Last Snow

 It was only two inches and had not been forecast until about 12 hours before it arrived, but we got our final snow of the season.  Sunny enjoyed every minute of it before it melted.

Sunny will run UNDER the higher part of the ramp leading to the porch, it' like watching Barrel Racing for Labrador Retrievers. 

BUT I DON'T WANT TO COME INSIDE!

St. Patrick's Day 2025

Ireland.  The land is rugged and it is raw, morning breaking with a crash of spray against a sea cliff, days stretching longer than the beaches that lie quietly in wait for a footstep to make an impression on them.

There in the sand were small bits of history, small stones, a piece of bone that appeared to have been carved, and a perfect, pristine shell that was both delicate and strong. Water and history, two elements of life that draw me in deeply; draw me back to such places. Part of my childhood was spent on the shores of a body of water in the West, where we stayed in a little cabin with a view of the water years before Californians discovered it and developers took over the place, building vast condos that blocked out the sun.

My brother and I would get up while it was still dark and march down to the water's edge, hoping to get there to see the dawn explode over the water. I could spend hours there, just watching the way the water shaped itself around the rocks and me, the gentle waves moving against the shore, like breathing. In the bright, cold water, there would be all sorts of strange creatures, all sorts of mysteries.

We'd wade along the edges, gingerly looking while not harming anything that was there, hoping to find a prehistoric shell to take home, knowing that at some time, all of the land where our family homesteaded had once been part of this ocean.  We occasionally found bits and pieces of things, some strange, some so very familiar.

Many of you have seen a sand dollar. They're commonly sold in souvenir stores. But what you see is only the remaining skeleton of a living sea creature. When living, the sand dollar is covered with fine hair-like cilia covering tiny, soft, and almost purple spines. But the remaining shell is beautiful, fragile, and white. The essential essence of what this creature was.

We'd come home at the end of an adventure, our pockets full of small rocks, shells, and artifacts of the day. I felt somehow at home with these tiny bits of the ancient land, though I felt as if I was living in an alien world in the small eddy currents of their homes, among creatures that were so different from me; somehow, I knew I belonged there. At night, we'd build a fire and sit and listen to the lapping of the waves; dreams of my future filled my head. The sound of the water, growing and swelling in rhythm to my heartbeat, accompanies the laughing and roasted marshmallows, the joys of a night on the water under open stars.

The rocky, rugged coast of Northern Island took me back there, the rush of the water an affirmation of what draws me to search and discover. It takes me back to the taste of salt on my lips, that of rain or tears, only the years remember. The water rushes, then waits, as I do, moving in, retreating, watching, still waiting. Remembering everything past, hoping for everything good in the future, in a bone-deep calm that belies the deep ache in my muscles as I climb up a trail that leads to cliffs hundreds of feet above.

There at the top, a view, an expanse that is as untouched and unchanged as what drove me here in the first place. There's few other people, the rest taking the bus back the short distance, just a couple of us, strangers but kindred spirits, not speaking, simply looking outward. The others don't dare the height, the edge, not with the wind that day, but we do, not feeling the fear until afterward, only feeling alive, on the wind, the smell, and the taste of the longing to simply be here.

On my last trip to Ireland, while overseas for a professional speaking engagement (with a free weekend to play tourist), I took an afternoon off to visit the Trinity College Library. Specifically, I wanted to look at the Book of Kells, which is hundreds of years old. It is in a massive hall, watched over by the white busts of philosophers.

There in the dizzying array of centuries of thought how very close I felt to them, and I wondered what they would think of us today. People so different yet not so much. Priests, wanton victims, lovers, students. A flock of beleaguered human beings rushing through life with little more than spare words of text, our lives left, not to handwritten words that flow from veins that open within us, but to small snippets of meaningless text, words thrown out into the electronic atmosphere without thought to discourse or what meaning they leave in their wake.

Then, the Book of Kells, painstakingly recorded in colors of the earth, was preserved for 1200 years. I stood transfixed by their vision, which in their Latin told me nothing but that someone of great faith had been here and recorded his heart, a message that, though I could not translate accurately, I could never fail to understand.

Too soon, the trip was over, and it was time to go home. I will make the trek up above the sea one last time before my flight back to the States is set to leave. I will return to a happy dog and the friend who watched him.  I'll try and recreate some of the dishes I dined on there in historic inns, there in a quiet kitchen, a calendar on the wall, on the counter perhaps a bit of loose tea spilled, a pen and a journal by the window. The house holds its traces of me, assuming I will come back and, if not, that at least I would be remembered by those who share my table,  even if not related by blood.

But for now, a few more hours, a few more artifacts of time I stole from the past, flirting with the ancients, rugged rocks, the smell of peat and coal, a land brushed with snow, burnished with the traces of those that went before. Traces that say remember me; remember this, for in it you will find yourself and leave a piece of your heart behind.

There, on top of a sea green cliff, I will throw out a rock to watch it splash down far below, as above, I watch above from a strong, yet fragile, light shell that houses this old soul. The rock flies through the hindrance of the deepest sleep, through the stiff fabric of the wind, into the warm sea.

It's only a rock, only a bit of artifact of the past that holds in it, not the prolonged burden of time that too many embrace as they age, but the bright colored fluent movement of youth, the dancing heels of those days of risk and glory.  Perhaps the days of my youth are gone, as is the rock,  yet the feel of its absoluteness remains in my hands, in me, long after the wind goes silent.

