LILIES BETWEEN THE RAINS

I'm thinking it may rain forever. At least it seems that way sometimes. Our recent spring was one of the rainiest ever. Summer has so far been unseasonably rainy. It rained yesterday, is supposed to rain today—in fact, the sky is dark and I hear the not very distant rumbles of thunder—and local weather oracles predict rain every day but one through next week. 

I probably should have planted water lilies instead of gladiolus.

Ah, well, the truth is most of the flowers which have managed to not drown are doing rather nicely, what with the cool temps and ample moisture—though they've certainly had to make efficient use of whatever irregular flashes of sunlight came their way.

Naturally, any brief intermission from our extended monsoon season has invariably occurred on days when I had to spend most hours sitting at my desk, pecking away at the keyboard, in an attempt to remain gainfully employed. 

Still, from time to time the pull of that rare sunlit world beyond the windowpane proves irresistible. So I leap from my chair, grab a camera from a nearby counter, and bolt through the door to scurry about the yard for the next twenty minutes, snapping images like a madman. Therapy to calm my soul. 

The three shots of various summer lilies were made day-before-yesterday during one such fleeting, sanity-keeping breakout.       

HERON IN THE RAIN

It's raining here today—heavily at times. Tuesday's jade-green river is now brown and already a foot higher than it was yesterday. It will doubtless continue to rise throughout the day and night. 

According to the weatherman, the rest of the week and the weekend will see more of the same. I've decided this calls for a big pot of chicken and vegetable soup, and plan to settle in and relax for the duration. With the cooler temps, I'm thinking Myladylove and I can have a hearthfire this evening.

Frankly, I'm good with the above scenario…or at least until the grub runs low, my supply of mysteries from the library need exchanging, and the lack of outdoor time starts threatening to give me a case of the heebie-jeebies. But the great blue heron who usually hangs around the Cottage Pool is bummed. When I looked out the window a few minutes ago, the big bird had sought a perch on the stump-end of a bankside log, back in the edge of the island's woods and some distance from the water. In the dim light he looked waterlogged and out-of-sorts, like any sustenance angler, underwhelmed by the prospects of having to fish the higher, muddy water for his supper.

I suppose I could offer to share my soup…

———————

RAIN, TULIPS, AND VANDALIZING SQUIRRELS

It is cool. damp, overcast, and raining lightly, with more and heavier rain predicted for this afternoon, as well as tonight, through the weekend, and at least the first couple of days next week. Some of it, they warn, will be quite heavy. Not the news a riverbank dweller likes to hear—especially since it rained earlier in the week and the river's level has already risen to within a couple of feet of the top of the bank. 

However, for whatever reason I'm not much worried. The predicted scenario doesn't seem quite right to indicate real trouble ahead—not like it did back in March. Call it faith. But the truth is, I simply don't feel the bad vibes; I trust this old river.

I did duck outside long enough to make a quick shot of these droplet-covered tulips. There must be half-a-hundred or more tulips now in bloom, in magentas, pinks, and yellows. Every fall we put out a few bulbs, but we need to mix in more colors—reds from crimson to burgundy, and those that are all but purple, various whites, and oranges the rich color of a robin's breast. A whole artist's palette of tulips to fortify the fading daffodils. 

Over the last two days, the nefarious squirrels have gnawed through the ropes suspending  one of the big seed feeders, and the wire suet block holder—thereby sending both crashing to the ground. I've temporarily sat the fallen seed feeder atop a stump, where it has been generally commandeered by the bushy-tailed perpetrators, to the consternation of the titmice and chickadees. But the suet feeder is empty, which has the various woodpeckers in a tizzy. My guilt at this neglect—not to mention the nasty looks I imagine I'm being given by the downies and nuthatches—has about reached the stage where I'm going to have to figure our how to reaffix it somewhere else for the time being. 

This is the third time in less than a month the same seed-feeder's rope has been cut. Vandals exhibiting a pattern of criminal behavior. I'm getting tired of restringing. So I expect one of the chores I'm going to have to accomplish between rains is to replace every feeder rope with chain, which means a trip to the hardware store—and I might as well add ones for the hummingbird feeders which I'll put out in the next week or so. This also means dragging out my ladder, though I don't think it's long enough to reach one of the limbs I want to use. 

Or…I could simply cook up a big pot of burgoo—squirrel being the stew's chief ingredient. Then I could just redo the feeders using more rope. 

Hummmmm?

———————

RISING WATER AND COMING SPRING

Showers this morning, following a day of light rain yesterday. According to the long-range weather forecast, we'll have rain throughout the rest of the week and weekend. Not too much, I hope, since the river has already risen perhaps five feet from what it was last weekend, and is still coming up. This rise came as the fast-melting snow found it way into the upstream network of ditches and rivulets, brooks and small creeks, and eventually into the river which flows past my cottage—a stream which will carry and dump it into an even larger river, and thence into a third, and finally a fourth—the mighty Mississippi—which will take it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

I don't know why, but whenever I consider this network of streams which runs from the rich black farmland of northwestern Ohio to Louisiana's salty deltas, I'm always amazed to have such a front-row seat. Watersheds were our first highways—the arterial blood of a burgeoning nation; from canoe to flatboat to stern-wheeler, streams carried explorers, traders, families, goods. Most of our first towns were located adjacent to a river. Thinking about "my" river, I see not only the geographic connections, but also the historical.

