A Deep River Year - 2017

Orange is all around now. Up at the orchard on top of the hill, a swath of pumpkins awaits children looking for just the right one for their Halloween jack-o-lanterns. The grocery store has them lined up in tiers by the parking lot, the number diminishing by the day. This year I have noticed an increase in other options: I've seen quite a few white pumpkins, and even some in blues and pinks. And some are oddly shaped, like warty beasts or curved-neck swans. But nothing can outdo the classic bright orange pumpkins decking the porches and front steps up and down our small town streets.

Those pumpkins accentuate the color magic that is taking place on our hillsides. This year, it seems, the show is a little more mottled than usual. The wind has stripped our big maples of many of their leaves which are falling brown onto the ground. But there is hope, still, for the occasional trees standing like a burning bush, sentinels of joy in the failing light of autumn. Colors elicit emotions. Orange is like a fire, a sign of energy and life. I've heard that restaurants often color their interiors with shades of orange, because it is said to increase people's appetites. And surely, as the days grow cooler, we feel energy rising in us to play among the falling leaves, to do the necessary cleanup of our yards and gardens, to walk in the woods, and feel our appetites increase. Bring on the cider and apple pie!

One fall day decades ago, a number of students were invited to the country cabin of then Yale professor Roland Bainton, a small, bespectacled historian with a wild shock of white hair. That day he stood out on the hill overlooking the Housatonic River, knee deep in golden and orange leaves. Someone commented that autumn was such a sad time, with everything dying down for winter. Bainton, an old man himself, smiled and raised his hands to the sky. "Oh, but what a way to go," he cried. What energy! What appetite!

Orange

Autumn is orange,
as maples on a thousand hills
blaze toward their winter rest.
At roadside stands, fat pumpkins shine,
ready to be turned into grinning lanterns
lighting up welcoming porches
through crackling, frosty nights.
And aged oak and birch
burn bright in the hearth,
their orange fires dwindling to glowing embers
as love sits by and smiles.
This color is life's hue in a dying hour,
a flame painting joy on the world
before the dull, dark days to come.
Orange is a strong color, but not my best.
I am home, most truly, in summer's green,
or even where the cloudless sky
turns the flowing water blue as hope.
But let there be some orange in me
these tender days,
so that I may leap and blaze,
so that I, too, may be a little fire
in the night.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

A mottled goldfinch landed on the feeder today, already shed of its brilliant yellow summer feathers. There are still some beautiful monarch butterflies flitting around the bright zinnias and dahlias remaining in our garden, but soon the last one will be gone. The flowers, too, will drop their blossoms, and one day I will realize that the last sweet cherry tomato will have fallen to the earth. And summer will truly be over.

The world around us usually changes gradually, not in signature moments. I don't know exactly when it was that my hair turned all silver, or when I knew that I was totally, irredeemably in love with my wife. One day I realized I had become a grown-up,though I wasn't sure when or how. And one day I knew that my mother was slipping away into dementia, and I couldn't stop it. It happens in big and small things. I don't know exactly when it was that I realized I could sing "Silent Night" and "White Christmas" by heart, or when it happened that I could make a good pie crust every time. Or when it was that I was finally content to be myself, or when I realized that autumn was the season that had my heart.

All of these passages happened without fanfare or headlines in my journal. Always, always things change, slip away, sometimes silently, when we aren't paying attention. I look for it now, in the leaves drifting by the window, the woodbine turning scarlet on the trees, the smell of autumn carried in the morning air. I cannot hold on to summer, keep it from passing. I cannot hold on to my life, either. But I can trust that something new, something good, is always coming.

The Change

There is no trumpet fanfare,
no bold pronouncement,
for this turning,
for the blood red rising
in the green,
for the frill of asters 
stirring on the edge of the world,
for the anthem of geese
trailing away over the hills.
It is here, too, in my bones,
the old ache and joy
as time runs out 
from the bowl of life,
as I await the beauty 
promised in every change,
as I hold an anxious breath,
wondering what surprise
may be seeded in the silence,
the sadness, the peace.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Last night was the Harvest Moon, the full moon closest to the autumn equinox. It was a night to go out and stand in the moonlight and feel the ancient magic that has filled a million nights for those who looked up into the starry sky to sing, or dream, or wish, or love. The moon has always had that effect on us, we whose feet are anchored to the earth. We feel the same ebb and flow of the tides as the seas, which are pulled and pushed by that great magnet in the sky. Social scientists have observed for generations the effect of a full moon on the moods and behavior of people. For example, hospitals see a rise in emergency admissions, and some of us know that old romantic tug, too. How many songs have been written about that old bewitching face in the sky?

One night a few years ago we heard that a total eclipse of the moon was imminent, and that because of atmospheric conditions it would be one of those rare "blood moons." That meant that at the moment of full eclipse. the moon would take on a shadowy red color. We didn't want to miss the effect, so my wife and I headed down to the Deep River Landing to watch the eclipse over the river in a sky untainted by streetlights and other ambient lighting. It was a beautiful, clear night, and as we sat on the hood of the car and waited for the celestial event to begin, another car arrived, then another, until finally the riverbank was filled with people all wanting to witness the blood moon. One of them pulled out her smart phone and began playing all the "moon songs" she could think of. And the whole crowd instantly joined in singing "Shine on, Harvest Moon," "Moon River," "Bad Moon Rising," "Fly Me to the Moon," "It's Only a Paper Moon," "Harvest Moon," "Moonshadow," "Blue Moon," "That Old Devil Moon," and on, and on. There, under the most beautiful, awesome Blood Moon, a strange community arose, and joy happened.

