by jphilo | May 19, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
How can my early clematis be blooming already? Sure we’ve had an early spring, but last week was cold again and slowed things down. The peonies put on the brakes, the irises held still, the spirea went into sleep mode for several days, but the clematis? It started blooming.
Let me tell you, the whole deal has me shook up. Why? Because if the early clematis is blooming, and looking quite lovely in the process I have to admit, the others will soon follow. Next will be the light purple blooms of early June and the red and white candy stripe. Before I know it, the dark purple one by the garage will burst into glorious flower, and when that happens, it can mean only one thing.
July.
And we all know what July means at this house. Wedding.
Wedding?
Already?
But the cake hasn’t been ordered, the reception decorations aren’t planned, we’re still negotiating on the Photo Booth, the bridesmaids need their final fittings, friends have to be pressed into service, Anne’s dress needs to be shortened, Hiram and I need to argue about what he’ll wear to the ceremony, and so many other details are swirling around, I can hardly see straight. Except for one thing.
The clematis is blooming…already.
by jphilo | May 10, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
My sweet husband has been wrapped around his little girl’s finger since the day she was born. So when our daughter announced she wanted to get married in our yard on July 11, I knew my husband would move into high gear.
The minute spring sprang he was out in the yard, picking up sticks in “the sanctuary” as he now refers to our 1.3 acres of lawn and garden. “If there’s gonna be a wedding out there,” he declares about once a week, “it’s a sanctuary.” He’s been mowing and trimming and weeding and spraying with a vengeance. Last weekend, he grabbed his chainsaw and attacked the ugly old stump in the side yard. Hallelujah!
Like I said before, it was no surprise when our daughter’s doting dad started sprucing up the place. However, I never expected the city road crew to get into the act, too. But last Monday morning, the road grater roared by when I sat down to work. Pretty soon, a gravel truck rolled by. And another. And another. Before noon, they’d laid a thick layer of the prettiest white gravel you’ve ever seen down the center of our little road. Over the next few days, they grated the road and added more gravel every morning. They didn’t sprinkle one iota into the washout in front of our mailbox, but beggars can’t be choosers.
How did those city workers know that the first thing on my to do list last week was to call the city road department and complain about our road? Normally, I don’t do that, but the road was in such bad condition, I wasn’t sure people would make it to the wedding in July if something wasn’t done.
The road hasn’t been graveled in years and this spring, sections of it heaved and buckled, exposing road bed. No matter how well the road grater smoothed the surface, every time it rained, the road bed turned to mud. Vehicle immediately cut deep ruts in the mud, and the road was nearly impassable. But not anymore. Today the road looks as good as the sanctuary. The swath of white gravel looks like a white carpet for my daughter, the bride.
What are the odds of it staying like that until July 11?
Don’t press your luck, mother of the bride. Beggars can’t be choosers.
by jphilo | May 7, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
“Oh, look,” I said to myself while walking down the road the other day, “that little toad is enjoying this sunny morning as much as I am.”
I pulled out my camera to snap a few photos of the fella. He was wonderfully cooperative, remaining stiller than still while I worked away, changing angles to get more than just side shots. (Who knows why I thought several perspectives of a toad on the side of the road were necessary.)
Eventually, I decided to nudge him a bit and coax his nose away from the curb and toward the camera. His skin was dry to my touch, and his body unnaturally light. Suddenly the crusty shell of the toad skittered accross the pavement.
Holy smokes, the critter was hollow, as empty on the inside as a forty-year-old homecoming queen whose life peaked the day she received her tiara and sash. No wonder he’d been so patient and cooperative during our studio session.
For the next two days, his little shell graced the edge of the road. When I walked by it, the memory of his potato chip crisp skin returned. I shuddered and wondered how he ended up devoid of inner anything. Did a special breed of vampires stalk the dark night and suck out his toad juice? Had the long winter left him so Vitamin D deficient that he spend too long soaking up sun to? Did he eat a bad mushroom that gave him explosive toad stools? Do I really want to know what happened?
I think not. The whole sordid episode creeps me out. And I don’t like to think about how this scenario might play out. First, it’s a toad without innards by the side of the road. Next it’ll be a Trojan horse in the park, and we all know what happened the last time one of those showed up.
No way am I going to become a character in some weird new novel where Fun with Frog and Toad and the Twilight series intersect. No way do I want anyone to mistake my beauty for Helen of Troy and start a war. (Okay, so that one’s a little far-fetched, but stranger things have happened.) No way am I going to put my country at risk. From now on, I’m giving overly cooperative and completely hollow animals on my walking path a wide berth.
