Denise Marotta Lopes, Author at Denise Marotta Lopes

Our Trek Back to Stowe

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 28, 2023 category Uncategorized

Much can happen in 35 years.

Joe and I had been married a year when we first visited Stowe, Vermont. A friend took us on a trek that stopped at the Home of Franklin D. Roosevelt in Hyde Park, NY; the Grandma Moses Museum in Bennington, Vermont; the now-closed Norman Rockwell Museum in Rutland, Vermont; and the Calvin Coolidge compound in Plymouth Notch. I remember feeling nauseous as we wound our way around, up and down country roads. We saw mountains, we experienced history, and we wallowed in nature.

The culmination of our trip from home in New Jersey was to the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe. We arrived later in the day, checked into our room, and saw the pinnacle of our trip—the glorious mountains. We opened the doors to our balcony and stepped out to the breathtaking view. It filled the sky. In the morning, the clouds were below us. I remembered meeting one of the relatives of Maria Von Trapp. Our friend was asking questions about what was real and unreal about their depiction in the movie. He said the family was not singing during the escape. That has always stuck with me.

Since our initial visit, I’ve wanted to return. I’ve mentioned it to my husband on many occasions. Trips to visit his parents in Florida, or ventures to the Jersey Shore ensued, but never a return to Stowe. This year, for our anniversary, he decided now was the time. So, 35 years later, we headed north—this time from our home in Delaware.

We’d been on the road most of the day, relieved to finally pull into the lot at the Trapp Family Lodge. We wheeled the luggage through the drizzle and entered the lodge—a stoic man holding the door for us like we were welcomed guests.

The first thing I noticed was the darkness. The dark wood. The dark counters. The smaller-than-remembered lobby. It wasn’t at all the sunny entrance I had in my memory. I brushed it off to fatigue—the long ride. The overcast sky. We took the stairs to the third floor, through the game room, around the narrow halls. We still couldn’t find our room and were fortunate to find a kind worker who directed us.

It was at the end of a long hallway, last door on the left. No key entry. We opened the door and walked inside. It was welcoming. Clean. The bathroom had been updated. The bed was comfortable to sit on. We were quiet. I was feeling lost; my memories of the lodge did not match that of this quiet, Bavarian-styled building. The door to the balcony beckoned and I stepped through. Directly in front of me was the mountain. The majestic mountain, still in its glory, unchanged to my eye, brought comfort.

We unpacked, anxious to go to town and eat at Ranch Camp, a casual restaurant recommended by friends where one can shop for bikes, eat, and drink beers. It was young, updated, fresh. I felt at home. We shared nachos, Brussels sprouts salad, and tacos. I wanted to stay longer. We got a recommendation for breakfast and headed back to the lodge for a rest.

The weather on Saturday was delightful. Folks were out on the bike trails. Families shopped. A birthday party was celebrated at a nearby park. We began the day at the recommended breakfast joint. It was all it was made out to be. We went to some little shops and while I was paying for books, I heard my husband’s distinct voice speaking with some women he had just met. Apparently, they were also Portuguese, and thus ensued conversation about the Azores and Lisbon, the spelling of names, and more. I smiled knowing he had met some of his people.

We headed back to the lodge for a presentation about the von Trapp family given by a staff member, concluding with a chat by Maria’s grandson. I am smitten with anything “The Sound of Music”. To think that this was where Maria and her family had settled gave me more of an appreciation for the history and beauty of the place. We were told that when the von Trapps were looking for a home, they stopped at an old farm. While the Baron was looking at the broken-down buildings, Maria saw the mountains, and said, “This is it!” To think that the mountain was still there, and that she had lived on this land, connected me to her dream.

The grandson asked if we had any questions. I could not bring myself to speak, but if I had, I would have said that I had no questions, but would have thanked him. Thanked him for what? Thanked him for being born into a family that had reached notoriety because of a movie made about his family’s life? To be part of a heritage that had escaped tyranny and made a new life? For being courageous in the face of death? For being an inspiration? Maybe all of the above.

We left to walk the grounds. I remembered 35 years ago, walking the white paper birch lined path to a stone chapel in the woods. There weren’t as many of these trees this time, but enough to remind me that this was indeed the path. We learned from the presentation that one of Maria’s son’s had built the chapel, carrying one huge stone at a time up the hill and erecting the building because of a promise he made to God in a fox-hole during World War II. It took him seven years to complete. I prayed a rosary in that small building, adding my prayers to those of others who had stood on that same ground, surrounded by the same stones, in those same woods.

