Baltimore Oriole with Fishing Line for Nest Brenda Jones Most people don’t even know there IS a Marsh in the middle of Trenton (and Bordentown and Hamilton). Let alone the northernmost freshwater tidal wetland, which surges and empties in synch with the tides of the ocean, as amplified by the nearby Delaware River. Let alone that ‘The Marsh’ is Oriole Central this May! Most people don’t know that the Marsh has mattered to the Lenni Lenapes for at least 10,00 years, that artifacts proving this have been found there over the centuries. That the Lenapes at first didn’t live there, but connected with each other and other tribes in spring, in autumn, en route to or from hunting lives to gathering times at the Shore. That Route #195, which noisily curves above and through the Marsh, began all those centuries ago as the Indians’ footpath to ocean gathering time.
Baltimore Oriole, Full Breeding Plumage - Brenda Jones For sure, what most people don’t know is that, if you’re in love with orioles, as well as other rarities among our NJ birds, go to the Marsh right NOW! The earlier in the day the better, though late light is good, too. Go with anyone brought there to lead tours for the Friends for the Marsh (www.marsh-friends.org), such as Charles and Mary Leck, Lou Beck and John Marin, among others. Orioles will welcome you immediately, perhaps even before the mute swans glide over to enchant you. Not only Baltimore orioles, but also orchard orioles.
Baltimore Oriole in All His Glory Brenda Jones If you’re with Charlie, Mary, Lou and John, you’ll be informed that the vaguely chartreuse oriole is a first-year orchard oriole. You may know, from other Marsh trips, –when Orchards and Baltimores conveniently perched on the same empty branch so that you could compare and contrast, as in English class–, that Orchard example will, next year, be the hue of a toasty chestnut. Spring Lake was named by the Lenni Lenapes, because spring-fed. It may well have been formed by the beavers, who still generously inhabit watery stretches, in what Charlie calls, “Beaver Condominiums”
Beaver Close-Up, from D&R Canal in Princeton — Brenda Jones There’s a trail map at entry of what is also called Roebling Park. You can hike over a small bridge (see beaver dam, which is different from lodge, to your right) into woods with well blazed trails. And/or turn left at the lake and circle it very slowly, binoculars on everything from posts to vines to tulip trees (Indians carefully burn-hollowed these trunks for canoes) to towering cottonwoods to shrubby arrow-wood viburnum (Indians used this wood for arrows) to dead trees, otherwise known as snags, perfect perching posts for avian visitors and nesters.
Great Blue Heron Brenda Jones This morning, starting at 8 a.m., an enthusiastic group decided that birding is more important than Mothers’ Day. Birding-by-ear was the name of the game from the start. I’ll try to remember what was seen and heard, so you can pretend you were with us. DIRECTIONS: To get there yourself, take Route 1 South to South Broad Street Exit at Arena; when exit T’s, that’s South Broad/206 South, there by the River Line Train holding pen. Left is south onto Broad, past Lalor. Turn right at the light (Sewell) after the two green church steeples. Drive through tiny neighborhood until Sewell T’s at the Marsh. Turn left/down and park next to the lake. Miracles of peace, beauty and birding await.
Red-Winged Blackbird in Full Breeding Plumage — Brenda Jones Mute swans; orchard oriole; red-winged blackbirds; yellow warblers; common yellowthroats; blue-grey gnatcatchers; solitary sandpiper (only there were 2 of these (really rare creatures); great blue heron; mallard pair; beaver lodge; beaver dam; Carolina chickadee with insect in mouth, waiting for us to pass so it could pop into its nest in post hidden by vines to feed young.
Osprey At (Much Heftier) Nest — Brenda Jones Osprey on scrungy nest on top of hideous power tower, male arriving with outsized nest material, matrimony on his mind. Flock of cedar waxwings, conveniently in emptily dead tree. Warbling vireos everywhere, proving their name.
Cedar Waxwing — Brenda Jones
Red Admiral butterflies, the lepidopteral stars of Spring 2012, first ON parking lot, where everyone could get ‘a good look’ at it, resting mid-flight on the gravel. The next red admiral was on a tree that had been graffitied — on a large 0 after a peace sign. Those with cameras were ecstatic. Those without will never forget those juxtapositions. At the shore, such as Cape May and ‘The Brigantine’ about which I write so often, people recently saw 40,000 migrant red admirals. Warning — they’re not red - they’re orange — but that’s pretty much the norm in nature nomenclature. Remember how orange the redstart is, and to me the red knot is terra cotta…
American Redstart by Brenda Jones — If you ask ME, it’s orange! We saw a toad upon whose species — the experts could not agree. It was right in the clover by the lake, and still as a stone. Henslow’s? American? I didn’t hear the outcome, because I was on the trail of overhead orioles, irresistibly posing in the full sun we weren’t supposed to have. Now, answer me. Would you believe a saga like this took place in Trenton. Does all day every day, depending upon the season. Several times, those of us who are riveted by bouquet de fox were stopped in our tracks by fox pungency. I didn’t take my camera - but Brenda Jones, of course, has pictures of some of our species. I’ll put them in for you. Put yourSELVES into the Marsh. And support it, through Friends for the Marsh and D&R Greenway Land Trust, where I work — who preserved and maintain those 1200 crucially moist acres, buffering temperature and drought/flood conditions, and serving as nursery and migrant corridor for species beyond counting. Although botanist Mary Leck and ornithologist, Charlie Leck, have, indeed counted and you can find the species count for plants, animals, amphibians (fish?), and, of course, birds on www.marsh-friends.org. Never forget that www.drgreenway.org keeps green New Jersey green
D&R Canal Above Mapleton Aqueduct by Brenda Jones Where D&R Greenway Began its Preservation Miracles…
Archetypal View from Kayak on D&R Canal, by Tasha O’Neill Picture a perfect day. It’s April. The sun is out, yet kind. There isn’t a hint of wind. Someone very kind, generous and vigilant arrives at my house with two kayaks, –one red, one green. He is determined that I not kayak alone for the first time since ‘total hip replacement’ (November 9). I am determined to be out on the water again. ‘Scroll backwards’ to my first meeting with my surgeon. Dr. Thomas Gutowski, who is asking, “What is your surgical goal?” As though everybody had one. As though everyone knew she would be asked such a question. As though a doctor cared. Without a hesitation, I answered him, “To get back in the kayak.”
