Woods Wanderer

Yesterday while shoveling the driveway, it suddenly occurred to me that I was enjoying it. Not only the task at hand, but the bright sunlight breaking through the leafless trees, the blanket of fresh snow covering everything, and even the nip in the air. The air was completely still so 10 degrees didn’t feel bad at all. A finger frostbitten in years past ached a bit, but I was dressed for the weather and quite comfortable overall. I was quite comfortable despite the sweat soaking my undershirt as I worked.

Enjoying winter… What’s wrong with me?

My plow guy had cleared most of the storm’s accumulation from my driveway the night before, but there were still a couple inches of snow to push around. Instead of calling him back for a second swipe, I took care of it. Two hours of upper-body exercise – that’s how I approached the task. And lots of fresh, clean air to breathe.

It has been a mild winter this year so I’m reluctant to say that I enjoy the season, now and forever. I’ve never been a big fan of winter in the past. But after living 40 years in northern Vermont, the long white has grown on me. I wouldn’t want to live in a place where it never snows. The darkness of December still gets to me, but by February winter is just heavy precipitation and frigid temps. And springtime is right around the corner.

Part of my change of heart is due to getting older, I think. Now that I am keenly aware of my mortality, each and every day is precious. And there are simple pleasures to be had in every season. Sometimes sitting indoors sipping tea while a great wind blows is pleasure enough. The other day we lost power for a couple hours and I ended up reading by headlamp before going to bed. That wasn’t bad at all.

I still prefer spring to any other season and look forward to that unfolding soon. But these last days of winter are fine by me. Who knows? I just might break out my snowshoes and put them to good use before the big melt off happens. I’ll get a lot more reading and writing done during the next month regardless.

Tags: daylight, seasons, simple pleasures, snow, Vermont, winter

It’s late summer and the blackberries are ripening. A few steps from our new house they grow wild. I discovered them a few weeks ago.

They grow along the pathways between our house and the nearby quarry – a good place for a short walk. Wide pathways riddle the local woods. And where sunlight strikes, blackberry bushes magically appear.

From green to red these berries ripen. When they get that deep purplish hue, they’re ready to be picked. I can hardly resist. Their plumpness is alluring. Pop a couple in your mouth and you know what happiness tastes like. Sweet, yes, but with a zing to them that all wild fruit seems to have.

My wife Judy has gone through several pints of them. She went a-picking with me once but is happy enough just eating them at home. I, on the other hand, like picking blackberries more than eating them. It feeds my compulsion.

Don’t get me wrong. I eat plenty of blackberries as I pick them, popping one in my mouth for every two or three that goes in my container. That seems like a good ratio.

Between picking and eating, I grow lighthearted, almost giddy. Wearing only shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops, I am scratched by the thorny blackberry bushes and take plenty of bug bites, but I don’t care. I sweat in the sunlight breaking into the humid woods, but I don’t care. Picking becomes my raison d’être. I pick therefore I am.

Picking and eating, picking and eating… It’s a simple countryside pleasure that keeps me connected to the earth, making me glad to be alive. The world is going to hell in a hand basket, or so I hear. But while I’m a-picking, none of that matters.

Tags: blackberries, country life, late summer, simple pleasures, wild fruit

Daisies. Such ubiquitous wildflowers. You find them in clearings in the woods, open fields, or anywhere there is ample sunlight. Summer is in full swing when they start to bloom, so is it any surprise that so many of us associate them with happiness?

There are domesticated varieties, of course. I planted some daisy mums in front of my old place years ago and they took over my garden. Pretty, yes. Dainty, no. Give them half a chance and they’ll grow just about anywhere.

The other day as I was weed-whacking the drainage ditch in my front lawn, I noticed that a patch of daisies had taken root there. I steered clear of them. I let them do their thing, adding a little floral delight to the greenery.

Like so many other wildflowers, daisies gravitate to marginal areas. The other day I found them growing near the entrance to a nearby woodlot where I like to walk. Their carousel of bright white petals is an endless smile. They strike me as nature’s welcome mat – ambient to say the least.

My wife prefers daisies to roses. My kind of gal. Roses are aromatic and elegant, no doubt, but daisies shout a different kind of beauty into the world – a beauty accessible to everyone and not easily diminished.

We are well into the growing season now and this humble wildflower is everywhere. The simple, earthy pleasures of this time of year are manifest in daisies. I’m no mindless optimist, nor do I readily engage in frivolity, but the world seems less dour to me whenever daisies are in full bloom. One look at them and my soul takes flight. Silly me.

Tags: daisies, simple pleasures, summer, wildflowers