Lunch Treat

The tree hides in plain sight. Within a row of ornamental friends it claims some anonymity.

One pleasant morning my walk takes me a mere block off my usual trek, up a drive toward an office building.  There they hang. Within reach. Almost ripe.

My imagination takes me a week into the future. A thrifty worker comes outside to supplement their lunch. They reach into the branches, move some leaves aside, and twist a tasty treat into their hand.  Inside again to wash it up good before crunching into the time honored “An apple a day.”

Lunch treat

September Sound

Deep. Distant. Not regular. Rhythmic.

My mind names and discards a title to the sound as I begin my morning walk. Then with the clarity of one of the trumpets in the brass identification is made. Band practice. Marching band, getting ready for the next home football game.

Percussion and brass predominate from my vantage point two blocks away. My mind pictures the woodwinds, fingers racing in pattern on flutes, clarinets, and saxophones. Feet lift and fall in unison, in tempo with a traditional Sousa march.

Left turn. Right turn. March in place on the yard line. Form the pattern, set the figure in motion as the next march begins and the wheel of diligent teens rolls down the field.

One of the sounds of autumn breaks into morning air. Repeats with extra vigor under the lights at halftime.

Marching band!!! 

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I can’t believe it happened!

The clues are all there, beginning with three cars pulled to the shoulder. One glance and an experienced driver could recite the events.

The lead car wears a marred rear bumper. The second vehicle received the worst of it, a mashed in grill and wrinkled hood. The third auto blinks the red and blue lights of a police sedan.

Insurance information recorded, accident report form filled in, the drivers and passengers wait to resume their weekday. The officer distributes the papers, exchanges a few words and the first car drives away. The second car pulls out slowly, pulls the patrol car along by an invisible string to the first driveway and roomy parking lot.

My teacher, boss, spouse – won’t believe why I’m late this morning.


On Guard

They tend to reside at street corners. But they can also be found at intervals on the long winding roads of subdivisions.

They stand quiet. They make a good place for a walker to retie a shoe. You hardly notice them some days.

In my neighborhood they are painted yellow and wear bright caps. Through the years I have seen them silver, green, and red. For a period of times the citizens released artistic talent and painted them as patriotic or comic book characters.

Don’t mess with them!  They have an important duty! Ensuring a supply of water when it is most needed for safety.

Quiet Guardian
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After the Rain

The morning air is fresh washed from rain during the dark hours.

The shower is over now, the sky clearing, clouds drifting east and out of sight. It makes for a fine walk, in this mild, late summer air with the dust removed. Plants lift leaves high after their welcome drink and grass sparkles with lingering drops. Robins probe for worms and squirrels bound across the lawns. Are they seeking a friend for a game of tag?

I nod and exchange greetings with other walkers. My route is almost complete as I head for the final length of sidewalk. A quick duck of my head under a young tree reaching over the cement is in order.


Mr. Squirrel leaps to the springing branch, shakes the leaves and their remaining water on top of my head and to the ground before he darts back to the trunk to climb higher.

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Flying High


Each morning on my walk I see them. One by the bank. A pair over the shopping center. Another pair in front of the church.

It would be easy to take them for granted. Or think of them only in their usefulness in reflecting the strength and direction of the wind. Would that be wise? No, these are not just bright colored banners.

Our nation’s symbol should remind us, if even for only a moment, of who we are and where we are. Others have gone before us. Some at great sacrifice to serve this flag of ours. More are to come. Let us hold it high, out of the grime of petty disagreements, and give honor where due.

Rain or shine. Wind or calm.


Flying High
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Made with Love

Decades ago a young man with a young wife worked a job which supplied their needs but little extra.

Months passed. The man saw a date looming, a special day which would require a gift for which he had no money.

He worked through lunches. Found scrap and began to cut, smooth, and connect. He put it together with bits of time and thought. He adjusted and fussed with it to the distraction of his machinist co-workers. But he perservered.

The day dawned like any other. The man went to work. The woman performed her daily tasks. At the end of the day he brought it home, hung it on the porch for the wind to play and sing out his love for her.

Happy First Anniversary Sweetheart!

Made with Love
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Pool during School

Bright sunshine reflects off the smooth surface. Where have they gone?  The splashers. The swimmers. The faithful sun and water worshipers?

School started recently. Long summer days continue, keeping the pool refreshing as always. Morning brings the maintenance worker. Faithful mature citizens intent to keep an excerise routine follow in the morning hours.

Late morning and early afternoon the water rests.

Wait! A big yellow bus releases students. More come walking from the opposite direction.  In the late afternoon they come to expell their energy after hours of manners and control in the classroom.

Swimmers and splashers don’t linger now. Shadows grow long and they come to the edge, drip, and reach for a towel. Time to go – supper and homework await.

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Summer Workers

Three white, rectangular structures house them. A sharp-eyed passenger on the busy street can see the neat row, almost under the trees.

They prefer to work in anonymity. It’s safer that way for few humans understand or appreciate the important function they perform.

Spring days lengthen. Gardens are planted and trees, ornamental, fruit and nut blossom. One after another they travel between home and garden, seeking sweet nectar.

Summer days become long and hot. Back and forth they move finding bright flowers or eager vegetables to crawl across one after the other.

Fall is coming. Fly now. Seek the last bloom. Store honey for the human caregiver and the cold, blossom bare winter.

Suburban Hives