Falling in Love with Fitbit

I've never been an athlete.  I was raised in a family that sat whenever they could. Sitting was our clan's favorite pastime, and our endurance in couch-potatery would have qualified us on the Olympic s if they could have turned it into a competitive sport. The fact that many of us were overweight was no surprise.  The surprise was my sister, who ran for fun, and competed in track as a girl.  Although she could sit, my sis could also move, and she was unafraid of competition.  I was proud of her drive and talents, and she knew that.  But neither believed I'd follow her example.

The Infamous Fitbit

All of which made my sister's offer to buy me a Fitbit last May a bit of an awkward phone call. To her credit, Sis knew I was trying to lose weight, and she's never pressed me to get active.  Her suggested gift would help me lose weight.  But that doesn't mean I wanted to take it.

The few times I had tried exercise before, I'd ended up with sore joints and a lousy attitude.  But it's hard to turn my sister down, especially when her thought is well-meant.  So, I said yes, thinking once I accepted the gift, that would be the end of the story. "Great, then we'll both have one!" she said.  "When you get your Fitbit account set up online, we can keep up with each other!"

Days later, I strapped on Sis's gift, feeling like I'd stepped into a bear trap. The program had suggested goals, like 10K steps a day and 250 for each daylight hour. I doubted if I'd reach any of them, but I had to keep trying, at least until I saw my sis at an upcoming family visit.  So, I started walking. I walked to the mailbox a dozen times a day, I stepped on the porch when it rained.  I learned to read books and watch TV with my eyes on a computer screen and my legs pumping, up and down, in place.  Yes, my sister frequently out-walked me but there were times when I triumphed as well, and the weight-loss plateau I was expecting didn't appear.  And each new day, the Fitbit zeroed itself out, and I began again which made activity a rule of life instead of the exception.  And I found I could compete.

Every group of Fitbit friends can create challenges to outwalk each other during specified period.  Once I joined a challenge or two, I found I didn't like to lose.  If someone posted a total of 12K steps before work, I didn't give up, nor did I believe them.  I just started stepping, determined to go further by the end of the day.  According to Fitbit, I won 13 trophies last summer because I didn't want to be out-stepped.  And I continued to lose weight.

Fitbit even came to my rescue this month when my weight loss finally stalled.  Fitbit's records showed while my walking was adequate, my heart rate wasn't rising enough to prompt weight-loss any longer.  This led to new exercise choices that raised my heart rate and broke the plateau.  And because each new day began at zero, I didn't realize how far I'd walked.

Then came the email with this graphic of how far I walked with my unwanted present.  With Fitbit, I walked off 60 pounds in half a year and covered the distance from my Alabama residence to my hometown in Kansas!  I've changed from a "Sedentarian" to short-distance Forrest Gump because of my sister and Fitbit!

So, yes, I love my Fitbit.  It only comes off for recharging or when I'm going to get wet.  It keeps me coming back and reminds me what I need to do.  And Sis, as far as I'm concerned, this is one of your best presents EVER.

This almost covers the distance I walked in 2016 - Imagine how far I'll get this year!

When We Treat People like they're Garbage

When I was 10, I was afraid of the kids that moved in next door.  The children in the house across the alley were younger and smaller than me, but they were a noisy bunch and they always seemed to be spoiling for a fight.  Whenever I went outdoors, they were there, in their yard, calling me fatty, and offering me a knuckle sandwich.  One day, my mother entered the fray, screamed back at the kids and hauled me into the house.  "Keep away from those kids," she said, even though this was a needless directive.  I wasn't going near any kid that picked on my size.  "I don't want you playing with them, they are nothing but P.W.T."  PWT meant Poor White Trash, the group of people my mother hated most.

I thought a lot about those kids while I was reading Nancy Isenberg's White Trash: The 400 Year Untold History of Class in America.  Ms. Isenberg's central argument of the story is, despite statements to the contrary, America never has been a classless system.  Instead, we segregate ourselves into cliques characterized by income, education, address and antecedents and, where I grew up, the condition of one's lawn. Where I lived, the homes of the influential and affluent were recognizable by the lush, verdant landscapes that surrounded their houses, perfectly trimmed to crew-cut height.  The working class didn't have the resources to maintain this plush, even cover but we managed to minimize the bald spots on our lawns and mow the crab-grass regularly.  The renters, whose yards contained only dirt and discards, were considered "trash."

