Denise Marotta Lopes

The Wonders of Mid-June

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 11, 2024 category Gardens

The tiger lilies line the back drive next to my neighbor’s fence. They stand tall and singular, yet together they make a crowd. I am reminded of a parade, people held back by an invisible line, and yet craning their necks for a view of what’s to come, even though it will pass by right in front of them soon enough.

It’s the end of the school year here in the northeast. On the last day, teachers line up in the parking lot and wave to the children as the yellow school buses haul them away for summer vacation. I can visualize both the sigh of relief as well as the tears in the eyes of the staff—and the kids.

The echinacea have blossomed. They’re one of those plants that show every stage of development at the same time. While some of the flowers are tiny, others begin to turn a light pink; older ones are bright, deep pink with petals that have pushed back to look like a shuttlecock or someone sticking their head out of a fast-moving car. They have spread a lot since last year, moving into the territory of the iris greens. I like that they all live together and I prefer the cottage-like freedom to the neat and tidy borders of the more elegant, structured gardens.

The lavender has found its roots, finally, and is growing full and lofty. I run my hand through it just to have the fragrance close by as I move through my day. I have cut it and dried it, but it never has the same smell as when it is still in the ground.

Bright lemon-yellow goldfinches are exuberant about the dry thistle in their freshly-cleaned feeders. Babies of various bird varieties abound and are easy to spot with their bed-head feathers and odd, trusting behaviors. I enjoy watching the downy woodpecker and female cardinal share the safflower cylinder, each eating away on their own side of the white tower, content to share as long as they don’t see each other.

I learned once about closing my eyes and identifying five sounds in nature. It is easy to get to three but then I question myself about the next two. Did I hear that one already? After five, the sounds multiply and I could easily count more. Birds, bugs, rustling leaves, my dog’s snore, my cat’s meow. It all counts.

Even my own sigh.

Nuggets of the past year

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 23, 2024 category Furry Friends, Stories

A Northern Flicker came through the yard today. I was on the porch and saw a bird sweep by from my left to my right, landing on my neighbor’s fence. Shortly after, a Mourning Dove landed to the left of the Flicker. At the time, I didn’t know it was a Flicker. I thought it was a Dove, but its manner of flying made me question that assumption. So I looked closer and saw red on the nape of its neck. He flew to the back drive, alone, where it began to pick at food from the ground. It went under another neighbor’s fence, but quickly returned to the drive. I grabbed binoculars to be sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Yes. The longer beak. The spotted feathers. The red nape. The size of a dove. The large black spot on the chest. It was him. Confirmed. And, then he was gone.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. The day the doctor said the results were not what we had hoped for. Then words like blasts and cancer of the blood—”which is what you have”—and AML, and his tiny writing as he wrote Acute Myeloid Leukemia with preceding MDS on a piece of paper. I expected it based on some of the results I had seen on the patient portal, but hearing the words made things so final. Joe was with me and seemed more shaken than I was at the time. I asked if I could expect to feel better at some time and the doctor was so positive and said, yes, and then said more words that included a new chemotherapy protocol with fewer side effects and a shorter treatment time and later on, a stem cell transplant and then things began to swirl. I had a list of things I needed to do prior to treatment: more visits, more labs, CT of heart, PICC line placement, cancellation of vacation at the shore, the telling me that my neutrophils were so low, that if I were to get sick right now, he would hospitalize me.

I remember tutoring a student online that afternoon, and meeting Joey at St. Patrick’s in the city for 5:30 mass. Some time that week, I went to my grandson’s baseball game and before leaving the car a woman from the insurance company called to say how much of the stem cell transplant they would cover and I felt overwhelmed. It may have been the day before that I found out, or maybe the same day, time got very mixed up for me, and I was trying to absorb it all slowly. Anxiety had already taken me. I remember saying to Joe, “I feel like I’m drowning.”

One of the hardest parts initially was telling my family that I had leukemia. Joe knew. I told my son at Mass. I told my daughter. And then I told my brothers and sister. I felt afraid, vulnerable. We had just lost our mother in January and now I had cancer. I assured them of all the things the doctor told me. All the positive things. That the treatments are so good now and that I was expected to be cured. And, I was exhausted. I told close friends, but I didn’t tell everyone because I didn’t have the energy to answer questions or to carry any heaviness when it was enough to just breathe and not get washed away in anxiety and depression.

A year ago today. The day I saw a Northern Flicker in my yard. The day that I am in full remission. The day that I am still recovering and dealing with GVHD. The day that I went with Joe, and our dogs, Ivy, Franklin, and Stella to Sleeping Bird Coffee. The day that I went in with my mask on and ordered my own food. The day I drank a cappuccino and ate a bacon, egg, and cheese on sour dough bread with fig jam. The day I came home and am sitting up in bed with Stella at my side, writing these words and watching the stream of the remaining eaglet at the Duke Farms Eagle Nest get ready to fledge. The other left yesterday.

