog. There were rumors of scandal, government corruption of the worst kind. The writer wondered if a certain detail might be the next footfall.

Probably she'd meant to say shoe drop, but never mind, the idea is intriguing one

Imagine a political scandal walking, approaching like a detective or a ghost in an echoing hall.

Findings

Almost literally. It would have been a better play on words had this been a random pile of clasps, pins, rings, bezels and wires scattered on the ground, but alas.

I have no explanation for this odd little heap of rhinestones.

Candy, Hearts and Gloom

Another cold and overcast Valentine's Day, though this one had the distinction of starting with a crashing thunderstorm at 5 A.M. 

Yesterday, the weather was excellent. Cloudy, yes, but warm and breezy. Wind chimes ringing. Fallen leaves swirling. Mountain laurel blooms making the air smell like grape pixie sticks.  Perfection!

Not today, alas. As ever on February 14, Jack Frost, or at least Jack Crappy Weather, makes his return.

No matter, at least we have candy and hearts to break up the gloom.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all.

"I've got to go, there's someone at the door..."

One of those unexpected lucky finds. I'd been poking around, looking for that infamous, nightmare fuel-injected Someone's At The Door ad for American Gothic. Instead, I came across this marvelous little gem.

No nightmare fuel, only intrigue.

Ghoulies, Ghosties And Long-Leggedy Beasties

What, you say, it's the wrong time of year for ghosts? Nonsense. It's always time. And it's always time for a few spooky gifs.

It might be February, but the wind is murmuring eerily in the eaves, and I don't feel as if I'm quite alone here...

Gaslight

Downtown, where the gas company used to be, the lamps are still burning. The ones I mentioned here. The gas company moved out years ago, so the light illuminates little these days but an empty  lot and the occasional passerby. Still, the lamps stay lit. 

Around the corner at the Protestant church, the much fancier gas lamps shine a warm glow on parishioners leaving basement recitals and potluck suppers, but this gas lamp - my gas lamp - soldiers bravely on alone.

There is something inexpressibly beautiful about a single light in the darkness.