When did we start classifying people as garbage?  Ms. Isenberg traces this idea to European businessmen/philosophers who saw undeveloped land as a wasted resource and impoverished people as refuse. Colonization, to these leaders, was a way to make money by solving two problems. Send the poorest people away to develop this useless land and then profit from the goods they produce.  These "wretched refuse" (to quote Emma Lazarus) became Britain's debt slaves for generations, paying off their cost of transportation through lifetimes of labor producing goods for their European debt-owners.  These businessmen didn't foresee the colonists' resentment and isolation would eventually result in a revolution.  Nor did they predict their attitudes on class discrimination would transfer along with the colonists.  But they did.

Nancy Isenberg

As America grew, so grew the group of poverty-stricken, rural, whites and the resentment-filled class war where, as one Southern lady described it to me, one bunch is always looking down on or mad at another.  Yes, American mythology has tales of poor, enterprising youths creating fortunes and a few scions of the moneyed and powerful families behaving shamefully but both stories carry the unspoken element of class distinction.  A desire to climb the social ladder underscores the poor boy's drive to succeed, and the wealthy child's sense of entitlement created the self-belief he/she can avoid the penalty of criminal action.  And, despite their individual acts, each character is also judged by his/her background.  And most folks resent being judged.

The rural poor, also known as clay-eaters, crackers, hillbillies, rednecks and trash remain a recognizable group today.  At times, they've even become fashionable.  Like every other community in this country, they've produced bad and good people, geniuses and criminals.  And like everyone else with a long history of being disparaged and exploited, this community has developed a hard-won sense of identity and pride.  They're a political force to be counted and used. And each time they are mocked or underestimated by someone else, the resentments and class divisions grow.

So, will the class war ever end? Not as long as individuals are exploited and minimized because of factors beyond their control. In other words, as long as one group of people treats another like "trash," they'll have trouble taking out all the garbage.

The Rules According to Bud

There are rules on how to get through life and Bud knows them all.  Let me show you what I mean:

RULE 8

Whenever an Adult Tells You to Listen Carefully and Talks in a Real Calm Voice,

don't listen, run as fast as you can because something Real Terrible 

is Just Around the Corner

and

RULE 83

If an Adult Tells You Not to Worry, and You Weren't Worried Before, 

You better Hurry Up and Start 'Cause You're Already Running Late

These rules may seem like nonsense to you, but to Bud, they're lessons on how an abandoned child survives during the Depression.  Bud knows the Public Library is a good, warm, place and late-comers to the Mission don't get fed.  He also knows the world hasn't been a safe place since his Mom died four years ago. All she left him was a love of reading, the knowledge that his name is Bud, (not Buddy), some posters and painted rocks.  Based on wishful thinking and the posters she kept, Bud believes his father is a musician named Herman Calloway.  When the orphanage and foster home system fail at keeping him safe, Bud decides it's time to hit the road and find his father.

Bud, Not Buddy is historical fiction, but the history is recent, and the story doesn't stray far from the truth.  Christopher Paul Curtis incorporated the stories of his grandfathers' talents and drive into the book: one, a redcap and baseball player who pitched against the great Satchel Paige, and the other, a classically trained violinist turned band leader who used ingenuity to succeed in business, despite the Depression and discriminatory statutes in effect.  Bud's quest for a home is a hero's journey, although he doesn't see himself that way, and the story contains one of the best descriptions of jazz I've ever read.  If you missed this award winner when it first came out (like I did), do yourself a favor and meet a good kid named Bud.  You can never go wrong by meeting nice folks.  And that's a rule of mine.

Understanding the Elephant

Does anyone remember the story of the blind men and the elephant?  Six blind scholars all try to discover what an elephant looks like by touching one part of the animal.  Because an elephant is composed of many shapes (trunk, ears, legs, tail, etc.,) running your hands over one part of it doesn't give you an accurate picture of the animal, but it does show what a limited perception can discover.  And, when it comes to some episodes of history, we're all blind folks trying to survey an elephant.

