I bob and shift on my front paws to maintain balance. My view, a trail of gray ribbon, snakes away into the distance. Trees and poles zip past, dashing away from us like a rabbit I chased. I raise my ears, on alert, but all I hear is the thrumming of tires and a musical rhythm that soothes my worry.  Memories of the hunger, the attacks, the dark hopelessness recede at 50 miles per hour into a vanishing point on the horizon. My person carries us forward away from harm.  

This is to be our new-year walk. Familiar sights reassure me of our routine. A curve upward, then the shadow as we pass under the bridge, the 90-degree turn right at the Market where I whiff the fresh bread subs. Onward past the storage building, past Woody’s where a black Lab barks, then slower as we wind among thick limbed trees and high boulders. One last turn and I see the wide field with the blue water beyond. My pulse quickens. I breath through my mouth. My person stops the car at the red barn and I’m on my feet ready to spring. What takes her so long to appear at the hatch window? 

She clicks the leash and we’re off. Soggy grass, so luscious after the weeks of snow, magnifies sublime smells. I sniff each one. I mark spot after spot, against trees, on important leaf piles, beside a rotting stump. I kick up some soil and dash ahead pulling the leash taut. The south wind shakes the leafless trees and lifts my ears, such a treat. 

She wants to go one way, but I want the other. I freeze, aiming toward my preference. As always, she follows. I trot so fast that she barely keeps pace. We approach the ice-covered gravel along the dancing river and stop. I’m fine to turn back here. Choppy water frightens me.  

We return using the opposite side of the trail where I bury my nose in deer tracks, inhaling the wild musky scent. I dig under a clump of ferns, searching for a mole, reverting to my desperate days before I was served breakfast, dinner, and infinite snacks. 

Whoosh! An eagle thrashes its wings as it launches into the sky startling us. I jump on my hind legs and bark ferociously until the predator sails into the clouds. I’ve saved us from attack. 

Back in the car the gentle vibration lulls me. I lower myself beneath the window assured that when the hatch opens, I’ll run into my secure dwelling where danger can’t find me. 

In the year ahead, I hope you have food to crunch, fresh water to gulp, a comfy bed and freedom from fear. But most of all I hope you find your persons. Because they will take care of everything. 

Learn language the Northern way,
Master the nouns you need every day.
     Snow, sleet, squall,
     Wind, warning, watch.
You’ll soon be ready for the compound kind,
These appear daily you’ll quickly find.
     Lake-enhanced, snow-squall, wintery-mix,
     White-out, wind-chill, area-wide.
Should you desire to form a complete thought?
Simply add a verb to what you’ve got.
     Burst, barge, charge,
     Impact, hammer, slam.
An array of messages can be hewn,
Like those broadcast on TV at noon.
     Every road will be impacted.
     Travel bans due to blizzard enacted.
Negative and positive advice you’ll hear,
Either way your schedule will be clear.
     No school, no meetings, no driving.
     Stay in, stay home, stay put.
Adjectives give the message some flair,
Place them with nouns so they work as a pair.
     Menacing mix, blustery gusts, ominous outages,
     Hazardous highways, treacherous travel, accumulation amounts.
Meteorologists have mastered the vernacular,
Of the present participle which is quite spectacular.
     Incoming, kicking-up, picking-up,
     Charging, crippling, firing-up.
Usage and word choice might confuse,
But those from the North are simply bemused.
     Musicians have no part in an organizing band.
     Pockets conceal Arctic air not frigid hands.
Commuters, forecasters, especially highway crews,
Must have understanding of technical terms used.
     Storm prep, road salt, electronic alert,
     Cancelled or canceled, either spelling works.
Omit needless words for effective communication,
The same examples suffice for safe transportation.
     Steer clear of Adams, Lowville, Mexico.
     At all costs avoid the Tug Hill Plateau.
Learn language the Northern way,
Master the dialect you need every day.

The wind gusted all night, rolling in from the south, stripping the trees of foliage, reminding them who has the power. All storms damage to some extent, but the overthrow of seasonal change devastates. 

During the roaring tempest I watched the familiar responses in the grove. 

The nimble-limbed troupe bowed and swayed, released every leaf without fuss. The saplings have no fear of tomorrow. Insects and blight rarely worry the young. They opened their tapered hands, waving farewell as the celebrants danced and cartwheeled into the maelstrom. 

