This past Friday evening after a hot, hot, humid day, we decided to head to the coast to hike over Morse Mountain and down to Seawall Beach. This off-the-beaten-track hike is one of my favorites. (I’ve written about it before (here).) Parking at the trail head is strictly limited (40 vehicles or so) and it’s about a two mile hike in to a pristine beach. Limited parking means no crowds and the long walk nixes beach paraphernalia and ensures that driftwood stays at the beach. There are no facilities at the beach. It’s plain, simple, gorgeous beach and when the tide is out, there’s a lot of it!

Arriving at the parking lot, we were already congratulating ourselves on our choice– at 6 pm there was plenty of parking and the car thermometer showed that the temperature had dropped 10 degrees during our drive down the peninsula.
 

We set out into the woods and soon emerged to wend our way through the marsh where the tide has carved deep channels through the vivid green grasses. Stopping to watch crabs battling in shallow water, we  were soon locked in our own battle with mosquitos and biting flies. Unfortunately, this hike is often buggy, so we’d hoped for the best but come prepared for the worst. We sprayed our toxins and continued on our way trailing a cloud of Deep Woods Off.

Heading up the slope toward the mountain, we enjoyed the cooler temperatures amidst the towering pines, talking quietly and appreciating the interplay of light and shadow on trees, moss, and giant rocky boulders. At one point we saw a red fox casually step onto the trail ahead of us and then saunter across the trail and into the woods. Red squirrels chittered at us now and again and birds called repeatedly. When we reached the top of the mountain we took a short side trail to enjoy the view which, although hazy, was still impressive.

After that detour we hit the trail again, descending and weaving in and out of more marsh and forest. Salty air and the thunder of waves welcomed us as we finally arrived at the beach to find it almost deserted and filled with amazing evening light.  One direction was sunny and clear, the other hazy and moody. The tide was out and the sky reflected in the wet sand. Clouds scudded across puddles.

We went our own ways, wandering, enjoying and soaking in the serenity. I was mesmerized by the interplay of water, clouds, and sand and the change in the light from moment to moment. Everywhere I turned there was some new wonder to savor. The trifecta of water, sky and clouds worked its magic again. A moment on a beach on a hot summer evening. A slice of heaven.

My morning writing spot

Late this spring I read a blog (probably through Slice of Life) and the author shared her goal to write 3 pages a day each morning in a writer’s notebook. She invited others to join her in doing this.  (If anyone remembers who blogged about this, please let me know so I can mention her by name and thank her for motivating me!) So, these days after I make my coffee and feed the cats, I take about 5-10 min. to glance at e-mails, messages, etc. then I close my computer and write in my notebook. I’m writing at least three pages almost every day. It’s a hodgepodge of thoughts, concerns, poems, story ideas, etc., but it’s amazing how quickly the pages pile up! For some reason I got into the habit of writing my starting and ending times, and I’ve found that it only takes me 15-20 min to fill three pages. (So, once school starts back up, I’m going to have a harder time convincing myself that I can’t find time to write!) But sometimes I wonder about the quality of what I’m writing. Will I do anything with all this … stuff!? Will it really serve any purpose? Will it help me with my writing?

I’ve heard/read two different things recently that relate to this and have really stuck with me and reassured me:

Not long ago I heard someone talking on the radio, recounting a pottery teacher’s experiment with his class*. The teacher divided students randomly into two groups. Group A was told to make as many pots as they could. Their final grade would be determined by the weight of what they produced: 50 pounds=A, 40 pounds=B, etc.  Group B was told they needed to make just one pot and they would be graded on the quality of that pot. At the end of the class all of the highest quality pots came from Group A. Apparently the first group dove in and started making pots immediately. As they created, they also learned, tweaking and improving along the way. The second group , intent on creating one single perfect pot, was less productive and their final results were not as high quality. Fascinating, right?

Then I read an interview in which Tom Petty told a story about touring with Bob Dylan in Australia. Apparently an interviewer was giving Dylan a hard time, claiming his songs weren’t as relevant now as they had been. Dylan’s response was “Well, I’m out here writing songs. What are you doing?”