Val McDermid tackles this idea in her mystery novel, The Grave Tattoo.  On the surface, it's a modern day story about the discovery of a body near the Lake District of England.  Although the corpse has been underground for awhile, it's easy to see this is neither a recent death nor the discovery of an ancient caveman.  What's interesting are the number of complicated tattoos still discernable on the decedent's skin.  And therein hangs the link to a historical debate and the mysterious elephant in the room.

The debate is who was at fault for the mutiny on the H.M.S. Bounty, Fletcher Christian or Captain Bligh?  The popular opinion has switched back and forth, from Bligh's exoneration to Nordhoff and Hall's pro-Fletcher Christian novel, (that served as the basis for at least three Hollywood movies) and back to Bligh with Caroline Anderson's history of the Bounty that I wrote about last year.  The mystery is the ultimate fate of Fletcher Christian: did he die on Pitcairn Island or did he find his back to England?

Wordsworth - Poet and
Christian's Defender?

There are rumors that not only did Christian return to England but that he looked up an old grade school chum while he was there: the poet, William Wordsworth. And it's rumored Wordsworth turned Christian's account of what happened into an epic poem to be published after both of them were dead. But Wordsworth's work and the sailor both disappeared.

Enter into this historical/literary mystery, one Jane Gresham, a Wordsworth Scholar who waits tables and teaches part-time while trying to break into an academic career. Because she grew up in the area where Wordsworth and Christian once lived, she knows the rumors and starts hunting for clues, but she isn't the only one. Wordsworth's manuscript, if it exists, is worth millions and not everyone is as honest as Jane. Pretty soon twenty-first-century corpses are turning up to keep company with the tattooed man in the pathologist's waiting room. Pretty soon Jane is racing known and unknown enemies to save a piece of literary history and the lives of innocent people.

We may never really know who was the "bad guy" on the HMS Bounty or what happened to Fletcher Christian.  Val McDermid has given us a guess with The Grave Tattoo along with a  satisfying thriller. As guesses go, her book's more fun than trying to figure out what an elephant looks like by touch.

The Best of People, the Worst of Times: Number the Stars

Nobody likes to think about kids being in the middle of war. Kids are a vulnerable population in the cross-fire of that adult insanity, and when they get wounded or killed, innocent lives have been taken. So, those of us lucky enough to live in peaceful countries try to raise our kids in a cotton-wool world where everyone is kind, and children are never in danger. Still, it's good for kids to know about those who have been brave, even in the worst of times. That's one reason to read and share Lois Lowry's Number the Stars.

Number the Stars documents the Danish Resistance's effort to save the Jewish citizens of Denmark after Nazi Germany invaded their country.  Officially, Denmark's ruling government agreed to collaborate with the Nazi invaders; this allowed them to stay (nominally) in control so they could protect the citizens as much as possible.  Unofficially, Danish citizens all over the country developed resistance cells to spy on and sabotage the invaders.  After three years of fending off Resistance attacks, the Nazis decided to crack down Denmark.  First, they took over Denmark's government and policing authority; then they issued orders to deport all of Denmark's Jews.

In the middle of this political conflagration are two ten-year-old girls, Annemarie Johansen and Ellen Rosen. To Annemarie, Ellen is her neighbor and lifelong best friend; to the Nazis, Ellen's one of the Jews.  Annemarie and her family decide to protect the Rosens and smuggle them into neutral/free Sweden.  That action puts the Johansens in danger as well as the Nazi search comes closer and closer.  Eventually, everyone over the age of 9 takes part in a desperate deception to spirit the Rosens to safety and Annemarie learns enough to understand there are times when even 10-year-old girls must be brave.

Kim Malthe-Brunn

Lest you think this novel is a complete fantasy, Lois Lowry appends an essay at the end about her research at the end of the story.  She discusses how the actions of ordinary people saved almost all of Denmark's Jewish population and Kim Malthe-Brunn, one of the young Danish Resistance fighters executed by the Nazis. Taken together, her research shows that brave individuals don't always prevail, but great things can happen when brave people band together.

If you have any lingering doubts, Number the Stars is a Newbery award-winning book, the American Library Association's personal gold seal of approval.  Instead of being a book about "the best of times; the worst of times," Number the Stars is about the worst of times and the best in people.

Getting Rid of an Ugly, Dead Tree

There's an ugly, dead tree at the bottom of my yard and I want it gone.

