Generosity of Friends: Lemons from Afar (Photo: Geo Davis)
Picture perfect lemons arranged in an enormous clay bowl. Layers of largess. The sweet tart citrus was a gift from a recent friend married to my former student of 25+ years. The ceramic vessel, wheel thrown by my godfather, OMC, in the 1970s and gifted to my mother was recently regifted to Susan and me. Perhaps the generosity of friends and family is one of the essential ingredients for what makes a house a home?
Lemons from Afar
Picked in January in California from his parents’ tree; packed into a duffle with clothes, toothbrush, and a few stems and leaves; gifted so nonchalantly four dozen lemons so ripe, so fragrant. Smiling… “The silver lining — my clothes smell fresh and citrusy,” he laughed.
Such abundance invites further generosity, so Susan and I have been regifting lemons to others. It’s super satisfying to extend the ripple effect, the generosity of friends multiplied. Especially with a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade!
Slightly Off-kilter: West Elevation, Interior Structural Cladding (Photo R.P. Murphy)
Another milestone. Interior structural cladding of the west wall is now complete. This will please the engineer. And this, in turn, pleases me. Even when the photograph, subtly askew, causes me to question perspective, to reach out for the countertop, steadying myself. It’s as if I’ve been sailing and, stepping ashore, I need to pause a moment, swap sea legs for earthier pegs. Or a touch too much grog at lunch?!?!
Slightly off-kilter, listing and ungravitied, far-flung photographs.
A quick post today to document yet another important step forward. I actually have several other posts in the works, meatier posts, but completion so far is eluding me. Something to do with perspective, I think. Or proximity, perhaps. Tomorrow, I’ll make more headway. For now I will yield to the listing and bid adieu, conclude this pre-Friday the 13th slightly off-kilter…
When the hurly-burly and the kaleidoscopic cascade of commitments collapse into one another (and seeing through the turmoil requires a periscope) life hands us little reminders to catch our breath.
Reminders like Carley, sleeping at my feet in the reading nook outside my study.
Daydream Retrieving
Unplug. Reset. (Source: Geo Davis)
That last line of the haiku, “daydream retrieving”, is a timely tickle too. Perhaps the perfect mindfulness meditation for hammocking on a Friday afternoon. And that, a hammock, is another one those little reminders. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Daydream!
Enjoy your Friday evening. Revitalize over the weekend. And squeeze in a nap. Or three.
Plain as cuspid skull, winter’s lumbering bandit, furred, furtive, no more.
Sometime poems, even haiku, compose themselves. Or nearly so.
When I reached out to ask if anyone recognized the skull that appeared mysteriously behind the carriage barn recently, I received several helpful responses. Joel (@mountain_man_fur) and Heather (@evergreen_lakeside_living) were the most prompt and the most decisive. Raccoon. The skull was once the proud noggin of a raccoon (Procyon lotor). Some quick research cross referencing visuals, and I agreed.
This sent me digging back into our trail cam photos and videos from last fall, winter, and spring.
Rosslyn Raccoon (Source: Geo Davis)
I included a mini video on Instagram. Portly raccoon swaggering, lumbering into and past the camera.
At root, this is a memento mori, of sorts. A reminder of the fleeting gift of mortality. Won’t dwell in that further now. Instead I’ll close with the first visual to confirm the raccoon hypothesis.
I find something whimsical and intriguing about looking through o-o-old windows. Antique panes of glass. Wavy window glass that subtly distorts and dream-ifies the view.
Another more Apollonian observer might consider this riffled reality discomfiting, unsettling. But wonder wells within me when grandfatherly glass slumps and swirls. It’s like a watercolor. An impressionist painting. A mirage. It invites the viewer’s curiosity and creativity to complete the image. To co-create the illusion.
Wavy window glass,
swirling, curling, rippling glass,
my undulant muse.
