Foraging Lessons from the Bookender's

It was one of the few times we didn’t have a camera with us.  Realizing when we were well on our way, and deciding not to turn back lest we miss the sunset... After all, we could spend a little time actually talking and staying focused on our walk ~ rather than stopping a bazillion times to capture yet another ahhhh moment. 

Wouldn’t it figure that the Oystercatchers were out with their offspring!?!

Gone was the brown/grey fuzzy... gone was the all black baby bill... the only colors of youth remaining was the black tippy tip of a mostly orange-red bill and a cute curl at the tip of a tail. 

After Superstorm Sandy we thought for sure this estuary/wonderland would be forever lost, but somehow it has survived... and in someways better than ever.  The wooden boardwalk is gone - no doubt floated away.  In its place a bright new walkway, made from recycled something-or-other...  A red blue ‘carpet’ is now rolled out for our arrival.  Fresh fences lined the dune ‘thruway.’ Sand grass had more than re-grown and waves well over our heads.

Our welcome is not, however, complete until we reach the bird sanctuary.  It is here we know we have arrived.  Behind the designated line - a simple wire that only serves to warn us humans to stay out of the nesting area - there are thousands of families tending to their offspring.  We’ve watched them through their courting journey with anticipation and glee. 

Now at the shoreline we stood - without cameras?!! - on a perfect night!

Sanderlings & Oystercatchers
(Cell phone image... sorry.)

The sky was warm with hues.  Pink diamonds sparkled on the waters foamy edge.  With each wave the sanderlings ran to and fro, in perfect formation and timing.  I always wait for one of them to be sucked in by a rogue wave, but they never are.  (Yes, I have an odd sense of ‘funny’...)

...and the Oystercatchers... Four... two adults... two fledglings... being taught how to forage for their food!

The two pairs were like bookends.  Each parent tipping their head into the sandy earth, like a living sewing machine... or one of those old fashioned ‘Drinking Bird’ toys that bobbed its beak into the vat over and over, only they were much more incisive.  Junior shadowed Mom’s position - beak at the ready - for if Mom found a tasty morsel they would take it straight away.  No worries... if Junior was not at the ready, Mom would stand all the way up, pausing from her dunking behavior and feed her baby the find. 

This guy has his entire bill buried...  

From time to time Mom would feel something beneath the sand and plunge her bill deeper - I envisioned her cross-eyed as the ground surface came so close to her ‘face.’

She would rudder her bill left and right, jarring free the inhabitant from their haven.  Junior took the cue and tried plunging his bill in the same hole along side Mom’s.  It was clearly a lesson in progress.  

And then, a giant seagull would do an overhead flyby, much too close for both parents comfort.  They would peep and screech warnings to anyone that might listen. (click the link if you'd like to hear how they sound :)  Both Juniors would scurry quickly, only in a ‘squatting’ bent legged run - as if they were ducking from a pending overhead attack.  No sooner did the seagull soar off into the sunset and the ‘Bookender’s’ began ‘foraging lessons’ again.

We were swimming in pink.  (1st night)

Like that of a mother nursing her baby - the care, if not ‘love,’ was palpable.  It was a perfect night, sans camera.... (argh!!!) 

We managed to capture a few images - after hurrying to delete an overloaded cell phone camera... At least the hues could be noted.

The next night we headed back to the same spot.  Okay, so the sun wasn’t as dutiful to our plight.... but the ‘Bookender’s’ were!

The 'Bookender's'

You can see the last of the black bill.  :)

Me and my shadow...

Waiting... 

A Mother's work is never done....

Nice shot Frank!

The second night was the
more typical Orange - not Pink...

Bath's and Veggies... Thank's Discovery Channel ...and Scabies?!

