Palm Sunday was always one of my favorite days; I loved receiving the beautifully flexible palm frond; I had absolutely no trouble believing it was indeed as much a biblical treasure as that day’s communion.  What a lovely hand-held item to commemorate such a glorious day in the church!  We’d walk home with Mom, enjoying the sunny warmth and slightly overheated by the time we entered the house.  Anxious to place the new palm frond behind our own crucifix, we’d quickly change clothes so we could dig into the salami, cheese and bread Daddy had spread out in their original deli wraps on the breakfast nook table for him and the Mechanic to enjoy over a highball…

Decades later, here I am in the Midwest at FrogHaven and it is snowing today.  I am no longer a church regular so I am home bonding with my crock pot.  Weird…and getting weirder.  It’s supposed to be spring, yet today we are told to expect SIX inches of snow???  Snow on Palm Sunday!  The church is probably disbursing hand- woven “shovels” instead of the tenderly-woven “crosses” that are so much a part of this mainstream…

What is it about snow that brings out the squirrel in me?

Snow in Twain Harte years ago…we would be staying another night because of the roads, so I began about the kitchen scraping and foraging for everything and anything edible…color was the key; didn’t Mom always say the more color on your plate  the more nutritious?

So, I began with what was left: butter, some broccoli, some celery and carrots, a bit of leftover anything that I could combine…I concocted what was one of the best cream of broccoli soups I ever produced – under snowfall duress, mind you – yet I never wrote down the exact ingredients or their quantities; to this day, I have failed to fully duplicate that soup.

I came close once, and my mother-in-law asked me to give her my recipe.  I did but, without the fear of being snowed in and dying an untimely death, the recipe didn’t exactly compute like the version she had tasted – that time, under in-law distress – so, even she admitted,

It just wasn’t as good as yours….

Hah! If she only knew the chef humor involved.  And why I fully understand that if any chef is offering a special anywhere I roam that day, I’d better take advantage of such a treat!  I know firsthand that I may never again have the chance of experiencing such creativity or gourmand pleasure.

Snow is still rather foreign to this native Westerner.  I love watching it fall and the cardinals and wrens are beautiful – no artist can fully capture for me the heavy hand of Snow, an equal opportunity Duster, distributing its lovely white phenomenon beauty on limbs, patio tables, and decking…  Thank you, God, that You’ve once again made light of global warming worries and put such climate change discussion on hold for another day!  I only wish my sisters were here to share the crock pot serendipity on my kitchen island.

Waste not, want not.

Repeatedly, Mom never threw out anything that was still “good”.  But she only knew soups, not casseroles, so our family kitchen beheld many course meals or soup; nothing much in between, unless Daddy was going to the Italian Club that evening with the guys.  Then, Brat and I could talk her into buying us a treat from the local market: a frozen Swanson’s Dinner!  Mom was almost apologetic as she checked out, remarking she never thought she’d purchase her children a frozen dinner of any kind…school lunches were about as close as we ever came to fast food in those days under Mom’s watchful eye and budget.  Otherwise, forget anything “new” from Kraft or Swanson’s or even Chef Boyardee…they’d have to rely for their taste-testing by someone else’s children, not hers.

Yes, history if not weather is repeating itself today for this cook; I’ve foraged and gathered up lots of colorful broths and veggies; by this time in my cooking career, I’m far better prepared and even have a bit of ham to finely dice and scatter throughout the butternut squash and cream potato base.  Limas and some corn add that bit of Mardi Gras festivity to what would otherwise be just another found meal; I’ve gathered up all the extra nutrition that comes from knowing how to combine and savor every little bit of seasoning…some ground pepper and perhaps a little bit of butter will dollop the final plate.

For sure, I’ll take out some of my squirreled-away crusty bread from the freezer…this snowy Palm Sunday calls for some carbs and comfort and a glass of wine while I work on taxes.  This chef is no fool…but surely grateful that somewhere in the woodpile a frog met up with a squirrel…and a soup pot would never be the same.

 

My Rogue and I have been walking the Riverfront Trail, a joint project of the city park system and The Washington Rotary Club.  It is a much loved, scenic path that winds along the Missouri River as it passes by Washington’s Historic Downtown Area.

We have groaned and complained upon arising each day until we step into the truck, winding our way downtown to the trail, half-filled coffee cups with cream in our hands.  Thank you, God, for coffee; especially on these early morning bonding adventures.  Most mornings we are on the trail exceptionally early; the pathway can be very dark. The humidity is climbing already; by 5:30am the temperature is anywhere between 74 and 84 degrees, depending on whether Washington will experience a triple digit day.