“Carolyn in Kayak” (pre-op) by Tasha O’Neill “Of course!,” he responded, as though everyone gives him this answer. Later, I would learn that this man is training for Everest, has been to Base Camp II. That explains his understanding about a passion. But I didn’t talk to Dr. G. re mountains. Upon his immediate post-op visit, in hospital, I observed, “Of course, you were kidding when you told my friends you had given me a kayaker’s hip.” Of course, this consummate professional was NOT kidding. He had three ’species’ of kayaker’s hips at his disposal, and I have one of them. I forget which. “You’ll find it works better than the original,” he drily observed. (No, this remarkable encounter is not the fruit of the morphine pump.) Anyway, back to the perfect day.
View North from Mapleton Footbridge at Aqueduct, by Brenda Jones
I had expected to ‘put in’ at Mapleton Aqueduct. But, I had not kayaked last year, because this inexplicable ‘total loss of cartilage’ meant I couldn’t get myself OUT of a kayak. So I didn’t know what Irene had done to the ‘put in’ at Mapleton. Which is CHEWED the bank and evidently digested the dock I remembered to have been there for kayakers and canoeists. I, however, am a renting kayaker. No WAY could I lift one onto or off of a car, let alone carry it anywhere, even before cartilage deprivation. But this knight without armor could indeed lift kayaks onto and off of his vehicle. Not only that, he could carry, on his head, the red, then the green kayak over the burgundy bridge to a sandy place at Lake Carnegie. [Neither of us had experienced that lake in a kayak.] Since everything had ‘gone swimmingly’ re surgery and now P.T., I could even carry the ‘personal flotation devices’ and paddles, triping lightly (not literally) over the burgundy footbridge.
Footbridge at Mapleton Aqueduct — cfe The Vigilant One settled me into his red craft, making sure my lifejacket (as they used to be called) was securely fastened. He handed me a bottle of water, then the paddle. He took out his i-phone, grinning mischievously, nudging me gently out onto the lake. A great number of images later (”for Dr. Gutowski,” he announced, beyond my wildest imaginings), he was beside me in his own craft. There was not a soul on that lake. Five Canada geese rose like a Balanchine ensemble, as I floated for the first time in well over a year. Forgive the mixed metaphor, but their sounds were a Hallelujah Chorus.
Picture 5 Canada Geese, Rising Right Over Me, on Lake Carnegie — Brenda Jones Photo A single cormorant glided, then vanished, to our left. We headed north. All we could see were trees down to the water, and yes, distant mountains. I’m pretty sure they were the Watchungs, and I knew Dr. Gutowski wouldn’t consider them mountains. The stillness of the lake, and the beauty of that rising land was such that we could have been in Maine or New Hampshire. To our right, a single great blue heron minced along, severe in his fishing. And successful. We watched it eat two whatevers in quick succession. It maintained its determined procession. We kayaked with heads turned ’round like owls. It never lifted off.
Great Blue Heron Sentinel by Brenda Jones My kayaking companion had a deadline, and probably considered I did, as well. His was chronological. Mine was probably physical. All too soon, we both knew, it was time to turn around. Still, there was not another human on that water. Only the heron, still madly fishing. Completely invisible to, indifferent to, all the walkers on the Towpath. Usually, just the vibration of footfalls causes these herons to squawk and lift. No. He felt like the monarch of the glen, the king of the waters. Everything was sparkling, almost rainbowed — even the drops from that stately bird’s nearby beak. The magic didn’t end with that float. A young father, with two boys about three and five, was there as my ‘knight’ helped me out, Lady-of-the-Lake-time being over. “Could I carry the other kayak for you?” asked the father. “That would be grand,” answered the Vigilant One. And off we trekked over the burgundy footbridge - two men carrying kayaks, the two little boys and their mother. At a certain point, I turned around to see the father had set the red craft down, so that the lads, who’d insisted, could help their daddy carry. What an endearing scene. It’s over now, yet will never be over. That luminosity, that stillness, even the tough paddling back against wind and over waves, and especially my own easy rising from the kayak. I needed hands to steady me, but my legs worked. All of this is in me forever. And, so far as I know, those printed pictures are on Dr. Gutowski’s desk at Princeton Orthopaedic Associates right now.
What ‘Our’ Great Blue Heron Never Did - Flying Off With Fish — Brenda Jones
Brenda Jones’ Immature Princeton Eagles, 2011, on Unlikely Nest One of the miracles of living New Jersey in general, and near Princeton’s D&R Canal and Towpath, in particular. is that adventure is always at hand. After a dizzying work day, Thursday, and probably too close to sundown, I took myself to the Towpath at Mapleton, I cannot even count all the wonders that were mine, as a result. En route, I stopped at ‘our eagle nest, glad to see ‘Mama’ perky on the rim of her most uncharacteristic, but very successful cone-shaped nest. Can’t tell if she has young, but her vertical posture suggests same. Five minutes after I set foot(e) on the Towpath, a fisherman asked, “Do you want to see a fish?” “Of course!,” I responded. With that, he tugged on a line in canal water at the aqueduct. Something large and luminous waited in a golden net. The man was from another land, so at first I could not understand the species. Then, the word penetrated, “Carp,” he kindly repeated. “I take them out of here fifteen pounds sometimes. This one’s about ten.” Speechless at the size of his catch, I asked, “How will you cook it?” “Paprika,” he immediately answered. “Onions.” Then his brow furrowed. He may not know the English words he needed, so continued, “and all the others.” He smiled eagerly, adding, “and a lot of hot fat.” “That sounds great!,” I replied, thanking him, walking on. Another fisherman was literally taking time to smell the flowers. “A different kind of honeysuckle,” he observed. I bent, inhaled, agreed. I rubbed a flower between my fingers, and it turned to dust. “Dry,” I said sadly. The fisherman nodded. “March, too,” he observed. “We are ruining the weather.” I thanked him for wisdom not shared by the Weather Channel, licking its chops over disaster, as usual. I walked north from the aqueduct, as crew upon crew glided north on Lake Carnegie, gilded by late light. On my left were cascades of white dogwood bloom, each larger than my hand. On my right, in the canal, a nose was swimming. Sure enough, it was a slim gold snake. I’ve been writing poems anew, since my November hip replacement. Several of them include snakes. It felt a wonderful omen, not only to ‘meet’ one, but to see it swimming so healthily. I became aware of a welcome fragrance, far beyond blossoms in rarity this year. It had rained a bit, the night before, though you’d never know it on that dry path. The lake had been renewed by fresh rainfall. The air smelled ‘like clean clothes dried on lines.’ At shore houses and in childhood, one of the rewards of tugging sheets from clotheslines had been that superoxygenated scent, like no other on earth. Until I moved to Princeton, and walked the towpath, that is. I wanted to inhale only, keep it all.