Okay... it's official.  I just entered my first writing contest.  
Oye - my nerves!
Why??!?
Don't know.....    Luck filled well-wishes welcomed.  ;)


Here's the post ~ {Darn... I just realized I did not submit it with a photo... argh!!}

Want to know how to get your kids to eat vegetables?  Here’s how.  Scabies!  Yes, those dreadful bugs

Wish I could add this to my entry... 

that live beneath your skin. 

Here is how I found this out ...

I picked Alex and Charlee up from Patrick and Michelle’s.  Their Mom and Dad were watching them so I could go to work.  When I got there, all the kids were watching Animal Planet Extreme.  I had to drag Alex and Charlee out during a commercial.  On the way home, I lectured them about having to get showered and ready for bed.  I was met with great resistance.  They both wanted to finish watching the rest of the show.  {Fine... it wasn’t worth the argument.}  There was only a few minutes left. They watched in the living room, while I did some dishes.  When I finished, I went to check how much longer the show was going to be on.  There they were, staring at the television screen, wide-eyed with looks of horror on their faces.  I sat down to see what was being shown. 

Scabies?!  Yes, all about scabies.  In, might I add,  a very ‘child friendly’ format.  They described, very throughly, how these ‘lovely’ creatures borrow under the surface of your skin, how they shoot some sort of disgusting fluid that dissolves your flesh so that they may drink it, and therefore live off your body, forever...  They went as far as showing people who have it, the lumps, the itching, the yuck... lets not leave out the bug itself!   Don’t you just love these educational programs?!?

When the show broke for commercial, Charlee turned to me, as if in slow motion.  I swear if she knew the words she would have said ‘What the ____!!!”  But instead, thankfully, she said “Is that true?!”  She already knew the answer, I was at a loss.  The program was so detailed.  Alex’s insistent nodding didn’t help....  “Yes, honey, it is.”  Her jaw hung open and she started to get flushed.  “Well... IIIII don’t want to get those!!”  I said “I know, I don’t either” “Hoooww dooo you get those?”  I said, {Here comes the mean mommy moment...} “It’s from being dirty, not washing your hands, and touching dirty things.  That’s why we take showers and baths everyday, so we don’t get weird things...”

With that Alex bolted to the bathroom, yelling out “I’M TAKING A SHOWER!!!”  Charlee moved to the center of the living room and started screaming “I WANT A BATH, I WANT TO TAKE MY BATH!!!”  She turned all sorts of shades of red and purple.  I got hysterical with laughter.  Are these the same children, who moments ago gave me such a hard time about showering? Try as I might, to tell her that she does not have these things, and will not get them, she couldn’t hear me over her own screaming.  I started up the stairs yelling to her that I was going to get her bath ready right now.  She followed, fumbling to get undressed as she made her way up the steps.  I started running the tap water.  She was not far behind, breaking sound barriers with her shrieking, a step up from the previous screaming.  The water coming out of the tap wasn’t even hot and she plunged into the tub.   She still had her socks, shirt and underwear on, only her pants had made it off.  I couldn’t stop laughing... “Charlee you still have your clothes on.  Get out of the tub!”  She started shrieking even louder, as if that was possible.  She was making so much noise in this small bathroom, that I couldn’t even think - the vibrations were shaking my brain, and eyeballs...  She did not want to get out of the tub.  She wanted water, hot or cold, dressed or not, on her NOW!   “Charlee!  Look how old Mommy is.  I never had them!  Look at Daddy he never had them.  You are not going to get them!!”  She was now listening, trying... wanting to believe me.   She stopped shrieking - my ears were thanking me.   Now she was just crying and sobbing.  I was able to get her clothes off.

“How am I not going to get them?  By taking a bath and washing my hands before I eat?”

“Yes”  I said, trying to control my laughter.  “You are very clean, you are not going to get them.”  She calmed down some more, and asked me to help her wash.  Usually she likes to wash herself.  Not this time.

Then I had a thought.  Why not turn this crazy situation to my advantage.  Don’t I deserve something in return for enduring this frantic version of a human brain rattle? 

“You know what else keeps them away?”

