Cranked

Blessedly, we were able to crank our windows open this week and let in a little fresh air. Summer is always a game of weather roulette. Sometimes the heat and humidity barrels into our region at the end of May and holds us hostage until October. Other years, we can be cool and rainy for much of June. This year, June has been just about right.

After a nasty round of oral surgery last week, I was confined to my perch on the couch for a few days. The open windows let in the sounds of the day. The birds are in full form this time of year with all the babies following their mommies. The flock of blackbirds screeched away as the young ones were fed, seed by seed from my pan feeder. The percussive sound of their beaks on the metal pan added to the noisy feeding crew. Robins chattered back and forth to each other, perhaps sending messages of worm locations. The chicka-dee-dee-dees flitted in and out of the scene, carrying off seeds, one by one. And a momma downy woodpecker patiently grabbed small chunks of suet and passed them along to her eager offspring.

The neighbor's mower harrumphed its way into action and sent the birds scattering. The smell of freshly cut vegetation sifted its way through the open windows. The neighborhood lilac bushes send their fragrance through the air as well. Lilacs are pretty to look at but my nose is never happy with their bossy aroma and I cry no tears for the drop of their blossoms. The exhaust of a garbage truck deet-deet-deeing its way into the driveway across the street reminds me that all fragrances are relative.

The squeal of kids hurling down our street on their bikes prompts me to pray for angels of protection. Our house is on a small hill so the temptation to leave caution to the wind is great for thrill seeking youth. As their wheels whir across the pavement, their chatter increases and a whoop or two is let out when they reach the base of the hill. Their entertainment is a reminder that fun can be free and always wear your helmet.

Evening brings the smell of burning wood from a neighbor's fire pit. Grills belch out signals of charred burgers. Dogs pad by, letting their owners know who is in charge. Walkers, out for an evening stroll, share secrets of the day. Leaves on the trees allow the wind to use them as instruments going into the night. Motorcyclists rev by with untethered audacity. A kamikaze bird makes a loud splat against my picture window and a fluff of feathers goes fluttering down. A mourning dove makes a dirge-like call of coo-OOH-ooh-ooh, reminding us all that dusk is near.

Soon I will be cranking my windows shut again. The weather forecast looks warm and sticky for the next while. I am not looking forward to the encapsulation of an air-conditioned environment or the increase in my monthly electric bill, but that is the hand summer deals us. Best not complain and just make another ice cream dessert.

The Call

A recent vacation gave my husband and me time to recharge our batteries and provide a few new experiences along the way.  Let's be clear, our idea of a vacation does not include epic hikes, lake kayaking, exotic cuisine or Disneyland characters. We are simple folk with simple requirements. A comfortable cabin, a fireplace, a grill, a large coffeepot, a veranda and lots of books will do, thank you. Gratefully missing are hordes of people, cell phone reception, city noise and itineraries.

This year we were able to return to a peaceful little cabin in a beautiful valley in the Black Hills. It is a favorite place for us and we are happy to let the beauty of the Hills and the gentleness of the valley seep into our weary bones. We also enjoy checking out new experiences in the Hills and a brochure in the cabin entitled, Osprey Trail, did just that for us. I suffer from OOD, osprey obsession disorder, thanks to a webcam sponsored by Cornell Lab of Ornithology in Missoula, Montana. I spent so much time "in the nest" last summer that I became a self-proclaimed and annoying "expert" on the subject of ospreys. Unfortunately, there are no osprey where I live but the Hills is blessed with an active population. Bingo for me.

The brochure classified the Osprey Hike as easy so there were no barriers for such an adventure. A visit with the ranger at a nearby information center assured us that ospreys are easily spotted along the trail. With map in hand, we took off on our hike in search of the fish-eating raptor. I soon remembered what a dunce I am when it comes to hiking. The hike was listed as a short one but it was clear that our navigation skills could result in a longer meandering process than predicted.  I had a half bottle of water with me, no binoculars and no camera/phone. The sight of a bee reminded me that my husband's epi-pen was back in the vehicle. Visions of a medi-vac danced in my head.

