Author: debbieburton.blog

Debbie Burton is a children's author and award winning poet. Her books, "Buddy the Beagle on Blueberry Street," "Return to Blueberry Street," and "Truckload of Trouble." (Elk Lake) are available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

To Everything There is a Season

Lately my mind takes road trips to the seasons of my youth. Sometimes I long for my “good old days ” filled with endless possibility. A time when many of life’s big decisions had not been made.

When I was seventeen, I hung out with other like-minded souls who thought it was up to us to change the world. I wanted to join the Peace Corps and make a difference.

Of course I listened to the popular songs of the time. I fell in love with the sounds of The Beatles, The Who, and Buffalo Springfield among others. Rock music energized me and fueled my day. Now, when I hear the music of my youth, I’m drawn into a world of nostalgia.

I remember late-night gatherings with friends which usually included music. We would sit around a “record player” and play the latest release of our favorite artists. The lyrics often appeared somewhere on the album cover. We passed the lyrics around and sang along to the tunes. Like many “boomers,” I reflect fondly upon those times.

But were the “good old days” really that good? In comparison, what makes me think the present is bad? There is a verse in Ecclesiastes which speaks to this:

“Say not, ‘Why were the former days better than these?’ For it is not from wisdom that you ask this.”

Eccl. 7:10

I’ve heard myself say, “Things are so different now, I miss the seventies.” What do I mean exactly? Do I miss the days when I was poorer? Days when I was immature? Days when I made some wrong choices? Every decade has its own set of social problems. And it was the problems of those years which inspired the music of my generation.

The author of Ecclesiastes, (Solomon) knew speaking this way is not wise and can lead to discontent with the present. Seniors risk the danger of viewing the current culture through a negative lens. As we age we can become gloomy and withdraw from the world around us.

With my head stuck in the past, I miss all the beauty of today. This morning a ding from my phone indicates a text from my son. I smile as I watch a video of my one-year-old granddaughter dancing with bubbles. Her enthusiasm about this new discovery fills me with joy. Then I realize life in the year 2024 isn’t so bad after all. In the seventies I didn’t have a son, a granddaughter, or an iphone!

Remember the song, “Turn Turn Turn?”

“To everything, turn turn turn. There is a season, turn turn turn.

And a time for every purpose under heaven.”

These words originated with Solomon in Ecclesiastes, chapter 3. They were put to music thousands of years later by Pete Seeger and eventually recorded by the Byrds. I wonder what Solomon would think if he knew his wisdom, and words, outlasted the test of time?

I’m glad I have good memories of the past, but NOW IS THE TIME to make even better memories with my children and grandchildren.

How about you? Leave a comment and let me know if you can relate to my post. Let’s talk.

Lessons from Ground Hog Day

Ah… We can all breathe a sigh of relief. Spring is predicted to arrive early this year because Punxsutawney Phil did not see his shadow. For 138 years thousands of people have gathered at Gobbler’s Knob to see a ground hog predict the weather. Today’s news inspired me to “dig” around for a little more information.

Why February 2?

This date is halfway between the Winter Solstice (December 21) and Spring Equinox. (March 21)

How did Ground Hog Day begin?

The custom of using rodents to predict the weather was brought to the U.S. by German immigrants. The first celebration was held on February 2, 1877 at Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. That’s when newspaper editor Clymer Freas and his groundhog hunting club designated Punxsutawney Phil as the nation’s official rodent meteorologist.

Today a group called the “Inner Circle” treks to Gobbler’s Knob every year to play a part in the staging of Phil’s announcement. They dress in black suits, top hats, and speak Pennyslvania Dutch dialect.

The high point of the ceremony is when Phil emerges from his burrow and talks to the the “Inner Circle” president in “Groundhogese.” This language is only understood by the president of the club, who translates the message into English.

How accurate is Phil?

According to data supplied by NOAA and the Stormfax Almanac, Phil has been right 39% of the time. However, he did not show up at all in 1943 and no one knows why.