One bit of good news is that our temperature today is supposed to hit a high of 64˚F…incredible considering not many mornings ago the thermometer read a numbing 16˚F when I went out to replenish the bird feeders at dawn. Moreover, the week's highs are suppose to remain at least in the 50s, which I suppose makes the rain more tolerable, though it doesn't do much for photography and taking walks.

Ahhh-h-h, but isn't spring's coming always about weather? Why should this year be any different?

———————

A PURELY PERFECT RAIN!

Today the glowering skies finally kept their promise and delivered rain. Not a lot, it’s true; but what the storm lacked in duration it made up for in exuberance. No more than a minute after I’d dumped and raked the final wheelbarrow of soil in the large flower bed I’ve been plugging away at since before my Florida junket, the first drops began pattering through the leaves. I took refuge on the side deck. Thirty seconds later the dark clouds opened and the rain poured down—a deluge you could hear coming like an onrushing wind. In seconds the deck was drenched. I bolted for the door. Looking back, it was barely possible to see across the river to the island. No way to tell whether or not my turkey vulture neighbors made it to the shelter of the tall sycamores. The downpour roared. Rain fell in torrents—hard, fast, bouncing off the deck’s planking, flattening the ox-eye daisies beside the stone steps which lead down to the water. The pool in front of the cottage bubbled as if on hard boil. In the midst of the cloudburst a kayaker came paddling through the riffle, over the lip of the drop-off, and into the Cottage Pool—drenched to the core; as wet sitting upright as he would have been turned upside down. The poor guy looked miserable…but I remember plenty of similar soakings I’ve taken running rivers in canoes, and the truth is, if the weather was warm I sort of enjoyed the experience. I hoped this fellow had a similar attitude. Fifteen minutes after it began, the rain ended. One moment it was raining…the next, the sky-faucet had been twisted to off. A minute or two later the sun peeked through the clouds as the trees drip, drip, dripped in staccato rhythm. As best I can tell, my little acre of riverbank received perhaps a half-inch of rain. Enough to give things a good watering without raising the river’s level. Plus I got my work done in time for the show. A purely perfect rain!

RAIN DAY, REST DAY?

It’s raining today along the river. Not in downpours, just little spring showers which seem to lack enthusiasm. Good for the grass and plants, but not enough to get a fellow wet if, say, I decided to make a quick check of the mailbox up the hill. Not enough to discourage a robin from loudly singing his sweet swinging melody that’s so indicative of the season. Still, the day is dark and there’s a steady, slow drip along the eaves. And inconsequential as the rain is, there’s enough that Moon the dog, who detests getting wet, will—after ringing her chimes which signals a desire to go outside—pause under the sheltered portion of the deck and cast displeased looks back my way, because she believes that all dog-wetting rain is ultimately my fault. I’d hoped to work on my backdoor patio today—or at least on the planting bed which is the first element in the patio’s layout. Yesterday I drove a few miles north to a building supply store and picked up a couple of 4x6-inch pressure-treated timbers, each 16 feet in length. I’ll use these—along with shorter pieces of 4x6 which I had on hand already—to outline a 16x3-foot planting bed along one-half the rear wall of the cottage. I’ll then fill in the 8-inch deep box with a mix of flower seeds—and with luck, ought to have a nice bed of color by early summer. That had been the day’s plan—get the timbers down, leveled, filled with dirt and planted with seed. But unless the weather clears up and things dry out at least a bit, I’ll have to scrap the notion until tomorrow, when partially-sunny skies are predicted. Yesterday, when I was doing the bed’s preliminary digging, I realized how weak and soft I’d become over the winter. Muscles which hadn’t seen serious physical labor since late last fall are today stiff and sore. Plus my storehouse of stamina is noticeably depleted. Age plays a part, of course; each passing year puts a bit more wear and tear on our bodies, demands we draw deeper from our energy reserves. In youth and early middle-age, I spent this energy without giving it a second thought, as if it were boundless—which, in a way, it was. An overnight’s rest or even a meal would replenish any loss. Nowadays, there isn’t as much in the tank to start with and refills take longer and longer. Still, I believe the old saw that “people don’t wear out…they rust out,” to be the greater truth of the matter. I’ve seen too many 70- and 80-year olds bouncing around like the Energizer Bunny to fool myself otherwise. Nope, it’s too easy to spend the winter in semi-hibernation, like a bear in the den. The fire is warm, the house cozy, there are books and music and cable TV and the internet to keep us busy. Observation can take the place of participation when it comes to outdoor activities. Shopping at the mall, regular trips to the grocery store, and running errands may keep us occupied—but it doesn’t keep us limber and strong, energetic and healthy. Our job, unless it involves physical labor, doesn’t help much, either…and in my case, not at all. There’s no workout in poking at a keyboard for a few hours. It’s also why, after buying the timbers, loading them in the pickup, and hauling them home—I called it quits for the day, even though there was an hour or so of daylight remaining. Until my decrepit body gets back up to snuff (more or less…I’m not expecting miracles) I expect most of these initial workdays will be necessarily foreshortened. Quitting early has its rewards, however—at least it did yesterday. The day’s ending was warm and the rocking chair on the side deck offered comfortable embrace—a pleasant appeasement where I could sip a drink and watch the sun sink ever lower in the west. A woodpecker hammered on a rotting box elder limb. Finches chattered from the feeders. A pair of mallards came hustling up the river, flying low and fast, only a yard or so above the surface but making no attempt to land; the drake’s green head and neck shimmered like an emerald in the last of the waning light. There was a bit of a chill in the air, toward the end, and I slipped on a fleece pullover. Such a simple act, so everyday…and yet it always feels good, a small, sensual gratification. So many of life’s rewards are found in the basics. A drink when you’re thirsty. Food when you’re hungry. The view of a glowing sunset. Birdsong. A comfortable rocker. Spring’s sweet breath. A warm sweater. That was yesterday; today there’s rain. But even now, the sky appears to be growing incrementally lighter. And the eaves are no longer dripping. Is the rain over? Will I be able to get my flower bed prepared? Maybe…maybe not. Nevertheless, I intend to take a walk, even if I have to do so in the rain. Moon will come along, excited with all the new sights and smells. In her book, going for a walk in a light rain trumps remaining behind and staying dry—it doesn't mitigate my guilt in the matter. Some things never change.