As we forged ahead with our noses glued to the map, lost in discussions of being direction turned, I  heard a sweet sound above the trail. It was the call of an osprey. We let the call be our guide and soon we saw the unmistakable sky dance of an osprey, enjoying the air currents above the water. We watched the performance and soon the beautiful bird swooped down and skimmed the water for a few seconds. We were unable to discern whether a fish was caught but it was enough to see such a sight. We enjoyed a few moments with the bird, the lake and my obsession until a rumble of thunder reminded us to return to our vehicle.

We were unable to spend much time with the birds but we were rewarded with a great memory. And isn't that what a good vacation is all about?

We'll be back.

Into the Harbor

I have been out to sea for a long time, the sea of teaching and being a captain of my classroom. Many  years ago I signed my first contract as a sixth grade teacher. I knew enough about teaching to fill a thimble but my enthusiasm and naivete helped me believe I could keep signing contracts for years ahead. And I did. Thirty-one times, to be exact.

My time at sea has been an adventure, for sure. There were days of beautiful calm and serenity. My lessons clicked with the students. Heads nodded in understanding. Laughter burst forth over a shared funny moment. Hands were raised in thoughtful response. And I believed we would arrive at our destination in a timely manner. And sometimes we did.

There were also days of rough waters, filled with crashing waves and uncertainty. Unruly students with miserable attitudes, demanding enormous amounts of attention. Lessons gone awry and not well received. Meetings with unhappy and irrational parents. Forms, forms and more forms. E-mails queued up to kingdom come. Days when I was googling, jobs-for-has-been-teachers.

Most days were somewhere in-between. Not exactly sunshine and still waters. But not frothing waters and scurvy, either. The days when the rhythm of a classroom chugs along. Warm-ups are completed. Lessons are introduced. Assignments are given. Diligent students do their work. Stubborn students test the limits of tolerance. Papers are graded and returned. To-do lists are completed and another one is written. Students are greeted for the day and given a farewell as they exit with the final bell.

And now it is time to pull the ship into harbor. I am closing this chapter of my life. I met amazing folks along the way. My colleagues and I weathered many storms. We laughed until we cried and we shared the language of educators, determined to do what is best for our students. I listened to countless in-service speakers, some memorable and others not so much. I taught many subjects at three different grade levels. I conducted hundreds of parent-teacher conferences. I learned the names of a new crop of students each year and I watched them navigate their own waters of life. I felt the tides of "best practices" ebb and flow. And I hunkered down for the next technological flavor of the month. Teaching is never dull. And I have no regrets for choosing this profession. Nary a one.

Now the new chapter begins. I do not have fancy plans for the next steps. No fabulous encore job awaits me. I won't be traveling to exotic lands abroad any time soon. I don't have a cabin by a lake or a second home in the mountains. I suspect my semi-agoraphobic nature will keep me tethered to home base, for a while at least. I will continue to try a new recipe or two and I will enjoy my local library even more.

When next fall rolls around and I watch most of my fellow teachers head out to sea for another year of active duty, I will raise my cup of coffee in salute to some of the strongest people I know. I will also lift up a prayer for safe voyages and the stamina it takes to educate precious cargo. Above all, my fellow teachers, keep your desk drawers stocked with chocolate and a box or two of golf pencils. It is always good to be prepared.

Enough

I do most of my non-virtual shopping within a 1/2-mile radius of my house, for two reasons. I dislike shopping and I am lazy. My two favorite haunts are a grocery store that is 5 blocks from my house and a locally-owned pharmacy-has-everything store that is 4 blocks from my house (less if I drive around the backside of it, hoping I don't clip a trash dumpster in the process).

A recent early morning visit to the pharmacy store found me searching for a checkout lane with the signal light on. I heard a muffled voice at the first checkout and upon further investigation saw a frazzled checker rummaging around on the floor under the register. There was another young man crawling around on the floor, as well. I asked if their lane was open for business, and the frazzled lady popped her head up and said, yes, she could check me out but only if I wasn't using their store app. because the little reader thingy wasn't working.

I said she could rest easy because I wasn't going to use the app. because I never remember to carry my phone with me. She was relieved to hear that and proceeded to check me out while the young lad continued to dink around on the floor, attempting to remedy the app. reader problem. A line was beginning to form behind me and I could see in the checker's eyes a look of muted terror as she wondered how she would continue without the magic reader thing.

