As 2015 stands in the doorway I reflect back on all that brought me here: we can’t change the past nor can we know what lies ahead, we can only determine how to live within this moment. In private I will review my shortcomings, but in this post I’ll relive the highlights, each memory bringing joy into my heart and soul, each worth a remembrance on the sweet possibilities gifted each day.
Snow arrived to blanket my mountainous Vermont world, and if winter follows tradition, all will stay covered until April. So what to do while a chill blows and daylight flits by in a flash? Keep your chin up and your looks fresh. Embrace the garb of the season. Toss a red scarf around your neck, a brighter hue on your lips, and head outside to revel in all nature brings your way.
When my children were younger I watched with fascination as they developed collections. Matchbox cars. Star Wars figurines. Stuffed animals and baseball cards. A shelf of Tin Tin books for the oldest, ceramic cats the fascination of my daughter. Later baseball hats filled shelves as did a rainbow of nail polish. But even as I encouraged and often funded their collections I wasn’t interested in acquiring one of my own. In one botched attempt I dutifully declared I would begin with lighthouses and to prove my devotion I held out a 3 inch reproduction, the very one they had given me after a trip they had taken (without me) to Maine. I assured them I adored lighthouses and someday soon this one would be surrounded by many. They looked pleased with my resolve.
My small lighthouse reproduction sat on a window sill in the kitchen, alone, for years, and I never did add another. Yes, I love the regal isolationism, the dedication to assisting wayward mariners, regardless, I didn’t traipse around to acquire more to adorn my sill.
What did happen, somewhat organically, was a collection of postcards. For years, every time I went anywhere for a night or two, I purchased a few cards and sent them to people I imagined might appreciate a glimpse of my sights, like my grandmother or a neighbor. If I was gone longer I would send one to my parents or my children still at home. I found I not only loved finding the right vista on the card, but I enjoyed writing in the small square. I enjoyed crafting the one or two lines: the word-smithing, the need for exactness, finding the right piece of the adventure to tell. For many years, postcards were the only place I let myself write with a flare. With my own developing voice.
Nine Cent Girl 