Art Inspired by Nature

February 2 reminds me of the movie “Ground Hog Day. “ (1993) Bill Murray plays the part of Phil Connors, a weather man who is assigned to report on the celebration in Punxsutawney. He hates his job, his colleagues, and the human race. Stuck in a time-warp, Phil is doomed to repeat Ground Hog Day until he learns how to love.

What if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow? Are we condemned to live with perpetual winter for six more weeks? I don’t believe in rodent predictions. It’s hard enough to believe the day to day weather report.

Even so, I do believe attitude is everything. Like a hamster on a wheel, I can be stuck going nowhere. Life has no meaning without love. Ground Hog Day prompts me to appreciate the value of my relationships and enjoy every moment, of every season.

By the way, Valentine’s Day is coming soon.

Gray Skies

over my head

a mysterious forecast hangs in the balance

uncommitted to rain or sun

plagued with a loss of vibrancy

dull, heavy, and fixed

beyond my reach.

Then I remember,

my captain orders the seasons

He quiets my spirit and takes me

where peace abounds…

among the barren and stunted blades.

Dear Readers, I am writing to you from the “Sunshine State,” only the sun seems to have disappeared. In these bleak January days, may you sense God’s love for you in spite of the weather. Remember, He is always in control.

Inspired by: “He speaks to the sun and it does not shine: he seals off the light of the stars.” Job 9:7 NIV

New Year, Same Me

The countdown to 2024 has begun! What are you thinking about this week? Yesterday I received a text from a local gym encouraging to me to buy a membership for 2024. After all, a new year means a new me. The text made me step on the scales and scratch my head wondering, just how did I manage to gain those extra pounds in December?

This time of year we open our closets and cupboards to see they are just as stuffed as we are. The new year brings an urgency to downsize, organize, and exercise our way into a new reality.

Let’s be honest. The resolutions you make will probably be the resolutions you break. Do you even remember the goals you set for 2023? By April, the change you desired evaporated with the winter snow.

Something within our human nature makes us desire a “better” future. All of a sudden whatever happened this year isn’t good enough. We hope 2024 will be better. We think changing our appearance, buying a new car, or taking a vacation can fulfill us. Our focus remains on ourself and what we can do to make us happy. But is that how real happiness is found?

When we seek tangible things in order to be happy we can be let down if it doesn’t happen. And if we somehow achieve our goal, our happiness is short-lived. We find ourselves striving for the next achievement, no longer content with where we are today.

What do you want to take with you from 2023? Think about the wisdom you gained instead of the pounds.

I want to live the life I have instead of longing for the life I might have in the future. After all, how much of life is under my control? I can live my best life now. I want to look around and thank God for time spent with friends and family. I want personal advancement to take a back seat to my relationships with others.

Each day is an opportunity for something amazing to happen. I want to get up in the morning and wonder… “What does God have for me today?”

Keep your eyes and heart open to whatever God has for you. It might be something you never resolved to obtain. And that my friends, is the beauty of life!

There’s No Place Like Home

We tend to think of home as the place where we live—our permanent residence and the people (and pets) who live there, too. Although I’ve lived in Orlando for over thirty years, it doesn’t take the place of Columbus, Ohio in my heart. Hmm… I wonder why?

Although I grew up in Ohio, I wasn’t born in Columbus. I didn’t go to grade school or high school there. The total amount of time I spent in Columbus was fifteen years. A lot of living was packed into that season of my life. It began by attending Ohio State, working as a social worker, and marrying my soulmate. You know the old saying, first comes love, then comes marriage, soon I’m pushing a baby carriage.

We bought our first house on the west side of town. I stayed at home with our two preschoolers and became involved in church and neighborhood activities. Our home was on a block of what you would consider “starter homes.” Half of the families had children under age six. It was a safe place for kids to learn how to ride a bike, with little traffic.

During those years I worked with a group of parents to petition the city of Columbus to develop a park for the children of our neighborhood. Twenty-four acres of land had been donated to the city in 1979 by Ruth E. Redick, a native of Columbus. Our efforts succeeded and by 1986 the playground was built, and given the name, Redick Park. My children enjoyed playing there for a few years before we moved to Orlando.