I feel a bit like this eaglet. Not quite ready to fly, but positioned to do so. Resting. Waiting for the conditions to be right. A fish in the nest in the event of hunger. The eaglet on the branch. Between here and there.

Windy Days

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 16, 2024 category Gardens

The wind blows steadily today. I recently told my grandson to take note of windy days following rainy ones. It is still cloudy and overcast, the air is temperate—in the 60s. It is simply beautiful. I watch as the trees yield to the pressure. They bend but keep standing. The leaves blow and I am reminded of those with hair long enough to blow in front of their eyes.

I can see the bottoms of the leaves as well as the tops, the contrasting light (almost white) and light green. The trees are tall and lanky, designed to grow up more than out. The leaves are serrated. The birds have found this tree, now in its third year and find it steady enough to land in, yet not sturdy enough to build a nest there.

While entire tops of trees are moved in the gale-force winds, only one part of my honeysuckle is moving. It’s a vine that has reached beyond the top of my deck railing and has not yet decided where it would like to land. Last week, I wove it through the railings thinking how lovely it would look to have the yellow flowers decorate the side of the deck. In a day, the plant told me this was not a good idea. The leaves had started to wilt and while the rest of the plant looked happy, this one vine did not. I quickly unraveled it and let it go free. When the sun is out, it follows the light from one side of the deck to the other; when the wind blows, it allows itself to be moved.

I realize that I am not the one to decide where it lands. I make sure it has water and sun. I speak kindly to it. I admire it. I call it by name. Where it chooses to wind itself more permanently is up to the honeysuckle itself. In the meantime I enjoy watching it decide.

Rainy Days

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 10, 2024 category Gardens

I’ve come to love rainy days. For one thing, the neighborhood is quieter. No leaf blowers, hedge trimmers, lawn edgers to interrupt the sound of singing birds and rustling leaves. There is a smell that I associate with rain. I can sense it coming. The first time I remember that feeling was when I was young growing up in Yonkers, NY. It was summer and I was walking along McLean Avenue (which separated Yonkers from the Bronx) near the city park across the street from my apartment building. It was late afternoon and the sky had become ominously dark, the signs in store windows more pronounced. The fragrance in the air had changed to something fresh, clean, electric. I could sense it at the bridge of my nose. If I could have seen it, it would have been a steely gray. It was right before a thunderstorm which would soon wash the streets and sidewalks clean of the grit and grime of the city’s buses, cars, and trucks.

Today is one of the rainy spring days that rather than coming down in torrents, comes in a steady strong mist, a shower that waters every plant, tree, flower. The birds seem not to be bothered by rain. In fact, they are quite active. I watched a raven be chased by both mockingbird and blue jay. Now that the feeders are clean and fresh nyjer thistle set out, the goldfinches are back in their yellow glory, happily eating. The cardinals prefer the safflower cylinder and will sometimes share the space with house sparrows that live in my neighbor’s hedge; other times they chase the sparrows around and around and around the circular base. Aptly named, the catbird has returned and I look forward to hearing the cry that sounds very much like a cat in great need. In a surprising moment, a red-bellied woodpecker found the cylinder this morning, and later, the more common visitor, the downy (or was it a hairy?) woodpecker.

I am anxious to see what new growth will be displayed tomorrow morning after the rain stops and the sun returns. I wonder if the hummingbirds will stop for a drink at my feeder while on their way north. I wonder if my honeysuckle vine will be tall enough for me to encourage its winding around my deck railings. Let the rain come. Let it feed our souls. Let it bring us thoughts of what tomorrow will bring while we enjoy the quiet hum of the falling drops today.

Plants Carry Stories

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 4, 2024 category Gardens

One recent morning I came to my screened porch to pray and looked outside to discover the first iris had opened in the garden. I gasped at the sight of it. A first fruit, standing tall and proud signaling to the world that it had arrived. Plants carry stories.

Not far beyond it, the primrose had started to wither, giving up its spot in the limelight to the neighboring, spreading lavender—a gift I had purchased for my dad shortly before he died. I brought it back home and planted it in his memory.

With the changing of the red bud from purple to green, the peonies make their appearance known in a big way. There is nothing shy about a peony, particularly that of the dinner plate variety.

I spend time contemplating how many of the flowers were given to me by my friend, Cathy. When I would visit, she’d grab a big shovel and dig up whatever I wanted. When she visited, it was often with a bag containing plants and soil. The wild geraniums are subtle and had been growing on her property for years and each spring I ask her to remind me of their name. The irises were given to her by her mother-in-law and now spread across states from Cathy’s home to mine.

The variegated hosta were from my Uncle Sal. He gave me several from his garden in Yorktown Heights, NY and I planted them around my house in northwestern NJ. We moved out of state and left the hosta to adorn the garden we had nurtured. Some time later we heard that the people who bought our home had moved away, leaving it abandoned like Joyce Kilmer’s The House With Nobody In It.

