B U M B L E R S

On a cold day, early in November, I noticed
a lone bumblebee clinging to an outdoor window
screen. It was barely moving. Being so cold, I 
knew that it would not bite me . . .  so I stroked 
its back ever so gently. Left alone, it tumbled to 
the ground in the perennial flower garden and
found a secure crevice near the house's foundation 
and disappeared.


                B U M B L E R S

In summer
      bumblebees
             skim through
                   bundles of blooms.

They gather
      sweet
             syrups.
      Load up
             packs fo
                   yellow dust.

Come late fall . . .
      a slowdown to
             survive.

Hibernate on through
      winter's
             sting.

SLAVA . . . WHERE ARE YOU ?

One spring, I was visiting in Tallin, Estonia. I was amazed to
meet up with, and make friends with a person who was a
professor of Russian/English at Moscow University. Slava
was so proud that his newborn child had been born on the
4th of July! At one point, Slava and I found ourselves comparing
customs and beliefs of our respective countries.

I spied a 3-leafed clover growing along the beach walkway, and asked
him if it was his belief that . . . if one found a clover with 4 petals,
that it meant you will be certain to have good luck? As children,
we would play a trick by carefully splitting one of a clover's 3 petals
so that it now had 4, and say: "Hey, look what I found".

Slava replied, "No we don't, but Clem, do you see that lilac over
there? The flowers have 4 petals, right? If you find one with
5 petals . . . it means lots of luck!" We kept on walking for a long
time along the beach and ended up at the once-distant lighthouse.
We stood there at the base of the lighthouse and looked across
at Finland, just eighty miles across the bay. The next day, we would
each return to our homes.

Slava's son would be 35 years old by now.
I trust that he has had lots of luck!

I always will wish we could have kept in touch.

So What Now ?

Our earth must be
so frustrated.

Once, for a long time,
the seasons tended toward
regularity. And,
we took notice.

           Plant potatoes in spring when
           budding oak leaves are the
           size of mouse ears.

The earth is older
and seems to wobble
        just a bit.

Does anyone notice - or
is it me
becoming less stable?

T H A N K F U L N E S S

This morning, as I opened the front door to bring in the morning
paper, I happened to spot a strange object lying in among the leaves
that had fallen from the old Schwedler Maple. It was about the
size of a Sunbeam Toaster, but was roundish and rather lumpy.
Intrigued, I went back into the house to put on more clothes.

Upon returning with tongs, a roll of paper toweling, and a heavy-
duty plastic bag, I realized that the object had moved to the northwest
just about 1 1/2 feet. I approached with extreme caution.

It looked harmless enough . . . so I picked it up and transferred it
into the kitchen and dropped it into our porcelain sink basin. Our
two cats, Pixie and Maggie, were very wary and they refused to come
within 17  3/5th inches from the object. They finally wandered off,
confident and relieved that, this time, someone else was in charge.

It was then I thought that the object looked vaguely familiar. It was
almost the size, shape, and had the lumpy surface of an old-fashioned
holiday fruitcake. I remembered, back when I was a kid, that those
creations would regularly make their appearance a few days before
Christmas. Now, that would make sense! Thanksgiving Day is just
a couple of weeks or so away and that means "Christmas can't be far
behind!"

I also recalled that those holiday fruitcakes would not mold, spoil, and
didn't need to be refrigerated. They just "were." And, very seldom
did anyone ever eat much of one. It was simply a tradition back then
to exchange them. I would not be surprised that many of them had
been close to 10-16 years old. And that was 60-some years ago!

But, that's history. I returned to the present and resumed examining
the object in the sink. What was discovered is hard to believe!

The surface was imbedded with various-sized chunks of something
hard and stone-like. It was as if, whatever this object was, it had been
quite hot. Its surface, while not waxy, seemed as though it had been
somehow fused together. I located our roast meat oven thermometer
and with some effort . . . inserted it.

The interior was still quite warm AND the temperature was rising
significantly!

It was then that I made the decision to rush the object to the university
and have it properly analyzed. (Still have not heard back.) I pay attention
to the local and national news for any live, late-breaking reports from
the field. Do you suppose that what I had found was one of the myriad
pieces of space junk circling around out there?!

I am so thankful at this season of Thanksgiving that it didn't fall on me
or, for that matter, on any living creature!

Always, there is something for which to be thankful.

