Denise Marotta Lopes, Author at Denise Marotta Lopes

City of Trees

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 14, 2025 category Gardens

Joe and I went to DC recently to visit our son, Joey; it was our last visit before graduation. It is prime cherry blossom season, but we didn’t go to the Basin. Instead we drove through neighborhoods lined with red bud trees interspersed between bright green leaves on unknown trees on our way to the campus at Catholic University of America.

Everywhere we looked, there was color. It was hard to look at all of it without stopping to see one tree at a time. While DC is only 100 miles from our home in Delaware, I noticed some differences in the landscape. For one, there were so many ginkgo biloba trees! I’ve only noticed them in the fall when their fan-shaped leaves are golden-colored. But, oh, in spring they are lime green. And, they are stunning.

We saw magnolias, cherries, dogwoods. I recall the story of the dogwood petals representing a cross—fitting as we enter Holy Week.

What was most profound to me was the relationship between the various trees. Where I live, the red buds are solitary, not grouped together. They stand out as ornamental, as one of a kind. In DC, there were many, and they shared their beauty with the green of neighboring trees. I saw the value of companionship as they virtually held hands down long and winding streets and lanes. It struck me that their beauty was enhanced by one another.

We returned home and the next morning I went to our local park to see our one gingko tree. Solitary. Huge. I can’t imagine how long it’d been there. It appeared as a grandfather, tall and wise, yet covered in the same lime green leaves as the ones we saw in DC.

Magnificent in its grandeur. I hope it wasn’t lonely.

Sunday: Birds, Blooms, and Old Dogs

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 30, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I give in to the luxury of fatigue. After two busy days, I accept that I have little reserves and can visualize a literal lack of oxygen in red blood cells flowing through my body. Rest will replenish. I succumb to it.

I finished a book today. It took a year to read. Last March, I received The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl. There was no card or indication of who had sent it, but, when I opened the box and looked at the cover, I felt the sender knew me. I scanned through the book and thought, “This is the book I’ve wanted to write!” I kissed the cover, holding it close and took in the fragrance of its pages. I later discovered my friend, Keturah, had sent it. She bought a copy for herself, as well. She and I are kindred spirits.

Every Sunday, for 52 weeks, I read a chapter about birds, about the author’s life, about the weather where she lived, about the season, about the flow of nature. I dotted the end of the chapters with my own thoughts, my own observations of my own birds in my own backyard.

I texted Keturah when I’d finished it today. She responded that she had finished the book, as well, and said she might read it again. I had already logged the book into my list of read-titles and placed it on my shelf with other bird books. After her comment, I retrieved the book and placed it back on the porch where I will start reading it again next Sunday morning. I imagine we will learn new things reading it a second time because we are changed from reading it a first time.

I notice the birds are more active and certainly more vocal this morning. The house sparrows are particularly boisterous as they compete for space in my neighbor’s overgrown hedge. The goldfinches are yellowing before my eyes. Gone is the muted tone of winter; enter, the golden glow of spring.

I’ve begun using an app on my phone called “Merlin Bird ID”. My son-in-law told me about it, sharing that it identifies the sounds and songs of particular birds. Now I know who is singing even when I can’t see him. One thing I’ve noticed is the the number of song variations the birds have—particularly the northern cardinal. It chirps, sings, calls. Short, long, longer calls. There have been more flocking birds, as well: brown-headed cowbirds, European starlings, common grackles. I let them have their fun and then leave the feeders empty for a while to allow them to move on, before refilling.

Spring happens quickly. Much changes one day to the next. The view from my desk shows the continuing growth of the red buds to the left and the opening of the purple flowers on the rhododendron to the right. Straight ahead I see my friend’s house through the backyard of another neighbor. I see her red door and the blue car in her driveway. When her door is open, I see the white face of her older golden retriever as he rests there looking out to the street through the storm door. Soon, the trees will fill in and I’ll no longer have that view. I will miss it.

Our dog, Stella, is 11 years old today. We rescued her three years ago. We were told she was five. Our vet aged her up from there. She is the smallest of our three dogs, weighing in at a slight 9.8 pounds to their 65 pounds each.

