The New Yorker | Nine Cent Girl

After what seemed like the full-on advent of Spring we here in the Northeast were slapped hard by the return of frosty air and wind filled with snow. It was hard to take for sure when it hit us squarely across bared faces. I know I should have not fallen for the tease of ease, but I did, rather like an amateur in this region might have made. Quite similarly, I was swept up in the fanfare and glitter on Oscar night, the easy banter of those witty hosts, the hope that this year a more diverse and promising bank of recipients might hold their trophies high over head in pride. And they did. All of that. But the sting of that slap, that one violent recrimination captured by the ever present Eye, stings just as bad as the Arctic blast battering us back inside our homes. Back to wonder, how did we become a nation where shame is no longer felt when it is clearly earned?

Continue reading →

Adrift on whim I spiral here and there during the short summer in Vermont. On the luckiest of days I answer to no one, dismiss errands, and banish have-to’s completely. Apparently, according to several research studies, “The mere thought of pleasant alternatives made people concentrate less” (Konnikova). Beyond my morning ritual of brewing a cup of strong black tea, I set my day’s course as casual as possible. Hot afternoons are spent near a local lake, cooler evenings cruising along on the bike path. In my back field, among the hillside of green ferns, purple flowers grab my attention; I waste away an afternoon photographing countless budding lupines. My fascination over this wildflower originated from a children’s book, Miss Rumphius, which I read to my daughter over and over. Lupines produce offspring freely, and these grow to flower and make more lupines than you can count. Fields are quickly over-run with these colorful spikes and while the environmentalist might look at them as an invasion, I see the rainbow of lupines as pure joy!