Minnesota Fat Cat's Annual Column / Rant

It's that time of the year again. But, this year is so
unprecedented, that if I wrote it up and tried to
publish it, no publisher would touch it. I'd be told
no one would believe it because it was too . . .
       you pick a word for it.

Now, I know it is my public duty to emerge and
check out my shadow. But if you think I am going
to even stick my paw out, you are crazy. It clearly
is not safe out there.

Besides, if you looked out the window this morning,
there was so much sunshine . . . there is no question
about shadows. There is a very large shadow looming
over the land -- the man I wrote about last year -- the
one with the orange hair.

I have been watching TV, at least some of the time.
Don't want to make myself sick (or crazy) over what
is on. Instead, I have put in place some precautionary
measures. I have a new back exit, enough food so as
not to starve, and have stopped my newspaper delivery.
I keep my cell phone fully charged.

Punxsutawney Phil, a couple of DC cousins who live
in Rock Creek Park, and I were going to head south
to Cancun for some winter relief. You know, laze around
on the beach getting a good tan, and sip on margaritas
and those little coladas with the cute umbrellas. But we
decided to cancel the trip. Being brown and not white,
we were afraid of being detained at the border as Mexican
rapists and drug dealers.

Going north into Canada, where sanity prevails, trades the
beach for skis and snowshoes. Not my cup of tea.

So, I have kept my bag all packed in case I need to make a
quick getaway.

As best as I can figure, the administration strategy is to make
even money by being King of the World, alienate all of
America's allies, and use the GOP before they catch on that
they are being used. And climate change is a conspiracy
concocted by all those scientists.

I had been thinking of visiting the West's national parks.
But, I understand that they will be used for mining oil and
other minerals.

So . . . I will hole up, watch snippets of news, and wait for
the house of cards to collapse.

MINNESOTA FAT CAT HAS A THING OR TWO TO SAY

It’s that Day again. Groundhog Day! The Day when the whole country turns to us for wisdom.

But not this year it seems. Instead, the country is focused on IOWA. I know, I know. No one is paying much attention to us groundhogs - or our potential for making shadows.

Along with the rest of you I watched the whole circus last night on TV from the comfort of my burrow. I had stocked up on some of my favorite foods – lots of dark chocolate (it’s a myth that us animals mustn’t eat chocolate). And dill pickle potato chips and grape soda.

Actually, I had a secondary motive for stocking up. I had listened to the weather predictions and wanted to be sure I had enough provisions to tide me through.

Now, those Iowa shenanigans. I thought about traveling to Iowa to stand in line so I could cast my vote. But my cousin Phil in Pennsylvania texted me and said that was ill-advised. He had tried to do so four years ago and had gotten nowhere, but left out in the cold.

The best I understand the whole thing, is that there is this entertainer guy with hair who thought he would win. Then there is this hard-right Tea Party guy who did win. I think it was because he promised that if he was elected President, his Mrs. promised to restore French fries in school lunch programs. Michelle must have hurumphed at that one.

The guy with the hair, who is married to an immigrant with a lovely accent she didn’t learn here, says the winning guy can’t be Prez because he was born in Canada. After all Obama was born in the foreign country of Hawaii – where I don’t think any groundhogs live. Oh, I could go on and on. But I am already tuned in to New Hampshire.

And now that shadow stuff. I slept in so I was a bit slow to stick my head out of my burrow. Yikes! It was snowing. Big wet flakes. No question about seeing anyone’s shadow. So I returned to the comfort of my burrow and pulled up a documentary from Netflick.

Given how the winter has gone here this year (easy), I would have predicted an early spring anyway - without the bother of sniffing the outside. Now for Punxsutawney Phil, it's a different story. Those folks out East are yearning for spring to come. Philadelphia even managed more snow than DC and NYC in the latest round.

I would have suggested Phil come and spend a few months here, but he had already texted me that he was heading south after he did his shadow-duty today. He has already packed his swimsuit and sunscreen. Eager to go and soak up some rays!

News Flash: General Beauregard Lee In BIG Trouble!

I just received an urgent message from Minnesota Fat Cat. If you remember, he is the Midwest's honorable groundhog.

Minnesota Fat Cat says that his southern cousin, General Beauregard Lee, who lives in Atlanta, is in big trouble. It seems on Groundhog Day, Beau predicted an early spring this year for the south. 

However,  four - let me repeat that - four major storms have hit the south in just the last couple weeks. Some folks are suggesting he get his eyes checked. Others are reacting more strongly and suggesting he should be arrested for making false predictions. 