Her attention was mine.  She did not take her eyes off me, waiting urgently for this very important information...

“Eating your vegetables.”

Her face clearly showed signs of concern.  She isn’t much for vegetables.  This was going to be a problem. 

“Why vegetables?”  She paused to think.  “They don’t like vegetables?”

“No, vegetables make you healthy and they don’t like healthy.”

She nodded an ‘I understand’ nod.  The decision was clear. She was going to have to eat her vegetables from now on.

When Daddy got home Charlee bombarded him with information about washing hands, baths, scabies, and vegetables.  It took a while, and a Mommy update, before Daddy understood.

Contest link:  http://www.tutortime.com/moments/view/137/?saved=true

Kissing Fish and Hunting Accidents... {A man has to do, what a man has to do.}

‘Uncle’ Kurt - not blood relation, but rather akin via ‘manly’ camaraderie - was one of my father’s most captivating friends.  No womenfolk needed - or for that matter wanted - to keep this relationship alive.   

Standing beside my 6’1” father, Uncle Kurt was rugged and short.  A man of strength... a chiseled face,  prominent white smile, and powder blue eyes.  His thick, dark hair contrasted my fathers' fine dirty blond, light complexion.   A stereotypical German accent made me wonder if he even knew what a ‘W’ was... or should I say ‘vus.’  Vhen he spoke, one needed to be sure to pay attention, lest you miss vhat he vus saying.  Though Dad had no trouble understanding... he was use to the ‘broken’ tongue, as my Grandmother spoke with the same thick accent... no ‘W’s for her either.    

A painter by trade, his white carpenter jeans were speckled with each new days array of color selection, as was the matching white painters cap adorning his head.  His shirt - white also - yes, with speckles - had dark blue bands lining the edges of the sleeves.  This I remember, as I can still see his muscular biceps bulging and straining the materials girth each time he moved his arms.  I am sure there was a tattoo, though I can’t remember what it was... {or if there wasn’t there should have been}  A gentle haze of dark hair, covered his forearms... all the way to his capable and well used hands.    

This was Dad’s kind of guy.  A real man’s man... 

Nature was a common denominator in this friendship.  Whether hunting, fishing or family trips to Pennsylvania, they actively coordinated their calendars to get their wildlife in. 

In line, I’ve two stories I’d like to share...  Each, duly burnt into my memory.

The first story is somewhat of a fish tale.... 

Uncle Kurt loved to fish, though he didn’t always eat his catch.  In fact, the majority of his backyard was set up to nurture and cherish any prized catch.  Two ponds - not one - on opposing ends of the lengthy yard were connected by an ever-flowing ‘river.’   It was a worthy tributary for his newly adopted ‘babies.’  Rocks and boulders not only created a ‘babbling brook,’ they also enhanced the waterfall area.  Grass, and a few rouge flowers, lined the waters edge... an arched wooden bridge gave the final touch, allowing easy access to the pumps and gadgetry that kept this river oasis ‘alive.’

Going from the great outdoors to a glorified fish tank, could prove concerning... Though more concerning should be the narrowly missed butter-and-lemon-fish-roast-in-your-own-honor... I dare say this was a ‘happy’ school of fish.  This was also a happy Uncle Kurt... unless {Heaven forbid} any of his brood should happened to fall ill - which would trigger a sanctioned stay in the special 150 gallon tank set up in his basement... equipped to treat any fishy ailments.  {He was serious about his ‘babies.’}  

(A Little Side Note - to give a bit more depth and insight to the seriousness factor... Neighborhood cats needed to beware!  Seriously!! They risked being ‘offed’ and stuffed in an empty paint can should they get too close.  {I was never fond of this ‘policy’ - and hoped it was an exaggerate untruth!} Whenever we went for a visit, I made a point to chase every, and any, stray cat away... with such vigor that they tell all their kitty friends and never step paw on his property again!  The fish-food-eating squirrels were fair game as well... To this day, I cringe whenever I see paint cans in the garbage!)

