Author: Michelle (page 10 of 15)

Since February, I’ve been attending the Open Mics at the Hudson Valley Writers’ Center.

Open Mics are notoriously hit or miss. I’ve been to events that were lively and slammin’, literally and literature-ly slammin,’ with powerful words that knocked me off of my chair or inspired me to be a better poet. I’ve been to readings that were quiet, slow, and introspective, and I’ve left these feeling equally high on art. Truth be told, I’ve also attended some Open Mics that were bad, really bad. I write this last sentence not as a reflection on the work, because obviously art is subjective, and of course ,we all connect with some words or styles more than others. I am talking about behavior and social awareness. What makes a gathering bad is a writer’s blown up ego, her or his unwillingness to play by the rules—like respecting the time limit, having a sense of the audience, and contributing to the mood rather than unsettling it with their own agenda.

Hosting these babies is tough too. You have to be like a Catholic school teacher- firm, fair, and consistent. You have to tell poets warmly that, yes, you will ring a bell if they go over time. After each reader, it’s nice to note something that resonated, to offer supportive feedback, and to thank people for getting up there in the first place.

I’m happy to say that the hostess of the Hudson Valley Writer’s Center is all of the above and more, and for the most part, the writers play nicely together too.

Lorraine is lovely. She’s a kind, witty host and a talented writer. She’s got this Dorothy Parker thing going on in her work, an ability to form couplets with original rhyme, and a style where she spices up topics like love and dating with honest humor. She’s not afraid to show her vulnerability, and she consistently offers positive comments to each reader after they step down from the podium. She’s introducing themes for each month, which I love, because this challenges us to write new material. Best of all, she hopes that writers will gather after the readings to sip and chat at diners or pubs. I love it!

I’ve met some great writers at this event,  and I’ve heard poetry and stories that have echoed and stayed with me. The list of good stuff and good people is too long to post here, so I’ll simply close by saying that it’s good to go to an old train station each month, and read in the company of fellow scribblers.

Some weekends are the perfect combination of art and conversation. This past weekend, thanks to our dear friend, Jocelyn, we experienced a happy blend.

Friday night we sipped cocktails in our recording studio. Jocelyn is lending her singing voice to a couple of tracks on our next album, and we had fun practicing. I love the collaborative process when it works! With her, it did, and I am confident that it will continue to do so. Joce was super respectful and communicative. She asked us great questions, checked in each time she tried something new, and talked with us about any challenges she felt. We chose to work with her because she’s a sweetheart, and because we knew, that like us, she has been exploring concepts like ‘home,’ ‘place,’ and ‘identity.’ Jocelyn is multi-disciplinary. Her list of ‘artistic projects to complete’ is as long, or even longer, than ours. Like us, she is trying to keep that balance between work/life and commitment to art. And like us, she enjoys playing and having a good time in the process.

So I tried to be a bit of an owl for a night of music, and in return, she woke up early to be a lark with me. (Thank you, Jocelyn!)

Saturday morning we went to a fantastic, free poetry workshop at the Warner Library. It was hosted by Pamela Manche Pearce who has been trained in the Amherst Writers’ method. This is a great approach to workshopping. The guidelines are: all feedback must be positive and non-anecdotal, all work within the session must be confidential and regarded as fiction, and participants are to be addressed as ‘the writer’ (not ‘you’). At first, this took a little getting used to, especially for those of us who had attended other critique groups or art school (ha ha). Once everyone got the hang of it, it was incredibly effective. Comments were solid, specific, and sincere.

While I can’t discuss the details or offer highlights of the work, I can summarize by saying that the writing was strong. Very strong! Some writers had everyone in tears and others had us belly laughing. So good! I made it a point to pass out my new, fancy business cards, and Joce and I chatted with people at the break. I want to see these fine folks again!

And I want to take another workshop with Pamela. She was an excellent facilitator! She kept us on task, recognized feedback time evenly, offered specific comments on everyone’s work, and graciously shared her writing. So good, so good, so good! Jocelyn and I left feeling happy and inspired.

