February – the shortest month of the year. However, while we are in the midst of it, it seems to be never ending, lingering on and on, day after gloomy day. Why is that? Have we forgotten that daylight can extend past 5 pm? Or maybe all those seed catalogs that begin arriving in the mail and piling up on the kitchen table make us grow ever more impatient for spring as they taunt us with their glossy rainbows of flowers, fruits and vegetables. 
Reminding us that there are colors other than brown and gray, that the sun can warm the earth enough for green stuff to once again emerge from the currently frozen, barren soil. Whatever causes this annoying phenomenon, I have long ago gotten in the habit of planning in advance for this end of winter funk. Some time in the fall we make plans for a late winter weekend retreat. Not to a sunny tropical destination but to someplace semi-local where we can reaffirm our appreciation for the changing seasons and the beauty that can still be found even in the gloominess of winter’s final months.
This year the destination was the newly constructed lodge at Echo Bluff state park in Eminence, Missouri. The park is in a beautiful area right in the middle of the Ozark National Scenic Riverways and the Mark Twain National Forest. Needless to say, we were very excited to get out in the fresh air and do some hiking and sightseeing.
When we arrived at the lodge, we were greeted by the little band of wild horses that like to hang around the park. I have heard these horses are descendants of once domesticated farm animals that were set free during the Great Depression. They are now protected by law and are maintained by a local organization to prevent the herds from getting larger than 50 animals. When this happens, some of the them are caught so they can be tamed and put up for adoption by local residents, where they rejoin their domestic ancestors. I suppose you could argue that these creatures are really more “feral” then “wild”, but nonetheless there is something rather romantic and nostalgic about the notion of horses roaming freely throughout the countryside. Yet, the bond that was broken nearly 100 years ago may not be quite so fragile and some of these animals still seem to trust us silly humans, at least a little bit. I watched as they approached a group of people starting a campfire and was, of course, inspired to attempt a connection of my own. 
I must admit they look a lot more impressive from a distance. Up close you can see the ravages of surviving in this mountainous Missouri terrain. Their manes and tails are tangled up with burs and leaves and they look like they could really use a full-blown spa day, complete with mani-pedi – unshod horses tend to have some pretty gnarly nails. With freezing rain and ice predicted for the following evening, I couldn’t help but wonder where these poor creatures slept at night.
We were quite a bit luckier, we knew exactly where we would be sleeping. The lodge is a gorgeous new
log and stone structure, cozy and warm with a giant fireplace in a two-story great room and amazing views of its namesake bluff and Sinking Creek. Our room was on the second floor, overlooking the bluff and creek. Despite the impending winter storm, it was an unusually warm evening, so we sat on our little balcony, adult beverage in hand and enjoyed the view as the sun slowly sank in the sky and the horses meandered down the creek, wandering off into the night to wherever it is they go.
The next morning was exploration time and we needed to get an early start so we could be back at the lodge before the inclement weather hit. Sometimes the best trips are the ones with no set plans – you just tend to go wherever the road leads. This trip was no exception to that rule. We started off in the general direction of Rocky Falls for no other reason than I saw a sign and it sounded interesting. Along the way, we saw another sign for Alley Spring. This I had heard of, so we decided to take a brief detour and check it out. All I can say about this place is “WOW”! It was like standing in the middle of a picture 
postcard. It was so amazingly beautiful. You don’t realize how color blind the winter gloom can make you until your eyes are once again acquainted with blue water and green plants. This has got to be the most colorful place that Missouri has to offer in these dark, dank months. A bright red mill, reflected in a pool of naturally blue spring water with lush green plants! There was even a slight mist floating just above the water. It was simply jaw dropping and pictures cannot do it justice. I would love to come back here in the fall to see how the autumn color enhances it even further.
In the winter, daylight is a limited commodity, so we were forced to press on in our unscripted agenda and continue to Rocky Falls. At this point, we realized we were truly “off the grid” because we had lost cell phone coverage and I had to rummage through the litter in the glove box and dust off the paper map of Missouri. This moment always makes me a little elated. I just love having to unfold that darn map and not have to rely on Siri to get us lost. Our misdirection now depended on my navigational prowess and the cartographical accuracy of Rand-McNally. Onward to Rocky Falls!
Rocky Falls was pretty much just that, a rocky waterfall. There was indeed water and rocks and a fall, but it wasn’t running at full strength. Probably much more impressive in the spring when there’s a little more water. We had a short amount of time between other visitors to get in a few pictures, but when a camo-attired horde came roaring up on a dozen or so ATV’s we figured that signaled the end of this particular photo shoot.
