Bookmarks help me keep my life in place. These rectangular shaped reminders of where I left off have become so numerous that they would fill a book. Up until recently I have treated them rather shabbily. They clutter up the bottom of desk drawers and lay strewn among books on shelves. But I have become aware that these pieces of parchment not only show me where I was, but who I was.
Currently I have 12 (possibly more) bookmarks employed full-time holding back story-lines, staying essays, guarding style-guides, keeping classics company and chaperoning children’s literature. I need these wardens so the words don’t get away and leave me confused and alone.
I maintain a large inventory so I can choose just the right one to match a particular book. Recognizing that just out about anything can be used to mark a page (including folding a corner over) I have resisted using meaningless scraps of paper. My newest acquisition was given to me by my son Nathan. He bought this handmade artwork at a small shop in the Chinatown district of San Francisco.
One bookmark that I use from time to time was my mother’s. It was given to her by her sister who had lived in Japan as a missionary for several years. It is a thin, silk ribbon with a hand-painted mountain and some Japanese writing decorating it. I must have it translated someday soon.
Another one that belonged to my mother I found when I opened up her copy of “Angela’s Ashes,” by Frank McCourt. This book recalled the author’s unhappy childhood in Ireland. Mom had cut out a poem from a greeting card (presumably received on her and dad’s wedding anniversary):
“There must be special happiness within your hearts today
As you remember all the good things life has brought your way.”
I wonder if Mr. McCourt would appreciate the irony.
A few years ago I purchased a book from Peter Rennebohm, an author, who had a table set up at a mall. He had written a book titled “Buried Lies.” It’s a mystery set around a golf course. I gave the book to my uncle, but I kept the bookmark. I use it in my copy of “How now shall we live?” by Chuck Colson. Mr. Colson, a born-again Christian, had worked in the Nixon administration and had went to prison for his involvement with the Watergate cover-up. I guess not all lies stay buried.
I am nearly finished reading “1984,” by George Orwell. I bought this paperback at Half-priced Books in St. Paul. In the middle of the book was a tattered marker from the Hall of Cards and Books book store in Michigan City, Ind. I suppose the government will shut these stores down soon for selling propaganda.
My wife Rhonda has made me several bookmarks over the years. Some were meant to inspire my writing. More recently she and our daughter Jennifer made some for the wedding guests. They have a picture of the happy couple on one side and a Bible verse on the other. They were available in several different styles. Each of the bookmarks has a thread (handed down from Rhonda’s great-grandmother) looped through the top.
Last Saturday I got a reminder of how important a good bookmark is. Sitting inside during the rain I opened up “The Dog Says How,” a book of essays by local author Kevin Kling. This book had lain patiently waiting on the shelf for several months. But I was able to pick up right where I left off because there of a bookmark made by my daughter when she was quite young. Framed between the crayon-colored rainbow on top and the green/brown tree on the bottom “Happy father’s day” was printed in purple. On the back it was properly labeled.
To: Dad (so I could know it was meant for me).
From: Jennifer (so I would never forget who made it).
I’ll treasure these bookmarks always because they help me find my place.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Photo Sessions
Recently I was in the San Francisco area on vacation with my family (except for my newly married daughter Jennifer and her husband Adam) and I have the pictures to prove it. If you come over I could show you photographs of me riding a cable car, eating on Fisherman’s Wharf and walking on Pier 39. There are also photos of me at Yosemite National Park, China Town, Alcatraz and more than one with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.
From first glance it might seem that I saw all of the sites in just one day. I did not. This is because in the pictures it appears that I was wearing the same clothes in every picture. I was not. Please notice the different colors of the T-shirt underneath the long-sleeved denim shirt, which at times is beneath a zipped up hooded sweatshirt.
When we decided to go to California I thought sun and warmth would be included. It was not. The week we were in San Francisco the temperature never rose beyond the 60s during the day, and at night it dropped to or near the 40s. You throw in a stiff breeze off the ocean, some drizzle and fog and it feels rather chilly. I typically don’t mind that kind of weather – but I had packed shorts and T-shirts. But, because I am from Minnesota and am used to dramatic changes in the weather I also brought along the denim shirt, sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans.
So there I was in California with a suitcase full of clothes suitable for the endless summer only to discover that it had not yet begun. But back in Minnesota that same week temperatures were in the 80s, 90s and even 100. Oh well – I typically find that kind of weather too hot anyway.
