Safe Travels. by Patresa Hartman

Ice fell on Iowa last night. It's the fitted bed sheet under a blanket of lovely white snow. Corporate Des Moines has issued a two-hour delay for profit making. It takes quite an event for Corporate Anywhere to voluntarily delay profit making. Already, the mood of downtown has lifted.

Yet, the newspaper was right on time. And I am sure the mail will arrive right on time. I don't know what the hiring process looks like for mail and paper delivery, but it must include a very rigorous physical assessment -- testing candidates' ability to withstand rotating sheets of wind and hail and rain and ice. I am grateful for their willingness to risk life and limb to deliver my Christmas cards and crossword puzzles. Thank you, Delivery Soldiers.

I hear the neighbors' snowblower and know that whomever loses a childish game of rock, paper, scissors, either my husband or I will join. But I am grateful for that snowblower. Until this year, we have been Shovel City. My father donated his old John Deere blower, which is large and bulky and makes my forearms ache after I have finished the whole driveway. But I'll take sore forearms after 30 minutes of snowblowing over the complete body decay that occurs after two hours of shoveling. Thanks, Dad.

I am softening toward this Iowa weather. I used to say I hated the winter, that I belonged someplace warm and unfrozen year round, but I am changing my mind. Storms of snow and ice unite our communities. When weather becomes the story, we have full conversations with total strangers. We gather around windows like children to watch the sky spill its white; we wish each other safe travels when we leave. I like this. It makes me feel connected; and it brings out the kindness in people. For that, I am grateful.

Manatee Therapy by Barbara Quinn

I was lucky to escape New York's winter for a few days. I visited Anna Maria Island, near Sarasota, on Florida’s west coast, in aptly named Manatee County home to many of the creatures. The beach was a short walk from my friend’s house, through a grove of banyan trees. The air was clean and soft, the sand silvery bright and so hard-packed that sneakers were the best thing to wear for walking. I didn’t sink into the sand. Rather, I crunched along the shell-filled surface.

Dozens of pelicans flew overhead and then dive-bombed straight down to the turquoise water to catch fish. The shells on the beach were tiny and pastel-colored, reminding me of the sunsets which were muted grays, pinks and blues. Apparently sharks like to feed offshore at sunset so I avoided swimming then and was happy to watch the dolphins cavort. Last year, an egret visited the house in the morning. He moved slowly, stalking insects, his white body in stark contrast to the greenery. A neighbor told me he’s partial to hot dogs. Maybe that diet did him in since he didn’t appear this year.

I enjoyed watching all the different wildlife: the lizards, the green parrots, the cormorants, ibis, herons, and most of all the manatees. I saw several of the huge, brown critters hanging out in local canals. These gentle, endangered creatures know how to live. They are herbivores who eat pounds of grasses in deep cool waters and then seek out the sunny shallow canals where they hang out near the surface to get warm, their brown bodies looking like stones rising out of the water. They’re big and lazy and staring at them makes you slow down too. I had no trouble making like a manatee, eating my fill of grouper and local fish instead of grass, and then lying down on the beach in the sun. It’s time to hit the treadmill before I am mistaken for a manatee.

The manatees are onto something. There’s nothing like plopping down someplace and watching what’s happening around you, especially when the place is warm and sunny. The worries and troubles of daily life slip away. Now that I’m home in winter I lie in bed at night and remember what it was like to sun myself on the beach. And instead of counting sheep I count manatees.

A Coat of Many Colors by Barbara Quinn

The sunset is glorious tonight. Pale pinks and blues, hints of purple and gray are stretching across the horizon. Below this Easter-egg colored sky sits the dark rim of the Ramapo Mountains which I see from my office window. I’m not at the shore but in my home in a small town in Rockland, NY called Montebello. Now that it’s winter, the mountains are visible and it’s postcard perfect outside. The wintry silhouettes of the trees reach toward the colors overhead.