One meets all nature of walkers; some with pets on leashes, two friends heavily engaged in catching up from the day before, some just on their own… A few greet us; others prefer to concentrate on their own tempo and listen to their ear buds.  A bicycle passes by, with or without any warning.  It is up to us to stay to the far right side of the path.

Were we to wait until later in the day, women with grandchildren in tow inside a wagon or specially made stroller might accompany us, even passing us by when we neglected to keep a faster pace.  Children seem to flourish in this small but pristine town west of St. Louis; so, too, the elders, who take their walks along the Riverfront Trail very seriously.

Among the walkers are those who briskly pace, focusing on the aerobics of the moment.  If one sees another more than a few times, a familiarity begets a quick hello.  Sometimes, a bit of history is shared…

Did you know that it was 104 degrees fifty years ago today?

This gentleman explains that it is his fiftieth wedding anniversary.  AHA! I conclude…climate change is just another history-repeating-itself occurrence.  I congratulate the man, explaining that My Rogue and I will never make our eighteenth if he doesn’t straighten up!  The man consoles my husband, explaining that he’s survived a good number of idle threats over the years! The handsome but grayed groom continues on, walking in quick time tempo.

Others walk along as we do, stepping at a comfortable pace; it is nothing short of a miracle that My Rogue can walk the one mile course; we are not yet ready to expand our horizons and lengthen the walk to the bridge; at least, not just yet.  We have slowly become familiar with certain curves and markers along the trail.  Some mornings it is so dark, I can barely even see the rabbits unless they decide to run across the asphalt path.

Mostly, I’ve spotted the small cotton-tailed critters nibbling on the grasses among the fallen leaves; a few spot us coming and immediately dart back under the brush!  Others remain very still; had I not been wearing my glasses, I’d have passed them by; God does indeed blend the critters’ colors with their surroundings.

Rabbits with cotton tails.  No overalls, unfortunately.  Beatrix Potter surely had imagination.  I’ve not once seen Peter, nor have I seen any rabbit with a tattered blue jacket, torn in haste from escaping Mr. McGregor’s garden.  Big disappointment for this romantic but child-like observer…in fact, somewhat of a letdown, though intellectually I know I am not within a cartoonist’s cell or artist’s sketch pad…

This is about as adventurous as I get.  No Sacajawea am I. I am definitely a City Frog. I’d have told Thomas Jefferson that the existing thirteen colonies looked good enough; we need not tarry any further, Mr. President. Then, I’d have cooked him one of my fabulous dinners…that, and a late nightcap, and Voila!  America’s expansionist days would have ended.

For cheap entertainment, I begin counting the rabbits. I am joking along the way…counting and remarking to My Rogue that our morning walks now include our current position on “practicing safe sex”…we no longer kill rabbits, we just count them. My Rogue shakes his head, chuckling softly in agreement.

So, the City Frog and her Rogue continue, walking along the neatly paved trail, noting the birdsong and the trains – one, sometimes two, every morning – carrying coal or refrigerated perishables on their way toward St. Louis.  Waving to an engineer was not a possibility where I grew up.  Yes, I knew what a train looked like; I’d colored enough of them in my Southern Pacific coloring books from my godfather.  But I’d never read anything that said it was against the law to wave to an engineer. So, I continue to be the child-like one, waving to the next train as it passes by.

You are just like a kid! I can’t believe you…do you really think he cares?

Yes; I’m sure he sees and appreciates someone’s greeting along the way.

Truth be told, it’s great fun to wave and enjoy this childlike freedom…I could never be a kid; even at age four, I was a proper but little old lady.  All I could do was behave; pay attention; and follow the delineated rules of whoever’s house I was in.

The trains cannot blow their horns any longer here in our city limits; they can, however, change tracks when needed.  On occasion, we run the risk of being “stuck” on the riverside of the tracks…sitting in our Ford truck with bottom of the cup cold coffee.  I repeat:  Sacajawea passed by here long, long ago.

I turn my attention back to looking for more rabbits to count; today, I’ve seen a baker’s dozen on our walk inside the trail, along the riverfront, toward the half-mile bench.  We are on the return leg, slowly moving toward the parking lot entrance.

HeLLO, little wabbits… This is your fwend, Elmer. Come out…come OUT!

