Sample of Christopher Lynch's artwork
Having pulled into the driveway Samuel and I collected the drink tray and condiments from the front seat then headed for the house. Henry having taken responsibility for the bags of sandwiches remained behind presumably organizing sacks for easier transit. Reaching the house I placed my cell on a charger then went about preparing tv trays for our informal dinner. It had not occurred to me my elder progeny was still outside when admittedly I became agitated walking to, then opening the front door to ascertain his delay. Approaching the truck I was able to read in finger script upon the passenger window through the fogged glass three words shedding light on his absence as an irritated shadow brooded in the background..."child lock dummy".
Seasons approach the Delmarva Peninsula in the same manner four teenage girls would a handsome young beau, fickle, temperamental and easily distracted. Autumn nuzzles up all drawn butter, brown sugar, cinnamon with cider, the waning shards of warm sun headily intoxicating. Ignoring yule tide anticipation winter bullies her broad hips onto the lounge in time for those romantically inclined. Doggedly determined to stay at the dance until the Ides of March, boredom sets in sending her to a more receptive hemisphere. Now Spring saunters in, briefly twirling a curl upon that supple finger, playful with the lace about her skirt, lifting it ever so slightly yet never revealing her chastity, aloof she pirouettes away without so much as a kiss on the cheek. The sweltering pulse of Summer now arrives, presses itself upon your buxom suffocating apprehension, intensifying the senses, this lass stays longest, but never long enough, once exhausted gone announced. Life on Maryland's Atlantic Coast provides a kaleidoscope of seasons, just never know when you will get them. Still we remain surely in love...with this Eastern 'Shore life.
Lady's in Waiting
Being as I am no arborist the species of my combatant remains a mystery, suffice to say it was indeed ornery. The high whine of a two stroke motor all but drown out the sub chorus of chained teeth gnashing at its green trunk. Pulp, dust and bark debris hung upon my dungarees leaving little doubt as to the toll this undertaking would take upon us both. While my body was not battered my ego was indeed bruised as the old hulk hung on til the bitter end. At long last felled it walloped upon the soft dark loamy soil with a resounding thud. My great sense of accomplishment was short lived as it then occurred to me, I now would be sawing it into chapters, then stacking it. Amongst the sights, sounds and scents of this skirmish with nature I remain surely in love...with this 'Shore life.
So as to prevent furnishings from becoming dental floss my rambunctious canine is kept in the relative luxury of a secured bedroom most of our work, school day. For the most part he takes leisurely naps, lounges listlessly head on pillow not rustling until we return home, a schedule he seems to have committed to memory. Should one enter the home outside of routine Duke paws upon the inside of the door aggressively, adding a low growl for dramatic emphasis in stark contrast to his otherwise affable demeanor. Once free his incarceration the black behometh bounds erratically through our den, tail cutting broad swaths of knick knackery from table tops, haunches moving in several directions all at once as his head is thrust into your loins just for good measure adding injury, though not insult, tis amorous intent. His olfactory having confirmed our identities this tempest in our teapot of a cottage finally settles into a modest semblance of sanity, kinda. Samuel having pirouetted past to his room Henry is left to Rumba with our boisterous beast, bobbing and weaving exasperatedly on his way to the kitchen. Retrieving a treat from the pantry he turns to his canine counterpart whom still twists about as though a cheap watch..."this is why I am a cat man".
Tempest in our Tea Pot
Gathering weary bones I climb into my old pickup truck, settle in and begin a bittersweet journey away from her. The fringe northern border of this Old Line State may not be home, yet blissful shelter is found amongst a mound of blonde curls and soft blue eyes. Navigating expansive multi lane arteries is not entirely foreign to my rural sensibilities though fellow travelers seem perturbed by the deliberate pace I meander along at times. Sliding off the foothills of it's western basin I buffet with the gulls across the high arches of that imposing suspension bridge that cast one across the Chesapeake. Deposited once more upon the Peninsula, turning away from an unseen Nor'easter my buggy careens south through the heart of Delmarva instinctively siphoning itself towards the coast. Granite outcrops have given way to gently, if not subtly rolling fields of harvested grain, boggy marshes and tidal wetlands. Once more I am at the precipice of her beach head, the majestic Atlantic where mounds of frozen precipitation have been replaced by those of frothy white brine. Heart content at either end of this odyssey there is surely comfort...with this 'Shore life.