Mini meditations

I can't remember the last time I used the dishwasher.  It was probably when our adult kids and grandkids were all visiting and a rising tide of dirty glasses, cookware and cutlery constantly flowed over the kitchen counters.

Normally when dishes need cleaning - as they do several times a day even with just the two of us at home - I clean them by hand.  A little dish soap, a thin washcloth, a green scrub pad, drying rack and compost bin are all I need to make fast work of a messy kitchen.

Dishwashing is one of many daily activities I think of as mini meditations. Instead of bemoaning the monotony of repetitive tasks like washing and drying dishes, chopping vegetables, brushing teeth, combing hair and hand-watering plants, I try to think of them as mental gateways to mini-vacations. Opportunities for my mind to unwind.

To me, those unpopular tasks provide a means to rest and relinquish woes. They are a chance to focus instead on the everyday pleasures of doing small jobs well. Instead of regretting the time it takes to get such chores done, I try to relish the relaxation mindless activities can provide.

It doesn't always work. Sometimes my mind is too boggled to focus on anything but the patchwork of worries in my head. Ironically, those are probably the times I need mini-meditations the most.

There's an old Zen saying, "You should sit in nature for 20 minutes every day unless you're busy...Then you should sit for an hour."

I'm not sure about the 'sitting' part, but I believe there's much to gain from any quiet, introspective time we manage to carve out of an increasingly challenging, crazy world.

Doing the dishes is a simple task. Its successful completion doesn't require a lengthy learning curve or strong skill base. It's also a repetitive task in need of attention several times each day. For those reasons alone, it's the perfect vehicle for meditative contemplation.

Recently, my son Toby and I were discussing the benefits of rumination. As a young twenty-something in search of a better balance in his daily life, he has undertaken a course of online meditations and found the program to be helpful.  Each 10-minute session is leading him closer to mental clarity and direction.

I've never taken a meditation course nor have been a practitioner of yoga yet I feel like I've been meditating for years.  Sometimes I drift off into contemplative mode while out in the lake rowing or while walking through the woods. At the beach, my early morning sunrise bike rides provide a similar effect.  Pulling weeds in the garden and watering plants clears my head while the constant supply of indoor chores also provides a means to escape mental chatter.

Sure, I can use the built-in dishwasher. But I don't want to. I'd rather soak my hands in hot water and suds and attack each platter individually. One-by-one. Lather. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat. If I use the electric dishwasher, my dishes are cleaned, but if I do them by hand, my mind is too.

Less mess = Less stress

When I was a little girl, one of my regular chores was to clear the table after eating. Our meals, especially evening meals, were always family affairs. It was, after all, the 1950s and 1960s. We were a family of four.

When my father and older brother finished eating, they would push out their chairs, leave their plates on the table, and retire to the TV room to watch sports. It didn’t matter what season it was. Some type of game, match or team event inevitably demanded their immediate attention. While the males were in the other room yelling directions to the players, my mother would be in the kitchen tidying up, and I was expected to join her. It was my responsibility to clear the table and help out in the kitchen.

It didn’t take me long to realize that if I lingered over my own meal, picking away and chewing slowly, my mother would get tired of waiting and do much of the table clearing herself. However, no matter how slowly I ate my food, I could never avoid my next job — drying the dishes.

In the kitchen, my mother positioned herself behind the sink where she dutifully washed the dirty plates, pots, pans, glasses and silverware before stacking them on a countertop drying rack, which, to my continued puzzlement, was never actually used for drying. 

My mother, Goldie Levy, in the kitchen after a holiday meal
Yardley, PA - April 1959

The rack was merely a temporary waiting station, waiting for me to do my job. My job was to pick up each item right after it was deposited and wipe it completely free of any droplets of moisture with one of the striped dish towels hanging beneath the sink. I was then expected to put each piece away in the shelf, drawer or cabinet where it belonged.