My daughter and I were visiting in the area and drove by our former home. We were sad to see the garden in shambles, the plants we had nourished hidden in weeds. We pulled over, and under a mound of dried leaves I spotted some hosta. Uncle Sal’s hosta. I don’t remember what we used for a shovel—maybe a plastic spoon, but I dug up several of those plants and brought them back to our new home a hundred miles south. They now share the ground here in Delaware and I think of my Uncle Sal when I see them.

Plants have stories to tell.

Tulip Poplar

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 26, 2024 category Gardens

A tree has an entire ecosystem in and around it. At the end of prayer today, I sat quietly waiting to see if God had anything to tell me. I watched the tulip poplar in my neighbor’s yard as I waited.

I noticed that some of the leaves were in sunlight and some in shade. Some of the branches were filled with leaves, others were barren, dead. The tree was home to birds and squirrels, and if not a home, then a resting place for weary travelers, or a place from which a vantage point could be gained.

There is potential danger with this tree because it leans directly toward another neighbor’s house, but if it were to be removed, there would be a hole left that couldn’t be filled for years. I continue to watch as every leaf moved, as squirrels climbed, as birds landed. And I noticed the sturdy, strong trunk, never moving, that supported it all.

The Robins’ Dance

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 18, 2024 category Gardens

Two robins performed a mating dance this morning.

Mid-air, wings flapping, diving, dipping, landing, and starting over again.

Chasing, pursuing, agreeing.

A beautiful scene.

A dance that needed no music, merely the flapping of wings and the changing of the air simply by occupying it.

Embracing Green

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 13, 2024 category Gardens

It rained this morning. There is no sweeter place to be on a rainy morning than on my screened-in porch. The birds don’t seem to mind as they go from tree to tree; from feeder to tree; from tree to ground. The robins especially like it as it brings the worms to the surface making mealtime less arduous. The plants and flowers thrive with rain.

As I look at my side garden, I notice the colors of green are so varied. The hues, the textures, the heights and widths, so uniquely different and yet working in harmony to create a breathtaking landscape. I love that each plant continues to be itself in this painting, and yet together with the others, who are also themselves, brings the manifestation of beauty to the forefront. One is as important to this scene as the next. It would not be the same if one were not allowed to shine, or was not given the sun and water it needs to grow.

So, let it rain. And, embrace it all.

Drive That Car, Grandma

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 1, 2024 category Stories

I come from a long line of unconventional women—none more so than my grandmother. When other women of the 1940s were married to their homes, my grandma did everything she could to get out of hers.

Grandma was the sole child of two incompatible parents. She married her own version of an inharmonious partner and had two children, one of whom was my mother. Grandma was the steady bread-winner of the family, serving sandwiches, donuts, coffee, and sodas from a food truck at an industrial park in Yonkers or making bread at Duvernoy Bakers for city restaurants. She was required to work holidays at the bakery, so she prepared a big meal for her family the day before. Mom invited her friend Elaine to that meal, while Elaine invited mom to her house the next day for their second holiday dinner.

She dyed her hair red and used long clips to create waves, Roaring-Twenties-style. She sported high heels, dresses or skirts, and bright red lipstick. She read Ellery Queen paperbacks, attended local basketball games, and indoor car-racing events. She followed her beloved Dodgers until they left Brooklyn and defected to Los Angeles. She always hated the Yankees.

Grandma had a great sense of humor and was the life of most parties. One night she joined my mother and some of Mom’s high school friends at the bowling alley. After Grandma released the ball, the snap broke on her skirt. As the skirt began to fall past her hips, she caught it on the way down. She laughed; Mom’s friends laughed; those at the other lanes laughed. Mom told me, “She didn’t care. She just re-hooked it.” She attended a picnic with Mom and her friends once wearing shorts and her ever-present high-heels.

In Mom’s neighborhood, most people didn’t drive—not the men, and certainly not the women. The stores and churches were accessible on foot; the Alexander Carpet Shop, which employed most residents, was in walking distance; everything else could be gotten to by bus or subway. Grandma wanted to drive. One day she announced to my mom and my uncle that she was buying a new car. The three of them went to get the car at the home of the older woman who had kept the car in her garage—for years. Mom, eleven years old at the time, saw the car and said, “Oh, my God! I thought it was a new car!” Instead it was a Hupmobile which even in 1947 looked ancient to her. It was a four-door sedan, dark maroon with tasseled shades in the rear windows. It had wooden spokes and balloon tires with tubes inside. It was so massive that Grandma needed to put blocks on the pedals in order to reach them.

She was not deterred. Determined to get her license, she practiced on this beast of a car. When she went to her driver’s license appointment, the man who would be testing her asked, “Did you drive that car here?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“You passed!” he announced.

Grandma set in motion a legacy of forward-thinking women in our family. She went out when others stayed in. She spoke up when others remained quiet. I suppose she was thought to be an independent woman. It’s likely she had to be.

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.