Category: A World Watcher Bloviates

These are my observations of life; my musings on what in the world is happening in this odd, brief, incredible existence. Or my take on what it’s like to dislocate a knee or chew a really fine piece of gum.

The Snow is Dancing

Snow is part of life here on the mountaintop, on these highest ridges in Maryland. I doubt most folks imagine snow when they think of our state. Perhaps they think of the beach, or maybe the city of Baltimore. Or the Ravens football team, or maybe the Chesapeake Bay. I doubt the fat flakes that are falling fast out there as I write are what people associate with the Free State, at least not those who are vague about this shadowy western edge. Now, those who have lived here, or visited, or skied — they know. It snows in Garrett County. A lot.

As a native of this mountain, I must say that the snow’s appearance lightens my soul. I have hoped for it to come. I have been ready. I know to some it is a nuisance and a burden, and it can be to me as well. But I can’t help loving it. I always have. When it flies from aloft and takes over the ground, I have to keep looking outside. I am compelled to check on its progress, and to witness the transformation as the world turns white.

The birds flick their wings, shaking the cold away, and they chatter to one another, maybe asking where the next full feeder might be. The trees are drawn in white, each crook and curve painted. Pine needles bend down a while, and then, when pressed to that final bend, flick back upward, sending a puff of flakes away. Creeks are banked with battened cotton, it seems, as the water’s surface grows solid, with a beveled edge brushed by the ripples that are too fast to freeze.

This county was first settled in part for its weather, as the cool summers were often a prescription of 19th century doctors, who believed them to be good for one’s lungs, and for well-being in general. I agree with them. The weather here is beautifully diverse, with four distinct seasons, mostly with all the trimmings — autumn, full of color and sweatshirt temps; winter bringing drifts and ice; spring…. not so great, I admit. Cold, rainy, often snowy — and not the good snow, but the wet, sloppy stuff; and then summer, with brilliant blue skies, warm days, and cool nights. So yes, four parts of the year, mostly tolerable, minus spring’s old cold self. We’re lucky to have it all, and I hope it keeps happening, even as the world’s weather continues to change.

I love how we Garrett Countians have our own vocabulary about snow (a skiff, a butt-dragger), our own ways of handling drifts, our own expertise in plowing and road maintenance — all of it. We have to, because on top of our little pinnacle, the winter finds a place to land. There is no place else nearby where the old guy can really settle in for long. We are just high enough that he can stop and stay. So we bundle up, drag out the wool socks, brush off our porches and our cars, fire up snowblowers and generators, grab the firewood we stacked in September, and adjust. We get on with our lives, delayed only slightly by the winter’s visit. We get on because we just do, and always have.

(Slight digression — Isn’t it funny how we say, “It’s snowing.” What do we mean by “it”? What’s snowing? The sky? The world? Learning how to speak English has to be so terribly frustrating because of weird little phrases like that.)

We know snow and its different presentations. On a bitter morning, we know it will simply blow off the windshield with nary a flake left, because when the mercury is bottoming out, the snow is light like feathers. But if the sun has shone at all the day before, beware of reconstituted melt, i.e., ice, that must be scraped off. Don’t be pouring water on your windshield when it’s below zero… always a disaster. I remember being driven to high school by my brother Don, then 20-something, who seemed to make it a contest with himself to find out just how small a hole in the windshield ice he could see through to get us on our way. He liked to go with quarter-sized…while laughing. Geesh.

The sight of snow, especially when the mercury is only just showing, is lovely. It snakes across the roads, serpentine, and flows together up and over, sculpting itself into the most lovely drifts — like a surf of snow, curled at the edge, with wisps of white sifting off the crests. Paths are cut by tires and plows, and the pushed-up piles along the road often make me think of making Christmas cookies with my mom, rolling pecan puffs in powdered sugar. The puff, just out from the oven, melts the sugar slightly, which creates the soft sugar coating. Another roll in the sugar, and the cookie is properly covered in white, looking Christmasy and perfect. Snow that is still clean, piled in soft rows along the highway, makes me think of that. Always.

