THE EVERGREEN ON THE HILL

 

A series of essays….

THE NORTHERN RED CARDINAL APPEARS 
AS THE SNOW FLIES AROUND US…

Photo courtesy of acoustimac.com

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

                                                                    

My memories of spending weekends, summers, and holidays on my grandparent’s farm in northern Indiana was the inspiration for my poem, The Evergreen on the Hill. What a lucky kid I was getting to collect fresh eggs in a basket with grandma, ride with grandpa on his green John Deere as he harvested the acres of planted corn, and build snow forts up on the hill with brothers and cousins and top it all off with lengthy snowball fights. Magical!

Grandma would ask us kids to venture into the fenced-in apple orchard to collect fruit to be baked into a pie for our dessert that evening. Being kids, all around the age of ten and younger, we were always up for this interesting challenge. You see, grandpa kept his prize rams in the apple orchard to feed off fallen fruit and be contained and controlled for most of the year. 

The orchard covered several acres and, for the most part, the rams would ignore us and we were able to collect our fruit and haul the baskets back to grandma with visions of giant slabs of apple pie dancing in our heads. Upon one occasion, however, I remember having to scratch my way up a tree in order to avoid a solid charge by a very angry looking ram. The exhilaration was unforgettable. I will say that the slice of grandma’s pie tasted even better that particular evening.

Summertime on the farm conjures up images of working with the farm animals, getting used to the smells that went along with them, harvesting the garden vegetables that grandma would turn into hearty soups and side dishes, and running through the giant stalks of corn at the end of July back when corn was planted a greater distance apart. Today, this would be impossible due to the higher yield expected from each acre of corn and there’s barely inches between stalks.

The story-and-a-half, clapboard farmhouse was painted white and wore black wooden shutters at each window like exotic jewelry framing each mullioned glass face staring back at us. I loved that house. It sat up on a small hill and was completely surrounded by the narrow, gravel drive that was an extension of the two-track lane that outlined the front corn field to one side and the apple orchard on the other side as we turned off from the paved country road on our long drive back to the house.

In the summer the hill served as our very own mountain. All of us kids would roll down it, gathering grass stains on our clothing along the way, until we came to a stop at the gravel drive, climb the mountain, and repeat the thrill once again. In the winter, dressed like Michelin figures, we’d roll the snow into giant balls of various sizes after a heavy snowfall and create our snowman army that would protect our snow fort when we were inside the warm, cozy farmhouse. Stretching high above all of our activity was the trusty evergreen tree standing so proud next to the house and visible from the living room windows.

Here is my tribute to our evergreen soldier standing tall and proud high above us no matter which month, holiday, birthday celebration, or reason we employed to gather beneath her:

                                                    The Evergreen on the Hill

                                                                           Over

                                                                          barren 

                                                                     winter fields

                                                            snow billows and dances.

                                                                        Swirling

                                                               across the gravel lane

                                                      the wind embraces the clapboard 

                                                                      farmhouse:

                                                               black shutters shiver, 

                                                             overhead wires     sway.

                                                    And I see     when  standing on the hill

                                                      beside the majestic evergreen tree

                                  a single cardinal     seeking refuge     from the biting wind.

                             His snow laden perch     vibrates as he     gently shifts his feathered

                                          weight     and sprinkles      the world     In white.

                                                   A single pinecone     photobombs

                                          my crimson friend     offering a new layer to an

                                already perfect scene.     Often, as greenery and the exotic

                           colors of nature fade,     the red cardinal     appears     as the snow

                      flies around us     serving as another     reminder     of its power     of life    

                                                             and the winter season.

                                                                    The Beginning

                                                                    The Beginning

                                                                    The Beginning

             A poem by Jacqueline Hughes, 12/04/‘23

The Christmas Holidays were always my favorite time of year on the farm. There was so much going on at any given moment. Grandma would have the fresh-cut tree, sequestered for years somewhere on the property and chosen first-hand by grandpa to cut down, decorated with what seemed like a thousand colorful baubles collected and gifted throughout the years. The red velvet tree skirt stretched out under the pine landscape but was mostly hidden under beribboned packages she’d been wrapping for weeks. 

The generous aroma of freshly baked cookies, cakes, and golden pies sent our tastebuds into a frenzy of delight with the anticipation of a large ham, stuffed turkey, and roasted chicken yet to come. My mom and aunts were always there to help slice, dice, and mash but always under the close scrutiny of grandma. It was her kitchen and she never let any of us forget it. 

Being a grown-up now for the past many, many years, I take genuine delight in knowing that I’ve incorporated most of these fond memories into my own lifestyle, with my own family. Their dad and I have always taught our girls to be curious, question everything if it helps you to understand something better, and then blend it (or not) into your own life. Be free like the wind! Walk between the cornstalks and get lost—there’s always a way out if you look hard enough. 