I love dogs of all ages. I adore puppy breath and the awkward stages of adolescence. Our two labs are five years old and are beginning to settle into themselves. But, I have a special place in my heart for the older dogs. For the ones with the gray muzzles and the opaque eyes. For the ones with the creaky joints and missing teeth. For the ones who have lived and seen and grew to be beloved. My daughter said goodbye to her German Shepherd, Jada, a couple of weeks ago. Jada, who had been with her for 14 years. She welcomed Angela’s husband, their three children, and three other dogs. She had a large pack and she led it well. Nothing makes me smile more than to see their faces, like the wrinkles on an old woman, knowing they have led many. These old girls like Stella and Jada have been matriarchs. Their loss is great.

Spring moves steadily on. Buds emerge, birds build nests, kids crowd baseball and soccer fields while those who love them cheer heartily. All growing, all changing, as we join them at our own pace.

The Barrel of Buds

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 25, 2025 category Gardens

Like a train barreling down the tracks, buds have begun not just to emerge, but to dominate the wintry landscape. I don’t need a calendar to tell me that spring has arrived. It is everywhere and all at once. It is like a discovery of color, like gifts that won’t all fit beneath the Christmas tree and have to be stacked up and spread beyond its borders.

The forsythia in my neighbor’s yard is one of the first plants to emerge. I observe the way in which it holds onto drops of water after a long spring rain. She welcomes me to cut its branches to adorn my dining table. It is extravagant and no more lovely decoration can be had.

I take my phone on walks and stop to take photos along the way. My English Lab, Ivy, is not as impressed with the tulip magnolia as I am. Not even its pink and white blossoms keep her from finding more enticing things on the ground.

I sit in the sun on my back patio, starting a book about moss. I share the space with house sparrows and goldfinches who flap their wings in an effort to go to and leave from my backyard feeders. I find it a privilege to have them nearby. No matter how many photos I take, I can’t capture the immensity of the tulip poplar and the buds that burgeon against the blue sky. I hear the airplanes overhead, heading west out of Philadelphia International Airport.

I get up to observe what else is awakening on my property. The tall bush with the feathery white flowers reaches all the way to my loft bedroom. I enjoy seeing it from the vantage point of the window. From the ground, I am able to capture the movement of its petals in the breeze. Each year, I wonder at its name. Last year, one of my neighbors took a photo and looked it up on an app. I wish I’d written down the name.

The daffodils have opened into a welcoming bouquet near the front steps. That along with the dog flag given to me by my daughter, tells a lot about what matters here.

Every stage of the red bud is magnificent. The tree is covered with emerging buds, still dark in color as they prepare for their full awakening. My desk is on the other side of the window looking out upon it. I just watched a squirrel dig up a hidden nut, climb the tree and enjoy his meal in the comfort of its branches.

Even the Senecio and Calathea enjoy the view. I wonder, by the way the branches reach, if they would rather be outdoors. I feel that way myself, sometimes.

The Always of Spring

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 8, 2025 category Gardens

It’s easy to identify a baby bird; it is the one with the piteous cry, the bed-head, and the unusual body movements. This morning I observed a young House Sparrow sitting in the leafless tree near my screened porch. It let out singular cries, certainly sounding like an attempt at finding its adult. One never came, and after many minutes baby flew away.

Spring is near. I sense it in the position of the sun, in the sound of the birdsong, in the purple flowers popping out of still-brown grass. It is in the forsythia shrub on the side of my neighbor’s house, with the tinge of gold just beneath the surface, like the hint of sunrise when the sky is still dark.

It is in the irises given by a dear friend which spread year-to-year to fill the side garden near the path through my yard, the one taken by my other neighbor and her dog as a shortcut to her side door.

Anticipation is the season. I hear it in the sound of the dog’s bark and the child’s scream as she plays with friends in her backyard. It is most evident at the bird feeders in the flurry of wings and mating cries of adults.

Spring is an exemplar of that which lies ahead. Of the what’s-to-come. Of the there-is-more. Of the there-is-always-hope.

Always.