I never liked drying dishes or putting them away. I always wondered why they couldn’t just air dry on the drying rack. And why couldn’t I be the one doing the washing at least some of the time instead of my mom?

Fast forward 50 years.

I do the dishwashing now, and I like it. I like washing dishes so much that at our beach house, I had my husband Ralph remove the perfectly functional dishwasher that came with it.

“We don’t need it,” I said, and he agreed. “We can use the space for something else.”

We still have a dishwasher in our Groveland home, but I can’t recall the last time I used it. Probably when all the children and grandkids visited. But even on the rare occasions when we have a full house, I still prefer to suds up the cotton washcloth and clean the dishes by hand.

To me, dishwashing is a kind of meditation. Just as making the bed in the morning starts my day on a saner note, cleaning the kitchen after mealtime clears away mental as well as physical detritus. I find the entire process of cleaning up after a meal to be one of the best indoor ways for me to release tension and restore order. I don’t even mind clearing the table like I used to as a child. I’m happy to tidy things away, wipe down tabletops and counters and make our eating area look attractive again.

A tidy table.  A well-balanced plate full of good food.  A book to read.
Happy!

Somewhere along the path to adulthood I realized that internal harmony often results from the removal of external stresses. Less mess equals less stress.

I doubt if my oldest daughter understands my compulsion to handwash dishes any better than I understood my own mother’s when I was a child. Amber is a mom with two young kids and to her, a dishwashing machine is an essential weapon in her housekeeping arsenal. But perhaps someday when her young children are grown and living off on their own, she’ll realize the peace and pleasure that comes with doing certain domestic chores.

Hot water and sudsy soap washes away more than just dirty dishes. It degreases the mind of stained thoughts as, one by one, a stack of clean kitchenware air dries on the kitchen counter. Visual proof of a job well done.

Dishes air drying on the dishrack
Another meal, another mess cleaned up

Splitting time...

During the last year, Ralph and I have been going back and forth between Lake County and the Volusia town of New Smyrna Beach. 

For part of each month I’m a country gal, enjoying the fields, woods, wetlands and lakes that blend together on our Groveland property with groves of bamboo, fruit trees, vegetable gardens and flowers. 

Relaxing in my south garden at our Groveland home

 

For the rest of the month, I’m a beach bum, riding my bike along the surf, exploring brackish water lagoons, discovering different plants and learning about all kinds of previously unfamiliar wildlife. 

It's hard to feel crabby at the beach

I go for the occasional dip in the ocean but not nearly as often as my saltwater-loving husband for whom beach time is a throwback to his formative years on Cape Cod. 

Riding waves through time and saltwater

 

Initially, I found the transition from one place to another to be difficult. I’m a put-down-roots kind of person and although it took several months to set things up so both places feel like home, we eventually achieved that sweet spot of familiarity settling in with only slight modifications depending on where we were. In Groveland, I may go for a morning row whereas at the beach, I might bike down to ocean to watch the sunrise.

A short jaunt to the beach to see the sunrise

Watching the sunrise is a big attraction to me and while catching a glimpse of Ol’ Sol peeking over the horizon requires more precise timing than a pre-dawn paddle on the lake, I’ve found it to be well worth the effort. 

The morning sky changes so fast

I wish I could say I’ve watched the sun rise over the waves often but the reality is I’ve only managed to motivate myself to get to the beach early enough to see the sunrise a half-dozen times this past year. Although not nearly often enough, each time has brought me a great deal of pleasure.

The last time we were in Volusia County was the first time Ralph joined me for a pre-dawn jaunt. Usually, he stays behind in bed, content to catch up on his sleep while I pedal along the ocean until I find a place on the hard sand where I can set up my camera and sit back to watch the show.

This time, he timidly asked from the bed, “Okay if I come along?”

I looked at his sleepy face and thought about all the things my dear husband normally does before he goes anywhere in the morning.

“Sure,” I replied with a hint of hesitancy. “But you’ll need to get going. The sun rises in less than 15 minutes.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “You go ahead. If I can get ready in time, I’ll meet you there.”