So, my plan for this summer has been simple. Create a quantity of writing and worry about the quality later. In other words: Write! Write! Write!

*I couldn’t find the original source for this experiment, but apparently it’s retold in the book Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of ARTMAKING, by David Bayles and Ted Orland

(Photo credit to Rick Hogan, 2016)

If I were to accept this gilded invitation
to step upon the moonlit path and
feel the cool water pooling
beneath my shoeless feet,
flowing between my toes…

If I were to follow the shining trail
’til I stood directly
below the glowing orb
and tilted my face upward
to bathe in moonshine
then rose on tips of toes
and stretched one hand
up, up, up…

Would I discover it still
out of reach?

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To enjoy more poetry, please visit Chelanne’s blog, Books 4 Learning, for Poetry Friday Roundup.

Maine summers have delightfully long days, but with the sun rising shortly after 5 am in July, it’s tough to get outside in time to greet the dawn. For some reason on Saturday morning I woke early and was immediately motivated to get up and out. After making my coffee, I drove down to the town landing then walked across the small park to the bay. The air was dense with moisture and mist drifted across the water. River flies swarmed in masses, emitting an audible hum. I walked down the gangway and onto the dock, feeling its soft roll under my feet.

Moving forward, I sat down on the smooth planks, feeling the damp seep through my dress, sipping my coffee, and watching the sky lighten. Fish jumped occasionally, a few with startlingly large splashes, and birds called back and forth. Every now and then I took a picture.  Water, sky and a sunrise are a pretty unbeatable combination, and it had been too long since I’d enjoyed that rejuvenating trinity. I breathed in the serenity of it all.

“Hello,” called a voice quietly.

I turned quickly. An older gentleman with a large camera slung about his neck was walking toward the dock. “Oh, Hi!” I said, standing up.

“I didn’t want to startle you,” he said, approaching. “Are you a photographer or a birder?”

“A little bit of both,” I replied. “How about you?”

“Oh, me, too,” he said, “but mostly a birder.”

We talked softly of the beauty of the morning and the bay and of birds we’d seen recently. I told him about the pileated woodpecker that was visiting my suet feeder and recounted my morning sunrise with a heron last fall. He shared tales of a visiting yellow warbler and an indigo bunting. He told me about a local beaver dam and confided that after weeks of trying, he’d finally gotten a couple of good shots of the beaver. He confessed that he had 28 bird feeders in his yard.

Fall sunrise with a pelican

“I’m Molly,” I replied.

“Well, Molly,” he said, “I’m going up around the corner. There’s a spot I know there where I usually see some birds. I saw two herons there the other day.” He paused then continued, “I just wanted to say hello. Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” I said. He walked away and I turned back to the water. The sun had continued its ascent and the clouds glowed. I breathed in the serenity of it all.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

Fifty three members of my family (53!)  met and spent a long weekend together in the Poconos over the Fourth of July. It was a wonderful long-overdue weekend spent reconnecting with family and reminiscing. Throughout all the laughter and conversation, I was so aware of those who weren’t gathered with us, yet were so present. Here’s my work in progress.

Family Reunion
We gather at the family reunion
bursting with excitement,
greeting each other with laughter, hugs and
It’s been too long! 
How many years has it been? and
Oh, I can’t believe how much you’ve grown
to the younger ones–
the next generation.

One evening we “older” cousins mingle and share
reminiscences of summers at the cottage
on Lake Huron’s rocky shore.
Do you remember?
Poppa Pat reading Paddle-to-the-Sea ?
Gigi’s three bean salad?
Parcheesi and Chinese checkers played
on the screened-in porch?
And the porch was always gritty with sand!
Yes! And upstairs, the walls didn’t reach the ceiling!
Wasn’t there a hammock?
I think there was a hammock…
Do you remember?
Each of us contributing
our own recollections
to create a larger, interconnected whole.
Oh! Oh! I remember that!
Our smiles warm and our memories bloom.
We all came from two.
Only two.