I hope he can weather this storm (pardon the puns) and clear his reputation. Because normally he is a reliable groundhog sort of guy. And a genial southerner. Why, he'll make up a batch of sugared ice tea when he sees you coming and sweep out his den to welcome you. He even will check to see if the pictures on the wall are straight. (He does worry about those many earthquakes in Oklahoma).

Because climate change has screwed up the winter weather big time and left meteorologists's computer models crashing, groundhog predictions are more important than they have ever been. Folks need to know when to put out the deck furniture and grill baby grill.And when to start walking in the woods looking for morels.

Speaking of spring say a prayer or two for the Massachusetts groundhog. They have so much snow in Boston that the poor fellow didn't even try to find his way through all the snow. Now there is a groundhog suffering cabin fever in a major way! When all that snow eventually does go away and he can emerge, he'd better have his sunglasses handy so as not to damage his eyes.

The Gift that Keeps On Giving

Every year we buy a balsam tree for Christmas. We can't remember where we bought our first tree. Though I do remember buying our first imported glass ornaments at the department store on Wisconsin Avenue. 

Every Christmas we add a new ornament or two to our collection. When we take them carefully from the box, they are a review of our life together.

I love the smell the tree radiates. It is a reminder of celebrations of Christmas past.

We have learned to make a fresh cut at the bottom of the trunk as soon as we bring it home on the day before Thanksgiving. Then the tree stands in a bucket of water in the garage - until it is time to bring it in and decorate it. This access to water - even if it freezes over - is the secret to keeping it fresh and preventing it from shedding its needles. Sometimes the tree even puts out new pale green tips on the ends of its branches.

After New Years Day, the tree is stripped of its lights and decorations. It is hauled outside and tied to the edge of the deck - next to the bird feeders. 

The birds are overjoyed at this shelter that suddenly has sprung up in their midst. They fly in and out of its branches all winter long, as they come to feed on seeds and suet we put out for them.

We call our balsam tree the gift that keeps on giving!

A Perfect World? B o r i n g . . . !

When I was a child, I noticed some major discrepancies in the Genesis story about Eden. I was old enough to know things died - but if Eden was the perfect world, did that mean there was no death?

That's where things got sticky in my child's mind. Either nothing new was birthed or major over- population problems would occur very quickly. Imagine a world overrun with squirrels - or rabbits!

So I concluded adults didn't know what they were talking about with this Eden-business.

By the time I became an adult I learned that stories were not always to be taken literally. Stories are not intended to be video clips of reality, but serve other purposes. They are a means to convey truths that need to be passed on from generation to generation.

Later, I learned that even the gold standard of memoir, in which people's account of some facet in their life, does not reflect some sort of "accurate" accounting. Think about your own life when you were twenty or thirty and how your story has changed over time as you changed while maturing.

As for perfection, we use the term as loosely as we use the term love - like saying I love your outfit or I love springtime. I even question whether anything can be perfect. Instead, I am a fan of uniqueness and the artistry of individual differences - not perfection.

Those apples in Genesis? Were there no apple-worms in Eden? Hold that fruit in your hand and wax eloquent about its perfection. But if you look more closely, no apple is identical to the next apple. So what does that say about perfection? Apple growers and horticulturists are continually tinkering with apples to generate more varieties with different characteristics. So what does that say about the existence of a perfect apple?

When it comes to us humans, imagine being married to a perfect person. Someone who never makes mistakes and knows all the answers.  I remember sitting in an East Indian restaurant in Santa Fe, where a man at the next table was "explaining" Indian cuisine to his wife. It was pretty humorous, because it was obvious he had never eaten Indian food. 

He concluded with a question: why would anyone travel all the way from India to open a restaurant in New Mexico? Of course, he had the answer to his own question. And his wife took it all in as if he was the authority to end all authority. Never occurred to either of them to ask the restaurant's various staff what motivated them to move to Santa Fe!  

Speaking of New Mexico, I once read an article in a very boring, but highly regarded psychology journal. I have long since forgotten what the article was about. But if I close my eyes, I can see the author's use of an example three paragraphs down from the beginning of the article. 

Here is his example. It has been my guide for a non-perfect life ever since I read it: 

   

       A man entered a shop. He was looking for one of those belts common in this part of the 

       country - silver-tooled ovals linked to each other, with turquoise embedded in each oval.  

       The  shopkeeper watched the man examine the merchandise. The man was obviously 

       puzzled. He asked the shopkeeper why the belts on the right side of the store cost so much 

       more than the belts hanging on the left side of the store. The man said "why are each 

       oval of the belts on the left side of the store perfect, while those on the right side flawed. 