— Geo Davis
I shared this sentiment more succinctly here:
https://www.instagram.com/p/CS4NqFvrpG9/
The image appeared more playful in small format on my phone. More watery. Less geometric, the grid of the screen secondary to the semicircular whirl of once molten glass. But, akin to the impetus for this post, the discrepancy between smartphone and desktop images can be surprising and unpredictable. So rather than retracting the coupling of my “Wavy Window Glass Haiku” with a pic poorly illustrative of the idea I’d wished to convey, I’ll tease it bit further here. I’ll try to dilate the notion enough to demonstrate the relevance to Rosslyn Redux.
Wavy Window Glass Muse
From my earliest encounters with this property, Rosslyn emerged as something more than the name of a few old buildings on an historic waterfront. Rosslyn loomed larger than bricks and mortar and slate and sagging floors. Rosslyn was a real and overarching character — an anthropomorphic entity akin to a living, breathing human being — that both Susan and I both recognized and admired.
We’ve often joked that Rosslyn seduced us.
Yes, projection.
But you know what? She did. Rosslyn seduced us.
From the get-go we both yielded to this benevolent force. We were smitten, willingly and unreservedly. And our bearings blurred. The reason(s) we purchased the property, uprooted ourselves from Manhattan, transplanted our small family of three (Susan, Tasha, and your faithful scribe) to Essex began to evolve. Our objectives wavered — no, more like shimmered the way a mirage does, at once enticing and confusing — and our vision meandered from the clarity we’d identified at the outset. Rosslyn swept us into a kaleidoscopic adventure as burgeoning and unpredictable as it was engrossing.
A decade and a half after we purchased Rosslyn, we’re still in her thrall despite an original timely of 2-4 years. That’s right, at the outset we saw this chapter of our lives as a tidy interval. A recuperative ellipse. Ha!
In virtually all respects our love affair with Rosslyn has enriched our marriage and lives among family and friends. She has provided generously and faithfully for us. And we consider her a being, a member of our small family (Susan, Carley, Rosslyn, and yours truly).
Where exactly am I going with this?
While I won’t put words in Susan’s mouth (nor Carley’s, for that matter) I’m 100% certain that Rosslyn became my muse. Yes, I’m proposing manse as muse. And a beguiling and mysterious muse, I might add.
Rosslyn’s wavy window glass serves as suitable symbol for muse who wove her way into our lives.
I’ve likened peering through old glass to looking at a watercolor. The image adorning the top of this post (and an idea I’ll revisit fleetingly in tomorrow’s blog post, “Backcountry Barns”) play with watercoloring’s romantic expressionism. In my opinion, watercolor is compelling in large part due to its evocative, emotional appeal. Less duty-bound to verisimilitude, I find that a well executed watercolor is an invitation to wonder, an invitation to collaborate with the artist, and to enter into a protean partnership with creator and creation. Watercolor is less object than lens, less product than process.
Much like her wavy window glass, Rosslyn as muse has welcomed whimsy into our journey and relationship with her. As such she’s been an immensely inspiring and encouraging mentor. She’s encouraged us to see home and family and community differently. She’s helped us reimagine our relationships with all three.
I’ve distilled too little and wandered too much in this post, so I’ll curtail my mental roving. In closing I’d like to share a couple of useful snippets.
Hand-Blown Glass
If you’re unfamiliar with wavy glass, the simplest explanation for it’s unusual character is that it was hand-blown.
For years, the only glass available was hand-blown glass… A local glass worker would blow the glass on a rod and spin it into discs which when cooled could be cut into small pieces. (Source: The Craftsman Blog)
Pre-industrial, hand made glass retained interesting artifacts unique to its fabrication process. Here’s a more detailed explanation.
Wavy glass is the “cool-looking” glass commonly found in older window panes, doors, and furniture built prior to the early 1900s.
Generally, the further back in history you go, the wavier the glass is. As craftsmen improved their methods over time, the wave and distortion became less apparent.
