Raspberry Farm

Being away from home can be disconcerting at times. Especially when it is frequent.  I love to travel, but I also like to be home.  I guess I’m kind of a homebody at heart.  When the opportunity presents itself, however, to go somewhere else, I generally seize the moment.  I always think, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ and no matter what, after going away, I more and more realize that if I don’t do something when I can, I would undoubtedly regret and wonder what I had missed out on. I don’t want to miss out on anything!

With all that said, it’s always good to come back, to sleep in my own bed and to be in familiar surroundings. After 35+ years in New England I would say I have become somewhat of a Yankee, though you can’t take the Midwestern soul out of my core.

A visit to this Raspberry Farm put my mind in motion about how good it is to explore the places in my own back yard.  I stopped in on the way back from errands.  I’ve passed it frequently and always wanted to pay a visit. That I did!

I went into the shop with the big ‘Welcome’ sign up. Generally, this is a place where you can pick your own, but on account of the rains the night before, the patch was closed, so instead, I bought a small box of raspberries and some vegetables, tomatoes, raspberry jam made on the place, and some local honey.  I even grabbed a few recipes they had hanging on the door.

On my way out I thought to ask the saleslady if I could take some pictures of the farm.  It is impressively well run, and obvious the owners put their everything into keeping it nice for the public.  The pictures show how well run it is.  Curiously the varieties are given French names, as you can see in the photos.  Prelude is the only raspberry bush still producing.  It gives two crops of fruit, one in the early summer, and again in August/September.  I presume in October, they die out.

I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful blue sky and white fluffy clouds to bring out the late summer cheer of the the day.  Bittersweetly the Autumn’s tune was playing in the air.  Must enjoy the days, as short as they may be getting to be, and take in the transitions of a new season to come.  They all have some beauty to share.

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And The Day Light Goes to Bed

The gray, white, fluffy clouds

hang low in the baby blue sky.

The constant moon glows, and shines,

high overhead.

The trees bursting with buds

incline this way and that,

like a pregnant woman ready to give birth.

The bunny rabbit scurries

under the dark olive bush

wagging its white cotton tail.

The street light ignites

suddenly above,

And the sun sets in the West,

on a horizon of many reds.

The clouds

linger in the darkened sky

and the day light goes to bed.

By TiffanyCreek

Taking Care

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Snowy Glen of February

The snow was all around today,

The trees laden, of white fluffy stuff, emerged in the gray blue sky.

There was a chill in the air.

No birds were singing.

The sound of shovels could be heard.

The tread of feet crunched in the snow paved drive,

Taking care of early morning rise.

The day began for many a hurried man,

And woman,

Speeding by.

GRB

Much Needed Rain

As the day commences and the gray skies roll in, on this mid September day, I have thoughtless nothingness rolling through my mind. A vague recollection of a sweet dream, brought on by night fall’s misty stars.  I try to wrap my mind around the blissful moment, but reality pushes out groggy sleep, to move onward with the tasks of the day. The vividness of the fantasy, moves ever further away, and I contemplate, that which comes next. The gray clouds loom over head, beckoning the arrival of much needed rain.

March is Still

In the forest, wooden trunks, and structures

stark in sunlight, stand tall in their multitude.

Sentinels ready to file into Spring,

without snow.

Inside, the cawing of crows, outside.

The ticking of the clock, on the mantel.

Shapes of sound, poured into silence

of time and space.

Lush earthy aroma of cinders in the chimney

permeate the air.

February, gone away,

March is still.

GRB ~ TiffanyCreek

“When I am dead, my dearest” by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Twilight

“Twilight” Photo by GRB

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

Christina Rosetti

The Beauty of Imperfection

In my youth, I made this calligraphy, “Dust of Snow”.  My mom guided me in the process. Her love for the poetry of Robert Frost naturally influenced my choice of words. Having saved the original, she handed it over to me later in life.  I cherish it for posterity. Beautiful in all its imperfection, it reminds me of who I was, and the person I grew to be today.

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TiffanyCreek

“I cannot not sail”

While the grogginess of waking comes over me, on this gray rainy morning in early October, an autumnal mood hangs in the atmosphere. Yesterday, we were forewarned of the coming of Joaquín. Beware! A huge hurricane was riding the waves of the sea!  Relieved, we were spared from another big one.

With the season in our midst, I remember the occurrence of Hurricane Gloria, at the end of September of 1985.  Coming from the Midwest, this was the first hurricane I experienced in my life.  Similarly, my husband came from the Ring of Fire, where earthquakes are the norm. In light of the newness of it all, fear was not on my agenda, having lived through many a Wisconsin tornado and blizzard.

The morning before Gloria’s expected arrival, on the advice of a vigilant neighbor, I hurried out to buy batteries, only to find every store, wiped out of supplies. No new batteries, and no duct tape, to secure the windows. Making do with the Duracells, found around the house, I prayed the panes wouldn’t break. Well, the storm, a lesson in science, was proven to be an all day process, moving into the next. As I stood, looking out the divided lights, I saw the trees bend and sway back and forth. They moved 180 degrees, from one side to the other, like sticks of licorice. The daunting speed of the wind caused the trees to crash to the ground around the house. One, two, three and another, uprooted from the base, they fell with a huge thump. The house was being spared, except for the electrical box. Without warning, a trunk like branch from a tree fell on the wires extending to the street, and the metal case was abruptly severed from the clapboard siding, strewing live wires all over the ground, outside.  Then, an incredible stillness enveloped the air as the eye of the storm passed overhead, only to be followed by a more gently flowing wind. Nearing the end, Mother Nature had orchestrated a tremendous performance, with her emissary; The great and powerful Gloria!

Life was disrupted for several weeks into the month of October.  The clean up was slow going, and the crews worked morning and night to restore electricity. The public waited patiently, as fleets of trucks, were sent from Quebec. They were like the Messiah, coming to bring everyone out of the dark.  A heavily wooded state, storms inevitably pose a problem for Connecticut, and its residents can pretty much expect to cook with propane, and burn the lamplight oil.

Well, we survived. I look back, with gratitude that I had no small children to watch out for, and, there was no loss of life, at least that I know of in Connecticut, or New England.

Sitting on the Atlantic Coast, we wait patiently, and ponder, as hurricane season descends upon us. Will the brewing storms perish at sea, like Joaquín, or should one  “batten down the hatches’, before it’s too late? In my quest for enlightenment, I ask myself, “What kind of a sailor will I be in the next storm?  Will I have duct tape and batteries, and jugs and jugs of water?  Will my bathtub be filled, and overflowing?”   The question is not; Will another storm blow in? but rather, How can I ever be prepared? Having not the answers, with affection, and humble regard for the unknown, I recall the beloved words of E.B. White. “I cannot not sail.”

Lesson in Fishing

When my son was a little boy, I thought I had to teach him how to fish, because every boy needs to know this. I knew nothing about the sport, but I went out anyway, and bought fishing equipment for our next big camping trip. Upon arrival, at dusk, in Maine somewhere, out to the dock we went. With his nifty fishing hat, dungaree vest, and fishing poll in hand, I told him to stand at the end of the dock, and cast the line. The next thing I knew, he had fallen into the lake, not sure how. I hope he learned a lesson, and that this is not the last time, he will ever fish.