After the workshop, it was time for cocktails. Of course! Benjamin scooped us up, and we landed at MP Taverna in Irvington. Go MP Taverna with your happy hour Greek Margaritas and small plates! A Greek Margarita is basically a regular margarita with an added splash of pomegranate juice. Fancy! We ate calamari, stuffed grape leaves, eggplant dip with pita, grilled chicken, and olives. And we had the best, buzzy art talk. Somewhere in the conversation, Jocelyn and I decided to conquer the publishing world, and she and Benjamin vowed to form the next great funk band. We laughed, we cried, and we captured a small potato. Good times, good times!

The other night Benjamin and I went for a walk in our neighborhood, and we found a secret lake.

We discovered it by hiking up and around four streets with charming names—Cottontail, Whitetail, Pintail, and Deertrack.

The homes along these streets were gorgeous. Many of them had backyards graced with lovely willow trees and decks that faced the hidden oasis. Front yards were perfumed with lilac bushes and cherry blossoms.

I have no desire to own a home. For a while in my early 30s, when I was single, I thought about it. I even went out with a realtor and almost signed on a bungalow in the adorable Seminole Heights neighborhood of Tampa. The story of not signing had to do with some dreams of gypsies and a ghost boy swallowing sand on the back porch of this house. But this story is for later and maybe better as a poem.

My point is that I’ve never really wanted to own property, but after our brief stroll, I did think about it again. How nice it would be to sip coffee or wine on our own deck as we looked out at water. This is a sweet, Romantic image.

Then I think about things like having to take care of plumbing, yard work, and snow. I think of being married to an object rather than a person, who, like me, wants to travel. I think about these things, and I am grateful, satisfied to simply admire other peoples’s houses as I keep walking, at least for now.

I’ve found two great places to write and sip in Irvington—the Black Cat Cafe and the Red Barn Bakery.

Both places have a friendly, small town vibe. Everyone greets the barista at Black Cat and the owner of Red Barn by their first names, and these lovely women know their regulars. Commuters come in to get their coffees before heading to the train, and parents line up to get their kids a little breakfast before heading to school. Business people and retired folks have their meetings at these two places, and like me, there are individuals who camp in their favorite seats for writing.

At the Black Cat, I especially like the English Breakfast tea and the croissants. Having these makes me think of my good friend, and fellow Anglophile, Eve. We used to meet once a month at various cafes in DC and Maryland to chat about everything from our love of “Downton Abbey” to the antics of her two adorable and witty daughters. We were each other’s confidants, and I miss my sweet friend. I raise my tea cup in her honor and hope to see her soon.

I also like the comfortable tables and chairs in Black Cat, and the view of Main Street is nice for day dreaming. I need to remember to bring extra cash the next time I’m in there, because I’d like to buy a T-shirt. The front has their logo, the Parisian noir kitty cat, and the back has a perfectly witchy quote: “Black Cat Cafe, Check Your Superstitions at the Door.” Love it.

The Red Barn Bakery has delicious everything! I have tried their cheddar kale scones, poppyseed muffins, and their infamous and really filling breakfast cookies. This place is dangerous to my waist line, but I love it! I think of my Grandpa when I’m in there. He hated big supermarkets, preferring to get his meat from the butcher and his bread from a bakery. When we were in Berlin, with all its little shops and the scent of freshly baked bread on every block, I understood why he felt this way. I understood my half German roots. I raise my coffee to his memory.

The decor and location of Red Barn is welcoming to this lover of all things locomotive. If I can score the four-top next to the exposed brick wall, I not only have a view of the Metro North and Amtrak trains, I have a nice big table to spread out all my papers. Technically, I should offer this coveted spot to pairs or groups who come in, but I do not. I am a table hog, and unless I’m told otherwise, that baby is mine! Lastly, I want to nod to my former profession of serving the public as a coffee goddess. The barista at Red Barn, with the rocking tattoo on her forearm, plays the best soundtrack for writing. Nice!

Here are the sites for both:

www.blackcatchef.com
redbarn-bakery.com

Enjoy!