Taste the food first before deciding if you like it or not. Walk and play in the giant puddles while the rain pats you on the head and saturates your clothes on a warm summer afternoon. Smile and laugh as often as possible. Build snow forts with your children under the watchful eyes of snowmen. Observe the  cardinal seeking refuge in the majestic evergreen tree and be reminded of its power, of life, and the winter season in our lives we have yet to experience, but know we must—one day.

A very Merry Christmas to all of you! And, may the New Year find you more curious than ever before!

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

A NOSTALGIC GLIMPSE OF MEADOWLARK LEMON

 

A series of essays….

LIVING IN A BLUE HOUSE SHOULD MAKE YOU FEEL HAPPY!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Many years ago in a land far, far away (actually, it was Chicago) enough magazines and holy trinkets were sold (not intended to be sacrilegious) to offer me the opportunity to attend Sodality and stay at the Conrad Hilton Hotel for four nights and five days. That’s the year I fell madly in love with the Windy City and vowed I would live and work there one day.

The time was the early sixties and we had recently slid out of the Beatnik era, known as the Beat Generation, with its slouchy, dark clothes, open mic poetry reading, and finger snapping.The American youth was gathering social momentum as drugs, free love, and rock & roll (not to mention bell bottoms and the peace symbol) were becoming synonymous as influences and choices for us to take or leave. But the early sixties were kinder, less radical than this, and the Roman Catholic Church was attempting to guide our innocent souls into a world of fellowship, fraternity, and comradeship. 

Sodality was meant to bring us together through its many classes and social gatherings and allow us to discuss the Church and our feelings regarding its teachings and beliefs. Kids from all over the Midwest gathered there and, looking back, it was definitely a coming of age moment in our young lives. I always felt the mindset of the priests and nuns who were responsible for its production were part of a grand recruiting program for potential priests and nuns.

The music of the time captured our attention; we were all still so young and naive. The Beatles had yet to cross the pond to America and songs like Michael Row The Boat Ashore performed by The Highwaymen, If I had a Hammer (The Hammer Song) and Turn, Turn, Turn (To Everything There Is a Season) both by Pete Seeger, and Judy Collins singing Both Sides Now topped the Best of the Hootenanny charts.

So many kids brought their acoustic guitars to Sodality and the hotel provided perfect carpeted alcoves on each floor near the elevators where we’d sit lotus-style, in a circle, while singing in harmony, for the most part, for hours. For me, this was the true meaning of Sodality; we were like-minded teens who would soon be approaching the backlash of the Vietnam War but, for now, were blending together through the hopefulness of song and camaraderie.

One evening, around twenty of us were deep in song when the elevators opened and out walked eight smiling, gentle giants; very tall men donning short, silken jackets emblazoned with gold stars and red and white stripes on a sea of blue. Towering above, like bright stars in the galaxy, they stopped long enough to sing with us and just long enough for us to read the names of Curly Neal and Goose Tatum. The largest smile was owned by Meadowlark Lemon and time stood still as the Harlem Globetrotters absorbed all of the energy our little gathering had to offer.

MEADOWLARK LEMON

                                        Courtesy of Fort Worth Business

Poof! Just like that — they were gone! Flowing down a river of beige carpet, they were lost in the curvature of the meandering corridor while, quietly, tossing a basketball back and forth…stifled giggles lingering in their wake.

All of the memories of this time as a young girl absorbing the wonders of a big city I loved while experiencing life with eyes wide open and on my own terms —  leave me breathless to this day. So, when a friend invited me to her Blue House Poetry and Music gathering, which she decidedly coined “Salon meets Hootenanny”style get together for poets and musicians and their friends and families, I asked Dan if he’d like to join me for the evening.

Arriving at Nancy and Robin’s Blue House, a handsome turn-of-the-century Victorian, well loved and beautifully maintained, I discovered friends not seen for awhile. Dan and I were introduced to Nancy’s family, two charming daughters, Sarah and Emily, and husband, Robin. They were so genteel and accommodating with an abundance of humor all rolled into a complete package that exuded their love and respect for one another.

Nancy’s gardens rivaled many I’ve seen, private and professional, with small  pockets of serenity defined by aging picket fences and studded with comfortable benches nestled among the masses of colorful flowers and grasses. Around the perimeter of the property, mature trees and one ancient catalpa tree in the front yard stand tall and glorious as if protecting the Blue House and her inhabitants. Like my memory of the Harlem Globetrotters that evening in Chicago, these gentle giants offer protection and mark time while observing little girls playing hide-&-seek, young men coming to the front door to pick-up their dates, and young ladies packing their belongings in the car and heading off into their future.

