Fleur-de-Favs

I’m embarrassed to say how many decades of Pennsylvania winters I’ve lived through without noticing what I’m calling the razor clam shell phenomenon.  OK, six … plus.

I guess I was always rushing to school or work or feeding kids or animals. Dashing here and there without pausing to look.  Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of pausing.  Anyway, before the holidays we had icy weather and I noticed sleeves of ice that had fallen off tree branches a good 70 feet in the air, landing on tufts of grass and fallen leaves, cushioned by frost.  A dozen or so of these frozen shells—6 inches of glazed ice—looked like clear, sparkling razor clam shells scattered along my path. I stooped over, picked one up, and ran my finger down its trough in wonder. It amazes me that the thick glaze on tree branches can fall to the ground and stay reasonably intact.

The next day, I returned to the same area. We had had a dusting of snow, and each of the shells was filled with snow.  This time, I took a photo:

Snowy Razor Clam Shells

When the kids were growing up, we made a pact.  On the first snowfall of the season, we’d celebrate by having ice cream for breakfast.  (This made for some early-early morning trips to Turkey Hill, but the ritual was worth it.)   Both “kids” are now in their late 20s but this year on news of our first PA snowfall, both said, “It’s time to eat ice cream.”  Oh, the little things that make a mother smile.

As the year and decade come to a close, I spent the last weeks appreciating a few of my favorite things.

Winter Weeding:  Lest you think I’m pulling deep from my sturdy Polish Wrobleski roots, let me assure you I’m not hardy enough to face the brutal, icy winds of Central PA winters doing yard work. Instead, my absolute December delight is weeding the beds in my mom’s garden room, what we call the atrium.  There is a bit of stretching and straddling, and the joy in having my bare fingers in warm soil, pulling clover and wandering Jew plant (Tradescantia) volunteers. I clean up brown, crunchy fig leaves, a few wilted and spent orchid blossoms, and recently uncovered a plastic daisy barrette that sprouted mysteriously in the indoor garden soil.

December Amaryllis: For the past few years we’ve been given amaryllis bulbs forced for the month’s festivities.  Last year, I decided to try to save the bulbs for this season by cutting back the foliage, refrigerating the repotted bulbs, and bringing them out of hibernation in November. Of the two pots, one bulb rotted and the other sprouted vibrant green spears.  I was psyched.  Then, at Trader Joe’s, I couldn’t resist a pre-planted combo of more amaryllis and hyacinths, ready to burst into blossom. That proved to be a good move.  We had a wonderful show of white amaryllis and hyacinths, but no flower, only green strappy foliage, from last year’s bulb.

Holiday Brunch:  The first Saturday of the 12^th month of the year is reserved for the annual Alpha Omicron Pi Holiday Brunch.  In the past, I’ve dropped my mom off with a potluck dish to share and a Toys-for-Tots gift.  This year, I stayed and was welcomed as the “other half” of their beloved sorority sister. My mom remembers their faces, but not their names.  They all remember her—showed me photos of her as a “co-ed”—and I was able to take this year’s holiday brunch “group shot” for the alumnae scrapbook.

My mother was an AOPi in the late 1940s.  I think the sorority disappeared from the Penn State campus in the 1960s, but in the 1980s I remember my mom and her sorority sisters having many meetings to get AOPi functioning once again at University Park.  It was a big accomplishment for the chapter as well as my mother—her youngest daughter, Leslie, pledged the second-time-around AOPi chapter.

Giving to those less fortunate is the lifeblood of the sorority, and at the holiday brunch, the sisters went around the table sharing interesting ideas they had come across.  One suggestion struck me:  A group of 12 or so friends plans a luncheon at a restaurant. Each person brings a $50 bill. They each order their lunch and when the bill comes, each chips in her $50 bill.  The “remaining” goes to the server, because, as one of the AOPi sisters explained,  “Lord knows they don’t make enough.”  I liked the idea because it’s simple, it brings friends together for food and fellowship, the only work required is making the restaurant reservation, and it helps the waiter/waitress pay rent that month.

Moving forward to Christmas, we were sitting at the table enjoying Wille’s (my Chef-phew) perfectly cooked rib roast when he started to tell his Nonna that she was A-OK.  But he had only said “A-O” when my mom finished his sentence with “Pi” and laughed at her cleverness.  Once an AOPi, always an AOPi.

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been spending a lot of time pausing.  My mother and I celebrated our 157^th birthday earlier this month (I was born on her birthday).  By happenstance, over my lunch break on that special day, we adopted Sandy IV.

Marie & Sandy IV

At 13 months and 16 pounds, Sandy is full-grown but still a puppy at heart.  When we go for walks in the yard, I pause as he does his “hurry ups,” sniffs animal tracks and icy shells, or walks on his hind legs showing off his clown-like tendencies.  He is a cross between a Maltese and a Yorkshire Terrier—a Morkie, if you will—and quite adorable.  Sandy IV has become part of the family, and, yes, one of my favorite things.  Laurie Lynch

Fleur-de-Duo

I knew I was in trouble when my library book sprouted a thicket of torn paper markers.  It was like some of my favorite cookbooks, with recipes to try tagged, one after the other.

The name of this book is Around the World in 80 Trees by Jonathan Drori. The illustrations by Lucille Clerc are a complement to the text, allowing the reader to “see” the tree, its leaves, flowers, seeds, and fruit; its habitat and cultural setting. Neither my travel itinerary nor my mom’s property has room for 80 trees.  No worries.  My slips of paper save spots of stories to remember, nature’s notes, botanical history with a dose of British understated humor.

Did you know that in the late 19^th century some posh neighborhoods of London had streets paved with wood blocks of jarrah (Eucalyptus marginata) imported from Western Australia? Wouldn’t you love to travel to Morocco to see goats nibbling fruit while standing on the thorny branches of an argan tree (Argania spinosa)?  Or try to lift the heaviest seed in the world (65 lbs.) of the coco-de-mer tree (Lodoicea maldivica) of the Seychelles?

Heck, I’d better buy the book.

By the time I was about a quarter of the way through the book and reading about a tree of Crete (Quince—Cydonia oblonga), I needed an escape from reality and a break from cramming tree lore into my brain.  I needed a novel. That was precisely when I got an email from the library saying A Single Thread, for which I was on the wait list, was available.

So, in mid-read, I switched to Tracy Chevalier’s novel set in 1930s England. I loved Chevalier’s historical novel Girl with a Pearl Earring, centered around Johannes Vermeer’s Dutch portrait.  I wanted to see what she was up to now.

As I began reading A Single Thread, I dove into the English countryside, sandwiched between the Great War and the second round, and surfaced in Winchester Cathedral. Prior to this, the only thing I knew of Winchester Cathedral was the odd, megaphone-sounding song by The New Vaudeville Band in the 1960s. Now, England is at the top of my list of places to visit besides Belgium. The book tempted me with the intricacies of needlepoint, the charm of bell ringing, and the social fabric of the times.

I zipped through A Single Thread.  I didn’t want the story to end. Not wishing to close the book, I even read the “Acknowledgements”.  On the last page, under “The Rest,” I read:  “My husband, Jon Drori, for walking in the rain with me between Winchester and Salisbury cathedrals, all in the name of research.”

I stopped. Searched my brain. Was there a character in the book named Drori?  Where have I heard that unusual name before?

I thought. And thought. Then I reached for my bedside table. I pulled Around the World in 80 Trees onto the bed and looked at the cover.  Jonathan Drori , the author.  And Tracy’s husband.   For several days and nights, their books were stacked on top of each other for me to read at my leisure, without me knowing their secret. What a strange, strange world.  Laurie Lynch