San Francisco does have the coldest daily temperatures for June, July and August for any major U.S. city (Liz Osborn, currentresults.com). There is a quote attributed incorrectly to Mark Twain (he never said it, but it has been repeated so often that he may as well have): “The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Midwest versions of this saying will substitute Duluth as the cold spot. I say it takes a San Francisco summer to make one long for a Minnesota winter; at least winters here make sense.
Strangely, few people in San Francisco were caught with their pants down. Once when we did wear shorts a shop keeper suggested we were being too optimistic about the weather improving, but upon learning we were from Minnesota she understood.
After a week of basking in the Frisco fog we returned to Minnesota where Jennifer and Adam picked us up at the airport. During the ride home it was revealed that the wedding pictures were done and ready to be looked at. With several hundred pictures to go through, our evening was booked.
I am not the most patient person, and I get distracted easily. I suspect that I and most of my boyhood friends would be hooked up to a Ritalin dispensing machine if we were in school today. So to sit and look at hundreds of pictures can be a challenge (even if the pictures are of your daughter’s wedding).
This activity is similar to watching other people open gifts and to know that none of them are for you (I did that the week before). I have noticed that women are generally better-suited for these activities than men. Men look at pictures quickly, women take their time. But it didn’t take me long to notice that the people in the pictures were wearing the same clothes in all the pictures. I understand how that can happen.
From first glance it might seem that I saw all of the sites in just one day. I did not. This is because in the pictures it appears that I was wearing the same clothes in every picture. I was not. Please notice the different colors of the T-shirt underneath the long-sleeved denim shirt, which at times is beneath a zipped up hooded sweatshirt.
When we decided to go to California I thought sun and warmth would be included. It was not. The week we were in San Francisco the temperature never rose beyond the 60s during the day, and at night it dropped to or near the 40s. You throw in a stiff breeze off the ocean, some drizzle and fog and it feels rather chilly. I typically don’t mind that kind of weather – but I had packed shorts and T-shirts. But, because I am from Minnesota and am used to dramatic changes in the weather I also brought along the denim shirt, sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans.
So there I was in California with a suitcase full of clothes suitable for the endless summer only to discover that it had not yet begun. But back in Minnesota that same week temperatures were in the 80s, 90s and even 100. Oh well – I typically find that kind of weather too hot anyway.
San Francisco does have the coldest daily temperatures for June, July and August for any major U.S. city (Liz Osborn, currentresults.com). There is a quote attributed incorrectly to Mark Twain (he never said it, but it has been repeated so often that he may as well have): “The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Midwest versions of this saying will substitute Duluth as the cold spot. I say it takes a San Francisco summer to make one long for a Minnesota winter; at least winters here make sense.
Strangely, few people in San Francisco were caught with their pants down. Once when we did wear shorts a shop keeper suggested we were being too optimistic about the weather improving, but upon learning we were from Minnesota she understood.
After a week of basking in the Frisco fog we returned to Minnesota where Jennifer and Adam picked us up at the airport. During the ride home it was revealed that the wedding pictures were done and ready to be looked at. With several hundred pictures to go through, our evening was booked.
I am not the most patient person, and I get distracted easily. I suspect that I and most of my boyhood friends would be hooked up to a Ritalin dispensing machine if we were in school today. So to sit and look at hundreds of pictures can be a challenge (even if the pictures are of your daughter’s wedding).
This activity is similar to watching other people open gifts and to know that none of them are for you (I did that the week before). I have noticed that women are generally better-suited for these activities than men. Men look at pictures quickly, women take their time. But it didn’t take me long to notice that the people in the pictures were wearing the same clothes in all the pictures. I understand how that can happen.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Buddy
Buddy is a funny dog. I don’t mean funny in that he pulls tricks on the cats. He is funny in the way he expresses himself, and he doesn’t strike me as being terribly intelligent. But I may be wrong; perhaps I just don’t understand him.
Like most labs, he likes to have things in his mouth, and like other Great Danes I have seen, he likes to catch bugs in mid-flight. So if I can stop him from catching bugs long enough for a game of tug of war he will play until I grow tired.
We got him from a family that was moving to the other side of the country. They couldn’t take him along so they gave him to us as we had no plans on moving anytime soon. Our initial plan was to keep him outside – no exceptions. Our thinking was that houses are for people and dogs aren’t people. And at 120 lbs Buddy was bigger than half the members of the household.