That sounded fine to me. Although I doubted he’d make it, I gathered up my gear, kissed Ralph goodbye and headed out the door. The beach is just a couple blocks from our house so it didn’t take long to arrive. The tide was low – perfect for beach biking – and the shore was exactly how I like it, occupied by many birds and few people. 

Few people, many birds

 

I was focused on a willet skirting the waves when Ralph startled me with a cheerful ‘Hello!’ as he pulled up alongside. Pleasantly surprised, I looked at him and smiled.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” I said, “but I’m glad you did.”

We rode a little farther down the beach before stopping to set up the camera and wait for the sunrise. When it finally appeared – at first a mere sliver of orange light that quickly rose in brilliance as it arched above the horizon – I looked at my husband and saw the wonder of the moment reflected in his face.

Watching the sunrise...what a rush!

“I understand now why you like getting up early and coming here,” he said.

His comment required no response. The sky said it all.

We stayed on the beach for about a half-hour, long enough for the orange orb to set the day aglow in dazzling and quick-changing displays of color and light amid shifting clouds.

We were both quiet as we biked back to our beach house until Ralph asked, “Don’t we see the sunrise at home?” referring to our west-facing Groveland house.

“We do,” I explained since I’m usually out rowing during that time of day, “but we see it after the sun has already risen. Trees prevent us from seeing the sun peek over the horizon like we can at the beach.”

A short video of our sunrise at the beach

The sunrise is an often-overlooked marvel of life. It happens so often we take it for granted. But when we do look – when we take the time (make the time) to notice that golden glow rising about the horizon - a warm and brilliant glow rises within us as well.

I went to the beach, saw the sunrise and shared it with the most important person in my life. A new day began. It was good.

When house meets tree

I'm always on the lookout for interesting trees and old buildings.  Today I found both in one location.

The house - more shack or shanty than anything else - is located on a back road in Yalaha.  Broken down and falling apart, the wooden structure sits beneath an ancient oak.

The tree's branches add to the intrinsic beauty of the tattered house. Not only is the tin roof shaded by large limbs, some overhanging branches actually rest upon the leaf-covered metal.

The abandoned house and live oak are growing together.  Ferns and vines have already begun to root on the roof. When people relinquish control, nature takes hold.

As I sat in my car snapping off pictures I couldn't help but wonder about the structure I'd found.  In the past, this house sheltered people.  Now its only inhabitants are probably small animals and plants.

I suppose that's how it should be.  We humans think we're so clever. We cut down trees and erect buildings assuming they will last. But nature knows better. It has all the time in the world to reclaim its treasures.

Learning to live with 'widow' spiders

Over the last two weeks, Ralph and I have been busy readying one of our rental homes for the arrival of new tenants.  In the process of clearing the yard of debris and cleaning up exterior and interior messes left by the previous tenant, I’ve encountered several brown widow spiders.

A brown widow spider guards her egg sacs and newly hatched spiderlings

 

Although black widow spiders are more notorious, they are only one of four members of the genus Latrodectus. The southern black, northern black, red, and brown widow are all in the widow family.  Of those four, the brown widow spider (Latrodectus geometricus) is the one most likely to settle around our homes, yard, sheds, boats and vehicles.

(Click here for more information and photos of the 4 widow species)

Black widow

Like its better-known cousin, a brown widow is easily recognizable by a brightly-colored hourglass-shaped marking on the underside of its bulbous abdomen.  Both spiders are about an inch long with legs extended, but unlike a black widow’s shiny black body, a brown widow’s upper body is grayish-brown with light white markings. 

Brown widow

I realize most people aren’t going to take the time to note subtle color differences between black and brown widows.  When they see a spider – a widow or most any other kind – their first reaction is to kill the eight-legged beast.  That’s unfortunate because of the 40,000 spider species worldwide, the vast majority – even widows - help humans by eating harmful insects.  In Florida, only 7 of the 900 species of spiders, which includes the four widows and three kinds of recluse spiders, pose a threat to people.