In the gully nearby, multi-trunked maples banded together, clenching their rusty yellow leaves that spun in relentless circles.  So smug with their flocked branches, they’ve forgotten that the first snow will cast lifeless remainders to the ground. 

Shrubs in a nearby thicket huddled through the night. When the storm ceased, they dropped their tarnished leaves to form a carpet beneath, a refuge for insects. Generous to a fault they retained their deep purple berries as an offering to woodland creatures.  

By dawn, the golden glow of autumn conceded to winter. Amid the ravages, one slender stem from an anonymous species rose above the others with a single curled leaf. Like a flag it waved a message of surrender. 

Featured nearby in a manicured landscape, one crimson beauty glowed in the morning light. This is her red-carpet moment. She preens in her sparkling gown amid the brown and gray consorts, oblivious to the storm’s decimation…or thriving because of it.  

I’m an oak. I’ve seen it all, gales and squalls, microbursts and ice storms. I hold the memory of every season deep in my rings. Debris and leaves decompose in drifts around my roots. I understand the bittersweet pleasure of watching the ones I’ve nurtured take to the sky and fly for a final encore.  

I hold on to a smattering of leaves, those connected to my heartstrings. Through the bitter winter each bronzed pennant whispers a song of life and hope until the sap flows again. 

The story of my life will never qualify as commercial fiction. It has none of the required elements— horror, fantasy, or thriller. Rather than vampires or zombies, my friends are ordinary people. My past is not checkered, more of a plaid flannel. No high-stakes risks for me. Most of my journeys go inward, not around the world. A great story has tension on every page and lots of conflict. I avoid drama. In bestsellers, formidable antagonists stand in the way of success. As luck would have it, my life has worked out almost according to plan. 

I lead more of a literary non-fiction life, bland situations with beautiful sunsets. An inciting incident for me involves a porcupine, a snapping turtle, or a woman squeezing a tomato. My storylines feature emotion rather than motive, people rather than peril, and wisdom not cataclysm. 

It would be a stretch to create upmarket fiction from my experiences. 

 Just for fun, I will try. 

On a stunning September day, the protagonist (yours truly) sets out to visit Kingston, Ontario with two sidekicks, Joann and Ginnie. Using Apple’s Siri to direct us, we drive into the city. Where to park? Ginnie points the way to a parking garage. We ignore the yellow caution tape and risk entry. We find ourselves in the eerie world of a dingy, spiral labyrinth. 

We drive around and around, ever upward, finding no apparent parking spaces or exit ramps. The clamorous rata-tat-tat of invisible jackhammers batter the foundation. The din drowns our voices. Pulverized concrete hangs in the stale air and shrouds the passage. Particles cling to the windshield and seep into the car. The chalky powder assaults our nostrils. Our mouths go dry. We share uneasy glances as vibrations rattle the vehicle.  

Continue— or exit the car and run? But where? Stained plywood blocks the stairwell exits. My heart races. We brace for a building collapse. Siri’s clear assertive voice commands, Proceed to the roof!

I steer around a final curve. We emerge into the sun, park the car, and scamper down the staircase to solid ground. 

My world is not as mundane as I thought. But I’m guessing this does not have series potential. 

In the grocery store I watch a lady gently squeeze a tomato. She remarks to her companion, “These are a little soft.” She rejects the plump, unblemished, red-skinned fruit and pushes her cart onward with a frown. 

My goal is pretzels, so I roll past the mountains of avocados from Peru, oranges from South Africa, hills of lemons, limes, velvet apricots, and southern peaches. I pass valleys filled with onions, shallots, and every size potato. To my right, leafy greens of countless shades and shapes, cascade down a wall. On my left berries, apples, and grapes form a plateau above a river of watermelon from whole to half, wedged, sliced, and cubed. I literally walk through a painting that rivals a Renoir. 

Heading to the snack aisle, I turn left just past a wall of dried fruits and nuts that could supply a hermit for years. The aroma of freshly baked bread drifts over tables stacked with pies, cakes and desserts that make Caesar’s Palace dessert buffet look meager. Yonder and behind a glass case rest massive roasts of ham, turkey and beef, blocks of creamy cheese and cylinders of salami and pepperoni. Phil Collins sings in my head. It’s just another day for you and me in paradise. 

