Jessica M. Collette's Blog, page 84

Birds of a Feather…

Birds of a feather,

Always flock together.

Then there’s the different;

The unique.

Natures design,

Tweaked and refined;

Turning something common,

Expected;

Into one,

Authentically sublime.

A mix of familiar;

New.

Brown and white feathers mix;

An original hue.

Like all rare sights,

Our privilege is fleeting.

To the air, in a rush;

Wings flap; Repeating.

A secret, camouflaged;

Hidden by the swarming flock.

They shift; sway as one,

Against the crimson setting sun.

A glint, bright white;

Flashes through a blur of browns.

Each one, consolidated;

Becomes profound.

Birds of a different feather;

Congregate, meld together.

Before they all,

Fade away.

Ten Reasons Why My Dog is Like My Husband

This is my follow up to a prior posting Ten Reasons Why My Dog is Like a Pig. The first list had a few similarities with my husband, so I thought he deserved his own list (such a lucky guy!).

She loves her bike rides.
She smells better after a bath.
Toys…she can never have too many.
She looks good in a big black truck.
She must have a comfortable pillow.
She isn’t soundly sleeping unless she is loudly snoring.
She can’t ignore fallen sticks on the grass.
Roast chicken dinner is her favorite.
She eats too fast and has too much gas.
There is nothing she enjoys more than a roaring fire on a cold day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Pumpkin Story

Life on the vine;

Try to stay in a straight line.

Through the hotness of summer;

We grow through our slumber.

Turning from green to orange;

The animals scurry, begin to forage.

Autumn is here, it’s that time.

We have matured, we’re in our prime.

It will find you, this is the day;

The light spills through the leafy canopy display.

Don’t try to hide;

Rather, invite it inside.

When the sun has set;

Your maker you’ll have met.

Careful hands hone,

A unique expression, all your own.

Newly carved, displaying your true face,

The light escapes from your hollow inner space.

Don’t be afraid;

it’s why you were made.

If you’re open and willing,

Your experience will be utterly fulfilling.

The light expands, it fills a void;

Suddenly, you’re overjoyed.

Your purpose for being;

The bright internal light we’re all seeing.

You’re a glowing face in the dark;

That merely started with a spark.

Don’t try to contain it;

Show your true spirit.

Illuminate the night;

Make all evil take flight.

The Ghost Train

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You will hear it in the distance. The screech of heavy wheels grating over the meandering path of the tracks of steel. With a steady roar, it moves throughout the stillness, sometimes rattling your floor. Until suddenly, a wailing whistle shatters you completely, down to your core. Shortly after it starts, it will cause you great fright, before it abruptly stops… just for tonight.

You’ll come to expect it; it happens every night, its purpose unclear. There is something especially spooky about the ghost train this time of year. The sound of the spectral locomotive travels swiftly and with ease, across the cool, crisp, beguiling autumn breeze.

Some nights, its eerie sounds appear, traveling for miles, before reaching your ears. Other nights its tracks echo and vibrate too near. Peer into your backyard, out into the moonlit clear. The rattle and roll is so loud, you can’t help but think, It must be right here! Again, the whistle blows. The train has passed through once more, moved on to arrive at a station, its location, no one knows.

You’ll learn to expect its passage each night. It’s always the same. It begins in the distance with a bang. Then the engine ignites and the click-clack begins, with a low rumble. Faster, the wheels spin, louder it mumbles. You wonder, Tonight, where will it roam? Am I safe here, at home?

Only a few minutes it lasts, yet you never know how close it will pass. So, pull your blanket up over your mouth and over your nose. Chills will travel from your head to your toes. Hold your eyes shut, squint them up tight. Wait to hear the telling sound of the mighty whistle roar. Then you’ll know it is gone… at least for this night, it is no more.

 

Photo courtesy of Taylor Hunt Freeimages.com

Ten Reasons Why My Dog is Like a Pig

 

So, my dog is like a pig. This is a fact I have not only come to realize over the years, but one I have thoroughly embraced.

Here’s the evidence (in no particular order):

She has a pushed in snout.
She has a squiggly tail.
She has a pot-belly.
She has no fur on her pot-belly.
Her pot-belly is pink with black speckles.
She snorts.
She grunts.
She gobbles down her food in two bites.
She enjoys rolling in the dirt.
She loves to bask in the sun.

It’s a good thing I’ve always found pigs cute. It’s obvious to me now more than ever… I’ve got one!

 

Once a year – fall is here

 

Yes, it is that time of year again. My fellow New Englanders know exactly what I’m talking about. Fall has arrived. There is a crispness in the air that had been missing for the past humid summer months. With the periodic chill felt in the swirling wind, leaves spiral to the ground from the upper branches. They drift down, just a sprinkle at a time right now, but the inevitable downpour of foliage in a cascade of colorful splendor is not far off. The fallen leaves with their brittle burnt paper consistency, crunch under each step, seemingly wherever you walk. They are not an obstacle, they easily disintegrate beneath the tread of your shoe. Instead, it’s the dangerous acorns that pose the real threat. Be careful of those little suckers, they will surely wreak havoc on an unsuspecting ankle, or two!