I’m an evening and night person. I haven’t seen too many sunrises in my life, but I’ve made an effort to appreciate sunsets when I can. Most days I’m too busy to look up at the sky. Yesterday, I stopped in the Foodtown parking lot and took in the gorgeous colors. I must have looked odd standing there on the asphalt with busy shoppers and carts rushing by. Cars pulled into and out of spaces. Everyone else had heads tucked down against the gathering cold and dark. I stood by my car and watched the sky change colors. I didn’t stay for more than a couple of minutes. Then I went into the market and shopped. The sunset stayed with me for quite some time.

Tonight’s is just as pretty. The colors keep changing, melting into one another and blending in new ways that are splendid. I’d like to have a sunset coat to wrap around myself. Joseph’s coat of many colors would have nothing on mine. Till then I’ll be grateful for the hues that appear without fail each evening, wrapping up my day in their vibrant and dependable tones. What a gift they are.

Shore Things

January in the northeast may seem like an odd time of year to be writing about the beach, but for me, being near the ocean any time of year is joyful. I’ve always wanted to live near the water and a few years ago, I was fortunate to accomplish that dream. My shore condo is in Bradley Beach, a small town on the Jersey shore where I am situated a block from the water.

My love affair with the ocean began when I was first born. There’s a black and white photo of me as an infant in my mother’s arms. She’s smiling, wearing a black one-piece suit, sitting on the sand holding me. There’s another photo of me in a saggy diaper toddling toward the ocean where my father waits in swim trunks. My parents often told me that they took me to the beach within days of my birth. They headed to the Island from the City, the island being Long Island and the city being the Bronx. We had a small cottage not far from the Great South Bay. My grandparents had a permanent home on a canal that led to the bay and I grew up walking to their house where we held lots of outdoor family gatherings. We fished from the dock, and hauled in crab and eel traps that dangled on ropes from the pilings. We went together on clamming, eeling, and crabbing expeditions. We fished for blowfish, and bluefish, fluke and flounder. Afterward, my large Italian family gathered, cleaned the fish, and shucked clams together. We cooked, talked, yelled, and ate till we were stuffed and the daylight faded away. These days those relatives are gone. I still make a lot of the recipes I learned at their elbows: barbecued stuffed clams, linguini with clam sauce or crab sauce, baked flounder. I’m thankful for more than the recipes they taught me.

Today I walked along the boardwalk, bundled up in my winter coat, bathed in the pure shore light, and I smiled. The waves crashed gently, their ceaseless sound a familiar comfort and a reminder of my family ties for which I am grateful.

Thanks for the Memories by Barbara Quinn

It’s cold outside. The windows are rattling and I’m sitting here nice and warm with my slippers tucked beneath my desk. I’m not much of a fan of the cold, but I do love the crisp, clean smell of a brisk winter day. The bone-chilling air reminds me of winters when I was a kid. Back then, I’d throw my ice skates over my shoulder and hike to a frozen, hidden pond where I would meet up with other kids who loved to skate. My dog accompanied me on these jaunts. Some of us would build a fire for warming our hands and feet in between hitting the ice again and again. Those who stayed late trudged home quickly, because once the sun set the cold became much more intense.

One frosty day, soon after I arrived, my dog ventured to a place where the pond’s ice was too thin. He fell through, yelping and howling. A couple of us struggled to get him out, fearful of falling in ourselves. When we freed him, I tried warming him by the fire. His shivering and shaking, and the white crystals on his fur, told me I had to do something more. He was so cold he couldn’t walk. I was ten years old, and he was thirty pounds. I picked him up and carried him. I thought my arms would break.

The walk home was longer than ever. I finally made it and wrapped him in blankets. Please don’t die, please don’t die, kept running through my head. I wiped the tears from my eyes and patted him dry. I still remember the feeling of relief and gratitude that flooded me when he shook off the blankets, jumped up and licked my face. Wet dog never smelled so good. Frisky is long gone, but he’s very much a part of my memories, memories I am thankful to have. And I’m grateful that at a young age I learned not only to struggle for something I love, but that sometimes things do turn out all right.