When the rest of the state gets a dusting, there is excitement, with news stories and predictions and bread-and-milk buyouts. Meanwhile, we’ve often already had more snow than the dear flat-landers will get all year. But that’s all right. We will ride it out, as we always do, and they won’t even know. I think we prefer it that way. We are snug in our houses, warmed by fires, equipped with proper boots and shovels and firewood. We are one with that bleak world out there, cold and beautiful, harsh and lovely. The hardiest Marylanders? Oh, that’s us. Hands down.

Cutting Through This Moment





Tolliver Falls, Swallow Falls State Park, Garrett County, Maryland
Oh, sweet mystery of life… it sure is a grand voyage. A journey into constantly changing and uncharted waters. Every second we pass is new. Sometimes I imagine breaking through time like a ship’s prow slicing through water. We are living something new every second, and we have no idea what is around the corner, ever. We think we do. We manage and plan and assume and count on things…. but we don’t know. Not from now to… now. Or now. Or now. All new.


As I wind on toward entropy, as we all do, I have decided to initiate this blog. It’ll be a coughing-up of my thoughts, emotions, observances, opinions… my witness to being a human being. I have zero expectations. I don’t know if anyone will read a single word. I personally can’t stand it when people go on and on about themselves — when I am subject to a conversation with another person who cannot speak of anything that is not about herself, I just want to crawl away. So I don’t want this to be all about me. What I hope to do is share observances and thoughts that perhaps will resonate with others.


I think we human beings all want to be on the team. We want to be in the game. We want to see in other people what we feel ourselves, and when an artist can paint a picture that resonates with observers, that artist is a success. We want to look at a picture and feel something familiar. We read a story and think, “I know just what the writer means.” That’s when we feel included. And that is vital to us, as humans. We want so much to be on the team. That gives security, because in the end, none of us really knows what the heck we’re doing here, how we got here, and where we’ll go afterward. It’s like we are all on an amusement park ride. No one remembers how we got on, no one knows how it will end. And it just drags us all over the place, making us laugh, scream, cry, throw up, and ask a lot of questions.


If I ponder much about how many people are riding that ride right now on this tired, besieged planet, I can get overwhelmed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. (That’s one of my mom’s regular phrases.) So many humans. So many needs. All those souls — some enlightened, others repressed, some brilliant, others so shallow and vapid. Just so many. The Earth has a virus, and it’s us. I wonder if other planets whisper about Earth… “I hear she has, um… you know, humans.” And then the other planets screech “Oh My God” and nearly rocket out of their orbits. “Why, that can be terminal!” It sure can. We’re trying really hard to be fatal to this old rock. I hope she hangs in there while we learn all the hard lessons.


But I didn’t want to start out all hang-dog. I’m actually a very optimistic person for the most part. The national and international scenes of the past two years have definitely taken a toll on my psyche, as they have on anyone who thinks even a little. But in general, I like this human experience. There are tastes to taste, sensations to feel, and sights to see. The bonds of love are mystical and real, and can be quite costly when severed. But worth it, nearly always.


I’m 55. Yes. Double nickels. Five decades, five years. I was born 8 months before JFK was killed, and I was 6 when the fellas walked on the moon, for which I was allowed to stay up and watch. The youngest of five kids, I grew up to the music of the Association, the Lettermen, the Beatles of course, Iron Maiden, Rush, the Who, Frank Zappa, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young — you name the group of the ’60s, and I’ll sing a few bars of something. 


Throughout my childhood, our house was filled with music, teenagers in bell-bottom jeans, a lot of laughing, and occasionally pot smoke. My older sibs would entertain their friends by having me do the Elephant Dance, and my brothers would let their girlfriends in miniskirts paint daisies on my cheeks and make me flower necklaces, which of course I loved. I learned so quickly that being the youngest gave me an in with anyone who visited the house — it is always cute to make a fuss over a little sister. I cashed in on that all the time.


When my four older siblings went to school in the morning, and my dad went to work at the newspaper, my mom and I would watch Captain Kangaroo together. Then Mom would pull out her kitchen chair and I pulled out a miniature one, and together we would exercise along with Jack Lalanne. My mom is 90 now, and she still strives to exercise a little every day. I have not been so good about it, but I do feel quite an obligation to at least try.