Comic by Bruce Thomas, www.mindcircuscomics.com

Although I know venomous spiders are capable of inflicting lethal bites, I also know the risk of that happening is minimal.  According to Dr. Steve A. Johnson of the University of Florida Department of Wildlife Ecology and Conservation, only seven people in the U.S. die from spider bites annually on average.  To put that figure in perspective, about 21 people die from dog bites each year while stings from bees and wasps are responsible for about 53 fatalities annually.

 

Entomologist, Fred Santana, of the Sarasota County Extension Agency states on a University of Florida IFAS website that widow spiders are generally non-aggressive and will retreat when disturbed.  Bites usually occur when a person sticks a hand in recessed areas or dark corners and inadvertently presses against a spider.

It was in just such dark spots where I encountered brown widow spiders at our rental house.  One was in the upper track of a sliding glass door, another outside in the recessed top corner of a double-hung window and a third was hiding underneath an aluminum railing in the screen porch.  In all three cases, I noticed brown widow egg sacs before I saw the spiders.

Brown widow egg sacs are easy to recognize.  Larger than a pea but smaller than a marble, each tan-colored orb is covered with small pointy projections that give it a prickly appearance.  Each egg sac – there are usually several – is secured within a three-dimensional conical-shaped web diligently guarded by the female spider who is usually hidden in a corner of the web during daylight hours.  Widow spiders are nocturnal and are generally inactive during days.

Brown widow egg sacs are prickly while the egg sacs of a black widow spider (below) lack bumpy projections

Photo credit: www.petmd.com

Because they were at one of our rental homes, I killed the spiders and crushed the egg sacs.  I knew my incoming tenants, who have young children, would not be want to share their new home with potentially dangerous arachnids. 

The thing is, spiders are everywhere and we need to learn to coexist.  Sure, we should take precautions like cleaning regularly and straightening away messes to prevent unnecessary interactions, but that doesn’t mean we should go crazy with fear and kill every spider we see. 

It’s important to learn about the creatures that share our ecosystem.  As knowledge grows, fear decreases.  Once we understand the habitat, behavior and lifecycle of these insect-eating critters we realize even ‘bad’ spiders like those in the genus Latrodectus, are not as bad as we’ve been led to believe.

Comic by Teal, www.chromatic-dragonfly.com

Two different parts of the country...many differences

SIMPLY LIVING

We recently returned from visiting Jenny and her family in Northampton Massachusetts and - as I do every time we travel north to our daughter’s adopted hometown - I can’t help but notice how different Western Massachusetts is from Central Florida.  Far more than miles separate these two culturally, demographically, topographically and physically diverse parts of the country. 

Of the many physical differences between Central Florida and Western Massachusetts, one of the most obvious is the radically different styles of residential architecture.  Homes in Northampton are mainly wood-framed structures sided with painted clapboard or shingles intermingled with fieldstone or red brick buildings.  

Even in a downtown Northampton brick building, residents' make room for flowers 

The stucco-covered concrete block buildings that line the streets in most Florida developments are non-existent in Jenny’s quaint New England community.  Actually, planned developments, in general, are practically a non-entity as are the cookie-cutter type houses we Floridians have come to accept as a given.

Instead of sprawling one-story structures like most Floridian abodes, homes in Northampton tend to be multi-story structures.  While some have garages (often detached) many houses are without a covered parking space.  One thing they don’t lack, however, is a working fireplace.  Chimneys are omnipresent – houses might even have more than one - yet air conditioning, if present at all, seems like an annoying afterthought.  Freestanding units protrude precariously from double-hung windows like stuck-out tongues registering disgust at the very thought of hot weather.