One very ugly,
dead tree

Now, before you decide I'm some nut who wants to ruin the environment, let me admit the tree is dead. Also, I live in a place where Mother Nature needs editing more than encouragement. So, I'm not some terrible industrialist laying waste to the earth.  But I am someone who lost control of my world.  And I'm fighting to get it back.

Our house sits at the back of 4/3s of an acre on the crest of a low-lying hill. Because we live on a slope and my husband does not love lawn care, much of our yard belongs to the wild things.  Trees and brush grow at the corners of the lot where birds and small animals make their homes.  As long as the foliage didn't obscure the view or road to our house, that's fine.  But then the ugly tree came along.

It came up during one of our 48-hour springs that seem to launch straight into summer. In March, it was a straight little sapling that hugged the edge of the road.  By fall, it was too big for my loppers to cut down. Soon, insidious vines twisted around the tree, warping the trunk and obscuring the view of the house. Still, I never seemed to find the right moment to cut it back. Either I was dealing with some career or personal issue, or working on something for school, going to or recovering from my full-time job, taking care of the house, or writing.  All of that is hard to do, especially when you're carrying an extra 130 pounds in weight. So, every year, I missed my chance to cut back the tree and its vines during the dormant season.  And every year, I gained more weight and my health got worse.

Why won't this thing
fall down??

I finally realised the tree and my weight both belong to me: they are my problems, my responsibility. I started losing weight, not all the weight I need to lose, but enough to go after that ugly, dead tree.

And I can tell you ugly dead trees don't give up without a fight. First off, the vines around it are still living and fibrous and it takes work just to get them away.  Also, the tree is surrounded by a ton of kudzu, stickle-briar and urushiol-bearing plants, all equipped with their own thorny defense systems.  And the tree itself is a particularly dense hardwood. Yes, this would have been easier if I had a chainsaw but powered tools aren't good for klutzes like me.  Instead, I brought my small hatchet, a hand mitre saw and my inadequate 2" loppers to the job, as well as a pair of gloves and 911 programmed into my cell phone. (I am very accident prone.) I hacked away with the hatchet until I quit making headway and then swapped to the saw and loppers, trying to slice through the trunk of that tree. Twenty-five minutes after starting, I was sweating, breathless, blistered and the ugly tree was still standing. (I'd also picked up a winter case of poison ivy but I didn't know that at the time.) I was ready to quit. Then I realised the tree was more than a tree and I was working on two problems at once.

I'm not lying when I say my unhealthy weight is a problem that I've fought for decades. Decades. Like the vines on the sapling, it's grown and tightened a grip on my life until I was almost as bad off as that tree.  Over the last nine months, I've whittled away a lot of pounds through exercise, healthier choices, and even surgery, but, like the tree, the rest of my extra weight hasn't fallen yet. My unhealthy life patterns aren't giving up without a fight.  And, if I turn my back on them now, those unhealthy vines will start creeping back.  So,  in spite of the cold, the rain and the poison ivy, I'm determined to keep hacking until the tree is down and the vines are ground up for mulch.  It's become a symbol of something else I want gone from my life.

Yes, the tree isn't giving up easily.  Then again, neither am I.

An Absolute Wonder of a Book

Have you ever felt like a bunch of independent things were coming together to take you in a single direction?  I have. Weird, isn't it?  

Sometime this last fall, Amazon and the New York Times started mentioning "Wonder" as one of the middle-grade books of the moment.  "Something special," they said. Its blue-and-white cover was prominently displayed on the shelves of my local bookstore. Now, these entities know a fair amount about books but I don't like being told what to read and bookstores always say they have something special when they want to grab more of my money. Then my sister (the teacher) insisted I had to read Wonder because of its narrative style   By the time literary agents Jaida Temperly and Danielle Barthel cited Wonder as one of the stories middle-grade writers and readers should know, I was ready to surrender.  I can resist a fair amount of hype but this felt more like directives from a superior force, pushing me toward the future. 

And they were right.  Wonder is not just a book kids love reading right now, it's one they will love to read for years. It's a book many parents will love.  It's an absolute wonder of a book.