Just like that, it was back to the beloved paper map to see what other natural wonders this area had up its sleeve. And there on the map, highlighted and bolded in blue as a “point of interest”, was Blue Spring. What could that be? It must be worth checking out if it was truly a point of interest. So off we drove in search of a blue spring, curving and winding through the back roads of rural Missouri. It was somewhere along this route that I learned how you know when you have actually reached Rural Missouri – it’s the moment when you see a dead, rotting coyote carcass impaled on fence post as a warning to all his pack mates and kin to stay the F*** out of Rural Missouri. Yikes…Doubt there are many PETA sympathizers in these parts.
Blue Spring is another of Missouri’s natural wonders that lives up to its name by virtue of being both blue and a spring. In my experience, many of the springs in Missouri are blue, so what makes this one different? Well the signage is happy to tell you! This is the deepest spring in Missouri (over 300 feet), it 
is so blue that the native Americans called it the “Spring of the Summer Sky” and it discharges 90 million gallons of water a day! It truly is quite an amazing shade of blue. 
On this, the grayest of all winter days, it was the bluest of any spring that has ever sprung. The water is so clear, you can peer straight down into its azure depths, where the blueness seems to increase the deeper you try to stare. Even the fish shimmer like sapphires as they dart about in their beautiful little basin of blue. Definitely another awe-inspiring photo destination to add to the lineup for the Eminence area.
Time always seems to fly when you’re having fun. With no cell phone coverage, an outdated map of Missouri and inclement weather on the radar it was time to follow the trail of dead coyotes back to the sanctuary of the lodge where a special Valentines Day dinner was being prepared.
Later in the evening, after enjoying an overabundance of filet mignon, lobster tail and decadent desserts, we hunkered down by the massive stone fireplace to ride out the storm. As the ice began to tap against the windows, we reflected on the adventures of the day and how, with all the stunning and colorful natural wonders that this beautiful place had to offer, we had gained a whole new perspective on the concept of “winter blues.”
It’s easy to get nostalgic for those old times at the ball park, late summer afternoons spent in the bleachers cheering on the South Side Hit Men, chilly spring mornings enduring the wind off the lake high in the upper deck on opening day. Sadly, the culmination of it all was announced quite loudly one afternoon. What was once the explosion of fireworks proclaiming another homerun for the Sox, was now an explosion foretelling the destruction of a park that held so many fond memories. 
As with many other aspects of our society, professional sports have become over commercialized and corrupted to the point where the casual observer has been priced right out of the market. So how is the everyday American supposed to get his fix of baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet? Well, last weekend this fair-weather fan got the rare opportunity to step back into a simpler time before sports were a multibillion dollar mega business. A time when baseball was in its infancy and was played for recreation and exercise. 
Miraculously, the original form of ‘base ball’ as it was played between the days of the Civil War and the turn of the century is still alive and well in fields, parks and green spaces across this great country of ours. Groups of dedicated Americans don old style uniforms, gather up homemade balls and bats and head out to play the game as it was meant to be played – as a gentlemen’s game. Respect, sportsmanship and comradery, values that were once the backbone of a great nation, but now seem to be lacking in our everyday interactions with fellow humans. 
So how was it that I managed to come across this cultural phenomenon? My son, being very active in his community, wanted to put on a benefit for his local historical society. He wanted to host an event that 
had historical significance but also would be enjoyable for a wide range of patrons. So, he organized a vintage base ball tournament. He contacted a local team and then pulled together a group of friends and residents to form a new team of their own – the Blue Island Brewmasters. With uniforms inspired by those seen in an old photograph from the archives of the historical society, the team set out to learn the rules of the game as it was played in 1858 and, of course – practice, practice, practice. 
company. He worked with the city and a local sports field designer to cut the grass, remove overgrown brush and turn this once overlooked space into a regulation base ball diamond worthy of the origins of our national past time. And so he built it – this old-fashioned field of dreams – but did they come? You bet they did! They came from near and far, carrying picnic baskets, blankets and folding chairs. Families, friends and local politicians gathered on the freshly mowed grass. Children played, fans cheered and neighbors shared their latest news as the game unfolded inning by exciting inning. By the end of the day the crowd was caught up in the turn of the century fanfare and mighty Huzzahs! could be heard from both sides. 