Harvest Moon

It is autumn,
when wild geese feel the irresistible urge
to wing far away 
to an unknown destination.
We feel it, too,
that stirring in the blood.
We come to a measuring of days:
the ticking of the clock to first frost,
the shadow of the growing darkness,
the smell of snow in the wind.
But it is also this:
that our days are short on this earth,
and beauty is a shining, glorious thing
that slips away, uncatchable.
And, love, too, asks of us everything,
and breaks our brave and tender hearts,
and stirs us even when we are old.
It is then we remember 
some sweet October night
when a face in a golden moon
looked down upon us 
with that inscrutable gaze
of delight and sadness
as we held each other fast,
thought the world would stand still
forever, for us,
even as we were already
winging our way 
to an unknown destination,
like October's geese.
But still, in autumn's years,
we feel the seasons turning, 
sense the tug of time.
and we look again 
for a big old moon
to fill our night.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

This has been the year of the Chipmunks. Perhaps because of last year's mild winter, the chipmunk population is booming in this corner of New England. Friends also have reported the little creatures scurrying around their homes and gardens. And many of us have found that the tomatoes and peppers we planted so expectantly last May have been discovered by chipmunks who, able to reach the low-hanging produce, have eaten the bottoms off our vegetables. We love to begin our day with coffee on the brick patio under our pergola, and often we have a quiet lunch there, too. Inevitably our presence does not go unnoticed. The little "chippies" show up looking for handouts, and my wife does not disappoint them. Usually we have on the table a container of raw peanuts to disperse to the chipmunks and squirrels that call our place home. And often the chipmunks jump right up on the table or crawl up Phyllis' leg and onto her shoulder to claim their bounty. It's amazing to watch one of those little guys stash three or four big peanuts in his cheeks before running off to dump them in its storage unit before hurrying back for more.

My father used to carry on a perpetual battle with chipmunks because they dug endless tunnels among his flower beds and beloved rose bushes. He tried to drown them out with the garden hose, to no avail. He could never fill the tunnels up. We don't even try. Quite to the contrary, we actually enjoy these small rodents, who allow us, for just a moment, to bridge the gap between two alien species. We gladly spread our largesse among the songbirds and crows, the squirrels and the chipmunks. The gift they give us in return is not a thank-you, but the joy of having open hands, open hearts.

Chipmunk

Little one,
you come into our world
for something simple.
You do not care about
our lovely personalities,
our engaging wit,
our entertaining stories.
You want food.
We give it.
But we hold out to you
more than peanuts
and sunflower seeds.
We offer you a truce
in a world that is red
in tooth and claw,
a kindness as the hawks
circle overhead, 
as winter's shadows stir
in your tiny bones.
We notice your courage,
see that we are not so different
from each other.
We live, each of us, a little life,
try to save something for tomorrow,
hide in fearsome times,
breathe summer's air with joy
before the end comes,
shake our tails with joy
at any gentle hand.
We are cousins
in this strange and wondrous
family.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Today marks a new year in the Jewish calendar, Rosh Hashanah. It is a time for casting away the regrets and mistakes of the past and looking forward to a sweet new year to come. This week also brings us to the autumn equinox, the moment in the year's turning when daylight and night are equal in length. An old tradition says that on this "balancing" day of the year (as well as on its counterpart in March), it is possible to stand a raw egg on its end. Presumably the gravitational or magnetic forces of the universe make this possible, though most scientists agree that this is just an urban legend. Still, I will go to the refrigerator and retrieve a fresh egg and make the attempt. It will be my humble, harmless exercise to celebrate the inexorable passage of time once more.

We live in a world of constant motion and change. Soon the days will grow shorter and we will awaken in the dark and eat our suppers in the dark as well. Winter's bitter grasp is already around us, though we still have a few tender, golden weeks to savor before the snow falls. But we don't need the calendar to remind us of these changes. We look in the mirror and see the lines deepening on our faces, the hair turning silver. We watch our grandchildren grow up, and soon enough we will wave good-bye as they head off to college. We attend the ceremonies of passage: christenings, graduations, weddings, retirement parties, funerals too. We say farewell too many times.

I watched the dawn today. Before the sun appeared, the first sign of morning was a subtle brightening of the night sky, a softness at the edge of the world. In that early, tender light, the morning star sparkled brightly over the far hills. It was quiet. The world had not yet awakened to begin its noise and confusion, its hurry to work. I felt a catching of breath, the power of that "in-between" time, neither fully night nor day. It was the transitional pause, the place where we can be most aware of the change and flow of the universe. It was, I realized, the place where we live.

Morning Star

I would stop it, if I could,
this relentless wheel of change.
I want the universe
to stay still,
green, sweet, whole.
I watch my girl
race across the grass,
and I wish her to run, run
beyond time's hungry grasp,
where its fearsome curse
can etch no lines
nor bend those fresh limbs
with old years' weariness.
I would call back my dead,
keep their voices bright and young,
or just save this little day
for but a lingering moment,
balancing like an egg
that hasn't learned to topple.
But this day, this year, will go,
as others always have gone,
pulled into the great vortex
where good and bad both wait,
where snow and spring both come in time,
where death sings its puzzling song
and nothing stands for long.
We live in the mysterious light of passing,
whether dusk or dawn we cannot say.
But here, in-between what was
and what will be,
here in this dark and lightening place,
here in the fearsomeness
of time and change,
I see a morning star.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Today is such an ordinary day here. The early morning light was soft, golden. The air was still. Crows watched peacefully from the wires in above Main Street in the center of town as I walked the dogs and admired this sweet September day. Down in Florida the day was anything but ordinary, as the remnant of a fierce hurricane rumbled northward, leaving damaged homes and displaced people in its wake. Millions were in the dark, waiting perhaps for days or weeks for the electricity to return.

This day also marks the anniversary of another day that began in ordinary fashion. September 11 is still etched in our minds for the tragic destruction that took place when airplanes commandeered by terrorists crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania. Our world changed that day. The way we see everything is shaded by the reminder that it all can be snatched away from us in a second. It is not just the existence of a terrorist threat that does this, of course. Our everyday fragility as human beings haunts us, a cloud hanging at the edges of our sunny lives. We walk through a mine field of accidents, illness, pain, sorrow. We clutch the people we love against the day when they, or we, will be there no more.

