Fog

It was foggy in the night. I could tell before the sun even rose. Somehow the darkness was thick looking- near, not so deep. It remained foggy all day. It has been cold lately, with heavy frosts each morning. But was warmer today, hence the fog. At the intervals that I sat rocking the baby, I noticed it thicker, thinner, foggy in the rain, foggy in this part and then later in that. 

As the light waned this evening, I watched it blow in gusts across the upper hay field. It would seep along until everything was ghostly. Then it would blow off. Later waves of it would roll along. As I snuggled my son while he slipped off to sleep, I watched the undulating moisture as bats circled and swooped above it, marveling at the sight as the light faded and the mists drifted.  

McCormick's Creek State Park

Today some of the children still have fevers. Coughing, sneezing, running noses, watering eyes, and sore throats linger. Even the baby is snorky, snotty, and miserable. So there will be no family outing today, which is too bad. It will be in the mid-fifties, and the sun is currently shining (although it's 32 degrees fahrenheit still.) 

The falls at McCormick's Creek State Park after a heavy rain

Of late, we have enjoyed the occasional picnic and hike at McCormick's Creek State Park on Sunday afternoons. It boasts a pretty little falls, a limestone-bottom creek, small caves, and wooded ravines and ridges. There are of course other amenities, but we just like to hike and take in the scenery.

I'm bringing up the rear with the baby in a front carrier.

One of our favorite trails follows the shelving limestone-bottom creek. After rains it is very treacherous due to all of the slippery moss and algae and higher water. Even in dry weather there are many loose stones and boulders to traverse. 

The water is very low and the stones are dry in this picture.

But the views are wonderful. The sides of the valley are often limestone bluffs in which there are small caves. 

The water is a little high in this picture.

Everything is wooded, shaded, and lovely. Geodes abound, as do fossils and ferns. 

There are even smaller waterfalls, like the one below. 

And the springs that empty into the creek are also lovely.

The downside is that when the trail leaves the creek, there is a giant wooden staircase that climbs out of the valley. This is really a good thing, as the loose sides of the gully would be difficult to traverse indeed. But this hike is not for those with poor eyesight, limited mobility, or lung/heart problems. 

This about half of the staircase.

Morning Musings

This morning I sat rocking and nursing the baby, wondering how much longer I would get these moments of closeness and relative quiet. It's a bittersweet time, when your child begins to transition from baby to toddler. Although only eight months, this little one is endlessly driven to be vertical and to walk. Already he refuses to nurse more and more each day, frustrated by the lack of view that it subjects him to, and the fact that he has to be relatively still. It probably hurts him a little with his top teeth coming in too. He now prefers the endless variety of new tastes, textures, and smells of "big people food." Besides, he can munch on a bit of something AND scurry around at the same time! Of course he is making up for his limited daily nursing by nursing much more at night. This is frustrating and exhausting, but knowing that all too soon this phase of his life will be gone and I'll miss his little baby self gets me through these over-tired, sleep-deprived days.

Anyway, as I sat thinking such thoughts, I noticed a large hawk sitting on the newly dead tulip poplar across the upper hay field. The sun was shining brightly, just peeking over the tree line, illuminating the light feathers of its breast and under-wings when it moved. I'm sure that's why it had chosen that particular spot to preen in. It went about his business seemingly oblivious of the smaller birds who, making their normal morning rounds, flew up to the tree intending to land, only to suddenly veer sharply away when they sighted the bird of prey. I wondered if it was the hawk who watched me empty the dryer, if it was the hawk who my preschooler thought was an owl when he spied it on the board fence one day, or the hawk who hunted the crow that early, gray morning way back when. Whatever the case, it was not hunting, just regally soaking up the sun.

Throughout the morning, the frost slowly receded across the hay, melting as it's protective shadows disappeared with the climbing sun. Through the screen porch door off of the laundry room, I saw the hawk as I switched loads. I noticed it out the kitchen window as I filled the teapot. I looked for it through the dining room window when I cleared off the breakfast things. I glanced at it when I stood in the stone room next to my oldest son, after discussing the schoolwork for the day. Surprisingly, the hawk remained on the same branch, sunning himself for over an hour. (It was 29 degrees Fahrenheit outside after all!) And when I began to take for granted that it would be there, it was gone.

Such is life. On days when all of my strength is sapped from wrestling with the baby, walking him around, catching him as he falls, holding him on my hip and keeping him away from the stove with one arm while I cook with the other, etc., washing endless loads of dishes, laundry and diapers for a family of seven... during my evenings when I stay up until the middle of then night in order to clean up from the daily bomb and to prepare for the next day... at night when I spend more time in the rocking chair than in my bed... every morning when I wake up feeling worse than I felt when I laid down the night before, when I scrape myself out of bed wincing in pain and stumble to the door of my room, I remember that my birds will soon be gone too. Or maybe it will be me that will be gone. Maybe I'll be a "looney bird." In any case, my poorly made point is that this phase is just that, a phase. Soon this sunlit "hour" of my life will be over. The baby will walk. The kids will be grown and leave the nest one by one...