Just as I finished my transaction, I saw the blue lights on the reader machine fire up and start flashing. The checker breathed a huge sigh of relief and asked the young man, "What did you do?" He looked at her with all the hubris of youth and replied, "I fixed it."

We looked at each other and quickly agreed that we need our young friends in our lives because we are suffering from TID, Tech Idiocy Disorder. I know the checker wanted to understand how the young man fixed the problem so she could be self-sufficient if the reader blitzed out on her again. I also know the young man saw no reason to share his super power with someone a couple decades older than himself.

I know of no antidote for TID and I am not sure I am searching for one. Sometimes, I think it is technology that keeps the older generation humble. No doubt, there were a few harrumphs when the first horseless carriage putt-putted by an older person, followed by a discussion or two on the value of horses.

My 91-year-old mother tells many tales of changing technology over the decades. She experienced the beginnings of car travel, party-line telephones, rural electricity and indoor toilets. She dabbled in computers for a few years before her mind started weakening. Now, she looks at me and says, "I don't even know what a smartphone is and I don't want one. I have everything I need and that's enough."

Amen.

Lake Shore

Crashing waves. Spraying mists. Lapping water. Floating driftwood. Sparkling droplets. Memories of time spent by Lake Superior. A decade or two ago, my husband and I took yearly vacations "up north." We stayed in cabins along the large lake and enjoyed the cool breezes of water as far as the eye could see. The large lake provided the perfect climate for this tundra girl. I am never ready for the onslaught of summer's heat and humidity so a respite from such oppression is always appreciated.

We usually begin our lake time with a stop in the harbor town of Duluth. The view from Enger Park, situated above the city, is worth the journey through winding, sometimes confusing, streets. The park is filled with manicured gardens and leisurely walking trails. It is a great way to observe the sights and sounds of the city and the lake from afar.

The best way to experience the lake, of course, is walking along its shoreline. Canal Park is a well developed area nestled against the lake, perfect for observing the comings and goings of the big ships taking care of business. The old aerial lift bridge slowly raises it hulking deck for ships as they glide through the harbor. The ships hail from around the world, thanks to the lock systems of the Great Lakes. It is mind boggling to watch a vessel from Italy or Hong Kong chug along in upper Minnesota. Everything from grain to beet pulp to iron ore pellets are loaded for delivery to far flung places.

One particular ship viewing session found my husband and I in a torrential downpour. We were determined to weather the storm and watch the ships but the rain got the best of us. A coffee shop nearby provided the shelter we needed. This was before there was a coffee shop or java kiosk every 50 feet so the experience was purely delightful. We queued up with other dripping wet beings and ordered a hot cup of black, brew-of-the-day, coffee. The windows in the shop gave us peek-a-boo views of the harbor through the pouring rain.

Coffee always tastes good to me but that Caribou cup transcended all other cups for a moment in time. The rich brew permeated our senses with warmth and well being. The disappointment of not being able to fully view the ships was completely negated by two cups of coffee, one cozy corner and unobstructed conversation. Many years later, I still smile when I remember that day.

We hope to return to the big lake some time soon. Hopefully, we can even make the circle tour around the lake, venturing into the foreign land of Canada. Until then, I can enjoy a cup of Caribou coffee on occasion so I am able to experience a lake picture in my head and almost hear the bugle call of the gulls overhead.

Coffee. More than just caffeine.

Signs

The signs of spring present themselves a little differently in the upper plains than locales to our south. Temperature is not an indicator for us. One day we are bathed in sunshine and balminess and the following day our senses are shocked by a frosty nippiness. April showers can be a precursor to sleety, snowy slush. Trees hold back their buds a bit longer as they await a hopeful all-clear in May. And garden planting is risky at best.

There are a few sure fire signs for us and one is road construction. Our season for infrastructure enhancement is short so the orange cones are called into action as soon as possible. My commute has changed considerably as a massive restructuring of a popular roadway has begun. We queue up, bumper to bumper, and funnel our way through the latest passageway. I find myself gripping the steering wheel as I chug-a-chug-a-thunk my vehicle over rutted road shoulders. I feel tense when I am waiting on the bridge over a very swollen river or the bridge over a busy interstate. My game of "Which Bridge Would I Rather Have Plunge Downward" is probably not a good way to pass the time as I wait for a green light.

