Denise Marotta Lopes

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.

Settle Into Fall

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 1, 2024 category Gardens

Oh, a good place to settle—to watch the activity, to observe the migration—the absence of summer friends.

The cooler days, the crisper air bring reasons to seek warmth. Long-sleeved shirts, fire pits, butternut squash soup, sage tea. Pumpkins and goldenrod and bright red berries, methodically plucked from evergreens by cardinals and not-as-often-seen catbirds.

Overgrown foliage and scattered leaves along paths, comfort food, and respite for weary travelers and those who remain to eat of its fruit and settle into its warmth.

Welcome, Autumn

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 22, 2024 category Gardens

It’s the first day of autumn—it arrives at 8:44 am. EST. These moments have meaning and I like celebrating the comings and goings of significant events. In 1985, I led my office in a countdown to spring and cheered with my co-workers at the coming of new life, more sunlight, and longer days.

The mornings are crisp, while afternoons heat up. I saw a hummingbird yesterday even before the sun had fully lit the sky. This morning I saw another, one who stopped fully to sip from 3 of the 4 available holes in the nectar feeder. The goldfinches have stopped picking at the seeds of the echinacea where charcoal-black heads have long-ago replaced the hot-pink blooms.

There is a cardinal at the safflower cylinder. With plenty of room to spare, he squawks at the sparrows who dare to join him for a meal. His feathers are too light to be a male, too dark to be a female.

Last night I counted 14 blooms on the moonflower plant out front. I numbered them in the fading light and drank in their fragrance before bed. I remain in awe of the presentation—of what it takes to be so glorious for only one night.

Welcome, autumn. Welcome, colorful leaves and frantic squirrels. Welcome, darker evenings and cooler days. Welcome, activity of harvest, rush of migration, and deep-in-the-blanket rest.

Firsts & Lasts

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 15, 2024 category Gardens, Stories

It’s a quiet Sunday morning. I hear the hum of cars along I-495 though less than a typical rush hour morning. I arrived too late for the church bells announcing 7:00 mass at St. Helena’s. I settle in with coffee and rosary beads. I quiet Ivy as she barks at passing squirrels and rogue cats.

I observe my neighbor’s tulip poplar, filled with yellowing leaves, as it leans heavily toward another neighbor’s house. The back drive is carpeted in the leaves already fallen. I wrap myself in a throw blanket knowing soon I will be wearing coats out here.

Fall contains both beginnings and endings, firsts and lasts. It is particularly true as I watch for the hummingbirds. I saw the first one at my feeder on July 24. Since then, there have been regular visits. I learned only today that males do not show their ruby throats until after the first molt, so the ones I thought were female might well have been young males. I could distinguish between two of them as one would sit on the edge of the feeder and eat slowly and methodically; the other flapped its wings, remaining airborne, slowing only to stick its beak in the hole to gather nectar.

It’s been close to two days since I’ve seen either of them. My neighbor saw a large one yesterday near the white flowers of a blooming bush at the back drive, but my feeder remains empty. I wonder if the two that frequented my feeder all summer have begun their fall migration. I tried to note the last time I saw one. I wanted to write it down, but I didn’t. I expected to see it the next day, but I didn’t. It’s the same with the catbirds. Soon they will be gone, and I will see the first junco.

As my mother aged, I saved the birthday card she sent each year in case it was the last one. I still have that one from April 21, 2022. There is a children’s book that depicts a mother telling her children that if she new it would be the last time, she would have held them longer. When did I stop holding my children’s hands? When did they say, I’m old enough to go alone? And, now I think of that with my grandchildren. I asked the nine-year-old recently if he was too old to sit on my lap. He said yes, and we laughed. But, inside…

I will wait around a bit longer today for my hummingbirds. If they have left, I will think of their long journey. I will welcome others who are passing through from points further north. I will continue to change the nectar until there are no more sightings. I will watch the poplar bury the drive in its leaves. And, soon, I will welcome back the juncos.

Hints of Change

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 2, 2024 category Gardens

There is change in the air. The subtle movement of change—more visceral than comprehensive. It starts with fallen needles under the evergreen. There is no better surface on which to walk than those needles under big, looming trees.

Before the red bud drops a leaf, its pods have browned. I hope the seed-containing pods will feed the Northern Cardinal who spends time in red bud’s branches.