Red-Winged Blackbird, Brenda Jones Sounds were important on the towpath that evening — red-winged blackbirds’ ‘okaleeeeee’; the uh-oh of fish crows; the imperious command to drink-your-tea!, drink-your-tea! of the white-throated sparrow. An unpleasant leitmotif was also involved commands — from coxswains ordering their rowing students to tighten their thighs. All the while, both lake and canal shimmered. Leaves trembled, dappling the path and this contented restored walker. I felt as though I could trek on forever. But, ever mindful of this new hip, decided to pause at the turtles, try to count them. resting on the only logs Irene seems to have left. These were the largest turtles I’ve ever seen resting in serried rows — some like platters!. There must have been at least twenty four. The dark shapes gleamed, and some were accented by coral striations along the relaxed legs.
Turtle Pecking Order Alongside D&R Canal and Towpath, Brenda Jones Turning at Turtle Central, I made my way back to the footbridge. As I’d promised various health professionals, I took advantage of every bench, only for moments. At my feet in the lake, water lily leaves had opened and pickerel weed arrows had begun to emerge. I thought of the Lenni Lenapes, who recognized pickerel weed emergence as the signal the tribal reunions from throughout the Delaware Valley and beyond, in the Hamilton-Trenton-Bordentown Marsh. This shiny pointed plant alerted them to end hunter-live for the time being. After exchanging critical news and performing rituals in the Marsh, our first residents took trails that we have now numbered, 195 being one of them, in order to reach the sea and their gathering season. I realized, as the sun slipped below western trees, gathering is what I had been doing. From carp through dogwood, snake to turtles. Gathering beauty and memory. That exists because wise people knew to preserve the D&R Canal and Towpath, among the wise ones having been D&R Greenway Land Trust, where I work. Support your local land trust. Preserve natural New Jersey.
D&R Canal Footbridge at Mapleton cfe
Finest Sailing Ship and Restaurant — the S. S. France
The first time I sailed to France was on the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. Neither in planning, nor in departure, did this dire date cross our minds. However, high school friends, –as I passed through Michigan en route to my East Coast life–, were convinced that the S.S. France would crash into an iceberg, plunging my husband and me to the bottom of the gelid Atlantic. In recent years, I’ve read ‘most everything about the sinking of the Titanic, literally with a sinking heart. Always, I grieved over the many losses, at every level, within that majestic ship, and of the ship itself. Often, it was the fate of colliers and those in steerage who riveted me. To say nothing of the mourning houses in in and near Southampton, where we were headed. From whence we would ultimately sail home on the Mary. There was about certain high school friends the air that Werner and I might well deserve some sort of catastrophe for undertaking this frivolous journey. Hedonism was highly suspect in those towns, churches and schools. I couldn’t explain that the two of us, with those science degrees, were setting out to resolve egregious lacunae in our educations, –particularly in art and literature. The S.S. France would become our first teacher. Embarking upon the S.S. France brought no frissons of alarm. Our stateroom was, indeed, awash in flowers, fruit baskets and handsome bottles of champagne — truly carrying coals to Newcastle. Food was the chef d’oeuvre of this ship. Getting there was secondary. A tiny sign at the dressing table assured Madame that “The lights around this mirror are of a roseate hue, which has been maintained throughout the ship. You may be assured,” some eloquent and flattering French person had inscribed, “that wherever you go upon the S.S. France, you will look as lovely as you do here.” Minnesota was never like this. In our stateroom, at embarkation, bon voyage friends were suddenly interrupted by the announcement, “Tous les visiteurs a terre, s’il vous plait. Tous les visiteurs a terre.” I abruptly realized that Werner and I were actually sailing, — I to Europe for the first time, he for the seventh, within this sleek and gleaming new palace of the seas. Our visitors hastily crossed the gangplank back to earth. After the ritual tossings of serpentine and confetti, Werner took me to a sheltered place on the top deck, to observe rituals of embarkation. He ordered (of course French) champagne. At a certain point, the Statue of Liberty floated past our ‘coupes’, [not flutes in those days]. We were underway. Even that first night, our superlative waiters made clear, we could order ANYthing. It wouldn’t be an insult to the chefs — it would honor their creativity! In Minnesota, once, we couldn’t have crepes suzette in the best restaurant in town because the crepes chef was parking cars… We had on board leather-bound volumes of Gourmet’s Bouquet de France, Italian Bouquet and Bouquet of Britain, bibles of both food and sights for the three months. We put them to use immediately. We were not to be limited to whatever their legendary chefs had promised in those towering, opulent menus, — separate ones for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner. One could start each meal with generous scoops of the greyest, freshest, slight-salt-tang-retaining caviar, served from a silver bowl large enough to bathe a newborn. I refrained at breakfast. By the third night out, –sipping champagne between limitless waltzes and exuberant Charlestons, I decided “What a way to go!” We could dance until the ballroom emptied, then follow the (smaller) orchestra up to L’Atlantique, a “boite de nuit” on an upper deck. Our cabin steward had alerted us to this privilege, alarmed when we’d returned to our cabin that first midnight. “O, la, la!,” he had cried in dismay, encountering us in the passageway to our stateroom. “You are not having a good time!” Our assurances meant nothing. “Promise me. Tomorrow, do what you must, Take naps. Anything. Dance till the band stops, then follow the musicians to L’Atlantique. Whatever you do, stay until the onion soup arrives.” In both settings, the Grand Ballroom and L’Atlantique, musicians would play anything we would request. After four starved years in Minnesota, my Swiss husband kept them busy with favorites, especially the waltzes of Strauss and his other specialty ‘the Lindy.’ In the Midwest, we’d called it ‘the jitterbug.’ In L’Atlantique, indeed, at 4:30 a.m., the “authentic onion soup of Les Halles” arrived. I never had eaten soup sitting at a bar It remains the best I’ve ever found, including that for which we would make pilgrimage to Les Halles (”the belly of Paris”) in the middle of the dark, a few days later. It was imperative to savor the food of the workers in that earthy neighborhood. I have since returned many times to Au Pied du Cochon , and this seems hearteningly the same. [Even though politicians have erased the grace and electricity of this major food market of Paris. Power and greed have literally melted the 10 graceful and alluring Baltard pavilions into scrap.] The last time I saw Paris, however, onion soup still reigned near lovely Ste. Eustache. The France was legendary not only for her food (Craig Claiborne, food critic of the New York Times, sailed both ways without disembarking, just to relish its cuisine.) The ship was also known for her stabilizers, which purportedly assured smooth sailing. Even so, there were meals with ropes stretched both ways across our table, nights when our dancing was interrupted by sudden unexpected sea-caused glissades to one wall or another. Even now, as we near the 100th anniversary of the tragic loss of the Titanic, I admit that we found these lurches amusing, challenges to Werner’s dancing skill. The only ice we encountered was in our glasses. Legendary people sailed with us, announced on special ‘newspapers’ delivered in our stateroom each morning, by our faithful steward. He, who’d introduced us to L’Atlantique dancing and soup. He, who’d consoled us that first night with what he called ‘a little tea.’ In no time, he was back before us with the largest silver tray I’d ever encountered. It contained not only all the British accoutrements of tea, but also exquisite pastries which practically floated off the tiny plates onto our burnished forks. I had thought it silly, at St.-Mary-of-the-Woods, to be taught to pour tea and especially how to walk down a marble staircase without looking at one’s feet, let alone holding on. I used both these arcane accomplishments on the S.S. France. Hitchcock was at the table next to ours, alone, “toujours toute seul,” as the French pronounce with concern. The Director’s expression was exactly that of his cartoon image on television, –dour and unchanging. At every meal, on this floating pinnacle of cuisine, he would order a yellow box of the kind of mustard that Michigan parents used to mix and rub into bronchial chests. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, Alfred Hitchcock altered the creations of the chefs of the S. S. France. At no time, did those splendid waiters raise so much as an eyebrow at this eccentricity. Will and Ariel Durant were aboard, remote as pharaohs. An entire team of professors of music from Columbia were sailing ultimately to the South of France to study ancient music. In that restaurant, the first formal night out, I committed a major faux pas, ordering Boeuf Wellington. Our waiter took this inadvertent reminder of French defeat with grace. The Wellington was magnifique, bien sur! Whether because of the excellence of the duxelles (mushroom essence); the quintessentially tender but full of flavor boeuf of Charolais; or that ethereal pastry, I have never been able to decide. Our waiters forgave us anything, for our enthusiasm for anything French. At the final breakfast, they presented me with all the breakfast menus, “to take back to Doctor Edelmann, who did not have the opportunity to sample any of these specialites.” (After 4 years at the Mayo Clinic, 40 hours on, 8 hours off, alternate weekends, that man was not getting getting up for breakfast.) We had asked our cabin steward to bear with our French, to speak to us and give us instruction materials only in that language. The second day out, our steward asked if there had been anything we hadn’t understood in that first batch. (I know, it probably told us what to do if we hit an iceberg. But we weren’t interested in speed reading — only in absorbing French.) “There was one word,” my husband admitted. “Neither of us knows what it is.” The word was “le cendrier”. How surprised our steward was, as he translated: ‘Ashtray.’ With my virtual convent upbringing and his virtual monastery (Fordham Prep and Fordham College), nuns and priests hadn’t thought to convey this word into our vocabularies. There would be others… My favorite time of each day, –well, except for the dancing–, was mornings after breakfast. When you sail, you can take all the books you like. Each day, I’d choose one to read with breakfast, then carry it out to our deck chairs, so carefully chosen on embarkation day. Although Werner never encountered his, come to think of it. Immediately upon my arrival, a deck steward would arrive with a lush plaid wool blanket, tucking me in for the duration, hoping I was enjoying my book, –which I always was. The April sea breeze was electrifying, sun warming but not dangerous in those days. Around 10:30, the deck steward would return to my side. He would kneel, bearing a tiny tray with a dainty cup and saucer and a lidded pouring pan. He would excuse himself for bothering Madame, then pour the most divine bouillon, steaming, into that special cup. In the days of regular sailings, even the china of the S.S. France was renowned — as I recall, Haviland. It was not designed for coffee nor tea let alone espresso — simply for bouillon on a morning deck. Our last day out, those who sailed all the time proved to be studiously blase. This ardent tourist took herself to someone else’s deck chair, above the elegant glossy prow of the S.S. France. I stared and stared toward a coastline that should soon appear out of the half mist. Suddenly, I realized, birds were about. Ah, this is what it must’ve been like for Columbus, first land birds announcing… No one else was up there. A castle ‘hove into view’. My first castle. It was a faux pas, later, to exult over this, waiting to disembark among our fellow passengers. But that which resonated most, in those private moments, as England moved toward us, was that this is the homeland of the Foote family, — my middle name. All Footes are related to Nathaniel-Foote-the-Settler who came from Colchester, England in the 1600s to found Colchester and Wethersfield, Connecticut. And I was the first of my branch of the family to set Foote upon that soil. I felt I was seeing it for all of them. But this wouldn’t have happened, without the splendor of the France. We sailed her in other years, always joyously. The Mary was no comparison, and the QEII a brash imposter. Our bags were packed and our stateroom tags affixed for the S.S. France’s final voyage from Manhattan to Southampton and LeHavre. The crew struck, and she never sailed again. Later, she was ‘rechristened!’ “The Norway.” I have no words for this travesty. It is as though the France had, indeed, struck an iceberg and plunged to the bottom, for all time. And the country, France, allowed this to happen, as they allowed the Nazi takeover in 1940. While we waited for our luggage and our car, I thought back to high school friends and their Titanic surety. Of course, Werner and I had practiced with life jackets and met the boats and all that. On this and other voyages, lifeboat drill was a necessary intrusion, mostly funny, especially when our girls couldn’t get out the stateroom door, later, on the QEII, fattened by their ‘personal flotation devices.’ Nobody ever really expects to be plunged into the sea. To us, the sea existed to bear us to new lands and new knowledge, to enrich our lives forever.