I haven’t composed a ‘list post’ for a while, and I do love lists…

Here are some musings inspired by two programs I have attended at The Warner Library…

Book Club

1. Twenty five people, showing up in the cold of February, to discuss a classic novella was impressive.

2. Twenty five people, showing up in the cold of February, to discuss a classic novella about a fishing community in Maine was indicative of both a literary and climate-transcending community.

3. Being among the youngest in a group was new and nice.

4. Listening to people wax Romantic about a novella described as rather “plotless” was refreshing. People liked the slower pace and descriptive vignettes of Sarah Orne Jewett’s, The Country of Pointed Firs. Nice!

5. Hearing an older man say, “This book was so boring, I wanted to throw it out the window,” was pretty funny.

6. The lovely librarian handled all comments with grace and moved the conversation along. She was a skilled facilitator.

7. I shall return.

Writers’ Forum

1. Being in a group of mostly prose writers was new and good for me.

2. Being one of the only poets in the group made me miss my poets of the past.

3. The combination of doing writing exercises, participating in critique, and reading examples of accomplished writers created a good balance.

4. Critique was honest, and at times a bit tough, but generally supportive. Good thing I went to art school.

5. Nonfiction writers are fantastic…especially those with science backgrounds who have written about birds or food. Spiritual women who offer clear, intuitive feedback also rule!

6. Memoir writers, young adult fiction writers, experimental poets, creative nonfiction writers, and aspiring novelists have my respect.

7. I will return.

One of the nice things about living in Westchester county is the opportunity to explore the neighboring villages. While similar as ‘towns along the Hudson,’ each one has its own flavor.

Benjamin and I recently discovered a few charming aspects of Dobb’s Ferry. You can bike from Irvington to Dobb’s on the Old Croton Aqueduct Trail, but I’ll save the details of the trail for a future post. For this entry, I’ll highlight the food and drink.

We stopped first at Caffelatte on Cedar Street for some iced caffeine. Bassillio, the owner, served us. I am easily enchanted by the music of Romantic languages. The blend of even a few words mixed with English is a pretty cocktail for me. So when Bassillio said, “grazie” and “gelato,” I melted. I could have listened to him talk for hours.

Our iced cappuccino was served with a biscotti (like Europe, ah yes), and both were perfect. I also loved that nothing was offered in paper or plastic, only nice tall glasses and sturdy coffee cups. I respect this. It’s pleasant and sophisticated.

AND there were tables outside! Just this little touch of sidewalk Europe was delightful. Sitting there, we met two other village lifers, Bruce and Terri. They turned out to be our neighbors, literally walking distance away, and they recommended more places in the area for brunch, good food, and Halloween activities. I hope we see them again around our block.

If I ever feel like driving past Irvington to sit and write, Caffelatte will be my Dobb’s Ferry choice.

By noon, Cedar Street was waking up, so we made our way to The Parlor for lunch. Tara, the lovely server from our favorite pub, recommended this place, and she was right on! A tall, young guy dressed in flannel with a great mohawk and pierced lip suggested two cocktails to start—the Orange You Fizzy and the Bloomie Dropper. I love hipsters. I know they get a bad rap sometimes, but I can’t deny some of the admirable waves of creativity coming from these kids. My Fizzy had Tito’s Vanilla Vodka, orange juice, and some kind of bubbles. Yes, it tasted like a Dreamsicle ice cream bar. Danger! Ha ha! And Benjamin, eternally surprising me, decided that day that he might be “over his divorce with gin” and he went for the beverage made with Green hook Ginsmiths Gin, fresh raspberries, lime, honey & basil. Delicious! Perfect sips for both of us.

We got a little plate of chili olives for an appetizer, (yummy Castelvetranos with a kick—you can’t go wrong) and then the pie came. Wow! We took our server’s suggestion (always take their suggestions) and tried the pizza with brussels sprouts, applewood bacon, strachino cheese, and parmigiano. We were going to play it safe with a Margarita or a White Cheese, but thanks to “Dave,” we went for the more unique pie and savored every bite. Also thanks to him, we dipped our crusts in Sriracha honey. Trendy, perhaps, but man, it was good!