       But the imperfect ones on the right cost a great deal more?"

       The shopkeeper smiled at him. "The ones on the right were individually crafted by artists. 

       While the ones on the right are factory-produced."

                        I am a work of art, not something produced in a factory!

Always Something New!

After a recent snowfall, the trees were laden white with the fresh, clean snow. With every slight breeze, puffs would settle out like big globs of froth - on their way down to the ground.

The bird feeders over the deck were a busy place. Little birds flew into the balsam Christmas tree we placed outside in early January. They checked out what looked good to fill themselves with energy for cold days. Resident grey squirrels showed up to eat seeds that had fallen from the feeders - and they enjoyed a long drink of water from the pan that held a heater element, which keeps the water in it from freezing.

Today, it was the usual crowd - sparrows, an occasional cardinal and a saucy blue jay, nuthatches, chickadees, and juncos. Downy and hairy woodpeckers took turns at the two suet feeders.

It would be easy to say same-old same-old. The same flocks filling themselves with birdseed.

But this daily activity calls me to pay attention.

As I gazed out the window, I saw something I'd never seen before. A blue jay headed for one of the suet feeders and precariously balanced itself. With its long beak, it acted like a woodpecker, pulling bits of suet from the feeder.

If I had given the congregation of birds a cursory glance, I would never have seen this blue jay supplementing his diet with suet - and playing the role of a woodpecker - as though it had studied the smaller woodpeckers who had been coming all winter. His audition as woodpecker was a pretty floppy act and not likely to earn it an Oscar. Several times it almost fell off - like a clown entertaining its human audience of one.

But in the cold, a bird does what it needs to, in order to stay healthy rather than hungry.

Today, what have you paid attention to that brought a smile to your face?

NO WAY!

Yesterday marked the end of meteorological summer. Today is the first day of September . . .

No way! I am in early August, enjoying the lazy, beautiful summer days. There must be some major mistake by the calendar people, who are charged with keeping us all on a tight schedule.

I am not ready for beautiful fall colors on trees, anticipation of beautiful snowfalls, or the end of the gardening season. Please - someone tell me this is a huge ghastly mistake.

Why is it as we grow older, time whizzes by faster and faster. I remember as a child how the last day of the school year meant summer stretched out, almost endless in length. Now if I doze off for a brief nap in the summer sun, some breeze ruffles the calendar pages and suddenly it is autumn. As children we did not have much wisdom to enjoy what we were given. Now that we have gained such wisdom, there is little time to exercise it and reflect on the joys of life. Not even on rainy days.

We need to pass a law extending time for older people. Delicious long days to savor our reflections on the meaning our lives. After all, our peers are dropping like flies and who knows when it will be our time.

Oh, that's right. Washington gridlock means nothing gets passed these days. Maybe it is the result of the average age of our elected officials. Perhaps they do do not realize their time is moving at an ever faster pace.

On second thought, the downside of such legislation would mean longer winters - and after this past long winter (that went on far too long), I think the passage of time is a bit more complicated. Perhaps what we really need are longer summers and shorter winters - and not the kind that occur due to climate change.

So I am going outside and enjoy my early August . . . no leaves fallen that need raking yet.

And don't tell me summer is over!

Thank You Public Radio . . .

This past week, we headed to Subway for our favorite lunch order - seafood, piled high with so many veggies that they fall out all the edges as you sink your teeth into this delicacy.

Clem went in to order, while I sat in the car listening to classical Public Radio, windows rolled down to let a lovely summer day float through the car.

I sat there absorbed in the music. It was a rousing rendition of Saint Saens' Danse Macabre (in English, its name translates to "Dance of Death"). This composition is a tone poem - in which its composer used the music to depict visual images of ghouls dancing away.

Horrors - but not about the music! My reverie and enjoyment became interpreted by a very public quarrel between a couple. The man was doing most of the shouting and using the s-word and the f-word liberally.

And double horrors - their car was parked next to the driver's side of my car. The only way I could roll the window up was to get out of the car - and I definitely did not want to encounter this verbally abusive man in any manner.

What to do?! I did not want to have my air polluted by his vile language (not that I don't use the s-word occasionally). Meanwhile, Danse Macabre played on - oblivious to what was happening to me. And then the little light bulb in my head lit up!

Gradually, I turned up the volume. The closer they got to my car - and the louder their dispute - the more I turned up the volume. Until the orchestra was all I could hear. Meanwhile, Clem could hear the whole thing from across the parking lot. He knew exactly what his dear wife was up to.