In the mean time, I hope to bask in the little moments of sunshine when the warm and fuzzy-headed baby nestles close in my arms (even if it is three in the morning), when the preschooler nearly bowls me over with an unasked for hug (despite the the fact that he leaves a peanut butter smear on my shirt and makes me spill my drink), when the kindergartener reads her first "big kid book" and looks up at me with pride (and the remains of frustrated tears in her eyes), when that huge grin spreads on the face of my fourth grader upon learning that she got a part in a musical that requires her to be on stage for every act (as well as her attendance at long, disorganized rehearsals at inconvenient times), when my freshman in high school proudly shows off his latest computer program (that he ignored his other tasks and his family for in order to create.) Life is short and bittersweet, and I want to savor it all. I don't want to take one minute of it for granted.

Sunday Drive

(double click to enlarge)

This is the view of a pasture just up the road from my place. I drove by it on Sunday. On a whim, I captured this picture from the front seat of my car with the camera on my phone. The birds were wheeling. The sun was shining. Color was just beginning to touch the trees. It was gorgeous. I wish I could just freeze time for a brief interval when I'm hit with a moment like this. 

I have that feeling a lot, actually. I guess I'm just greedy and want to hold on to those brief moments of contentment for a while longer. And really, that's what my photography is all about. I try to capture those fleeting moments as life races by. I know that my over-tired, stressed self will soon forget that second of bliss and I'll be bogged down in the mire of daily life. So I unobtrusively capture what I can and savor it later, marveling at and enjoying the moments again.  

We've added a new tradition to our family's evening prayers. Instead of wrapping up in our usual way with each of us adding a petition, we now add an petition AND a thanksgiving. We're trying to foster grateful hearts in order to combat the naturally demanding natures of our children. It's been very good for us to focus each night on the things that we (and those we come into contact with) have been blessed with. It's amazing how hard it is to narrow it down to just one thing a day that I'm thankful for. Right now my heart is overflowing with gratitude for the tremendous gift of living in a place of natural beauty.

Rural Strays

We came home from Mass last Sunday only to pull up short on our drive because there was a cow and calf standing on it. Usually it's deer we stop for. And although deer are damaging enough (one leapt into the side of our last vehicle once and left a sizable dent) it is a little more disconcerting to come to an abrupt halt for a 600 to 1000 lb. cow who is protecting her baby.

My husband had his cell phone with him and promptly called our neighbors. These were undoubtedly their cows. In the meantime, the cattle got spooked, and the calf slipped into the lower hay field through the gate which was ajar, and the cow barreled onto the road on the other side of the wire fence. So, as they were on the move, we were in our Sunday duds, there was no traffic on the road, and the owners were on their way, we continued up the long lane to our house.

Those who have been following this blog since last summer know that in these parts, it is not out of the ordinary to have stray animals wander on to your property. I am referring to a specific case about a horse. (For the back-story, refer to these ancient posts in order: Horsin' Around, Gift Horse, Sorry Charlie, Charlie, et al. , Horse Trading, and The Horse Saga.) We've had stray cows several times too. (Here's one example: Round 'Em Up.) And this phenomenon is not restricted to this locale. At our old place we had stray cows a number of times, and even a stray horse, not to mention the stray rabbit, numerous cats, and wandering dogs (one blind). Sadly, we've even been a contributor to the issue, having once lost a whole herd of cows (The Cows are Loose.)

In the city it's the neighbor's cats digging in your flower bed and chasing birds off the feeder. It's a stray dog pooping in your front yard. In the rural world, it's the neighbor's bull in the road, cows in your hay lot, sheep bleating from your woods, or a horse rearing at passing cars on the road out front. It's packs of hounds yelping and howling as they follow the scent of some critter and tear through your property.

Wandering dogs are so common that I think we're the only folks for many miles who do not own one. And most people don't just own one, hence the groups of them. Our closest neighbors currently own four and have had a couple of others there in the last few years. And my husband was chatting with one of our neighbors from across the road as my son mowed her yard the other day. In the course of the conversation, he learned that her daughter and son-in-law who live on the same property currently own 14 dogs. (It used to be 15, but recently one was "lost" to a coyote.) Her daughter breeds them I guess, but must sell them far more slowly than she raises them. They roam the place (and sometimes ours) and go in and out of their house. They're sort of like the "Bumpus' hounds" from The Christmas Story, I guess. Only we don't swear or live by Lake Michigan.