The official blog of Denise M. Baran-Unland, author. Discover her books for all ages at bryonyseries.com.
Showing posts with label water. Show all posts
Showing posts with label water. Show all posts
Sunday, October 6, 2024
Monday, August 26, 2024
Water Therapy
When I a child, I thought like a child in that I mistakenly assumed backyard swimming pools, park district swimming pools, beach clubs, and summer vacations by lakes were the norm - because that is what my family did.
But a lack of resources (either time, money, or both) and husbands who were afraid of water (due to near-drowning experiences, perfectly understandable) meant that I've spent most of my adult life away from water.
My return water came in 2015 when I visited Sarah and her family in North Carolina and went out on Falls Lake in their pontoon boat for a day of boating and swimming.
Because I enjoyed it so much, her husband Sean always took one day off work when I came out so we could also go out on the boat. Twice, Sarah also made the two-hour drive to Wilmington to the Atlantic Ocean.
But I haven't spent a week in North Carolina since 2019 (COVID, finances, other responsibilities at home). I'm hoping May/June 2025 will break that trend since my grandson Lucas will graduate from high school and (of course) I'll want to be there.
This past weekend, I spent two afternoons in a swimming pool with family, the best two summer weekends since 2019. I was originally going to post a few photos but - honestly - I was having too much fun to take photos.
Instead, here are three videos of water beauty from earlier North Caroline trips. Enjoy - and Happy Monday!
Atlantic Ocean, Wilmington, North Carolina, August 2016
Falls Lake North Carolina, August 2017
Falls Lake North Carolina, August 2019
Sunday, July 23, 2023
Monday, February 27, 2023
Gonna Flood Social Media With Fish Photos
When I was in second grade at St. Bernard Catholic School in Joliet, I was very fortunate to take a class field trip to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago.
I only have vague impressions of that trip. But all of them are magical, and I couldn't wait to return.
Well, I had to wait a handful of years, fifty-four to be exact, due to a myriad of circumstances and "life" things in the background.
So this year for Christmas, Jasmine gifted me (and Bertrand The Mouse and his Uncle Barty) with a day at the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago and lunch in the city.
I took lots of photos of fish, which will appear on social media for months to come on my various platforms, along with explaining why I love fish and water so much.
At any rate, Jasmine took lots of photos of me taking photos of fish.
And Jasmine also took lots of photos of Uncle Barty and Bertrand having a magical time.
But that's for another post.
Saturday, September 3, 2022
Sunday, February 27, 2022
Thursday, June 6, 2019
BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: "Love Poem" by Tom Hernandez
Friday, June 7, 2013
"Love Poem" by Tom Hernandez
Oh Nikki, slick Nikki, tricking me into doing something I haven't done
For a long, long time. To take an idea and run
Even though it has no real form. Just let it sing and ring, flinging
The words onto the page to see what they become--about anything and nothing
Because sometimes anything is something and nothing becomes everything.
Yours was a love poem and a birthday gift. Mine? Well, we'll see.
Where the wave of the words on the beach of an idea takes me.
Right now, it just feels right to sit here, and pour it out, like wine and water,
mixing and hoping that they will become holy blood through my fingers;
wheat and honey turning to mystical flesh in my hands.
Do I still have the magic touch? If Nikki does, then why not?
I can do what she has done. I can walk where she has run. It may not be art--not yet--
But at least I have my jogging shoes on again.
They fit. A little tight, but they're alright,
And so am I.
Yours was a love poem and a birthday gift.
Here on a rainy Monday, I guess mine is, too.
And Darling Nikki, your love is my love is you.
The gift is not for my birthday,
but it feels like I am reborn, in a small way, so maybe it is, kind of.
Reborn through the "Word"--big W, but not in the Jesus sense.
Rather, in the Spirit of the Creator creating creation.
Because that's what it's all about, when you come right down to it and cut right through all the nonsense and expense. Not the rules
That the fools in the robes and silly hats put around it.