As Americans, there’s something about a good ball game that will always tug at our heartstrings. But it’s more than just “the game”, it’s about a day spent enjoying each others company on a sunny summer afternoon, cheering local heroes on to victory. Baseball has been a part of our culture for over 150 years. Yet in the beginning it wasn’t about money, fortune or fame. It was played for community, fellowship and fun but most of all it was played simply for the love of the game. 
Logically the only solution to this problem was to get righty and lefty to call a truce and collaborate. I needed something analytical yet artistic; methodically structured yet innovative. There was going to have to be a meeting of the minds.
When we strip an image of its color, we leave behind only its most basic elements.
As we study further, the absolutes of black and white begin to take precedence. These shades are unwavering – black is black and white is white. We can desire what has been lost in the darkness or search in vain for what lies beyond the light, but they are either absent or unattainable.
Through experience and growth, we become more adept at making the transformation. Still there is always the chance that a different and unique situation will arise and we will be forced to disregard everything we know and start the process over again from scratch.
So, as in years past, I eagerly awaited autumn. I spent all of October waiting. At first I waited quite patiently, then I began to worry. November was approaching and still no fall. It wasn’t long before panic set in and I began searching in vain. I looked in all the usual places I look when something is misplaced – the back of the junk drawer, the top shelf in the hall closet, the bottom of my purse. But all I found were rolls of scotch tape, a 2012 Cabela’s catalog and my spare car key. Where the heck was autumn? What happened to the chilly air, the brilliant hues and the crisp fall apples? I trudged through my typical fall routine in hopes of finding it somewhere along the way – walks in the woods, apple picking, unpacking my winter wardrobe, a hayride to the pumpkin patch – but it was nowhere to be found. The woods were still green, the apples were bland, the sweaters were too warm and the pumpkins on my porch had not suffered through a single frost.
Finally, when November arrived there was no time left, the leaves simply had to come off the trees. And off they came, so quickly that I almost missed it. Sometime in the beginning of November, in the blink of an eye, the leaves changed color, dropped to the ground and that was it – it was over.
I managed to catch some of it in bits and pieces, here and there. A brief corridor of gold on a highway in upstate New York. A hike through our Missouri woods where a few brilliant embers still burned in the red of the Sumac leaves and an occasional white tail deer rooted around in the leaf litter, their coats thickening for the colder months ahead. In a last-ditch effort to seek out the remnants of fleeting fall colors, we took a trip down to southern Missouri and bid adieu to the final shades of autumn that were taking refuge in the Mingo swamp.
sunny day in Rochester, NY. I long to stop and stand there, basking in the refracted rays of the sun, soaking up some of that essential vitamin D. But the rational being in me doesn’t want to look like too much of an idiot and thoughts of a bottle of Copper Tone, a Pina Colada and a beach chair are gone just as quickly as they came. Like a dutiful little drone, I shuffle on back to my own desk, suffered to toiling away in this bleak “Dickensian” environment for another 8-10 hours. 
in the weather was beautiful, sunny and warm – the only difference was that this was the weekend and it belonged to me. 
lumbering from flower to flower, their legs coated with yellow pollen, gathering as much as possible to join the other drones stashing it away into the hundreds of little octagonal cubicles that make up their hive.
As far as the flowers were concerned, the bee and butterfly were accomplishing the same task, bu
t their approaches couldn’t be more different. I was struck by the dichotomy of lifestyle in such close proximity.
Such are the lives of these little creatures – stuck in the one circumstance they are born into.
Out here in Missouri – in the foothills of the Ozarks – I came across the remains of the lifework of one man. A man with a lofty dream – a passion that relentlessly consumed him both day and night and led him on a labor of love and a journey of faith that continued throughout his life.
Brother Bronislaus Luszcz was a Franciscan monk who immigrated to the St. Louis area from Poland in 1927. In his native country, he grew up watching pilgrims make their way to the Shrine of St. Mary. These pilgrims would travel hundreds of miles on foot and sleep along the road to pay homage to the Queen of Peace. Brother Bronislaus developed a great devotion for Mary during his formative years, a devotion that never relented.
