Hazelnut's blog

The day was crisp, as autumn should be, yet a hint of spring permeated the atmosphere as the odd trio sauntered down the winding driveway.  The girl, clearly the leader, appeared tall for being only fourteen years old.  Dusty black crocs smacked the cracked pavement on her equally dirty feet.  Her red fleece jacket, too large for her flimsy frame, clung desperately to her shoulders as the rest billowed out behind her pointy elbows.  The playful breeze hurled her hair into her blue eyes and laughed as she carelessly attempted to restore order to it.  She looked almost comical – a scarecrow against a backdrop of the breathtaking Adirondacks.  Yet somehow, she belonged.

Her furry companions vied with the wind for supremacy as the breeze once more tickled their erect ears.  Determined to catch the source of their teasing, the thin white legs sprung into action as their tormentor danced away.  Defying gravity, the stocky lambs soared through the air after their cowardly adversary.  They landed with a flourish and returned to trot alongside their lanky friend.  Little black hooves scurried to keep time with big black shoes.  Before they could fully regain their breath, the invisible foe again whispered a taunt in their ears and once more they cavorted away. Read more »

Night clung to the blue hills, refusing to relinquish its hold to dawn quite yet.  The sun yawned as it parted the bickering hours and settled the disagreement by allowing its first rays to permeate the darkness.  A cold frost coated the brown lawn barely tinged with a slight glow of green, hope of the spring and summer to come.  The birds napped in their cozy nests and I in mine.

Beep, beep, beep. My alarm clock lit up – 5:00am.  I pulled my warm blankets over my head and snuggled back in.  Ten minutes later, my sister shook me back to reality.  Stumbling over a pile of schoolbooks, I fumbled for my clothes.  I slipped down the stairs, trying to shake the cobwebs from my dozing brain.  As my feet hit the cold tile floor, the sleepiness finally dissipated.  Mechanically, I mixed together a warm bottle of milk replacer for the lamb we were supplementing.  Bottle in hand and big sister at my side, we slipped on our barn boots and heavy coats before stepping out into the frigid morning air.  Squinting through puffy eyes, I trudged across the driveway to the elderly fifteen-passenger van.  The handle caught but released after a strong tug reminded it of its purpose. 

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Hey little birdie sitting in a tree

What’s that secret you’re whispering to me?

“Spring is in the air

There are lambs everywhere

The grass is awakening from winter’s deep sleep

And the chicks will soon begin to peep”

Thanks little birdie

For being so wordy

But the snow’s still knee deep

And the sheep still must leap

I feel it must melt

And leave its brown welt

But spring seems ever so far away

Winter will receive her rightful pay

But oh little birdie sitting in a tree

I do like that secret you’re whispering to me

It’s time to face the music. I have two faces. Or rather, two people behind one face. Yes, like Gollum and Sméagol, one the twisted figure of the other. That’s more like it. I can’t get rid of my Gollum. I think I’ll name him Bert. Yes, that has a nice ring to it. If he’s going to stick around, I might as well name him.  It’s nice to have a friend, someone to talk to. But I’m afraid Bert isn’t really my friend, more of a forced company. Like when your mother decides you have to be friends with someone, even if you have nothing in common and don’t like each other. Yeah, kind of like that. Except my mom doesn’t like Bert either. She’d sooner he left. In fact, no one likes Bert. Bert’s not very nice. He says the wrong thing at the right time and the right thing at the wrong thing. He drives me in circles, like I’ve lost my mind. He clings to my arm, pulling me back to him. I try to break free but he trips me. I try to run away but you can’t out run facts -  you can’t out run yourself. And that’s what he is. Bert is part of me. I am Bert. But I can still beat Bert. I can still quiet his tempting little voice. Duct tape fixes everything…right?

Take my hand

Together we’ll grow

Up and up

Through the snow

Heralds of hope

Heralds of spring

Oh won’t you come and dance with me?