Daffodils of her Late Father’s Yard, by Brenda Jones Golden daffodils lift my heart, even when — as this year — all, even the white ones, burst forth at once. It’s because of Wordsworth and childhood and memorizing poems, which everyone did in those days. It’s also because I managed to plant and sustain “a crowd, a host of golden daffodils” under my Norway maples, in my Braebrun-off-Snowden days. Those sprightly green tips, then the full resplendent blooms, would peek, then unfold, in the midst of a broad expanse of periwinkle, which fortuitously bloomed at the same time. The gardeners were quick to warn me, “Nothing grows under a Norway.” But feeding with Bovung, protecting with peat moss, and leaving winter leaves on til first tips emerged proved those traditionaly gardeners quite wrong. Once the “little telephones” were present, my favorite task was to go outdoors early, while the girls were still asleep, into that auric display. I would through lavender blue stars of myrtle (the periwinkle), picking an array while the dew was still on them. I had started my daffodil garden, as everyone does, with “King Alfred”. But, by the end of my Braeburn time, we had daffs with cups of all colors, –even coral and some an exquisite lime green. I’d put bouquets into pewter, into pottery, into antique silver. I’d tuck them everywhere, –on the family room hearth; on the table where we all sat to eat and converse each night; in each daughter’s room. It wasn’t spring until the daffodils. Lately, I’ve been re-reading Dorothy Wordsworth’s Journal, which she kept up until her beloved brother married Mary — evidently an horrendous shock to his sister. What a naturalist she was, before there was such a phrase! How those hills and vales, copses and groves, brooks and fells of the Lake District nourished her soul. And mine, vicariously with them and with Diane and Catherine in memory. Did you know that Dorothy’s brother took many of the images, if not the exact words, for his legendary daffodil poem from Dorothy’s description in her Grasmere Journal? My girls, at 9 and 10, found this downright plagiarism. I wasn’t a poet when we tromped every path that mattered to Dorothy, William and Coleridge. So I couldn’t explain then distillation and expansion which William brought to the scene. Here’s Dorothy’s paragraph. What do YOU think? Thursday, the 15th (April): “I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their head upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever glancing, ever changing. The wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot and a few stragglers a few yards higher up but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity and unity and life of that one busy highway.” DaffodilsI wandered lonely as a cloud Continuous as the stars that shine The waves beside them danced; but they I gazed–and gazed–but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie
William Wordsworth
Lake Carnegie Sculler and American Bald Eagle, Brenda Jones NJ WILD readers know that Ilene Dube, former Packet Time Off Editor, urged me to begin this blog, featuring nature, poetry and preservation. Over the years, I freely confess, preservation has edged out poetry in these ‘pages’… This will be remedied, –live–, shortly: On April 12, beginning at 5:30 p.m., D&R Greenway will constellate all three facets of my NJ WILD mandate: Poetry/Nature/Preservation at a lively reception and reading. Poets will read their work, astutely chosen by Lois and Lee Harrod at One Preservation Place, off Rosedale Road in Princeton. Guests are welcome to come early and walk the Scott and Hella McVay Poetry Trail, behind D&R Greenway, with its 48 nature-themed poems of many centuries, and array of welcoming benches. The public is invited to this free reception and reading on April 12, beginning at 5:30. Please write rsvp@drgreenway.org or call 609-924-4646 to register. Poets are welcome whether or not their work has been selected.
NJ WILD Beauty, Island Beach cfe Our editors have legendary reputations as professors at The College of New Jersey. Lois is a much published poet in her own right; One of the founding members of Princeton’s Cool Women Poets, Lois is a gifted publisher of poetry for that storied group and other individuals. Both Lois and Lee have served as editors and hosts for previous D&R Greenway Poets of Preservation reception/readings. Poet and flautist Judith McNally will welcome guests with her mellifuous music, also a D&R Greenway Poets of Preservation tradition.
Brenda Jones, Brant Sipping Barnegat Bay Waters Each Poetry of Preservation night is linked to the Land Trust’s current art exhibition — in this case, water. All art on the walls of the Marie L. Matthews Galleries is for sale, a percentage supporting D&R Greenway’s preservation and stewardship mission.
Towpath Tranquility - Why Preserve NJ Land and Water cfe As Poetry Coordinator for submissions, I have received, printed, alphabetized and sent a treasure trove of works on water to our talented editors. Early on, it became apparent that two binders would be essential to hold all the fine strong work that surged into D&R Greenway before the March 22 deadline. I gave myself a luxurious European-like afternoon at Hopewell’s Boro Bean, sipping and reading (although my responses to these poems carry no weight whatsoever.) I was wafted from our canal to the Pacific off the coast of Oregon, to Ireland, no less, in the course of those delicious poetic explorations.
Brenda Jones - D&R Canal Above Mapleton Fishing Bridge Treats are in store for all who walk through the doors of our 1900 restored barn, to concentrate on the beauties and perils of water in our time.