Another sure sign it’s arrived; pumpkins, apples and mums decorate the farm stands. At this early date, they haven’t quite made it to each individual yard yet (at least not mine) but they are calling your name as you pass by. One of the sure ways I relate with this time of year is the pumpkin items that are offered at the bakeries and coffee shops (thank you Dunkin’ Donuts for the pumpkin iced coffee – delicious!). I also enjoy burning the fall scents from my Yankee Candle collection. The Harvest candle is one of my favorites. Its classic combination of cinnamon, clove, apple and pumpkin, warms the house with an enticing aroma. It is a perfect complement for this time of year. If I’m completely honest, it is great for any time of year at my house!

So, I hope you also love fall like I do and take advantage of the special things it offers. For those of you who live in a beautiful, sunny, warm area all year round, right now I don’t envy you. Fall in New England is truly something special and a treat to experience and share. As for a couple of months from now, I will be begging you warm climate dwellers for some of that sweet sunshine. I will surely be saying, “Oh, how I wish they could share!”

Reality – Yours, Mine, Ours

Isn’t it funny how we all remember things differently? I can’t tell you how many times a group of us has reminisced, only to find out we don’t all quite share the same details about how it all went down. Sure, the major facts usually validate themselves – locations, people, and events – but more often than not, our personal recollections differ in some way or another. BIG or small.

Sometimes photos help spark memories – obvious things like the clothes and the expressions we wore. Yet, still a huge piece of the puzzle remains missing. We cannot hear the words that were spoken. Even if a video recorded some conversations here and there, it still could not accurately display what happened in its entirety. That footage would exist as just another piece.

So, in the end, we must rely on each other to knit together the memories of what we each experienced. Like the panorama feature on a camera, we each lay out our portion, detail by (sometimes, excessive) detail. Placed together, they form a more accurate depiction of reality. The more people that contribute by sharing their personal memories, the more precise and less pixelated the image becomes. Until, finally, it exists again. In high definition surround sound, the scene has been reset. At the very least, we are able to more accurately laugh, cry and reminisce over this old, but new reality. Reality, whether we like it or not, was created by the combination of our skewed perceptions.

 

 

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A Headshot – Making and Taking

I have arrived at the next inevitable step in the seemingly never-ending process involved with publishing my novel. I need a new headshot. In the age of selfies on every digital screen in existence (and then some) I normally avoid posing for the camera. Yet, these inevitable days do come. The time was now and like it or not, I had to face the lens.

Luckily, I am fortunate to have a family member who is a professional photographer. Do I need to mention her specialty is pet photography? Probably not, but it makes it much more interesting, doesn’t it? Before we started the shoot, I encouraged her, “Just picture a golden retriever through the lens!” With the pressure off and with light-hearted attitudes, our adventures in creating a suitable headshot began.

After a few initial shots were behind us, we took a short ride to a local spot. It is currently the home of the town library and holds documented historical significance. Known for what is thought to be the oldest Veterans’ Memorial in the United States from 1676, as well as, for the location the Trappist Monks chose to build upon in 1902, only to watch most of their efforts burn in a devastating fire in 1950. The gothic architecture of what still exists from the original monastery buildings is encompassed by beautiful park-like grounds with open fields surrounded by thick forests. This land seeps with powerful stories and meaningful memories.

Mixed with the history of the land, this area also holds personal memories. My son’s first day of school happened here. It was a difficult day, but ultimately represented the start of a transition in life. Being there then and again today, this land seemed to know exactly how change feels. Many times it has begun again. Not unlike us, it has been through multiple cycles of life.

As we trudged around the landscape, scoping out spots with good lighting and pretty backgrounds, we laughed, sharing in the folly of it all. Amidst the vibrant foliage and rustically cut stonework, she aimed the camera and clicked – over and over again. Turning this way and that, my inexperience posing was obvious. “I really don’t know my angles,” I said, as if I needed to point that out!  She joked that she should have researched the nuances of taking great headshots. One fact she had remembered about taking photos of people was, “You never cut off arms.” I held my arms precariously out from my body from that shot going forward.

Later, I scrolled through the gallery representing our day’s adventure. On the screen, it was just me… up close and personal. It was somewhat uncomfortable. I perused with purpose, in search of something I could work with. I quickly realized they really weren’t bad – a few were actually good!

I am so fortunate to have a family member who is a talented photographer. Although her artistic passion is capturing animals, her talent runs wide and deep across the spectrum of photographic subjects. She adhered to the known rule and no arms were cut off during the span of this photo shoot. I attempted poses and was somewhat successful. Maybe even enough to say I was the most attractive golden retriever she has ever photographed (or at least, I like to think so)!

