Past Blogs

I heard a lovely radio essay on rain last week. The woman storyteller related how her mother always would encourage her to go out and play in the rain. She and her brother would splash, dance, jump in puddles, run around and get thoroughly drenched and dripping. As an adult, the narrator said she has to resist the happy impulse to run outside whenever it starts to rain….and sometimes, she still does.

Her story got me conjuring up my own reflections on rain. Coming from a northern climate, I know that rain has multiple personalities. Nothing is gloomier than weeks of gray skies, temperatures hovering in the mid 30’s, wind and rain. Getting caught in these rains is truly a bone chilling experience.

On the other hand, warm, gentle summer rains are most welcome. The corn seems to grow taller before your eyes, and everything gets two shades greener. Rainbows are a distinct possibility so it’s best to put your back to the returning sun and scan the skies.

Summer thunderstorms are high drama. Often occurring at the end of heat waves, big thunderheads build up until the rain pours down in sheets causing roads to steam and pop-up lakes to appear in fields.

But my favorite rain does not happen at home. I have spent many hours of my life in the deserts of the Southwest and I love desert rain.

New Mexico might have the best rainstorms in the whole world. The sun shines almost every day and the sky is huge. When the summer monsoons arrive, it is possible to stand in full sunshine while watching a dramatic thunderstorm off in the distance. A desert downpour is usually quickly over. Then the arroyos gush with orange water from the desert soil, the sun returns and everything glistens. Since deserts are the great evaporators, the water will soon journey back to the sky.

But the most magnificent part of a desert rain is the smell. The rain releases the smell of juniper, piñon and myriad other desert plants. It is olfactory heaven and better than the finest perfume ever invented.

With a bit of reflection, I am certain that most people have rain stories to tell…..what would yours be?

I try not to be a Luddite. That would be too easy. I must be somewhat in the present moment, or you would not be reading this blog.

Despite the fact that I do email, Facebook, Messenger and, when forced, cell phones, I continue to be an ardent fan of snail mail. I find no good reason to abandon sending greetings that arrive in a mailbox only because newer methods of communication are speedier. The tangible, archival qualities of paper letters and cards can deliver joy, and joy is in short supply in the modern world.

Since I indulge in snail mail, I’m a supporter of my local post office, buying stamps almost every week. The best stamps are miniature pieces of art and a delight in their own right. When buying stamps, I always peruse all the offerings.

I recently read about some ingenious new stamps in an email design magazine called Dezeen Daily. The British Royal Mail had the brilliant idea to commission a set of six animal-shaped stamps to appeal to children. Osborne Ross was the graphic artist selected. Each of the six animals he created appear to cling to or hang from the side of the envelope.

The designer said,”We tried variants using people but animals gave more scope in terms of hanging and clinging onto things; they were also inherently cuter.”

I agree and only wish I could be sending off letters with these whimsical creatures. And think of how much easier it would be for children to write that thank you letter to grandma if they could use an Animail stamp.

The steadfast copper lady will celebrate her 130^th birthday this year. She is French but lives just off America’s eastern shore. In her left arm she cradles a tablet which reads July 4, 1776. At this moment, she is not a happy woman.

In 1886 when The Statue of Liberty arrived, America was welcoming immigrants. Since Ms. Liberty can’t speak, words were cast on her base.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the tempest tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

A large part of the American population has turned their backs on the lady, hating everything she represents. They believe in walls and slammed doors, not golden doors. They also conveniently have forgotten that with the exception of 1.7% of our population that is Native Americans, we are all from immigrant families.

Another part of our population is heartbroken that so many of their fellow citizens lack compassion, decency and understanding of the plight of millions of people caught up in the global refuge crisis that is gripping the world.

Perhaps the lady representing Liberty should be sent back home to France for rest and recovery. A new plaque could be put in her vacated spot while she is on sabbatical:

Hate never works.
Greed  destroys everything.

We are having a glorious purple moment. It’s happening in our front yard and was totally unplanned as our gardening skills are elemental. But, sometimes, even those of us who do not possess green thumbs just get lucky.

For the past twenty years we have been working to turn a portion of our one and a third acres into a little bluestem prairie interspersed with native and butterfly friendly plants. Many mistakes, failures and laughable moments have occurred along the way.

Friends who are master gardeners keep our spirits up. One advised, “If the plant dies, plant another in a different part of the yard. If that one dies, too, plant something else.” This brilliant suggestion has propelled us forward, albeit slowly.

Not trying to be purists has helped as well. We moved a few plants such as iris from our home of thirty years in Milwaukee figuring that old friends shouldn’t be abandoned.

At this moment, purple flowers are reigning over our tiny prairie. We are guessing that purple is Lady Luck’s favorite color. Or, perhaps, it is Mother Nature that has a penchant for purple. Whoever is responsible, we will simply enjoy the fleeting beauty.

It takes a lot to induce us to get up at dawn on a Saturday morning. Weekends aren’t meant for rushing around and keeping schedules. But last Saturday we got up early and hit the road in record time. The goat parade was starting at 10:30, was happening 100 miles north and we weren’t going to miss it.

From June to late fall, some extremely happy and pampered goats graze on the grass roof of Al Johnson’s Swedish restaurant in Sister Bay, Door County, Wisconsin. The tradition began many decades ago when a friend of Al Johnson gave him a gag birthday gift. With the help of a ladder, the friend put a goat on the restaurant roof.

Townspeople and restaurant patrons alike loved the goats whose numbers have expanded over the years. Now, every morning in season, the goats come to town in a pick up truck from their comfy barn a few miles away. The barn is also the site of their winter vacation.

The annual “Roofing of the Goats” parade marking the return of the goats after winter is a big deal in Sister Bay. Crowds turn out for it and all goats in the community are invited. The actual parade is one block long, has one float, no bands and lasts 10 minutes. It is charming….the perfect antidote to everything in our culture that is super sized and commercialized.

Traffic on the main highway through town is stopped so goats of all sizes on leashes can parade down the road to the restaurant. They are then led to the back of the building where stairs and ramps go up to the grassy roof.

“Rookie goats”, tiny kids having their first roof experience, are especially loved. One was guided up the ramps by its owner and gently set in the lush grass. The kid promptly let out a loud BAAAAAAA, hopefully of delight.

After the goats are settled and grazing, many of the spectators pile into the restaurant for a breakfast of Swedish pancakes and lingonberries. As with most celebrations, everybody ends up eating.