A dog can get in a lot of trouble in the country at night, and since it was his first night at his new home Buddy was put in a fenced area. The fence is about five feet high and surrounds an old smoke-house which provides shelter from the elements. It had been home to Max, our German shepherd and arguably the smartest dog in the world. So I thought a dog of a Great-Dane/black Labrador-mix would be happy there as well.
Fortunately Buddy walked into the makeshift kennel willingly with me. I have since learned he cannot be moved if he doesn’t want to. I bade him good-night, closed the gate, threw him a dog-biscuit and went into my own house.
The next morning I found him patiently waiting on the front step even thought the gate was still closed. How he slipped his large frame out of there without breaking the gate I have never learned, but I was the one who constructed it so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.
He has since moved from his summer home in the smoke house and winters between the attached garage and the laundry room. This arrangement allows him to be closer to people.
Buddy is happiest if he is near people, the nearer the better. It is impossible to stand next to Buddy and ignore him. He will begin by pushing his large head into the side of your thigh. His nose is at the correct height to get most everyone’s attention. His signature side push, although annoying, is preferred over the front or rear nudge. Nobody likes that.
If pushing doesn’t work he will start nibbling on clothes. Thankfully his next move is not a bite, but he will emit a low, guttural growl. To the uninitiated he sounds angry and threatening. It is the same sound he gives me when the answer to my persistent line of questioning is “no!”
When I think it’s time for him to go outside for a break I will politely ask him, “Buddy, do you want to go out?” His first response is to move away from the door and toward the wall while staring at me with his head lowered. This wall stance means “no,” but I ask again to be sure, and for the comic relief. The repeated question elicits a growl combined with the lowered head and stare. If I am stupid enough to ask a third time, he will bark so loud that I can’t possibly misinterpret his meaning.
When someone is preparing to take him for a walk he will grab the leash in his mouth and start down the driveway on his own.
He’s a funny dog all right, but he’s smart enough to know how to tug at my heart.
Like most labs, he likes to have things in his mouth, and like other Great Danes I have seen, he likes to catch bugs in mid-flight. So if I can stop him from catching bugs long enough for a game of tug of war he will play until I grow tired.
We got him from a family that was moving to the other side of the country. They couldn’t take him along so they gave him to us as we had no plans on moving anytime soon. Our initial plan was to keep him outside – no exceptions. Our thinking was that houses are for people and dogs aren’t people. And at 120 lbs Buddy was bigger than half the members of the household.
A dog can get in a lot of trouble in the country at night, and since it was his first night at his new home Buddy was put in a fenced area. The fence is about five feet high and surrounds an old smoke-house which provides shelter from the elements. It had been home to Max, our German shepherd and arguably the smartest dog in the world. So I thought a dog of a Great-Dane/black Labrador-mix would be happy there as well.
Fortunately Buddy walked into the makeshift kennel willingly with me. I have since learned he cannot be moved if he doesn’t want to. I bade him good-night, closed the gate, threw him a dog-biscuit and went into my own house.
The next morning I found him patiently waiting on the front step even thought the gate was still closed. How he slipped his large frame out of there without breaking the gate I have never learned, but I was the one who constructed it so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.
He has since moved from his summer home in the smoke house and winters between the attached garage and the laundry room. This arrangement allows him to be closer to people.
Buddy is happiest if he is near people, the nearer the better. It is impossible to stand next to Buddy and ignore him. He will begin by pushing his large head into the side of your thigh. His nose is at the correct height to get most everyone’s attention. His signature side push, although annoying, is preferred over the front or rear nudge. Nobody likes that.
If pushing doesn’t work he will start nibbling on clothes. Thankfully his next move is not a bite, but he will emit a low, guttural growl. To the uninitiated he sounds angry and threatening. It is the same sound he gives me when the answer to my persistent line of questioning is “no!”
When I think it’s time for him to go outside for a break I will politely ask him, “Buddy, do you want to go out?” His first response is to move away from the door and toward the wall while staring at me with his head lowered. This wall stance means “no,” but I ask again to be sure, and for the comic relief. The repeated question elicits a growl combined with the lowered head and stare. If I am stupid enough to ask a third time, he will bark so loud that I can’t possibly misinterpret his meaning.