Our New Year’s Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 2, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

When I was growing up, New Year’s Day was not a celebrated holiday in our home. Rather, it signified the end of the fun. My grandmother and Al had left to return to Yonkers, school was getting ready to start, and worst-of-all, my mother swept through the house like a tornado taking down the tree and any remnants that existed of Christmas—tinsel and all.

I’m still not a huge fan of the day. I don’t like resolutions, and looking back at the past year makes me sentimental. One thing I’ve adapted over the years is getting into the woods on New Year’s Day. Many parks have taken up the act by sponsoring events for families and pets alike.

Yesterday, Joe and I participated in our own special walk along with our nine-year-old grandson, Rockland, and our unknown-of-age dog, Stella. Rockwood Park is near our home and often a go-to for walks. We started with a book walk of Tree Hugs (Abrazados), through which Rockland ran at a rapid pace. We continued through the gardens surrounding the museum which we entered so he could get a hot cider and a protein bar.

Since he was little, he’s been climbing the Weeping Elm that is tucked away in a far part of the gardens. Yesterday was no exception. What was different this time was that he lost his footing, slid along the gnarled trunk and landed on all fours like a cat. It was quite impressive.

We continued into the wooded area—my favorite. He can identify a beech tree by the smooth trunk that looks like sand, and sadly, by the initials carved into its smooth surface. The Sycamore is one of my favorites with its peeling, camouflaged bark, and spiky seed balls hanging from its branches. I notice that there are few birds to be seen and no woods animals in sight.

After our time among the trees, we made our way back to the museum where visitors had written in chalk along the road—Happy New Year—and other such greetings. It felt good to be with others, but also to be our own little group. Stella garners a lot of attention because of her diminutive size and graying muzzle. Joe is only happy to speak to anyone who wants to know more about her.

Rockland and I wander, and notice. He finds the sleigh where we take photos. I think about the treasure of being with him. I consider the first bird I saw this year—the wren; and his—the house sparrow. I like marking these moments and wonder about what lies ahead.

My energy wanes as I suggest we head back to the car. Rockland runs ahead at high speed leaning into the curved walkway that proceeds down a steep path from the park to the lot. Stella tries hard to catch up with him. I marvel at how fast he is. I am thankful I can walk and feel the winter sun on my skin. I wonder if I will ever be able to run like that again.

We arrive home where we are greeted by the two labs who stayed behind. The lights on our Christmas tree remain lit. I enjoy the sparkle and the extra light they emit. My decorations will come down soon, but not today. Today, I will embrace both the gift of 2024 and the gift of 2025. I will put my feet up and live in the moment I’ve been given, enjoying each and every breath.

The Christmas Tree

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Dec 2, 2024 category Stories

I set the timer on my Christmas tree so that when I come downstairs in the morning, I am greeted by its light. In the quiet, I sit in a nearby chair and look at the ornaments, remembering the ones who gifted them to me. Some I inherited after my parents died and I cleaned out my mother’s Christmas closet. Others were purchased for us by our children. Some of their handmade childhood ornaments adorn the tree.

The small glass ones that hung on my parents’ tree when they were first married are particular favorites. They are stored in “Shiny Brite” cardboard boxes barely held together after all these years.

I am emotional as I go through the boxes, when I think about the memories stored within each one. Decorating the tree is not just a task, but a journey of emotions. I’m not the same person I was when I bought the Mickey Mouse ornament at Disney World the year before I was married.

Last year the ornaments remained in their boxes as I was unable to have a tree in the house; the risk of infection due to my compromised immune system was too great. Instead, we put a tree on our screened porch where I could sit in the fresh air and look at the green branches. This year is different, the hayride to the orchard a particular wonder. Our home is small and my husband only wants a narrow tree to fill the space. None of the trees in the field would do, so my grandson chose a pre-cut that was just perfect.

I took much of the afternoon winding strings of lights around it, only to notice later that some of the bulbs didn’t work. I left it, content with the ones that did shine. One by one, I began to hang ornaments, some lower where the kids could reach; others higher so they would be at eye level. My grandson showed his sister the one that played music, and the wooden soldier whose legs kicked out to the sides when she pulled the string.