In between us
the ghosts linger.
In my sister’s hand, cupped beneath her chin
I see my grandmother.
In a deep laugh from across the room,
I hear the echoes
of my grandfather’s booming baritone.
Each time I look at my cousin
or at his three daughters,
I see his wife’s face.
Their grief is so fresh it pulses
beneath the revelry.
And instead of three brothers hosting
this boisterous family gathering,
there are two.
Only two.

Ghosts mingle at the family reunion
threading bittersweet through the joy.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

If you’re interested in reading more poetry, visit Mary Lee’s blog, A Year of Reading, for this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

I’ve just returned from attending ILA16 and my mind is swimming with thoughts, impressions, fledgling ideas, etc. I have so much to process! I didn’t even realize that it was Tuesday until the Slice of Life e-mail popped up in my Inbox. Yikes! My Teachers Write effort will have to serve double duty today. It’s not precisely a slice but it does have some autobiographical roots.

Today’s Teachers Write exercise comes from Megan Frazer Blakemore. (She is one busy woman, as I just enjoyed her great presentation at ILA16 on Saturday and know she was signing her newest book, The Firefly Code, there as well.) In her post she shared a wonderful quote from Charlotte Zolotow, “Many fine writers can write about children but are unable to write for them.… The writers writing about children are looking back. The writers writing for children are feeling back into childhood.” Ms. Blakemore invited us to feel back into our own childhoods and write a scene from a cafeteria, autobiographical or not. Who knew reminiscing about childhood cafeterias could pack an emotional whallop!?  Here’s my effort.

Jen stood in the hallway and looked into the sunlit cafeteria through the floor to ceiling windows. Groups of kids sat around large tables, eating and laughing. Occasionally someone opened a nearby door to enter or exit and lunchtime sounds spilled out –the clinks and clacks of trays and utensils, bursts of laughter, and a general roar of conversation. Then, as the door slowly closed, the scene muted again.

A group of girls brushed by her, bubbling with conversation, as they opened the door. “Oh,” said one of them casually as they passed her, “Hey, Jen.” Then the girl turned back to her group and they entered the cafeteria.

“Hi,” Jen whispered to the closing door.

Her stomach growled and she wrapped her arms about her waist. The straps of her bag dug into her thin shoulder. Come on, Jen,  she told herself, just go in and sit down. There’s plenty of room.  She eyed a table that held a mix of kids from her Lit class. There were a few seats there. She took a deep breath and stepped toward the door, her hand reaching out toward its handle. Inside the cafeteria the group of girls bee-lined toward the table she’d been eying, quickly filling those empty spaces. Jen’s hand fell.

She shrugged her bag further up onto her shoulder, feeling the sting of the groove worn by its weight. Turning quickly, she stepped away from the cafeteria and headed toward her favorite carrell in the library. I wanted to read anyway, she thought, ignoring the empty pit in her stomach and angrily blinking her eyes against the prickle of tears.

I’m participating as much as I can in Teachers Write this summer. Yesterday’s quick-write exercise came from author, Nancy Castaldo. She offered two facts and challenged participants to expand one of them into a scene. I chose “Deciduous trees lose their leaves in the fall.” I didn’t precisely follow her intended exercise, but I did end up with this poem. It’s doing double duty for Poetry Friday.

Fall approaches
Days grow short
Nights cool and
hints of frost whisper lacy patterns
onto tightly closed windows.
Within the leaves
of deciduous trees
change is happening.
With diminishing sun,
Chlorophyll yields
its dominant presence
and the others emerge–
pigments of yellow, orange, and red.
Leaves transform.
What once was hidden
is now revealed.
The calls of migrating birds
echo in the crisp air.
Below them
wood smoke drifts from chimneys
in lazy columns
and a brilliant spread of colors
carpets hills and valleys.
Beech trees glow yellow,
then fade to a pale orange
Maples fly scarlet banners
against azure autumnal skies
Dogwoods show off their deep red raiment
and sugar maples dazzle the eye
with a mixed palette
of orange, red, and green.
As summer recedes and
fall deepens its hold on the land,
the cool winds blow
colorful leaves
tumble
and fall
Nature’s confetti

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

If you’re in the mood for more poetry, go on over to the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by Katie at Logonauts.