This ordinary morning I noticed that every telephone pole has a number on it. I suppose there is someone whose job is keeping track of all those poles and numbers, in case one falls or needs to be replaced. The old Scriptures claim that every hair on our head is numbered, too. I think that may be something of a holy exaggeration, and I hope nobody has the job of keeping track of all those hairs. But I do like to think that every one of us is as least as important as a telephone pole. Of course most all of us carry a Social Security number through our lifetime. But I trust that each person hunkered down in a Florda shelter, each man or woman who lost their life on Sept. 11, each precious one of us has somebody who calls us by name, who remembers us with a tug of joy, and who celebrates our ordinary days that are precious beyond measure.

Number

They are numbered
and kept
in some great heart:
every leaf and blade of grass,
every feather, every song,
every sunrise and raindrop,
every peculiar and ordinary day,
every kindness an act of courage,
every heart waking to wonder
or drifting to dreams,
all of them, 
every one of us,
every blessed one of us,
loved.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

The old folk tale was that babies came from heaven. I remember childhood pictures of a Delivery Stork carrying a little baby in a soft cloth bundle hanging from its beak, off to a waiting home. The truth about where babies came from didn't reveal itself to me until my mother began to become enlarged with my little sister.

But once in a while the old stories prove to be true. This Sunday afternoon the rain had finally passed, and my wife Phyllis strolled out into the yard to breathe the sweet September air. She heard sharp squeals from the nearby maple treetop. As a licensed wildlife rehabilitator, she recognize the frantic cry of a baby squirrel. Having noticed the remains of an adult squirrel in the street in front of the house that morning, the victim of a passing car, it seemed possible that the dead mother had left unattended babies in her nest. And sure enough, almost on cue, a tiny gray bundle fell from the high branches and landed at Phyllis' feet. Of course she instantly scooped it up and cuddled it against her chest, examining it for injuries and offering it a dropper full of water to make sure it wasn't dehydrated.

Some day this little squirrel will open its eyes to a wonderful world of green and glorious freedom. It will be one of the pesky nuisances raiding somebody's bird feeder or chewing its way into a forbidden attic. To most people, it will be just another rodent with a big tail, one of the many inhabitants of this world that don't seem to have much usefulness to us, the human superintendents of the planet. But the opposite is true. We are richer for every creature who makes this remarkable planet its home. Squirrels, too, are priceless partners in creation. They help plant forests, and they provide food for many furred and winged predators in the ongoing natural drama of life and death. And they exhibit a pure joy in life, signaled in the flick of their tail and their tightrope act they perform high in the sky above us. They call us to see the magic in even the smallest and most ordinary of things. And, perhaps, too, they know something of love. At least this one does.

Squirrel

A little gray bundle
falls from the sky,
a tiny life.
Its eyes tightly closed
and its stomach hungry,
it cries for food,
its mother's milk,
and the warmth of her body
to be warmth and safety
against the wind and night.
But in this rainy world,
she does not come,
and the small one drops
to the hard earth,
where some great mercy
waits.
Cradled in human hands,
it knows no fear,
trusts in the tenderness
which has no name
that a helpless foundling understands,
but which is love.
And someday love will be
a tall branch on a spring day.
And it will be the tug of freedom
that surges in one small squirrel,
and in all of us
who share this wondrous world.
And love will be the gift
in every blessed one of us
who knows we are kin
to each beating, hopeful heart
that fall into our lives.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Summer's end is celebrated all through New England with a host of country fairs. We head to the fairgrounds to walk through the animal barns, to eat grossly unhealthy fried food, and to listen to the honky-tonk sounds of midway games and carnival rides. Last weekend I won a big blue ribbon for my tiny Mexican cucumbers. One of my granddaughters took home a prize for her artwork, and the other won a ribbon for her horse collection. We felt like champions! Near the exhibit building, contestants vied in a frog jumping contest to see who could make a big bullfrog hop the farthest. The poor frog obviously had jumped its limit, and it wasn't happy to be out in the sun, either. One little girl bent down to plead with it to make at least a little effort, but whispering in that frog's ear wasn't sufficient motivation. The frog went back in its box, and we headed over to the commercial exhibits, where I found a booth selling marshmallow shooters made out of miscellaneous plumbing equipment. For five bucks, it was a steal.

While the fair-goers were enjoying the festivities in these most beautiful of days, a terrible hurricane was ravaging the Gulf Coast, blowing houses away, flooding one of the largest metropolitan areas in the country, and devastating millions of lives. It is a hard truth that tragedy and joy take place side by side. Every day sorrow and grief break hearts while being encircled by lovers kissing, children blowing out birthday candles, and families gathering around tables to taste the goodness of life. Two years ago today our son Adam died unexpectedly, and our lovely August day was riven with the sword of terrible loss. We cope, somehow, then and now, by feeling the pain and letting ourselves love a little more. We hold on to the people around us a little tighter. We remember that it is up to us to help when others fall. And we live the good days: eat, laugh, breathe deep, smell the grass and marvel at the stars. We shoot marshmallows at death.

The Great Fair

Sunshine and blue sky,
and a soft stirring of wind
bears the sound of carnival music,
the aroma of cattle and horses,
and the whisper of autumn in the air.
So we walk in the light
across the beaten grass,
eat sausages and laugh
as onions and peppers drip
abundandly down our chins
and onto our shirts.
But then we suddenly find ourselves
in another place, another time,
where shadows enfold us,
and we are broken, broken again,
standing at the empty place
where one of our most beloved is gone.
Through years and lifetimes
there are so many griefs,
so many pains we must endure
together:
we hope that there may be
for all of us
one more bright summer day--
one great country fair
under sunshine and blue sky--
where we shall come unwearied
to walk in wonder,
to feast on sausages and peppers,
to collect blue ribbons
for our our bravest deeds,
to see our missing ones
riding the carousel,
waving at us with joy.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

There is much troubling news confronting us, but today it will be a celestial event that captures our attention. A solar eclipse will darken the sky over North America for a couple of hours, and many of us will go outside to experience this rare happening. The total eclipse will last only a couple of minutes, when the moon passes in front of the sun and blocks its light from reaching our planet. That moment of full darkness will be viewed in North America only by those in a narrow path stretching across the country, but the rest of us still may experience the darkening effect of a partial eclipse.