When someone is preparing to take him for a walk he will grab the leash in his mouth and start down the driveway on his own.
He’s a funny dog all right, but he’s smart enough to know how to tug at my heart.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Father of the Bride
The house is starting to settle back into its normal state. I have reclaimed my writing desk from the manicurists but I fear it will never be the same. Saturday, through the rain, hail and a threat of tornados, friends, relatives (and some people I didn’t know), slogged tough the mud and ascended the ramp to the barn loft to wish my daughter, Jennifer, and her new husband, Adam well.
As father of the bride, owner of the barn and a guy who likes to embarrass himself in front of others I gave a little talk to the invited. I am sorry that not all 29 of you faithful readers (I am keeping count) were invited to the reception so I am including most of what I said, and some of what I didn’t (but I imagine that I did).
“Rhonda and I want you to know how wonderful it is to have you here with us to celebrate the marriage of our daughter, Jennifer, to Adam, our new son-in-law.
The barn didn’t always look like this. It was Rhonda and Jennifer who had the vision for this day, and it was through Rhonda’s direction that the barn was transformed. For six months she was in charge, but as I reminded her just yesterday, that’s going to change tomorrow.
It’s a good thing Jennifer married a guy with the skills to build this floor, because without Adam, this would not have happened. He is very talented and I was amazed with his skills. I saw him work magic with wood; I tried to help but I was often in the way. I would help him carry stuff but I always seemed to have the heavy end.
Adam and I started to work on this barn in November. Some nights we would set our water bottles next to the heater only to have them freeze solid in a few unattended minutes.
But we had fun. We listened to music, laughed and danced up here together as we fixed the floor. We had a wonderful time getting to know each other. For any of you guys in similar situations I would recommend doing projects with your future son-in-law.
Sometimes Jennifer would say “Oh no,” when she saw that Adam is a lot more like her father and brother than she wanted. Sorry about that Jenn.
Adam, I cannot replace your own father (motion to his father, Steve), or your heavenly father, but I am happy to be your father-in-law. So if you ever find that a burden becomes too much for you to carry, I will be there to help and I’ll take the heavy end.
Jennifer, the easiest thing I ever did was being your dad. I just had to show up. You never gave us any trouble; you have been such a wonderful daughter. But, tonight this may be the hardest thing I have done.
When Jennifer was little, and I mean very little, you could ask her name and she would say “Jenner,” and if you then asked, “But what do they call you,” she would say “Special.” And Jennifer, you are still special. Getting this place ready was a lot of work, but it was worth it and I would do it again 1,000 times over.
Because there is space, we have saved scraps of lumber “just in case.” When Adam needed a board of a certain length to repair the subfloor I would go downstairs and find it.
Underneath this floor is wood that came from the walls of a cabin built by Rhonda’s grandparents in the ‘40’s; that cabin was then passed down to her father, and now her brother Rick, his wife Melissa and their son Preston make their home there. There is also part of the dock from my parent’s cabin. There is wood from decks from this house as well as Rhonda’s mother’s home.
So Jennifer, it is fitting that we celebrate this day by having a party on the floor built by your new husband using materials provided by your parents, grandparents and great grandparents.
May all that this floor represents give you a good foundation to begin your life together.
As father of the bride, owner of the barn and a guy who likes to embarrass himself in front of others I gave a little talk to the invited. I am sorry that not all 29 of you faithful readers (I am keeping count) were invited to the reception so I am including most of what I said, and some of what I didn’t (but I imagine that I did).
“Rhonda and I want you to know how wonderful it is to have you here with us to celebrate the marriage of our daughter, Jennifer, to Adam, our new son-in-law.
The barn didn’t always look like this. It was Rhonda and Jennifer who had the vision for this day, and it was through Rhonda’s direction that the barn was transformed. For six months she was in charge, but as I reminded her just yesterday, that’s going to change tomorrow.
It’s a good thing Jennifer married a guy with the skills to build this floor, because without Adam, this would not have happened. He is very talented and I was amazed with his skills. I saw him work magic with wood; I tried to help but I was often in the way. I would help him carry stuff but I always seemed to have the heavy end.
Adam and I started to work on this barn in November. Some nights we would set our water bottles next to the heater only to have them freeze solid in a few unattended minutes.
