the two fives

I have been thinking about being 55 for a while now. Of course, hitting the two fives is just as significant as hitting any number. Another day ahead! Fifty-five, fifty-four and a fraction, what’s the diff?

To me, it is a big deal. There’s the birthday part, that’s huge. And then there’s the fifty five.


I give myself this day to pause and consider where I’m at. It’s like going to court for a progress report, but you’re before a forgiving judge who pats you on the head and tells you to give yourself credit in life for merely getting by and not messing up significantly.

So that’s why I like to celebrate.

When I was a kid, my parents were not much into celebrations, but my next family sure was and we did splendid things for each other’s birthdays.

Right now, I hang out with the non-celebratory kind and so it’s a challenge to do anything beyond the ordinary. Still, it’s a beautiful sunny day and so the ordinary needn’t be so ordinary. We can slap on some sunscreen and head for the great outdoors.

But, it being a Monday, we get a late start on things. And there’s a kayak to inflate and a truck to load up and so it really isn’t until after 3 before we get to the village of Germania. Ed’s thinking we could pick up the Mecan River there and paddle down a dozen miles toward the Fox River.

We get out to leave our bikes at the take out point. Oh, but what happened here? Where’s the river? The forest looks flooded and the bridge over what must be the river almost touches the water level.






If you lean forward, you can make it under the bridge. No, not me. My adventuring quotient is low this afternoon. I want to emerge whole. Indeed, I want a good meal at the end of the day, not jello on a hospital tray.

We drive up and inspect all bridges along the stretch we are to navigate. I finally agree to put in at the Germania damn and take out some six miles downstream.

Germania. What can I say. It is the most depressing village I’ve seen in the state of Wisconsin. We are not an island of prosperity up here in the Midwest, but Germania is so down and out that it looks like everyone’s given up. Debris. Old motors. Rusty everything. Heaps of nothing. Fallen porches. This, for a grocer:





…and this for a saloon.





Hearty appetites, no?

We unload the kayaks and pick up the current.










At first, it is serene, wide, beautiful. But under the first bridge, we hit some rapids and Ed’s boat takes in water.





We continue. What can you do. It’ll be a springy but wet ride down for both of us.




Ah, but the sun – though low now, it’s still there. Sort of. Behind a cloud or two, then out again. Swallows dive and soar, two sandhill cranes hover over us with their odd folk song. Ducks take off in pairs and we watch it all – this show of water fowl, one minute with us, the next, off to people free places.










We paddle to the shore and bike back and catch the one beautiful Germania view: of the lake in the early evening light.





By seven, we’re back on the road to Madison. Past Montello, where fishermen and boys try to pick up a few striped bass.





Past herds of deer and fields of burning orange.










Home to Madison. Home of many birthdays past. Home, at fifty five.

Sunday

A day requiring great physical stamina. Doing the usual Sunday morning condo scrubbing, I wondered why, for me, Sunday has always been a day for cleaning. Should it not be a time for repose and repast? With family, friends?

The weather finally pushed me out the door and I pedaled vigorously towards Ed’s farm where we were to do some land clearing in preparation for the Writer’s Shed. [Thank-you, sixty-five, for tip on “A Pattern Language.” Ed, who is a designer by trade, had a nice hefty copy and now I am convinced that anyone involved in a building project should leaf through this immensely wonderful piece of writing.]

There was a lot to clear.










Ed took down rotting trees and I cleared growth from seasons past. There is a certain wild randomness to Ed’s property and I know that if I am to spend time there, I will need to create some sense of order, at least in the spaces proximate to the Writer's Shed. Sure, yard work takes time. But, I am my grandfather’s child and making things grow ranks up there, with cooking (that comes from my grandmother; neither of my parents were drawn to growing things or cooking). And, for me, time is no longer madness. I move at a different pace and with different imperatives than I did, say, 55 years ago.

The Writer’s Shed space abuts the land farmed by Cha and his younger brother. I watched them work the soil all day – such tough work. Last year’s crop was a disappointment for them – 2000 strawberries completely ruined by bad weather. And this year? Whose fortunes will improve? Whose strawberries will bring rewards? Whose book will get chapters added? Which trips will be scrapped? Which will become important?