One sunny day - a day following a very heavy rainstorm - the ‘river’ mysteriously stopped flowing.  Dad was walking up the driveway as frustrations were being aired. “Vat is go’in on vit my pumps!?! They stopped vork’in!”  Uncle Kurt raced along the ‘river,’ checking all the electrical wires.  Dad, mechanic that he was, called out the obvious, “Did you check the motor?”  Preoccupied with trouble shooting power lines, Uncle Kurt had not yet crossed the bridge to the pumps.  Bending down, he lifted two ends of heavy cable, “Ah, here is da problem...” and with that pushed the disconnected ends back together. 

The moment of relief fleeted the second those cables were connected.  A current not suitable for water, anywhere, anytime - aka electrical current! - traveled into the ‘river’ with daunting speed, simultaneously skyrocketing every prized ‘baby’ about three feet into the air.  Uncle Kurt cried out in horror... as Dad stood dumbfounded at the waters edge.  Many fish could not withstand the jolt and met their demise right there on the grassy knoll, but some were still valiantly trying... desperately gasping in their new, and all too breezy, atmosphere.  Uncle Kurt scrambled, grabbing every ejected fish he could, throwing them back into the water... until he came across his ‘crowned’ favorite, “AHHH!?!  My fish!”  Snatching it up, a quick inspection only confirmed that things didn’t look promising... the fish was not moving.  Uncle Kurt did the only logical thing he could think of... . . .   mouth to mouth.  

Dad was now crying... with laughter, “WHAT are you doing?!?”   Too preoccupied to explain, Uncle Kurt focused on his task... {A man has to do, what a man has to do.}  Covering the fish’s mouth again, he puffed a breath of air as the gills flapped, “My fish... my favorite fish!”  {I suppose this could have been the time to point out that fish need water to actually breath... and that petting a fish might not be soothing to the fish...}  Nevertheless, Uncle Kurt petted, and breathed, and frantically - yet ever so gently - compressed, as though CPR could be successfully performed on a fish... his fish.  Dad had no words, after all... what does one man say to another in moments such as this?  

Lo and behold, the fish arched bringing this grown, manly man to his knees... which is where he stayed for the next few minutes as he held his struggling-to-survive 'baby' upright in the water.  I don’t know who it took longer to regain composure... the fish - who should have been renamed ‘Bob,’ because that is all he did from that day forward... or my father - who, from that day on, was never able to look at Uncle Kurt, his ‘river,’ or ‘Bob’ the same way...

This next story, could be deemed a hunting accident... 

I realize hunting is not for everyone.  For those unfamiliar with the ‘sport,’ allow me to outline a few behind-the-scene details.  Long before the fated moment, areas of potential need to be identified.  My father would walk the woods numerous times, in search of his perfect spot.  Deer trails were monitored for traffic levels, tuffs of fur on nearby thicket were scoped out, pellet like droppings were inspected, recent bedding areas were noted... careful detective work was collaborated while making sure to not leave your own footprint.  Watch where you tread, watch what you touch, no spitting, no peeing {yes, you know how the male species love to mark their territory...}  No human deterrents were to be left behind, ‘warning’ the forest of your pending presence.  Hunting is indeed a sneaky art. 

The actual day of the hunt involves preparation as well.  Obviously, the principle concept is to blend in... to not be noticed... to outfox the prey.  Hence, great efforts go into camouflaged gear... camouflaged face painting... camouflaged body odor - aka no nice smelling soaps, {AKA no showers} actually a dab here and there of deer lure urine! {Let’s call it what it is... and doe urine too boot, since we want to lure a strapping buck!}  Yes, hunters are that serious about covering up their human scent.  I, for one, am not serious enough {about any hobby} to warrant donning another creatures urine... that would just be... well... unnatural!  Even for my un-girly Self.  