Yesterday’s nature excursion felt inevitable and blessed. A friend had said, “Let’s go somehwere, ANYwhere, Sunday,” and I’d agreed. The next morning I called with the suggested site, and her response was an immediate “Let’s Do it.” I’m not going to reveal the destination to NJ WILD Readers. And I won’t put pictures in today. If anyone guesses, pix will miraculously appear… This was the first return to one of my favorite New Jersey nature preserves, since the right leg had begun to buckle, (too long before November 9’s miraculous surgery.) We were in yet another place of blessed silence, with some interestingly characteristic sounds way off in the distance, whose sources we occasionally attained. This haven may be New Jersey’s most pristine, though not exactly virgin. Nothing has been built there since creation. Exceptions include one plain but grand-ish early 1930’s house, and its support building; the entry road;two public buildings; two interpretive centers; a Coast Guard Center (recently restored), and trails, trails, trails. This is normally a place of splendid birds. However, even in yesterday’s unlikely heat, this adventure was not about birds. A joy of this setting is that one walks between dunes, adorned with original trees, shrubs and undergrowth, pruned only by the wind. Humans on those paths are well protected from wind, en route first to Bay then to Ocean, depending on mood and conditions. These healed legs walked in dense forest. They trod on crunchy oak leaves and slivers of bayberry, all the most irresistible caramelized hue. Despite new hip, and sometimes using trekking poles, I made it through loose sand and packed sand, up hill and down dale. I was shaded by high bush blueberry, then holly, even exuberantly healthy bayberry, and some swamp maples fully abloom in spring red. I could walk most swiftly on the damp sands of bayside. I bent to capture its brackish water, smoothing cool droplets along the ever-shrinking surgical site — its briny baptism. Its Delaware River christening took place two weeks ago. Before the day was out, I’d climbed over driftwood, then tiptoed noiselessly among pine needles. We’d sped alongside a split-rail fence, where I pretended its shadow was a horizontal board, balancing with arms wide and flat like child quick-walking a wall. I’d studied flotsam and jetsam, nature’s and man’s, the human detritus appealingly battered by its watery journey. One seemed a sand-strafed, salt-soaked prow of an ancient ship, entangled in rough hand-tied fishnet. I’d sought boardwalks over sand, where we could walk at a faster clip. I’d eagerly climbed shifting trails between dunes. In rising and falling pathways through thickets, bayberry grew higher than our heads. We marveled at the profusion of cedar berries. Some of these native New Jersey evergreens seemed bluer than the clearing sky overhead. Hollies towered, also laden. Everything everywhere was wild, convoluted. When man leaves nature alone to this degree, what remains is rich cover for wild creatures. To say nothing of magic for the occasional human. We spoke aloud favorite words evoked by each trail - “grove”, “copse”, “thicket” and “cove” high on our list. The osprey nest was still empty, but towering and sturdy despite winter’s storms. In a scruffy garden, we came upon two enormous whale bones, weathered and bleached, curving to infinity. My exploring friend is teaching a course in Moby Dick for Princeton’s Evergreen Forum, so this discovery was apt. I ran my fingers along its significant length and heft, realizing that the new health of my own bones permitted this indelible ritual-by-the-sea. Only rarely did I lift optics to study winged creatures. I regretted the absence of gannets and long-tailed ducks beyond the farther waves. I couldn’t look fast enough to ascertain whether the handful of sharp flying white birds with black wing tips could be an uncharacteristically small flock of snow geese flying to northern homes because all waters must be open. Two peak experiences involved dunes. One was right out of Robinson Crusoe, a thread of bare footprints, deep and obviously content, even exultant, in pristine sand. The other, a rosary of fox tracks, interspersed with shattered clamshells. Here the fox pranced. Here and here, he skidded, as did we on the sand traiil. An unexpected sight was a child-sized sand-angel. The kind we used to make in snow. Remember snow? The child might have been three years old, arms incising effective wings. Above the smooth round head, with determined fingers, the angel-maker had inscribed a halo. I inadvertently brought back, in the heels of my walking shoes, enough sugar sand to pour into a tiny plastic sack. The sound of sand in plastic is very nearly “a tintinnabulation of the bells”. But I couldn’t bring home the sussurus of waves. Nor the serenity of that single silhouetted fisherman all in black. He wasn’t really after fish. Rather, deeply and gracefully absorbed in being the only human on the beach. To evoke our day, my cache of sand would require a shard or two of clamshell, an array of pine needles, one or two super-ruddy oak leaves and ditto bayberry, a holly berry or two, a spurt of broken dune grass, a grey-green fanlet of lichen, and, of course, beach heather. But this is a park, and a sacred one at that. As always, the mantra is, “Take nothing but photographs” And MEMORIES. Where was I?
Mapleton Bridge to C&R Canal cfe In these months of femur-rehabilitation, I have had trouble getting out onto my cherished D&R Canal and Towpath. Wild winds and rains have rendered it slippery, risky. Earthern roadways in other preserves have become my salvation, as NJ WILD readers know. Once the road to Mapleton was absolutely closed. The towpath at Quaker Bridge has been engineer-destroyed- and detoured. I had to walk the high trail toward, though not all the way to, the Brearley House. There aren’t any signs that say, “Your towpath will be restored before the Vernal Equinox” or anything… Week after healing week, no towpath. Then, finally, Sunday, Mapleton was open to the parking area by the fishing bridge. Trekking poles swinging merrily, I crossed ‘your Rubicon’, as a Savannah friend termed this passage.
How the Towpath and Canal toward Brearley House Should Look… cfe I stared a long while at the beckoning canal, very aware that I am “cleared to kayak” in April. Then I settled both feet onto the path. But it didn’t look right. It was hard and dusty as someplace in or near the Sahara. Actually, the sere scene wasn’t even that interesting, because there wouldn’t be any lions. Even though this is the winter that never was, nothing green spurted anywhere, except possible first pickerel weed leaves in (fake) Lake Carnegie. When they are fully up, I always salute the Lenni Lenapes here, who knew by pickerel weed rise that it was time to leave their inland hunting lives for shore gathering. The gathering on Sunday’s towpath had nothing of ritual, nor even of appeal. It was, frankly, crowds. Walkers and runners and fishers and bikers, one of whom was using the walking folks as a slalom course, nearly running me down. Had physical therapy not restored my balance and quickness, I never would have been able to leap out of the way of those wheels. But it was the texture of the path that repelled. Finally, I realized, this could be Irene and Lee mischief. That’s about the time I went into the hospital, and I know our canal was breached in many places, although I did not witness it from hospital, ambulance, nor rehab. Now the towpath needs rehab. It may not be a matter of color, texture or mood, however. Realizing the enormous number of cars in the Mapleton parking lot, and having seen the same in the one on #518, I suddenly understood the fury of so many of my western authors. Abbey. Bass. Out on the trails for solitude, finding them awash in humans. Discovering the trails physiologically altered even after the departure of the crowds. Our towpath has, like their western trails, become a highway. Complete with speeding traffic. Its soil is as impervious as macadam. Its color resembles dog urine on snow. Wasn’t my towpath verdant? Didn’t it hold a tunnel’s green allure? Didn’t it remind me of canals near Paris, beckoning, beckoning? Instead of being renewed and refreshed, as I finally met my towpath goal, my mood became and remained forlorn. It was like visiting a beloved friend of long standing, who’d been in some serious accident while I was away. Seeing her, pale against her pillow, I longed to rest a soothing hand upon this strafed brow. I walked and walked, as though by my presence, I could restore ‘my friend’s’ spirit. Deeply, I knew, however she may be refurbished by various corps of engineers, nothing will ever be the same. My sacred space, profaned….