Through morning’s bright dew

One gleaming trail meanders

tracing night-time travels

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To enjoy more poetry, go to The Opposite of Indifference where Tabatha Yeatts is posting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

Early each summer I pick strawberries and make jam. The timing isn’t ever ideal as strawberry season in Maine tends to peak as school ends and the onslaught of summer activities and visitors hits. Jam making is, however, one of my cherished rites of early summer and enjoying home-made strawberry jam in the midst of winter is a big payoff for a day’s work.

Yesterday morning I suddenly realized that it was my first and last opportunity to pick strawberries and make jam. My kids were already busy, so I set off to pick on my own. When I arrived at the farm, the strawberry fields were already generously dotted with other pickers. I filled a wooden trug with my stained green quart baskets, wandered out into a likely looking area and began looking for berries. The sun was hot on my head and shoulders, and initially, berries were few and far between. I overheard a number of people comment that the picking had been so much better last week. It was slow going at first, but soon I fell into an easy rhythm and relaxed into the task. I moved along the rows, enjoying the sweet scent and the feel of warm, ripe berries slipping from my hands into the baskets. A slight breeze kept the bugs to a minimum, and snippets of conversations rose and fell around me.

“You are the best strawberry-picker I’ve ever seen!” said an admiring grandmother to her young granddaughter. “Isn’t she the best, PopPop?”

“Never seen better,” her grandfather agreed.

“Only four years old and she’s already picked two quarts,” her grandmother announced.

“Look, PopPop! Here’s another one,” the child chimed. I looked up and saw her. She held her hand outstretched toward her grandfather. Her long russet braid hung down her back and tendrils of delicate hair framed her face, which was lit by a brilliant grin.

“Well, look at the size of that one!” he said, grinning back at her.

“…and not a drop of strawberry juice on her clothes!” continued her grandmother. “Have you ever seen a 4 year old who could pick berries like that? You know, she doesn’t even remember picking last year, but she was only 3 then.”

They chatted in this admiring vein for quite some time, their granddaughter basking in the sunshine, her achievements and their approval. I continued picking, listening to the soft thud of juicy strawberries mounding in my basket and the soft murmurs of their conversation.

Eventually I stood and stretched, easing the kinks from my lower back, and hoisted my laden basket to head to the farm stand. I paid up and headed toward home for a full day of jam-making. It’s hot, sticky work but oh, so rewarding. There’s nothing like the satisfaction of transforming those sun-warmed ruby-red fruits into jar after jar of bottled jam and then stacking them neatly in my pantry–Essence of summer captured in my cupboard.

On some cold, dark day this winter, I’ll pull a softly glowing jar of ruby jam from my pantry. I’ll open it up and inhale deeply.  And for just a moment, I’ll transcend that moment and relive this field and this day and the warmth of summer sun on my skin. I’ll hear the echoes of the loving conversation and remember the earthy and sweet scents of the strawberry fields, and hear again the soft plops of the berries piling up in my quart baskets. I’ll think nostalgically of the steamy sweet-smelling kitchen and the sticky pots and pans and that magical transformation from berry to jam.

I don’t know if my fellow-pickers made jam with their strawberry bounty, but I like to think so. I like to imagine a day many months from now and a young girl in a far-off kitchen with windows framing the cold winter scene outside.  I can almost see her standing there with her open jar of strawberry jam and a dreamy smile on her lips. Jam magic.

Once I was their world.
I cradled them in my arms;
they nursed at my breast.
Kissing their downy heads,
I was the good fairy,
raining blessings upon them,
weaving a spell
of my hopes and dreams
for their lives,
my index finger clenched
in their small, tight fist.

I thought they would never let go.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To enjoy more poetry, go to Random Noodling for this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.