Stately

We lost an old friend this month. We met her many years ago when she was just a little tyke. We needed shade and aesthetic appeal near the corner of our newly built house so we planted her on the southeast part of our lawn.  Her shaggy bark and sprawling branches continued to grow and provide visual interest. The sun-shy hostas enjoyed resting at her feet. The melodic cardinals used her as a stage for their renditions. The squirrels raced up, down and all around her spiny racetrack and made flamboyant leaps from her limbs to our deck. Squawky robins hunkered down in nests built on penthouse branches with panoramic views.

Her name was Little River Birch and despite her moniker she grew to heights well beyond 30 feet. Her larger and dominant sister was planted a few yards from her so she was never far from kin. Both protected our home from the searing rays of the summer sun's power. Both gave us a sense of calm and order as their delicate leaves presented themselves each spring and left us in a yellow flurry when the calendar said Fall. Both framed our house with artful elegance.

Little River Birch's life was not without struggle. Her species is known for a malady called iron chlorosis. Her roots were unable to extract needed iron from the soil. Without expensive iron treatments, the long term prognosis was not good. We faithfully gave her the treatments she needed and I must confess I grumbled more than once as I wrote a check to the arborist. But, it never occurred to us to let her slowly die off so the checks were written and fingers were kept crossed. Little RB never rallied as heartily as her sister when treatments were administered and we always worried a little bit more about her future. Each year, her foliage was a little less lush and she dropped a few more branches. Not good signs when you are a tree.

And then the final blow came. Two years ago, a rogue spring ice storm walloped our city with a ferocity beyond precedence. The aftermath was a mass of trees twisted and tangled from the weighty strain of thick ice coatings. The wind and sharp temperatures added to the demise of hundreds of trees, power lines and exposed structures. Miraculously, we did not lose any of our trees but a severe pruning was needed for all of them as they dangled broken arms in a precarious manner. Little RB survived but never completely recovered from the trauma. The following season her branches struggled to produce buds in the spring and she shed her leaves hastily in the late summer.  

It came as no great surprise this spring when not a single leaf was produced by Little RB. Each day we longingly inspected her branches, hoping for a vernal miracle, but alas, it was not to be. An arborist was called. The prognosis was final. Little RB needed to be removed before the next wind storm passed through town. I took one last look at Little RB on my way to work and that evening I came home to an empty space.

I am not a tree hugger in the political sense of the word but anyone who lives in the upper midwest knows how precious trees are in this area. We live in a grassland biome and each tree is a symbol of tenacious resilience. Trees become longsuffering friends and we respect their contributions to our environmental relationships.

All that remains of Little RB is a dirt filled hole and fond memories. Her ashes are in an urn on our fireplace mantel. Just kidding. I am not that sentimental and I am certainly too cheap to buy an urn. Nevertheless, Little RB is missed and we might just wait a summer or two before we think about her replacement.

Rumbles

Coastal areas have their hurricanes. Fault lines have their earthquakes. Tropical lands have their monsoons. And the prairies have their thunderstorms. Big, roiling, pack-a-punch storms that threaten man and beast. Perhaps the intensity of our storms is magnified by the fact that we have few obstructions as we view a storm's development and course of action.

Long before Doppler radar and other such high tech detection devices, denizens of the plains learned to read the preface of imminent storms. Nature still sends cues to the observant. Some days begin with a heavy heat, laden with moisture and stillness. As the afternoon settles into evening, puffy, pillowy mammatus clouds signal a change in atmospheric conditions. Sometimes, the pregnant skies unpack themselves with little fanfare and other times, wind and hail are unleashed, forcing all to run for cover.

The gentle build up of marshmallowy clouds reaching toward the heavens often results in a cumulonimbus reminder that the day could end with a loud punctuation point. Flashing lights within the cloud mountain remind us that the show is just beginning. The direction of the air currents will determine whether the weather's instability will be viewed from afar or in our backyard.

Add a flattened anvil to the top of a cumulonimbus cloud and there is little doubt that a sucker punch is about to happen. It is best not to be out in the open when such a stormy beast rears its vicious head. Flash flooding and pelting hail can make for a miserable outdoor experience. Vehicles offer little comfort as the pounding of ice bullets threatens to break windows and smash eardrums.

Rip a cumulonimbus cloud to murky shreds and a wall cloud begins to form. The steely darkness slowly grinds along as it unleashes the turbulent pressure of the day. The air is filled with a mineral smell and fickle winds flutter and puff with a warning to take heed, now. The leading edge of a wall cloud threatens with cotton candy wisps, swirling into a vortex of danger. Daylight is stamped out by an inky curtain. At times, the prairie gets by with a scrubbing of horizontal sheets of rain and tumbling hailstones. Other times, a funnel flits between earth and sky, reminding all in its path that we are not in control.

We are entering storm season in the upper Midwest. The steamy moisture of the south is ready to duke it out with the icy chill of the tundra. This spring already gave us a schizophrenic thumping of snow, thunderstorms and tornadoes all in the same day, wreaking havoc with homes, travel and livestock. As spring unfolds into summer, there is only one constant. Storms.

Watch the sky. Be prepared. Revel in something bigger than yourself. And above all, know when to go underground. Prairie thunderstorms are equal opportunity events.

(No pictures of thunderstorms to share with you. Unlike my husband, I am usually in the basement when bad weather is brewing. If you like to look at clouds, NOAA has a great Sky Watcher Chart and information for the inner meteorological nerd in all of us.)

Spicy

A colleague of mine recently asked if I was ever going to spice up my blog. He was referring to another blog he was following that had become.....well, let's just say, "informational."  I reminded him that my blog is for those who are not afraid to live with beige and I am an old school girl. Some things are best said only in a diary with a little key attached.

Just to be clear, even the lives of beige people can contain a little spiciness. In fact, just this week I experienced a few heart pounding moments as I drove my car well beyond the recommended mileage for gas consumption.  Idling at a very busy intersection with the little red gas pump symbol flashing at me and the zero-miles digital reminder is all it takes to get my blood racing. Trudging to a gas station with a red can is akin to wearing a scarlet letter "S" for stupid. I made a mental note to be more proactive at the pump.

Teaching middle school students has its snappy moments as well. There is nothing that says trauma better than herding 350 fidgeting adolescents into a stuffy auditorium for a group presentation. My fellow teachers and I post ourselves strategically throughout the aisles as our eyes furtively seek out malfeasant activity. We zoom in with laser like precision as we pluck out any stinkers, all the while smiling and nodding along with the presentation. Middle school assemblies are always just one rabble rouser away from chaos, therefore, vigilance is not optional.

Filing income taxes is another Bates motel event. It is anybody's guess how that will end. Each year I confidently pull out my file folder marked "Taxes" and smugly believe it will contain all the information we need for our accountant. Each year I realize that pride goeth before a fall as my husband and I slog through piles of random receipts, only to realize a few of the most important documents have gone AWOL. And each year I wonder if our marriage can survive another year of filing taxes. Miraculously, vital scraps of paper are located, numbers are crunched and a check is grudgingly written. We emerge from the tax office, vowing to read the tome called Taxes and You. (I am not even going to address the brochure my husband picked up at the office entitled, Divorce & Taxes.) We continue to cling to our dream of becoming tax savvy citizens, despite our dismal track record.

Last, but not least, we have rhubarb, a fruit/vegetable/greenish-red plant that has enough pucker power to shame a lemon. We live on the edge of toxicity each time we pull the leaves off the prized stalks, wondering if anyone has ever died from a rhubarb plant. An hour later we have the smell of a pie edging out our horticultural fears and we happily dish up another piece of dessert goodness.

There you have it. Life in the fast lane with a beige person. If you need a little more spiciness, you are just going to have find the key to my diary. Be prepared to weep.