Deep in the Woods of New Hampshire

My collegiate basketball team played primarily in New England.  For a girl originally from central Pennsylvania, this was a unique opportunity to travel and play in states I probably would otherwise never see.

One annual trip was deep in the mountain woodlands of New Hampshire.  What made this trip so unique was that the men and women’s teams did not stay at a Marriott, or Hilton, or any other typical hotel.  Our lodging was quite off the beaten path.  The two teams traveled together, spending hours on the black-top main highway.  We knew our destination was close when the trees hugged our team bus and the snow kissed the road. You could tell a plow rarely visited this part of the woods.  When the road got bumpy, and the trees leaned in, we sneaked a peak at a glistening lake, partially frozen, still reflecting the setting sun.  We arrived at an 19th-century bed and breakfast.  The Woodbound Inn was a fitting name, as it was embraced by snow-drenched firs and snow-capped oaks. It was an experience so unique from any other basketball trip.  Our nights were spent in paneled rooms with four-poster beds,  hand-made quilts, and clawfoot tubs.

Oh, and the food.  The dining room was masterfully crafted with intricately detailed tables and chairs. Candles flickered on each wooden table, providing a heavenly glow.  The food was right from grandma’s kitchen, with fresh-baked bread and the kind of entree that ‘sticks to your ribs’.

I remember staying up late, past our team curfew, sharing stories and creating stories, mostly ghost-related…

The funny thing is, I hardly remember the outcomes of our games played there.  What I remember the most are the times in the Inn and how we grew closer as a team deep in the woods of New Hampshire.

Proud kiddos

We woke up this morning and he was gone, already at the start line.  We looked out from our hotel room balcony and witness some horrific weather.  Despite the vicious downpour and gale warning winds, my husband still ran in his first half marathon.  The boys were so proud of “daddy racing” today.  What a great role model on dedication and commitment.

Memory-Day in March

A memory-day in March means

a heavy-hooded coat

a candy-caned striped hat

a pair of pull-on rubber rain boats

and the perfect-plowing snow shovel.

 

You need this all of course,

for a March day

at the beach.

Lawn Mower Dreams.

Bedtime is always an adventure.  Some nights, the boys escape off into dreamland without any hesitation.  Other times, and let’s be honest, most nights it is a game of tug-and-war between going to sleep and hosting the social event of the year – aka bedroom party, aka hallway party, aka I-dont-want-to-sleep-without you party.

So, many nights my husband and I juggle between baths, books, and bedtime.

Tonight, the tug-of-war leaned on our favor.  The oldest fell asleep before I had a chance to snuggle and the youngest, well the youngest stayed in bed and, well that is a win.

As I said goodnight to the youngest, I told him how much I liked to watch him sleep. You always look so snuggly, so cozy, so peaceful, I tell him.

I inquired, “Sometimes I wonder what you dream about at night.”

“I dream about lawn movers because I love lawn mowers.  And John Deeres.  I love John Deeres, too.”

And I think, mystery solved.  Thanks to lawn movers and other green tractors, my lil’ guy sleeps soundly and looks quite adorable in doing so.

So, thank you lawn mowers.

Thank you John Deere.

Thank you green-machinery everywhere.

snow books.

So lucky to have

so many books

so many stories

so many words

so many lives

so many characters

so many lessons

so many lives

so many cultures

so many views

so many ideas

that live in one place.

So grateful for our library

on a snow day

and

e

v

e

r

y

day.

Libraries are

windows

and

mirrors.

my writing plan.

this is my writing plan.

tonight i read chapter four

of how’s it going by carl anderson.

matchmaker, matchmaker

celebrates writing mentors.

he mentioned cythnia rylant’s book,

when the relatives came.

i never thought about the grapevines

and how they signaled changing time.

 

tonight i think about my five-year old’s

two front teeth. loose and wiggly.

 

perhaps i can use rylant’s craft move

perhaps i can use my son’s smile

perhaps i can use them

as a way to show changing time.

this is my writing plan.

Saving and Sharing.

Mommy, this is a dollar bill, right?

Yes, G.  It is.  Do you know who is on it?

George Washington.  He was our first president.

Yes, he was.  What are you going to do with your dollar bill?

Well, I want to save it for college.  But I want to share it with Bryson.

Oh, G, that is so thoughtful of you.  Thank you for thinking of your brother.

Yep, so where are the scissors?  I need to cut it in half.

My Little Reader.

I am so lucky to have a wondrous school library that has every book on my  ever-growing wish list.  Today,  I stopped by to pick up a few new titles to weather the forecasted snowstorm, err, I mean rain storm (tear, tear).

I stumbled upon Blizzard, by John Rocco.  We have already read it twice this evening, and my little guy couldn’t turn off the lights until he read it one.more.time.

“Mommy, don’t turn the lights off.  I have to finish my book.”

Oh, the things that make your heart warm and fuzzy.

 

Knee Patches.

It’s always the same knee

with the stretched and worn fibers.

A hole growing daily

from dragging one leg.

Driving matchbox cars and firetrucks

over the green, cityscape rug.

Patches replace the fabric

that was once there,

but the remnants of childhood

stay for the wear.

A Little Ralph.

(Keeping the first and last stanza of Ralph Fletcher’s poem, The Good Old Days.  A writing intro at a recent How’s It Going book study group.)

The Good Old Days

Sometimes I remember

the good old days,

playing outside in my acre-wooded backyard

with my younger sister and rescued dog,

both in our handmade fort

of fir tree branches and fallen leaves.

We’re fresh from playing

in the nearby stream.

Mom sends us lunch,

heart shaped sandwiches and time for a story.

I still can’t imagine

anything better than that.