Pond Sure (or Dances With Dragonflies)

It turns out that water magic and boneyard magic are not limited to the sea. 

I suspected as much and perhaps the real truth is that wherever you are, there they are too. 

I'm pretty sure that will turn out to be the truth. 

I will have fun proving it.

There is a place, not far from here, where the magic runs deep. 

I can't tell you how to get there (or I'd have to kill you),

but I will take you there if you want to go. 

You'll have to be quiet and you can't disturb the naked ladies. 

Promise?

Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Once. Twice.

There.

Can you smell it?  

Dust. Dry pine needles. 

Grass and old wood.
Forest.
Wet dock and pond muck.
Fresh coffee.
The all's-right-with-the-world scent of it all blended together
and baking in eighty-four degree July sunshine.
And, okay, when nature calls, a tiny hint of eau de outhouse. 

Yeah. It's that kind of place. 

You can hear the wind in the pines and scrub oaks, 

the drone of a distant plane,

water lapping at the edges of the pond,

an occasional fish breaking the surface ,

the buzz of insects . . .

 And when you are floating silently in an inner tube, you can hear the dragonflies. 

So many dragonflies! 

It's maybe an acre. 

Maybe two. 

Do you measure a pond in acres? 

I don't know. 

Remember Bramasole in 'Under The Tuscan Sun'? 

"The land it takes two oxen two days to plow"? 

This is "The pond it takes about 30 minutes to lazily circumnavigate in a paddleboat". 

It's green (a healthy green, I was assured),

 has bluegill, channel and bullhead catfish, yellow perch, black crappie, large mouth bass,

bazillions of tiny, baby fish,

a 58 year-old, 4-foot long sturgeon named Daisy

and one bad ass catfish that. as of yesterday, is swimming around with a hook in it's mouth and towing a yellow and red float.

The cabin . . .  a very simple, two-story building. 

Everything it needs to be and nothing it doesn't.

Built by a father, now gone. 

Cherished by his daughter. 

No plumbing. 

There's a pull-start generator if you REALLY need to inflate that air mattress (we did),

a luxurious propane-heated outdoor sink/shower, fed from an up-hill water reservoir

and a deck that looks out over the pond -

perfect for outdoor sleeping under a nearly full moon.

And did I mention the outhouse? 

A deluxe, two-seater 

with copies of Finding Her Here and Warning on the wall . . .

and awesomely bad art scattered along the path from the cabin.

Next to the cabin is a home-made, rough-hewn bar with stumps for chairs 

a red, white and blue pinwheel 

and a battery powered iHome. 

The red wine, margaritas, whiskey and Izze flow freely. 

You don't have to drink

but you do have to answer the beige, push-button phone if it rings. 

There's no cord.  

But you never know. . .

(I told you the magic runs deep).

The occasion is an annual-if-we-can-get-our-shit-together gathering of dear friends. 

We couldn't quite remember if we've done this two or three times before. 

Last year it didn't happen at all. 

On a good year there could be a dozen of us. 

This year there were six and a 9-week old baby Bug (Boston Terrier/Pug mix). 

We gather, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we cry, and we play in the water. 

One year we wrote and moved each other to tears as each shared her story. 

This year's escapades included

topless SUPing, 

 naked inner-tube floating 

and a late night gab session under an almost full moon. 

We toasted Ilene's Willow Dock with Prosecco and grapefruit Izze. . .

and it was from Ilene's dock that the catfish made his dramatic escape.

It's a one-night event that goes by much too fast. 

All too soon one of us has to leave for work, 

someone else for a family commitment, 

someone else for a birthday party. . . 

I had no appointments and no particular agenda. 

So, in exchange for promising to haul out the garbage, I snagged a couple solitary hours in this beautiful place.

I won't give it all away, 

but I will say that every middle-aged woman 

deserves to be 

a naked goddess in her own private Eden 

for a day.

You CAN dance with dragonflies.

The bones will find you wherever you look for them. 

The magic will happen. 

And if, tomorrow, it seems more like a dream . . . 

I'll have the sunburned breasts to prove it.

PS The dragonfly photos are courtesy of Google search and accurately depict the amazing dragonflies we saw this weekend. I had no idea there were red dragonflies!

Father's Day, Pig-N-Pancake and the Gospel According To Carrie Underwood

Father's Day kind of came and went without a lot of fanfare this year. My dad has been gone for 26 years and the kids' dad was out of the country. I got Kelvin a nifty wood tie and thought about my dad, and that was pretty much the extent of it.

Now, two weeks and a couple days later, I'm at the beach and life has slowed down enough to let my mind wander a bit. I didn't really expect inspiration to strike at Pig-N-Pancake but, hey, turns out my muse has a fondness for that fat little piggy. 

And there it was . . . 

 about half way down the column under the various pancake options . . . .

Potato Pancakes. 

My dad loved potato pancakes.

I think I remember him saying it was from his time in NYC during WWII. But that could be a mixed up childhood tale. At any rate, we were always happy to see Mom grating potatoes on the random Sunday mornings she decided to make them; but none more so than Dad. We ate them with sour cream and homemade applesauce and lots of gusto. Exactly like the above picture.

So I'm sitting in the place I love most (that would be Seaside, not Pig-N-Pancake) and wondering how Dad might have felt about the ocean. We rarely  got to the beach  when I was a kid and I have no real memory of how it might or might not have moved him. I know he spent some time in southern California, but don't know if that included any beach time. But given Dad's appreciation for majestic mountains I know almost for certain that he must have loved the ocean too. 

I thought about the lyrics in Lee Ann Womack's song ''I Hope You Dance' . . . 

"I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean" . . .

and instinctively know Dad would have seen the ocean that way. 

He loved nature and saw his God in it - as I have grown to.

And he heard God in music. I know this. I remember watching him listen to dramatic organ music, soaring violin solos, beautiful vocal harmonies . . . and I would see him close his eyes and get lost in it. And I know where he went. I go there regularly these days. 

My higher power and spiritual path bears almost zero resemblance to Dad's. I'm not entirely sure we could ever have shared a conversation on this earth about those differences. 

But just at this moment I'm watching the sun drop into the ocean. 

I pause and give thanks to whatever it is that has brought me to this moment and the beauty I get to witness. 

And I can smile knowing Dad would do the exact same thing. 

Which makes me wonder if our paths were really that different after all.

Just different names for the same thing.

So why all the fuss?

One of Dad's favorite hymns was "How Great Thou Art".  

How I wish he could have lived to hear Carrie Underwood shred that song.

He had little use for the entertainment industry and I know he would have winced at Carrie's short dress, make-up and jewelry.

But now he's in a place where I'm pretty sure none of that matters. So, here ya go, Dad.

And while you're at it -

I hope you dance.

PS Thank you Taylor Scribner and Jesse Mendez for help with the pictures!