My husband held my hand as we descended the path, steep, and uneven. Seeing the chapel was one of the things I most-wanted to do.

We wandered back into town where we shopped, walked, and visited a bar that had not yet opened. The proprietor invited us in, poured a beer for Joe and a Pellegrino for me. We spoke about the coronation of King Charles which had happened earlier that day, and other random facts about the Royal Family. She was a wealth of knowledge. We attended Mass at a modern Catholic church where we were welcomed by a lovely woman who treated us like family. On the way out, the priest told us to drive down near the post office to see the trees that had been felled by beavers. He said there were nearly 11 trees that criss-crossed the stream.

We finished the night with dinner at Doc Ponds. A turntable played classic rock and it was loud. But it was alive, and was the reason we opted for dinner in town rather than dinner reservations at the more formal lodge. We returned to the lodge and chatted with the front desk person before sitting in a comfortable space with a view of the mountains. We sat close, looking at the photos we had taken on our phones and reminiscing about our time in Stowe.

While the building had remained relatively unchanged, to my eyes, it was different. The mountain was the same. The drive remained long, yet peaceful and beautiful. There were still no billboards in Vermont. There was also little diversity. The town had grown. Younger, beautiful entrepreneurs had brought their creativity to art galleries, restaurants, and shops. People drove the speed limit. They did not litter.

Early the next morning, we packed up and headed south, anxious to return to Delaware, to our three dogs and one cat. To the place where our daughter and family live. To where our son would be returning from college. To our favorite coffee shop and parks and restaurants.

I was 30 years old the first time we visited Stowe. I am now 65. Much can happen in 35 years. Much has changed, but with it, the ability to regard what has remained. I recognize the contrast. I am not the person I was 35 years ago. I am a new person returning to an old place expecting it to have remained the same while neither of us had. With new eyes, I see what Stowe is now, and I like it. I am reminded that things do not remain the same. The world is fluid. Even that which remains—like that beautiful mountain—changes with the passage of time because the one looking upon it has changed.

The trek back to Stowe wasn’t exactly what I expected, but I like what I experienced both 35 years ago and today.

The Suddenly of Spring

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 30, 2023 category Uncategorized

New mothers are subject to a good deal of advice. Some is welcome, while others not so much. A phrase shared with me was, “The days are long but the years are short.” It applies to more than raising children.

In seasons of stifling grief; on cold winter days; and during profound illness, the hope of better days seems far away. And, yet, even in the midst of these, there are clearings in the clouds. While we were mired in uncertainty, other things were growing. What we thought would always remain, somehow, suddenly changes.

Spring is like that. One day is raw and chilling. The next day, daffodils fill a hillside. What was once merely a fallen tree branch, now serves as a guidepost for snowdrops.

This year, I was determined to seek out signs of hope, of growth, of beauty in the midst of sorrow. I’ve driven to Brandywine Park waiting for the cherry trees to blossom. Finally, suddenly, there are signs. The rain was worth it. The cold days—when growth seemed elusive—were all worth it.

I walked beneath these trees yesterday and looked up to see the blue sky on the other side of the buds. The contrast was stark. I stood in that moment, transfixed at such beauty. I breathed in their scent. I noticed the sounds of cars travelling on nearby I-95. I heard the rush of water on Brandywine Creek. I listened inadvertently to a woman on her cell phone, having a heated conversation nearby, and the blaring bass coming from a car that had pulled into a parking space. It was an integration of sight and sound; fragrance and communion.

I am reminded that both and all can coexist.

Symphony of Spring

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 10, 2022 category Furry Friends

All things have a place on spring’s stage. While one takes its bow, another enters— exemplary of a layered garden.

Recently, my one-hundred-two-year-old neighbor died. My six-year-old grandson and I were remembering her and he spoke to me of the circle of life. Of how something dies and another thing takes its place. “Maybe when my baby sister is born, she will be Miss Rose.”