Eventually, the couple got into their car and drove away, a five-year old, blond-haired little girl trying to be invisible in the back seat. Just then, the piece came to its ending quiet measures - the dance was over and the ghouls retreated to wherever ghouls go when they are not dancing. The timing could not have been more impeccable.

I sat in the car laughing and laughing. I have no idea if these two feuding people ever caught on to what I was doing or whether they were so immersed that they did not notice other heads turn toward them as they shredded each other into pieces. I know I will never hear this familiar piece of music again, without remembering my unusual use of it to spare me from all those f-words and s-words. Hopefully, I will not hear it in a public concert, for I will have to work very hard to squelch my laughter - the kind of concert that if you cough, six people turn around and glare at you.

Thank you Public Radio. I shall have to give you an extra donation this year for providing service beyond the call of duty.

Wimp Weed Assault!

When our backs were turned away from our garden and doing other things, our garden exploded! Including the weeds.

Now you need to know, we usually do little gardening in August. It is the month to sit back and enjoy the fruits of our April and May labors. But this year, everything garden-wise has been topsy-turvy.

April meant the ground remained still frozen. Pea pods, usually planted on April 1st, would have required an auger to drill holes in order to drop wrinkled seeds into the ground. Of course with such cold soil, even peas would not have germinated.

By the end of May, many perennials still had not come up - leading us to wonder how much loss we suffered due to the harsh winter. And making gardening difficult, due to our hesitation to dig in bare places for fear we might destroy any chances of life for what had been there a year ago.

By mid-June, most everything had pushed its way into the light. It was much like years of gardening in the Northwoods, where the growing season is short and long daylight hours compensated, still giving us lush tomatoes by mid-August.

This June was monsoon-month, when records for amounts of rainfall were broken right and left. The good part of all the deluges was that it broke the drought from last year - in which it was as if someone turned off the rain-spigot on a specific date during the late summer.

After all the weather commotion this summer, our garden plants must have held a meeting and decided to go for broke in July. Stuff grew taller and bigger than it ever had. The hostas were especially spectacular - with some leaves as big or bigger than extra-large dinner plates.

But gardening is not meant to be toiling away every waking hour during the summer that we dreamt about in January. There are other things that need doing in life. We traveled some - and when we returned, it was evident we had some serious work to do. No sitting around this August!

Which brings me to wimp weed. W have no idea what its "official name" is. Nor have other gardeners we have asked. But when we describe  the weed, serious gardeners know exactly what we mean. This demon weed rampages through gardens. It is wimp weed's capacity to produce a million seeds on each small  plant - and scatter them over the entire garden that makes it a weed with NO friends.

Wimp weed is a nice green, has pretty leaves, and likes to hide out where it thinks it can't be seen. It pulls out very easy (hence our name for it: wimp weed), not like some stubborn weeds that resist - and who believe they have a constitutional right to reside in their chosen places.

So I can say today, we now are relatively wimp-free. That is until the next batch shows up sometime during the week.

Like an Aesop's fable, this story has a moral. Though we might treasure having a wide variety of people in our lives, there are some folks who behave like wimp weed - running rampant over everyone with whom they come into contact. And though it sounds harsh, it is those folks that we must learn to recognize and remove them from our lives, in exchange for mutually loving and giving relationships, so precious and necessary for our well-being.

No Letty, You Will Not Go To Jail

We were at the top of the world. Alpine tundra stretched out all around us. As always, Rocky Mountain National Park was a place of renewal for us. A balance between spectacular views and the tiny little plants that covered this meadow far above the tree line.

A conversation broke into my reverie. A mother was bending over a little girl, probably five or six years old. In the little girl's hand was a tiny purple flower. Her upset mother said in loud tones, Letty you can't pick the flowers here. You will go to jail! I suspect her loud voice was not just for Letty, but for everyone around the little girl.

Fortunately, Letty's father was the more reasonable parent, intervening in the conversation between Letty and her mother.. No Letty, you will not go to jail. But you shouldn't pick the flowers in this Park. Especially up here so high - the flowers are very fragile and precious.  They take a long time to grow. If everyone picked flowers, soon there would not be any left for others to enjoy. The family drifted away, Letty still holding the tiny flower that had captured her attention.

No Letty you will not go to jail. I wonder if her little heart thumped fast in her chest with the threat  of jail time. A tiny flower that so transfixed her attention will remain an image in her memory for a very long time.