Kayaker on D&R Canal near Brearley House cfe
“…unreconstructed and necessary wildness…” Michael Pollan, The Botany of Desire
Enraged Osprey of Carnegie Lake, Brenda Jones Michael Pollan in general, and his Botany of Desire, in particular, is one of those authors everyone means to read. I hear protestations of intention all the time, always tinged with a kind of wistfulness. Recently, Public Television gave people a visual taste of this man’s paradigm. For me, the visual alone never suffices. I’ll go so far as to insist that Pollan is an author to re-read. His subject matter is so unexpected (apples and ‘cyder’, marijuana, tulips and potatoes) and his thinking so original. It’s worth taking Pollan in hand, even if you don’t give a fig about nature. Just for the privilege of journeying with him.
Fierce Flight (Great Blue Heron), Brenda Jones And savoring his pithy phrases, such as “Plants are the true alchemists.” His lament that now, “It is as though nature is something that happens outside,… as if we are gazing at nature across a gulf.” As he sets out in a canoe in quest of Johnny Appleseed’s seminal (couldn’t resist) journeys, Pollan relishes trusting in the river to take him wherever he wants to go.
WILD DELAWARE RIVER, Brenda Jones In my case, re-reading The Botany of Desire reveals a delicious (pun intended) emphasis upon the WILD.
Trenton’s Apple Bounty, cfe People can and do tease me for prating of the WILD in New Jersey. In the first segment of The Botany of Desire, Pollan takes an even more unlikely tack — seeking the wild, as did Thoreau, through apples. One of his theses is that Appleseed’s success came because he was not peddling mere fruit, but ‘cyder’ to the pioneers.
West Windsor’s Apple Bounty — cfe Michael sets the tone with phrases such as “A handful of wild apples came with me” (on his Johnny-Appleseed-Quest.) He insists that “sowers of wild seeds are to be prized.”
Cedar Ridge Preserve Meadow, cfe
Cedar Ridge Wild Mushrooms — cfe Pollan laments that “we live in a world where the wild places where wild plants live are dwindling.” You’ve heard this line from me in ‘posts’ beyond counting, coupled with urgings to support your local land trusts, especially D&R Greenway, to preserve New Jersey’s wild remnants and to plant New Jersey Natives wherever we can.
Baldpate View, Ted Stiles Preserve, Brenda Jones Let Michael define “the best of all possible worlds”: “WE’D BE PRESERVING THE WILD PLACES THEMSELVES.” The next best possible world: “ONE THAT PRESERVES THE QUALITY OF WILDNESS ITSELF.”
Female Harrier Aloft, Pole Farm, Brenda Jones
Male Harrier, “The Grey Ghost”, in ice at Pole Farm — Brenda Jones The generating thesis of NJ WILD is that the wild exists right in our own back yards: Wild erupts with the whiff of fox along mown paths of The Griggstown Grasslands. This lovely lofty set of trails, with its compelling Sourlands and Watchung views, awaits but a mile or two north of me on Canal Road, before/beside Griggstown’s Causeway.
Fox Alert, Griggstown Grasslands, Brenda Jones The wild surprised me last week In burgeonings of wildflowers, deep in the duff of the forest floor, on Bull’s Island in the Delaware. These petite fleurs lifted up the blinding waxy yellow of buttercups. 8 to 10 petals rayed out from yellow centers. These premature spring heralds were nevertheless inviting pollinators. On my hike, they seemed like pieces of eight flung onto the leaf-strewn forest floor. Why call a delicate plant WILD? Because they arrived there on their own, blooming despite winter on the calendar, pushing through flood detritus that resembled the graphite dust of Thoreau’s pencils. A key quality of the wild is RESILIENCE — New Jersey specialty!
Sourland Mountain Rocks and Water, Brenda Jones WILD in New Jersey, for me, requires Lenni Lenapes. The land was tended by these peaceful tribes, at least 10,000 years ago. Their vanished presence is palpable on many of my hikes, most especially among Sourlands boulders. Also on trails near Mountain Lakes House, and at Ringing Rocks just across Delaware at Upper Black Eddy. In each case, majestic boulders that render Stonehenge puny rest exactly where they were revealed by water wind and time, before time. The huge stones are frequently encountered in a massive ring. I FEEL Indian councils there, planning tribal actions for the season about to begin. Seasons which, for Lenni Lenapes, triggered travel either to or from hunting to gathering.
Mink at Play, Brenda Jones In the Hamilton/Trenton/Bordentown Marsh, the Lenapes convened with selected other tribes, before leaving central Jersey hunting grounds for Shore gatherings. This journey and the seasonal constellation of other indigenous peoples was triggered by natural phenomena. Spring’s took place when pickerel weed pierced still waters like arrows.
New Jersey’s Apple Bounty, cfe Michael Pollan plants a wild tree in his own home garden. His hope - “that such a tree will bear witness to unreconstructed and necessary wildness.” What can you do about wildness right now, as elusive winter gives way to spring? Go in search of it. Buy only native NJ species for your gardens.
Read Michael Pollan and Thoreau and Abbey well, you know…. REMEMBER, WILD IS ALL ABOUT HABITAT!
Rare Box Turtle, Camouflaged in Natural Habitat - Cedar Ridge cfe Generously support D&R Greenway and other Land Trusts, preserving New Jersey’s wild wherever it exist.
Summer’s Great Egret at ‘The Brig’ - viewed in February 2012 cfe Your NJ WILD ‘reporter’ proved her passion for the wild yesterday. A birding friend and I rode to the Brigantine Wildlife Refuge in the face of winds in the 40-50-mph range. We knew birds wouldn’t be ‘up’ in such gusts and gales. However, we could find snow geese, no matter what - and we’d both read the hotlines reporting ten tundra swans a-swimming… There was only supposed to be 10% chance of precipitation. En route, we drove through snow enough to require wipers. Inky skies to the west could have presaged tornadoes or hurricane. If you know birders, you know that we continued. There may be nothing more thrilling then Pine Roads in snowfall. The great privilege is being the only car on those stunning routes — #532 out of Tabernacle, #563 down through Chatsworth… As though the pines themselves were holding up branches to say “Enough,” we were suddenly treated to dazzle-light through generosities of crisp green needles. Light made its way even through oak leaves the hue of caramel. Sacred sugar sand sifted and drifted along the sides of every roadway, (except that brief interruption of the GSP), so that our journey truly became destination.
Brig Vistas in Summer cfe Until, that is, we crossed the first bridge into the Brig. Then the refuge and its creatures took center stage. (This haven is the Edwin B. Forsythe Wildlife Refuge - named for a Republican who saved major swathes of forest and water in the southern and eastern reaches of our beleaguered state.) In waters at entry four ring-necked ducks floated, then flew — more vivid than we had realized. For the first time, we reconsidered our duck hierarchy of beauty. For a few hours, yesterday, wood ducks took second place.