Early manufacture of glass involved single sheets of glass manufactured by a craftsman by blowing through a tube, resulting in tiny bubbles called seeds.
As a result, glass produced in the 1700s tends to have more distortion than glass produced in the 1800s. In the early 1900s, increasing industrial advances led to machine-produced glass. This glass, while less wavy, still had imperfections and was widely used in the United States cities in the early 1900s. (Source: Pioneer Glass)
You’ll never look at an old pane of wavy window glass the same way again!
A couple of weeks ago I shared another walking stick photograph on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter with this accompanying haiku.
A walking stick and
miniature companion
gossip in the shade.
My walking stick haiku makes more sense if you actually look closely at the photograph.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CDogBYJpIs8/
Can you discern the walking stick’s miniature companion? Is it a spider. Definitely not a yellow garden spider, but I’m not certain if it’s another arachnid or another spidery insect.
The walking sticks were photographed while perching on lawn furniture and a fence posts. Different but not distant locations. There’s another notable difference. Or two. Can you spot it/them?
Walking Stick Trivia
Today’s snapshot (the one at the top of this post) appears to be the same variety of walking stick (maybe even the very same bug), but s/he appears to have lost a rear leg. And a green arm or half of a pair of Pinocchio proboscises?
Unfortunate. Losing limbs unlikely offers a survival advantage. And yet this walking stick remains agile despite the impairment.
I realize I’ve never shared a “Friend or Foe” post about walking sticks, so I’m adding it to the already endless punch list of future posts. It’ll be the perfect excuse to learn a little more about this bizarrely beautiful bug.
Phasmids, Phasmatodea, Phasmatoptera…
It turns our that walking sticks (aka “ghost insects”?!?!) are somewhat phantasmagorical, er, rather Phasmatodea. You with me?
The Phasmatodea (also known as Phasmida, Phasmatoptera or Spectra) are an order of insects whose members are variously known as stick insects, stick-bugs, walking sticks, or bug sticks. They are generally referred to as phasmatodeans, phasmids, or ghost insects. (Source: Wikipedia)
Walking sticks perplexing and intriguing. And, in a slightly bamboo way, they are beautiful. Well, at least the ones I’m sharing in this post. I admit that I know little about these quirky insects, so it’s a time to pursue curiosity down the proverbial rabbit hole (or bug hole?!?!) It’s time to learn more about the Phasmatodea…
You can file this next tidbit in your quirky-to-the-point-of-being-cool folder. (You have one of those, right? Right!) If you think that walking sticks — as well as other “stick and leaf insects” in the phasmid species such as Chitoniscus sarrameaensis — are worth more than just a fleeting glance, I suggest you check out Phasmatodea.com.
The world’s leading website about phasmids. (Source: Phasmatodea.com)
Phasmatodea.com… started as a project funded by the phasmid experts, Oskar Conle and Frank Hennemann, with the clear aim to provide an extensive source of information, photos and possibility for the identification of species of this fascinating insect order, not only for scientists but also for breeders and anyone interested in these insects. Now we’re the world’s leading website about phasmids, having the largest photographic gallery and the most comprehensive content about this insect order. (Source: www.phasmatodea.com)
Welcome to the wacky, wonder-filled world of walking sticks. Off to learn more, maybe even enough to some day share a a “Friend or Foe: Walking Sticks” post. Stay tuned. Or, better yet, teach me what I need to know before I get gobbled up by a walking bamboo stick. Thanks.
I’d planned on getting the drone up in the air for some aerial photography of the waterfront and deck areas (where we’re planning some maintenance projects). As luck would have it the morning was misty. No, more like pea soup. So I waited. And waited. It burned off a little, but finally I realized it wasn’t going to clear up. I decided to find out what I could photograph despite the less-than-optimal conditions.
The results were not as useful as I’d hoped, but also considerably more interesting than anticipated. More dreamy and evocative. More dramatic. More romantic. In short, a win!
Sometimes it’s just a matter or pivoting priorities, right?