I photographed individual ornaments and sent them to friends who had given them to me. I wanted them to know I remembered and cared. This year I stand near the tree to get a closer look. And, I also sit several feet away to get an overall view of how each ornament is connected to the others.

My tree is a timeline of friendships and seasons. It is a reminder of those who have gone and of those who remain. It is a shining vision in a season of diminished light.

Reflection

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 27, 2024 category Gardens, Stories

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. I know this because my Christmas Cactus flowered. I don’t ask questions, I don’t wonder about the calendar, I simply accept that this is the time it flowers each year.

My refrigerator is full of items to make an antipasto platter to bring to my daughter’s home tomorrow. My version of the traditional Italian appetizer will include cherry tomatoes on the vine and cotton candy grapes and oversized, red strawberries because my grandchildren like them. My son is home from graduate school and when we sit down at the table tomorrow, my family will be under one roof. For that, I am thankful.

Joe and I walked our three dogs this morning at Brandywine Park. I breathed fresh air, moved my body, observed the dichotomy of the creek, the rose garden, the iron bridge, and the tall office buildings. We walked beneath the underpass of I-95, listening to cars and trucks roaring by overhead. I stopped to photograph the reflection of the aqueduct, noting the beauty that extended beyond the structure itself, to the water beneath. In the process, I saw my own reflection cast by the sun behind me, making me look even taller than usual.

It made me wonder about reflections. As we stood there, I noticed Franklin looking up at me, his eyes questioning me. Were we continuing our walk? Did I have more treats for him? I thought about my love for him evident in his eyes.

Near the end of our walk, I stopped at a magnificent, gnarly tree. I marveled at its mystique. I wondered for how many years people had stopped to observe it. As I stared, ready to photograph its beauty, I spotted the gray squirrel camouflaged in the crook of the branches, the sun spotlighting its face.

It’s a time of year for reflection. Of this year, of years past. Of how today will be reflected years from now. I want to live my life with the kind of love that makes others feel cherished. And, like my Christmas Cactus, it doesn’t have to comport with an assigned time or season. It can bloom right now.

Sounds of Seasons

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 19, 2024 category Gardens

The sounds of leaf blowers abound. I struggle with the level of intensity, of the obsession with cleanliness at the expense of chaos. Most leaves are off the trees and I hope soon the sounds will settle. I focus on reminders of what is lovely—the colors of leaves, the movements of their fall, the smells of necessary decay. I shift the roar of mowers and blowers to the background in an effort to establish peace.

I reflect, instead, on my newly-born grandson, of his measured movements, his open mouth, his cries. I wonder at the miracle of his life, of how his focus is only on food and comfort. I marvel at the simplicity of his life, on the vulnerability and trust he has in my daughter as he rests in her arms.

I pray for him from my porch. I watch the blue jays squawk atop the feeder while the white-throated sparrows peck at the fallen seeds beneath. I wonder at the level of preparation, the acceptance of the fallow season, the anticipation of what lies ahead.

I recognize the need for the seasons—those of wanting, those of movement, those of rest. I’ve learned that in the wild a dog will hunt, eat, clean, and rest, in that order. There is a rhythm to its existence. Likewise, there is a season of growth and rest for all of us. As I watch that cycle play out, I learn that acceptance of these seasons is imperative. And, while I wait, I rest, in anticipation of what’s to come.

Beauty Intensified

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 28, 2024 category Gardens

My mornings feel a bit different now. The air is cooler on the porch and I welcome the warmth from my coffee cup, blue blanket, and space heater. I am recovering from a wicked head cold that has left me wiped out but grateful that my bone marrow and mighty white blood cells are fighting for me.

Every day is more crisp. The tulip poplar’s lost half its leaves. The ones remaining are a mixture of green and gold. The cat birds are gone, though I’ve yet to see the juncos. There are a pair of wrens that visit. I am partial to the wren. I like the unique motor-sound it emits. It’s the only bird who makes eye contact with me.