I imagine plopping my great-grandmother into the middle of this wonderland. Or a family from a famine plagued country. Or a mother from our own country, whose child is one of the 13 million facing hunger. 

Aisle after aisle proffers products, packaged and bottled, dated for freshness, and suited to the varied tastes of visitors from every part of the country.  Mexican, Cajun, Asian, Kosher, vegetarian. Special dietary needs? Choices are not limited to gluten-free, nut-free, sodium-free, caffeine-free, sugar-free, there’s also hormone-free, antibiotic-free, pesticide-free and more.  

What must the supply chain look like that delivers produce from around the globe to this somewhat isolated spot on the Canadian border?  I try to imagine the farms and orchards of remote countries and the factories in distant states, the people who pick the fruit or run the equipment, work the assembly lines, pack, ship, and transport all this food. It is they who provide this abundance.  

I head into the canyon of snacks for my bag of pretzels. Minis, nibblers, rods, snaps, or waffles. Sourdough, honey wheat braids, cheddar twists, or filled with peanut butter. Party size, value size, family size. My head spins. On the bottom shelf I spy small individual packs labeled Original Sticks. I know this product. I take a package of six and head to the express checkout.  

Vacationers empty overflowing carts of groceries onto the conveyor belts. The cashier asks an easy question, Did you find everything you wanted? I thought about the grumpy tomato lady. In all this excess, she found fault. 

At one time I was satisfied with tuna noodle casserole, chipped ham, and local corn on the cob. What has become of us that we need salmon from Alaska, lobsters from Maine, and mussels from Chile?  We’ve become food snobs, spoiled, entitled and I fear, ungrateful. We have more than food security, we have food decadence.  

At the register I round up to feed the homeless and cringe at this scrap of benevolence.  

My return home takes me across the Thousand Islands Bridge which spans the St. Lawrence shipping channel. I spot a behemoth freighter carrying a full load of cargo eastward. The grain for pretzels could be heading to the factory. Just another day in paradise. 

Deep in my roots I am unsettled. A yearning rises in my heart. It haunts me when I curl into sleep at night. I wake to every new day with expectation. No revelation comes. I resign myself to duty as another summer beckons. I commit to the repetition: pollenate and propagate; pollenate and propagate.  

You could say I am common, but that would be an understatement. I am one in thousands. I look around and see yellow lion-heads craning their milky necks above the field grass toward the sun. Resourceful and tenacious, we feed the pollinators before the desirable ones open for business.  

Humans adore the sprightly butterflies and the iridescent little hummingbirds who flit from flower to flower, spreading the sticky powder. We’ve always partnered with the bees. They get us. We’re working class.   

I’m told we are the lucky ones. Our neglected field fears no ambush of an acrid-smelling petroleum-fueled spinning blade. We’ve never felt the searing pain inflicted by the spume of herbicide and the slow wilting of the soul that follows. We thrive year after year, spreading our snaggletooth leaves, forming a pappus of seeds on hollow stalks. 

No one remembers our vast healing benefits. Rumors of our culinary gifts sift through the grass prompting the social climbers to rise above their station, joining endive or spinach on human salads. Legend has it that a top few fermented into wine. They attend special occasions as featured celebrants, forever shedding their former reputation. I’ve no desire for an elite life. My calling will be humble. 

Late May arrives and I transform into a ghostly sphere of 100 tiny seeds, each fitted with a white feather. I raise my puffball high, loosening each tiny parachute, waiting for gusty wind to disperse my seeds and replicate the cycle.  

A mechanical hum resounds and the scent of fresh-cut grass swirls among us. Agitated bees hop from blossom to blossom in alarm. I notice all the heads, yellow and white, turn slowly toward the unnatural racket. Our luck has run out. Humans.  

I brace myself for a harsh beheading, vowing to save my roots and sprout again tomorrow. Instead, a soft vibration ripples the ground. Two rainbow clad feet toddle near, the appendages straddle me. A small human. I feel the tender clasp of fingers on my stem. 

Snap! I’m lifted above the field, liberated from roots and leaves. My heart soars with an endless view of flora. Suddenly, a burst of cherry-scented breath jostles me. My head explodes. Tufts expel in every direction. Magic transcends time.  

