Sack

 

            Kim and I have collaborated on a number of projects. “Fish Crow,” pictured below, is one of them.

 

Here is the text of the poem in case you can’t read it in the photo:

 

            Sack

 

How I love the paper sack:

The roar of paper when you pack

It full of lovely scavenged scraps

For works of art that cry, “perhaps.”

 

How I love its humble brown –

Unbleached, undyed: the art of down

To earth. Its folds and wrinkles feel

So unpretentious and so real.

 

            When I started to write this blog post, I thought it was going to be a celebration of Kim and my collaboration in many areas of our life. Kim built the nest, took the photos, collected the feathers and papers, and arranged and mounted everything. I wrote the poem.

            Then I thought it was going to be a discourse on finding significance, even beauty, in even the most humble and insignificant things.

 

            And now I think the collage is about growing old. The rugged beauty of the Fish Crow is part of that very real experience. 

April/May

 

            April up here in Northern Michigan means the lake finally thaws, but it’s still snowing as May approaches, and the water in the birdbath has frozen solid. But then on a warm day when the temperature cracks 40 we are out in the yard gathering leaves into brown bags and whipping them into mulch to spread in the garden and under trees and bushes. We don’t deal with dead leaves in late fall because some butterflies overwinter as adults in the leaves. We sometimes see them flying on a warmish winter day.

 

Mourning Cloak

Compton Tortoise Shell

            Yard work is good for the soul. We feel fatigue in our back and legs – lots of bending to coax dead leaves out from under bushes, raking leaves piled against our neighbor’s fence, bending to load them into bags, and bending again to load them into the leaf whipper, lugging chopped leaves to garden areas, bending to distribute them. I’m not fully trusted to distribute them properly, but there is still plenty of grunt work for me to do. I do have a cardio rowing machine in the basement, but apparently having it in the basement is not, in itself, a good workout. I may have a body/soul issue here, but I experience yard work as good for the soul.

 

            Kim says that one of the happiest things in her life is seeing rue-anemone that she planted now emerging as white and pink flowers reaching bravely through a bed of leaves – a triumph of faith. Or perhaps trout lilies, relocated from where we found them in the woods, triumphantly modulating into green, then springing yellow flowers. We are also thrilled by surprises – plants that appear and we have no idea what they are (yet) or where they came from.

Sharp Lobed Hepatica

Spring Beauty

Trout Lily

Kim is currently working on a moss garden.

        And the birds are returning as well. We’ve had gold finches, chickadees, nuthatches and woodpeckers all winter, along with grackles, crows and ravens, but now our mallards and mergansers are back, along with some sparrows, kinglets and redpolls, and we put up the hummingbird feeders for the early birds. We are looking forward to the loons.

Pine Warbler

Common Redpoll

            There is simply something hopeful about Spring. As we get older we have a linear sense of time, moving in one direction toward an inevitable destination. We know it, and we can feel it. But with the return of warm weather and the re-emergence of flowers, buds and leaves, and butterflies and birds, we see ourselves in cyclical time, renewing, much the way I experienced time as a teacher with the re-opening of school in September. We are circling – and not just circling the drain.

 

            The alert among you may have noticed that it is now May, not April, and the elation continues. We like winter well enough, but up here it’s about a month or two too long. April can be cruel, which is one reason why we appreciate May so much.

 

            “Why are you beating your head against the wall?”

 

            “Because it feels so good when I stop.”

 

            Meanwhile, we spent an hour or so on Sunday watching Reilly, our granddaughter, graduate from the University of Florida. This was a thrill, and it was exciting seeing all those bright young faces on my laptop, marching in from the left, smiling and doing the Gator chop or maybe a little dance, before marching off to the right to continue our renewal. 

Ice

 Every day is different on the lake. This is good because our lives have been so circumscribed - here, plus short trips for mail, groceries, and medical appointments. Nevertheless, there is always something to see, and if you are Kim, to photograph.

Recently Torch Lake Froze over. Then, one night, we heard a loud "Boom!" that made the house shake. Ice expands as it freezes, and the shifting plates created a crack that extended across the lake. And this being Torch Lake, the turquoise water seeped up to the surface.

The footprints going out onto the ice are mine.

This distinctive color of the water where it seeped up through the crack is not exaggerated.