Home’s ages differ too.  In Florida (which became a state in 1845), a house built in the 1950s is considered OLD while in Western Massachusetts (statehood: 1788), houses that have sheltered families for well over a century are commonplace.  Entire neighborhoods in Northampton consist of winding, tree-lined streets flanked by a stately assortment of just such highly functional wood-framed antiques.

Large, boxy homes, often without garages (but with chimneys) line most Pioneer Valley streets

My daughter’s house, built in the early 1900s, sits in such a neighborhood.  Its small lot is dotted with tall trees and colorful perennials.  Flower-filled yards are as much a fixture in the Pioneer Valley (the area along the Massachusetts border of the Connecticut River) as the old-time, wood-framed homes they adorn. 

On this most recent visit, the late summer blooms – or more specifically, the bees that constantly buzzed in and out among the late summer blooms – became the focus of my attention.  I couldn’t help but wonder why I saw so many more bees there than I usually see back home in Florida, a state named for its floral displays.  In a period when bee populations around the country have being inexplicably decimated by CCD (Colony Collapse Disorder) why were the Western Massachusetts honey bees and bumblebees so active?

Bee on unidentified pink flower

I wondered if it could be because of all the flowers.  Everywhere I looked, I saw blossoming plants.  They filled up tiny front yards, backyards and the sides of houses.  They grew out of planters, raised beds and in rock gardens.  Bright pink, white, yellow and blue wildflowers flanked roadsides and spread across unplowed fields.  In Jenny’s yard alone, bees buzzed about her pink phlox flowers, slender gooseneck blooms and several other pollen-filled flowers I was unable to identify.

Bee on chive flower

    

Could the healthy bee population be a result of so many yards filled with flowering plants or was the explanation more complex? 

The Pioneer Valley is a youthful, dynamic region home to five colleges.  Farmer’s Markets and CSAs are plentiful, recycling is routine and a plethora of Subarus, Priuses and Toyota Matrixes boast bumper stickers pronouncing “Be Green,” “Coexist” and “Every Day is Earth Day.”

   

With so much visible evidence of an environmental consciousness, I wouldn’t be surprised if organic gardening was also widely practiced.  If so, a reduced usage of herbicides, pesticides and other potent chemicals might contribute to the health of bee populations.  Although it’s not definitive, research suggests that many common garden chemicals can prove fatal to bees. 

I don’t know for sure why I saw so many more bees in Western Massachusetts than I usually see around my own flower-filled, unsprayed yard but I accepted the fact with pleasure.  I took many pictures of both flowers and bumblebees and enjoyed the phenomenon along with the many other contrasts between my southern abode and this quaint New England community.

Bee on another unidentified pink flower

It’s good to go away and see other sights.  It’s interesting to make comparisons, note different styles of architecture, cultural diversities and topographical differences.  It’s fun to challenge the mind to explore new ideas and ponder the “I wonder why’s” but it’s even better to come back home to the old familiar.  We may not have as many bees in my own adopted hometown, yet it remains the place I want to be.

A concrete reason to be outside

A winding concrete path is a welcome addition

Simply Living
August 13, 2012

It may not be the most politically correct thing to admit, but I like concrete.  I like smooth concrete driveways, raised patios and winding paths that take me where I want to go without worry about fire ants stinging my toes. 

Twenty-one years ago, when we built our house, we surrounded it with concrete sidewalks.  Back then, we were young, our four children were little and everyone in the family except the baby was learning or already knew how to ride unicycles.  Riding a unicycle is difficult enough without having to deal with the bumps and ruts of open ground so Ralph and I agreed to install sidewalks thinking they’d be the perfect place in our predominantly unpaved, rural locale, to practice our circus skills.

 

For a short while, that’s exactly what we did.  However, as time went by, other interests took hold and our collection of one-wheeled cycles spent more time hanging from hooks in the garage than they did supporting the bodies of eager riders.For a short while, that's exactly what we did. However, as time went by, other interests took hold and our collection of one-wheeled cycles spent more time hanging from hooks in the garage than they did supporting the bodies of eager riders.