In earlier times, such an event would have been a portent of doom. In a pre-scientific world, the blackening of the sun was terrifying. Some saw it as an omen that an awful event was about to happen. The French king Louis XIV, the “sun king," who used a golden image of the sun as his symbol, died just after an eclipse, as did King Henry 1 of England. An ancient war ended in the midst of a battle when the sun suddenly darkened, and the combatants threw down their weapons and fled in terror. In some cultures, they believed that an eclipse meant that a great monster was rising up to devour the sun and destroy life on earth, so they would take pots and sticks and bang them together to scare the creature away. There are still monsters and evils in our world, of course. It would be nice if we could scare them away with a little noise-making, but it will take something more than that. Courage, wisdom, and love will help.

Eclipse

Sojourners together
under a darkened star,
we watch and feel a primal unease
as day turns to night.
There is a haunting silence,
the cry of owls,
the whisper of bad dreams
that will not go away.
And in our place of pilgrimage,
another great light is eclipsed
by a terrible moon:
the chaos of evil that circles around us,
always pulling at our tides,
rising in the old well of bone and blood,
occluding the artery that offers life
to all of us.
We are creatures, still,
kin to the eagles and the catfish,
yearning for the peace of oceans and prairies,
waiting for some tenderness to overtake
our wanton appetites
and something simple as love to rule
our fearsome passions.
We live short and shadowed lives,
pretend to goodness,
and find it now and then,
like a strain of music whose song
we can barely remember.
We keep searching,
and in our darkness,
we reach for each other's hands,
wait for some great spirit to move across
the roiled and forbidding waters.
So we gather together, silent partners
in this uneasy hour,
to watch for the rim of light
rippling at the edges of the darkness,
waiting, waiting,
for the great star to shine again.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

This weekend is the annual Flea Market on the big field in front of the Congregational Church on Main Street. It seems to get bigger each year, and I expect over eighty dealers hoping to entice someone to buy their wares. There will be antiques and artwork, home grown tomatoes and blimp-sized zucchinis, toys and tools, furniture and fancy hats, and every other imaginable kind of attic or basement treasure. And nearby will be a huge rummage sale--mismatched dishes, Christmas decorations, waffle irons, jewelry and linens, even old LPs that once were the wonderful background music to someone's beautiful life. I look forward to this adventure every year, though I cringe at the idea of trying to put a price tag on all that stuff. And I cringe even more to think about disposing of the mountains of unwanted and unpurchased stuff that will be left over.

But what possibilities there are! Over the years I have acquired true treasures. There is the old metal cowbell with a bullet hole in it, and the garden sculpture of a flying pig that I could not pass by. I cherish my hand scythe, rusted with a wooden handle, that I still use to chop down brush and weeds. And I was delighted and amazed to find a commemorative plate bearing the image of a hitch-hiking angel carrying a suitcase. Perhaps my favorite acquisition was a large painting of a skunk on black velvet, which has never appeared on any of the walls of our home. I admire it still, stacked in a corner with other prizes that have no place to be displayed. All of these things are the leftover remnants of someone's life. They remind me of the impermanence of our little journeys, which nonetheless are filled with joy, laughter, sweet labor, wondrous love, and black velvet skunks.

Rummage Sale Ring

In a pile of forgotten jewelry,
she reaches for a delicate ring,
its silver setting old and graceful--
but with only an empty space
where once a shining diamond
or a sparkling sapphire
may have graced a woman's hand.
It is a forgotten remnant
left buried amid the debris
of bygone years,
an object lost among the castaways
of used and useless souvenirs
that once compiled a thousand lives.
Perhaps this small ring
was given on a bended knee,
held out by a trembling hand
for love's sweet sake.
Or worn through age and absence,
kept for a grandchild
that never came.
Or passed from one to another,
through years and generations,
through joy and pain,
through hurt and tears,
until the stone fell out,
waiting, waiting to be worn again.
All of it, all of it,
once held and kept and treasured,
says life is so short,
and things are only things,
but still,
beloved things.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

I can hear them fill the afternoon's quiet: the rhythmic drone of the cicadas rising and falling, rising and falling This is nature's musical prelude to the change of seasons here in New England as summer dwindles toward its sweet end. And there are things we practice as August comes and goes. Yesterday afternoon we made refrigerator pickles out of the bounty of cucumbers picked from our garden. Tomatoes, too, are ripening. What can be better for breakfast than fresh sliced tomato sandwiches, slathered with mayonaisse on white bread? At the border of the garden, hummingbirds hover around spires of cardinal flowers, and great sunflowers nod on tall stalks as honeybees gather golden pollen on their legs. These creatures cannot parse the future with analytical brains like ours, but they nonetheless are getting ready for the slim, cold days to come. It is an instinct buried deep in their genes, as if they, too, can hear the song of the cicadas as a sign of summer's ending.

Tonight marks the return of the great Perseid meteor shower, as Earth passes through the tail of Comet Swift-Tuttle. This cosmic rendezvous happens every August, and it marks a regular cycle in earth's journey--and ours as well. If the sky is clear, we will throw a quilt on the wet grass in our back yard and lie on our backs, gazing at the sky. For a moment we will feel the heft of the world beneath us and marvel at the tiny sparkle of the distant stars. Everything we know, everything we love, is held on this precious planet, which is home. It seems so immense, so real, so central to our whole universe. Then, suddenly, a silver streak will autograph the darkness, a light so surprising, so elegant, that we will gasp, or laugh, or hold hands tighter. It is a celestial interruption, a reminder that we are riding as passengers on a tiny voyager in space that is always carrying us to new seasons, new adventures, new surprises.

Perseids

Carrying golden pouches of treasure,
the bee pauses in the sunlight,
rests before taking flight
toward an unseen home.
The earth turns, plows through
the vast darkness of space
taking life from that same star
which is life to bees and flowers
and me.
It is all miracle on miracle
that we are here at all,
that there are rivers flowing silver
with water,
that peaches are sweet,
that we see red and gold,
and blue in roadside chicory,
that we know love,
holding hands in the wet grass
as shooting stars decorate the night
and cicadas sing a sweet song
for all that passes.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

This summer's garden is bright with flaming zinnias and immense spiked dahlias. A lone sunflower has appeared in golden glory in the midst of the bean patch, thanks to songbirds gathering seeds and spilling their largesse among the vegetables. These volunteer sunflowers, and the pink phlox burgeoning at the edges of the yard, are reminders that not all of summer's beauty needs to be sown and planted by me. But this afternoon's special surprise was a lone blue Passion Flower crowning a tall vine, its base hidden among the peony bushes whose flowering is long past.

