March Winds

And spring cleaning.  

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Spring cleaning of dog and car, that is. Pax was brushed hard, then trimmed, then bathed, then walked, then brushed several more times. He is now presentable and ready to ride. And, Sue put a good deal of effort to detailing the ride. So, we are getting ready to roll.

We heard our first robin today, but couldn't quite catch a glimpse of it before it moved off.

I remember, as a youngster, going down to the lake on a windy March day, usually one with snow squalls, to watch the ice go out. 

Breakup

By Bubba

A powerful wind jostled Henry, sometimes shoving him sideways into the bare branches of a honeysuckle hedge. When he got to the lake he climbed down the little lakeshore bluff and found a snug spot between two big cottonwoods. The wind was humming and whistling high up in the trees, but down here he was out of it.

The sun was playing tag with clumps of cloud. First Henry sat in warm bright light, and watched shadows race all the way across the dull gray ice that covered the lake. Then he shivered as a shadow flew over him and filled the air with snowflakes. Sun, then shadow, snow then sun.  And always, even louder than the wind, the groaning of the ice, like a bunch of giants—all with bellyaches.

For a moment the wind dropped and the groaning eased. In the quiet, Henry heard something new—he heard a grinding and a crunching, and then boom after boom. When he looked down he saw that all along the shore the ice had begun to move. The ice was coming ashore, and it was grinding right towards him.

Both up and down the shore the ice was peeling up sand. It was plowing under and lifting up. It was pushing pebbles and stones and then rocks and big rocks, and it was climbing up the bluff.

With a roar, a tent of thick, sandy ice rose up like a mountain. Then it collapsed as another rose on top of it. Henry scrambled out of his hiding place and ran for home. He crashed through the side door, raced up the landing, and slid into the kitchen.

His mother stood there staring at him, her mouth open, her hands full of flour.

“Mom,” Henry said, “the ice is breaking up!”

Before she could say a word in reply Henry had banged back out of the house.

When he got to the lake he avoided his out-of-the-wind spot, but stood in the lee of the biggest cottonwood. The ice was still rumbling and crashing and piling up onshore. It was like a hundred bulldozers all working at once, anything in its way being shifted or crushed.

Henry felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Wow,” his mom said. “You weren’t April foolin’.”

The two of them leaned against the cottonwood, out of the wind, and watched. But it didn’t take very long before a big hole opened in the middle of the lake. Up and down the shore, in both directions, sheets, and slabs, and shards of ice were piled up, all the way up the little bluff. The shoreline had been rearranged, and the lake itself was mostly open water.

“It’s all gone,” Henry said. “That didn’t take long. Yesterday the lake was solid ice, and now it’s all gone.”

Waves were splashing on the ice piles.

“I love it when this happens,” Henry’s mother said. “Look at the way the water sparkles in the sunlight. It seems so fresh and alive after all that dingy ice.”

“Now Spring is really here,” Henry said.

“I think you’re right,” his mother said. “I bet you’ll be swimming by your birthday.”

As Henry and his mom walked back to the house the sun went behind a cloud and a shower of hard, round snow pellets rattled on their hats and coats.

“Maybe Dad will want to go fishing on Saturday,” Henry said.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” his mom replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coffee And Converstation

Woolly bear out of hibernation  

Woolly bear out of hibernation  

Leisurely morning with the Habes—so leisurely, in fact, that by 1:30 we realized it was time to go out for lunch—at the Irish pub in Fort. This was followed by a tour of the lovely D Foster Public Library.

Later this afternoon Pax and I took our first bike ride to the prairie, and it became obvious that Pax is out of shape. More bike riding for him, for sure.

Sandhill cranes overhead this evening.

Here is a little piece from the book Dwellings written by a Chickasaw Native American

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Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World
Linda Hogan

It was in early February, during the mating season of the great horned owls. It was dusk, and I hiked up the back of a mountain to where I'd heard the owls a year before. I wanted to hear them again, the voices so tender, so deep, like a memory of comfort. I was halfway up the trail when I found a soft, round nest. It  had fallen from one of the bare-branched trees. It was a delicate nest, woven together of feathers, sage, and strands of wild grass. Holding it in my hand in the rosy twilight, I noticed that a blue thread was entwined with the other gatherings there. I pulled at the thread a little, and then I recognized it.  It was a thread from one of my skirts. It was blue cotton.  It was the unmistakable color and shape of a pattern I knew. I liked it, that a thread of my life was in an abandoned nest, one that had held eggs and new  life. I took the nest home. At home, I held it to the light and looked more closely. There, to my surprise, nestled into the gray-green sage, was a gnarl of black hair.  It was also unmistakable. It was my daughter' s hair, cleaned from a brush and picked up out in the sun beneath the maple tree, or the pit cherry where birds eat from the overladen, fertile branches until only the seeds remain on the trees.

 I didn't know what kind of nest it was, or who had lived there. It didn't matter. I thought of the remnants of our lives carried up the hill that way and turned into shelter. That night, resting inside the walls of our home, the world outside weighed so heavily against the thin wood of the house. The sloped roof was the only thing between us and the universe. Everything outside of our wooden boundaries seemed so large. Filled with night's citizens, it all came alive. The world opened in the thickets of the dark. The wild grapes would soon ripen on the vines. The burrowing ones were emerging. Horned owls sat in treetops. Mice scurried here and there. Skunks, fox, the slow and holy porcupine, all were passing by this way. The young of the solitary bees were feeding on pollen in the dark. The whole world was a nest on its humble tilt, in the maze of the universe, holding us.

 

Big Melt

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A foggy, slippery morning. No walking on sidewalks, so on our morning outing Pax and I went cross-country. Our afternoon ramble took us by the creek, which is rapidly climbing its banks.

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Then this evening I presented requested public commentary to the Whitewater Parks and Rec board, suggesting more trees in Starin Park leading up to a small scale but high quality teaching arboretum. Then I went out on a limb and suggested turning the bridge to nowhere (image above) into a world class linear park. (Last time I was there the track team was doing wind sprints, joggers were jogging, moms were walking babies, and dog walkers were walking dogs, all of which suggests an example of people creating their own park.)

Surprisingly, my ideas were welcomed, even though, in my experience, small towns almost always stick to  small thoughts. Perhaps we are looking at an anomaly here in Whitewater—but then, we shall see.

Walking On Water

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Fabulous weather. Pax and I walked down to the Sweet Spot this morning for a cappuccino, which we enjoyed al fresco, both as a test to see if we could remember how, and as practice for upcoming events. Later, after a short nap, I pulled the bicycle up from the basement, topped up the tires, and went for the first real ride of this fine year, finding it tricky at times when the water on the sidewalks came up to the pedals. And then, after grocery shopping, Pax and I went to the Prairie, where we have not been for perhaps the past six weeks on account of inclement weather. Today, it was awash, sometimes up near the tops of my boots. Just water, though, not yet mud, as the lower levels are still frozen solid. Pax had a great time, and smelled more smells—defrosted smells—than he has smelled in a very long time.

Tonight, his nose (and the rest of him) seem just a bit tired from all the wonderful exercise.

Change Is In The Air

Early morning walking remains tricky..

Early morning walking remains tricky..

Another gorgeous, warm day with melting snow, running water, running kids, and mud. The indelible memory of February is fading fast.

Wombat work in the morning, neighborhood meeting this evening.

Here is a link to a series of articles in the Guardian that I think are essential reading. Below the introductory piece are more specific stories on various aspects: 

http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2015/mar/06/climate-change-guardian-threat-to-earth-alan-rusbridger