On the morning of the hunt, one must be up and out, and positioned in the woods well before the forest wakes.  There is no chance of trespassing in natures territory, and going undetected, if you are one of those late risers.  The only chance a hunter has, is to get there in the lull of the night and hope the forest inhabitants are tired enough to ignore your presence... or sit still long enough to bore them into forgetting about you.  Then you just settle in... and wait... wait for your prey to unassumingly walk into your path.  

  

Most excursions turn out relatively uneventful, unless you are the deer.  More often than not they know humans are there, and take painstaking steps to avoid accordingly.  I’ve come to realize, that hunting was, and is, just man’s excuse to have a quiet morning deep in the heart of nature.  Most ‘hunts’ turn out to be a surreal stay in a wonderland of trees, one that eases the drawl of city life.  It is a very thought out, serious task.  And really?  What wife, is going to argue with a husband, who has taken to face painting, smells of strange pee, with gun in hand, and is prepared to kill?  Uh, yea... the proper response is, “Yes, dear... go... far into the woods...”  

Now that you understand all that goes into a ‘hunt,’ let me share the hunting accident story... 

Dad and Uncle Kurt had spent the morning sitting in their well-chosen-designated spots.  Sadly for them, on this day the deer had out smarted the humans.  The secret call was sounded, a cloak-and-dagger coo which cut through the woods, signaling the other that it was time to head home.  Tomorrow is another day... They could re-visit this spot again, if the human factor was kept to a minimum.  Ever so quietly, they walked back to the car.

It was at this very moment Uncle Kurt got that other kind of call from Nature... one that could not be ignored.  Back into the woods he went as Dad waited nearby... that is, until he heard all hell break out in the forest.  A loud scream, followed by cursing and all sorts of commotion... {I apologize in advance for the graphicness of what I am about to relay, but there is no way around it...}  Apparently, Uncle Kurt had squatted to do his business.  He had no choice but to partially disrobe in the midst of the forest, his fancy camouflage coveralls unzipped and piled at his feet.  An appropriate hole dug, intended to bury - and snuff out - any human evidence.  {A man has to do, what a man has to do.} 

His ‘business’ finished, cold from being so exposed, he quickly pulled up his fancy coveralls, jerking the hood up and over his head.  

{I suppose this could have been the time to point out that hood placement is crucial in situations such as this...  and that a catch-all might not be soothing to the human...}

Uncle Kurt successfully placed his human droppings ‘lure’ precisely on top of his own head. 

So much for salvaging this perfect, well-chosen-designated spot... Today the deer were fully warned... and laughing!  Actually, I can envision every animal of the forest watching, questioning humanity and their obsession with pee and poop!  

It's All Fleeting

(Written July 2005)

The air is thick and misted with salt from the ocean.  Heavy laden as it is, it is still cooler, much cooler, than inland.  The sun is just going down.  Colors of the sky deepen and get richer by the minute...almost seconds.  The sky somehow appears more dense.  A small plane passes over head.  I wave my arms in an over exaggerated ‘Hello,’ making the kids do the same.  From time to time, a pilot will wave back by rocking the planes wings side to side... it makes for an exhilarating moment.  Try as I might, I can’t get this pilot to return the greeting.

Fall is here

Two squirrels, with tails as fluffy and fat as can be, chase each other around a tree trunk.  Faster and faster they go... round and round, on that invisible Candy Cane pathway.

Their bodies elongated, outstretched, dart like, to gain speed advantage and nix any figurative and/or literal tailwinds. 

No doubt an acorn, or misplaced foraged nut, prompted this squabble.  Their raspy, barking, chatter-chat echoed all around the tree.  On one of those ‘orbits’ I must have been spotted, for each took refuge in an overhead limb, clicking their protests from behind the first of Autumns leaves.  

Fall is in the air.  A passing breeze, firmed the notion.  The tree released a few of its personal confetti, which pirouetted and danced its way to the ground below.   A mosaic carpet of what once was, laid at its foot.  

