Spirals…

This just occurred to me when I ventured today for a stroll with my dog, Andi.

This was not my intention at all to compose something like this. I have a backlog of, well, logs to post, but something struck me about the nature of things.

I was going to wait, until I had the requisite photos in hand, but why bother? Why not let you envision the visuals to my words?

Early this morning I took Andi down our usual path, past the cemetery and to “The Meadow”, as it is called. There, strewn about the fields, were finely woven spider webs, each intricate iteration delicately produced along tips of grass.

It was a magnificent display of ingenuity, how such tiny, unseen arachnids could spin such delightful whorls of thread.

From there, Andi I proceeded down a country lane. Further along, I encountered immense heads of Queen Anne’s Lace, their respective heads arced in unison with the sun. Beautiful! And captivating.

It made me think of those shapes. How the webs and lace echoed those of hurricanes, as seen from satellite. You know, those pics taken from high above our spinning blue orb.

And then it dawned on me. How these images echoed our own cosmos. Think of it; from web, close to ground, to the lace reaching for the heavens, to the spirals of hurricanes, to the varied and infinite galaxies that spin and stretch in all directions in the universe. (Who knows what transpires in parallel universes…)

Spirals. The lowly (but equally stunning) spider web, hung in dew-laden fields, to the Queen Ann’s Lace, straining in its own antique-white countenance among a verdant universe, to the power and magnificence of hurricanes as they spin and weave their way along coastlines, to the majestic and never-ending spirals of never-ending galaxies, all spinning, forever, in an endless and ever-expanding Universe.

Magnificence at its finest! From trembling, unstable webs on the ground, to staggering, unimaginable lengths of time and space.

Remarkable. Beautiful!

I was going to write about our past trip to Peaks Island in Maine, or our past pleasant and brief respite in Scituate, both pleasing environs held in the fabric of largesse and kindness. But something, something about these shapes struck a chord. Something struck my soul.

I just thought I’d share this with you.

But rest assured, Peaks and Scituate are not forgotten. It was just that…that certain aspects of nature embrace you, and you just have to write about it.

May your own strolls along singularly spectacular side roads provide a glimpse into the tapestry that exists, for those who pause and witness the infinite beauty in nature.

Thank you, for stopping by and reading my words. I appreciate it.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2014–All Rights Reserved.

Birthday Boy…

Cameron

I first met my stepson when he was just 10 years old. I was at a friend’s house, in the town where I grew up. His mother was stopping by to pick him up. Cam was playing with my friend’s son, so this would also be the first time I met Cam’s mom.

A young Cam

When she arrived and rounded the kitchen corner, how can one not have become instantly spellbound? I beheld a most exquisite, beautiful, intoxicating woman, and I was transfixed. Alluring, delightful, humorous…and those eyes. I was held captive under her gaze.

Mesmerizing…

But this is about my stepson. And his 21^st birthday. He is no longer the birthday boy, but a man. And in those subsequent 11 years, since his mom and I forged a union, I have seen this young man in various stages of his life. My only regret is that he is not my own son. How I would have delighted in seeing this man as a young child, to hold him, to experience his wonder and exuberance, to teach him sundry things about the world.

For his 21^st birthday, I made a collage of him, photos taken from a young age, to the present. I hope that as he peers at these images they bring back fond memories, of each of those years and moments in time.

Now, come this fall, he will begin his senior year at Worcester State College. He has made Dean’s List every semester. His last report card was straight A’s. He is one smart, funny, intelligent, very humorous fellow, and I love him as though he were my own son.

And those eyes. He possesses the same fantastical, incredibly beautiful eyes like his mom, arresting orbs that can hold folk spellbound. (And his brother, eight years younger, has the same stunning countenance.)

Jace

Cam is now a man. For his 21^st birthday, he traveled to Beantown, to partake in a pub crawl with friends. He returned, not sure of what establishments he partook, but at least he made it home safe and sound.

My stepson is now a man, and I wish him nothing more than much happiness, good health, and laughter wherever his life may lead. Along the way to adulthood, there have been a few bumps and potholes, but with age comes maturity, and he has displayed that to a remarkable degree.

He has seen quite a lot in his brief time upon this planet, and through such trying times he has prevailed; stoic, quiet, strong, even-keeled, and present, to all who have needed help and his love and support. He is truly a one-of-a-kind human being, and I am a lucky man to be the stepfather to this remarkable, stable, stalwart man.

May your travels and adventures take you far and wide and varied, Cam, in good health, safety, and with much laughter.

I love you and wish you nothing more than peace and prosperity wherever you go. And you will go far. I have no doubt.

You truly are a wonderful stepson.

Happy birthday.

Copyright, Paul Grignon-2014– All rights reserved.

5th of July…

Since the fourth was a washout, our town decided to celebrate Independence Day on Saturday instead. The fireworks were supposed to start at 9pm, when the summer sky mimicked the gorgeous and ethereal blues of a Parrish painting. (Or is it the other way around?)

At 8:50 I walked along a country road, my destination not far from my residence. The display could be seen quite clearly from my perch upon a girder.

I sat and marveled at the night sky. A brilliant waxing moon held court in the heavens, as Mars and the planet Spica appeared as pin pricks nestled near the moon’s peak. The moon looked like a spinnaker, sailing in an endless star-drenched sea. A lone contrail floated lazily past the moon’s visage, a gray, worm-like whirl of smoke.

Behind me, darkled woods harbored who knew what nocturnal beasts. Best to stay focused on the night sky instead. The mosquitos were relentless. I heard  they love O-negative blood, and they came in droves to feast on my entire body. But still I sat firm, feebly swatting at these tiny bloodthirsty marauders.

The show began. Cars had materialized on the banks of the road, and silhouetted heads gazed skyward. It was an incredible light show, even by small town standards. One by one, brilliant bursts and cannon shots filled the air, the firework remnants falling in a cascade of fleeting embers, the smoke whisked away by an evening breeze.

Even the mosquitos took pause from their frenzy. The fireworks appeared as though in 3-D with every expansion of color. The finale arrived, filling the heavens with a bombardment of sound and color and fire, and the last of the cannon shots faded into the distance.

The last wisps of smoke trailed off, much like the contrail. I stood and scratched, and felt the swells and bumps from the unseen pesky little vampires.

Car lights broke the darkness as I walked home, happy to know I’d be inside before long. Before I entered my driveway, a long corridor of cars had already formed, all waiting for the light to change.

I stepped inside, cracked open a cold beer, and sat down to my computer. I thought about the spectacle that had just transpired.

Transfixed first by the moon, and then by the dazzling display, I took another pull and began to write. I wrote, and absently scratched my calf.

Despite having been drained of a little blood, it was a fine way to have spent a belated celebration.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2014-All Rights Reserved.