In nature, young and old coexist. One has the spotlight while another plays a supporting role. And, then it changes. Where I live in Delaware, the redbud and cherry blossoms have withdrawn, while primrose and iris shine. The light green leaves of spring provide a backdrop for the magnificent peony. I check daily for the short-lived season of the lilac and savor its fragrance while it remains.

Three years ago today, we said goodbye to our beloved Golden Retriever, Roger. We spread his ashes in some of his favorite places, and at the base of a rose bush we planted in his honor.

Today, one of its branches reaches to the sky, reminding me it’s possible that death mingles with life, and brokenness with beauty.

Spring

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 22, 2022 category Uncategorized

green of budding leaves

melodies of early birds

certain signs of spring

Stella!

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 31, 2022 category Furry Friends

Stella joined the pack yesterday. She is a six-or-seven year old Dachshund who was brought to Delaware in a van from Alabama along with her three ready-to-be-adopted puppies. She is chocolate brown—though she may be black—with sprinkles of white around her muzzle and face. Her ears flap likes the wings of a bird when the wind blows, yet she stands her ground. She is alert, curious, and prefers the warmth of a human to that of a much-larger two-year-old English Lab. She is missing two teeth and finds it easier to eat jerky treats than even the tiniest of Milk Bones.

I pictured her as more feeble until I spent a day with her. She is strong and walks fast. We made it to the top of Rodman Road today—up hill all the way. I ask her to walk on my left and she obliges. She is potty-trained and that is a relief. Her poops are bigger than I expected from such a small dog. (Is that too much information?)

She’s only barked once since she got here and that was when she met Ivy. I believe it was a, “Hi, my name is Stella. I’m your new sister. Want to be friends?” greeting. Ivy was all-fours-off-the-ground in response.

I can’t help but wonder where she came from and who her people were. She had to be well-loved. She is kind and mannerly. Was she a surrender? She and the three puppies? Could the owner not afford to care for them? Why hadn’t she been spayed at an earlier age? Did the owner die? I wonder.

Stella is a welcome addition. I try not to call her a puppy or a baby. She’s not. She’s a strong, capable, full-grown dog. All 11.1 pounds of her. She’s been through stuff, even if I don’t know what that was. But, she’s here now, and I am glad of it.

Set Your Gaze

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 24, 2022 category Uncategorized

You are what you gaze upon.

Where is my gaze focused today?

It is on my neighbor’s fence, watching the hedge grow over and through onto. My thoughts grow as I consider space, and boundaries, and when will those trees grow in?

What am I looking at?

Drishti is a word used in yoga—a point of focus during a particular move. How can staring at a point on the wall help me to hold a pose? I don’t know, but it does. Perhaps I stop thinking about falling because my mind is focused on that little point on the wall.

Where do my eyes go?

Looking at items up close causes eye fatigue, so I go outside and find a point far away that allows my eyes to focus on a distant object.

The tops of trees.
The flight patterns of birds.
Is that a “V”? A turkey vulture.
Is that a flat wing? An eagle or a hawk.

Where do I focus when sadness strikes?

Is it down and inward?
Is this where I look for my answers?

When a doctor’s test reveals the possibility of concern, or the news reports onset of unrest, do I go down the rabbit trail of the worst possible outcomes?

In The Monastic Heart by Joan Chittister, she shares a story about a man who has lost his treasure. On hands and knees he searches through the dust and dirt trying to find it. Others stopped to help him, but to no avail.

Frustrated, one of them asks, “Sir, are you sure you lost it here?”

He responds, “No, it was not here.”

“Then why are we looking for it in this location?”

He says, “Because this is where the light is.”

What am I gazing upon?

Will I lean on the goodness of God knowing I will have the grace to deal with each thing as I need it?

Will I continue to live my life, loving my neighbor, remaining in the light? Will I focus on that point on the wall?

I am what I gaze upon.

Snowy Beach

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 28, 2022 category Uncategorized

Sometimes, I’ve just got to get away. So, I suggested a two hour drive to a Delaware beach—in winter.

It might seem an apathetic endeavor to travel to the ocean and not enjoy the luxury of warm sunshine and a swim in the Atlantic, but just the opposite was true. I found the dichotomy of a day at the beach to be both refreshing and invigorating.

An early-riser, I walked to the sand before dawn and watched as the earth turned slowly toward the sun. The seagulls seemed unfazed by the freezing temperatures; the snowfall from two days earlier still on the boardwalk and parts of the beach.