I did not stop to sit until now, in the early evening. Cha’s family is finishing their work for the day. Another family is circling the dilapidated shed to see if they want to take it off Ed’s property. Two boys are climbing through the weathered boards. Their grandpa makes things from old wood. An artist. How sweet the whole scene!





Me, I’m spent. No matter. It was a rock solid day, Gorgeous on the outside and within.

Saturday

The Writer's Shed Project, part 4

As we stand yet again in front of an array of (inexpensive) (relatively speaking) windows at Menards, having just done the same at Home Depot, Ed says, without much zip – this is going to be quite the project.

I think it’s a statement more about our age than the project itself. We each, independently, have put together huge things before in our lives and they have been far more challenging than a Writer’s Shed. Still, as we check off items and then reconsider them, we’re thinking – damn, we haven’t even cleared the ground of the old shed yet.

We purchase three bargain windows at Menards and wait for inspiration to strike us for the remaining ones.



the Market!

Surely a turning point. The major outdoor markets of Madison begin their season today. I make it to the Westside Community Market just across the street where I live.

And it feels so happy to be there – like you woke up to an extra strong bloody mary and it gave you a dizzy push into the day. I mention bloody marys because I see a “farm stand” with very fresh and honest bloody mary mixes (in addition to tomato soups and salsas); so tempting, but for the fact that my bloody mary days died decades ago, along with huge brunch fests and other forms of Sunday morning indulgence.





The other farm stands are full of baked goods, cheeses, plants and the remaining roots of a Midwest winter.










Still, I am reassured that we have left the impossible days behind. My windows are wide open. Windows. Yes, I know a lot about (inexpensive) (relatively) windows. Uff, let me not think about that.


the ride

The bike has been getting a workout. And here's how I know we really are in a good place, season-wise. I no longer record the siting of a bird, or a leaf. And I almost didn't even pause to photograph this. It's just one of many. Too many to stop for. And that's a good thing.

more... (or TWSP, part 3)

Who knew that construction people had an exclusive language that no mortal outside their clique could understand?

I had spent quite a bit of time transcribing an idea (of what a Writer's Shed should look like) onto paper.





It did not gain me an entry card into the builders' club. This evening I listened to a back and forth between Ed and Dave (former attorney-turned-Mennonite-and-thus-someone-who-is-no-longer-willing-to-engage-in-legal-dscourse-but-happy-to-dispense-construction-advice-to-the average-shed-builder) that left me thinking that I am perhaps the most incompetent individual south of Verona.

Both Ed and Dave glanced at my sketches. Ed commented: "no one writes 6.5 when they mean 6ft. 6in." And Dave asked: "what's that?" pointing to a rectangular shape at the edge of one of the sketches. To this, Ed answered with amusement: "Ignore it; that's her bed."




Yes, I know that construction people would find it to be a silly inclusion on a sketch of what's to go where, but how am I to give guidance about the placement of windows if I leave off such essentials as to where I should doze off when the writing's not going so well?

Anyway, the drive to the countryside (where Dave, the potential co-builder resides) was nice.





Sort of. If you can forgive the rain and the misty coldness and my hunger for sensible conversations about the key elements of building a Writer's Shed. Like where to place a bed, or even a large hook to hang a coat on at the end of a long and weary day.

The Writer’s Shed Project, part 2

I have never built a house from scratch, nor had anyone do it for me or with me. Except my grandfather, but I was a baby then and it was Poland and we didn’t have Menards. So I am a novice at building a Writer’s Shed.

Ed, the originator of the idea and my future part-time landlord (in addition to being an occasional traveling companion) is an experienced shed builder and so I believed I would need give little more than occasional decorator’s advice in this undertaking. And since this is a Shed, after all, the decorating is pretty basic.

Today, we began the task of finding suitable materials. In other words, we spent many hours at Menards.