Herb and I visited Columbus in September. We drove around the city to see if any of the places we frequented, and homes we lived in are still there. Some of the buildings still stand. Some are gone. One house I lived in on South High Street was completely gone, and all that remained was the front steps. As we drove we talked about the past, the people we knew, the fun times.

When we visited Redick Park, I was pleased to see that the city is keeping up with it. The grass was mowed. They’ve added ball diamonds where a sand volleyball lot used to be. A feeling of contentment came over me knowing something remained of a project in which we were involved. I am thankful for Ruth Redick, who had the vision to create a place for families to enjoy the outdoors.

Contrary to the song “My City was Gone” by the Pretenders, this is one example of green space that has been preserved. “Way to go, Ohio.”

How about you? Is there a place you’ve lived which you remember fondly? A place you could never forget? Leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you.

Rush Hour Respite

Stagnant air fogs my sunglasses

and sticks to my skin

determined to exercise

I pace my steps

in sync with the upbeat tunes of my generation

preoccupied

like many of the drivers heading to work

lost in thought and barely noticing the view

until

his snow-white feathers

reveal his presence at the pond

his reflection beckons me,

“Come.”

Nestled among the green cypress leaves

a familiar egret greets me…

His name is Peace.

When Progress Takes a Step Backwards

Recently I celebrated a milestone birthday which marked the arrival of my seventh decade. Funny, I don’t feel old until the anniversary of some major historical event rolls around. Then I think, “Oh my, I was alive when that happened.” It’s frightening to realize the United States will be 250 years old in 2026. I clearly remember the bi-centennial. (For those of you who don’t, it happened in 1976.)

I’ve seen a lot of changes during the past seven decades. Texting and social media have made it possible to communicate with others in an instant. Many of these advancements have changed the fabric of our culture. Sometimes I wonder if we have become just as impersonal as the technology we’ve invented. Why is it we’re more connected than ever, but lonelier? We fool ourselves into thinking we have relationships, but are those relationships real?

Real friendships are formed by sharing life together, visiting each other at home, and having face to face conversations. Seeing someone in their home speaks volumes about their hobbies and interests. Sharing a meal allows meaningful conversation. Cooking for someone says, “I care about you.” A facebook photo of a plate of delicious food can’t compare with in-person fellowship. It just makes me miss having a seat at the table.

Social media posts do not allow for details. There’s usually much more to our travel experiences than what we share with a few photographs. When we meet someone over coffee we can ask questions and get the rest of the story.

If I see a facebook post about the death of a friend’s loved one, I usually comment with my condolences. Rarely do I send a handwritten note or letter. There are certain situations which demand a personal response from me. This means giving my time to show I really care. It also requires knowing someone’s physical address!

In many ways we are less mature than our parents and grandparents. Some topics should not be discussed through texting. For example, resolving conflict. When we have a rift with a friend, it’s better to calmly discuss our feelings face to face. Meeting with someone in person sends a message of “you’re feelings are important to me,” which can work wonders when there is a disagreement. Friendships can be saved this way.

As I age I’m discovering the value of real relationships. Ten years from now I might look at this post and laugh because artificial intelligence will be communicating for me. I hope not. I want to be real, human, and personal. Sometimes the old-fashioned ways of doing things are just better.

What is your opinion of the advancements in communication during the past thirty years?

Time to Write

In my day to day life I am frequently bombarded with distractions which stop me from writing. One day I scheduled all of my “important” errands in the morning so I could write in the afternoon. My errands took longer than expected. After spending a painful two hours at the dentist office, dropping off unwanted clothes at Goodwill, going to the bank, and shopping for groceries, I felt exhausted. When I finally arrived back home, I couldn’t string one sentence together if my life depended on it. My empty stomach growled, so I warmed a cup of soup and sat down to relax.

That cup of soup was the only good thing about my day. I felt irritated with myself for trying to get everything done at once. Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy. There’s nothing worse than a grumpy writer. Do you feel angry or depressed when you don’t write?

