Snail

Living in the upper plains prepares one for weather diversity and adversity. On the fifth anniversary of one of the worst ice storms recorded for our city, we received an arctic punch that had even the hardiest of folks mumbling and grumbling. It started with thunder and lightning. A crack of lightning in our neighborhood struck a pole nearby, causing electricity issues for some. Then the heavens opened with a rain and ice mix. Not exactly snow. Not exactly hail. We will call it snail.

The snail continued on and off for hours, causing a pebbly-like build up on the streets. Add large vehicles driving over said surface. Sprinkle on more snail. Turn on sixty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Warm it up just enough to partially melt the snail. Keep the snail going through the night so sleep is impossible with the ping-pinging on the windows. Change the snail to full on snow until twelve inches is received. Whip the wind into a frenzy so tree branches are waving good bye. Coat everything with more snow icing. Shut down the interestate highways in two directions. And voila, you have yourself a spring storm, Dakota style.

After two days of being pummeled by the weather, a peek out the window revealed the aftermath. Snow gathered in heaps wherever there was an obstacle in its path. Small branches awaited gathering up. Snow on the streets threatened to swallow up unprepared vehicles. Little rabbit tracks made their way to bushes, indicating the chance for small critters to nibble on the tops of vegetation, rather than the understory. The chug-chug of snow blowers geared up with earnest battle cries, fully determined to shave down the mountains of white stuff.

My long-suffering husband takes care of our driveway and the neighbor's larger corner lot and driveway. Sitting on my ample behind, watching him chip away at operation snow removal seemed beyond lazy, even for me. So I picked up a shovel (the smallest one, I am weak) and hacked away on our deck. To be completely honest, I was probably more concerned about the birds than my husband. We had packed up the feeders before the storm for fear of losing them to the wind and ice. During the storm, I watched the little juncos and sparrows flit about looking for any tidbit left behind. It was like my trip to the store in the wee hours of day two of the storm. The shelves were barren. Time to live off the land and whatever was left in my fridge and freezer. My vision of chicken soup quickly morphed into a pot of beef stew instead. The milk was parsed out sparingly. And the oranges rolling around in my crisper drawer held off scurvy. We lived to see another day.

It is said that you never have to shovel sunshine (smugly stated by those living in warmer climes). I would add that shovels are tools reserved for optimistic realists. We know that April snail brings May flowers. Maybe.

Ode

April is National Poetry Month. I know from experience that poetry is wickedly difficult to compose. Good poetry demands a parsimonious touch with words that my stream of consciousness has never allowed with any success. Therefore, I will not subject you to any poetry penned by my hand.

Many folks seem to have a love/hate relationship with poetry. The little ditties of our youth such as Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Rock-a-Bye Baby are etched into our brains until death do us part. But who of us could name more than a handful of poets, much less recite a poem more than ten lines long? I am guilty as charged.

Surprisingly, I do have a favorite poet and his name is Badger Clark. He was the first poet laureate of South Dakota (1937). He preferred the title "poet lariat" due to his love of all things cowboy. I am not exactly sure when my fascination began with Badger. My best guess is that it happened during a vacation of my youth. My mom was a teacher and my dad had an insatiable appetite for learning so no outing was complete without some sort of educational "event." One year, a trip to the Black Hills included a stop at Badge Hole, the cabin where Badger spent almost 30 years reading and writing. My childhood memory is a bit weak but I remember Badger's signature tall boots lined up along the wall and his many shelves of books. I don't think I read any of his poetry immediately after our visit but his name stuck in my brain.

Fast forward many years later and I had a desire to read a poem or two by Badger. My public library had a nice collection so I checked his books out. I was smitten. His ability to describe his love of nature and the lost art of being a cowboy kept me coming back for one more reading. I am not one who rereads a lot of books but Badger Clark is the exception.

My husband and I had the pleasure of visiting Badger Hole many years after my first visit. My adult eyes soaked up the view of his cabin nestled in the beautiful pine trees. The volunteer attendant at the cabin enthusiastically shared Badger's story as we marveled at his multiple pairs of tall boots and his vast collection of books. It was impossible for me to leave without purchasing a few of his books after gushing away about my love for his poetry. I am quite sure the sweet attendant with the distinctive southern accent knew I was a true believer and not just an out of state looky-loo. As we left the cabin, my husband remarked that I could probably take over the attendant's job someday and I had to admit that would be a dream job for me. We also agreed that a paycheck would sweeten the pot and that was never going to happen.

At risk of imprisonment for copyright infringement, let me leave you with a few lines from Badger Clark's poem, "The Bad Lands".

No fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide;
   It is all stark red and gray,
And strewn with bones that had lived and died
   Ere the first man saw the day.
When the sharp crests dream in the sunset gleam
   And the bat through the canyon veers,
You will sometimes catch, if you listen long
The tones of the Bad Lands' mystic song,
   A song of a million years.