Nonetheless, our concrete pathways continued to get use. Every day we walk down them to tend to vegetable, flower and herb gardens planted in between the sidewalks and the house. They make a stable platform for a chair when I'm cutting my husband's hair and when our grandson comes over to visit, the concrete slab in front of the garage is an ideal surface to draw upon with colored chalk.

Still, I wanted more.

"What do you think about putting in a walkway to the lake?" I would periodically ask my husband in my most fetching voice. "Don't you think that would be a good project?"

His noncommittal response was always, "It would be a project, that's for sure."

We repeated this dialogue so often over the years it was as if our comments were etched in stone or, as I preferred to imagine, in concrete.

He'd say: "I don't know why we need a concrete path. I like walking over the grass."

At which point I'd reply: "Well, I don't. I'm the one who gets bit by ants, not you, and I don't want ant bites. I want a concrete sidewalk!"

I finally won. After years of unsuccessful campaigning, I got my wish. Ralph finally agreed to put in the concrete walkway. However, my husband won, too, because he was right. It was a project.

He labored during a good part of a week with a shovel, wheelbarrow and metal rake, removing sod from the pathway-to-be and placing it on barren spots in the yard. We then spent time laying out the design until the curved path was shaped just right and although we hired a crew to put up the forms and pour the mixture, we (meaning Ralph) wound up doing most of the cleanup — and there was a lot of it!

Concrete is composed of sand, stones or gravel mixed with water and a powdered form of cement that binds the other components together. It looks and feels a lot like mud (not that you'd want to put your hands in it) and like mud, it's messy. Instead of staying only within the wood-framed form where it is supposed to go, a substantial number of globs and splatters inevitably land on the lawn where it promptly turns into tough, rough-edged nuggets that would ruin a mower blade if left in place.

From an environmental perspective, adding concrete to the landscape is frowned upon mainly because it decreases green space. That may be true in commercial areas where a paved-over-paradise-and-put-up-a-parking-lot mentality all too often applies, but residential settings are different. I find that concrete walkways, raised patios and driveways add to the outdoor experience by providing comfortable, solid platforms on which to enjoy nature. I'm much more apt to spend time outside if I can do so barefoot and worry-free. Concrete pathways provide such an opportunity.

"So," I asked my husband after he finished filling in dirt around the edges of our new paths and I'd filled the last container with chunks of concrete detritus, "what do you think of the walkways now?"

"I like them," he admitted. "They were a lot of work, but they were a good idea."

Even more than I like concrete, I like it when I'm right!

Rope swing and boulders influence homesite selections

A large live oak growing alongside the lake makes the perfect rope swing tree.

Simply Living
April 2, 2012

My husband and I have designed and built several houses over the past four decades but only two have been on large undeveloped parcels where we intended to live for a long time. Both times, before putting pencil to paper or picking up a hammer, we spent hours walking the land surveying our surroundings.

Our objective was always to find the perfect site. What kind of exposure to sunlight did it have? What would the view be like? Were there any interesting natural fixtures in place that we could enjoy?

On Cape Cod, where we built our first home, we found ourselves drawn to a hilltop where two large boulders overlooked a salt marsh. The boulders — vast mounds of granite poking out of the earth — looked alive. Their distinctive shapes — one resembling a giant's head with wide mouth agape, the other with a flat top that begged climbing — were so alluring. We didn't have children in those days but we had a small herd of goats. Knowing how much our Nubians loved to clamber up objects, Ralph and I pictured them atop the rocks.

We decided to place our house between the two boulders so they'd always be within sight.

We spent 17 years in that hand-built house and although we stopped having livestock before we started building the house, we never tired of the views. West-facing windows looked out over the marsh while our south-facing panes framed the larger of the two boulders. The other rock was next to our entry, visible whenever we passed. In my memories of those Cape Cod days, boulders figure prominently.

Five years after we moved to Florida we were ready to build our second home, but the site for that hand-built house relied more on botany than geology.