Small, but life changing events in our lives. Sounds of a police siren you think might be for you, and your relief as the patrol car whizzes by - intent on something else. The faces of hungry children. The splendor of places like this park that I so love. The Western forests decimated by pine blister beetles. The first tulips bulbs to push through still frozen ground in the spring. My daughters just emerging from my womb. The aftermath of a flood or tornado. The sight of ice floes in the North Pacific. My husband's serious face as we pledged our vows to each other.

Memories fixed in our minds - some beautiful, some tragic, and some calling us to change. And now Letty's little hand. I never did see her face. But I will remember for a long time this little girl who had fallen in love with a flower just an inch tall.

Why Does Your Town Look Like My Town?

One of the attractions of travel is experiencing how people live in other places. A place's unique sights and sounds give us pause and take us out of the little boxes in which we live from day to day. We all need to be shaken loose from our  own little worlds. To see things through other peoples' eyes. Perhaps breaking down some of the we-they barriers between us.

When we were tent-camping, we used to go to grocery stores whenever we emerged from wilderness places and needed to restock our traveling pantry. Grocery stores also were great places to see what the "locals" ate and how they constructed their little boxes in ways that differed from ours.

Or we ate in small cafes and listened to the chatter of people talking about things that make up their lives. Nothing like being in a cafe where ranchers all wore baseball hats advertising products needed to make their ranches work. Now it is Mac and Don's, Subway, Perkins et al.

Local newspapers were a good source of the fabric of how lives were woven together. Even when I couldn't read the language, the photos told me a lot about how life happened in a particular place.

Not anymore. It is as if all the places I travel (and beyond) have been dumped into a huge blender to homogenize life everywhere. Folks eat the same things I can buy in my local supermarket chain - maybe a little more spicy or less spicy, but generally the same food products produced by just a few mega-corporations.

Turn on the TV in a motel or hotel room. Thanks to the "miracle of cable," we all watch the same stuff and hear the same homogenized versions of political issues. Whether it is war in Gaza, Putin's latest audacities, or Washington's paralysis. Doesn't matter whether I am in New Mexico, Maine, or Oregon. Same old, same old news. Local papers are hard to come by - replaced by USA Today. And universal evening programs are even at the same time as they are at home. PBS, the Discovery Channel, or National Geographic anyone?

Walk down the street. People wear the same things they do at home, with only small regional differences.  Even when I travel to countries beyond the one in which I live. Thanks to Target, Walmart, or other chains. Do you realize when you buy an article of clothing that you think is unique for you, these chains are dictating how you look - just like all the other folks in the country?

Only languages differ - and with the universality of English, only local accents tell me (sometimes) I am from somewhere else. Even if I watch BBC, where Brits still sound like Brits, the accents that once told me what part of England they might be from are disappearing as folks speak "perfect unaccented English."A treasured memory was when we walked into a restaurant in Germany and were handed a menu in German. Only when I asked the meaning of a word on the menu did the wait-person exclaim Oh, I thought you were German! and rush off for the English version.

No longer do I need to travel away from home to enlarge my worldview - because your town is just like my town. What a loss for us all!

At least the mountains and the seas retain their distinctive characteristics. The horror of the thought of dumping the Rocky Mountains into the blender with the Smokies. Or the Mediterranean with the North Pacific! Wild places still manage to push back against all this cultural assimilation and sameness!

Toothpaste . . .

Toothpaste is not like skim milk or orange juice - items requiring frequent trips to the grocery store. A tube of tooth paste goes a long way. Hence, changes in your favorite brand are likely, since the last time you went toothpaste shopping.

This past week, I used up the last of our toothpaste. Off to the grocery store I went, (for milk and orange juice and other items that had gone missing from our pantry and refrigerator) to investigate my options. When I came to the toothpaste department, I was overwhelmed. I was astounded at the technological improvements that had been made since I bought my last tooth paste.

What product might best suit my needs - my old brand nowhere to be seen?

Rows and rows of toothpaste - all touting their particular value for your pearly whites. And all the boxes were big - nothing that would allow me to fly on an airplane. Did I have sensitive teeth? No, an occasional bowl of ice cream was never a problem - nor a tall glass of something cold and refreshing on a hot day in July. Or hot soup in January.

The various boxes raised other existential questions. Did I want to whiten my teeth, remove plaque and tartar (is there a difference?) or prevent cavities and gum disease? Or simply freshen my breath - which I assumed was fresh enough because people did not back away when I opened my mouth.

Feeling overwhelmed by all the choices, I moved on to the hand lotion department. At least there, I was clearer about what I expected the stuff in the bottle would do. And I did not have high expectations that a particular brand would make me thirty years younger and sexier.