At moments like this that I surrender to poetics. To place. To the poetics of place.
Sometimes poetry and artful images speak more clearly, even more truthfully, than all the analytic blather we’re want to rely upon. Sometimes it’s worth stepping aside and allowing the simplest of ideas and images to tell the story.
Here’s one of the photographs that speaks volumes to me. Hope it says a little something to you as well!
https://www.instagram.com/p/CSWsTAdrIuU/
I find that aerial photography (and drone imaging in general) often deliver surprising results. The perspective is often surprising. As is the beauty. The almost tannic inkyness of the foreground waters (where Rosslyn’s boathouse extends east into Blood’s Bay). The shoreline connection to Lake Champlain‘s Adirondack Coast is as compelling as the relationship to the Adirondack Mountains (and Boquet Mountain in particular) is this hazy midsummer “eye in the sky” snapshot.
Rainbow Resonance, August 18, 2020 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Perhaps a purist will scoff, a musicologist for example, when I hitch a rainbow (a double rainbow) to resonance. But I’ll claim poetic license long enough to sneak past the physics police or whoever else patrols these matters. Rainbow resonance isn’t just a pleasantly alliterative title for this post. It’s an observation. Rainbows — witnessed in person, via image, or in words — resonate. They reverberate. Visual reverberation, visual resonance. I’ll defer to the more scientifically inclined to explain why this phenomenon is true. I’ll simply assert it. Rainbow resonance is real. Spy a rainbow, and you instantly want to convey it through some form of communication.
“Hey, look. A rainbow!”
Or you snap a photo, text it to your beloved.
Maybe you pen a poem or paint a watercolor or compose a song…
On August 18, 2020 I witnessed and romanced this rainbow from Rosslyn’s lawn and then from our waterfront. I snapped a photo and typed a quick haiku. And then I shared them. Rainbow resonance. It’s real.
Rainbow Resonance: Haiku
Here’s the arresting impossibility of a double rainbow distilled into as few words as possible, lest the words occlude the vibrant arcs.
Iris arcing her
opulent salutation
‘tween earth and ether.
Perhaps this is a nod to Pablo Neruda.
Dónde termina el arco iris,
en tu alma o en el horizonte?
Where does the rainbow end,
in your soul or on the horizon?
— Pablo Neruda, Libro de las Preguntas (Book of Questions)
Or perhaps this is just a haiku nodding at a double rainbow…
Rosslyn Rainbow Resonance, August 18, 2020 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Rainbow Reverb: Social Media
Sometimes a thought, image, or video posted onto social media drifts briefly and then vanishes. Short lived. A non event. A message whispered into the chasm, swallowed by the wind and water and a mesmerizing murmuration.
Once in a while a message is timely or touching, a lucky capture, or for some other mysterious reason finds its target. Again and again. Reverberating. Resonant. These moments can be affirming and beautiful.
When I shared the rainbow over Lake Champlain photograph at the top of this post (and below) on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter on August 18, 2020 I was pleasantly surprised with the feedback. I include all three posts as an effort to interweave some of the most compelling comments. Enjoy.
Today’s a day for peach haikus. With blustery storm incoming, our team concerned about balancing inclement weather reports with an ambitious 4-day scope of work, and the sort of bone-deep chill that shivers the bones and shakes the confidence, I propose that we take a micro-vacation. How’s that? Let’s flip the calendar back to sunny August when Rosslyn’s peach trees offered up sun warmed fruit bursting with nectar. A pair of summer-soaked watercolors and a pair of poems just might take the edge off and remind us that similar joys lay ahead. I hope that you enjoy these peach haikus.
Peach Haikus
As I’ve mentioned previously, recent years have drawn me toward the humility and mystery of haiku. Through brevity and minimalism blossoms a microscopic world. An invitation to disconnect from the hurly-burly for a while in order to immerse ourselves in a moment, a fragment. And often that miniature moment actually contains something immense, universal. A bit like gazing into a small drop of water that appears to amplify the world around it like a gnome-scale snow globe. Minus the snow. We’re trying to conjure summer vibes after all.
