Words Come to Life

Some stories come and go, and others hang around a little while longer.

Such is the case with the children's stories written by Connecticut author Mark Kimball Moulton of Sparrow Hill. Karen Hillard Good creates the magical illustrations that depict many of the unforgettable characters roaming in Moulton's head. Moulton has a way of telling a story that is entwined in wonderful rhyme and I think it is this approach that is most alluring to my three year old daughter. The tale of Scarecrow Pete is a story about a book loving scarecrow who shares his love of literature with a little boy. The boy hasn't yet discovered the power of transport through imagination that comes with the simple act of reading. But by the end of the tale, both straw friend and human boy have racked up quite an impressive reading list. We've read the story countless times over the last years, especially from early October to well into December. Last year we couldn't seem to get enough of Scarecrow Pete, so my daughter and I decided to bring Pete into the world of living creatures. I raided my closet for some old denim overalls, a cozy flannel shirt, some garden clogs, and a weather proof hat to protect his pillowcase head. Stuffed with pillows of varying sizes and a broomstick to hold it all in place, Scarecrow Pete took shape within a matter of minutes. We used craft paints and our fingers to fill in rough Sharpie black lines, and a little cross stitch flossing finalized our friend. Pete hung out on the front porch for nearly three months, and when the first snows came, just like in the story, Pete went off to have an adventure in some far off less chilly land. We enjoyed coming and going and seeing his cheery face sitting there, and we contemplated whether Pete had read the stories we were telling at bedtime. Sometimes we would crack the bedroom window just a bit so Pete could hear them too down on the front porch. We have since created Miss Fiona from Miss Fiona's Pumpkin Pies, another fabulous Moulton tale. Snowman Bob also graced the porch last winter. Moulton created Snowgirl Sue to keep Bob company and I am sure she will be paying a visit to our porch this winter. I have never met Mark Kimball Moulton, though I am sure that in some ways we live in some sort of parallel universe from Connecticut to here in Ohio. We enjoy living in very similar environments, and I was stunned to recently find out that he too is a great fan of Tasha Tudor. I think both capture the essence of childhood and tell their tales in ways that even very small children can relate. Never let it be said that a book is just a book, or words just words. Sometimes they find a way into our hearts that beg for transformation. For our family, Scarecrow Pete, Miss Fiona, and Snowman Bob have become part of our family. Their seat is always saved on the front porch anytime they wish to visit.

A Holiday Jumpstart

If the season's first pumpkin pies come out of the oven before Halloween, I know I'm in trouble.

This season I must be in real trouble because they came out almost a week early. The afternoon I get the bug to make pumpkin pies is officially the day I have ushered in the upcoming Holiday Season. What triggers it is sometimes difficult to detect, but it is usually a combination of cooler weather and some external marketing ploy. Cool weather in combination with a rainy grey day is certain pumpkin pie making stimulus, but there are others. A visit to the Fresh Market when the Fall displays are up will get me every time, as will the timely arrival of the November issues of a few magazines. It seems a different periodical is the culprit every year and this year it was La Vie Claire. A pumpkin pie was just mentioned to have genuine Vermont maple syrup and it sent me running for The Mystic Pie Company website. It turned out to be the very best pumpkin pie I have ever made, and I have made a lot of pumpkin pies. The one periodical I read religiously is British Country Living- thank God it is meant for a European audience and the American custom of Thanksgiving is luckily not observed in the English Isles. This one would most definitely be the one to send me into a mania. The fact that British Country Living's arrival is a month late here, however, would be beneficial. Needless to say, when the Holiday Fever hits me, it hits hard, and more so now that we live at Hawks Run. It is not so much our property that is conducive to the holidays, but the entire southern region of Ohio known as the Ohio River Valley. This is a region of incredibly good cooks who have at their hands an incredibly great array of locally produced foods. Some years it is recipes for sweet potato dishes that I particularly find worthy, others it is recipes for stuffing, and still others might be variations on fall themed desserts. All I know is that when that first pumpkin pie comes out of the oven my culinary senses go into overdrive and I can't get enough of everything holiday. Halloween was barely a week ago and we have already accomplished the first banana bread, chocolate cookies, autumn cupcakes, corned beef casserole, taffy apples, and of course, the pies. The corned beef casserole is a maternal family tradition on that first cold day of Fall. This year it was enhanced with Portobello mushrooms and Italian cheeses instead of the usual plain buttons and cheddar. It was amazingly tasty. We varied the taffy apples this season as well using only the largest Honey crisps we could find. I thought for sure that I was going to need to see a dentist after that indulgence. Today was Autumn cupcakes in honor of my husband's birthday. These are a sinful concoction of rich butter cream fudge batter and cream cheese icing. The icing is dyed yellow, orange, and red then dolloped out in three drops on the cupcake top. My daughter delights in making the three colors swirl together to mimic Fall leaves. We have at least eight weeks to go in this Holiday Season and I think it is going to be a busy one for our oven. It may also require a daily extended hike outdoors in order to work off all the extra calories. Well worth it!

The Invasion

If it is true that a Ladybird in your house is a sign of good luck, then I am the luckiest person in the world.