However, there still was this matter of toothpaste. So I returned to the plethora of products. For starters, I asked myself if was there anything I didn't want my toothpaste to do for my teeth.  And I forgot to mention - what flavor did I want to invite my mouth to enjoy.

Lacking a computer with sophisticated statistical analytical tools, I was forced to collate the various factors in my head.  At least I could be methodical about scanning each row of large boxes.

Finally, I reached out and plucked a box from the shelf. I hoped it was a good choice - because the size of the tube meant I would be living with it for some time to come.

Unless that is, I booked a plane flight - and needed toothpaste that met TSA requirements. Wouldn't want someone flying with me who used a toothpaste tube to carry a bomb. Bad breath is enough of a problem, given the increasingly smaller size of seats.

Life is so complicated these days.

Urban Crane Watching

Note: After a sabbatical of rather considerable length, I have returned to contributing to this blog!

During springtime, we often go crane watching in central Nebraska. Across a sixty-mile stretch of the Platte River, most of the sand hill cranes in the world congregate. There they fatten up for their long journey to nesting grounds that stretch from eastern Siberia across northern Canada.

Since it now is mid-summer, we have turned to another kind of crane watching. This past week, we watched a huge crane "fold-up" after completing whatever it was doing at a construction site near us. The height of this crane seemed a bit of over-kill to us. But what ever - the crew seemed to think this behemoth was necessary. Slowly, the huge creature telescoped into smaller and smaller sections until it fit on the flat-bed of a vehicle designed to transport it from place to place.

The procedure was elaborate. Many pieces were stored in place, parts chained down so they could not move and cause damage, leg-extensions that prevented it from tipping sideways were slid into slots within the  interior of the vehicle- and finally chocks the size of railroad ties were removed from its fourteen huge wheels. Then off it went - toward the freeway and some other project.

We marveled at this elaborate invention and wondered how much money it took to make it. It did not originate from some factory assembly line mass producing such an ingenious creation. Rather, it likely was custom-made.

Our appetite whetted, we went to the third floor of a building in the center of the city and stood on a balcony overlooking the biggest construction project in our city. Here multiple cranes slowly danced across the sky. Choreographed to move materials from one place to another on the construction site without colliding with each other. Back and forth they went, giving a new perspective of our much smaller mobile crane of several days earlier.

Most of the time, the cranes lifted dark unidentifiable objects. Somewhere, there must have been someone directing the traffic, someone who responded to recess to move a needed part from one place to another.

However, it was our lucky day. As we watched, the biggest crane plucked two Porta Potties and moved them from one side of the work in progress to the other. fortunately the crane did not either one while it was in transit.

What can you say?

The Sport of Snirt-kicking

Folks who live in the Upper Midwest have a variety of winter sports, to which they turn, in order to survive long winters. There is skiing - both downhill and cross-country. Others snowshoe. Some people roar through the woods and across frozen lakes in snowmobiles. There is curling, hockey, and ice-skating.

Ice-fishing is another popular sport, though it is questionable how sitting in one place for hours staring at a hole in the ice can be called a sport. Drinking beer may be an alternative agenda for some of the guys. (Some  of the fancier fish houses are equipped with TV's). The more hardy might take the polar plunge, jumping into frigid water through a hole cut in a lake's ice. (They don't stay in the water long). All of this after shoveling our walks and driveways.

As winter ages from February into March, snirt-kicking goes into high gear. For the uninitiated, who live in places like Los Angeles, snirt is the accumulation of dirty snow, road salt, and gravel that collects in the wheel-wells behind car tires. If left unattended, snirt is likely to drop off in your garage or even inhibit turning the front wheels of your car.

Thus, snirt-kicking has become a much loved winter sport. When you get out of your car, in a parking lot of course, since snirt belongs to everyone and you wouldn't want to hoard it, you walk around your car. With a deft kick, you take aim at the accumulated snirt. If done correctly, it will fall off beneath your car. Then you have the pleasure of backing over it, increasing the packed snow and ice that covers most parking spaces.

You do what you have to do to survive winter.

Rain on Our Parade, Will You?

What do you do when you'd like to grumble, when you have no right to complain? I was all set to write a short piece about several of injustices currently in the news.

On the political left, the American Humanist Association complained about a local school that went to - gasp - a church to pack food for the  Feed my Children  program, a way to teach children about giving to others. The Association did not want innocent children exposed to a "theologically-charged" environment. Now I have been in many a church hall or basement where such activities occur, and if these are "theologically-charged," I am an insensitive lout for not noticing all the theology floating around in the air. These spaces have as much to do with theology as a school gym.