Nancy and I are members of Voices On the Margin, a Kalamazoo poetry group who honors all poets by selecting a poet each month to learn about their background and study their published works. Ultimately, we write our own poems based on the poet’s particular style and use of techniques. We’ve studied poet laureates, poets we have not heard about beforehand, and many Michigan poets who have made their mark in the ever growing and popular genre of poetry. We believe that poetry should move us. Poetry should change us. Poetry should make us see the world in a new and totally original way.

NANCY’S SMILE:
BRILLIANT & SINCERE

Nancy taught poetry within the Portage Public School System in Michigan and has recently retired from Portage Northern High School. She devotes her time between family and continuing her quest to enlighten others drawing from the deep well of her many years of accumulated knowledge. Robin has taught music for many years and has been involved in theater and theater production. Sarah and Emily are artists, musicians, and educators, as well. It was so easy to fall in love with The Incredible and Talented Nott Family.

So, eating amazing food while seated on the pool deck, Robin is creating a huge fire in the stone pit located behind the pool shed. The Hootenanny vibes begin to grow stronger as we all bring our chairs and begin to form a large circle around the blazing fire. Musicians bring out their acoustic guitars, a cello, and handmade wooden flutes. Many vocalists, including Robin and Emily, provide a singalong atmosphere while playing guitar and encouraging everyone to sing along to familiar lyrics. The “Salon meets Hootenanny” theme thrives within a circle of talented people swaying back and forth to the gentle rhythms of timeless music and gentle voices reading and sharing their original poems. One by one — and the circle is complete.

CATCHING THE SUNSET BETWEEN
POETRY READINGS AND SONGS

With the stars lending their concentrated illumination above, rejoicing in the lack of pesky mosquitoes, and savoring the anticipation of driving home and discussing the evening, we felt like kids, once again. We existed, if only for a few hours, within a time warp, caught between our youth and the many memories acquired in one’s lifetime. In true Mitch Miller style, we followed the bouncing ball, read our poetry, sang, and played to or heart’s content; all within the joy and bliss of friendship.

Nancy, Robin, Sarah, and Emily have given credence to the idea that within the shadow of the giant catalpa tree coupled by the engaging smile of Meadowlark Lemon beaming down from the heavens, peace and tranquillity can be found on a beautiful July evening surrounded by family and friends.

Moving On…2013 - 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

LITTLE MIRACLES

 

A series of essays….

STORIES CONNECT US WITH OUR PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Stories are like miracles.

When you write a story, or a poem,

it’s like putting a message in a bottle

and throwing it into the ocean,

or throwing a life raft out to someone

you might never meet.  

You don’t know if your words will be read,

but when they travel into the heart of the right person,

at the right moment in time –  

that’s the miracle.   —Laura Lentz

Beautiful… Yes, it’s exactly like that. 

Each one of us is filled with collections of stories or poems to tell, recite, write down, and share with others. Each story is a small miracle caught in time and space with its own purpose to fulfill while rendering a personal journey into a vast world presented to us as the ultimate gift to ourselves; a breath of fresh ideas consciously created, honed in on, and then handed out to others to be shared, compared, and analyzed. And, for good reason.

Humans, although connected in mind and spirit in one way or another, are still prone to underestimate these little miracles gifted to us by others. How often do we finish reading a good book, note to self that we liked it very much, but then wait for something, anything, to trigger its memory enough to discuss it with others? The story becomes the message in a bottle thrown out to sea. Secretly hoping that it is found, read, and appreciated by someone else as time goes by. 

This is why books, poems, short stories (little miracles), can become the life raft thrown out to someone we might never meet. If we are fortunate enough to be able to write our own stories and have them connect with others who, at any particular moment, needed them as they touched their heart or led them in a stable, positive direction in life…our job becomes apparent even if we haven’t a clue about what just happened. 

Perhaps our stories remind someone of their own childhood. Good memories, long forgotten, become refreshed and nearly tangible, once again. That’s a small miracle. Or, wanting to know more details about our people, places, and times that helped shape our own lives might be found in listening to stories of our elders; those only too happy to pass these stories down to a generation who is willing to listen. What a great miracle of life this would be for everyone. Poetry is a form of storytelling that bleeds from the storyteller’s heart. It is meant to open up a new way of thinking that washes over us and fills our being until nothing but truth courses through our veins like the indispensable lifeblood giving us strength and vitality to carry-on. This can be a life changing miracle; a poet’s gift to others.