I’m not stupid. I know how to keep sane in building projects. You put yourself in the mind of your co-shopper and think like he does. For example, when looking at one hundred different windows with Ed, you say “interesting. Yes, I see that. Double hung. Good screen fit. Ah. Let’s go with the cheapest model” and move on. With the floor? “Bamboo? So nice. Interesting. Yes, I see that. Let’s go with something cheaper.”

At the end, we were both exhausted with being so agreeable. Ed dropped me and my bike right off the Beltline and I pedaled home. He returned to his own shed for an evening of male bonding with his two cats.

So, the process of building has begun. Has exuberance set in? Building requires patience, not exuberance. Exuberance is something I see outside my office window. It belongs to the young and lofty types who think they can fly just because spring has set in.

a day so full…

The Writer's Shed Project, part 1

Ed has decided (and I have agreed) that I should learn how to build a shed. It’s not hard, really. And if you are successful, you can have yourself a hut to do all sorts of things in – for example, to hibernate and make progress on your Big Book Project.

I am in favor of gaining such skills. For instance, I am learning how to heat a shed creatively, given that it will sit in frigid Wisconsin, in an exposed position and will be used as shelter by a person who hates having to wear multiple sweaters, year round, indoors.

But I am getting ahead of myself. The first stage is to knock down the shed that is cluttering the space for, let’s call it the Writer’s Shed (to distinguish it from the Sheep Shed on same property, providing shelter not for sheep but for Ed).

Early this morning, we removed clutter from the Dilapidated Shed (different from either the Sheep Shed or the Writer’s Shed) – metal scraps, turned in at the recycling center.

And, here’s the first lesson I offer you in shed building:

Lesson 1: if you’re clearing space for a new shed, try to recycle the clutter. Ed’s metal clutter netted him $212. Sure, Ed probably had more scrap metal than you or I, but still…

Okay, so watch for further updates. And consider this the first photo of the Shed that is NOT the Writer’s Shed, but the one that is to be knocked down to make room for a Writer’s Shed. (BTW, anyone need fine, weathered, antique-looking lumber? Yours, for pennies!)





Farming, part 2

The farmers were plowing, hoeing and staking today. I envied them. I was off to the Law School, they were off to the fields. I would very much enjoy being a fair weather (hobby, so that my income doesn’t have to depend on it) farmer. When I am not traveling, writing, etc etc.






The “I’d rather be fishing” people

There were a number who would say this today. Indeed, there were a bunch who were fishing. On my way to work, following the now much more climatically hospitable bike path along the lake, I encountered these:














And just outside my office, there were those who fished for the pleasure of simply being outside. I leave you with their playfulness. Ah…. spring. I love you so.

farming, part 1

So finally, it is time to clear the brush, till the soil and sow the seed. Is there anything more fundamental in life? …than the simple act of tugging at a rake? standing behind a tiller? Throwing out your hand with seed?

I came back from D.C. early yesterday, absolutely depleted. That’s (for me) not a very good blogging situation and I momentarily considered giving Ocean a few days’ rest.

Instead, I gave Ocean and a significant number of other things, only one night’s rest.

How can it be -- such a quick recovery? For me, it's a question of scaling back to the basics. Today, the farmers were out, raking, tilling, sowing, in the most straightforward ways and I could think of little else. They rent land next to Ed’s farmette and the day isn’t long enough to absorb it all. My photos tell only part of the story, but they are better than no story at all. So, here you go. Even more than the farmers markets that are about to explode this week-end in Madison, these people truly herald the beginning of the good seasons.

from Shenandoah, Virginia: almost heaven

One minute, you’re watching a line snake its way toward the entrance to the White House and an hour later, you’re in the deep Virginia countryside…





… where us all are wished a good day at a roadside store selling freshly made doughnuts (recipe from 1963!) and BBQ pork, “from our own pork!” (In the alternative, you can get two eggs, two pancakes, homefries, two donuts, toast, ham, bacon or sausage for $6.99).





It’s cooler today and the skies are a canvas of cloudcover. Shades of gray and white and navy. Or, is it that the mountains project their own tone of blue toward the heavens above?

Spring in Shenandoah. How would you want to experience it? From the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains?