ON WRITING A COLUMN: SOME ADVICE

I frequently  read   columns  in
newspapers   and    magazines.
Some  are  advice  columns  or
general  commentaries.   Often
they appear on a r egular basis.
When  they  happen  to  miss a
time, I wonder what happened?
Then  they  show  up. Perhaps
I need to work  ridding myself
of having to have  things be so
regular.  (There must be a term
for such behavior.)     Now . . .
advice  on writing  an effective
column. First of all,  know that
the only "columns" that I write
are those that are a   part of our
monthly newsletter.  And those
appear  periodically in our blog.
Second,  and most  importantly,
keep  it short!  A recent  survey
reported by the local Wolverton
Daily News   supports  the  fact
that most people,  under the age
of  37  1/2,  only  read  columns
that are under 23 lines long  and
not  over  26 characters in width.

IT'S DIFFERENT NOW

It has been a great year for consuming fresh sweet corn.
With delight I chomp away on three or four rows at a time.
(Still have my front teeth.) And, it doesn't even need butter.
YUM!   I recall as a child, that our family consumed fresh
corn. It was not as sweet back then. And -  our parents
cautioned us to watch out for corn smut and the little worms
called corn borers.
As a budding naturalist, I thought the borers were interesting.


         Corn borers peer out
from holes. Lumps of smut erupt
   from along the ends of ears.
                Hey . . . It's 
              chemical free !

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!

L A C E W I N G

On this day in the dusk,
       a golden nine bark bush
    harbors the call
       of the lacewing.
Diminutive sentient being,
   a first sign of fall -
       a change signaler.

Calling for hours without pause.
   Throbbing heart-like.
       Comforting, assuring,
           quiet, muffled,
               yet penetrating.
More felt than anything.
      Soft, persistent, yet measured.
           Mysterious.

Slowed by cool evening air, 
      the four, clear, green,
           transparent, veined wings
                 rub methodically.

Being curious, always curious -
      I pause to count the pulsing calls -
            12 calls every 15 seconds.

A slow, 
      ancient song
             is given birth.


NOTES:

For a mid-August, these were uncommonly cold nights.
Temperatures in the evening hovered around the high
40's to mid 50's. Freezing temperature slows the general
activity of insects. (For example, somewhere below 50
usually brings a halt to flying.) In warm weather, the
lacewing's song pulsed around 120 cycles per minute.

Green Lacewing (Chrysoperia). The larvae are general
predators of aphids, mealy bugs, thrips, mites, whitefly,
and many other insects. The Green Lacewing has
beautifully transparent wings and rather lazy, floppy
flight. Adult males and females both sing - sometimes
alone, sometimes in duet. The have large yellow-coppery
eyes and very long antennae.

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?

WHAT YOU SEE DEPENDS ON WHERE YOU STAND . . .

Minnesota has thousands of lakes. For many years, car license plates
carried the slogan "Land of 10,000 Lakes." The DNR states there are
actually 11,842 lakes 10 acres or larger. Each lake has been given a
name with some of the "names" being simply numbers . . . like Lake
22 or Lake 23.

The lakes sometimes share the same name. For me, amount all the 154
lakes named "Long", one Long Lake will always be special.

     It was where I saw a Cerulean Warbler for the first time.


                                     Cerulean

                           A small flutter of a bird
                               traverses tree tops.

                 Part of springtime passing through
                                   to elsewhere.

                            I lift my eyes skyward
                               hoping to glimpse
                        its ethereal, sky-blue back.

                                   But see only
                            a clear, white breast.

                            Next year, I will walk
                         along a high-ridge trail,
                               to look down on 
                                     tree tops.

                                 

BLUEBIRDS REMEMBERED

They turn in lilting flight,
descend to trees and fences and
begin a gentle conversation.

In loose clusters, never alone
as if they have
a fondness
for each other's company.

Always in my memories,
their graceful flight
and soft calls
always -

turning blue skies 
more blue.

May Day ! ! May Day ! !

I remember a May Day in London. Elizabeth and I had just visited
Westminster Cathedral and out in front was a significant gathering of
people watching a circle of young girls dancing, holding ribbons, and
twining the ribbons around a May Pole. I had heard about May Poles . . .
but had never seen one. And here I was watching it all happen!

But, that wasn't all.

The group invited me to join them. Now . . . I'm not a "dancing type"
person, only having danced once with Elizabeth at our high school prom.
But, there I was dancing. I will never forget that day in London with
Elizabeth.