As a last note, I dubbed our guy Dave after Mr. Grohl of the Foo Fighters, and I hope he takes this as a compliment. I had to give him a rockin’ name like this because of his attire, and because the music in The Parlor was all 90s grunge rock like Nirvana and Sound Garden. A perfect match for the graffiti sprayed brick walls. I promise to learn Dave’s real name when we return, and I’ll dutifully update this post.

Benjamin and I listened to Pearl Jam for the short ride home, of course we did, and we felt happy and full.

There’s nothing like spending a day in New York.

When Nicholas and Allen came to visit us for Easter weekend, we took the train into the city to meander and soak up the ambience.

Our first destination was The Museum of Modern Art. It was crowded, but this is the nature of a museum on a Saturday, and I was comforted by the fact that people had paid to see art. Memorable pieces for me included: the Jacob Lawrence exhibit, a chilling video of Billie Holiday singing “Strange Fruit,” Van Gogh’s “Starry Night,” Picasso’s “Three Musicians,” Rauschenberg’s “The Bed,” Andrew Wyeth’s “Christina’s World,” Joseph Cornell’s “Central Park Carrousel,” and Monet’s “Water Lillies.” I loved being there with friends who didn’t care that I cried in front a painting, no matter how ‘famous’ it was. Thank you, gentlemen.

After a few hours in the museum, we were hungry, so we ventured next to Teodora, a restaurant that Nick remembered from his childhood. Any time Nicholas recommends anything that has to do with food or drinks, Benjamin and I follow without question. The man knows.

But before I describe the absolutely delicious food we ate, I need to set the stage. Walking into Teodora was like opening the door to a sweet grandmother’s house…a sweet, best-kind-of- grandma’s house with portraits of relatives on the wall, all kinds of collections of things— decorative plates, empty spice jars, knic knacks, and a fully stocked bar. (Ok, so all grandmas might not have bars, but my great grandmother hid her “medicine” in her dresser drawer, so I dedicate that last observation to her). Anyway, it was fantastic to walk into this quiet, quaint neighborhood place and get seated at a corner table.

And the food! Nick didn’t even need to look at a menu. He ordered the Lasagna All’Emiliana. Allen followed suit, because as he joked, he’d been “hearing about this lasagna for four years,” and he needed to see just how good it was. My friends were not disappointed. What arrived on their plates was not like any lasagna I had ever seen. It was art. These perfect squares were stacked high with copious layers of thin, ruffly noodles and meat, encircled with a thick sauce and shredded basil. Truly gorgeous and traditional presentation, or as one NYT magazine food critic wrote: “the lasagne is a fine example of the meat-and-pasta casserole before it was infiltrated by vegetables, seafood, and every other misguided newfangled variation.” Heh heh…something about this critic’s word choice makes me grin.

Benjamin ordered the Strozzapreti Con Salsiccia E Peperoni Arrostiti, or in English, ‘rolled short strips of pasta with roasted Italian sausage and peppers in a tomato sauce.’ Oh yes, I had a taste, and oh yes, it was divine!

My dish, the Fazzoletto Di Ricotta E Spinachi, or ‘triangle shaped pockets filled with ricotta cheese and spinach in a butter and sage sauce’ was outstanding! Such fresh pasta, rich and creamy! Decadence!

We lingered over smokey espressos, and when we were rested, we set out again for Central Park. Ah, people watching on a Spring day in New York! Ah, swirl of international languages around my ears soothing me past English! Ah, so many breeds of pedigree dogs and outlandish fashionistas! New York, New York, you are truly one of a kind.

I must devote a paragraph now to how it was to walk with Nicholas in the city. Our architect friend has a brain for history and a heart for Romanticism. I asked him to recall some of the buildings, and he sent me the following descriptions of what we saw: “the riotously yellow Babylonian skyscraper known as the Fred F. French building, the Lipstick Building, the Helmsley building (formerly known as the Grand Central Building), the horrendous Pan Am Building, the black and bronze Seagram Building, and the gloriously green, cool Lever House.” He added that he thought, “Architecture is the greatest job in the world.” True to his passion, Nicholas made us look up, and we loved it.