A WET-BUZZARD DAY

It’s a “wet buzzard” day here along the river. One of those drippy, drizzly, dark, damp, dreary days that I find delightful, though the aforementioned turkey vultures who roost on the island across from the cottage don’t look nearly so pleased. Rainy days aren't good for soaring, so a hungry buzzard looking for a tasty bite of breakfast roadkill sometimes has to sit idle and soaked, hoping for drier times. While the majority of their dark-robed clan have taken refuge by huddling on limbs of various large sycamores, close to the trunks, a handful of birds have found perches in the tops of a tree or two. Since these trees afford a good view to the west, maybe the birds are supposed to be acting as lookouts, scanning for a glimpse of clearing weather. However, they’ve all turned their backs toward the prevailing winds, which is also the direction of any possible storm relief. Rather than attentive, they simply look miserable. The rain began yesterday evening around 8:00 p.m. with a lot of lightning and thunder histrionics, which continued throughout the night. But the drama was more flash and sound than actual substance. A dawn inspection of the river revealed no more than a 2-3 inch rise in water level, though I expect that to increase some as the day progresses and the rain that fell north of here gets fed into the mainstream by the tributaries. When you live on a river, you have to remember it doesn’t matter how much rain falls on you and your portion of the drainage area—it’s the upstream rainfall that counts. Sometimes the water rises several feet here, although we’d never received the first drop of rain. Frankly, I’m glad to have this rain. The moisture will help bring out the wildflowers—of which, there’s been a dearth so far—and might, with luck, induce the delectable morel mushrooms to begin popping up in the greening woods. Most of us hard-core outdoor foragers rank these “sponge” ‘rooms near the top of our list for toothsome wild treats. The rain’s one downside is that I’ll probably have to buy that new lawnmower soon. My pair of Canada geese are doing their part, and they’ve even sublet a couple of corners of the yard to some noisy mallards…but the grass appears to be winning. I had high hopes [here] but the female Canada is now nesting over on the island, so her contributions to keeping my grass in check have been greatly reduced. Still, a bit of spring rain is a good thing…unless you’re a buzzard.

RAIN AND A CIRCULAR JOURNEY

I went out just after daylight this morning to replenish the feeders and scatter a cup or two of cracked corn on the rocks and stump below. I was surprised at how warm it felt. Not unseasonably warm for early-December, I suppose, but certainly much warmer than it has been for several days. The window thermometer said 50 degrees. 

When I pulled up the National Weather Service’s site, the prediction was rain beginning at noon. A sprawling front from the Gulf of Mexico was arcing up across the western plains, through the central Midwest, into the lower Great Lakes, and thence eastward. 

The prediction was off by several hours. It began raining before we finished breakfast. Serious, steady showers…and indeed they continued at much the same pace the entire day. 

Whether or not it will be enough to get the river up remains to be seen; if the rain doesn’t arrive in an absolute downpour, it usually takes several hours for the river’s water levels to begin their climb. Feeder creeks have to start draining their watersheds—tiny brooks and rills, roadside ditches, little washes that remain dry 90 percent of the year. These dump into the creeks which dump into our river—which, in time, empties into a larger river, then into the Ohio River, and finally the mighty Mississippi which will eventually empty into the sea. In the case of today’s rains—moisture from the warm Gulf of Mexico, carried north and east on a massive front—it's a journey homeward, a delivery back to its birth source. 

An amazing, circular journey for a water droplet.