When I went to first grade, I came home the first day in a flurry of tears. My mom asked me whatever was the matter, and I told her that they had not, in fact, shown me how to read that day. That first day. I had been led to believe that when I went to first grade, I would learn how to read. Well, I went, and no one showed me how. I distinctly remember Mom hugging me, and also doing that annoying thing of barely hiding her laughter at my 5-year-old frustration. Ah, well. I’ve always been a little high-strung about some things.


My childhood was safe and generally happy. I didn’t know at the time how rare that really is. But my parents were good to each other and to us. They respected us as human beings, and let us know early on that we were wanted. There was no question that the most comfortable and safe place for us as kids was in our own house. Of course it was also the place of many kids who were not secure at home. There were always extra kids around. I thought everyone’s house was like that.


But alas, they weren’t. Divorce was a quiet concept back in the day. I didn’t know a lot of kids whose parents had split the dishes. But then one day in the seventh grade my friend Michele dragged me into a coat closet and cried while she told me that her parents were separating. I didn’t even know for sure what that meant. I remember her face, all wet and with an incredulous expression, spitting out at me that they were divorcing. I was stunned. This was a couple of adults who had been in my life from the beginning. They were just another set of parents who were always among the familiar crowd, making up the security blanket of my tidy life. So when they walked away from each other, I was shaken. I was a naive little thing, for sure.


We were encouraged at home to be intellectual and somewhat adventurous. No one said, “Hey, you guys, be intellectual, will ya?” But we had political discussions at the dinner table, played board games, and went hiking a lot. We went to museums and zoos. We watched TV shows like Wild Kingdom and the nightly news, which we would talk about. Dad had a real love affair with the television that my mother did not share. She called it the “idiot box.” But Dad loved it, and he watched it regularly. He would make popcorn when something particularly good was on. And he let me watch shows like Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In and Green Acres and Petticoat Junction. Mom would sit across the room and read books, occasionally noting how ridiculous the comedy was, and that I might be too young for it. Dad usually acted like he didn’t hear her.


Mom had my sister Kathryn and me take piano lessons for years. We went to Mrs. Mary Douglass, a no-nonsense teacher who had little time for frivolity and even less time for a child who had not practiced all week. She scared me, as did her cranky little dog Cookie, a Sheltie who bit my hand once. Mrs. Douglass said I must have upset the dog. I suppose I did, by walking in to her house for my lesson. I am deeply grateful for the years of lessons, though. I learned the language of music, which has enriched my life beyond all measure. So Cookie be damned, it was all worth it. Thanks, Mom.


I hope sincerely that my three sons, now all in their 20s, feel that they grew up as secure and as loved. I think they do. But you’ll have to ask them yourself. My boys — Robert James, Alexander Eli, and Michael David — are my best work, hands down. They are everything, really. Flesh of my flesh, souls of my soul. I made them with John, my partner in life, with whom I have had a rollicking adventure so far.


This is way too much about me, though. Sorry. I will get on to other subjects soon. I fall down a rabbit hole and just keep typing. So I’ll put the brakes on now. It helps a little that my cat Miles is now lying on my forearms as I type. He is making me more efficient as I am restrained and a tad uncomfortable. Always a good catalyst for getting down to the heart of a matter. I adore cats, by the way… but that’s another post, too.


I have always been driven to write. It’s on my mind pretty much 100% of the time, which can be maddening. I figure painters think that way, as do dancers and composers. The art is always right there, begging to be transmuted. I don’t know what it’s like to be free of that. A conversation in college with a dear friend has stayed in my brain for nearly 40 years. She told me she did not feel she had any great thing to do in this life. She had no weight on her to produce anything but what she wished in her own time and space. But I have never felt free to just be. Never. I don’t know why. “So you think you have something important to do?” she asked me. “Well…. I think so, yes. But doesn’t everyone?” She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “No. Definitely not,” she said.


For years and years I have asked myself why I am so driven to put words together to express something. In the end, I can only assume it is in my DNA or some other foundational part of my gray matter. And I can only accept it as that, and move on. I want to write, all the time. So maybe a blog is the best thing. With that thought, let’s get on with it.