Gold and Silver Apples

St. Petersburg, Russia
(c) June 2012 Emma E. Glennon

Lately, as I have pondered assorted metal hues, my far-away daughter has been taking photographs steeped in gold.

Just as Fields of Gold has a lovely version sung in a female voice; Yeats’ Song of Wandering Aengus (which is in fact a poem) has been given a female voice.

When I was a high school senior, I enlisted the help of many friends in painting a mural–which somehow has not faded–high up in the school’s entryway.  It has bright rainbow colors and is segmented (in a very then-mod way) with scenes from nature and snippets of favorite quotes.

I notice now that, in keeping with my personality–and nicely dovetailing with the prior decade’s outsized colors and cartoon shapes–my painting style was one of clear, bright-line distinctions among colors, not the light and shading and nuance of my daughters’ paintings and photographs. Continue reading “Gold and Silver Apples”

A Father’s Day Toast

One of my daughters had to explain to me the frequent appearance of Jim’s left hand–the one with the ring divet–among photographs he took from mountain tops: it was how he set up contiguous shots to form a panorama

My electronic inbox overflows with entreaties to make Father’s Day purchases at deep discounts.  Shopping is not on my mind.

Even my reliably soothing farm game saddens me with a “Father’s Day Quest” in which a brown-eyed, raven-haired girl pops up with bubbles of text recalling what her father has taught her, like looking at stars through a telescope and how to drive.  (It was I who had to ride shotgun for all of those hours with the daughter who just got her license.)

Last Father’s Day, not long after Jim’s death, I took the children who were home with me on the kind of family hike Jim frequently took with us.  He would clamber with his long stride up a mountain with our youngest jabbering musically in a baby carrier on his shoulders as the other three zig-zagged ahead, happily crying out “This way!” when they spotted the painted triangles which marked the trails.

Clusters of us would link and unlink  hands, helping each other over boulders and down slippery stretches.  Jim, who always carried the lion’s share of the weight, though it never seemed to burden him, would dole out water bottles and other supplies.  Small hands would grab fists full of his special gorp mixture.  (Despite the seemingly indiscriminate grabbing, the M & Ms and cashews always would go first.)

Of course this time, without Jim, I got us a little bit lost on the way up to the trail head.

When we finally arrived, all the trails we ordinarily took were obstructed by fallen trees, casualties of catastrophic spring storms.

One of Jim’s many photographs in deep greens and crystalline blues
(c) 2010 Jim Glennon

Continue reading “A Father’s Day Toast”

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