On the political right, people have voiced objections in a series of letters to the editor about the idea that children should be fed a hot lunch at school whether their families can afford the 40 cents a day or not. It seems schools around the state have been literally taking trays out of the hands of children - in front of other children and throwing the food in the trash - when the children do not have the money.As one person asked: why am I responsible for feeding my neighbors children - if they don't have the money, let them starve.

So much for the Golden Rule.And taking care of each other rather than hoarding one's little pot of gold. It's Scrooge all over again. A petty version of the growing disparity between those who have wealth and those who do not.

Then my husband discovered our water heater is leaking - on Valentine's Day no less. The water heater is over 17 years old, so who are we to complain. Because we are comfortable financially, the credit card takes care of the problem, just like that. And we have a brand-new water heater. No cold showers for us as we save up our pennies for a new one.

But it did not mean the two of us did not get to go out for lunch and make eyes at each other over the table.

So I felt like grumbling. Despite the fact that we had it replaced within hours of discovering the problem. Despite our having a warm and cozy home, when others have lost their homes due to foreclosure - with some of them now living on the streets. Despite our living in a place where war has not driven us into refugee camps to mourn the deaths of our families. Where the idea of a hot lunch for small children is beyond imagination.

But I still felt grumbly inside instead of gratitude.

How dare you rain on my Valentine's Day Parade! When I have so much for which to be thankful.

Minnesota Fat Cat Texts a Message

Not having hearing from Minnesota Fat Cat in some time, I grew concerned. (As you recall, he is Minnesota's own official Groundhog). I paced the floor, wondering what I should do.

It has been a brutal winter with huge snowbanks piled everywhere. I wasn't sure how he would manage to climb out of his hole and climb further to gain sufficient altitude to do his yearly patriotic duty. After all, he has put on a bit of weight.

After all, today IS Groundhog's Day!

My cell phone buzzed as I was pondering my options. Fat Cat had sent a text!

He said: U R crazy if you think I'm going to climb out to check my shadow on this sunny day. I do watch the Weather Channel U know. Obvious to every *%#^@% there is much winter ahead. Well I thought - you don't need to get huffy about it. And February is your day in the sun - or other weather phenomena.

Relieved that he was his usual self, I set my phone aside.

Then it buzzed again. Another message from Minnesota Fat Cat, saying: GO AWAY. Am busy getting ready to watch the Super B. (I understand only official sponsors can use the B-word). Comfy couch front and center of TV.  A six-pack, large bowl of buttered popcorn, salsa, chips, and little microwave thingies. Gotta cheer on my team. Go Broncos go! 

Well, I'm certainly not about to disturb a grouchy groundhog. Or take him away from his pleasures in life. Although I was a bit surprised by his cheering the Broncos. Must be the Manning factor. Or is it because he is leery of real life sea hawks swooping down from the sky and sinking their talons into some poor groundhog.

One never knows how a groundhog's mind works. Especially one who knows how to text.

Vacuuming Day

For some reason, Pixie the Cat is terrified of vacuum cleaners. I don't know if she thinks it will suck her right up into it. Who knows how a cat's mind works!

But vacuuming is one of those necessary tasks of life. Somehow, little bits of unidentifiable material accumulate on the floors. Makes for crunchy walking if it is neglected too long. So out comes the Blue Monster. And Pixie goes into high alert.

Meanwhile Maggie the Cat snoozes away the day in front of the fireplace, oblivious to the threats of sucking noises.

They are sweet cats who take their household duties seriously. There is rabbit and squirrel patrol in the morning. Our house is mice-free. And in the evening, there is lap-sitting to attend to - nothing like a warm cat on these wintery days.

I wish I could be as faithful to life's duties as the cats are. I get engrossed in writing and forget to turn off the fireplace when it gets too warm. I struggle to keep the numbers correct in our bank account. Bill-paying is my job and I double-check due-dates often to make sure I send these obligations off in time - only occasionally putting the electric bill in the phone bill envelope. Thank heavens there is some grace left in our mostly computer-driven world.

The two cats have whispered in my ear that they would like to try blogging. But there are limits. Besides I don't think long meows and purrs would translate easily on this English-spoken only site!

I have sometimes tried to see the world through their eyes. They have never set a paw outside our house. Their world consists of what they can see from windows around the perimeter of the house. If it can't be seen from these vantage points, it must not exist.

A bit like most of us humans. What we see - or choose to see - is all that exists.