The author, poet, life coach, and educator, Laura Lentz, strikes a chord in all of us when she attributes storytelling to being miracles. Like Cupid’s arrow that may or may not hit its mark, with all good intentions applied, even if we don’t know if our words will ever be read, “…when they travel into the heart of the right person, at the right moment in time - that’s the miracle.”

This is the encouragement required to keep people writing the stories; composing their poetry. Should they happen to strike home and earn a place in your heart, always be grateful for these little miracles. Learn all you can from them. Pass them along to others. Even though they may never know it, you will be making storytellers all over the world happy about what they do. Writers keep writing and readers, enjoy and continue to read!!

Copyright © 2023 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

A series of essays....

ACKNOWLEDGING THE SPIRIT, GRACE AND BEAUTY OF THE CARDINAL

....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

I am sitting in my favorite spot watching the light slowly peek through and begin to illuminate the world outside the windows. Such a slow process it is this time of year. The new light drags its feet as if it doesn’t care if it makes an appearance this morning or not; challenging the circadian rhythm of my life with its weakness and ineptitude.

But then, everything about our lives this past year has been tested, provoked, and attacked in one way or another. 

Whether or not we are strong enough, well prepared, and hopeful going into this next year is for us to figure out. 2021 is right around the corner and there’s nothing to stop it from rolling into our lives and assisting in making a brand new year flexible enough to accommodate and manipulate what each one of us needs in order to go forward in this lifetime; maintain the rhythm that can make and keep us whole in the future.

Crying when it’s least expected has been an emotional response of mine throughout the past ten months. Tears can be bitter reminders of the loss of better times, the longing for blessed security, and having the option of being able to provide food and protection for the ones you love. Too many families have had these basic rights stripped away from them by a government that was initially established to protect these rights at all costs.

Since the beginning of this worldwide pandemic we have been governed by a person who does everything he can to harm instead of uplift our lives. Even with only a few days left in his one and only term, his appeal for hatred and revenge rates high on his farewell agenda. When you know better, you are supposed to do better. Obviously, no one ever taught him this simple and beautiful rule of being human.

When the spirit of loved ones who have passed take their shape from animal forms and watch over and protect us as our Native Americans have faithfully observed forever, we are truly blessed. Believing in this power of spiritual guidance has gotten me through some of the tears and sadness of the past four years when confronted with hatefulness and greed.

While living in Orlando, Florida, for twenty-three years, I had the good fortune of being loved and watched over by a beautiful cardinal. He had appeared in the corner of a transom window at the front of our home upon three occasions over a period of several years. I instinctively knew whom he represented and would stare back at him, mesmerized but alert to what he was trying to tell me.

After gaining my attention by pecking on the glass, we would stare at one another for a lengthy period of time. The calmness that penetrated every cell of my being remained with me forever after one of these experiences. I have attempted to capture our ‘silent’ conversation in my poem, Breathless:

BREATHLESS

Several sharp taps on the transom’s glass 

pique her curiosity while two obsidian eyes

follow her movements and begin to absorb

any negative energy in the room. The fiery

red plumage and distinctive black mask of

this cardinal exudes familiarity. His quizzical

manor harmless; fixed gaze through the glass 

is steady and comfortably aware.

I have missed you. My garden always welcomes you

with shelter, food, and protection for your young.

I know, he says with a slight tilt of the head.

Where did you go? I longed for your crimson flash

darting into the viburnum shrubs after the hunt. You,

your lady, and open-mouthed babes were safe—for

the time being.

Don’t be so possessive. I’m here for you now, aren’t I?

Truthfully, I’ve never left. But, you have been unmindful

sitting smugly in your air-conditioned palace. I know

my place.

What message do you have for me this time, Mother?

Breathe.

Only to breathe?

I am the hinge that opens your mind between Earth

and Spirit. I do not make this trip without purpose.

Trust in yourself and you will bring clarity out of 

confusion. Love and forgive, my child.

That can be a difficult task.

Life is about being one gesture away from instability

or balance.

In an instant the vibrant creature flies away leaving her transfixed; genuinely—

breathless.

Mom rarely displayed explosive outbursts in her lifetime. In fact, for a fiery redhead, this was considered highly unusual and many who loved her wished she had spoken up for herself more often. She did, however, own a genuine demonstrative manner and a great sense of humor. This is why I knew that the gentle creature who tapped on my window pane to look down at me with its volcanic stare was my very own spirit guide. This time around she vowed to be as vibrant as possible, display her brightest plumage, and hoped to be listened to as she continued to look after and protect the people she loves. After all, there is no gender specification when it comes to the guardians of our souls and bodies.

I humbly wish all of you, with special appreciation to all of my faithful readers, a Merry Christmas and very happy and positive life changing New Year! Stay safe and healthy and we’ll get to where we need to be, eventually.

Copyright © 2020 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved