Dear readers, I wrote this post back in early May, but did not publish it. Was about to delete it, but sent it to a friend just for kicks before scrapping it. She loved it. She insisted it was a “keeper”. Thus, prepare yourselves if you choose to read on.
Yesterday proved a macabre, gruesome day. Please continue reading at your own discretion.
At least I have no photos to upset the digestion of your breakfast.
It started around 10:40 a.m. in the bird feeder. (Who done it? Mrs. Peacock in the bird feeder with a beak? A little humor for you “Clue” fans.)
A red squirrel, a pesky, delightful, charming little fella, performed amazing upside-down and backwards acrobatics to scale the summit into our bird feeder. Seriously, onlookers might cheer. The bushy sweetheart proceeded to munch sunflower seeds as juncos, finches, nuthatches and chickadees alighted.
Such a pastoral scene in the north woods on a drizzly May morning whence the snowbanks continued to recede!
(Prepare thyself. It now gets grizzly.)
June 24, 2014
Tagged animals, death, finches, humor, life, mice, murder, Northwoods, squirrel, thoughts
Whole lot of weepin’ and wailin’ going on
Yesterday, the wind howled.
The trees danced.
Some trees tipped over sideways, crashing onto the forest floor with a large BOOM!
“Gosh, I haven’t seen wind like this in ages,” I said to Barry. “How strong do you think it is?”
“Fifty miles per hour?” he suggested.
OK, a couple of months have passed since I uploaded photos from the Sony Cybershot camera to the computer. I often take pictures on her and then forget.
Barry asked me to take a picture of the bike we’re sending to Christopher out there in San Diego, so it was time to remember.
Because I can’t stand taking pictures–without showing them to someone–here’s all the forgotten photos.
Barry’s old bike that we’re sending Chris
While you’re looking at random pictures, I’ll share random facts.
1. I have now published 900 posts on Lake Superior Spirit since its birth in 2010. Can you imagine? How time flies when you’re having fun!
The Green Man
I spend seconds, minutes, hours, days, watching leaves on our forest trees. Electric early-summer leaves in shades of velvet green and lime green and verdant green. Leaves fluttering. Leaves lying stock-still, not phased by any ruffling wind. Leaves kissed by sunlight. Leaves drenched in moonlight. Leaves blocking access to sky. Leaves of layered texture. Never-ending leaves.
Years ago, in my impatient youth, I witnessed 70-year old neighbors endlessly staring out the window at sparrows, chickadees, trees, rising sunflower plants as they fed me and the children Oreo cookies and milk and coffee.
How boring! I thought. How do they do it, hour after hour? What the heck of interest lies outside yonder window? I yearned for the excitement of, say, deep spiritual conversation and Native American sweat lodges and leaps into Lake Superior. None of this la-de-da window watching.
These days, finally, I’m getting it.
The appeal of watching leaves. The fascination with sensation, depth, color, fluttering. Tiny movement mirrored in my own body. The world revealing itself on a micro-level, full of itself, truly enough.
One of my greatest joys in the last year or two has been tossing the recipe book out the window.
Adieu, dear recipe book, you’ve been a wonderful teacher, a darling guide.
But it’s time to learn to cook without another’s advice, without another’s direction. It’s time to learn to cook by feel, by intuition, by heart.
And how fun it’s been! The fingers reach in the refrigerator for this ingredient, this slender carrot, the riveting multi-colored swiss chard, the can of deep dark black beans from a faraway jungle. The hands create dishes based on the dream of the moment, adding some red tomato here, a spicy dijon mustard-lemon-honey-salt dressing, what else might agree? Some chopped cilantro?
A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Who knows what shall arise at the lunch table, on the dinner plate?
Certainly not me.
Oh, heavens, what’s this?
Last night Barry revved up the lawn mower. The Husqvarna tractor chugged around the house, the blades trimming grass and clover and weeds and wildflowers, when–unexpectedly–I heard a loud crash.
Barry continued to drive the mower over to the shed where he investigated. Something had eaten a chunk out of the mower blade. He invited me to lay on my belly and see the offending blade. Yep, there are mowing problems in Paradise, kids.
I’m just so annoyed with Sally.
Lately Sally talks negatively about almost everything. She’s judgmental. She drives me crazy with her pessimistic slant toward life.
I lean toward you and confidentially express this.
You nod your head and agree. You seem to listen; to understand. There IS something wrong with Sally, you seem to concur.
But is this really what has happened? Do you really agree with me?