The Passion Flower is a peculiar blossom, blue and white petals and sepals enclosing a purple crown of tiny filaments, edged in black. The legend is that these flowers were used by the Spanish conquistadors to teach the natives of the Southwest and Mexico the story of Christ's passion (i.e. "suffering") on the cross. The 10 petals represent the faithful disciples (minus Judas the betrayer and Peter the denier). The central parts of the flower represent the three nails and the five wounds of Christ, positioned in the middle of the crown of thorns. There are other mystical meanings that are sometimes found as well. But today, this blossom takes me back to my grandmother's garden in front of her little house on Ripley Street in Davenport, Iowa. In her aproned housedress and practical black shoes, she bent her tiny frame to show me the jack-in-the pulpits hiding in the shade, and to hold a passion flower blossom tenderly in her hand as she shared the ancient story of her faith. Today she walks again in my back yard.

Passion Flower

Blue as heaven
this holy blossom
nods at summer sun,
warm with life.
I see the mystical signs,
the numbered petals
and the dainty crown of thorns,
but I remember mostly this:
the old hand, work worn,
of my dwindling grandmother,
cradling a passion flower
as if it were a miracle,
which it was.
As she bent close,
her small, wire-rimmed glasses
reflected blue and white petals,
so that her eyes, her being,
knew everything about passion
and joy.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

One of the unmistakable sounds of summer in this small town is the clanging of horseshoes on Thursday evenings. It's the regular gathering of the oldest horseshoe league n in the State of Connecticut. It may be that some of the fellows who were playing back n those earliest years of the league are still playing today. They come week after week for bragging rights to their skills at horseshoe throwing, but also for the pure pleasure of it. They tell stories, laugh, share a beverage or two, and enjoy the smell of sausages and hot dogs being grilled by a woman who appreciates these local men and women who have become friends over the years.

Horseshoes hasn't made it to being an Olympic sport quite yet. It's one of those specialties that probably originated in rural communities where the equipment was easy to find. My great uncle Emil, a German bachelor farmer in the fields of Iowa, was equally proficient at horseshoes and checkers, for which he claimed to have been the state champion in his early years. He taught us to fling his red or blue painted horseshoes with the old "flip" method, which he thought was easy for us to master.
The good players seem to pitch the horseshoes so that they turn sideways and open just as they get to the stake. The object, of course, is to get the horseshoes wrapped around the stake, a ringer. Maybe a double ringer on a perfect summer night is just about as good as it gets for most of us. And if, for this moment, it makes us glad to be here, then perhaps it is possible to take pleasure in the other small victories that make our lives, our world, a little better.

Ringer

Somewhere a dog barks,
and the breeze carries the distant sound
of a band concert on the green.
Bicycles whiz by down the street,
and a couple strolls along,
hand in hand, in love.
They pause to watch the horseshoes fly
smile at the art of it, the love.
The shoes thunk into the dirt,
clang against the iron stake
as a cheer goes up, or a curse.
In these parlous times
evil claws at fearful hearts,
and sickness and death lurk
in the shadows of innocent days.
This earth itself makes its circle
around the sun without guarantee,
waiting for an errant comet
to intercept our path, our peace.
But on this summer afternoon,
an old man in overalls steps up,
heaves a horseshoe into the soft air
where it makes a perfect arc
(for all that is good and joy and timeless)
and rings true,
like a bell.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Independence Day in the United States is traditionally a time of picnics, family gatherings, maybe a ride to the beach. As the day slides into dusk, the night is filled with the sound of explosions: fireworks filling the sky with great bursts of golden chrysanthemums and silver rockets that you can feel in your bones with every "boom!" Some of us love these dramatic displays in the night. There's a place on a nearby beach where you can put up your folding chair or spread out a blanket and watch fireworks lighting up the skies up in neighboring communities all down the shoreline. It is glorious!

But not everybody loves these things. Veterans who have returned from military service in war zones around the world may find that they want to hide--fireworks sound too much like bombs and artillery to be fun. And a few years ago our sweet black lab, Luke, was terrified by those sounds, even the smaller rat-a-tat of cap guns or firecrackers down the block. His panic was so intense that he would crash through window screens or claw at the door to get out. Once, trapped in the front seat of our car, Luke managed to break through the car window when fireworks erupted somewhere nearby.

Of course, the reason we shoot those things off on July 4 is that we are celebrating freedom. That freedom was proclaimed in 1776 by a brave group of patriots who yearned for the opportunity to govern their own affairs, and to give their children and grandchildren the benefits of life, liberty, and the pursuit of their own happiness. That freedom has endured. And yet today we still worry that there are many who yearn to be free of fear itself.

Freely

Gathered together to laugh and feast
under a banner of stripes and stars,
we remember that we are free
to be fools or saints,
free to stay or leave,
free even to be slaves
to our hungers and passions,
to our own deepest desire
to be left alone.
But we may also remember
a beautiful dream
which haunts our waking hours,
or we may find our feet
stepping down a path
we did not expect,
where something will be given
of our own precious selves,
where we will leave behind
a better world, a kinder day,
that is most sacred, most costly
because it was offered at a price
of love and blood,
given freely.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

"You can't go home again," young Thomas Wolfe entitled his classic novel. He elaborated that we can never return "back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory." I have found that to be true in so many ways. The last time back in my home town, I drove past the spot where our house once stood on a... lovely street lined with tall elm trees. The trees are gone, thanks to the blight of Dutch Elm Disease, and the house is too, due to the need of a nearby college to have a parking lot. 

