Ineffable Nature Experience

 

On a camping trip at the edge of the forest, the sunset was dipping below the horizon. Dusk is the time when deer roam around eating leaves, birds are sleeping, bugs are settling down, bunnies are in burrows, and cicadas are buried in the earth. There was a gentle breeze with the scent of pine and earth. The evening light cast long shadows and bathed everything in a golden glow.

I walked further into the forest and found a clearing with wildflowers of every color and green clover as ground cover. I spotted a crystal-clear stream with waters sparkling in the fading light. The beauty was so overwhelming; it was as if I had entered into a different realm, untouched by human hands or time.

In that moment, I was enveloped and connected to the universe and the vastness of the sky with a sensation so deep that words failed to capture its essence. The feeling of peace, awe, and spiritual reverence for nature took over. It was a fleeting moment, an ineffable experience that will remain in my memory, bones, and blood forever.

Georgia P.

Summer Interlude

 

The ride through the night moved along quickly as there was little traffic on my way to Indian Lake. I pulled into a nearby town to fill my truck tire inner-tube. I would strap it onto the back of my pack along with all of my other paraphernalia for the five-mile hike down to Indian Lake. It was the Monday morning after Labor Day weekend, and I passed the last few stragglers coming up the road after their weekend of wilderness camping. They looked happy and serene but also tired. The air was crisp and clear, the trees were green beyond belief, the sun was shining, and the birds were singing as I made my way down the road to the lake.

            Upon arrival I got right to work collecting the stones for my fireplace setting up my tent and searching for and collecting firewood for the days ahead. I even sorted out my tools and utensils and then took a rest. It was now time to enjoy this place of quiet beauty nestled at the bosom of Mother Nature.

            With water sealed matches and cigars in my pocket and a six- pack of beer tied with rope around the tube and hanging down into the depths by the plastic rings of the six pack I launched my inner tube from the rocky beach near my campsite. I was now the unofficial steward of the lake but without any hope of help in the event of an injury. There is something to be said for not having an agenda or a goal and simply existing in time and space floating endlessly with a cool breeze keeping the warm sun in check from being overpowering. Here and there I could see bubbles emanating from the depths below. A large turtle was basking itself on a flat rock in the lake undisturbed and unimpressed as I passed the sun-worshiper. At a turn in the lake’s contour, I now picked up a new breeze and I was shot off in another direction. Little fish had discovered a nondescript log passing into their view and they proceeded to nibble on my toes, which tickled. This gave me the idea to fish for one of their larger cousins and I pulled out a fishing line with a float and a lure and tossed it away into the deep water.

            Lake fish in these parts had little experience with the implements of fishermen and I quickly felt the unmistakable tug of a large fish on my line. Almost immediately we took off on a Nantucket Sleigh Ride as the old whalers used to call it, after impaling a Sperm Whale. My light inner tube was almost frictionless and flew through the water under the power of the escaping leviathan. At one point the forward motion stopped, and the big fish broke the surface clearing the water. His translucent scales of pink, green and blue reflected the sunlight as he tried to see what he had been snagged on. Now the monster crashed back into the water and headed towards me at a high rate of speed building a wall of water before him and stopped by my feet.

“Who are you and what do you think you are doing in my lake without my permission?” blasted the fish in his fury.

“I am camping and trying to catch something to eat for dinner!” I said indignantly.

“Well, isn't that a nice idea in fact I could use a bite myself, in fact I may just snip off each of your toes for a nice luncheon appetizer,” said the fish.

“I have a better idea “I said realizing my vulnerability.

“If you bite off my toes you will still die eventually from that rusty hook in your lip”. I could see that the monster was contemplating my logic.

“Instead, if you allow me, I will tie a rope to your tail and carefully remove the hook from your lip and sterilize the area in question. After you give me a ride around the lake and return me to my rocky beach around the bend, I will release you”. At this point I must reiterate to the reader that this is not a tail of a tale but the absolute truth!

“Why would you release me?” inquired the monster.

“Well truthfully I don't think that a fish of your age and girth would taste very well, no insult intended”, I reiterated.

“None taken “said the leviathan after some thought. I will agree to this contract, but I will drag you over the rapids and into the lower lake to die on the rocks if you do not honor this agreement”, said the fish.