My favorite time, even at home, is right before dawn. It is the time when preparations are being made, when it’s no longer night, but not quite day. The sky shows signs of what’s to come even before the star of the day shows up. The colors are vivid, striking, with nothing to distract one’s eye from them.

I held my gaze at the spot where I would soon see the sun. It was red, broken by long strands of cloud, causing texture in the landscape. I began to see brightness approaching, but decided to look to the left and was struck by the grandeur of the sky. It is easily missed by those who direct their sights on the luminary of sunrise, and miss the magnificence of the supporting cast.

Later in the day, the beach looked entirely different. A young child moved her feet on the sand, then the snow, then the sand again while her mother photographed her with a cell phone. The grasses were visible, the fence surrounding the protected area in full view. Even the crashing waves shared the spotlight with all there was to see.

The horizon, the depth of distance between this shore and that on the other side of the ocean, made me feel both small and at the same time, significant by the mere presence of my feet firmly planted on the ground.

Puppy Play Date

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 20, 2022 category Furry Friends

I can see it in her eyes. It’s not sadness exactly, but rather a lethargic expression. She looks at me without lifting her head, as though she’s afraid to ask for fear of being denied. I recognize the meaning of that look because I’ve felt it myself. One might call it boredom, another, a lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps momentum has been broken and langour has taken its place. It’s time for a play date.

Ivy is a two-year-old English lab. Her best friend, Cooper, lives down the street—a mere eight-minute walk from our kitchen door to his fenced backyard. I text my friend and ask if we can come. Ivy knows we are going by which door we exit. It takes a lot to keep her attention. I wonder that she doesn’t wear herself out by the mere exhausting pace of our walk.

When we turn the last corner, we hear Cooper’s bark. He is waiting in the yard for his friend. Ivy’s tail is high, her ears perked, her body in a state of high alert. It is all I can do to keep her from dragging me up the driveway. I unleash her and she powers her way into the yard. There is something primal about dogs running side by side, free from restraints, muscles triggering. While independent beings, they adapt their rhythm to the flow of the other.

There is a cadence to their play: run, jump, tumble, separate, bark, invite, run, jump, tumble, separate, dig, bounce, sit, observe, bark, sniff, wander, run, jump, tumble, separate, pant, stand. I spend the hour watching, reading, smiling, observing. I compare their friendship to human companionship. I notice the flow, the tempo, the filling that comes from being in the company of one who understands, who sees, who cares.

We say goodbye, satisfied for now; the pace slower on the return trip home.

A Winter’s Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Dec 23, 2021 category Furry Friends

I wrote this entire essay in my mind this morning, December 23. I am moved by this date. I like the numbers and the way they play off of one another. Numbers create in me feelings, and this one is joy.

It is dark when Ivy and I set out just past 6:30 am. I wear a knit headband and scarf; a vest and jacket; and ski gloves. She wears her pink and gray harness and “flower power” leash. She stops on the stoop outside the front door and looks around. A neighbor down the street is arriving home after his night shift.

We descend the three steps to the sidewalk, the slate, and the street. There is little on our walk that is smooth—an homage to the age of the town and the many cars that travel down our road from Brandywine Boulevard to the nearby entrance of I-495. Only one car passes us today, and I wave a hello both to be friendly and to be sure the driver sees us, despite the reflector lights prominently displayed on my arm and Ivy’s harness.

Ivy lunges at a crab apple, while I divert her to the middle of the road. It’s not an avoidance tactic that often works. I let her stop and sniff at the top of the hill where we make a left from our street onto the Boulevard. On this larger, more travelled road, I notice Christmas lights—some which have been up since the day after Thanksgiving, and others that were put up last night. One home continues to add to its display so that each morning it is a gift I discover.

I stop at each intersection to notice the reddening sky to the east; the skeleton of trees enhances the drama. The moon is a few days past full, and in the western sky, greets the approaching sun. I marvel at the intensity of what is able to be seen in the dark, and that which loses its flavor in the light.

At the corner of Lore Avenue sets my favorite home in the neighborhood. It is a majestic, stone home with a fire pit and sitting area around back. It is surrounded by large fir trees and a small evergreen which grows near the sidewalk. Last year the owners had placed a red Christmas ornament on it, reminding me of the one on Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. The tree is larger this year, and that same ornament looks significantly smaller.