We’re not alone

The battle is on

We’re singing a song

As we’re marching along

Victory is here

Victory is ours

Oh won’t you come and dance with me?

Here we go

One step at a time

Faster and faster

Each and every time

The top is nearing

The top is in sight

Oh won’t you come and dance with me?

Take my hand

Together we’ll grow

Up and up

Through the snow

Heralds of hope

Heralds of spring

Oh won’t you come and dance with me?

We’re not alone

The battle is on

We’re singing a song

As we’re marching along

Victory is here

Victory is ours

Oh won’t you come and dance with me?

Here we go

One step at a time

Faster and faster

Each and every time

The top is nearing

The top is in sight

Oh won’t you come and dance with me?

The air turns crisp,

Whispering sputtered secrets in my ear;

The leaves turn to gold,

Rustling notes of a somber tune;

The clouds brood,

As careless raindrops play;

Geese hurry on their way,

As Jack Frost waits,

And winter lurks;

Yet sunbeams dance;

‘Cross window panes;

Trees keep time,

With dignity;

Open your ears,

And open your eyes,

For Fall is alive.

Twisted twines

And ivy vines

Lean together

Almost touch

Then break away

In fear of much

Back and forth

A dance they weave

Over and under

Into and unto

Hither and thither

Thrive and wither

Clinging climbs

On they go

They must defeat

They cannot slow

Battle on

No sword in hand

Merely roots to grab

And earth to land

Should they fall

To their death

A tragedy

To detest

I will dance in the rain

I will run under the sun

I will jump over the moon

I will laugh through the tears

I will smile past the pain

I will sing into the silence

I will defy the dark

I will love the light

I will find the dawn

I will trust Your Hand

I will heed Your Word

I will will Your Will

So watch me dance

Hear my laugh

See me dare to defy

Let me trust

In You

I will.

Clocks Edited 2.mp3

The last screw in place, He tenderly shuts the door. A final twist to the knob on the back brings the gears to life.  Pride etched on every feature, He gently passes the tiny clock to waiting hands, eager to display it in their home.  Fragile and fresh, the little arms tick, telling the time on its shining face.  The clock strikes one, a sweet note.  A little scratch adorns the back, but none can see the fault, hidden behind the golden face.  Life goes on as the clock strikes two, still the pride of its caretaker’s eye.  A smile creases every face while it boldly chimes out three - still young, still strong.  Four ticks by, followed closely by five. Now, as it sings out six, trembling hands remove it from the mantle, torn by the parting soon to come.  As seven echoes through the halls, it greets a new caretaker. Surviving the bumps and bruises of the transplant, it is soon found comfortable on a new mantle chiming eight.  Nine watches fresh faces join the room. Ten brings trials, soon left behind but not forgotten. Eleven seems to run away, while noon drags on and on.  Now one comes again, an echo of younger days. Chipped paint reminds all that its youth is past. Two creeps by.  Three comes far too soon.  Four brings company to the growing room.  As the wind blows, five sneaks by, unheeded. Careful eyes note gold now grayed when the hands skip six and rush to seven. Eight reflects memories in the polished face.  By nine, they begin to fade, leaving only scars behind. Now the speeding hand slows. But the steady rhythm beats on, Read more »

            I want to write, but the words won’t come. They’re tangled up in my brain. That could take a while to unwind. Too much trouble I suppose. Perhaps the weekend, when I have more time? But I’m wandering. Where was I? Oh yes, I want to write. I want to tell the world exactly how I feel. But the words just tripped and fell. I think I’ve lost them again. I wish they weren’t so clumsy. Or maybe it’s me. You never know. This paper is taunting me. Teasing me. It wants the words. It wants the cover. It’s shivering. Maybe it should get a coat. At least that’s what they tell me. But aren’t coats just an admission that you’re cold? Won’t that encourage the weather to torture us more? But I’m wandering again. Back to the point. What was the point? Ah, yes, I want to write. I want to fly through other worlds. On my pen. Which just broke, blotting out my words. Those silly words. Just out of reach. Oh well. Perhaps I should take a broom.