But we had fun. We listened to music, laughed and danced up here together as we fixed the floor. We had a wonderful time getting to know each other. For any of you guys in similar situations I would recommend doing projects with your future son-in-law.
Sometimes Jennifer would say “Oh no,” when she saw that Adam is a lot more like her father and brother than she wanted. Sorry about that Jenn.
Adam, I cannot replace your own father (motion to his father, Steve), or your heavenly father, but I am happy to be your father-in-law. So if you ever find that a burden becomes too much for you to carry, I will be there to help and I’ll take the heavy end.
Jennifer, the easiest thing I ever did was being your dad. I just had to show up. You never gave us any trouble; you have been such a wonderful daughter. But, tonight this may be the hardest thing I have done.
When Jennifer was little, and I mean very little, you could ask her name and she would say “Jenner,” and if you then asked, “But what do they call you,” she would say “Special.” And Jennifer, you are still special. Getting this place ready was a lot of work, but it was worth it and I would do it again 1,000 times over.
Because there is space, we have saved scraps of lumber “just in case.” When Adam needed a board of a certain length to repair the subfloor I would go downstairs and find it.
Underneath this floor is wood that came from the walls of a cabin built by Rhonda’s grandparents in the ‘40’s; that cabin was then passed down to her father, and now her brother Rick, his wife Melissa and their son Preston make their home there. There is also part of the dock from my parent’s cabin. There is wood from decks from this house as well as Rhonda’s mother’s home.
So Jennifer, it is fitting that we celebrate this day by having a party on the floor built by your new husband using materials provided by your parents, grandparents and great grandparents.
May all that this floor represents give you a good foundation to begin your life together.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The End
Even though there were predictions to the contrary, as far as I can tell the world did not end on Saturday, May 21st. Although on the following day the world did end for many people in North Minneapolis and Joplin, MO when tornados roared through and took their lives. For the rest of us, life on Earth kept going – for good and bad, I suppose.
Anyone guessing the correct date and winning the “end of the world” sweepstakes seems unlikely, but I do think it serves us well to hold this contest every few years. When the last day is fixed on the calendar, correctly or not, it shifts one’s thinking. Even though I never really believed that the world had been stamped “BEST IF USED BY MAY, 21 2011” I began to number my days.
I suppose it would be terrifying and even paralyzing to know with certainty the exact day of either your own demise, or of all creation. But just knowing that day is out there somewhere in the future can sharpen your focus.
The number of years each of us has is somewhere this side of 100 years (with some exceptions of course). For me I have used up about half of that number. If I have anything to say about it I would like to live to be 100, so that means I have about 49 left to get things done before the drop dead date.
I suppose I should have a to-do list: Get closer to God, mend fences with friends and family, read and write, take better care of myself, and leave a legacy. But with almost 50 left it seems like I have plenty of time – no need to rush into anything.
But what if it was less? What if I knew I had only 10 years left? I suppose I would grab a snack, sit down and watch some TV while I mull over my limited time. After I wake from my nap I would make a list of things I want to accomplish, people I want to see and places I want to go.
Not much of the day-to-day would really change though. I would still have my responsibilities: go to work so I can pay my taxes. With a full ten years ahead of me there doesn’t seem to be a pressing need to make any big changes.
I guess I operate best if I work under pressure – if I have a deadline I can really focus. To continue with this morbid line of thinking allow me to sharply reduce the number. Let’s say instead of the world ending May 21, imagine that it’s May 28. Now things get interesting.
Apologies, relationships and eternity all become very important when the days are numbered. With only a few days remaining I wouldn’t even go to work (unless it was to pick up my check). Material possessions would quickly lose their luster and become almost meaningless. Phone calls, letters and one-on-one conversations would rule the day. My dog, Buddy, would certainly get the walk he deserves.
As I see it, the trick is to go through life and take care of your responsibilities while focusing on the important and the eternal. When time is short, friends and family matter the most. How much time do you have left to make things right?
I predict my life; my world will not end in a week. On the contrary, Saturday, May 28th, 2011 is just the beginning for a young couple. On that day two people will begin life together and build their world. My daughter Jennifer is getting married to Adam (there I said it). As my wife, Rhonda, said, “Others must carry on for us.” Someday, Lord willing, they will bring our grandchildren to visit and the world may continue.
Congratulations Jennifer and Adam!