And yes, we humans can do it--you and I, are living proof of that.
We create life, bring life, give life, sing life through our word,
precious golden nuggets of pain and joy, birds soaring and diving,
dipping and climbing high, higher, highest
until neither the eye nor the sky can hold them anymore.
Like birds.
Our words.
Love poems.
That Dear Nikki, is your gift. And Mine
Thursday, September 23, 2010
A Drink of Water, Victorian-style
What did people do before taps and water bottles?
* They installed cisterns and spouts, since rainwater was considered to be purer than even spring water.
* Location was important. As early as 1860, health officials warned that cisterns and wells should be kept away from sink drains, barnyards, and decayed animals.
* Lead pipes, however, were considered dangerous only if the water was very pure. However, if water contained certain neutral salts, it barred lead's harmful effects. Lead poisoning could be detected by a characteristic blue line on the edge of the front teeth's gums.
* Drinking water with decaying vegetable matter was once assumed to be safe, due to the protective action of gastric juices.
* Many sewers at that time emptied into the local river, also the source for municipal drinking water.
BLEH!
* They installed cisterns and spouts, since rainwater was considered to be purer than even spring water.
* Location was important. As early as 1860, health officials warned that cisterns and wells should be kept away from sink drains, barnyards, and decayed animals.
* Lead pipes, however, were considered dangerous only if the water was very pure. However, if water contained certain neutral salts, it barred lead's harmful effects. Lead poisoning could be detected by a characteristic blue line on the edge of the front teeth's gums.
* Drinking water with decaying vegetable matter was once assumed to be safe, due to the protective action of gastric juices.
* Many sewers at that time emptied into the local river, also the source for municipal drinking water.
BLEH!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Woods, Water & Michigan, Part 2
Summer, to me, is synonymous with water.
Our Joliet backyard always had a wading pool. The first was a round and inflatable. I close my eyes and I'm sitting in it with my little sister and nine month old cousin, who maddeningly splashes water on us, despite our shrieks.
The second pool felt like a “real” pool, shallow and rectangular with corner plastic seats, but wide enough to glide across the bottom. Weekend fun meant the Joliet Beach Club. I wasn't allowed to splash past the rope because I didn’t know how to swim, so I jealously monitored the lucky kids who jumped off dock into the deep water, far more fun than the waves that barely tickled my chin. So instead, I contented myself with leaping off my father’s shoulders and delighting in his mock Woody Woodpecker laugh.
One of our neighbors was the manager at the Joliet Beach Club, and he would periodically call fifteen minute “time-outs.” During those times, the sun beat on the wet suit that clung like plastic wrap to my body. I scooped wet sand onto drooping sand castles and annoyed my mother, who never swam, but sat on a lawn chair in her suit and sun glasses, with frequent checks on the time.
Occasionally, that manager would also summon a swimmer, by name, to the office. My father told me those were the bad children, the ones who shamelessly broke the rules. One day, to our horror, my sister and I heard our names booming over that loudspeaker. Instead of flying to the office, we sat quaking on a beach towel until our neighbor came out to us. In a solemn voice, he told us that since we had been so good, we could each take home a bucket of sand and a bucket of water. I glanced sharply at him to see if he was serious, then saw my father trying not to laugh.
Our Joliet backyard always had a wading pool. The first was a round and inflatable. I close my eyes and I'm sitting in it with my little sister and nine month old cousin, who maddeningly splashes water on us, despite our shrieks.
The second pool felt like a “real” pool, shallow and rectangular with corner plastic seats, but wide enough to glide across the bottom. Weekend fun meant the Joliet Beach Club. I wasn't allowed to splash past the rope because I didn’t know how to swim, so I jealously monitored the lucky kids who jumped off dock into the deep water, far more fun than the waves that barely tickled my chin. So instead, I contented myself with leaping off my father’s shoulders and delighting in his mock Woody Woodpecker laugh.
