James

Flames have torched Georgia and Florida for more than a month. Dry conditions and stupid teenagers are to blame. Directly in the line of fire, are contingencies of trained men and women who battle the blazes, tend to the hot spots and douse the perimeter to protect life and property.

The smoke from these fires has drifted south to Tarpon Springs sending those with respiratory conditions inside.

I have a friend, Mike, whose son is working the crews in the Jacksonville area. Shout outs to James Braham and the other fine men and women who are tirelessly working to contain the fires. Be safe and hope you all make it home soon.

Photo: James Braham in South Florida.

To Mom,

I miss sharing those special moments in my life with you.

Dad brought the pansies and the geraniums in for the night. Frost warnings were issued for as far south as Glens Falls. He did not want to risk the cold weather killing the new plants he had potted this week. Dad gathered them from the railing on the front walkway and put them in the garage for the night. The temperatures never dipped as low as forecasted and by sunrise a clear blue sky promised a gorgeous Mother’s Day. You would have said the day was perfect.

The lilacs did not make full bloom, but their effort did not go unnoticed. Earlier in the week, the tiny buds showed no signs of blossoming by Mother’s Day, but warm sunny days enticed the flowers to come forth. By this time last year the branches bowed under the weight of the heavy bouquet. The daffodils and violets were out, so Dad and I picked a large vase full of your favorite yellow flower from the beds near the woods between the house and the old schoolhouse.

Robin, Cindi and I went for a morning walk. On Earnst Road, I spotted a Baltimore Oriel. It has been years since I seen this brilliant orange and black bird in upstate New York. I remembered the sack-like nests that once hung in the elms in front of Grey’s house. The trees, the nests and birds have been gone for years.

Uncle Ralph and Aunt Eileen came up for the day. Chris came too. Mark expressed it well for all of us. It was good to see Cousin Chris and we were glad to be able to share the day with him. I enjoyed hearing him call Dad, Uncle Manuel.

We were all here, except Mike, who stayed home with Margie. John, her father, passed away on Friday. He must have been torn not to be here, but you would have given him hell if he came.

I am not sure what I expected when we went to scatter your ashes. At Moreau we mixed your ashes with Rusty’s and Holly’s, your two Shelties. We walked around the lake, letting our moods swing from light and cheery to somber and tearful, as Dad let the ashes trickle to the ground. As we walked I imagined Hansel and Gretel leaving bread crumbs in the woods. If we needed to find our way home, we could have followed the faint trail of gray ash that dusted the path around the lake.

This was the place you came with Holly and Rusty. Dad reminisced about the walks, the places you rested, and where the dogs chased the squirrels. We enjoyed the quiet sounds of the wind whispering in the maples, the birches and pines. Near the lake shore, we saw fish—perch, pickerel, bass and trout. Chris brought his fishing gear with him and cast along the shore. And several dogs—a Silky Terrier, an English Springer Spaniel and a couple retrievers—greeted us as if paying respect to Holly and Rusty.

At the bridge, each of us took a bit of ash and let the wind carry the dust over the lake. Co hugged Dad. We each shed a tear. And we said good-bye.

Back at the picnic area, we blew bubbles, because you had two bottles sitting on the hutch for some reason and this was good as occasion. And because you had two bottles of sparkling grape juice—one white and one red—we filled our Dunkin Donut coffee cups and I toasted you and all other moms on this day.

I thought of the last time I was at the lake with you. It was just last July when Dad and I brought you here. We sat under the pines and ate Subways...over there Mom, by that table.

And then the day was over. There is still that feeling that sits deep inside me. The painful recognition that you are gone, forever and ever. Like that new 41 cent stamp.

Photos: by Darryl Conte, Jennifer Perez and the waiter at Longfellows

Mom's Birthday

This morning Dad and I took a bouquet of daffodil to the Saratoga National Cemetery. We picked them from the back yard near the old school house. They were for Mom. Today would have been her 79th birthday.