Summer’s first peaches,
sunshine soaked and siren sweet,
seduce all senses.
— Geo Davis
Peach Haikus (Image: Geo Davis)
Peach Haikus in Mid-December
There’s something decadent about peaches in wintery months. Once upon a time it would have been an impossibility, of course, but in this brave new world it’s possible to purchase peaches year-round, harvested faraway in warmer climes. And yet, no matter how reputable the source, there’s simply no comparing a snow season peach to the fresh-off-the-tree variety we enjoy in mid to late summer. The colors are almost impossibly saturated, and the sweet treacle that drips from lips is an indulgence on par only with fantasies. Even the aroma of a sun soaked peach pulled from the branch is an extravagance. Store bought winter beaches often have no smell at all, or only the subtlest of ghost-smells, like a facsimile transmitted too many times, diluted with each new iteration.
And yet, perhaps, just maybe these images and these peach haikus will conjure for you a recollection so tantalizing that your optimism will rebound, incoming winter will settle into a less ominous perspective, and your enthusiasm for next summer’s fruit will revitalize your spirits. Hope so!
Hankering for a hammock huddle this morning, so I’ll I revisit the photograph I shared on June 6 depicting a herd of hammocks near the orchard. Yes, the color is a little over juiced. And the shadows are dark almost to the point of feeling ominous. Or cozy? But this moment beckons this morning given yesterday’s storm damage. (I’ve included another image below capturing just how close one of the fallen trees came to both the icehouse and the hammock huddle.
Hammock Huddle Haiku
Together apart,
plein air cocoons canopied
beneath maple trees.
— Geo Davis
Pandemic Precursor
While quarantining during the early months of the pandemic Susan and I spent time exploring and experimenting with aspects of our property that we’d never considered before. Or not recently, at least.
Sixteen years have lulled us into habits, ways of living and looking at Rosslyn that have possibly become more confining than we’d realized prior to weeks-on-end of quarantine.
We spent many afternoons and early evenings on the lawn of the abandoned clay tennis court (located west, northwest of the icehouse). It started because the early spring sunsets were best visible from here, but it continued because we discovered a fresh and inviting space and perspective that we’d previously overlooked. And this new vantage, this new ritual catalyzed a shift in our thinking. Wondering, really. We’d inadvertently stumbled upon a liminal space. And the longer we spent hammocking together near the glowing Solo stove fire pit gifted to us by our older nephew, bundling up as the evening grew chill, witnessing another pandemic sunset, the more our conversations and questions raced into exciting new places. Our wondering wandered further and further into liminality.
Transitions. Flux. Liminality. Interstices. Inflection. Evolving… We are awash in transitions! (Source: Transitions)
Three years later we’re navigating a tempest of transformation. But I’m tickling a tangent, so best to stick with our hammock huddle for now.
Ensemble Hammocking
Our earliest ensemble hammocking in this location, back in March or April 2020, was nestled up together in this wooden arc stand.
Pandemic Hammocking 2020 (Source: Geo Davis)
Needless to say, no side-by-side reveal since we were quarantined, and we weren’t super swift with selfies…
We’ve long loved hammocks, stringing them up throughout our property, so it occured to me that it would be fun to create a group of hammocks hanging together in the hopes that soon we’d be able to be joined by friends once again. Recumbent social distancing!
The hammock huddle shown at the top of this post was born. The same is shown here, minus the giant maple tree that used to tower nearby.
Hammock Huddle (Source: Geo Davis)
As it turns out, the hammock roundup has been a hit. For the third season in a row we’ve enjoyed group hammocking among the still adolescent stand of maple trees growing between the tennis court and the orchard.