It’s hard to miss the beauty of the trees and sky: a view from a window, a walk up the street, a drive to a nearby park. I feel the need to squint from the intensity of color and clear blue skies; the cool air dries my eyes and throat. Yet, I embrace it all, not wanting to miss one moment. Joe and I took the three dogs to a local park. He walked Ivy and Stella; I accompanied Franklin. We walked the long path that leads from the parking area to the woods. Before we reached the entrance to the shaded trees, I was stopped by the most beautiful expanse of trees. My husband, Ivy, and Stella continued forward but I was glued to the ground. I couldn’t take my eyes off the sight of the orange, red, gold, brown, and green. I grabbed my phone and attempted to capture the sight. What made it even more remarkable was the moon visible in the blue sky above.

We didn’t walk far, but enough to soak up the energy of the woods. If we stood still we could hear the sound of the falling leaves. They don’t fall like a cannon ball would. They take their time and dance on the air, moving side to side, and tumbling one end over the other until they land, gracefully, on the ground.

We turned to leave, but at a slower pace. As we neared the parking lot, I looked back at the row of trees I had photographed earlier. From this vantage point it did not have the magnificence of seeing it as it looked earlier around the bend. In my mind’s eye, I imagined it, though. Perspective matters.

Return to the Cancer Center

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 7, 2024 category Furry Friends

Last week, Ivy and I had a special visit. All of our visits are special, of course, but this one had special significance. We participated in Resource Day at The Helen Graham Cancer Center—the same center where I meet with my hematologist/oncologist, where I received chemotherapy, where I continue to have labs drawn. My home-away-from-home for the past 17 months.

When the opportunity became available to provide pet therapy for the event, I knew I had to do it, and I knew which dog I would bring. Ivy is a jet-black English lab who can be kind and gentle one moment and as strong as a bull the next. She enjoys people and plays hard with other dogs. But she is alert and attentive and rises to the occasion when it comes to therapy. I was just beginning to walk more and with less pain. I was still tired, and hoped my energy would hold up, but this event was too important not to attend. I hoped Ivy could help me through the 9:00am to 11:00am shift.

The event was held in a large room near the east entrance to the building. I usually enter at the west, so I didn’t see any familiar faces. I kept my diagnosis to myself. We sat near the Nurse Navigators display by a bank of windows overlooking a courtyard and a pond with a fountain. Among the other participants in the room, were nutritionists, nurses, and doctors. The goal was to present the patients and caregivers with available support from various departments as they walked through the cancer experience.

During our shift, most of our interactions were with staff—they needed the comfort as much as the patients and caregivers. As we were approaching the end of our time there, a woman, and a man I assumed to be her husband, entered the double room. Ivy and I were seated on the farthest side away from them, and yet Ivy immediately came to attention. She stood up, alert, staring at the couple. She did not take her eyes off them. I wondered why she was so attentive. We did not know the couple, yet she had a connection with them that was undeniable. They walked slowly, cautiously, looking at some of the displays. The man pushed a walker and the wife said, “This way, Lee,” in an effort to guide him to other tables. As they came closer, Ivy pulled me toward them.

I made eye contact with the woman who had been looking at Ivy. “She is a beautiful dog.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Her name is Ivy. Would you like to say hello?”

The woman slowly reached out her hand as Ivy sniffed it first, then licked it. We chatted a bit before the husband looked at us. Ivy pulled me right toward him, as though she couldn’t reach him soon enough. Her whole body shook with excitement as her back legs came off the ground. She essentially danced toward him like a bear cub. The man reached over the front of his walker to pet Ivy’s head playfully and strongly. It was as though the man had been energized by the moment. He spoke to Ivy while I looked back at the woman. She had tears in her eyes.

“She is very excited to be with you both,” I said.

“You mean she doesn’t do this with everyone?” she asked.

“No, she doesn’t,” I replied.

Something happened during that encounter. I don’t know who needed the comfort more—the husband or the wife. But, Ivy knew she was needed. She knew she had love to give and that her love was needed in return. She was not slow in her approach. She was excited, joyful, and direct. In return, they received her in a way that communicated their need.

As the couple left us to continue their walk around the room, I put my hand on Ivy and told her what a good job she had done. She allowed me to leave my hand on her for a while. Perhaps she knew that I needed her, too.