Shiny Days!

Some days shine.

Not just because the temperature reaches 75, and the sun finally spends an entire twelve hours glowing.

Perhaps the shining has more to do with sensibility rather than meteorology

Today was one of those days.

Could it have been aglow because I spent the day with my 92-year-old father, a pleasure few can enjoy? Dad drives the 700 miles between South Carolina and Pennsylvania on his own, he can walk without assistance, he golfs a mean 46 on nine holes, he hikes a mile every day, he looks 80 - tops, and he can complete a crossword faster than I can read it.

Or was it because we had breakfast out with neighbors? Good friends, pleasant conversation, the richness of relationship building with people we enjoy . . . not to mention the buttermilk pancakes.

Was it the two children in front of me on the airplane who had obviously never traveled before? They grasped their mother's hand on take-off, and when they became comfortable at altitude, they vied for the window to ooh and aah at every stretch of cloud. "Look," the girl gasped. "It's a city!" Unjaded travelers awed by the miracle of modern science.

Or could it have been that magical moment in the arrivals lounge in Wilmington, North Carolina? As we sat awaiting yet another long-delayed flight, I took to people-watching. The young soldier in dress uniform on the sofa cross from us was hard to miss. Over six feet tall and handsome, his demeanor belied his appearance. His fingers tapped endlessly on his knee, on his chin. He wiped his brow. His leg vibrated up and down. I thought perhaps he had just returned from the war; perhaps this was Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And then a flight arrival announcement bolted him from his seat.

As he stood by the gate and watched the disembarking passengers, his tension grew. Finally, a perky, petite cutie with a crop of curly blond hair came through the gate in her pink and white sundress with a matching bag and sandals. Our soldier quickly wrapped his arms around her, a momentary kiss and a few words ensued, then . . . he dropped to his knee, all six feet of him, and he took her little hand in his. "Look, Dad!" I elbowed him wildly, but he was lost in a chess game on the NOOK. "Look!" By this time the entire lounge had zeroed in on the life moment unfolding before us.

We heard our soldier say, "Will you marry me?" A small box came out of his pocket. Our heroine said, "Yes!" and a ring was placed on her finger. He stood, lifted his arms to the heavens (and the arrivals lounge clientele) and boomed, "She said "Yes!' " Of course, we spectators couldn't get enough of this real life movie scene, and we burst into applause.

The bride-to-be jumped into his arms, and there was a twirling and hugging in the middle of the lounge. More applause. Joy all around.

Quickly, the couple moved off toward the exit. The moment united those of of us frustrated with airplane delays. No doubt, everyone's memories traveled to the day of our marriage proposals, our weddings, or our long journeys since then. And we smiled for the hope of newness and fresh starts and young love.

"She did everything right, " Dad remarked finally surfacing from the NOOK in time to see the action. "She even lifted her leg when he picked her up." A coquette indeed. A magical life moment shared by a room full of strangers.

Or did the day shine because of a special gift? As I sat in the megalithic airport known as Charlotte, awaiting the plane for yet another leg of my journey back to Layton (not an easy place to acess from distant points), I recognized a friend. A rush of joy and excitement always accompanies reunions in foreign arenas. "Cindy!" I yelled, and we hurried to embrace. Our mouths started clattering non-stop, and before we knew it, our flight was boarding. Old hands at travel, we didn't rush the gate but relaxed to wait for our zones to be called.

The clattering and chattering continued and . . .  somehow . . . we missed our call. The door to the aircraft had closed! How did that happen without our knowledge? In unison and before a crowd of hundreds at ten conjoining gates, we banged on the closed door. In hindsight, it was interesting that no security came to stop us or bind our panic. Instead, the gate attendant showed up with a grin. "Why, girls, they had cake at the next gate, and I just had to get me some! You're OK. Here, I'll change your seats so you all can sit together."  So the chattering, clattering, and add giggling to that mix, continued until we reached Scranton . . . where the sun rarely shines, but the friendship glistens.

Some days just shine . . . even when it's gray . . . here on Layton.

"Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Carolina in the Morning"

Dogwood in bloom at the "Homestead South"

The winter of 2012-13 refused to release her grip . . . on Layton.

The snow fell steadily for five months. The temperatures lanquished at 25 degrees and lower. The  turtleneck sweaters and corduroy slacks, my standard winter uniform, were worn ad nauseum.  The electric snow shovel and 25 feet of extension cord, ready for momentary use, never left the back porch.

In late March the trees refused to bud, and the flowers remained wrapped in cocoon warmth.  Even the cat became claustrophobic, pacing in front of the door and mewing, yet unwilling to step a paw outdoors . . . kind of like her owner.

With spring stalled on the calendar, the family decided to migrate to the "Homestead South."

My parents established the "Homestead South" upon their retirement 31 years ago. Since then, Jefferson Circle has become the alternate home and vacation spot for the Layton family.

And spring arrives early and lavishly on Jefferson.

The azaleas splash color abundantly with oranges, pinks, whites, and reds, smiling cheerily from every yard. The dogwood's little faces turn upward with a flush in their cheeks and a perky little nose pointed always heavenward. The sweet gum tree drops its prickly fruit across the yard to wake up any flip flop clad pedestrians to the presence of spring. The Carolina wrens sing a reminder, "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning!"

The salt marsh near Jefferson comes alive. Fiddler crabs dash about brandishing their one large claw menacingly above their heads. Herons and egrets stand statuesque in the marsh, eyes skimming the reeds for edibles.

Spring's warmth lures us to the water and a stroll on the oyster beds. The oyster beds heap themselves above the tide line along the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and along the salt marsh. They lay bleached and sterile as we crunch our way beside the river in the sun. The oyster beds remind me of Lewis Carroll's poem "The Walrus and the Carpenter." Unconsciously, I recite to the oysters as the Walrus did before devouring them,

 " The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things. 

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings,

 and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings." 

And the pleasure boats leave the marinas and sail  . . . up and down the river, headed for the Atlantic.

Spring arrives in the South - bright, verdant, alive.

"Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning!"  . . . unless, of course, you are blessed to witness the coming alive of the earth a second time . . . when spring finally appears, all gowned and bedecked, and the dogwoods bloom . . .

On Layton.

Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and salt marsh

Azaleas welcome the Carolina morning.