A large live oak — one of only six large trees growing on the entire acreage — stood next to the lake. Its long, broad limbs stretched toward the water. Ralph and I looked at that tree, looked at each other and shared the same thought: Rope swing tree!

By then we had a family or four young children who shared our passion for outdoor activities. How fun it would be, we thought, to hang a thick, knotted braid of fibers from one of those limbs, swing out over the water and let go!

One of our favorite spots in Massachusetts had been a Cape Cod National Seashore pond in Wellfleet where a rope swing enabled us to splash into the cold water as soon as the weather warmed enough to dare. Before we had children, Ralph and I had enjoyed many afternoons at Spectacle Pond. In Florida, we looked forward to introducing our kids to the same type of experience but in a warmer climate.

We decided to place our house near the water, close to the oak tree.

Twenty-one years have passed since the day Ralph and I first surveyed our surroundings. Ralph did hang a rope from one of the oak's thick limbs and it remains in place today. Over the years, our kids probably played on it more than we did and I expect our grandchildren will do the same.

The older I get, the less likely it is I'll take the plunge, but that doesn't stop me from reaping pleasure. I like the idea of a rope swing tree. Just having it there makes me smile. I don't need to wrap my arms and legs around the cord to remember the feel of wind through my hair or the adrenaline rush before I release my grip to drop down into the water. I can do that through memories and vicariously through my offspring's antics.

There are countless reasons why people choose home sites. Ours just happened to center around nature and outdoor fun. Whether it involves a splash, a climb or some other activity, it's never dull living where playful adventures are close at hand.

Halloween makes me happy

Creative homemade decorations are displayed at a house in Minneola

Simply Living
October 31, 2011

I often found myself smiling as I drove through town these past few weeks. The reason for these sudden bursts of levity was tonight's holiday, Halloween.

Instead of just treating it as a one-night celebration, as it was when I was a child, an increasing number of people now extend the fun by decorating their front yards weeks in advance with spooky or simply playful displays. From the yards I've passed, I'd say the most popular decorations are giant spiders, spider webs, fake gravestones and dangling displays of ghosts, goblins and witches. Most of these Halloween symbols are store-bought, but I've come upon quite a few homemade exhibits as well.

People who choose to decorate yards usually opt for a few well-placed pieces to depict the mood they want to convey, but not everyone subscribes to the "less is more" concept. Just as some homeowners go over the top at Christmastime, certain people seem to know no limit when it comes to Halloween.

The resident of a two-story wooden house in the west Orange County town of Oakland is a perfect example. Dozens of life-size, scary-looking creatures fill this house's expansive front and side yards, while ghouls of every sort hang from trees and leer at passersby from the house's second-story balcony.

A home in Oakland goes a bit over the top with Halloween decorations

The yard is so cluttered with every conceivable holiday symbol (think jack-o'-lanterns, skulls and crossbones, spiders, gravestones, scythes) that it would be a challenge to count them all.

"Where do you suppose he stores them all when Halloween is over?" my practical husband wondered as we drove by the house. Not my first thought, but I had wondered that, too, especially since I know the same homeowner decorates his yard just as elaborately for Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving.

The Oakland house is a marvel of holiday mania and attracts plenty of attention, but going all out isn't necessary to make an impression. One of my favorites is a simple Halloween display in a quiet Minneola subdivision.

Three pair of what look like adult-sized human legs protrude from the ground in this postage-stamp-size front yard. The fully dressed appendages are the only things visible. No head, arms or torsos are in sight.

When I first passed this display, my imagination was piqued. My eyes saw legs and feet, but my mind imagined upper bodies buried. Although the feet are immobile, I envisioned them kicking and thrashing about. I bet the person who created it gets a good chuckle whenever drivers like me do a double-take.