Other things are gone, too, perhaps more ephemeral, but nonetheless sad for me. I can't for the life of me find one of those playground merry-go-rounds--the kind with bars to hold on to as some big kid races around the outside trying his best to spin somebody off into the dust. It was joy on a summer day to ride with friends, hair flying. Presumably insurance liability concerns have done away with those things. And try to find a pick-up neighborhood baseball game in the summer. The diamonds are empty once school lets out presumbaly because there are no adults to organize the games. Parents don't want their young kids riding their bicycles around town unsupervised, where mischief and delight can happen. I could add to the list nickel ice-cream cones, black Switzer's licorice, double-feature movie matinees--and don't forget drive-in theaters where you could get a whole carload of people in for a dollar on "buck night," and for free on other nights if you could fit them in the trunk.


Missing

We still let the milkweed stalks grow
at the edge of the yard,
and now they are full of great
purple clusters of flowers,
scenting the afternoon air
and waiting futilely
for just one monarch butterfly
to come and rest.
Those orange and black winged creatures
once filled our summer world,
but they are missing, now.
And where are the swooping bats
which once dived through the dusk
for green apples tossed upward
by laughing children?
I long for the buzz of honeybees
on fields of clover,
and the magical flashing of fireflies
as we raced to collect them in jars
so that they would flicker golden light
into our dark bedroom dreams.
They all seem to have gone, somewhere,
except in the museum of my heart,
where still children fly in circles
on spinning merry-go-rounds,
and butterflies rise on the breeze,
and nothing good is ever lost.

--Timothy Haut, 2017

A Deep River Year - 2017

Today is Midsummer Night, the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. It's the day when the sun reaches the northernmost point on the horizon before slowly moving southward again to its low place in the winter sky. I've always thought there should be another name for this day, since it is not really the middle of summer. That presumably would be in July, when this spot on our planet sometimes feels like a tropical place.


But this day in June has had an almost mystical place in the world's calendar for centuries. Around the cultures of the North, this day of the Solstice has been celebrated with bonfires and the blessing of waters, with customs and rituals that hoped to ensure that the sun would continue its life-giving presence for another cycle. Some of those customs still are observed. One Norwegian custom is for girls to put flowers under their pillows tonight with the promise that they will dream of their future husbands. In one Latvian town, the practice on Midsummer Night is to run naked through town at three in the morning, with beer for everyone at the end.


My celebration will be simpler, but perhaps no less joyful. I will go out in the back yard, or maybe in the field across the street, and wait for the stars to come out. I will hope to see a few bats flutter across the peach-colored dusk, and then the lightning bugs will begin to flicker in the treetops. It would be nice to catch a scent of the sweet peas in my garden as the world stills and the wind chimes ring softly in the evening breeze to celebrate the Solstice light. So what if this midpoint in the year means that we are moving toward the lean days of winter again! This is a day to savor, to feel, to hold close to the heart. Maybe to run naked at three in the morning.


Midsummer Night


We ride the Great Wheel of Time,
 spiralling through seasons and years
 around a golden star.
 And here, again, on the longest day
 when light lingers against the shadows
 we will fill ourselves with its flame,
 set a lantern glowing
 with sweet memories of celandine and clover,
 fireflies in the dusk
 and crickets singing love songs
 to the moon.
 On this shortest night
 it would be good to stand
 in a broad and grassy field,
 looking up at the glittering sky
 as we begin again the great journey
 toward our little winter.
 And this will be the benediction,
 that through every cold, dark passage--
 even to the edge of doom
 when this bright star is stilled
 and summers are no more--
 this memory, this hope, this fire
 of one summer night
 will endure
 as the bright and blessed glory
 of our moment
 in the vastness of all that was,
 and is, and ever will be.
--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Father's Day is a yawn in the middle of the Hallmark year. Someone must have figured that dads needed equal time with mothers, but there is little zeal in most of our celebrations. When my son asks me what I want for Father's Day, he knows I will answer "world peace" and free him of the responsibility of buying me a tie or a mug to mark the day. What I truly desire is time: time to hang out with my children and grandchildren, to listen to them reminisce or dream or laugh or solve the problems of the world together.


I don't think my father had much of a chance to do those things with his father, who spent most of his waking hours in an overstuffed chair in his living room, its upholstery blistered by cigar ashes and stains from spilled beer. My father never had stories to tell of playing catch in the back yard, riding on his father's shoulders, fishing together from the levee of the river, or working on projects in a basement workshop. He does remember his mother sending him down to the tavern on the corner to collect the old man before he spent all of the weekly paycheck. So why did my own father turn out to be such a good man?


e e cummings said of his own father that "joy was his song and joy so pure/ a heart of star by him could steer." My father's gift was his joy at caring for people, holding them in his heart, making them better than they were because he loved them. He worked at it, this love. My father lingers on the edges of my remembering, with his tongue clenched in his teeth and sweat on his face. He sucked lemons and thought them sweet. He and I would pick tomatoes on hot summer days in our enormous garden so my mother could cook them up in quart jars for the winter. Standing in the sun, we would bite into tomatoes together so that the juice would soak into our shirts, and we would be son and father forever. He loved his roses, growing them so he could give them away to strangers who needed something beautiful. He forgave the roses their thorns, just as I imagine he forgave his father's.


My Father's Rose

Every June it appears,
 one blossom,
 one rose,
 my father's gift.
 Some morning
 It will be there
 when summer slips in:
 a perfect blossom,
 rising like a flame
 amid the garden's green
 pink as a perfect sunrise.
 I will look for his footprints
 in the wet grass,
 listen for the rustle of movement
 in the forsythia
 at the edge of the yard,
 his certain presence.
 It will be goodness I feel,
 his gift,
 the thing as true and fleeting
 as a blossom.
 He saw the awful, stained world,
 the one that breaks our hearts,
 but he made it give back roses.
 They are still blooming
 this sweet June,
 and today I find
 an autograph of joy
 to celebrate my
 father's day.
--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Yesterday I mowed the grass under a warm June sky, feeling the golden sun overhead for the first time in days. The long, wet Spring has made for a lush green world, and the grass was nearly knee-deep in places. So out came the gas mower, which chugged to a roar on the second pull of the starter rope. It was satisfying to make long parallel mower tracks up and down the back yard, and to whack into submission the miscellaneous weeds that pass for a lawn out by the front fence.