Our birds are also sending signals that springtime is arriving. The forceful call of a cardinal in the early morning hours is joined by the dee-dee-dee of the chickadees and the nasally yank-yank of nuthatches enjoying a suet snack. Fat-bellied robins are back in town, sharing space with the juncos who are ready to pack their bags for their northern breeding grounds. Bulky mourning doves are slowly arriving from their winter homes down south and red-winged blackbirds are establishing territory along the marshy sloughs. The chorus of morning symphonies is in full swing.

Despite the presence of ground frost, the lure of outdoor living is present. Greenhouses are being assembled in parking lots, nibbling away at precious parking spaces. Seed packets beckon our attention, forcing us to dream of fresh radishes, tomatoes and green beans. Lawnmowers remind us that our dormant turf will soon be demanding our attention. Bright, shiny grills and bags of charcoal are arranged in such a way that we can almost smell the burgers cooking away. Adirondack chairs in all colors conjure up thoughts of quiet evenings bathed in conversation and the glow of a sunset's waning light.

The number one sign of spring for us is rhubarb. Burly little sprouts are beginning their upward journey through the topsoil with little regard to the weather. Their hardy nature gives them bragging rights for being one of the earliest plants of the edible kind. It is a plant that elicits strong opinions from most folks. They either love rhubarb or hate it. Those of us in the love camp are salivating over the pies, cakes and desserts that will be coming our way. I'm not always sure if it is the rhubarb or the heavy doses of sugar added to the rhubarb that snaps us out of our winter coma. Rest assured, it is a pleasant way to greet spring.

Voices

I have the grand luxury of enjoying moments of self-imposed silence. Of course, silence is impossible in most settings, but being seated in a quiet home, without electronic devices blaring, is like drinking cool sips of water in a parched desert.  In the early morning hours, before most of the living roust from their nests, I am able to soak up the voices of natural causes. And things that go bump in the night.

My early morning greeting is often the gentle banging of doors in my basement. My husband says it is the change of pressure that causes such sounds, but I prefer to imagine a sweet little ghost taking care of business when no one is living in our lower level. The banging sounds always make me smile and sometimes I utter a cordial good morning greeting. I am alone at such times so no fear of mocking by others.

Our refrigerator whirs out the churn of making new ice cubes. Except, we have no ice making function on our refrigerator. I can hear the clunk, clunk of the pseudo ice cubes at the end of each cycle. Before you start using the crazy word, my husband recently startled to the same sound. He asked, "Did you hear that?" I responded, "It always does that. It's just the ice making dreams of our refrigerator." He had no reply. And no explanation. I continue to enjoy the process.

Occasionally, I hear the pop, pop, pop of something aching in the bones of the walls. I have long since stopped trying to analyze the source. Envisioning pipes ready to burst or studs in the throes of death does not provide calming thoughts for me. So, I assume little Casper from the basement is sending me Morse code messages. I just hope he isn't telling me that a pipe is ready to go.

The most mysterious sound also comes from my basement. It is a sharp ping that is identical to the sound of a freshly canned jar of peaches alerting the world that the seal is final. I have no idea what causes the sound as I haven't canned anything since my early years of marriage. I do enjoy it, however, as memories of the bounty of summer come flooding back. Jars of peaches, beans and cherries line up like jewels, ready for winter's dark days. A pleasant memory, for sure.

One of my favorite sounds is the rat-a-tat-tat from my deck. A downy woodpecker regularly visits the suet I have positioned on a deck post. She indulges her instincts by pecking away with rapid fire on the block of fat and seeds. I don't think she needs to push very hard to make dietary progress but she enjoys the motion of pecking away. Sometimes we all have to listen to our instincts.

We live in a culture of manufactured sound. TV, Netflix, podcasts, Spotify, books on tape and playlists all vie for our time. None of which are bad. But, sometimes it feels good to disconnect and release control of our surroundings. Listen for the voice of others, the hoot of an owl, the creaking of floor tiles or your favorite house ghost. You may not understand the conversation but you will understand the moment.