Kim got close enough to take this photo of the edge of the crack. The ice was about 8 inches thick.

Here are a few ice shots from previous winters:

Before we moved in, the guys building our house shoveled off an area the size of a skating rink. The ice was clear. Here is Genne' examining the rocks (and golf balls) on the floor of the lake.

Sometimes the ice just washes up on the shore.

Yes, living beside a frozen lake can be fun. There is always something to see.

How to Winter

             Those of you who live south of the 45^th parallel may be wondering what you need to do to winter successfully in Northern Michigan. Soon you will know.

 

Clothing

            As you may suspect, it sometimes gets cold in the winters up here. The first requirement is a pair of mittens. Not gloves – mittens, so your fingers can keep each other warm. Kim has a strong preference for wool mittens knitted by Grandma, suitable for making snowpersons, but I have no experience with them. I do, however, have experience with Raynaud’s syndrome, the cure for which, the internet tells me, is mittens.

            Boots are essential. I have two kinds of insulated snow boots – regular and deep. Last year I never had to wear the deep. Same is true for long underwear and snow pants, mainly because my primary outdoor winter experience is shoveling snow and chopping wood, both of which generate heat.

            Hat – of course. I prefer the classic knit hat, though here in Northern Michigan the Stormy Kromer hat (look it up) is popular. I am also very fond of my “Turtle” neck wrap to cover the gap between collar and hat, and you can pull it up over your mouth, nose and cheeks if need be.

 

Car

            We have stocked our car – just in case. This means we carry a blanket and extra gloves and a scarf in case we have to spend the night off the road in a snow drift. Water is not necessary as there will be snow. Kim, from her experience in the U.P., advised me to keep the gas tank at least half full. We don’t use snow tires because, a) our dirt road is fairly level, b) US 31, our main artery ¼ mile from our house, is very well maintained, and c) I’m cheap and don’t want the hassle of changing tires.

 

Snow Shoveling

            I also learned from Kim that it makes sense to shovel the driveway when the snow depth gets to three or four inches rather than waiting for the blizzard to stop and it’s just too deep to handle. We get our road plowed at five inches of snow, but our driveway configuration does not allow for either a snow blower or a plow. I actually enjoy the exercise, and I enjoy knowing I can still do it.

 

Our Road

Power

            Power failures are not uncommon on the winter, as our power lines have to go through the woods to get to our property, and that means passing through icy branches. We keep a good supply of candles and a couple of handy flashlights. We also make sure to keep our cell phones charged when we know a storm is coming. Kim has also figured out how to light our gas stove with no electricity, and our little gas pot-belly stove has a battery back-up for starting. And Ted and Karen, our neighbors who winter in Virginia, generously said we can stay in their house, warmed thanks to their generator. So far, our longest power outage has been about 24 hours – thanks to the men and women who climb cold and wind-whipped trees to repair the lines.

            We also make sure to store several gallons of water, both for drinking and to pour into the toilet to create a flush. We refresh our stored water every six months or so. We refresh other beverages more frequently.

 

            You might think that winter up here means struggling with the elements. But that is far from our daily existence.

            We still go out in the morning to photograph a sunrise, even if that means no time to put on a coat or exchange slippers for boots.

            We feed the birds, loading the feeders in the morning and then watching, off and on, all day.

Pileated Woodpecker

White-breasted Nuthatch

Brown Creeper

We have not had many unusual species so far this winter, but that’s OK. We did see a few.

Unidentified Species

            Also OK is knowing that most of our guests are squirrels. Kim also saw a fox cruising through the yard, just outside the windows.

            Kim bakes. This year’s Christmas cookies will primarily be eaten by me.

            I take pleasure in fulfilling my habits – coffee every few hours, evening cocktail, etc.

            We have moved into afternoon nap mode, especially with the extreme fatigue Kim has been experiencing. By “nap” I mean hitting the couches and watching movies – occasionally dozing off. The fact that gardening duties have paused for a few months frees up time to do this.

            We keep in contact with friends and family by phone, text, email, Facebook and this blog. Kim is much better at this than I am. I keep in touch with people by worrying about them. 

Sky

            Today, my followers, we shall consider the sky. By “sky” I don’t mean outer space, and all the infinities that go with it. Nor do I mean the relatively nearby (inner-outer?) space where we place satellites and such.