I have cut grass almost all my life. As a boy, I mowed our yard, as a duty. But a pair of sweet, white-haired ladies who lived in the big house next door offered to pay me to do their lawn. They couldn’t always pay with cash. Sometimes their reward was cookies, and once they paid me with a crank-operated phonograph console that had a drawer full of ¼” thick records, that crackled with ancient song. But cutting grass was almost its own reward.


Long ago we had a push reel mower, whose clickety-clickety sound seemed a more fitting companion to the summer sounds of birds and insects and wind in the trees. However, when it hit a hidden stick in the lawn, that old mower came to a lurching halt, as the blades bound and sent the metal handles of the contraption into my ribs. But always the finished product gave a happy sense that I had, for a moment, brought a little more order into the chaos of the world. And, ah, the smell of cut grass!


June


O, June,
 warm, full of golden light,
 rich and dripping,
 wet after rain,
 fulfillment of winter's promises
 and sweet as a strawberry moon:
 I would rest in your soft arms
 and fall asleep
 as fireflies dance at dusk
 and roses on the fence
 breathe a soft sigh,
 and all around is the scent
 of honeysuckle and clover.
 Or just this would be enough:
 to offer one small prayer,
 a gloria of gratitude,
 as the incense of new- mown grass
 rises like a blessing
 through the window
 of my dreams.


--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

They are here, everywhere. They are Gypsy moth caterpillars, little hairy things that hang by long silky threads and chomp their way through the tall trees that are New England's glory. A few days ago I sat back in a dentist's chair for my semi-annual cleaning and noticed that the hygienist was distracted by several little worms crawling up and down my shirt.


Last year was a bad one for the destruction and defoliation caused by these creatures.  Our hope was that a wet Spring would create a perfect climate for the fungus which is one of the few natural enemies of these caterpillars. But there still seem to be a million of them around. That can happen when just one female moth lays up to a thousand eggs in a summer. It's hard to get rid of them all. And when the little things start to crawl up the trees to feed on the leaves, they seem to be everywhere. They slip down from the eaves of our barn on those little threads, blowing in the breezes onto our clothes and hair--and if we're eating outside, onto our plates. When they are up in the treetops, they sound like a constant, soft summer shower, raining their little black droppings down from on high, too. And recent medical reports indicate that a lot of folks are breaking out with welts on their skin--allergic reactions to the caterpillars' hairy backs.


It all started in the mid 1800's when some hopeful entrepeneur in Massachusetts thought that these caterpillars might create a silk industry in New England. A few of them placed on a windowsill blew off in the wind, and the rest is history. So it goes, that often our biggest problems are of our own making. And often, they are harder to fix than they were to create in the beginning. Of course, it's a matter of opinion whether Gypsy moths are evil incarnate. They are just a part of nature, perhaps misplaced. For them, it's just about survival. We, who squish them with our thumbs, may be the evil ones. I do it anyway.


Gypsy Moths


It may not be
 that the world will end
 in fire and tempest.
 Listen to the worms
 up in the trees,
 chewing their way
 to the Apocalypse.
 But perhaps they wriggle
 gratefully
 toward the treetops,
 giving thanks for the gifts
 they are about to receive,
 and praising a kind Creator
 for all things green.
 And we, the wise ones
 who build armories
 fit to destroy the world,
 who leave our poor
 hungry on the streets
 or poison the very earth
 that feeds us,
 we name as bane and baleful ill
 these little worms
 who only wish
 to live.


--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

I awakened to the patter of rain on the window, a soft shower that followed me through my early morning walk. The world seems unusually green on a gray day, and the leaves on the burgeoning trees glisten in the morning light. I am glad to be alive, smelling the wet earth. But these inclement days sometimes have another effect. For some of us, this weather is soporific. The rhythm of the raindrops and the dim light make us want to find a comfortable place to sit, or even lie down, and drift into dreams. For others, these days are depressing, hanging like a storm cloud over lives that are shadowed by troubles, loneliness, or fear.


A friend recently told me about his wife, a kind and good woman suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. She is in the stage of dementia in which she is aware of her forgetfulness, fearful of what might happen to her. She has occasional trouble finding words for things, and spends time hunting around the house for objects she has misplaced. She is reluctant to leave her house because she has difficulty maneuvering in unfamiliar places or conversing with people whom she doesn't recognize. But one symptom of her condition is a desire to go through old photos of herself and her family, as if to reinforce, as long as possible, the precious memories of her life. She is determined not to lose her self.


As we come to Memorial Day weekend, we take time to remember not only those who have died in service to their country, but also all those who have been important to us. We place flowers in cemeteries and pause, for a moment, in remembrance of all fragile and fleeting gifts: the people we have loved and lost, old songs and treasured words, nighttime laughter and the memories that rise as dreams in our sleep, and a thousand sweet mornings scented with earth on rainy Spring days.


Forget-Me-Nots


Blue as sky
 they cling close to earth,
 forget-me-nots of Spring.
 We stoop to touch them,
 remembering all that we would not
 forget:
 the teacher who once kept a bouquet
 of the tiny blossoms on her desk,
 those distant days when we discovered
 our world and who we were,
 the house to which we always came home,
 the maple tree in the yard
 flinging its helicopters in the May breeze,
 the crimson geraniums on the graves
 in the country cemetery where
 spirits floated over fields of growing corn,
 and this day,
 this sweet, sweet day,
 blue as sky.


--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Last weekend was damp and cold. A cool, wet Spring has had its virtures. The flowering trees have been luxurious in their blossoming. The lilacs have scented the air for weeks, and the tulips and daffodils have lingered well past their usual finale. But now, suddenly, it is warm, and the earth beckons for a summer planting. Yesterday was hot, a day for moving slowly. But we spent the day digging deep holes and planting shrubs and flowers ...as a warm sun beat down upon our backs. 
 

