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