As I walk outside, I observe the changing in the leaf colors. In one way, it seems like a death—the losing of those leaves and the skeleton of the tree remaining. But, I also sense hope and newness and wonder at what the earth will produce after it has rested.

The sedum are late-bloomers. They are beginning to produce salmon-colored flowers. The moon flowers are becoming more and more showy and fragrant near our front door. I have waited for it to have so many blooms that its fragrance would waft from my home and out to the street where dogs and their parents will stop and wonder.

Change is in the air. And, with it comes newness, possibility, but also uncertainty. I have become accustomed to green grass and large leaves and dinner-plate hibiscus. Soon, I will be wearing layers of clothes to keep warm. Kids are back in school and fall sports have started. I want baseball to last and last.

I love autumn, once I get used to it. Once I can walk out of the house and recognize what I see. I like to be surprised, but I need some assurance of the familiar to accompany it. Fall brings its own gifts, beauty special just to this season. Squash, pumpkin, corn stalks, soups, hot drinks. It beckons, subtly, and then it bursts. I’m here for it.

Back to School

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 21, 2024 category Stories

As is my normal routine, I fed the three dogs and one cat, made coffee, poured it into a specially-chosen mug, and made my way from the kitchen to the back porch. I invited the pups as I opened the door and immediately felt the change in the air. We were greeted with 66-degree temperatures, both refreshing and chilly. Unexpected, even. These changes tend to happen nearly overnight. There will be more hot days, but we’ve had our first chilly morning and the promise of more to come.

There was a cardinal and a wren sharing the food in the tray feeder. The hummingbird happily enjoyed his nectar. The dogs took their spots—Franklin on the elevated dog bed; Ivy on the love seat; and Stella on my lap. Graycie filled up the wicker tray on the ottoman in front of my chair. I held onto my coffee cup a bit longer, enjoying the heat on my hands. Fall was giving us a preview.

School is gearing up to start here in Delaware. Two young moms on my street are teachers. This week they are setting up their classrooms in preparation for their students’ return to school on Monday. It is a transition for both students and staff to leave behind the carefree days of summer for the classroom.

I remember the summer before sixth grade. Right before school started, I broke my glasses. They were a nice pair of oval-shaped tortoise shells and I was devastated when the optometrist said they’d have to order a new pair and in the meantime I could wear a loaner pair. They were not glasses I would have chosen. I couldn’t imagine going to school wearing those glasses. I also knew I had no choice. I was not the kind of kid who could fake it and squint my way through the day. I’d worn glasses since the second grade and my eyes only got worse thereafter. Glasses were not an option for me.

I felt so ashamed of those glasses. I tried to hold my head up when I went to school, but I’m sure my shoulders were rounded at the thought of what was on my face. Sixth grade was a big deal. It was the highest grade in our elementary school and I liked all the kids in my class. We had a teacher who had ulcers and would guzzle down pints of milk to help coat his stomach, “Through the lips, over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes,” he used to say. It was the fall of 1969 and he was a fan of the Mets who were playing the Orioles in the World Series. He wheeled a big TV into our classroom each afternoon so we could watch the games. If school let out before it was was over, I would run all the way home to see the end of the game.

The first day of school was scary for me. Where would I be sitting? Who was in my class? But, I was excited about having homework the first night, especially math, if it was easy. I liked my new, clean notebooks, drawing girls, hearts, and peace signs on the fronts. I loved recess when we would play kickball out in the field behind the school.

There was a boy in my class who struggled with classroom learning. I liked him. Once, after a test, he brought his paper to me. He had gotten all ten problems wrong, and he asked me to check to see if the teacher had made a mistake in grading it. I checked each one, and he did, in fact, get them all wrong. For the last problem he had written a “one” as an answer. When I solved it, the answer was “ten”. With my pencil, I carefully added a zero to his one to make a “ten”. I did it as cautiously as I could, making sure no one was watching and that I had matched his writing the best I could. I went back to my friend and said, “Look, you got the last one right.” He went directly to the teacher and showed him the correct answer. The teacher said there was no zero on there when he graded it and my friend said there was. I never told anyone in the class what I had done. Not the teacher, nor my friend. If I had to do again, I would have done the same thing.

School can be hard for some kids. The work. The friendships. The drama. And it can be fun. The work. The friendships. The drama. The best teachers are the ones who remember what it was like to be a kid. As the temperatures cool and the buses hurl down the streets, I think of those kids and those teachers. And I remember what it was like to be a kid.