I’ve granted a wish! My soul swells with joy.  

Call me a weed or a pest. Labels mean nothing to me now. I know the meaning of my life. I must tell my dandelion sisters. We all have the power to bestow wishes. 

When my granddaughter Willow celebrated her fifth birthday, she tore open a package containing a snorkel and swim mask. Her face beamed, “I’ve always wanted to go underwater!” We all laughed at a five-year-old’s concept of always. Yet, she understood that the gift she loved was not the snorkel and mask alone, but the experience it would provide for her. 

My first always wanted experience came when I was 27. Always equated to a decade or so back then. My husband and I traveled the British Isles for a month. For the next 40 years I operated on a different principle, more of a will-do. You know how that works out. I never saw Elvis in concert, never appeared on Orah’s show, never climbed Mount Katahdin a second time. Too often will-do morphs into never wills. 

My recent birthday marked a new measure of always: seventy-plus. The gifts I received were just as precious to me as the snorkel and mask. Dinner with the family, an original painting, handmade jewelry, homemade cards, and a pillow that states the obvious, Life is better in the 1000 Islands. Those gifts represent the ultimate always wanted experiences: love, family, health.  

I considered Willow’s exuberant reaction to her gift. I doubt if going underwater has been on her radar recently. It’s been winter. Plus, she must not have realized that going underwater was always in her power. Perhaps the desire simply came to her that day, struck by the possibility of a new adventure.  

Viewing a solar eclipse never landed on my always wanted or will-do list.  But the chance to have this novel experience arrived. In the middle of day night fell and stars appeared. A golden glow illuminated the horizon. Incredible. I always welcome the chance to be awestruck. 

It’s the unplanned twists and turns that made my life an adventure. I’ve always wanted adventure. Why not embrace serendipity in each day with Willow’s attitude?  

Coat the base with a spray of drizzle
Pour in coarse hail and pat to form a crust
Blend a wintery mix of sleet, snow, and freezing rain
Spread it generously over the bottom layer
Flash freeze at 0 degrees overnight
Whip twelve inches of powdery flakes into stiff peaks
Spoon generously over the frozen confection
Let blizzard-force gusts glaze the top
Dust with glittery ice crystals
Chill until the wind shifts
Garnish with a sparkling icicle
Serve with Hot Buttered Bourbon
Bon Appetit.

I’m dejected. My favorite team, the Buffalo Bills, is not going to the Superbowl.  The Bills lost in the divisional round two weeks ago. I’m still in the dumps over it.  I didn’t cause the loss. No more than I contributed to success in making the playoffs. But I committed emotionally to the pursuit. I jumped and cheered and scared Goldie off the bed for 18 weeks.  As the stakes rose, so did my belief in our chances for the Big Game.  Our chances, ha, as if I am officially a team member. 

If you are a sports fan, you understand. Perhaps we become sports fans out of loyalty to our roots or our hometowns. I’ve been a fan since the 80s, when a western Pennsylvania native became the Bills’ reliable quarterback, and a hometown athlete joined the team as offensive coordinator. Besides, I’d been through Buffalo so many times the Bills felt like my home team. 

Psychologists say joining a fan base satisfies a need to belong. Sports fans have higher levels of self-esteem and lower levels of loneliness.  When I wear team apparel other Bills fans often strike up a conversation. I’m not a fanatic. I don’t shovel snow in the stadium or trounce on folding tables, but I am loyal. I am attached to my Flutie jersey and Flutie Flakes box.  I’ve attended two Bills’ games, both versus the Dolphins. Squish the Fish. A stadium filled with your team’s fans gives you instant camaraderie. 

Being a fan entitles me to take pride in the players’ skills and athleticism, traits I don’t possess. When Josh Allen scrambles for yardage or completes a long pass, I celebrate as if I’ve accomplished some feat. When the coach astutely manages the clock, I beam. When the team wins, I win. Psychology calls that feeling Basking in Reflected Glory (BIRG). 

But when the team loses, there’s no basking, only slogging until the next win. For thirty-one teams the season ends with a loss. So, I’m in the company of a lot of disappointed fans. We have eight months to recover. Now what? Hope for the draft, new coaches, or better referees.  

And maybe get back to real life. Next season everything is still possible.