From Central Park, we slowly made our way back to Grand Central Station to The Campbell Apartment, one of the hipster bars Benjamin had heard about from his colleagues. This place has been described as one of New York’s “most refreshingly civilized places to meet” where you can get “classic cocktails & light fare in the ornate Grand Central offices of a 1920’s mogul.” Oh, how I wished for a fringe flapper dress in that joint! Speakeasy is the trend, I know, but again, it was nice to be with friends who didn’t care if we were doing something “popular” or not. The cocktails were a welcome treat after all our urban hiking, and simply sitting there, enjoying jazz and one another’s company was an ideal way to end the day.

Thank you, gentlemen, thank you.

I fall in love easily with trees.

Maple was my first. This tall beauty of my childhood backyard was gracious enough to offer one of his branches for my swing. I spent hours under my tree, sometimes swinging, kicking my feet toward the sky, and then jumping off, imagining I was a rocket. Other times I read quietly against his trunk with my dog beside me. When Duke died, I ran to Maple for solace, and he was there, as always.

Elm stood down the hill from Maple. I loved this tree because of his low trunk, delicate but strong branches, and those serrated, tear-shaped leaves. For some reason, I liked to climb Elm and sit on those branches on my birthday. One year, it snowed in April, but I climbed anyway. Elm made snow prettier. I lived in Wisconsin during the 70s and 80s, so my poor tree succumbed to Dutch Elm disease and had to be cut down. I couldn’t watch.

Oak was another love. He lived in the front yard, and he was gigantic. I loved him every season, but especially in the fall, when I raked his leaves into piles and then scooped them into the wheel barrel. I’d jump onto the pile as my Dad wheeled us over to the garden and spilled us out. I loved the scratch of the rake, and the smell of Oak’s leaves on my flannel shirt.

I loved our Russian Olive trees because of their silvery color and the fuzzy texture of their leaves. They were an elegant, exotic pair, planted side by side in the front yard. They were my Mom’s favorite too, and we were both sad when a tornado took them away.

Red maple also lived in the front yard, stationed next to a large piece of sandstone. She was like a sister to that rock, a sculpture in her own right. We planted her young and watched her grow for years before we left Wisconsin. She was another of my Mom’s favorites. Her vibrant color was a welcome contrast against gray skies and a lovely compliment to bright blue autumn days.

I’m not sure about his formal name, but the Bunk Bed tree was a best friend to my brothers and me. He lived out in the woods next to our house. He had three branches that, as his nickname suggested, were kind of stacked on top of each other, so they were perfect for us to pretend to sleep on. He was, as Shel Silverstein would say, our Giving Tree. He kept our secrets. A friend of my Dad’s accidentally cut down Bunk Bed, and we mourned his death for months.

The Jack Pines that towered over our garden were special to me because of the hushing sounds they made and how sweet they smelled. I loved their sticky bark and crunchy needles. While I loved them, they really belonged to my youngest brother. He used to climb to the tops, about 100 feet up. Their branches are evenly spaced; irresistible to Huck Finn types craving fresh views of the world. Matthew scared my Mom with his climbing, but the Jacks never let him fall.

My middle brother had a special attraction to fruit trees. It was his idea for us to climb the Choke Cherry, pick the berries, and ask Mom to make us jam. We did, and she did, and to this day, I love the taste of any kind of tart fruit mixed with a little sugar. Michael also loved the Tangerine tree that grew in his backyard in Florida. As Wisconsinites transplanted to Florida, we all appreciate the trees that give us apples, pears, plums, grapefruits, oranges, tangerines, limes, and lemons.

Shagbark hickories lived in the woods across the road. My Dad used to give my brothers and me small white buckets, and we’d scour the ground beneath them like three little squirrels looking for nuts. Hickory nuts are easy to crack, but digging out the meat is a task for patient people. The only thing that kept us picking at those shells was the promise of banana bread or cookies enhanced by their nutty flavor.