Too, too soon, it is time to head back. Clouds kiss the top of the hills, the rocks knitting up the small tendrils of fog into shawls that drape us as we hike on down. Layers and layers, the sea cliffs lie. Down, descending through those layers of clouds, layers and layers of memory. Memories of many miles walked upon such shores, from that first sound of a wave in my childhood to this, the span seems endless.

Till we meet again Ireland, Thar gach ni eile.

 - L.B. Johnson 

Hailey has Gone to the Bridge

One of the few remaining members of the original "Blogville" gang, Hailey went to the Bridge this week, surrounded by her family in Canada ("The Lady" and "The Man"), not long after celebrating her 15th birthday.  A rescue, she brought a lot of love and joy to the world (well, that groundhog might disagree).   Our Abby Lab always looked up to Hailey for her vigilance in furry trespassers on the property and her skill with drywall renovations (Abby only managed to eat a roll of paper towels). 

Hailey was on the SWAT team of the Blogville Paw-lice department and served as the office manager. 

The Blogville Pawlice classroom - I know all of Hailey's classmates were there to greet her.

You will be missed Hailey. . .

Our Own Little Miracles

"Everything worth meaning is made up of so many small parts, its moments, its words, its acts, the skin and bone, and the nucleus within us that contains its own fire somewhere deep inside. We're our own walking fate, and we're our own little miracles, the atoms from which we're made, not so different from the atoms of the earth, the air, the water, all of us formed from that blazing nucleus of the stars - Heaven, binding us together." 

--The Book of Barkley - by L.B. Johnson

 The first pleasant days of spring come out like a squirrel and go in again.

-- Henry David Thoreau

That special occassion will be here before you know it. .

Well, SOMEONE has a 1 year "Gotcha-versary" at the end of the Month.  It's hard to believe it's been a year since we adopted 10-month-old Sunny D. Lab from Chicagoland Lab Rescue. She's easy to get a gift for, though nothing would replace her beloved ocean friend - Claude the Lobster.

Buying for the other women (and men) in your life can be tougher.  I like to buy from small artisan companies, which are women-owned when I can. Two of my favorites are in Canada.  I wanted to share and support one of them here today - SALT AND SEAWEED APOTHECARY on Vancouver Island.  Luxurious, small-batch bathing and grooming rituals for men and women with responsibly harvested raw ingredients from the wild oceans of British Columbia, Canada.  Nicole handcrafts each item, an intimate affair between art and science, business, and passion.  The bars of soap are little works of art and make the BEST gifts. 

• Salt and Seaweed Apothecary

(click on the name to go to the website)

I know many artists and craftspersons in Canada are concerned about sales if/when the US tariffs are enacted.  (Please, no politics in the comments; Sunny will chew them up and hide them behind the couch.) There are some products I will happily pay extra to get, and these are some of them. 

First, I wouldn't be caught on a desert island without it.  I have naturally wavy hair, but on its own, it's NOT manageable without spending an hour with a hair dryer.  Salt and Seaweed's Sea Salt Texturizing Spray makes my natural curls look defined, bouncy, and still soft instead of looking like I had combed my hair with a live ferret.  The Fresh and Flirty Deodorant has an addictive aroma (lime and bergamot, both men and women love it) that doesn’t bother my ultra-sensitive skin.  The Roast and Revelry jumbo Lip Balm (cardamom and coffee) – I buy 3 of these at a time for myself and others. The Pink Grapefruit Lip (and face) Polish (smells and tastes good, though it is probably best not to have it as a snack :-) As for the Island Life Coffee and Cardamom Body Polish -not pictured, I used it all up 🙁 

Other ones that everyone in the family uses.  The Star Anise soap has a faint licorice aroma, but it's not overly sweet or strong, just refreshing.  It's great post-workout and also for any hormonal breakouts on the face or body (got teens?) The Sea Mist Minerals Spritz is perfect for the air, your face, and your pillowcase (lavender helps you drift off to sleep).  I also love the Tranquil Blue cream when my skin (especially my hands) gets really dry.  I put some on at night (it smells SO good), and in the morning, my hands are soft as can be.  There's also a Spa Sunday overnight mask with raw Manuka Honey, green tea, and seaweed that's a wonderful overnight treatment when your skin is irritated, chapped, or just cantankerous because of the weather, dry air, menopause, or an impending Monday. 

For those who are sensitive to lavender (I'm one of the rare ones sensitive to essential oils in the mint family except in very small amounts) - the men’s line of serums and balms have the same essential ingredients as the women’s facial serum and balm but are infused with tangerine and cedarwood instead of lavender.  I may get a raised eyebrow from EJ when I’m putting “beard oil” on my face before going out in the cold, but the men’s serum and (beard) balm is awesome on anyone's skin with the same fresh and natural ingredients with no chemical preservatives.

So go check them out. I'd recommend shipping with tracking and insurance (Nicole can answer any questions you have about shipping to the US if needed).  Trust me, one of the artisan soaps with one of the lip/skin sticks in a little mesh bag is SO appreciated as a quick gift when you don't have time to go out to the store (because someone needs "walkies").

Napolean has invaded the yard - PLAYDATE!

Napoleon, the 2-year-old golden retriever, lives three doors down.  His Mom, Karen, brings him over when the yard isn't too muddy for playtime after she gets home from school (she helps teach children who are autistic).  Nap's already looking for Sunny as they cut through our side yard to make the trip quickly in the cold. 

Mom, Mom, Napolean's Here.  Let him in!!!

Well, hi there, I haven't seen you in days, sniffed anything good lately?

I missed you too!

Catch me if you can!!

OK, one last time!

Our Mom's are cold - time to come in for a treat!

Snow AND and a new toy I stole from the back porch~ Best Day EVER