Appropo to nothing...

In the part of the country where I grew up, it was common practice to plant big, strong trees around the house. The land around here is pretty flat and once the fields were cleared for planting, the wind whips through without mercy. The trees break the wind in the winter and keep things cool in the summer.

It's just part of the landscape -- Victorian (or older) farmhouses surrounded by tall, strong trees.

This is valuable farm land that isn't particularly close to any population centers. It has largely escaped the fast urban development I'm accustomed to seeing in central Maryland. The landscape changes more slowly.

When the old farmhouses are taken down, the grass always returns to cover up the remains but the trees remain. They sit like living guardians or ghosts in the general shape of the houses that they once surrounded -- gates to a place that doesn't exist anymore.

It always struck me as sad.

The Quiet One

I’ve heard that all my life… “oh, yes. Her. She’s the quiet one.” It was always said with a pat on the head and a smile. The thing was, the smile sometimes had something else behind it. Sometimes people got belligerent about my lack of senseless chatter.

That struck me as weird when I was young, but I get it now. When you stop talking — stop filling up the space around you with noise and activity like a bubble that keeps others out — you notice things. You notice when the emperor has no clothes, when the homeless man betrays his intelligence with a secret smile, when the “expert” isn’t really all that sure of what he’s talking about.

I’ve learned to deal with the label. I can ignore the fear and belligerence now. It’s a wonderfully entertaining world — much too fun to push away with noise.