Anyone guessing the correct date and winning the “end of the world” sweepstakes seems unlikely, but I do think it serves us well to hold this contest every few years. When the last day is fixed on the calendar, correctly or not, it shifts one’s thinking. Even though I never really believed that the world had been stamped “BEST IF USED BY MAY, 21 2011” I began to number my days.
I suppose it would be terrifying and even paralyzing to know with certainty the exact day of either your own demise, or of all creation. But just knowing that day is out there somewhere in the future can sharpen your focus.
The number of years each of us has is somewhere this side of 100 years (with some exceptions of course). For me I have used up about half of that number. If I have anything to say about it I would like to live to be 100, so that means I have about 49 left to get things done before the drop dead date.
I suppose I should have a to-do list: Get closer to God, mend fences with friends and family, read and write, take better care of myself, and leave a legacy. But with almost 50 left it seems like I have plenty of time – no need to rush into anything.
But what if it was less? What if I knew I had only 10 years left? I suppose I would grab a snack, sit down and watch some TV while I mull over my limited time. After I wake from my nap I would make a list of things I want to accomplish, people I want to see and places I want to go.
Not much of the day-to-day would really change though. I would still have my responsibilities: go to work so I can pay my taxes. With a full ten years ahead of me there doesn’t seem to be a pressing need to make any big changes.
I guess I operate best if I work under pressure – if I have a deadline I can really focus. To continue with this morbid line of thinking allow me to sharply reduce the number. Let’s say instead of the world ending May 21, imagine that it’s May 28. Now things get interesting.
Apologies, relationships and eternity all become very important when the days are numbered. With only a few days remaining I wouldn’t even go to work (unless it was to pick up my check). Material possessions would quickly lose their luster and become almost meaningless. Phone calls, letters and one-on-one conversations would rule the day. My dog, Buddy, would certainly get the walk he deserves.
As I see it, the trick is to go through life and take care of your responsibilities while focusing on the important and the eternal. When time is short, friends and family matter the most. How much time do you have left to make things right?
I predict my life; my world will not end in a week. On the contrary, Saturday, May 28th, 2011 is just the beginning for a young couple. On that day two people will begin life together and build their world. My daughter Jennifer is getting married to Adam (there I said it). As my wife, Rhonda, said, “Others must carry on for us.” Someday, Lord willing, they will bring our grandchildren to visit and the world may continue.
Congratulations Jennifer and Adam!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Iron Men
Some people read in bed before they fall asleep, some read to hasten sleep. I love to read but I find it almost impossible to read in bed, for as soon I lay my head down I can feel consciousness slip away.
I even have to be careful how I sit in a chair. But if I have the window open I can stay awake for a very long time. As I lay there with my eyes wide open I watch the window shadow spirit across the wall in its nightly race with the rare traffic on the avenue, and I listen to the sounds of the night.
Mark, my college roommate of four (or was it five) years, liked to have a window open – even in January. I liked having a fan on, he had a humidifier going during the dry winter months. Looking back on I can’t believe neither one of us didn’t get sick. Sleeping in a room with cold, wet air being blown about should have got us two beds in the hospital for pneumonia.
This has been a tough May for many things, including sleeping with the windows open. My father, who was pretty well acquainted with the old ways of thinking, would, on a cold day in May, talk about the “Iron Men.” These “Iron Men,” referred to three days in the middle of May when frost is likely. I remember them coming around sometime between May 15 and 17 (of course I could be off by a day or two one way or another). Dad may have picked this fun fact up from his Czech (or, if you prefer, Bohemian) relatives, or from a conversation with a member of another European clan. I just wish I could know for sure which three days he was referring to so I could be ready.
Other nationalities refer to the three days as the “Three Ice Men,” and have them arriving earlier (May 11th – 13th). For them, these three days coincided with the feast days of three saints. In some countries one or two feast days, with the respective saint, was replaced with one or two other holy days and moved down the calendar. And yet still others believe that the middle of June is the proper place to be on the lookout for frost that is both unseasonable and completely unreasonable.
Whatever the three days are their threat of frost is testing my mettle. I so want to open the windows and listen to the sounds of the night filter through the screen.
As a boy growing up on Church Street in the days before central air conditioning, I could lie awake for what seemed like hours and listen to the night life. Sometimes I would hear my father talking to Donald, our neighbor, or it could be kids still playing outside who were either older or had a later bedtime than me. And every night the train and the trucks called me to ride along.