"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.

Your house is on fire and your children are gone.

All except one, and that's Little Anne.

For she has crept under the warming pan."

Each Fall we are invaded by all manner of flying things. Some delightful and benign like the Ladybird, some pesky like the household fly, and some downright aggravating like wasps. Each afternoon I must tour the house trying in vain to rid us of the pesky and aggravating to no avail. They simply keep coming in day after day. But the Ladybird is welcome, and they come and overwinter inside the house in large numbers. They venture in from the south side of the house and find a cozy spot sunbathing on the window panes, or nestle in the folds of the linen curtains. Part of the genus Coccinella, Ladybirds come in all shades of yellow, orange, and red. There are almost as many polka dot combinations as there are Ladybirds in our house. Some 450 different species exist here in North America alone and they are one of the superheros of the insect world. Eating all types of aphids, scale insects, mealy bugs, and mites they are a definite good source of luck in the garden. Their bright colors are part of a phenomenon called aposematism wherein predators are reluctant to eat them because of prior association with color pattern and dangerous toxins. While I don't think this phenomenon was made part of their DNA makeup to ward off felines, the cats in our house leave them alone. When Spring arrives and the Ladybirds venture forth outdoors and into the gardens I miss stumbling upon their bright shells. When beloved artist Charley Harper passed away last summer, we added one of his wonderful Ladybird pictures to our collection of Harper prints that line our stairwell leading to the upper floors. So when I miss the Ladybirds I look at Charley's picture- and when I see the Ladybirds, I think of Charley. Both add immeasurable color and joy to our world.

The Best Week Ever

On September 15 the power went out.

And stayed out.

The children and I had been in Columbus for the third annual Country Living Fair and Sunday was predicted to get nasty weather wise. We enjoyed two blissful days of artisans and smiling faces and made it home late Saturday afternoon. By Sunday afternoon the winds had really begun to gather momentum. When I saw the tall Locusts out front begin to look more horizontal than vertical, the kids and I retreated to the basement. My husband was trying desperately to finish up an entry way in an old home in Indian Hill that was being photographed for a holiday issue of a large retailer. He arrived home as the power went out. We're used to power outages here as they happen all the time. Car accidents on these lonely roads are usually to blame, and storms do their fair share. But when we emerged from our hermit hole we knew this time was going to be different. Our beautiful Bradford Pear tree was split in two and had just missed the house. I had just reminisced the day before how I couldn't wait to see that tree in flower again next year. It had been a breathtaking sight. I was grateful we still had one other that had been left intact. The Locusts in front had weathered pretty well, a testament to their flexibility. Only two had snapped in half. The greatest damage had been to our vehicle when walnut fruits were flying through the air at an estimated 70 miles per hour. My guess is that next spring walnut trees will venture forth where no walnut has gone before. We were beginning to hear estimates that the power would be out until at least Thursday or Friday which was five days away. I dutifully grumbled but on the inside I was blissful. No television, computer, or phone ringing. I envisioned candlelit nights telling stories to the children, cooking meals over the open fire in the fireplace, and bathing outdoors in the sunlight. That is exactly what happened over the next five days and it was wonderful. Venturing out to the store was interesting as I noticed we were one of the only families not upset by this lack of electricity. My husband jokingly said one afternoon, "Should we just call up the electric company and tell them to take a hike?" I laughed and secretly wished we could do just that. All of a sudden my days were longer. I was no longer running around trying to fit 28 hours worth of work into a 24 hour day. I was genuinely sad when the power kicked back on Thursday afternoon. I also realized without a doubt that this week would go down as one of the best of the summer of 2008 in our family memories. The power has gone out twice since then and each time a thrill goes through me. Then it returns all too quickly. Maybe I will make that call to the electric company...

Another Lion Sighting

The lion was sighted once again a few weeks ago by another neighbor. This time the sighting was up close and for a good length of time. Though he could not get his camera to work in time to catch a photo, paw prints were left and are apparently huge. We are working to see if we can get a plaster cast of the print. With all of these various sightings by so many different people, I feel it is safe to say that there is a lion in our midst. Hopefully he remains an infrequent visitor and skillful hider as I would hate to see fear get the best of people.

Patches in Nature

It's funny how when you are a small child, even the smallest patch of nature can seem like a huge wilderness.