I can hardly wait to see what special thing Elizabeth and I will do
on this May Day!

Feathers Go Before A Fall

This poem was written on the day before International Earth Day 2005 (35 years after the first Earth Day in 1970!) and dedicated to Gaylord Nelson and all far-sighted persons around the world.

DDT was banned in the U.S. on 6/14/1972. It was not allowed to be used anymore after the last day of that year. It took a while for the food chain of the Bald Eagle to rid itself of toxic levels of the pesticide. Coupled with major tracts of land being set aside for breeding pairs, the numbers of eagles slowly grew. Truly a modern success story!

Just yesterday, I saw two different pairs of eagles soaring over the Mississippi near our home.


Feathers Go Before A Fall

Crossing an isthmus onto an
island in Lake Wappogasset.
Northern Wisconsin is beautiful.
Today was especially so.
The day was early.
The bay was edged with stately pine -
protected and still.

And there it was!

A lone mature Bald Eagle
perched on an exposed limb.
White head and tail glistened in the sun.
Eagles didn't used to be rare in these parts.
Was always a joy to see one!

But not today . . .

High in the tree, a light wind blew.
The eagle seemed unsteady.
Rocking and wobbly.
Tail feathers disheveled -
some missing.
Two tail feathers joined the air as I watched -
landing lightly on the water.

What was wrong?

Someone at camp said that its mate had
died two days before.
Found it floating.

     It won't be long before this one
     dies as well . . . It's the DDT.

That was back in the early 70's.
So different now.
Change happens.
Some, not without effort.

Sometimes, too late.

Sometimes, not at all.

M A Y P E A C E P R E V A I L

Last evening and early  this morning . . . it snowed  no less
than 9 inches here in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The snow
made a beautiful background for our outside Peace Pole.

Some years ago, my spouse and I designed and built the
6-foot, cedar-post Peace Pole and set it firmly in concrete
in our  front yard. The words "May Peace Prevail on Earth"
are  carefully painted in black in sixteen different languages
on the Peace Pole's four sides. We had asked each of our
surrounding neighbors to print for us how the words "may
peace prevail on earth" would look in each of their countries
of origin. They were most enthusiastic to do so. One of our
Polish friends even insisted that five words were inadequate
and wrote out a whole paragraph! (When he saw the amount
of space there was . . . he agreed to just the five words.)

We wish you could see it now, out there in the freshly fallen
snow! I also hope and pray that peace will someday cover
the earth . . .

SPRING HAS COME . . . SPRING WILL COME . . .

Meteorlogical Spring was Saturday, March 1st ! It didn't feel or look
like spring. Snow so deep. What do you mean Spring came!?  But . . .
here comes another chance -

My trusty calendar has an entry "Spring Begins Thursday, March 20th.

As they say in central, northwestern Minnesota:  When all else fails . . . write a haiku.
Here's a little (5-7-5 syllable) poem:

                          LATE SPRING

                        A furnace in March
                 almost as good as a campfire
                  dream on, dream on, dream

spring will come when . . .

Yesterday it melted outside big time! Water running in the streets. Elizabeth and I measure each day's height of snow along our driveway. And yes, I chop a little ice in the gutter by the catch basin to hasten the flow of water. (I did that back when I was a kid . . . and convinced myself that it "helped Spring come sooner.")

Here is a poem.


spring will come when . . .

the heavy, sweet scent
   of clove currant wakes
         the neighborhood

fiddlehead ferns slowly rush
    through leaf-covered dirt
         toward light

I touch fuzzy,
    ground-loving, purple,
         wild ginger flower

I hear the
    coo of a dove.

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.

OUR MARDI GRAS PARADE . . .

No kidding . . . Elizabeth and I were actually in an official Mardi Gras Parade in Mobile, Alabama! We had gone on a road trip to "find spring" somewhere south. (It sure was not spring here in Minnesota.) We loaded up all our stuff into our blue Honda Odyssey van and took off and headed to southern Texas. We arrived and found a motel. The next morning the weather report alert announced that a tornado was developing near by. So we beat it out of there. By the time the tornado had petered out we were traveling along the Gulf Coast and eventually found ourself in Mobile, Alabama.

Ah . . . it was spring! There was some kind of a parade starting to form along Mobile's main drag. Always curious, we started to drive closer to the action and, somehow got caught within the barriers set up for a parade route. All the side streets had been blocked off and there were people everywhere sitting in lawn chairs and on blankets. And . . .  the plethora of elaborate floats. (I just wanted to use that  "plethora" word.)

