Greetings, dear readers.

Here is today’s ‘roadside report’ from my small world.

After some rainy weeks, we’ve had some days of warm sun and the daisies on the meadowy slope behind my house have burst into full bloom, popping up in big white bunches all across the hillside.

I took advantage of the sunny day and walked a little earlier, and finally solved a mystery.

I have seen these plants often on my walks over the years and have photographed their handsome leaves. I had no idea what they were; some type of ivy I assumed. Not quite.

Some determined googling this evening (it amuses me that that is now a verb) finally scored with Dioscorea oppositifolia L. – aka, cinnamon vine, or air potato. It is a vine in the sweet potato family. Like many of the roadside plants I see, it is not native and can be a pest.

It’s a pest that hangs its heart on its sleeve, and who can resist a rapscallion bearing valentines?

---

Readers, I hope there are some unexpected valentines in your world. Be well and safe. Your comments are always welcome and I am grateful you stopped by here today.

So – A man died.

Well – A man died a week ago.

Really – A man died a week ago in Minneapolis.

Actually, that’s not the whole truth.

A man died a week ago in Minneapolis at the hands of other men. They kneeled upon his helpless body until he called out in pain and terror. They kneeled upon his helpless body until he no longer had breath to plead. They kneeled upon his helpless body until he no longer breathed. In front of witnesses. And without compunction.

A man died in Minneapolis a week ago at the hands of other men and his name was George. George had a family and a community and a life. George was a man, one, irreplaceable, beautiful, flawed, imperfect, wholly holy human being. The breath was squeezed out of him because other men who carried guns and badges suspected he might – might – have used a $20 bill that was counterfeit to buy a sandwich.

The real counterfeit is that excuse.

Without trying I can recall the names of ten people of color who did not survive encounters with police that are supposed to be routine and nonviolent, including a twelve year old boy playing with a toy. And that’s just the surface of my far-too-faulty memory. The list is heart-breakingly, horrifyingly long. I hear those names and I hear the empty echo of lives cut short and I see the faces of my students, my colleagues, my friends. 

We have to do better than this.

The truth is that some of us do. I am grateful for that. There are many police officers who hold the words ‘protect and serve’ in their hearts and they show up for it and show it everyday. However small the number of those who do not, and who use a badge and a gun as an excuse to meet difference with violence, their number is far too many because it tears families, and communities, and countries apart. Time and time again.

Thinking about what was done to George Floyd tears me in half. I don’t know how we move forward from something like this, though I’m pretty sure the real solution doesn’t  involve flaming dumpsters and tear gas. The closest thing to a solution I’ve seen was a Genessee county sheriff* who took off his tactical gear and faced a line of peaceful protesters as a man and asked, “What do you want us to do?” And someone said “Walk with us.” And so he did. They all did. 

My friends, let us walk. 

---

Readers, this evening people in cities all over the world are bearing witness to the horrific toll of systemic racism in positions of power. Most are peaceful, even if angry and hurt and fearful. Let’s pass on the message, not the madness. Be well and safe.  

*This is one news story: https://www.freep.com/story/news/local/michigan/2020/05/31/genesee-county-sheriff-christopher-swanson-george-floyd-protesters/5299589002/

Greetings, dear readers.

Today was one of those breather days – work ran easy, a few household tasks, a few steps forward, happy pets, an afternoon walk. Prosaic.

If you look up “prosaic” in a dictionary (yes, I did), it gives you definitions like “dull, unimaginative, everyday, ordinary”.

Well. Sorry, dear Webster, I don’t think so.

The everyday may be simple and unadorned, it may not have flash, and maybe it is not extraordinary – but that does not mean it is dull and without imagination. A sparrow’s back doesn’t show the colors of a peacock, and it has a quiet beauty of its own, nonetheless.

And if, at the end of the day, you share your lap with a cat and your couch with a dog asleep with her favorite moose – well, the everyday looks pretty sweet to me.

 

 

 

---

Readers, I hope your week has moments of simple sweetness and ease. Be safe and well; I am grateful you are here.

Greetings, dear readers.

Here in the US we are in the middle of Memorial Day weekend, traditionally a day to honor those who died in service; also traditionally, the first weekend of summer relaxation.

How different each of those feels right now. We are in a time when a summer vacation can feel like an uncomfortably risky proposition. And the greatest service and sacrifice is asked, not of our military, but of medical professionals, delivery drivers, grocery clerks, and nursing home staff. And, as if working at risk in a pandemic isn’t enough, some have been threatened with violence for doing the jobs that keep all of us safe, comfortable, and fed. That is a disgrace.