The sanitation workers are out today and we greet each other with a wave. Sometimes the bus drivers will honk their horns if they see me. I haven’t seen Deb much since her daughter moved out and took the dog with her; the man with the knee brace who walked every morning has not been around for months and I worry that maybe he is sick or injured. The man with the roses got a new Jeep, and the family with the Labradoodle struggles to manage the big, fluffy puppy.

I am able to see more of the river since the trees dropped their leaves. The Delaware Memorial Bridge is in plain sight despite the smoke stacks spewing white fog into the cold morning air. Its blinking lights alert ships beneath and planes above. On the rivers banks I can see New Jersey.

Ivy stops to sniff and I get ready with my green bag. We pass Tom’s house—the one with the fig trees. I notice newspapers thrown on the sidewalk, far short of the front doors. Some mornings I carry them the rest of the way to the stoops.

When I see something notable, I stop and share the moment with Ivy. She knows now that I will not pass the rose bush without smelling the roses, and sometimes even kissing them. When I do, I think of the fictional character, Lucy Barton, who was chided by her husband when he caught her kissing flowers in a vase on their kitchen table. Like Lucy Barton, I am not ashamed.

As we head toward home, the Christmas lights dim, the traffic increases, and the sun rises above the tree line. I begin to think of what lies ahead on this day, those things I wish to accomplish. But before that, I look with gratitude at the height of the trees, the call of the hawk, and even the bite of the wind against my cheeks. I am reminded of the opportunity I have to walk freely, to witness boldly, and to join communally with those around me. I am grateful to know I am not alone.

Author’s Note: I originally wrote “Haines” instead of “Lore” Avenue. The correction has been made.

The Stories We Tell

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Dec 8, 2021 category Furry Friends

Father George is a storyteller in the truest sense of the word. He bows his head, organizing the words before he speaks. He tells me that he shares stories during his homilies and I ask if the men enjoy them. He tells me that two of them do.

I’ve been visiting with this priest for nearly eight years, first with my Golden Retriever, Roger, and now with my English Lab, Ivy. I would find him in the activities room of the retirement home where he would be organizing crafts. He and two other men would invite me to join them for coffee and conversation. He is the only one left of the three, and so now his stories are just for me.

The retired priest has taken workshops on the art of storytelling and has shared some of his knowledge with me. I know to read a story five times before sharing it. It’s okay to forget parts and make up new ones. When writing a story, it’s helpful to think in terms of threes, and I am reminded that decorating in threes is also appealing.

On my recent visit, George invited some of the other men to join us on the porch—one at a time. Jim prefers that I not call him Father, because he is retired. I asked him what was new in the house and he paused before responding. He said they were back on lock-down and consequently there weren’t as many stories to share of trips and adventures. I asked about his sister and her dogs, which brought to his face a smile as he told about the cat who just couldn’t get along with the dog and about the allergies brought on by her dander.

When we were alone, George told me his story about a king who wanted more to come from the sky than simply rain, snow, and fog. He commanded something different and received thick, sticky goo in return. In order to get rid of it, he had to say he was wrong and that he was sorry. When he did, the goo disappeared and the rain was welcomed.

It was my turn to tell a story about my walks with Ivy—about looking down to keep her from eating crabapples and, as a result, missing the beauty around me. I purposed to look up and began to see new things, which I listed in threes. I had practiced that story every morning on my walks, sometimes concentrating so hard that I forgot all about looking.

Before I left, Father George taught me a card trick. Starting with a deck of cards with all aces on top, I was to separate the deck into four piles. With each of three piles, I counted out three cards and placed them on the bottom of the pile. I then took one card at a time and placed them on top of the remaining piles. I saved the pile with aces for last. By now, there were three other cards on top, so that when I removed them and put them on the bottom of the pile, my four aces remained. I placed one on top of each pile and when I turned over the top cards, aces appeared. Ever the teacher, he demonstrated the trick, explained it, and then had me do it. He sent me home with the deck of cards to continue the trick on others.

Father George is one who looks up. Though his eyesight is failing, he seeks out what is beautiful. He has his faith, his tricks, and his stories. When I prepare to leave, I ask him if there is anything I can bring him from the outside world. He tells me, no, that he has everything he needs. I believe he does.