At the end of the day we rested in our comfortable chairs out in the back yard as a late afternoon breeze stirred the newly green leaves at the edge of the woods. And this is a pleasure: to sit in a tender, growing place surrounded by the chatter of birds and the whisper of wind. One moment a hummingbird whizzes its way to a feeder, and a few seconds later a downy woodpecker comes to the same place to drink. A crow drops into the birdbath while squawking a "hello," and house sparrows flutter in the fresh turned earth of the garden as they give themselves a dust bath. A family of baby birds yammer from a birdhouse on the side of the barn, waiting for mama to return with sustenance. And then the orioles drop in, glorious in orange and black. Their arrival each May always feels like a surprise and an elusive gift. They come to peck at the oranges arrangedat the edge of the garden just for them, although the canny catbird seems to eat its fill as well. We would have such beauty with us forever, if they would stay. But like sweet Spring itself, these visitors are all the more precious for their brief, enchanting visit.


 May Orioles


A pair of orioles appear
bright as morning light,
their flaming feathers
a Springtime fire.
They are guests at our offered feast:
a juicy orange sliced in two
and placed on poles
at our garden's corner.
They chatter a greeting,
perhaps a grateful prayer
in the tongue of birds,
then eat voraciously
before swooping and soaring
high into a canopy of leaves.
They appear suddenly,
out of nowhere,
their presence a gift
which lasts for just a little while,
before they are gone.
This, like all blessings,
is a sign of love's presence,
the miracle always around us,
coming and going as a joy,
tender, glorious, orange,
feathered and fleeting,
calling us to watch, watch,
and be glad.
--Timothy Haut, May 21, 2017

A Deep River Year - 2017

Once a gnarled old apple tree stood behind our house here in Deep River. Its fruit didn't amount to much. The little yellow apples were hard, misshapen, wormy. They littered the ground on early September days. And as the sun was still warm and redolent of summer, the apples would slowly soften in the grass and attract swarms of yellow jackets. It was a challenge to rake them up, because the wasps preferred to have me leave a buffet of apples for them. I tried to make apple sauce a few times, but it was a lot of work to core the little things and carve out all the wormy spots and rotten parts. So about the only purpose they served was for little boys to engage in apple fights. That they did. And, on those evenings, they would fling those little apples into the sky and watch as curious bats swooped down to see what was flying through the air and appearing on their radar.


But it was in May when that old tree was at its best. My son Adam's birthday was May 2, and I remember with gladness the days when he, his brothers and friends romped through the yard. They were young and innocent and beautiful, and the sound of children's laughter filled the air at his birthday gatherings. For many years I organized a treasure hunt, in which I hid a treasure--perhaps a stash of comic books, or whistles, or candy bars--somewhere for them to find. Elaborate clues were also hidden around the yard; and they gleefully raced from place to place, sure that they would be first to find the treasure, which might have been buried in the ground under a canopy of forsythia, or tucked away in the stone ledges back in the ravine behind the house, or hung from a high branch of a willow tree. The joyful shouting carried on the breeze, and for the few minutes that the treasure hunt usually took, I would stand under that old apple tree as white petals flew through the air, like confetti, celebrating this good life.


That tree is long gone now, and a garden of peonies grows in its place. My son Adam is gone as well, leaving this world too early with a failed heart that was always so full of joy and love. And still, on May 2, I go out into the yard and listen for echoes of that rowdy, youthful laughter, and remember how sweet it all can be. I walk across the field, through the May grass, and smile at the hundreds of golden dandelions springing up to life. These are for me sunny souvenirs of Springtime which, like the apple blossoms that once floated through a May afternoon, remind me that the treasure hunt still goes on. And the treasure is all around us, and in us, too.


Dandelions


Bright they are,
 and golden, everywhere,
 as if a mad god
 had gone crazy,
 flinging them in wild profusion
 at the sheer joy
 of having such a world
 to decorate.
 They are weeds, of course,
 only because they are never sown
 by human hand.
 Instead they grow where a spirit wind
 once carried their white winged seeds
 to a cranny in the earth,
 a hidden place to settle and root.
 So the gifts of life and love
 are flung around us,
 random as seeds,
 and sometimes, after cold and dark
 leaves us empty, barren,
 there comes a sweet May day
 when those gifts will burst like blossoms,
 surprising us with a memory
 and a gladness
 that we thought was gone,
 still glittering like gold.


 --Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Saturday was the opening day of Little League, one of those annual events that mark time in a small town. A couple of hundred kids showed up at the park, along with assorted coaches, parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, neighbors and relatives. Dressed in team jerseys and ball caps, the kids came in all ages and shapes. Some of the littlest ones, assigned to team that play a beginner's game called T-ball, seemed to be having a hard time lifting their ample leather baseball gloves off the ground. Others were more interested in the snack shack where hot dogs were being grilled at 10 in the morning.


But baseball is a big deal. It's our national game, still, and lots of those kids nurse a dream of hitting a home run or making an over-the-shoulder catch against the outfield fence that wins the game. I played myself, long ago--second base, as I recall. I wasn't very good, but I still remember hitting a ball that rolled through the legs of an outfielder and allowed me to make third base before I stumbled and fell. The next time I came to bat all the fielders backed up. It was my most satisfying moment.
I coached a kids' team one summer decades ago. My goal was to help my kids have fun, and they did. They turned out to be pretty good, too. So good, in fact, that in one game I had our players stealing first base after they had already made it to second. It sure confused the umpire. That same game my team got so far ahead that in the last inning, while they were out in the field, they intentionally threw the ball wildly all over the place so that the smallest player on the other team could make a home run. We all cheered when it happened. It was my happiest game of all time.


Play Ball


Out there in right field,
 the outer limits
 of the baseball solar system,
 he stands ankle deep
 in the green grass of Spring.
 Far away, the pitcher flings
 the ball toward home,
 and a batter squints,
 heart racing wildly,
 and swings.
 The coach is yelling,
 the crowd is on their feet
 screaming encouragement,
 and dust flies as young dreamers
 race toward home.
 But out there
 in the far field
 is another joy--
 the smell of leather
 as a small fist
 pounds a perfect pocket,
 waves at his father
 who, under an arching maple,
 waves back and smiles
 as a hawk circles
 in the sweet blue sky,
 and for a moment,
 the world is perfect.


--Timothy Haut