We enter the Shenandoah National Park from the north, picking up the beloved Skyline Drive which slowly moves you along this most beautiful mountain ridge. Even in the first miles, the views take your breath away.





And really, it only gets better.











A young man is studying maps in an effort to identify the mountain peaks. I can’t be bothered. I’m too engrossed in the entirety. And the range of spring colors, extending into tones that have nothing to do with lemon or green.





But it does help to do some research in advance. Hiking trails cross these mountains in various configurations and levels of challenge and we want it all, in a nutshell: something challenging, with views, not too lengthy, but with an impact. The kind that’ll make you say: hey, I hiked that.

We locate the backcountry Meadow Spring trail – a total misnomer as it is a hike straight up the mountain, with no meadow or spring along the way. I pick it because it offers views.

It is quiet here, in the forest. If the Skyline was low on visitors, the trails, even on this Sunday, are pretty much empty. As we pick up the great Appalachian Trail at the ridge, we meet no one. Birds. Just the noise of birds, scratching the wet soil.










At the summit, we are mesmerized by the ribbons of sky and mountain.





The clouds discharge a few drops of water and even a dusting of ice pellets. It’s significantly cooler here than back in D.C. But who could mind? Spring in the mountains is a moody time of year, teetering between exuberance and a chilly bite. We see them both in the space of one afternoon.

Driving back to the city along the winding, hilly roads of Virginia, I am shocked how different this state looks from anything in the Midwest. Cows graze, but they are black cows and they are scattered over meadows of spring grasses. There aren’t mega crop farms here, but there are horses and we see them, galloping behind wood fences. Signs point to vineyards. Forests are completely... well, not Wisconsin-like. The forsythia is bushier, the dogwood is everpresent, daffodils spring in patches along the road. And those yellow flowers, growing in the wild or sometimes cultivated – what are they?





It’s all so beautiful. We are in a rush though. We’re both hungry and I have heard enthusiastic statements about the fried chicken and puffed, savory pastries at the Central in D.C. A good ending to a southern kind of day.



When I was in college back in New York, I knew a young man who would often be seen in his t-shirt, announcing that Virginia is for lovers. I never much liked it because there was a woman with whom he had traveled to Virginia and with whom he would like to forever return to Virginia and that woman was not me. But I'll reconsider it now, maybe giving the slogan a Kermit the Frog extension – “for lovers, for dreamers, and me…” April and Virginia are just such a great pair!

from D.C.: reflections

Putting up an evening post may be tough tonight. We're heading out. The idea is to hike. Where? How? Come back tomorrow for a report.

In the meantime, enjoy your Sunday. Like this pair, floating between blooms, paddling slowly or not at all, one looking out at me, the other -- with head buried in her own self. She seems content. No stress there. I try to imitate her, but I can't. People haven't the ability to let go so effortlessly, to sink into their own peaceful spaces. Anyway, I'll leave this photo for you to enjoy. Leisurely, rolling with the ripples, among pink petals and freshly green leaves.




a pair of ducks, flowers, reflections

from D.C.: life’s flowers

Such a corny subject line, no? But I’ve been thinking about that tons – where and when the flowers of one’s life show up most pronouncedly.

Here's a sure one. Dependable, predictable, rock solid: Daughters. When I visit daughters. The season is of no importance. The days are colorfilled, radiant, full of smiles. The most abundant flower-scapes. It’s always like that. And it’s as if the other one is there as well (and often time she is, on cellphone) and we’re walking together through some place so gorgeous…

I know, corny. But so true.

Of course, one cannot help but note that this time there really are flowers. Everywhere. I’m toward the end of the cherry blossom time and stepping out of the airport, after a stormy morning and a very stormy flight, I was assailed with this:





Good-bye morning snowshowers. Hello fuzzy clouds and sunshine. And a temp close to 80. And blossoms. You’re going to get the blossoms. Lots, here, on Ocean. Please, just go along with it – I am so deprived!



colors from another continent




peeking through





the sweep of flowering trees





pinky





playful love





playful love, reversed





beauty