One of our neighbors was the manager at the Joliet Beach Club, and he would periodically call fifteen minute “time-outs.” During those times, the sun beat on the wet suit that clung like plastic wrap to my body. I scooped wet sand onto drooping sand castles and annoyed my mother, who never swam, but sat on a lawn chair in her suit and sun glasses, with frequent checks on the time.
Occasionally, that manager would also summon a swimmer, by name, to the office. My father told me those were the bad children, the ones who shamelessly broke the rules. One day, to our horror, my sister and I heard our names booming over that loudspeaker. Instead of flying to the office, we sat quaking on a beach towel until our neighbor came out to us. In a solemn voice, he told us that since we had been so good, we could each take home a bucket of sand and a bucket of water. I glanced sharply at him to see if he was serious, then saw my father trying not to laugh.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Woods, Water & Michigan, Part 1
The pull of childhood impressions must be very strong within me, because, even today, woods and water mark the epitome of serenity and romance. Perhaps that’s why Simons Woods and Lake Munson were two of Bryony’s earliest settings.
I grew up in Joliet in a brand-new subdivision that was still underdeveloped enough to contain fields of prairie grasses and tiny, raspberry-sized wild strawberries that my sister and I picked on June mornings until they disappeared with the July heat. We could spend an entire morning crawling on the ground, the weeds scratching our bare legs, moving aside green thatches to find the reddest berries. When our plastic, old butter tub containers were full, we ran home to remove the green tops and toss them into a colander to rinse them clean. They topped our Cheerios the next morning, just like a cereal’s box’s cover photo.
Our three-bedroom ranch house backed up into Highland Park, so before my father installed a six-foot, wooden, privacy fence, you could see the within walking-distance athletic club pavilion. However, the strawberries grew less abundantly there than behind my friend’s house across the street.
Beyond Highland Park was Pilcher Park, with its winding roads, famous flowing well, nature museum and walking trails, and a creek that featured paddle boats in summer and ice skating in winter. I remember being pulled away from an afternoon showing of “Munster Go Home,” on the little rabbit-eared, black and white television in the basement to instead go ice skating. I had outgrown my ice skates and wobbled on a pair, two sizes too large, that had once belonged to my mother. I detested ice skating from that day forward.
We moved to New Lenox in 1974, again to a wooded area near a much smaller creek. That body of water was the perfect spot to watch dragonflies and entertain random musings. I took woods for granted, until I had children of my own and lived in an area that had none.
I grew up in Joliet in a brand-new subdivision that was still underdeveloped enough to contain fields of prairie grasses and tiny, raspberry-sized wild strawberries that my sister and I picked on June mornings until they disappeared with the July heat. We could spend an entire morning crawling on the ground, the weeds scratching our bare legs, moving aside green thatches to find the reddest berries. When our plastic, old butter tub containers were full, we ran home to remove the green tops and toss them into a colander to rinse them clean. They topped our Cheerios the next morning, just like a cereal’s box’s cover photo.
Our three-bedroom ranch house backed up into Highland Park, so before my father installed a six-foot, wooden, privacy fence, you could see the within walking-distance athletic club pavilion. However, the strawberries grew less abundantly there than behind my friend’s house across the street.
Beyond Highland Park was Pilcher Park, with its winding roads, famous flowing well, nature museum and walking trails, and a creek that featured paddle boats in summer and ice skating in winter. I remember being pulled away from an afternoon showing of “Munster Go Home,” on the little rabbit-eared, black and white television in the basement to instead go ice skating. I had outgrown my ice skates and wobbled on a pair, two sizes too large, that had once belonged to my mother. I detested ice skating from that day forward.
We moved to New Lenox in 1974, again to a wooded area near a much smaller creek. That body of water was the perfect spot to watch dragonflies and entertain random musings. I took woods for granted, until I had children of my own and lived in an area that had none.
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