Yesterday‘s storm damage was distributed throughout our property, and the immense maple that succumbed in the photo stood right next to the hammock huddle. Guided through the forceful blow by some benevolent force, the towering tree exploded onto the ground without damaging the hammocks, the maple trees in which they are suspended, or for that matter any of the adjoining trees save a few branches here and there. It’s remarkable really. Even the gate through which we drive the tractor was unscathed. And, as I pointed out yesterday, if the wind been blowing in the opposite direction, the maple would likely have destroyed the icehouse that we are just beginning to rehabilitate. Instead, we have a new aperture of visible sky this morning and a year’s worth of firewood.
There is much to admire in a mulberry tree. The handsome habit and height. The luxurious leaves. The shady canopy. The concentrated blackberry-esque burst of inky sweetness.
While you may have a fuzzy notion about mulberry wine, there’s a fairly good chance you haven’t actually spied — up close and personal — a mulberry tree or mulberries. So I find when I walk family and friends through Rosslyn’s orchard this time of year, stopping to point out the ripening fruit. If ripe enough to eat, and lately the mulberries have been perfect, almost everyone who tastes the fruit loves the taste. And yet these delicious tree-grown raspberry impersonators are unfamiliar. I wonder why…
I’d like to revisit this perplexing situation in in the future. But now a look at our three trees and a mindful mulberry meditation of sorts. First let’s stand a while beneath one of the mulberry trees, and lifting our gaze up into the shady foliage, our eyes will begin to spy the mulberries hanging like miniature clusters of grapes.
Although I shared this Instagram post yesterday, most of those photos actually date back a couple of weeks. Now the third and last of our mulberry trees is ripening. And it’s raining. So I harken back to sunnier days.
The first two Hardy Mulberry (Morus nigra) trees ripened roughly concurrently. Their fruit is slightly smaller than the Illinois Everbearing Mulberry (Morus rubra) which we (and the birds!) are harvesting now. Despite some potential color confusion with Morus nigra (aka black mulberry), Morus rubra (aka red mulberry), and Morus alba (aka white mulberry, common mulberry, or silkworm mulberry), both of our varieties are ripe when they appear shiny black. The juice within is actually somewhere between scarlet, violet, and midnight. Lips and fingers quickly stain dramatically and persistently, so don’t expect to sneak a snack without getting caught!
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Carley, our year-plus old Labrador retriever manages to stealthily Hoover fallen fruit from the grass, at once an efficient and stain free means of harvesting. I’ve yet to master this technique myself, so my fingertips often belie my gluttony for the rest of the day.
Mulberry Maturation
Our mulberry trees are about nine or ten years old at this point, and they’re growing tall enough to actually evoke treeness rather than nursery stock or dwarf stock. As the trees have aged they’ve set heavier and heavier crops of fruit each summer. Given the approximately 15-18′ height of all three trees, the birds are the primary beneficiaries. We harvest what we can reach and leave the rest to our avian neighbors.
When the fruit first emerge from the mulberry flowers, they are green and covered in small black “threads” left from the blooms. These fall off as the mulberries ripen first to white, then pink, then red, then purple, and finally a deep lavendar-black. At this point they are plump, glossy, and 100% ready to eat!
It’s time for my mulberry meditation, but first a gallery (in case the Instagram post isn’t working.)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation
At the outset I mentioned a mindful mulberry meditation, and I hinted at the vague familiarity that I and others might have with wine fermented from the juice of this beneficent tree. That time has come.
“I put everything I can into the mulberry of my mind and hope that it is going to ferment and make a decent wine. How that process happens, I’m sorry to tell you I can’t describe.”
John Hurt
“Huzzah!” I’m grateful indeed to Mr. Hurt for bundling up such creative cleverness. Both bacchanalian and theatrical, Dionysian and persistently mysterious… I’m struck by the many ways this metaphorical explanation approximates the whimsical adventure of redacting Rosslyn. I’ve turned often enough to my own compost and gardening metaphors to obliquely and insufficiently describe my own process. I’m essaying — albeit in unpredictable fits and starts — to distill our wonder-filled fifteen year affair with Rosslyn into the sort of package that might be handed on to others.