Growing up in Northwest Indiana provided me with access to abundant natural places. The Lakeshore Dunes and Deep River were two of my favorite places to roam, but the places closest to my heart were right in my own neighborhood. We grew up five kids in four families who were never separated for very long. From sunup to sundown we stayed outside. Even thirty years ago, a parent didn't have to worry if no hide nor hair came into the house for six to eight hours at a time. We took care of each other, us kids, and didn't comprehend that someday parents like ourselves would fret over the dangers lurking in society. We were free. At the curve of our circular block was the most tollerant neighbor in the world. It helped that it was an aunt and uncle of one of us kids, but honestly, I don't think it would have made a difference either way. There was a pond surrounded by trees with a footpath to the main road, a series of fields separated by woods, a small land footbridge over a creek, and loads of explorable corners. When I was a child, these areas seemed so vast. Looking back on this patch of nature as an adult I realize how small it really was. In Spring the little creek would run with snowmelt and the bridge was our favorite spot to look for tadpoles and turtles. In Summer, it was the buttercups shining yellow in the fields. The heady scent of mulberries lured us in with buckets that saw far fewer berries than the numbers which went directly into our mouths. Fingers remained stained for days. In Fall, colored leaves crunched underfoot as we came and went from school, always making sure we went the route of our beloved fields and woods. The Aunt and Uncle's black dog kept a daily vigil waiting for us to come through, as it guaranteed a few pats on the head and occaisonally a leftover lunch. In Winter, the pond lay frozen for ice skating and a hill built for sledding saw constant action. Snow days when school was called off were days of great celebration. When I think about my children growing up here at Hawks Run, I can't help but think that, to them, this patch of nature will seem like the entire universe. The wildlife here is so much more abundant and the acres of wild places are hundreds of times larger than my special place. But oddly enough, it is the little patches that my three year old and her friends seek out now, even with so much wild surrounding their world. A fifty foot path through a small thicket of trees becomes their hiking trail, and puddles are much more alluring than large lakes. Perhaps there is a valuable lesson here for parents. It really does not matter where we live. Children find their wild places in small patches of nature. They get to know these places intimately through the seasons. I smile as I see the picture of the girls above. Through thirty years, and four states, my childhood friend snaps a photo of our girls doing just what we did in our little place. Running, laughing, smelling, seeing, picking things up and putting them back. Nature is the universal play friend, and most likely, the best teacher.

Where Hawks Run

"You should take a walk and go see the place down the lane," my husband said.

It was my first visit to Ohio to meet my husband's family. It was a few years before we were married and it was a bitter cold December day. Having lived in Florida for five years I was up for anything involving cold. While he had something to attend to, I bundled up and set off across the fields towards the lane. All along the west side of the lane are trees, shrubbery at first but this soon gives way to dense wooded ravine. The view down the mile long dirt and gravel lane is thus somewhat concealed until you reach a point half way down. At the point half way down and looking East the view is of three large lakes scattered about the setting. Everything is much more visible in winter when the leaves have fallen to the ground. A small creek begins at this midpoint running from the East to West, travels under the lane, and spills into Hall's Creek some miles away. Coming up the small hill from the wooded ravine revealed yet another lake to my west side and a huge old barn directly ahead. From this vantage point, the road appeared to run straight through the huge barn doors and out the back. Two more lanes branched out from this main road, the one to the East towards a smaller barn and the one to the West to a pretty home way off in the distance. As I neared the big old barn I could see just part of a weathered structure off to the West but it was clouded in a sea of evergreens. To the northeast of that was a large group of tall willowy Locust trees. I pondered the grouping of evergreens and realized that what I was seeing were years and years of Christmas trees that had been planted out. Their varying heights and species gave little doubt. As soon as I passed the greenery, the house came into view. It sat just opposite the barn across the lane which I could now see jogged around the barn and continued North. Yet another lane jetted back out to the East. I didn't get that far on this walk because the house had my full attention. A three story saltbox with eight over eight windows and the silvery hue of wood only time can create sat nestled in a grove of trees. From the main road, there was no way that you would ever know it even existed. It looked well cared for but had that mysterious aura about it that said that it was unoccupied much of the time. From this moment forward I began a love affair with the saltbox. The setting of this one was incredible as vast views stretched from both the front and rear of the structure. Never in a million years would I have believed that day that in eight years time this setting is the place I would call home. I will never forget the first visit back to the property in November 2005 right after we had signed all the papers. My husband and I were driving away from the house to the airport so that we could return to Florida as we were not yet able to move back to the Midwest. My heart was heavy and I didn't want to leave the place. I had learned that his Grandpa Ray's first house had stood right to the north of our house and that my father-in-law had been born there. At that time the farm was one hundred acres and not much else except the old farmhouse and barn stood on the land. Our eleven acres now comprised a long tract, five to the East of the lane and six to the West. Our land was surrounded by forest on all sides. From the air, our eleven acres looked almost like a landing strip with clear views into the tall grasses. My husband was saying something about carving a sign for the end of the lane. I had noticed that people in these parts had a habit of naming their land. "What would you want to call it?" I asked him. He turned to me and simply said, "What it's always been called- Hawk's Run." My surprised look prodded him to explain. Grandpa Ray had named this land decades ago and the name had stayed with it. Our tract having been the site of the original house meant that the name was designated for our parcel. A warm feeling came over me and I wondered at the chosen name. Were there nesting hawks here? There was certainly enough forest and water to support them. The layout of our land also gave the hawks a superb hunting range. My visit back in the summer of the following year did not disappoint. I heard the call from the open kitchen window and my husband ran for the camera. The hawk sat less than twenty feet from the house in a low branch. He was majestic and he was not alone. On any given day if one takes the time to gaze upward into the air currents the hawks are there circling the fields looking for their next meal. Those days when you feel like you are being watched, you most likely are. The hawk's eyes are piercing and they watch us just like we watch them. This is their home. This is where Hawks Run.