“Well then I believe that we have a gentleman's agreement”, said I.

“Yes, I believe we do even though I fear that we are one gentleman short”, said the bloated chordate.” Just remember that my wrath will be swift and deadly if you do not honor our bargain!”, said he.

            As the wind blew softly through the trees that lined the bank, and small blue birds discussed an apparently very important topic, the sun beamed down as the inner tube bobbed up and down like a cork dancing in a bottle and the fish came right up to the circular raft blocking the sun and exposing his lip with the embedded hook for removal. I reached up to the swollen lip and carefully backed out the hook from where it had lodged and then sterilize the wound, all the while being stared down intently by the fish, not trusting that our parley would be respected. Finally, the hook was out, the monster sighed with relief, grateful for the end of its torment. The fish did not attack and allowed me to tie the corded rope around his tail even assisting me by situating himself to make it easier to accomplish. Now we were off on our excursion complete with a narrative as the fish retold stories of past events in each location, even showing me the rapids that would have led me to the lower lake and my demise. After circumnavigating the upper lake, I was brought to the pebbled beach near my campsite, and we parted friends during which I even received permission to return to the lake understandably without any fishing implements. Before departing the monster pointed out where I might harvest large juicy crayfish with which to make an excellent dinner of these smooth lobster-like crustaceans. He was not a fan of crayfish and apparently considered them expendable.

Jim- July 24’

Ride that River

 

I was in West Chester, Pennsylvania with my son, Anthony and his then girlfriend, Sarah.  They have since gotten married and recently celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary.  We were at Sarah’s parents’ house celebrating her graduation from college.

There was so much excitement in the air!  It was a lawn party, and everything outside was decorated so beautifully.  Everything was put in place to accommodate one hundred guests. The party was a huge success except for one thing. Sarah broke her arm wearing high heels and trying to walk on the cobblestone driveway. She had a cast on from her hand to her elbow,

The next day, Anthony, Sarah and I came up with the idea of driving to the local river and taking a canoe ride. Sarah’s mother didn’t think it was a good choice of activities and she said, “Whatever you do, do not let your cast get wet!”

The river we chose to drive to was not too big and not too small. It seemed just right to enjoy a relaxing row through the river especially after that wild and crazy graduation party the day before. The riverbanks were surrounded by trees, and you could see the sun playing peek a boo through the branches, making it look like a golden display of sparklers.

“This looks like the perfect time to ride the river,” said Anthony.  “Yes, it is,” said Sarah, “as long as my cast doesn’t get wet.  “Agreed,” I said. That thought made me incredibly nervous.

The three of us decided that I would row in the front, Sarah in the middle and Anthony in the back. The rowboat was made of thick, heavy wood and it took the three of us using all of our strength to drag it into the water. We all jumped in with the grace of three bowling balls bumping, banging and pushing up against each other. Assuming our positions, all together we shouted, “We’re off!” with big smiles of excitement on our faces.

The ripples on the river were very easy to navigate at first. However, as we rowed further downstream, the ripples were becoming bigger and felt more like we were rowing through very strong currents.  “Steer your paddle to the right,” said Anthony.  Sarah added some tips by saying, “Bear forward, then quickly row to the right. We’re going to hit the embankment!”

As soon as the last syllable left her mouth, we most definitely hit the embankment hard. We didn’t expect what happened next.  The rowboat flipped over and threw the three of us into the river. We all went under but bounced back up because we were wearing life jackets.

So, there we were, chest high in the water, holding onto the rowboat.  We looked around at each other to make sure each of us was okay. I mainly remember Sarah holding onto the boat with one hand and with the other arm, the one with the cast on it, she shot up in the air like the Statue of Liberty. I was also certain Anthony was spitting small pebbles from under the river out of his mouth.

Somehow, we managed to turn the boat over and this time, Anthony sat in the front with the oars, Sarah took up the middle position and I was extremely relieved to sit in the back. Fortunately, the row back was uneventful.

On the drive back to Sarah’s parents’ house, we chatted nervously about how Sarah’s cast was wet. Her mother had warned us. All I could tell myself was that I hoped the confrontation with her mom would not be anything like the confrontation we had with that river!  Fortunately for the three of us, it wasn’t.