My Rogue is my best audience; I get another chuckle from him.  But it is as I suspected: even rabbits are smarter then we; the smarter ones are probably still sleeping…it’s not even 6am yet. Not another appears, much less one approaching me and asking,

What’s up, Doc?

Damn cartoons…

Unlike our neighbors who installed electric fencing, My Rogue had neither the desire nor the intent of doing any such thing; in fact, our yard did not support any size of man’s best friend with its sloping downgrade to an ever-evolving creek or mud hole, depending on the debris that gathered each season.

No, we are not getting a dog.

I was disappointed at first; I thought for sure we should at least have something akin to a Great Dane or Greyhound type such as the one Cinderella had loved and nurtured long after her father’s death.  He was a faithful soul, continuing his allegiance to her even after she’d moved upstairs to the attic.  So, in my strong-willed, Disney-tainted mindset, I set about looking for a low maintenance breed, ideally with some stature for the size of our retirement dream home, FrogHaven.

I said no, absolutely not!

 My Rogue repeated this enough that his message was clear.  But I continued to search and – equally clearly but creatively – avoided the notion that any restriction existed…there must certainly be a way, I surmised.

When I first came across Bernie, it was love at first sight!  I had admired him for what seemed like several months; but he was forever young and retained his slightly golden aura; if not definitely a pedigree, almost certain he was a well-planned breeding between a retriever and an everyman’s hound.  No mutt was he!  Bernie’s regal carriage was solid. Legs perfectly shaped, his back at attention yet his jaw line strong but friendly… I continued my vigil-like visits, even saddling up to him enough to know that we were indeed a very good match: he seemed content with my constant attention and I was spell-bound by that “je ne sais quoi” bearing.

Because I was now the Lady of FrogHaven (again, a bit too much unbridled Disney imagination over the years), Bernie seemed absolutely the perfect choice!  I’d visit him from time to time, strolling past his place in the entry, quietly standing at attention with his sign between his teeth, bidding “WELCOME” to all who entered in.  Perhaps it was my imagination, but he seemed to catch my attention and speak to me every time I attempted to pass him by without stopping. He was the loving, warm and welcoming “big dog” contender, the one that my imaginary manor called for. What was not to love?

Absolutely nothing except his price tag, which was deemed hefty for this conservative home maker.  I had to be pragmatic.  Some months did not offer the imaginary kingdom budget that I’d dreamed of, not even here in the Midwest.  I’d have to trust that whatever home Bernie eventually guarded would be the chosen residence by the Architect whose reasoning would be far superior to my own child-like notions.

Okay, so I didn’t rescue him from a shelter. But the day came when I did indeed rescue him from the sales table of that local merchant.  So excited was I that my niece helped me load him into the passenger side of my small car; we seat-belted him in so that his ride home would give everyone a second take; a chance to smile at my statuesque golden pup!  Once home, Bernie even won over my nay saying Rogue!

For nearly eight years, Bernie stood at attention, welcoming all to FrogHaven, while ever so gracefully aging into a soft, matte gray.  At the golden age of fifty (in dog years), Bernie lost his grip and dropped his sign from his jaws; the sign landed softly on the earth but, before I could rescue it and seek repair, My Rogue tossed it away, rusted chain and all.  My Rogue believed enough was enough; Bernie had served us well…he deserved to retire there in familiar surroundings, among the Knockout Roses and the wind-swept reeds, surveying the uphill climb and the neighborhood children’s antics.

Recently, Bernie disappeared.  There were no signs of foul play or vandalism: no broken branches or disturbed planter bed; no candy wrappers or soda cans to imply that any children had absconded with him.  Nothing.   In fact, his leaving was so very quiet that we didn’t even notice he was gone until several days later, when a neighbor inquired about him.  I thought it strange, but continued toward my driveway entrance and cast my glance to where Bernie had last welcomed me home.  Alas, there stood only an empty spot midst the garden plantings.

In retrospect, it was just like Bernie; he’d never caused us any added grief or unexpected vet bills.  His nature was simply to withstand the gusts and thunderstorms that our Midwest climate offered…in addition to a few outbursts from My Rogue on occasion!   My Rogue’s behavior had prompted me to suggest I should change Bernie’s welcome sign to read,

Beware of Mr. Grumpy

But faithful Bernie would never have agreed to that, so I abandoned the project.  Certainly the children on the block would have delighted in it…