***

And now a brief confessional interlude. I loved trees so much that I once tried to taste a hickory nut tree. Yes, I actually bit the bark. I didn’t get as far as chewing and swallowing, thank goodness, but I remember the desire to do this, and I wrote it better in a poem:

shagbark hickory peels easy
for the teeth of a curious girl

I wanted to taste it more
for its texture I thought
somewhere between crunch and chew

I wanted to taste it a little
for its sweetness I thought
faintly scented of dry fruit

a tiny piece, a small thing
smart enough not to break
my teeth only spiked it

Also, as a side note, bats roost under bark. I learned recently that some species may be doing this to save themselves from contracting deadly diseases that grow in caves. I love bats like I love trees. The rest of this poem is for the Little Brown Bats:

shagbark hickory peels easy
for the teeth of a mother bat

a little brown, small thing
smart enough not to break
she once used her teeth to climb

slippery rock a place
among thousands
clustered in cool damp

touching, always touching,
soothed by a collective
impossibly slow heartbeat

this gathering instinct
body warmth in torpor
her body understood

survival instinct
to roost alone

she senses death now
in the hibernacula
among thousands

shagbark hickory peels easy
for a safe place to sleep

***

There is a Loblolly Pine in Flatwoods Park, Florida that I return to greet every time I’m home. He stands just after mile 3 on the bike loop, and he’s gorgeous with his long, straight trunk, 100-foot height, and branches that curve at the top. A field dense with saw palmetto protects loblolly, so I’ve never hiked to touch him. It’s enough to admire his beauty from the trail, and I blow him kisses as I pass.

The Bald Cypress trees in Florida have taken my breath since I was a teenager. This is a tree that appears to grow in water with roots that push up as “knees” at their bases. Cypress can grow up to 120’ tall, have diameters that reach 6’ around, and live to be 600 years old. Ospreys nest on the tops of these historic beauties. Every time I visit Lettuce Lake Park, I stroll the boardwalk out to a particular Cypress who stands near enough to touch, and I say hello.

When we first moved to Florida, a childhood friend of mine came down from Wisconsin for a visit. She loved the Queen Palms, because they looked like the truffula trees from Dr. Seuss’s book The Lorax. My parents planted Queens around their pool in 1983. In only 33 years, they’ve grown from 3’ to 50’ tall. I love going home, sitting in my parents’ back patio, and listening to them swish.

My Mom loves trees with color and texture. She and my Dad planted a Jacaranda tree. Like many other things in Florida, this tree grew impressively tall in a short amount of time. Jacaranda also flaunted the most beautiful lavender flowers. Every spring their back lawn was sprinkled with those lacy little buds. Florida is a place of thunderstorms and lightning, and unfortunately, one year a strong storm took poor Jacaranda. I think my parents should get another one. She was gorgeous.

And now from my living room window, I have watched a tree go from naked branches in winter to red buds and small green leaves of early spring. I can’t tell yet what kind of tree this is, but I can’t wait to see this new love of mine in full summer! It’s Earth Day as I finish this post. How poetic then to close with… I love you, trees. I love you.

P.S. Adding this note a week later. Leaves that look like little hands have sprouted on the tree outside our living room window. She’s a maple! Yay! AND…last night I saw the distinctive wing of a bat in the back yard! How happy this made me feel!

Wherever I have lived, I’ve explored the parks around me. This entry is an ode to some of my favorite outside places. I always seem to miss them more than buildings.

In high school, the first person in my group of friends to get his driver’s license was Eric. Eric drove a group of us through the Baraboo bluffs one gorgeous fall. We listened to R.E.M. as we made our way to Parfrey’s Glen just outside of Devil’s Lake Park. Parfrey’s is a sandstone gorge, and the scale of it, something like a 100 feet, is remarkable! I remember balancing on the rocks in the stream, feeling quiet and small with those huge walls surrounding me. My friends and I hung out there and hiked the short trail. After our walk, we had lunch and coffee at a fun hill top restaurant called School House Pizza. It was a beautiful day.

In Florida, I wandered Hillsborough State Park and Lettuce Lake Park. I learned the beauty of the swamps at each of these places by riding in paddle boats next to otters, cotton mouth snakes, and alligators, and climbing towers to get better views of osprey nests. Later, I fell in love with the Withlacoochie Trail. I biked and bladed from Brooksville to Floral City, approximately 30 miles up and back, through the state forest, past farms and small towns. I always saw Eastern indigo snakes and several kinds of butterflies. And Flatwoods Park remains my most favorite outside place in Florida. It’s a 7 mile loop through swamps and dry prairie. I say hello to a special pine tree each time I go back. Benjamin and I have written a love song to Flatwoods, to the armadillos, sand hill cranes, deer, and bob cats that live there. I love this park, and I can not wait to return.

