The Never-ending Song

One year when I was living on my little farm in upstate New York with my two youngest children, Easter came at an earlier date than usual.  March had come "in like a lamb" and was "going out like a lion".  The first week in the month had brought a promise of Spring right around the corner, with balmy breezes and wee fuzzy pusses beginning to appear on the willow tips.  Snow had melted leaving fields beginning to show life, Robins hopping and listening for earthworms beginning to wriggle about in the damp soil beneath the new green shoots. This morning, just a few days before Easter Sunday, we three awoke to a leaden sky.  Outside the air carried the scent of snow and had a distinct bite as it whispered past our noses and ears. By noontime the slowly falling flakes had picked up speed and were fast piling up to cover all signs of Spring.  The Robins had disappeared into the forest for shelter.   We had had enough of winter.  Brian and Margie had been excitedly

Zairah was not a sled dog.  She was a solid black, tall dog with long slightly wavy hair, an upstanding tail with a hook on the end, very hairy paws, expressive brown eyes and a long nose on a pretty face. Zairah was a happy dog-always.  She did not walk, she bounced. Zairah was an Afghan Hound.  Not bred to be a sled dog, she had one thing in common with the Huskies, her breed was an ancient one accustomed to extremes of temperatures, both heat and cold. Zairah loved snow.  A good two foot snowfall meant high banks surrounding the driveway and the paths to the barn.  On our way to the barn to care for the goats and horses, Zairah would leap from one bank to the other, frolicking like a spring foal, jumping back into the shoveled path to shake a flurry of snow from her heavy coat.  Her eyes shone, her lips formed a doggie smile.  One morning when my 5 year old granddaughter was spending the weekend we woke to a winter wonderland.  Fence posts stood surrounding the meadow with tall

More dark skies and cold rain here in Virginia this morning.  As my sister who lives in Vermont wrote yesterday, she mentioned that they were experiencing a blizzard.  I am sure it sounds strange to those who live in New England and other wintry climes, but I miss snow.  Oh I have not forgotten having to bundle up and shovel through several feet of the white stuff clearing the driveway and making paths to the barn and hen house.  The numb fingers, stiff yet dripping nose, the tingling toes.  But the reward for those efforts was not only the beauty of stopping for a breath as it hung in white puffs in the crisp air and looking over the field to the snow-laden pines beyond, the fence posts wearing tall white caps standing in a row like toy soldiers, but the welcome greeting as you opened the barn door.  Neighs, maa from the goats and hens clucking merrily, the warm scent of animal breath as they welcomed you to their dwelling knowing that hay and grain was soon to be placed before th

2020 has arrived. I stayed up until midnight.  Did not watch the ball drop.  Listened to a wonderful concert broadcast from Vienna.  Hugged Hannah and Susie and sent good vibes to all my family at midnight. I copied all the birthdays, anniversaries etc. from last year's calendar to the new one, after perusing all the many free ones sent to me in hopes of donations to their organization.  This is a trick I learned from my Mother, who always amazed everyone when she never forgot a birthday.  She had a tremendous number to recall what with three daughters,their spouses, ten grandchildren, numerous step-grands, and many great grands.  One day I noticed the calendar hanging on her kitchen wall right beside the table where she and Dad ate breakfast.  There, neatly written on each respective day, was the name and often age, of the birthday person. So each month when the page was turned to a new picture  and new month Mother noted the upcoming events, checking her box of cards for appr