Wood Duck Splendor, Brenda Jones
Barely three car-lengths onto the Gull Pond Road, we were stopped in our tracks. In a pine that holds summer’s black-crowned night herons, a pale form rearranged itself into a great blue heron. It did not look happy in those winds that caused even the Prius to shudder. My friend’s Swarovskis soon found another great blue form, tucked deep into a pine to our left. When my far lesser binoculars could find it, shadow rendered this heron even more blue. Something whizzed over our windshield - paper-clip legs out behind revealing a third great blue. I don’t remember now how the fourth one materialized, but we were in a near superfluity of herons.
Miserable Heron in Snow, Millstone River, Brenda Jones I haven’t seen many around here in Princeton this winter– but Anne Zeman and I had been ‘given’ four herons here January 2. That day, the fab four had been chased from piney haven by a feisty young fox. No fox yesterday. However, of all things, a great egret stood proudly among all the blues, whiter than the snow that had surrounded us an hour earlier. February is not egret time!
Summer’s Great Egret, Brenda Jones
Buffeted Heron, Spring 2011, Brenda Jones We pulled ourselves away from these wonders, down to the gull tower. There was no climbing in gusts, which my Chicago sister reports soared to 61 mph not far north of us. My friend and I could barely open the car doors against this form of wildness. But it was thrilling to be out in it. Earlier, at the Visitor Center, this new hip and I had to jog against wind so strong it felt as though I could lean on it like a mattress. But Mary had to get her scope on those tundra swans. On another body of water, for comparison’s sake, we were given a pair of mute swans, orange beaks blinding in windswept light. These two are paired, as are the ones in our Marsh of Hamilton/Trenton/Bordentown. But the tundras floated as though on a bathtub, as one, all in a row. Their beaks were purest black and spade-like. Individually and collectively, the tunderas remained elegant and serene upon wind-pleated waters, although not so commanding as nearby mute swans. In the foreground, a flotilla of coots enhanced the elegance quotient, in velvety formal attire, white beaks gleaming.
Coot in Millstone, Brenda Jones I popped back into the car to escape the winds, as Mary focused her scope on the twenty tundras. Suddenly, a large flat-winged bird was coming straight at me. Its image filled the entire car window. It was so close and so large, I was only aware of shape, and its harrier-like motion over water (not a typical place for the harrier). Mary confirmed that this was no harrier. Rather the American bald eagle. Virtually eye-to-eye, he and I.
Eagle Diving For Thanksgiving Dinner, Lake Carnegie - Brenda Jones Only he seemed unfazed by those winds. For long moments, he stayed virtually motionless, in the hover position we know so well in kingfisher and hummingbird. But this hovering, especially when he lowered his landing gear, seemed of far greater duration.
Our Nation’s Symbol, Brenda Jones Then the eagle landed (sorry about that) in a short bright green shrub. Like a film star of my parents’ day, he studiously gave us his best profile. There is no carat measurement sufficient to measure, let alone honor, such gold. Over and over he posed as the Great Seal of the United States. Then the eagle leapt into air, as if to say “WHAT wind?”. He returned to harrier-mode over grasses, and abruptly ’stooped’. Meaning, he’d found prey. Whatever it was (likely rabbit), must have been hugely satisfying, for we were never to see ‘our’ eagle rise from its pink-gold wildly rippling dining room. As Mary reluctantly drove on, we each marveled: “This whole trip was worth it for the eagle scenes alone!”
Red-Tailed Hawk along D&R Canal, Brenda Jones Our next gift was a red-tail in a tree, head turned attentively toward where there had been an eagle. I suddenly realized that a cluster of American crows had flown abruptly past, right before I’d come eye-to-eye with an eagle. Crows are known to mob this raptor. These crows were in pure flight mode in every sense of that phrase. The stars of the day, however, glory-wise, were Northern pintails. That chic sharp angle at the neck is really thin. But in dazzle-light, we found their cravats nearly blinding. The pintails were even beautiful upside-down. They were everywhere along the impoundments. Counting was out of the question. Isolate images stand out even now - the great black-backed gull, nicknamed, ‘The Minister’, feasting on a live crab, morsel by morsel. The crab writhing. Sudden wind-driven incoming tide wrinkling the saltwater until it seemed furiously crumpled foil. Brooding brackish impoundments to our left resembling lava, even to blue-black hues beneath the sunglinted waves. In all that turbulent expanse, shovelers stood out as still points. Vibrant rust-to-orange, blinding white and darkest forest green, there is no more handsome fellow than drake shovelers, — handsome as opposed to elegant, like the pintails, who looked dressed for an embassy ball. Shovelers, with their almost comical spade beaks, usually are nervously working the bottoms of runnels at low tide, scooping up nourishment for all they are worth. We noticed that Canada geese are still in flocks, not romantically paired (as were the mute swans).
Mute Swan in the Stony Brook, Brenda Jones Miracles continued to appear. More buffleheads than we could count, in open water between the Brig and Tuckerton. Over and over, the little black and white bobbers were rendered nearly invisible by tumultuous waves.
Dapper Bufflehead, Princeton, Brenda Jones There’s no such thing as enough buffleheads, so Mary and I continued, despite the gale, to the ineptly titled “Experimental Pond.” If ever you’re going to find irresistible diving ducks, it’s there. I went into jogging mode anew, after having struggled to open the car door against Nature herself. All that I found were four Canada geese, so I jogged back again - exultant that this new femur knows how to do that. Mary was outside the car, in the face of all that wind, calling out, ‘Eagle, eagle!” Her wondrous optics had found our original monarch of a raptor high overhead, no more than a dot above. We stood there until our faces were well sun-and-wind-burned, watching him play the wind. Talk about mastery.
American Bald Eagle, Over Carnegie Lake, Brenda Jones
On the way home, we both wondered why everyone isn’t a birder. To think that anyone could experience such a treasure hunt, a mere 80-or-so miles south and east of Princeton, anytime he or she wants. All you have to do is take the Pineroads south, and live in a state that knows about preservation. Support your local land trust, wherever you are. Mine, of course, is D&R Greenway. I and my new hip return there in the morning, for the first time since November 9 surgery, to take up my mission newly. It’s never BEEN more URGENT! |
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