They don’t do it for the glory. They do it to serve, they do it to make a better world, they do it to provide care for those who are forgotten, they do it so that all may have access to healthy food and needed products. For the life we live. For the families we love. Sometimes at risk to their own. They just do it.

We need to do right by them.

For them, let’s at least do the small things asked of us to keep each other safe – because, while it is the individual that gets sick, the dynamics of an epidemic are those of populations. What each of us does affects our friends, families, neighbors, and every person we are near.

So here’s my PSA: keep your distance, wash your hands, don’t touch your face, and put on a mask in public. A mask isn’t an instrument of politics. It’s a recognition of the responsiblity that comes with citizenry. Our national motto is NOT “every man for himself”. It is “E pluribus unum” – Out of many, one. We are ONE nation. That means it is entirely, proudly, American to act as if the wellbeing of those around us is worth caring for. 

---

Readers, like many of you, I live in a region beginning to re-open as stay at home orders are lifted. I wish you good health and safety as we slowly return to workplaces and marketplaces and all the many places we have been away from these months. I am grateful you are here.

Special thoughts here to readers who have family members who served and are now gone. I do, too.

Greetings, dear readers!

I am sorry to be a mite tardy here – I have been on a culinary journey! Without even leaving home. And it was lovely.

Here’s what I’ve been up to: I have a long-time fascination with Italian – I’ve been doing daily language lessons for about a year and have started to feel that first sense of fluency, which is really fun. I also love to cook and last fall I stumbled across the most amazing documentary (“Funke”) about American chef Evan Funke, who became a true sfoglino (master pasta maker). What made me love the movie even more, was that I understood some of the Italian spoken by Chef Funke and his teachers. It made me feel connected to the craft, although I’ve only made pasta once before. I started plotting.

And then I came across the link – I don’t even remember where I found it, but it was instantly appealing  and irresistible – live video cooking lessons from an Italian nonna (grandma). Oh yeah. Sign. Me. Up.

This was a gift to myself for having completed all those daily Italian lessons. A prelude, I hope, to one day being able to travel to Italy, when time and circumstance allow.

I was in the class with about 15 other people and everyone was having such a good time. There was even one family having a contest. I made potato gnocchi for the very first time, with a fresh basil pesto. It’s made by hand with attention and simple ingredients (how much simpler can you get than a boiled potato?). I have no idea if my gnocchi would actually pass muster with Nonna Nerina, but I was astonished at the taste and texture of what came out of my kitchen. It was seriously delicious.

As someone who grew up with family dinner every night, it was really special to cook and eat with other people for the first time in two months. And I didn’t even fully realize how much that would mean to me until afterwards. Grazie, Nonna Nerina. Molto grazie.

It came home to me again that fresh food, made and shared with joy, feeds you more. What a blessing.

---

Readers, I wish you many sweet, safely shared blessings. I hope you are keeping safe and well as the world begins to slowly open the doors again. Your comments are always welcome and I am glad you are here.

PS. Kitchen tip I can’t believe I didn’t know – you do not need to peel potatoes before boiling them. Once they are cooked, the jackets slip right off. Nonnas know.

 

 

Greetings, dear readers.

I stepped out of the house yesterday, intending to go for a late afternoon walk, my usual time. Looking up into the cherry tree I stopped to try for a photo that might capture the scale of it – the hundreds of flower spikes along every branch and twig. The overcast sky meant I couldn’t shoot upwards without catching too much white.

This is what the end of one branch looked like:

Imagine that multiplied, thousands on one tree. It’s breathtaking.

While I was standing under the cherry tree the thunder started. By the time I had grabbed the mail and was back in the house, it was raining. Then it poured. It rained hard enough to make a fountain of my gutters.

I knew that when I looked out in the morning, it would look like it snowed. The tiny cherry blossoms are delicate and shed petals easily. Many of them won’t last through that kind of downpour. After a hard rain there will be tiny white petals everywhere. Another wonderment.

Spring is beautiful in part because it is ephemeral. Still, every flower holds the promise of a seed. And every seed is a promise for the future. No one season lasts, and every season comes again.

---

Readers, I hope the spring rains are restorative where you are. I wish you safe and well and I am grateful you were here.

Greetings, dear readers.

To get a little exercise once the workday is done I walk the same route nearly every day and I have become familiar with what grows where, visiting them to see their progress through the growing season. I realized that this means my walks have now become the Tour de Plants. 