Ellen

Down the Rabbit Hole of Self-Discovery: Our Alice Days

 

Have you ever woken up feeling like a stranger in your own skin? I have. It's what I call an "Alice Day" – a journey into the wonderland of self-transformation that leaves us dizzy, disoriented, and questioning everything we thought we knew.

Just like Alice in Lewis Carroll's beloved tale, we find ourselves growing and shrinking in unexpected ways. Our sense of identity becomes as fluid as the Cheshire Cat's grin, fragmenting and reassembling with each new experience. I remember the day I realized half my opinions weren't even my own – they were echoes of voices I'd internalized without question. "Who in the world am I?" I asked myself, echoing Alice's bewilderment.

In our personal Wonderlands, we encounter our own versions of the Mad Hatter, the Queen of Hearts, and the cryptic Caterpillar. They come in the form of challenging relationships, societal expectations, and inner demons that make us question our reality. "Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast," the White Queen boasted. How many impossible beliefs have we swallowed without thinking?

But like Alice, we have tools to maintain our sanity amidst the chaos. Critical thinking becomes our sword, cutting through the nonsense. Adaptability is our shield, protecting us from the onslaught of change. Logic and reason are the breadcrumbs we follow home when we're lost in the woods of confusion.

I've had my share of Alice Days – days when nothing made sense, when I felt like a collection of mismatched puzzle pieces. Perhaps you've experienced them too: the disorienting aftermath of a major life change, the vertigo of challenging a long-held belief, or the surreal haze of grief or trauma.

Yet, Alice's journey teaches us that these days of confusion are not just normal – they're necessary. They're the cocoon stages of our personal metamorphosis. "It's no use going back to yesterday," Alice realized, "because I was a different person then." Each Alice Day is an opportunity to shed an old skin, to question, to grow.

Georgia

The Killarney Rose

 

The Killarney Rose bloomed on Pearl Street in 1968. The old bar probably had adorned many other names under previous incarnations. It was not a fancy establishment, but it was always a reasonably priced watering hole where Wall Street veterans would go to celebrate a profitable day on the floor or mourn an unsuccessful one. Either way alcohol was involved on the occasion. The vibe was low -key, and the customer was never rushed along if he or she wished to tarry.

            I had come alone wishing to sort through some thoughts and the bartender cognizant of my introspective mood, served me as needed but did not try to engage me in conversation. As the night wore on the crowd thinned out and the pub became very quiet until only a handful of patrons remained. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed something crawling down the inside rail of the bar in my direction. It was a huge cockroach, or an average sized water-bug. It was old and hobbled along in no particular hurry. When he reached the point where he was adjacent to me, he stopped and turned to me while his antennas swirled about and hissed “Well what are you looking at?” . . . .

Jim

The Tissue and the Turning Point: A Tale of Timely Compassion

 

As I was walking my dog, I saw a woman on a park bench crying. She was visibly shaking, tears streaming down her young face. I hesitated, unsure whether to approach. Her grief seemed too heavy to bear.

Slowly, I walked up to her and asked, "Are you OK?" She looked up with red-rimmed eyes. Keeping a respectful distance, I said softly, "Sometimes it helps to talk." She nodded, tears falling onto her lap.

She began to speak, her voice trembling. I listened in silence. Her story unfolded—a tale of loss, heartbreak, and shattered dreams. Having no answers to offer, I simply gave her a tissue and my empathy.

Time flew by as we sat there, two strangers connecting through our shared humanity.

As her tears dried, she thanked me. I could see a glimmer of strength returning to her eyes. We parted ways, and I was reminded that kindness can be a lifeline in times of great need.

Months later, a note appeared in my mailbox. The woman from the park had asked other dog owners where I lived. In her letter, she revealed that on that day, she had been contemplating ending her life. Our chance encounter, she wrote, had given her pause and renewed hope. The simple act of listening had connected her with a local support group, leading to therapy and healing.

Her words were a powerful reminder: we often don't know how our kindness can transform someone's life, turning despair into a new beginning.