The heart of Wonder is Auggie Pullman, a boy who redefines what "ordinary" "different" and "extraordinary" mean through his story.  On the one hand, he's just one more kid who lives in upper Manhattan.  He's got parents, a sibling, a dog, and a serious addiction to Star Wars.  Auggie is smarter than some but not a prodigy.  Nevertheless, he stands out in every crowd because a genetic disorder has altered his face. That disorder distracts strangers so they don't see the terrific kid behind the face. And he is a terrific kid.  Even his older sister says as much.

Although the central story in Wonder is Auggie's, another great thing about the book is how he impacts the lives of kids closest to him, especially his sister, Olivia.  We see how she loves and cares for her brother and accepts his needs often come first; we also see (in the reverse of most sibling relationships) how this elder sister longs for her own place in the sun, where she's not identified and defined by her relationship to Auggie. We see her guilt over these reasonable feelings and how she faces the truth of her own genetic inheritance.  We see how Auggie's not the only brave kid on the page.

Wonder is that most magnificent thing, a fictional story that realistically captures the human spirit.  While Auggie is the central character, most of the rest of Wonder's cast can't be dismissed as mere heroes and villains. The other characters are people who can make mistakes and are just doing the best they can.  And the kids in the book tell their stories in the way that kids talk, with pop culture references and without extra words.  No wonder literary agents are holding this book up as a model.  It's a terrific example of "show, don't tell."  

So yes, this book is a Wonder, and incredibly well-named.  It's won a bunch of prizes, is now the first of a series and the basis for a movie that's coming soon.  And it's as good as everyone says. When a story worth telling is told so well so it opens hearts, the buzz you hear about it isn't hype.  It's the trumpet of destiny.

Are you good at solving Puzzles?

Reynard "Rennie" Muldoon is. He's one of those kids who does the crossword in ink, solves algebra problems in his head and tends to have few friends his own age.  Well, the other kids think he's strange. And he's an orphan, to boot.  So it's good that he has a talent for Puzzles.  A talent that could change his life.

Rennie Muldoon is the central character in The Mysterious Benedict Society, one of those stories, like Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate events or James and the Giant Peach, that belong in the "Plucky Orphan" genre.  Once again, kind and decent children are thrown onto the dubious mercies of the world with tasks that would defeat most adults.  Once again there's a picturesque, almost Dickensian quality to the narrative.   The plus in this book (besides its marvellous story) is what makes Rennie Muldoon important.   The tale is chock-full of puzzles.

Rennie answers an ad for "Gifted Children looking for Special Opportunities" and is subjected to a series of tests that range from the usual time and speed math problems I never figured out to staged exams of his character and resourcefulness.  By including the problems, the reader gets the fun of solving the puzzles as well as getting pulled into the story.  

By the end of the day, he's learned few children don't meet the qualifications and that there's more than one way to solve problems. While Rennie applies logic and reasoning to questions, Sticky Washington has an eidetic memory and can recall the answers he's read.  Kate Weatherall is braver than either boy and creates "outside the box" solutions to problems that would stump both of the boys.  To this trio is added a fourth, Constance Contraire, a child as stubborn as she is smart. Instead of responding directly to a query, Constance challenges the authority of every examiner with rhyming, impertinent poems.  It's not as easy to like grumpy, impatient Constance but the trio respects her mind.  And so does the mysterious Mr Benedict.

The Author, not Mr Benedict.

Orphans need a mentor to appreciate them and give them room to grow.  Mr Benedict takes his place in a pantheon of loving, flawed mentors with Glenda the Good and the great Dumbledore.  Like these, he can advise and worry about the children he sends into danger but he cannot rescue them from their ultimate moments of peril.  Here, the children must rely on their own abilities or the friendships they've developed between each other.  And here is where the talent for solving puzzles comes in very handy.

If you have a middle-grader handy (aged between 9-12) over the next few days, and you want a story to love and share, try The Mysterious Benedict Society for some read-aloud fun.  Or you could read the book yourself if you really like solving puzzles.

Mr. K and the A, B, Cs of reading

My Friend, Mandy

My friend Mandy reads lots of books.  Well, most of my friends like to read but Mandy reads more than most.  And she worries about accidentally embarrassing someone who reads less than she does when she admits how much she reads. She has a good heart that way. But having audited more than my share of competitions about "who reads the most", I've learned to shy away from those conversations. Like Mandy, I think a person's literacy level can't be determined by the number of books they've read, but I also think that level is based on more than pages and the reading difficulty are involved.  For that, I still turn to Mr K's A-B-Cs of reading.