Here’s what’s happening this week: The wild rasperry is blooming, a regular stand of pink wild roses isn’t far behind; the black locust tree bloom is starting to fade, and redbud has long gone by, the tiny pink blooms replaced with big heart-shaped leaves a surprising shade of bullfrog green. Ferns are becoming the come-hither maidens of the underbrush.

Several days ago I learned a new plant:

This is Carolina cranesbill (Geranium carolinianum), a true denizen of this area. This group of plants is tucked into a roadside, nearly hidden by a gigantic run of naturalized asiatic lillies. This clump is about the size of a laundry basket and the foliage is dense and intricate. The flowers are so tiny and delicate I almost missed them entirely.

 

 

These two are so tiny they could rumba on my thumbnail and have room to spare. The plant world is full of wonders I am glad to have stopped to see.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

Here’s wishing you wonders in your days, readers. Be safe and well. I welcome your comments and I am grateful you’re here.

Spring showed up in avian form the other day. I was rinsing my coffee cup at the sink in the afternoon when something large and dark brown on the hill outside caught my attention. I stared for a few seconds before fully realizing I was looking at a wild turkey hen. I bolted for my binoculars.

If you’ve never seen a wild turkey in fresh plumage, they are gawky (they are poultry, after all) and gorgeous. The tiny bald head and skinny bare neck give way to a luxuriantly feathered body, clad in bronze and brown like a dowager queen. The subtle barring and fawn-tipped tail feathers are magnificent. I gathered every detail I could see and watched her graze her way unhurriedly across the wooded edge.

Because I’d watched her so closely, when I saw another turkey hen wandering through with the deer herd fifteen minutes later, I knew that was a different bird. Her wing feathers were shaded differently. Two! What a wonderful surprise! They do live here, but they are wary and I only see them every few years. To see two in an afternoon was a special treat.

If I am lucky, these queens will bring their poults to graze when they have their families. They have done so before – stalking through the cover on the slope, clucking constantly to their brood. Once I found a beautiful bronzed feather, a calling card. “Royalty was here. Your dogs are noisy. And it wouldn’t hurt to toss some of that birdseed back here – we will not deign to dine on the porch with those scurrilous blue jays.”

A few minutes to admire them every once in a while is enough for me to be grateful for.

The turkeys were too far away to photograph, so instead I’ll show off the promised progress of my cherry tree. She’s about halfway to full bloom and already waving these lovely fingers at every puff of wind.

---

Readers, I wish you well and safe on this spring day. Special good wishes to all the nuturing souls out there on Mother’s Day – there is someone grateful for the care you give. I am grateful you are here.

Greetings, dear readers.

I found treasure today. Well – something I treasure. I saw them first a couple days ago and wanted to be sure before I let myself celebrate.

This is what I found:

This is Common Milkweed, Asclepias syriaca, the familiar food plant of Monarchs and other butterflies. It will be weeks before their beautiful heads of pink flowers appear and bloom, but I love their soft textured leaves and the promise they hold. I was thrilled to find dozens of them dotting a roadside where I’ve never seen so many before.

I don’t know why so many of these wonderful plants have appeared here, along a roadside I walk almost every day. I know that the butterflies will follow and if I am watchful, I will be able to see the lovely black, yellow, and white banded caterpillars feed and grow.

The caterpillars don’t pupate on their food plants, so I would have to be very lucky to find a spectacular green and gold chrysalis nearby. If I see fresh Monarchs in mid-summer, I will know they grew up here.

It is a lovely thought.

 

 

---

Readers, I hope you are keeping safe and well and I hope there are sweet spring surprises for you too. I welcome all your comments and I am grateful you are here!

 

 

Greetings, dear readers.

One of the things I love most in spring is that sense of being on the brink – on the brink of new life and of easier weather, of the return of nesting birds and blooming wildflowers, on the brink of butterfly season and asparagus season and being out in air that feels washed clean after a rainstorm.

I love the sense of anticipation in seeing flowers about to burst. These are the racemes of wild cherry blossoms on the tree in my front yard. They don’t look like much yet, but the tree is prolific and there are hundreds of these still-green fingers waving in every breeze. Each tiny flower is a little floral fist, holding tight until the flower bursts forth.

It’s enchanting, that moment before – the breath before the song.

In less than a week, the cherry tree will be in full bloom, covered in lacy white spikes. Every year I get to marvel at the show – the green, the white, the dance with the breeze, and then the tiny fruit, fit only for the blue jays who squabble over them. And the circle runs again.

---