When she laughs, the robin carries on the tune.  Barefoot, she dances through farmer’s fields and children’s yards, coaxing color into barren ground.  A little whistle heralds forth a new generation on wobbling legs.  Her arrival has no date and she takes her leave as she pleases.  So frail and slight, it seems the smallest foul breath might blow her away.  Yet her grip is strong and her merry laugh drives all adversaries away. As she hands off her baton, it slips from delicate fingers to rougher.

Trouble glints in his golden eyes.  Tousled hair all a mess, he swings in trees and runs on land.  A daisy chain rests, crooked, atop his bobbing head and mud streaks his brown cheeks.  A makeshift bow slung over his shoulder, he wanders, carefree, through wildernesses unexplored. He calls the thunder by name and mocks its boastful roars. His cocky grin is ingrained on every cloud.  All too soon, he’s chased away by whispers of colder days.

Twisted maple cane in hand, in he creeps.  Seasoned and reserved, he brings his own charm, irresistible in its own way.  The trees, emulating his hairless plight, give up their leaves, their only cloak. He paints the landscape with red and gold with an experienced and confident eye. He holds hands with nervous children, waiting for the bus on the first day of school.  Admired while he remains, he is missed when he once again picks up his cane and hobbles to the back of minds and memories.

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By most standards, I’m a little odd.  Ok, more than a little.  I mean really, what kid spends her January fidgeting, waiting for the first lanky  lamb to make its grand entrance?  What kid spends her February shivering in a barn, waiting for that small lamb that probably won’t figure out how to nurse before her fingers turn blue?  What kid spends her March, still waiting for the last few stragglers to lamb, with a warm lamb curled up on her lap?  What kid spends her April taming the bouncing babes, teaching them the wonders of a human hand? What kid spends her May introducing a halter to her little friends?  What kid spends her June barefoot in a field, patiently creeping up on the lamb that is always a handbreadth out of reach?  What kid spends her July buried under a stack of papers and numbers, hoping she hasn’t missed any?  What kid spends her August in a camper, surrounded by her best friends and a couple hundred sheep?  What kid spends her September reliving August?  What kid spends her October sorting breeding groups for the tenth time in a week? What kid spends her November saying goodbye to last year’s babies and looking forward to the next?  What kid spends her December longing for January?  I do.  And you know what, I’m ok with odd. 

At the time of the picture, Cleo was three weeks old. She and her brother Alfonso are bottle lambs that I am raising. They were "oops" lambs that I got from a friend when their mother didn't have milk. They love going for walks down our 1/4 mile road to check the mail. It is great fun to watch the "lamb races" and their happy bounces. We turn a lot of heads when people realize those aren't dogs...

If only time could be rewound,

I would erase that chapter.

If only I hadn’t walked into that room,

I could have pleaded ignorance.

If only I hadn’t picked up the phone,

I always say the dumbest things.

If only I hadn’t waited up,

I should have gone to bed.

If only she hadn’t pointed fingers,

Daggers in my aching heart.

If only she hadn’t held on to it,

I could have forgotten gladly.

If only she hadn’t dragged my family in,

I could have forgiven gladly.

If only she hadn’t dragged her family in,

I could have kept a friend.

If onlys can’t rewind time,

But if only they could.

Fiery dancers

Twist and turn

Weave in

Weave out

To the wind’s melody

First slow

Then fast

Then silence

A pause

A breath

The dance begins afresh

Careful steps

Careless steps

Who will fall?

The wind decides,

They will all

A quiver

A shiver

Down one goes

To be at rest

Never to rise

A little sigh

In the air

They each await

Their turn

But still they dance

For a chance

To be the last

To go

To see a seasoned gentleman, clothed in a suit long outdated by ever changing fashions, shuffling through the tree-filled park and eyeing the frost-coated ground with distrust, one might fancy him a leaf in fall, clinging to a branch, in garb long laid aside for the season, contemplating what might happen should he ever let go.