50+ Lifestyles

Max’s Musings

By Max Molleston

Beginning this month we gather ourselves into the outdoors on a more permanent seasonal basis, springing into summer. We are deep in our appreciation of the most numerous occupants of our “out-of-doors,” trees, shrubs, perennials and the annual bloomers we find anew or have always stood by. We may not  cultivate a garden like our folks did, but the different slant we plant, is a constant reminder of what mom and dad planted and harvested, as our mentors. I hesitate to call our early work in the family gardens as “labor” but as young family members we probably knew the sun was too  hot  and treasured the thought of “getting a tan.” Our reward would be supper and maybe some ice cream, or a popsicle at the corner grocery, with a nickel from a kitchen jar. We knew about Lilies of the Valley. They surprised us each Spring in their perennial planting. And Peonies, such glorious colors and  big  bushes. If our folks loved the color and texture of the flowering annuals, we witnessed growth, in their season, and on to  the  next  blooming variety. Of course there was yard work.  Mowing  before  motors. Sickles to  swing carefully, dispatching nuisance grasses. Spades and shovels took strength to lift and work. Rakes, which almost no one liked to use. I mean those iron ones, not the newer leaf rakes.  In town, small plots of colorful potted bloomers showed up with the help of pieces of limestone,  in their place, a beautiful addition to the entrance of your home. The most care had to be with choice and placement of the trees, in their initial planting, or as replacements. Recall an often read poem by Robert Frost.  The first lines set the scene.

                           Birches

    When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter dark trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a  sunny  winter morning
After a  rain. They click among themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

The ending phrase, forty-five lines later, connects his third line,

”One could do worse then be a swinger of birches.”

If you are a writer or want to be a writer,  see it, then write down what you see and maybe a feeling about what you see. You, like Robert Frost, can imagine a factor that enhances, as Frost did with the boy swinging. Put life into an equally living memory-picture, and you are a poet.

These days  an insect we don’t seem to be able to corral lays waste to the Ash tree, in particular, but in the past other biological ruffians have left barren neighborhoods, parks and  forests just to get something to eat. We all appreciate our trees for their foliage and the beauty of, for instance, the “ old  oaks” towering above striving seedlings. So how have we become so interested and/or bonded to the Earthscape we participate with?

Haven’t  mentioned nature, yet. We are so lucky to be a part of the natural surround, as if it is intended for us and we for it. That is a fair call. Some of us have just a window to our world, while others of us, given our inclinations, can stomp around in the outdoors, careful to conserve. As poets, we often conserve our emotions, letting them show up at just the right time, bring the essence of our poem “home” to the reader or listener. We will be full blast into the Summer season in June and so much of it will create memories, maybe even a poem or two from you. Join me here then.