Mr K was one of my high-school English teachers and one of the more popular instructors in school. Funny, intelligent and a bit daring, he escorted herds of reluctant adolescents through the thickets of 20th Century American Literature and he gave very reasonable tests.  As a matter of fact, the students in his classes got to choose which of his tests they'd take.

It was a pretty simple concept.  For every assigned book, Mr K had three essay options, designated "A", "B" and "C" and each student wrote a response based on one of those options. The grade might meet but never exceed the letter assigned to the response and the options went something like this:

A - Describe the literary significance of this book, based on its techniques, the lessons it teaches and its continuing impact on contemporary, everyday life.

B - Describe, by listing the symbols and themes in the work, the points the author was trying to make.

C - Tell the story of the book. 

Mr K said his questions were designed to show how much we took away from each book.  A "C" answer would show that we'd read the story but a "B" answer revealed we'd thought about what we read.  An "A" grade was only possible if we'd read the story, thought about it and then applied the story's lessons to our own lives. Earning an"A" under that standard does a book justice but it can't happen by simply auditing the words.

That's one reason I re-read certain books.  In the seventh grade, I read "Jane Eyre" thoroughly enough to repeat the plot but I couldn't identify its themes, motifs and symbols.  It took time and several more re-reads (plus a passel of literature classes) before I realised the nature of Jane's quest for acceptance and a balance between her earthly and spiritual values.  It took me even longer to figure out the way she resolved some questions helped me face similar issues myself. (I'm just grateful Providence spared me from having a mad woman in my own attic. Too much is too much.)  

The thing is, I don't think many people read books according to Mr K's formula although I believe, they should. An author who takes the time and trouble to create thoughtful literature deserves thoughtful readers. The Close, Deep reading Mr K recommended creates a far richer experience, one I know my friend Mandy enjoys.  But those who measure their sense of self-worth by the number of books they've perused are more interested in finishing a book than understanding what they've read. It's kind of sad in a way; they speed through the mechanics of reading and miss the best parts of the story.

So, if you have books to read over this holiday season, I hope you enjoy every page. Take your time and savour them, like a well-prepared meal or a work of art.  See which of the A-B-C standards you meet and if re-reading the book will raise your grade.  Reading is a journey to be enjoyed, not a race to be run.  That's the gospel according to me and Mr K.  

Winter Country

Like all our other seasons, Winter came a bit early this year.

Just between you and me, the South doesn't handle Winter all that well. This is the sun-belt, where central air and sunglasses are more than accessories. Our winters often hold off until January and some years they don't show up at all. Instead of a frozen wasteland, we get a dormant rainy outdoors explored only by aficionados of the hunt.  The rest of us curl up with a book and a drink until it's time to replant the garden.

But not this year.  This year we're going to get winter and it's going to be downright cold.

A sure sign of winter - smoke
coming from the fireplace

The South becomes a different place in winter; more like the spot they wrote about decades ago. Although most Southerners are not tied to the land like they were in previous centuries, weather becomes an important factor to us during these three months of the year.  Our houses are not heated the way New England homes are and bitter cold can sometimes seep indoors.  Bereft of their gardens, our houses seem to pull in on themselves these days, like a freezing man huddles inside his parka. The surrounding verdant landscape reverts to a more somber palette.

Still, I love the look of winter in the South with its subdued shades of brown, grey and green.   I cannot look at our winter landscape without thinking of Kenneth Grahame's Wind in the Willows.

"The country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering-- even exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple." 

Stripped of the usual covering of kudzu and leaves, here is our essential country: strong, simple and not totally without colour.   Every December, our neighbour's unpruned shrub decks itself in scarlet berries as if sprouted just for the holiday.  The pine trees grow like weeds from the rusty clay earth.  Even the layers of sedimentary rock expose their striated beauty. This is our home, without artifice.  The earth we cling to is strong.

Yes, Spring will return in just a few months with its riot of flowers and birdsong.  I'll be there to welcome it.  But in the meantime, let me cherish winter, with its long, dark nights and silent, peace-filled earth.  This season has its beauty as well.