Georgia

An Appalling Apparition

 

I awoke during the night in my room at the Gettysburg Hotel from a restless sleep on the evening of July 3rd, 2024. Drawn to the window I witnessed the carnage after Pickett ‘s Charge on July 3rd, 1863, as it was laid out before me on the field of battle, 161 years ago to the day. Ghostly apparitions by the thousands lay dead or severely wounded over the expansive battlefield as merciless moaning emanated from all quarters while other animated apparitions attempted to comfort and ease the pain and suffering. The dead and wounded were all mixed up together, Confederate and Union soldiers alike were hard to tell apart and too many of the faces were far too young to die. The smell of gunpowder filled my nose and lungs. One young soldier furiously dug a pit within which to bury his horse who had carried him for the past two years. 50,000 Americans had died in three horrific days of fighting.

Virginia Mary Wade the only civilian casualty of the three-day battle lay dead in her sister's kitchen, where she had been kneading bread to feed the hungry Union soldiers who had begged her for food. An errant musket ball had slammed through the kitchen door passing through her heart. The three-day event was a turning point in the Civil War and the Union would survive this test. Dawn was breaking now, and all the apparitions disappeared before my eyes.

Jim
July 3^rd, 2024

Caught in the Cherry Tree

 

It was so long ago that it seemed like a dream but it wasn’t. It was a memory of the house I lived in until I was nine in Richmond Hill, Queens. Every house on “the block” had some sort of fruit tree, whether it was an apple tree, pear tree or peach tree. There were also grapevines and wild blackberries that grew in the abandoned lots all around the area.

Oh, I forgot to mention the one and only gigantic cherry tree that took root in a lady’s driveway next to her house. With all the other fruit trees around, the cherry tree was the piece de resistance. When I tell you, every kid on the block knew exactly when the cherries would be at their ripest and ready for picking. The taste of those cherries was like no others. The cherries were yellow and we all grew up thinking that yellow was the only color that cherries were.

Every summer, when the time was ready for picking the lady’s cherries, we all gathered in our friend’s yard next door. We would hang around, play, and pass the time waiting for the lady to leave her house. Suddenly, there it was the sound of the start of her engine and off she would go to run some errands or visit a friend. As soon as she was gone, we would run to her cherry tree like a swarm of bees buzzing around some honey comb. Some of the bigger and taller kids would climb up the tree and throw some branches down below with tons of cherries on them. The smaller kids would reach on their tippy toes and pluck the cherries off the branches one by one.  We were always careful to finish picking before the lady returned to her house.

We had it down to a science until one day the lady drove away, and we took our positions around and up the cherry tree, started picking and eating cherries when we hear the sound of her motor coming right back to the house like a boomerang! “She tricked us,” said one of the older boys. “She only went around the block,” said one of the girls. The smaller kids stationed under the tree just kept chanting, “Old lady, oh, oh,” over and over again. There was no time to run, escape, or hide. We had been caught red-handed. Well, you could have said yellow handed.

The old lady organized a meeting with all the parents and told them what we had been doing to her cherry tree.  She stated in a loud voice, threatening voice, “I do not want even one of you little stealers to go anywhere near my cherry tree. If you dare to, the next car coming around the block will be a cop car.” Many parents could be heard mumbling under their breaths, “She doesn’t eat even one of the cherries from that tree. What a waste!”

The taste of those cherries with the juice running down my chin I shall never forget.  It is one of my fondest childhood memories. The wrath of that old spinster with her silly putty formed face protecting her tree I, too, shall never forget. 

Years later, while shopping in the supermarket, I saw both red and yellow cherries being sold. I always thought cherries were only yellow based upon my experience with the old lady’s cherry tree.  Being curious, I researched some information about cherries, specifically yellow ones. I found out that yellow cherries are called Rainer and are considered a premium cherry. The top producer is Washington State and the old lady with the yellow cherry tree in her driveway.  Rainer cherries were being sold at $6.99 per pound.  The old ladies were free but never again within reach to anyone.

Thinking back, I am almost 100% certain that if I drive down the street where that yellow cherry tree was, it will still be standing tall and proud in the driveway, however, sad because no one ever comes to pluck her yellow gems.

Ellen

June 2024