Protesters plan to shut down Bangkok, something most folks ignore - and I am thankful that I was  there at a time when political protests were minor. Ditto for Kenya.  Memories of this fascinating land, its people, its animals, and its birds are treasures I hold in my heart. Driving through Nairobi by van during rush hour was more thrilling than any amusement park ride. Again, I was fortunate to be there at a relatively safe time.

Radiation is leaking from Fukushima - but radiation is invisible and most of us tend to avoid thinking about the whole disaster. Unless it reaches the shores of this country. Contaminated water in West Virginia hits a little closer to home since we stayed just outside Charleston just a few months ago.

However, images of the research vessel trapped in summer ice near Antarctica calls up vivid memories for me. When we rounded the tip of South America several years ago, considered the most treacherous seas in the world, we lucked out. The morning was so calm that we were able to circle the islands, which make up the Cape of Good Horn.

But a year and a half ago we had our own little adventure. Crossing the North Pacific by ship, we encountered unexpected ice, which became so thick that our route became impassable. We were forced to return to Japan in order to find an alternative route to Alaska. Memories of the sights and sounds of ice floes bumping into the ship are permanently engraved in my mind. This unexpected venture has become part of my particular perspective of the world.

I don't think Maggie and Pixie would have enjoyed the experience at all!

Farewell Arctic Vortex!

The temperature is going up and up. No more Arctic Vortex -good riddance. Where ever do they get these names . . .

All day the words for the Everly Brothers hit song has been going through my head - changed just bit for this occasion of winter cold. The chorus for the original song goes like this:

Bye bye love

Bye bye happiness

Hello loneliness

I think I'm-a gonna cry.

What I have been singing to myself - over and over:

Bye bye Arctic Blast

Bye bye frostbite temps

Hello warmer air

I thought I was gonna die.

Perhaps this little ditty is the result of spending 72 hours holed up inside our warm house. Even the cats who have never set one single paw outside have cabin fever. Watching the rabbit who has been frequenting the deck gets old after awhile.

A small flock of robins stopped by this afternoon. I hope they were heading south - way south. Like I would like to do . . . 

'Tis a Strange Autumn Indeed

As one of our neighbors said the other day, our seasons are really screwed up.

Over half or more of the trees in our neighborhood are still as green as if it is mid-summer. Some are covered with the colors of autumn. A few others exhibit the outline of naked branches silhouetted against the sky.

The geese have been strangely silent, as if they are confused about whether or not to fly south. There are no thin layers of ice on small ponds. Sometimes the days are November-grey. Other days, the sun shines as though it was early September. After a brief wind last night, the lawns in our neighborhood are free of leaves and are green as if it was mid-summer. Despite little rain since August.

One of my favorite fall images is when leaves fall straight downward around the base of a tree, lying there like a golden pool of light. Such a favorite image it is, that when Clem and I did a presentation on the fall solstice and looked through our published books of poetry - we found three pieces using this imagery!

My favorite, from Waiting for the Heat to Pass, is the following:

                                silent prayers

               leaves of amur maples

                                    their life energy spent

                       drift to the ground

        fade from brilliant reds and oranges

                            into pools of browns and golds

                   naked branches stark 

                                        in thin November air

                            they wait in stillness

                                      for the renewing touch

                   of soft snow filtered

                             through skeletal forms     

Nightmare on Urban streets

Summer road construction is nearing its end. Thank heavens!

All summer I have been chief navigator as we have gone from place to place in this city where we have lived for so many years. Clutching the street map in both hands, I have "re-routed" us to familiar places. Sometimes we even have gotten lost, adding more suspense to what usually are routine trips.

I must say the finished sections are smooth - and a huge improvement, especially on freeways. Dollars well spent on aging infrastructure has meant jobs for many. Hopefully going well beyond filling potholes, re-paving worn roadways will save the suspensions of numerous cars. And even prevent accidents in which attention to potholes rivals the risks of texting while driving.

A month or so ago, I had a terrible nightmare. You know those orange barrels that keep drivers from entering work sections? It has seemed as though they have been reproducing like rabbits in Australia.

 In my dream, I imagined they had become so numerous that there was no place large enough to store them until next summer. Therefore, the highway department workers busied themselves all winter long by continually loading them onto trucks and moving them to other sites, thus rotating their orange presence in our harried lives.

I think the source of my dream was a news article explaining that the summer's road construction was so complex this year, that it was too complicated for workers to remove barrels from finished stretches until the whole freeway was completed. The result? Cars restricted to one lane while passing lovely roadways still barricaded by those blessed orange barrels!

My dream indeed was a nightmare!