There was no way we could leave the parade route! We were in the parade and couldn't leave (even if we wanted to) and so we went with the flow along the whole way in our blue Honda Odyssey with all our stuff. We waved and waved to the crowds who probably wondered what celebrities we were.

We thought Mardi Gras was something celebrated in New Orleans - not across the south, silly northerners we are.

WISTFUL THINKING IN A WORLD OF WHITE

It has been much too long of a winter of white. When will it be over?

For Pete's Sake anyway . . . what does a person expect when they choose
to live in Minnesota, the "land of 10,003 1/2 ice dams?

Sure, I still get out in the deep snow (it snowed another 8 inches again the
other night.) I play in the snow by shoveling off the back deck and the front
walk. I use the long roof rake on the eaves and gutters. And, this morning I
fired up our brand-new, bright red, electric-start, Honda HS520A Snowthrower.
(We call this new machine "Snow Pup the Second" after our over-35-year-old,
red Honda-Snow Pup which breathed its last earlier this week.) We tried to
have it repaired . . . but the shop said too many things were wrong and some
of the needed parts were not even available anymore.

Then I had this brilliant idea to go across the road in front of our house and blow
out the snow drifts from behind our neighbor's cars before they realized it had
snowed so much that they wouldn't be able to get to work. (There was another
reason I plowed our neighbor's driveway . . . Last night, we returned with our
just-purchased snow blower lashed down into our Honda's tiny trunk. Our neighbor
saw us get embarrassingly stuck trying to get into our driveway (with the new
Honda HS520A Snowthrower precariously hanging out of our trunk) -and
promptly came over with his shovel and dug us out.

Even though this new machine is a welcome member in our family . . . we sure
do miss our old Snow Pup.

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.

E A R T H W O R M S A N D V A L E N T I N E ' S D A Y

I seem to know quite a bit about earthworms. Lumbricus terrestris is the Latin name for the common nightcrawler. It isn't native to North America but was introduced from Europe. Lubricus is one of the animals that was commonly directed in college zoology labs to learn about basic organs of invertebrates. At least it was when I was taking my first comparative zoology classes in the late 50's.

It is early February, and already I'm thinking of VALENTINE'S DAY and earthworms. I know that earthworms have five (5) hearts and that its esophagus passes through those five aortic arches. I think that is very cool. I remember that old saying that "the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach." That was a long time before I had learned about earthworms.

Speaking of hearts and Valentine's Day . . . I love my sweetheart Elizabeth with every beat of my heart. It is time to scour the greeting card aisle of local stores for just the perfect card for the special day! I am somewhat hesitant to look for the "just right" card when there are others in the aisle as I most often cry a little (just a little whimper) as I read over the various verses. I try to time it so there are at least two other "whimperers" in the aisle as well.  That way the store manager leaves us alone to our card selection ritual.

Elizabeth has had some difficulty in reaching down to put on her street shoes and lace them up. So I help tie them. I am so grateful that I can do this - and hope to do it for a long time.

I'm sure glad she isn't a millipede. 

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.

MANY WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY

This morning, I awoke to news that Pete Seeger had died peacefully after 96 years of breathing. For me, and for an untold many, he was a hero, a guide, a definer and, a clarifier. He was all that . . .  and much more. His life was as a beacon in seas of change.

In honor of Pete Seeger, I choose to share a writing of mine that was composed in mid-July, nine years ago from notes found scratched on notepaper the year prior. The writing "Eight Days in August" was never intended to be published.

                            EIGHT DAYS IN AUGUST

A partial night of fitful sleep. Recycled thoughts, a cacophony of images, all racing monkey-mind. Not peaceful. It's best to get up, leave the room, not to disturb Elizabeth.

So, that night, a year ago, I laid down in my backyard Guatemalan hammock. To me it was a familiar web of cotton strands, cradled between the 45-year old white pine and an equally old crabapple. Suspended over a gentle wildflower sanctuary, it is a favorite place to be. A good place to recenter - to look up at the distant night sky. Through the wispy frames of pine needles, star clusters faintly glimmer in a  kind of murkiness.

Star light straining to pierce the ever so polluted urban atmosphere.

Even so - I still could imagine the myriads of stars above the earth's envelope . . . just waiting for their chance of freedom.  I thought of the World Wide Web's launch on this very day in 1991. I thought of all the unleashed potential it offered for humankind to be knitted ever closer together in a common fabric.