When Bronislaus came to the United States, he was one of several Brothers who were put to work establishing St. Joseph’s Hill Infirmary – a convalescent home for men, nestled back on a wooded hillside on the outskirts of the towns of Eureka and Pacific Missouri. It was in this peaceful environment one day in 1937 that Brother Bronislaus embarked on what would be his life’s work – a series of stone grottoes built entirely by hand with nothing more than a sledgehammer and an axe. What remains now is a tribute to his faith and the culmination of over 20 years of backbreaking labor.
to what was on the monastery grounds, so he became creative with his own unique construction and adornments. He raided the infirmary’s kitchen and confiscated pots and pans. Cake pans shaped like lambs and rabbits became molds for the concrete animals that sit at the feet of St. Francis. Jell-O molds, cupcake tins and discarded light fixtures were the basis for the floral decorations that embellish the corners of his tributes to St. Mary and St. Joseph. Colored glass bottles set into recesses along the walls became makeshift stained glass windows.
And so he toiled for 22 years. Clearing land, breaking stone, mitigating through trial and err
or, honing his skill. A slave to his own labors, each monument became more elaborate and fantastic than the last. Then one day, just after his 66th birthday, Bronislaus was beginning construction on his newest grotto, in honor of Our Lady of Fatima. It was a hot day in the summer of 1960 and Bronislaus was recovering from a bout with the flu when he was overcome by the heat. He managed to make his way across the courtyard to where the statue of St. Mary stood sentinel in the Our Lady of Perpetual Help Grotto. Collapsing on the stones at her feet in the August afternoon sun, he lay gazing up at the statue of his beloved Madonna. Her outstretched hand reaching to take him back home where he would toil no longer. Later that day, when he did not return to the monastery for evening prayers, the other Brothers came to look for him, a trail of tools led them to his earthly remains. This very spot is now marked with a seashell, to honor his memory in the place of his own creation. His vision was now a reality, his accomplishment and his legacy.
However, the fact still remains that Bronislaus wasn’t finished, his accomplishments were not completed, nor would they ever be no matter how long he lived. When you look around the rest of the grounds, you will see them dotting the landscape here and there. Grotto-less statues of Saints awaiting their turn to be humbled by the unique creativity of one man. In his mind there would never be a last grotto. As long as he was still alive, the construction would have continued. You see, once you find your life’s work the only thing that ends it is your death. No matter what your passion – there will always be another animal to save, another mouth to feed, another picture to paint, another novel to write, another song to sing. It’s not the completion of the job that is satisfying, it’s the doing. 
We climb the ladder one rung at a time but never reach the top. It’s like a magical beanstalk that keeps growing as we climb. The end appears to be within reach, but we can’t quite get there. No matter how much we do, it’s just not enough. There’s always something bigger, something better around the corner. A new idea, another adventure and so we surrender ourselves to this work. We just do it, for no other reason than doing it makes us feel fulfilled.
In a way it’s quite bittersweet when you think about it, we spend our whole lives working on the things we love – gardens, artwork, music, poetry. Yet for all the joy these things bring us, for most of us when we go…these things will go with us. They will be lost in time, succumb to the elements and be given back to the earth. Maybe a few pieces will remain for a while with the people we loved, the lives we’ve touched.
In memory of Brother Bronislaus Luszcz. August 4, 1894 – August 12, 1960.
Hiking through the woods, observing and photographing all the beautiful flora and fauna is definitely my favorite past time, but sometimes it’s also fun to observe my fellow human creatures in their less than natural urban environment. Like their woodland counterparts, these creatures must also forage for food and drink. What better place to observe this urban phenomenon than in the historic Soulard neighborhood, merely a hop, skip and jump from downtown St. Louis.
have been buying and selling their goods and wares here for over 200 years. It’s one of the oldest farmer’s markets in the United States, dating back to 1779 when it was an open air market where local farmers gathered to sell their produce. The original building was erected in the 1840’s and was replaced in 1929 with a Renaissance style structure. While colorful fresh produce abounds here, it’s not the only option. There is so much more to be had in this market – from baked goods to fresh meat, and handmade items like soaps and jewelry – the list goes on and on. 
Next we attempted to enjoy a short hike through the urban landscape, but the heat and humidity of a 90+ degree summer day in St. Louis got the better of us and it wasn’t long before we worked up quite a thirst. Lucky for us, this neighborhood also houses one of the most famous watering holes in the world. Actually, it’s the headwaters of an endless river of amber liquid that serves as the main artery to millions of other watering holes thro
ughout the world. Founded in 1852 this is the headquarters and original brewery of Anheuser Busch and the famous line of Budweiser beers. There couldn’t be a more perfect way to beat the heat and conclude this urban adventure than by taking a free tour of the brewery and enjoying a complimentary sample of ice-cold brew. 
The Last One Home 