This is officially my favorite season.  The stains of Mother Earth bleeding out before mine eyes, in this artful living palette, magically embodies my soul.  I love it when she shows off!

Screwed.

Written many years ago... Posting it today was  prompted by the bug my 'little darling' thought she killed on her way into a voice lesson.  (So much for focusing on her lesson...)

Charlee walked up to me with a distraught face.  In her hands was the old fashioned jelly jar I gave her to collect bugs.  I found it at Dee’s.  Of course, it originally had jelly in it.  Blueberry.  Actually the best blueberry jelly I have ever tasted.  The jar was just part of an overall customer enticing plan... which worked.  I bought the jelly.

The jar now has holes in the lid.  It has already housed a number of inhabitants... and I for one, can’t wait for those wonderful summer nights when the fire flies fill our yard.  The nostalgic picture I have in my mind includes these very jars.

But for the moment, Charlee held her jar, not with joy and enlightenment, but with sorrow.  She handed it to me and asked me to look closer.  I started looking for the flying ant we had caught earlier. Thankfully, it wasn’t a termite as originally thought.  Then I reminded her, and myself, that we let the ant go.  ‘No’ She corrected me.  ‘Look, on the cap.’  I turned the cap over and saw, caught in the threaded rings, the remains of something. I t was no longer recognizable.  This was not good.  Charlee never kills anything.  We even have a hard time when it comes to mosquitos.  It wasn’t until last summer that she let us kill them.  Now, as I tried to figure out what I was looking at, she started to sulk. She was waiting for me to say something.  I knew she wanted me to tell her the bug was okay, but that was not going to happen.  There was no chance for this bug.  My silence was telling her all she needed to know. The bug was squished.

Charlee walked away.  She didn’t say a word.  Neither did I.  She gets very upset when anything suffers or dies.  She came back and asked me to please take the bug off the cap.  She didn’t want to see what she had done, the visual reminder was too much for her.  As well, she wanted her jar back.  She still didn’t say anything, however, she was way too solemn.

I figured I would just let her work thru this in her own way.  It is one of life’s little lessons.  One that is better learned on a bug than any other alternatives.

A few minutes later, I searched her out.  She was sitting quietly.  I asked ‘How are you doing?  Are you okay?’  She looked at me with a quivering bottom lip, her eyes giving away the pain she was going through.  I felt so bad for her.  I know this is about a bug, but her pain was real.  How my daughter became so compassionate and empathetic is beyond me.  But here she was.  Now what!?I was at a loss as to how to console her.  As I stood there, she could bear no more.  The tears began to fall, and with each one she spoke.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt it!  And I killed it.  I never killed anything.  Now I did!  I killed it!  The POOR bug.  It was a beautiful beetle.  I shouldn’t have picked it up with the cap!  Why did I have to do that?!’

She was so upset.  Part of me was smiling, because my daughter struck me as so loving and sweet. Here she was crying over the death of a bug.  No bug has ever been so mourned.  In actuality this was a lucky bug.  Oh, to be so loved by such a wonderful human being.

‘Charlee I don’t know what to say.  You didn’t mean to do it.  Sometimes things happen that we can’t help.  Maybe it was sick or dead already.’

I was trying anything...

‘Mommy, I killed the bug. It was alive. Its legs were moving. I saw them, I looked.’  Major emphasis on the ‘I.’  I believed her.  After all, Charlee is quizzical when it comes to nature.  We just got finished with butterflies and moths... now were onto flying ants and, apparently, beetles.  Each creature requires a Google search.  We find out where it lives, what it eats, how long it lives... The butterflies only lived for a few weeks.  So we kept them for two, Charlee’s orders.  ‘We can’t keep them their entire life in a cage.  We will watch them for half their life, then let them go so they can fly around and see the world.’  She waved her hands in the air, indicating her hope for her butterfly’s beautiful dancing flight. ‘Maybe even meet a friend and make babies...’ It was fun when release day finally came.  I bet no one was more happy than the butterfly, but it was a close tie.

