Labor Day Weekend and Bridges

On a walk this evening, I could smell the smells of Labor Day backyard cooking and hear the human chatter in gatherings as I walked through the neighborhood and close-by park.

Smoke from nearby barbequeing hung in the air.

Today, Marge and I drove over to Paxson Farm Art and Craft Show traveling through lots of Bucks County back roads, some that followed the Delaware River, an old canal, a tow path, a coupleof pedestrian-friendly bridges over the river. Signs of fall are apparent in the light the last three days and the green color of the trees is showing transitioning--slight, but beginning.

Lots of blooming yet to come--Chrysanthemums are loaded with buds everywhere. Paxton farm is a nursery, as well, so Marge's gardening nature was drawn to the growth, besides the arts and crafts booths.

Oddly, there were turkeys wandering around near the squawking peacocks that were not in full plumage right now.

One of the turkeys had almost grown his tail feathers back from maybe missing some after a summer molt.

Aidan's red team tied Thursday's soccer game. Some of the team has been missing this last week. Perhaps, the holidays account for that. Made a rough go the last couple games for the reds since they didn't have any subs to provide relief. Still, they've won everything except for two tied games.




The hurricane blew in some pleasant evening weather and there is doubt in the forecasts that it will hit this far north. Not far away, Stone Harbor is evacuating.

The fish sense when I walk near the pond and come right to the opening in the lettuce and hyacinths where Marge tosses them their daily food.

There are five of them--one is black and I can barely make him/her out.

Thinking about our country's current divisions of tolerance and intolerance and of our Labor Day weekend happening right now, I ran across something that Talitha Arnold of UCC, Santa Fe, NM, referenced in a posting. It felt like a bridge.

"O God, I am Mustafah the tailor and I work in the shop of Muhammad Ali. The whole day long I sit and pull the needle and the thread through the cloth. O God, you are the needle and I am the thread. I am attached to you and I follow you. When the thread tries to slip away from the needle, it becomes tangled and must be cut so that it can be put back in the right place. O God, help me to follow you wherever you may lead me. For I am really only Mustafah the tailor and I work at the shop of Muhammad Ali on the great square."

                                                                 --from The Oxford Book of Prayer