When I lived in Minneapolis, I escaped the city and headed East to Afton State Park. I tried to make friends with the snow there, lying down in it to swish a snow angel, watching it move like ghosts or veils across the road, admiring its sparkle in the sun. I also drove North to Taylor’s Falls to hike through the woods and bluffs. I had quiet exchanges with deer and admired the spectacular views. Both of these parks helped me get through the long winters. Both of these parks taught me to appreciate a cold season’s unique beauty.

Benjamin and I escaped Chicago by driving North to bike in Moraine Hills State Park. This park had a great variety of landscape—marshes, woods, and rolling hills. Each time we went, there seemed to be explosions of different insects or arachnids-dragon flies, lady bugs, butterflies, and daddy-longlegs. At the end of one loop, there was a vast field where we would stop to sit and watch birds. Then we always treated ourselves to apple pie and cinnamon ice cream at Quig’s Apple Orchard. Moraine Hills was the first park where we fell in love with biking as a couple, and because of this, it secures its place as one of our Romantic havens.

In North Carolina, we spent a lot of time on the trails at Umsted State Park. There was a section at the bottom of our favorite trail covered in ferns, and we used to joke and call this Jurassic Park, because it felt like we’d easily run into a dinosaur. It felt ancient and ten degrees colder. In the spring, the dogwoods bloomed among the pines and oaks. This felt complete for me, the total charm of a Southern woods. We often heard choruses of frogs (signs of a healthy ecosystem) and once we saw a flock of cardinals against the bright blue sky. It was lovely.

Outside of D.C. we biked along the C&0 Rail to Trail. Great blue herons would hunt in the canal and cormorants would dry their wings on the rocks in the Potomac. We saw garter snakes, turtles, hawks, and deer. There was a rocky outcrop where we’d rest and listen to the water. It was a nice place to lose track of time. The C&0 is just one of the many Rail to Trails that Benjamin and I have enjoyed. Our goal is to bike as many as we can. It’s good to feel 12 years old every once in a while, and when we are on our bikes, we feel this freedom.

In Maryland, we could bike from our apartment building to Little Falls. This small trail was not as crowded as the nearby Capital Crescent, and we often saw Border Collies splashing in the water. For a suburban bike trail, Little Falls was a sweet get away. We were only in MD for a few months, but I am grateful for the times we visited Little Falls.

I grew up with a hundred acres for a back yard. My family officially owned only an acre of this, but our kind neighbors let my brothers and me go wherever we wanted. We’d cut through a corn field to get to the back woods where we followed an old logger’s trail to ponds and meadows. We ice skated, built forts, and generally ran around with our Golden Lab, Duke. It was an idyllic way to grow up, and I feel incredibly lucky to have this sensibility, this appreciation for nature.

And now I live close to the East Irvington Nature Preserve.

There is something about this place that reminds me of my first woods. Something about East Irvington holistically makes me feel like I’m back in the trees off Lewiston Station Road. Being in this woods make me want my brothers with me. I can hear us, our little kid spirits, running around, snapping twigs with our muddy tennis shoes, whistling for our dog, laughing. It’s the trees, the rocks, and the pond here.

Ponds, marshes, or swamps have always settled me down. The water is quiet. It might not look like it’s moving, but it is, slowly, my favorite way. If you listen, you can hear it. I watched a mallard circling here, and I swear I could hear his webbed feet kicking ripples in the water. And it’s not just the water. It’s the cat tail reeds and the gorgeous, watery throats of the red winged black birds that make ponds so peaceful.

Thoreau understood ponds. He knew the poetry in sitting next to them. The good folks who have taken care of the East Irvington Preserve understand this too. There’s a view deck over this pond where I will soon bring my folding chair and notebook. How nice it will be to have a little Walden nearby in my new-familiar outside place.