Hollow toads by the side of the road. Yick!
by jphilo | Mar 30, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Our little gravel road is crawling with cats. For the past few years, the no-tailed cat with the a meow as big as his body has considered our neighborhood his happy hunting ground. But apparently, he’s been bragging a little to loudly about the fat, tasty mice, chipmunks, tree squirrels, shrews, and bunny rabbits who rent space around here. His word of mouth advertising has been highly effective with stray cats, hungry after a long, cold winter. Why else has our woodsy lane become a cat magnet?
Every time I look up from my computer screen and glance out the window, the newcomers wave and lick their whiskery lips. Old No-Tail strolls by every day or two, looking like he owns the place. For a few days, a fluffy calico camped under the juniper bushes and stalked the maple tree inhabited by an industrious squirrel family. This morning, Fluffy was replaced by a fuzzy, white feline with big splashes of yellow. She snuck up behind the squirrel and nearly touched its tail with a paw. In the nick of time, the squirrel jumped three feet in the air and skedaddled up the tree trunk.
A little bit ago, I walked to the mailbox, laughing at the memory of Splash’s disappointment and the squirrel’s big leap. When I shook my head, something beyond the bushes along the driveway caught my eye. It was a small, mangy, gray-striped cat. Crouched near a chipmunk hole, it held its long, striped tail motionless and blinked menacingly as I passed by.
I could see what it was thinking.
What’s with all the humans invading our neighborhood? Apparently, the long, cold winter didn’t kill them off like we hoped. Every year, as soon as the weather improves, they start clomping around and scare off dinner, the idiots.
If Mangy only knew how pleased I am to share the neighborhood rodents with him and his buddies, I think we could co-exist admirably.
If the cats keep their distance, of course, since their fur makes me sneeze.
If they’re willing to pack up and move elsewhere the weekend of July 11 when our daughter gets married in our yard.
If they promise to leave the birds alone.
If they promise not to pee on my flowers.
If they root Mickey and Minnie out of the garage without leaving muddy paw prints on my car.
Reaching a mutually satisfactory agreement could be tricky. Anybody out there trained in human/cat arbitration? Give me a call!
by jphilo | Mar 29, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Thankfully, a few days of warm weather made short work of our snow cover earlier this month. As the snow piles shrank, huge puddles formed around storm sewers. Many of them were plugged with debris carried by the flowing water.
All that water made me wish for duck feet or a canoe during my morning walks. But I wasn’t the only critter trying to keep my feet dry while winter gave way to spring. One Sunday morning, when I skirted a storm sewer puddle, a stubby chunk of bark beside the puddle waved at me. I blinked, then bent to examine the talented bit of driftwood.
It wasn’t driftwood. It was a crawdad, with vicious claws clacking and slender antenna quivering in the sunshine. I pulled out my camera and took picture after picture of this first confirmation that spring was here to stay. When Crawdaddy curved his bony back and stretched toward the morning light, looking positively pentecostal, I wanted to raise my arms and dance along with my newfound friend.
I didn’t because worry pinned my hands at my sides. What if someone saw me dancing with a crawdad, my warm weather antenna quivering, my mind temporarily unhinged by the promise of spring? My respectable reputation would be tarnished, and that just wouldn’t do.
But now, whenever the sun warms my back or streams in my kitchen window or dissolves another snowbank, I think about my could-have-been dance partner. I wonder when the pure delight of worshipping the Creator of spring be more important to me than the impression I make upon others? When will the presence of the Son be my perfect satisfaction?
I picture Crawdaddy, his arms raised, his threadlike antenna quivering. He’s worshipping his sun with abandon. Why am I afraid to let go and freely worship mine?
by jphilo | Mar 25, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Signs of spring have multiplied this wee. The sky has been more blue than gray, the temperatures are warming, the snow piles are almost gone, and the grass is greening. Still, this morning’s brisk wind made my walk chilly, so chilly I wore my winter pants and needed a scarf around my face.
Cold as it was, I didn’t expect any hints of spring to cheer this late March day. But they were everywhere. My neighbor, obviously much tougher than me, wore shorts on her morning walk. Robins perched in the trees and on fence lines, singing as though the day was balmy and the winds were calm. A meadowlark sang in the field. Cardinals warbled from treetops, their feathers glowing crimson against a bright blue sky.
The birds, camera shy this early in the season, flew away each time I fumbled for my Canon Rebel. But when I walked by the grocery store, the truck crew had barely started unloading pallets stacked high with garden mulch. The forklift didn’t move nearly as fast as the robins, though the driver probably wondered about the crazy woman, bundled up like it was still January, taking his picture.
His opinion, whatever it was, didn’t phase me one bit. My soul feasted on the unmistakable proof that winter is over, no matter how chilly the temperature is. Peace enveloped me as the workers buzzed around. My hopefulness increased as they transferred the semi’s cargo from trailer to parking lot, one forkliftful of spring at a time.