‘Honey, whatever happened to the bug, it’s over. He isn’t in any more pain.’  I thought - hoped - this would end her sympathetic suffering... but all she did is look at me as though I was ridiculous and crazy.  How could I not understand what this bug went through!?  In an attempt to fully impress upon me, the full magnitude of what was suffered, she looked straight into my eyes and wailed ‘MOM, IT WAS SCREWED!!!’

I tried really hard to keep her pain in mind... however, the fact that the bug ‘was screwed’ was an understatement, and so totally out of the mouths of babes.  I had to walk away so she would not see me choking back the laughter.  I am a horrible mother..... emphasis on the ‘I’.

For Naomi...

Flash back.  February 2009.

I am on one of my missions to de-stress and get some exercise.  My mind is wrapped up in thought.  If only I could be successful in fixing all my woes on this, my walking meditation... why won’t all the answers come right when you want them...?

My conversation is interrupted, “Nancy?!”  Okay I say ‘conversation,’ though it’s just me talking to myself.

I looked up to see a beaming smile radiating from the car window.  A woman’s voice spoke again, “Nancy?  Is that you?!”  I slowed my pace and tried to squint beyond the suns glare to see more clearly... as if squinting would help my failing memory issues...

“It’s Naomi!  Do you remember me?  I used to live here...”  She pointed to the home she used to live in.

“Do I remember you?!”  I laughed at her question... and was thankful that the pieces came together so succinctly.  Of course I remembered her, and her sisters, and growing up with our backyards butting up to each other.

What a flashback!  We spent an hour chit-chatting away.  We covered all the do-you-remember-when’s we could think of.  We giggled, and shared, and re-lived, and caught up... life had happened between the time the Mastrogiacomo’s moved and today... sadly death had happened in that span as well.  (Her sister Gina died in 2001, and my Dad died in 2002.  Both too soon!)

It is unthinkable that we - and by ‘we’ I mean those of us that are left behind to deal with these unintended departures - go on.  

But we do... and here we were... together again.

Neighborhoods from yesteryear seem so removed from today’s day and age.  Back then, kids left the house in the morning and were not seen, nor heard from, till dinner time.  My mother - who was ‘blessed’ with amazing vocal capabilities, that somehow cut through airwaves - would call out our side door to beckon her little ones home.  Should we not have heard, the neighbors surely did.  A virtual game of telephone would ensue, and we soon got the message.  Mom was calling, time to go home.

My sisters, Barbara and Lisa, and the Mastrogiacomo girls, Kim, Naomi, Gina and Amy ~ along with the rest of the neighborhood brood ~ played for hours.  We were 'The Neighborhood Family.'  Removed was a blood line, but no denying, we lived our lives and grew up together.  

My first memory of our new neighbors stills stands out.  It was Christmas time...  Lisa and I found ourselves in their living room staring at our first live Christmas Tree.  Go figure... we never had a live tree.  Every December a box would come out of the attic, and Dad would give the orders to separate and categorize the ‘branches.’  He would hold out his arm as we placed the next requested piece in his hand.  An hour or so later... Waa Laa... we had our tree.  There was no aroma, other than the dust from the box... There was no pine needles to clean up, just a few shattered Christmas balls and some malfunctioning Christmas lights.  Seeing a real tree bewildered us.  Don’t ask me why... it just did.  We stood there in amazement, taking it all in.  Lisa pondered her mental images, “It doesn’t look like a real tree?”  As though her young mind had comparisons to go on.  I tried to shush her, and reassure her that it was real.  She reached out and touched a limb.   “Wow.”  Indeed it was real, we thought our new neighbors were loaded.  How could they get a new live tree every year?  The moment passed, and we ran up the stairs to continue playing.