The other night I opened the window as I climbed into bed after midnight. It was still too cool, but I was growing impatient. On Harlow Avenue I can still hear the wheels click on the rail and the tires whine on the highway. The train whistle is carried up from the valley and begins to lull me to sleep, but not before I hear the sound of gravel crunching underneath shoes.
Am I dreaming or is someone walking on the road outside my window? A chill goes through my body. Have the Iron Men come?
I even have to be careful how I sit in a chair. But if I have the window open I can stay awake for a very long time. As I lay there with my eyes wide open I watch the window shadow spirit across the wall in its nightly race with the rare traffic on the avenue, and I listen to the sounds of the night.
Mark, my college roommate of four (or was it five) years, liked to have a window open – even in January. I liked having a fan on, he had a humidifier going during the dry winter months. Looking back on I can’t believe neither one of us didn’t get sick. Sleeping in a room with cold, wet air being blown about should have got us two beds in the hospital for pneumonia.
This has been a tough May for many things, including sleeping with the windows open. My father, who was pretty well acquainted with the old ways of thinking, would, on a cold day in May, talk about the “Iron Men.” These “Iron Men,” referred to three days in the middle of May when frost is likely. I remember them coming around sometime between May 15 and 17 (of course I could be off by a day or two one way or another). Dad may have picked this fun fact up from his Czech (or, if you prefer, Bohemian) relatives, or from a conversation with a member of another European clan. I just wish I could know for sure which three days he was referring to so I could be ready.
Other nationalities refer to the three days as the “Three Ice Men,” and have them arriving earlier (May 11th – 13th). For them, these three days coincided with the feast days of three saints. In some countries one or two feast days, with the respective saint, was replaced with one or two other holy days and moved down the calendar. And yet still others believe that the middle of June is the proper place to be on the lookout for frost that is both unseasonable and completely unreasonable.
Whatever the three days are their threat of frost is testing my mettle. I so want to open the windows and listen to the sounds of the night filter through the screen.
As a boy growing up on Church Street in the days before central air conditioning, I could lie awake for what seemed like hours and listen to the night life. Sometimes I would hear my father talking to Donald, our neighbor, or it could be kids still playing outside who were either older or had a later bedtime than me. And every night the train and the trucks called me to ride along.
The other night I opened the window as I climbed into bed after midnight. It was still too cool, but I was growing impatient. On Harlow Avenue I can still hear the wheels click on the rail and the tires whine on the highway. The train whistle is carried up from the valley and begins to lull me to sleep, but not before I hear the sound of gravel crunching underneath shoes.
Am I dreaming or is someone walking on the road outside my window? A chill goes through my body. Have the Iron Men come?
Friday, May 13, 2011
Food Chain
I have lived in small towns, big cites, suburbs and far outside the city limits. Each has its advantages. Which is better? You may as well ask which came first, the chicken or the egg. But when you live in the country you live more closely with nature and by doing so you must find the balance between contentment and control. You can choose to live like Thoreau at Walden’s Pond, or you can throw up fences and drain the pond.
In my attempt to find a spot somewhere in the middle I have chosen to soften nature’s harsh realities while trying to commune with it. My one-hundred-year old farm house (with the three-year old addition) heats me when I am cold and cools me when I am hot, but outside its walls there is life and death.
The food chain gets rattled once in a while around my home. From the fields, woods, and skies come snakes and frogs, mice and voles, rabbits and squirrels, muskrats and skunks, owls and hawks, foxes and coyotes. They all compete for survival. And despite my best efforts the carnage will sometimes spill over into the farmyard.
Given to counting heads I can say with some certainty that we never shared a cow, horse, sheep or goat with a predator. We have however, been more generous with our smaller stock. Predators usually come at night, although sometimes the slayer will come calling during the day.
As I pulled into the yard one afternoon something seemed to be amiss. An osprey had dropped in for a chicken dinner. I watched with rapt attention knowing since there was nothing I could do for the dead bird, I may as well enjoy the live one.
But I am not always so willing to stomach uninvited guests; I will usually grouse
about the pilfering of poultry. One summer we kept a paddling of ducks in a wading pool.Not wanting to have these messy birds muck up the barn we thought it better for all concerned to have them quack about freely in the barnyard. But we hadn’t concerned ourselves with raccoons.