I remember the hammock night sounds from that night. Pulsing calls of the diminutive lacewing insect, punctuating the autumn evening's cool. Perhaps a bit early . . . last year they began their calls in the middle of the month. Somewhere sounded the frantic flapping of a startled bird.  Like dry paper wings crackling against unforgiving branches.

Then came my dawnings from under that night sky. Awakenings flooded into me like a surge of unwanted water. On this very day, a mere sixty years ago, out there . . . somewhere, bomber pilots had just sent our payload. A single, one-hundred pound bomb. Sent downward, ground ward into a huge, urban mass of life and humanity.

Good God!

Forty times more children, women, and men were killed outright that morning . . .  more than all the stars I could ever possibly see as I scanned the heavens this night through the polluted air. It is said that some 78,000 died outright . . . on the spot. That some even evaporated. They say that another 62,000 died soon after. Many became sick. And stayed that way.

So . . . why couldn't I sleep that night? How could anyone sleep?

It was this week, eight years ago, my very first poem was given birth. Inspiration came while watching an insect's hopeless struggles in a vacated spider web. Death was coming long after the spider had abandoned its hammock of silk. I tried to help. It only made it worse.

It was then that it dawned on me that . . .  land mines are no different. They mindlessly wreak havoc on any living being that triggers their morbid mechanism. Some are made to look like toys. Children die most often. Children are so close to the ground. Adults are often maimed. Their vital organs are higher up. Farm animals die or have to be killed.

Tragedies set in motion for generations to come . . . with a predictable unpredictability.

That day, a first effort of a poem (Debris) was born, fully-formed, longing to find its way, across the world, through the World Wide Wed. Since then, more poems have found me and crept from my pen. Some published, most not.

Many will never see the light of day

50th Anniversary of Surgeon General's Dangers of Smoking Report

It was January of 1964. I was a graduate student at Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, D.C. and it was announced that the U.S. Surgeon General, Luther Terry, was going to give an address at  Baltimore's Johns Hopkins University that coming Saturday, January 11th. His subject: the health risks of smoking. There was no question about it! I was going to attend.

Ever since childhood, I have been death against smoking. My mom and dad smoked and I had serious asthma. I had such a hard time breathing, that at night I had to sleep propped up by pillows. I loved the out-of-doors and being able to get away from people who smoked.

I arrived at the huge, medical school teaching auditorium where the prevention was to take place. I was so impressed by the state-of-the-art multi-media screens and the theatre-like seating. There I was, in the midst of doctors, nurses, medical staff and . . . the room was filled with smoke. It appeared that most of those who came to hear the landmark report were habitual smokers. It was horrible, but I was determined to stay. And, I did.

Terry's address was most forthright, data-filled, and convincing. The audience smoked through the whole 90 minutes. I was so relieved to be able to leave the building and return to the out-of-doors. I don't recall if Luther Terry smoked during his talk.

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!

diminishments

I recently went to our local grocery store with my list. More than once,
I noticed that the boxes looked larger . . . but actually contained less of
the product. I shared my observation with another customer and the reply
came back . . . "yep, it is deceiving . . . but it's not illegal." I wonder how
long that's been going on?  Change happens.

                                    *  *  *  *  *  *

I tried to unscrew the plastic cap from a gallon jug of low-fat, Land-O-Lakes,
skim milk. Same brand, same variety, the same, the same, the same. Except,
for this time I had to dig in the kitchen drawer and find my industrial-strength,
adjustable, locking Vise Grip. I opened up the VG to the proper width and
gripped the lid and twisted it. The milk bottle cap let loose with a sharp "snap!"
What is this about??!  I'm aware that I can't do certain things that I used to . . .
but a bottle cap for heaven's sake?! No matter . . . I went to Google and entered
the question: "are milk bottle caps getting more difficult to turn and open?"
My goodness, gee whillikers, gosh darn. Lots of folks are reporting the very
same thing on the Internet.  Change happens.

                                     *  *  *  *  *  *

Earlier in the morning,  I was using a Q-tip to help remove some ear wax and
lo and behold the padded cotton tip was so puny and the stick was so slim it
bent with very little pressure. I wondered . . . am I losing my mind?? It was a
newly purchased box of Q-tips, so that eliminated an aging product well past
its shelf life. Again, Google reported loads of folks are reporting the same
experience.  Change happens.

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 . . .