To see my sister-in-law’s photos visit sheepishgrin.net

 

Image courtesy of Sura Nualpradid at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Grandfather Clock

Ticktock, ticktock,

Clicks my grandfather clock;

As the spectacular pendulum swings.

One hand points to the minutes,

Another the hours of the day,

While the monthly window,

Features a celestial display.

Memories of another clock,

Not as fancy as todays,

With less instruments to spy,

A relic from day’s gone by.

Though it lacked in bells and whistles,

Grandfather Pop’s clock was truly special.

It abounded in rustic charm,

A truly quaint, yet meaningful vessel.

Fashioned from his hands and plans,

Cuts and angles lacked artisans’ perfection,

Yet, through this child’s eyes,

Attained whimsical affection.

The best part about his clock,

Was the story that he told.

With wonder in his eyes,

Words were spoken,

Spooky whispers, yet bold.

“My clock was not empty for long.

There was a groan, a moan;

I smelled weird smells and heard a whistling song.

It was then I knew,

There was someone there,

Lurking deep, down inside,

Alive in the misty black air.”

With wide-eyed wonder,

And a shiver down my spine,

He urged me to look,

“Lean deeper, peer into the darkness inside.”

“What do you see?” he would tease me.

“There’s nothing there,” I’d say with a stare.

Musty, cool air, filled my lungs.

Leaning further in, to the rumored lair,

On the edge, my hands clung,

Tips of fingernails, dug the wood bare.

Ding, Ding, DING!

A warning did ring out.

Startled, I jerked my head about.

Searching my surroundings,

I finally saw Pop’s eyes;

A mischievous twinkle,

Therein did lie.

“You stuck your head in, a little too far.

Old Mr. Higgins, sounded the alarm!”

Sitting at the table,

My back to the clock,

“This is only a fable,”

And then I heard a knock.

With nervous curiosity,

And a playful challenge from Pop,

Again, I peer inside,

Down the never ending drop.

“Where are you, Mr. Higgins?”

I call out, in innocent wonder.

Yet, I never found the one,

Pop said, “Lurks down under.”

Ticktock, ticktock,

Clicks my grandfather clock.

Once again, the birds sing

It’s amazing the transformation that can happen in a little more than a decade. When we moved to our current house 13 years ago, the suburban yard displayed a wide array of mature trees, but little else was visible around the acre landscape. What did plentifully exist, was a wide expanse of grass. Oddly absent in this quiet area surrounded by large areas of preserved land, were birds.

It was so quiet. Too quiet. I began to wonder if there was some nefarious reason no birds visited our plot of land. Not only were there no friends in the sky, we were also oddly lacking the accompanying barrage of scavenging squirrels and chipmunks. Having moved from just a few miles down the road, from a more developed area, we had come to know a multitude of feathered friends and furry creatures there. Included in that mass of critters was an enormous, gluttonous raccoon.

Our move took place in the fall, so we had all winter to contemplate the changes we would like to make to the landscape.  These were extremely necessary changes in my mind, important ones that had to be made to our eerily silent property. As spring arrived, even the telltale signs of bird’s nesting, followed by the incessant chirps of baby birds demanding to be fed, were absent. It was time for a change and the time was now.

What followed was a cluster of trips to the local nursery. These were followed by more visits to other nurseries with more stock. Although a little further away, it was well worth the added distance traveled. Thanks to these trips, we were able to find and add more obscure plants in our design. Yes, these shopping sprees resulted in the addition of multiple plants to our “family” each weekend. The buying jaunts continue, but have slowed to a couple of times a year, mostly due to the lack of available space in our once empty yard.

Some of the most prized specimens that decorate the landscape were never purchased. Instead, they are transplants from my extended family. I have great memories of splitting perennials and digging up beautiful lacy ferns from my mom’s yard. I get my love of nature from her. The splendid Yucca plants came from my sister-in-law shortly after we moved in. They were just split this year, perfectly filling in the empty space under the towering white pines. Two of my dearest donations came from my Great Aunt. Cultivated, from cuttings off of the original specimen my Great Grandfather had grown, she gifted me the wisteria and catalpa tree. Today, they are thriving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, as you can imagine, this yard has been and continues to be a work-in-progress. Although our additions to it have taken years, nature’s representatives began to arrive almost immediately after our initial plantings that first summer. Of course, the addition of a few bird feeders helped coax the influx of activity. Over the years, the abundance of wildlife has only continued to grow. We have yet to see a raccoon, but we do have a resident ground hog. There is silence, no more. Now, a symphony of song bird lullabies ring out with the setting sun and greet us in the morning as it rises.

Some of you may have preferred the solitude of silence this yard once represented. For me, I’d rather bask in a yard that is alive with natural commotion. I know this abundance of activity is in large part due to the appreciation of the specimens we’ve planted and the food we’ve provided. But, I like to think, maybe, just maybe, nature is drawn to the memories these plants represent, just as I am.