Now every year at Christmas time, as I open ‘the box’ (Frank is allergic to pine...) and instruct my own children to separate and categorize the ‘branches,’ I think of that moment.  It’s one of my many portholes connecting me to my memories.  

Actually, I must admit, it began before the boxed tree.  When I grew up and had a family - and my own home - my choice of tree was real... a la Mastrogiacomo.   It was then, that I experienced the full plethora of this ritual... the crisp snowy air, the fire burning in a nearby 55 gallon drum, the large round white light bulbs strung from post to post glowing over our heads, the variety of aromatic trees to choose from... Frank and I with our kids in tow, would walk between the pyramids, on dirt path isles, searching for our perfect tree...  and I thought of my neighbors... 

It wasn’t until Frank insisted I was trying to purposely torture him... this as he sniffled, scratched and was near blinded from rubbing his itchy eyes raw.  (Seriously, people... this allergy stuff is for the birds.  On top of pine, he is allergic to chocolate, nuts, and coconut.  Should he ever really piss me off, it’s been suggested that I could stuff an Almond Joy in his mouth and beat him with a pine branch... but no worries.  Frank is safe....... for now... ;)  The shedding pine needles and family cat  ~ who was thrilled to have her very own tree to climb,  and knock down ~ helped the decision along.  Artificial tree it is.  

I am always amazed by what I call, ‘memory portholes.’  We all have them... you know, the little things that remind us  and send us back in time to a day, a moment, a person... Naomi and I spoke about Butterflies... this the 'porthole,' or believed to be medium, in which Gina visits her loved ones.  I could relate, as I believe my father visits us through birds... (I admit, I am crazy.  Certifiable.)  

When Naomi and I reconnected, I sent her a few stories I had written about the kids.  To my delight, she requested more... I sent her a link to a web-site where I have a gallery of photos and stories.   (http://www.muddlemaster.com/myissues/index.html)  As well, I sent her the web-site I set up for my Dad, where she actually posted to the Guestbook.  (www.charliedodge.com)  I chuckled as she chided the ‘ugly chain link fence’ that separated our yards...  I didn’t have the heart to tell her, I still have that rickety old fence.  (said in a sheepish tone...;)  The forsythias and honey suckle grow rampant on it every year.  It proves to be my makeshift trellis.  Aside from that, removing it would prove to be a nightmare... following in the footsteps of that old domino effect adage... That old fence is intertwined through the big tree (the one that was a mere twig when we were kids...) it’s holding up the back wall of my rock garden, and on top of it all - replacing it would be a small fortune... one I would have to take on for the sake of my lovely dog, Toots.

Naomi emailed me again at about 3 am... and then called the next day.  She went on about my stories and that she had not been able to stop reading.  This was music to my ears, as I’m a want-to-be writer.  Having someone read, and actually enjoy, my ‘stuff’ completes the process.  Having no time to catch-up on everything... this was also an awesome way to fill in the gaps.

Today it seems only fitting that I sit here and write something for Naomi.  I wish she was here to read it.  I think she might like to know that it is she that inspired me to hit the keyboard once again...................  Sadly, she died March 6th. 

Two of my childhood, neighborhood family members are gone.  So too, is my Dad.  I don’t want to believe any of it.  How can this be?!  

Life passes us by... and then it just passes?!  I am bewildered.  

Many years ago, before my husband and I were even an item, he pointed out that -

“The greatest gift any of us have to offer is that of time.”  

How true!!  

Time to spend, time to share, time to create memories that live on... Every passing moment is a turned page...  and if I can have anything to do with it, there will be a lot of literal pages to live on beyond my own existence.  

I pay tribute to Naomi, and to all the loved ones lost to the great heavenly abyss.  I feel your presence.  I know you are there.  I will continue, until I can no longer.  Thank You for your precious time, that you share so beautifully... for the memories you helped create.  

You will not be forgotten!

Naomi Mastrogiacomo Barone ~ 10/18/1960 - 03/06/2012