~Upstream and Down~

When I visited my 92-year-old mother at her assisted living home, I thought of butterflies—the painted ladies I’d seen sipping the last sweet nectar from the buddleia in my back yard. Painted ladies don’t live long, and my 92-year-old mother certainly has. So that’s not the comparison. And she certainly wasn’t sipping anything when I walked into her room; she was sleeping in front of a blaring TV. And neither was she painted. She’s never been much for make-up. But nonetheless, painted lady butterflies that popped into my mind as I watched her sleeping. “Mom?” I said softly. She startled and I could see in an instant that she didn’t have a clue who I was. So I told her.   “It’s Ruthie,” I said. That’s always been enough for her face to blossom into a smile of recognition. “Ruthie!” she always exclaims with pleasure. But this time her smile wasn’t convincing--she didn’t exclaim--and I could tell she didn’t know who I was.  But she went...

The Tree on the Corner By Lilian Moore I've seen The tree on the corner in spring bud and summer green. Yesterday it was yellow gold. Then a cold wind began to blow. Now I know-- you really do not see a tree until you see its bones. I came across this poem years ago when I was a new teacher. It was perfect for young students with its simple words, and simple expression of the sequence of the seasons. I printed the words on chart paper, using the appropriate color for each season's verse. I drew a bare tree, branches reaching and dividing and running off the paper, and leaves on the ground around the trunk. I hung it on a bulletin board every year in November. The children loved its rhythm . . . like the rhythm of the seasons. I left this poster behind, along with many others, when I retired. But the words remained with me when I left. Today I walked into a hospital room to visit my mother. She'd broken her hip yesterday and was waiting for surgery. Pale, slack-faced in sle...