What in the world do I mean?
Good question. And if the answer were as good, as tidy and clear, I’d have wrapped up and ventured on to a new quest long ago. I haven’t. Not yet.
However I am feeling closer to clarity, closer to a tidy conclusion in recent years. Even recent months.
There’s much to unpack here (to borrow a euphemism from contemporary talking heads), and I’m doubling down on my resolve to package Rosslyn and pass her on. The property. The experience. The story.
It’s premature to say more now, but know that Susan and I have begun to wonder and daydream about a future in which Rosslyn has been fully fledged. It’s complicated. It’s bittersweet. And it’s still premature.
We’re not quite ready to say goodbye to her yet, far from it actually, so our leave-taking is not imminent. But it’s out there on the horizon, and together we’re brainstorming and beginning the process of letting go, of passing her on. Some day. Concurrently I’m revisiting the images and notes and sketches and letters and poems, allowing them to ferment and hopefully made a decent wine from a decade and a half of life and memories and artifacts.
Before my words wander too far afield, I will close this wayward reflection with my mulberry backstory.
A long, long time ago, at least four decades, maybe more, I first tasted mulberries at an auction. It was midsummer, just like now, and my family was attending an outdoor auction on an old farm that might or might not have been abandoned at the time. I don’t recall for certain, but I suspect the property had been vacant for a while.
I actually don’t remember much about the day except that I came across a grade school classmate who lived in the town nearby. She introduced me to mulberries.
A towering tree stood at the gabled end of an ancient barn, and the ground beneath was covered with fallen fruit. In short order we’d climbed up into the branches to feast on ripe mulberries. We spent the rest of the afternoon high in the mulberry tree savoring (to the point of achy stomachs) the jammy black mulberry deliciousness. With the auctioneer’s singsong soundtrack and enough mulberries to bloat our bellies and stain our clothes, the hours melted deliciously into the sort of nostalgic motherlode that still brings me contentment in midlife.
My decision to plant mulberry trees at Rosslyn half a lifetime later was rooted in that sweet syrupy memory.
We returned home from a heat-indexed 102° Essex Day for a languid lunch — quiche and garden-to-table Caprese salad (with aromatic purple basil) followed by watermelon — under the shady American Linden.
Lunch under the Linden (Source: Susan Bacot-Davis)
A subtle breeze freshened just enough to wick the perspiration from our necks, and for a moment, it was perfection. Sated. Shaded. Contemplating watersports…
Suddenly mobile phones interrupted the postprandial lethargy with rain warnings. On cue, the sky darkened. The scorching heat dipped a few degrees. We hastened to clear lunch, and just in time because now… It. Is. Pouring!
Essex Day deluge (Source: Geo Davis)
Retreating indoors to wait out the shower, my mind somersaults into Essex Days past, to the witty words of my late friend and longtime Crater Club summer resident, Jeff Moredock. Almost a decade prior he re-dubbed the longtime summer street festival from which we’ve just returned, “Excess Day”. And for me it will remain such forevermore.
Excess Day
Excess in the Village of Essex
On the eve of Excess Day Husbands and wives Can be heard Bickering back and forth Trying to determine whose excess Must leave the house
Husbands cling to old rods and reels Wives insist they need their curling irons Small children hide balls and dolls They haven’t played with in years Dogs hide their worn-out chew toys
But when dawn breaks on Excess Day The sidewalks are lined with the Detritus of daily life Fishing reels curling irons balls And dolls and much much more
The crowds sweep down the street In search of bargains treasures or Just something they don’t have And don’t need or so say Husbands to wives And wives to husbands
By mid-day prices begin to drop As the crowds begin to thin Books bird houses bar stools Pottery paintings and more Fly off the sidewalks and Before long the day is ended
One family’s excess is now another Family’s excess and sure to be seen Next year on the Other side of the street