As I sipped my hot soup, I assessed my situation. What possessed me to try to do so much at once? I thought back to some of my childhood experiences and made some interesting discoveries. My parents taught me to work first, then play. This idea spilled over to my adulthood. Since writing is pleasurable to me, it should come second. And if I have a lot of work to do, I never get to play. One day slips into another and before I know it, I haven’t written anything for a month.

As a student, my teachers conducted class using the same philosophy. I had to finish my assignment before I could go to the reading corner. Those were the rules. As a teacher myself, I expected the same from my students. Every progress report included a box— “Student uses free time wisely.” Most students would receive a grade of satisfactory. But honestly, some students never had any free time. How sad.

Now I am seeing the importance of writing in the morning. I can focus better, and get into a creative flow. Ideas come easy to me when I am rested. If you are a writer, I’m sure you’ve discovered what time works for you. We must protect our time to write. This means scheduling appointments, errands, and chores outside of our best time to create.

As I write this blog, I recognize my strong work ethic. I place a high value on productivity. That’s fine as long as I can triage my efforts. When I plan my day I need to prioritize time to write. Writing needs to be first.

The word vocation comes from the Latin, meaning “calling.” A calling is initiated by God for his purpose. Since I feel called to write, my vocation is writing. If I look at writing as my vocation, the adult voice within me gives permission to write first and not feel guilty about it. I believe I am finding my way out of this maze.

How about you? Do you have a habit of checking off your to-do list before you sit down to write? How do you schedule time to pursue your artistic calling? Leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you.

Behold the Beautiful Anhinga

Meet Mr. Anhinga. Sometimes he appears at the pond outside our apartment building. I felt lucky to snap this photo of him drying out his wings in the warm Florida sunshine. Some people consider him ugly. Do you?

I am attracted to the Anhinga because of his huge black wings. Notice how they glisten in the light. Here he strikes the perfect pose, and balances his wet, heavy, body on the pointy top of a cypress knee.

I shared this photo with two of my neighbors. One guy shook his head, “No, that’s a cormorant.”

My other neighbor, a fisherman, did not share my excitement. “Those birds are no good because they eat fish.”

The old saying is true. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” My neighbor’s comments motivated me to seek more information about this interesting creature.

First of all, the bird pictured above is definitely an Anhinga due to his long neck, dagger like beak, and long tail. A cormorant is much smaller and has a rounded beak. It doesn’t have silvery patches on its wings like the Anhinga.

However, my neighbor who fishes was correct. Anhingas are amazing predators and stab fresh water fish with their pointy beaks. After they harpoon their prey, they swallow it whole. These birds must have strong muscles in their throat to accomplish this feat.

The name Anhinga comes from the Tupi Indians in Brazil and means “devil bird.” (Apparently they had the same attitude as my fisherman neighbor.) Anhingas have several nicknames including darter, water turkey, and snakebird.

I understand the snakebird reference. When Anhingas swim they submerge most of their body, but raise their neck and head above the surface. I can see why someone might think they are a water snakes. And few people like snakes.

Although the Anhinga has webbed feet for paddling, the bird doesn’t have waterproof feathers. Its waterlogged feathers allow it to dive easily and search for underwater prey, such as fish and amphibians. Anhingas can stay underwater for substantial periods of time.

Anhingas need to dry out their wings between dives. Poor things, talk about body maintenance! They spend as much time out of the water as they do in the water. But they have an advantage of being able to fly. In fact they can soar through the sky and stretch out their wings in the shape of a cross. Perhaps their ability to fly can help them escape from their natural enemy, the alligator.

The Anhinga’s call sounds like a booming croak that reminds me of fingernails on a chalkboard. I’m thankful I’ve never heard one sing in our pond.

Do you remember the book “The Ugly Duckling,” by Hans Christian Anderson? There are advantages to being ugly:

″‘Oh,’ sighed the duckling, ‘how thankful I am for being so ugly; even a dog will not bite me.’ And so he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was fired over him.”

Unfortunately, my Anhinga will never change into a swan. I appreciate Mr. Anhinga for who he is. Maybe that’s because a poet can find beauty everywhere.