That's the thing about Halloween — it's such a playful holiday. Being different is applauded on Halloween, and outrageous behavior is acceptable. It's a holiday of broken rules. On most nights, kids are discouraged from eating sweets and told to keep their distance from strangers, but on Halloween, they're encouraged to knock on the doors of people they don't know and ask for goodies. Adults who might otherwise never talk to one another have a reason to be sociable, generous and friendly. On this one night of the year, neighborliness trumps discord, and fun and frolic win out over reserve.

Tonight on Halloween, I'll be accompanying my 27-month-old grandson and his parents on a short romp through their Winter Garden neighborhood. At his young age, I doubt if Atom can grasp the holiday's significance, but even at the tender age of 2, he's completely on board with the concept of "treats."

"More yummy!" I imagine him saying as he grabs yet another candy bar from a neighbor's hand.

For me, it will be a pleasure to see my grandson dressed up in a silly costume, continuing a practice that has been such a fun part of our family's traditions for years. Everyone can use more reasons to smile, and Halloween is a holiday ready-made for doing just that.

The best part of any trip is coming home

The last leg in any trip is the dirt road home

SIMPLY LIVING
June 27, 2011

Home.  What a wonderful word.  Only four letters but they encompass so much. 

I was away from my own home last weekend to spend time with my very pregnant daughter and her sweet husband in Northampton, Mass.  Jenny and Brett will soon be first-time parents to not one but two babies.  Before the twins are born, I was eager to spend time with the child I birthed 30 years ago. 

Northampton, Mass. is a vibrant college town nestled in a fertile valley where lush gardens and tall trees surround pretty wood-frame houses.  Jenny and Brett live on the bottom floor of an older two-family building.  It is a lovely place in an exciting area. 

Our visit was the perfect balance of at-home and in-town time.  We filled the hours with meandering walks through picturesque neighborhoods and intimate talks in the cozy quarters of Jenny and Brett’s house.  We perused weekend tag sales as well as the offerings at local shops.  In addition to tasty creations cooked up in their kitchen, we lunched at a favorite restaurant and participated in a strawberry shortcake supper to celebrate a nearby town’s 250-year anniversary.  I was able to catch up with mutual friends with enough time left over to pull a few weeds in Jenny and Brett’s garden. 

The trip was a success yet I was elated to return home.

Home.  How happy I was to be back in my own bed with my husband by my side.  My yard.  My garden.  My potted plants in the porch.  My kitchen table.  My favorite food in the fridge.  Patterns and routines of my own creation. 

Going away can be wonderful but coming home is the best.

I’m grateful to be so content.  Some people struggle their entire lives to find a place where they feel so at peace.  On my trip, I renewed contact with one such person, a young traveler friend who has spent years at a time in far off locales exploring different cultures. 

“What do you want to do,” I asked her, “now that you’re back in the States?  Where would you like to be?  Do you want to settle down?”

I found her answer unsettling. 

“I have no plans,” she said.  “I could be anywhere, go anywhere, do anything I want.”

I suppose some people think her situation idyllic but to me the thought of constantly traveling from one place to another is disconcerting.  Where is your home base when you are constantly on the move?  Where are your roots? 

In my mind, the very concept of home involves the putting down of roots.  Home is a respite, a safety net, a place where I can retreat from worries, disappointments and woes.  It isn’t always perfect but it’s always there.  It is shelter, security and asylum when needed. 

As I flew back from New England, I thought about home and pondered its meaning.  I was on a full flight.  Passengers who were either returning from or en route to a home of their own occupied every seat.  Although we come from different backgrounds and live in different places, I suspect each of us share similar yearnings.  At the end of our trip, we all want to arrive safely at our destination.  We want to feel welcome and secure.  We want to be home

I went away for a weekend and I had a great time.  But the best part – the part I treasure most – happened after my drive back from the airport.  It was when I stepped out of the car and into my husband’s waiting arms. 

Each of us defines home differently.  To my young friend, it’s a backpack and the excitement of exploration.  To others it’s four walls surrounding a big hearth.  And sometimes it’s as basic as a loved one’s embrace.