 

            No, the sky is what we see when we look up. It’s visible, whether with stars, clouds, clear blue, lightning, kites, northern lights, the moon, etc. Think of it as a canvas or a screen, there for us to see. Yes, there is sky on the other side of the planet, but that’s their good luck, not mine. The sky is a visual experience. I know this because Kim has photographed it.

 

            Even without thinking about infinite space with more stars than I can count on both hands, looking at the sky makes us feel insignificant. That’s what we need, right – more insignificance? If that bothers you, just go post something about yourself on Facebook, giving yourself the illusion of significance.

 

            Paying attention to the sky gets us to lift our eyes – generally a good thing unless you are driving. For many people, religion also gets them to lift their eyes – in a way that’s vastly more complex. But I’ll go for the superficial similarities.

 

            The sky also has an emotional life. My personal favorite is “sullen clouds” – what a great word “sullen” is! A rainbow is joyful, even without the pot of gold. Northern lights are exhilarating, even when we miss them as we did a few nights ago, for just knowing the sky can do that reflects or expresses something like joy, the way watching magically talented dancers does. The sky helps those of us who are not in touch with our emotions.

            Here are a few samples: 

    You might notice that, just as you can see your face better when you look at it in a mirror, you can often see the sky better when seeing it reflected in a lake.

Just Another Torch Lake Sunrise

You may notice that several shots were taken moments apart.

Sandhill Cranes in the Sky

Sullen?

Sometimes the sky looks best when framed by land.

Better with shore showing?

    And some days, as happened this week, the sky sends down gifts in the form of snow.

Diminished Things

 

            Fall has always been my favorite time of year – the colors, of course, and the end of hot, humid days. And when I was teaching, I looked forward to autumn as a time of beginning, with new students facing me, new ways to throw them off balance, (“Yes, the Greek myths are true, even today. Let’s see how . . ..”). [Note 5 punctuation marks in proper sequence.]

 

            But now, fall has a different feeling, perhaps because it mirrors what can optimistically be seen as my time of life, with winter looming. It seems to be a time of putting things away. Yes, the birds and squirrels are storing nuts and seeds. And our neighbors just north of us, before departing for California, packed away their dock, their outdoor furniture, paddleboards, boat, etc. We have put some of our summer stuff away, too – my paddleboard, our kayak, a teak table and chairs, my hammock. Our neighbors to the south, here until late October, are sharing apples, pears and veggies from their garden – not exactly “putting things away,” but still, it’s moving things inside – inside my stomach.

 

            Kim and I are looking forward to winter. Our world will be smaller here, with neighbors gone, but we love the beauty of snow – not so much with an April snow, but the first snows are thrilling. We’ll be indoors more, though I enjoy the shoveling, and Kim and I are planning to take walks most days. We have been very busy with our yardwork – weeding, of course, some tree work, cleaning up the beach, planting trillium, and Kim located about two dozen basketball-sized rocks that we needed to dig up and reposition beautifully. Indoor projects will give us a break from these physical demands. Unless Kim decides that the two of us need to lift the garage and move it a few feet closer to the house . . ..

 

            All of which leads to one of my favorite poems by our old friend, Robert Frost:

 

            The Oven Bird

 

There is a singer everyone has heard,

Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,

Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.

He says that leaves are old and that for flowers

Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.

He says that early petal-fall is past

When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers

On sunny days a moment overcast;

And comes that other fall we name the fall.

He says the highway dust is over all.

The bird would cease and be as other birds

But that he knows in singing not to sing.

The question that he frames in all but words

Is what to make of a diminished thing.

 

            That’s it, then. Now that “early petal-fall is past,” and “the highway dust is over all,” the question is, What do we “make of a diminished thing” at this time in our lives?

 

            Here’s one idea:

 

 

Honey Mushrooms, choice edible

Oyster Mushrooms, choice edible

White Spongy Polypore, not edible

Multicolor Gill Polypore, not edible

Shaggy Mane, choice edible before it self-digests

Shaggy Mane, not edible beginning to self-digest turning black liquid

Destroying Angel, as name implies, deadly poisonous

These identifications are guesses from Doug Reilly. He strongly cautions, "DO NOT ACCEPT MY GUESS!"