At night the ducks started to disappear. This went on until I put Max, our 90 lb. German shepherd, inside the gate. He seemed to always know what was expected of him. The first morning I found a raccoon in a tree near the barn, the second morning Max came to the gate with bloody gashes near his right eye.
The ducks, which belonged to Nathan, were scheduled to go to the county fair as a 4-H project. Nathan and I talked about it and concluded that saving some dumb ducks wasn’t worth losing one of Max’s eyes.
Fortunately the raccoons never came back for the ducks. But a weasel was more tenacious. Although I never saw him, the slaughterhouse he left behind inside the barn provided ample evidence. He removed heads and filleted bodies. Ignoring live-traps and closed doors he decimated our chicken and pigeon population. The research I did told me that if I didn’t catch him he wouldn’t stop coming until the last bird was dead.
I kept a loaded shotgun next to the bed and a baby-monitor in the barn to alert me. But still I could not catch him, so I resorted to something I had never done before: leg traps.
I built heavy wooden boxes with small holes on one or both ends (I experimented). Placing the boxes over the baited traps I would place a concrete block on top so a cat or dog could not trip the trap. I even baited one live trap with a live pigeon (she was protected by a wire mesh wall I had attached to the inside).
I was out walking my trap line one morning after about a week of cleaning up dead birds inside the barn (the pigeon in the trap survived). One of the leg traps had been sprung. The weasel never came back.
Somewhere out there a weasel may have an injured leg, but I have to set my priorities. For after all what comes first, the chicken or the leg?
In my attempt to find a spot somewhere in the middle I have chosen to soften nature’s harsh realities while trying to commune with it. My one-hundred-year old farm house (with the three-year old addition) heats me when I am cold and cools me when I am hot, but outside its walls there is life and death.
The food chain gets rattled once in a while around my home. From the fields, woods, and skies come snakes and frogs, mice and voles, rabbits and squirrels, muskrats and skunks, owls and hawks, foxes and coyotes. They all compete for survival. And despite my best efforts the carnage will sometimes spill over into the farmyard.
Given to counting heads I can say with some certainty that we never shared a cow, horse, sheep or goat with a predator. We have however, been more generous with our smaller stock. Predators usually come at night, although sometimes the slayer will come calling during the day.
As I pulled into the yard one afternoon something seemed to be amiss. An osprey had dropped in for a chicken dinner. I watched with rapt attention knowing since there was nothing I could do for the dead bird, I may as well enjoy the live one.
But I am not always so willing to stomach uninvited guests; I will usually grouse
about the pilfering of poultry. One summer we kept a paddling of ducks in a wading pool.Not wanting to have these messy birds muck up the barn we thought it better for all concerned to have them quack about freely in the barnyard. But we hadn’t concerned ourselves with raccoons.
At night the ducks started to disappear. This went on until I put Max, our 90 lb. German shepherd, inside the gate. He seemed to always know what was expected of him. The first morning I found a raccoon in a tree near the barn, the second morning Max came to the gate with bloody gashes near his right eye.
The ducks, which belonged to Nathan, were scheduled to go to the county fair as a 4-H project. Nathan and I talked about it and concluded that saving some dumb ducks wasn’t worth losing one of Max’s eyes.
Fortunately the raccoons never came back for the ducks. But a weasel was more tenacious. Although I never saw him, the slaughterhouse he left behind inside the barn provided ample evidence. He removed heads and filleted bodies. Ignoring live-traps and closed doors he decimated our chicken and pigeon population. The research I did told me that if I didn’t catch him he wouldn’t stop coming until the last bird was dead.
I kept a loaded shotgun next to the bed and a baby-monitor in the barn to alert me. But still I could not catch him, so I resorted to something I had never done before: leg traps.
I built heavy wooden boxes with small holes on one or both ends (I experimented). Placing the boxes over the baited traps I would place a concrete block on top so a cat or dog could not trip the trap. I even baited one live trap with a live pigeon (she was protected by a wire mesh wall I had attached to the inside).
I was out walking my trap line one morning after about a week of cleaning up dead birds inside the barn (the pigeon in the trap survived). One of the leg traps had been sprung. The weasel never came back.
Somewhere out there a weasel may have an injured leg, but I have to set my priorities. For after all what comes first, the chicken or the leg?
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