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The full moon played coy last night. What a tease! Now you see her, now you don’t. It’s a heart-breaking story with a good ending. Here’s what happened.
As you regular readers know, I readied to sit outside with the Broken Snowshoe Moon last night. (That’s the Annishnabe name for the April moon.) The moon and I had some business to discuss. You know she’s magic. I know she’s magic. There’s certain areas in my life (and the life of the planet) that need some magic. You should discuss this with the full moon and see if she might lend a helping hand.
At 9 p.m. sharp I’m staring out the bathroom window where the night before Madam Moon shined her almost-full face down from the heavens. OK, Madam Moon, where are you? No sighting. The dusk deepened all around, but our Lady refused to show her full white face.
What to do? I trudged outside and quizzically surveyed the sky. Yep, there’s some random twinkling stars. Yep, darkness descends. Yep, those night birds chirp their goodnight songs. Where oh where are you, O Moon?
Suddenly, through the trees. What is that? A great orange globe seems to penetrate through the woods. YES! I leaped inside, donned Grandma’s old snowmobile suit from the early 1970′s, and sprinted outside toward the car. Shouted to my husband in the garage something probably inaudible like “The moon! The moon! I’m going to chase the moon!” and sped down the road through the mud and darkness, headed for the bay.
The 90 year old neighbor down the road insisted several months ago, “You must take a picture of the full moon over the bay.” So here I am, trying to figure out where to park, trying to determine where to access the bay without trespassing wantonly on private properly, trying to chase down that Mother Moon rising full and orange and huge over the calm waters.
I finally found an access, not telling you where, running helter-skelter in the dark, trying not to fall with camera in hand. The moon lit the surroundings enough to provide comfort while jogging in the blackness. Arrived at the bay, breathless, prepared to greet the Moon and…and…I am not kidding…there is NO moon.
WHAT? How could this be? How could the moon shine so bright and orange and beautiful one minute, and the next minute be hijacked? Who stole the moon? I covered twenty possible scenarios in my mind in the next five minutes, standing dumb-founded. (Well, it was probably one minute, before I began running wildly back up to the road and searching for another access.)
I had joined a group on another site, gaia.com, yesterday called “Now I can See the Moon”. All I could think was…Now I can’t see the moon! What an odd thing. You join a group in the morning which advocates seeing the moon, and now the darn thing has packed up and left the country. Without a cloud in the sky. How could this happen?
At the second access, I stopped still in my panting tracks and beheld…the most beautiful sight in the universe. That fat orange magnificent pregnant jubilant moon crested oh so slowly above the horizon, lifting herself onto our visible skies like a lady giving birth to a light we’ve rarely seen on the planet.
(Later, Barry helped figure it out. We’re higher up on the road so the moon was visible rising here first. Down at the bay it took a tiny bit longer. Thank goodness that mystery was solved…)
I snapped photos of her magnificence but, alas, I don’t know how to slow the shutter speed and all those photographic adjustments to capture the way she appeared on the horizon with her shadow shimmering on the waters of the bay.
So this is the view the camera registered, with a flash illuminating the bush overlooking the lake. The second orange ball is the shadow of our moon on the lake.
The "Broken Snowshoe" April full moon
I’m heading back down there tonight to spend some more quality time with the moon. Hope you all enjoy your time with her this month!
Snowshoe, hopefully not broken
The Annishnabe (Ojibway) of this Lake Superior region call the April moon “Broken Snowshoe Moon”. I’m imagining this is because Winter is in fast retreat, or slow retreat, and the natives look at their worn snowshoes and think, “wow, these need to be fixed before next winter”.
I could be wrong, but it seems like a good time to look at our snowshoes and skis and determine what needs to be repaired before the next heavy snows settle upon the land.
The natives of North America called this moon of April by many names, depending on their locales. Here’s a handful: Sugar-Maker Moon, When They Set Indian Corn, Moon of the Big Leaves (obviously not around here), Ice Breaking in the River, Frog Moon, Flower Moon, Moon when the Geese Lay Eggs. You can study them for yourselves at http://www.americanindian.net/moons.html
If I named this month’s moon it might be: Mud Moon, Moon of Spring Dreams, Moon of Melting Lakes, Snow Melting Moon, Moon of Pussywillows, Moon of the First Green. Just think! All around the country and world, we’re sitting under the same full moon, but our conditions and weather patterns and details are all different.
Our April moon, isn't she beautiful?
I have no idea how to take a stunning photo of the moon. What you see is what you get. She’s overhead about 9 p.m. these days, a little to the south and east. Out the bathroom window. Here’s my plan tonight. I am going outside a little after dark (9- 9:30 p.m.) and confer with the moon. We’re going to have a little pow wow. Discuss things. Get serious. I suppose, get thankful about life.
So today’s outdoor adventure will be AFTER the publication of this blog. You guys must simply have faith that the outdoor commitment will happen. (It’s happened already, really, when Barry and I sipped drinks on the deck in the 40 degree weather this afternoon. I was wrapped in a blanket donned with hat and jacket on our lawn chair. One of enjoyed a hot bouillon cube and the other a glass of wine, but I’m not telling who enjoyed what. When the sun shone through the clouds, it felt actually pleasant.)
Because it’s impossible to photograph the full moon in its shining glory, the maple trees decided to offer an imitation of the April moon.
How did the moon get in that maple tree?
I’m happy to think we’re all sitting beneath the same moon. For all our differences, for all the ways we call things different names and tell different stories…we still sit under the same April moon. Maybe that knowing can bring us closer together as people. It’s all the same moon… (And maybe I’ll tell this same story, except for different names, every full moon for the rest of this year!)
Ice melting on Keweenaw Bay in L'Anse
You know the feeling when you’ve been peering too intently at details for awhile? Our eyes get bleary and we realize we’re focusing rather exclusively on the small picture, the minute aspects, the details. Suddenly we expand our vision and see the BIG PICTURE.
Ahhh, to relax and witness the larger landscape. They say the eagle soars high above us in the sky and witnesses the world entirely different than many of us humans. Its view rotates in an all-encompassing way. It perhaps sees the lake, the seagulls, the nest, the people, the trees, the hills, the boats and the fish as a connected whole rather than separated into minuscule parts. (Except maybe when it’s hungry, it only sees the fish…)
When we suddenly feel cramped or too focused from examining, say, the whorls on tree bark or tiny wintergreen berries or listening to our minds re-hash certain incidents for the fifty thousandth time…maybe it’s a moment to expand our view and see the wider picture. Pause and allow our minds to rest in the 360 degree view that always surrounds us.
The Eagle Pond (or "Timmy's Pond, depending on who you are)
Yesterday I walked down to the Eagle Pond, pausing to examine dozens of details. Snap the camera, snap, snap. Always going smaller, into the details, into the lines and colors and etchings. Today we’ll expand larger. Do you actually want to see the pond itself? Readers, meet the Eagle Pond. Eagle Pond, meet my friends and family and other lovers of the outdoors.
The eagles soar here every day
The first photo highlighted the Keweenaw Bay. This picture reveals our Huron Bay. There’s a jutting peninsula that settles out onto Lake Superior between the two bays. That’s where we live. Keweenaw Bay is like the big brother or big sister to the Huron Bay, which measures much smaller.
I loved the sky. It seemed milky yesterday. A bald eagle flew off toward the other side of the bay, probably disturbed because I settled myself under its tree perch. Such majestic flapping of wings, such a noble head and white tail feathers. The immature eagles take four to five years to reach full plumage with the white tail; as youngsters they’re mottled and spotty dark brown and white.
Cheri and Art Jones, our neighbors (and blog readers!)
OK, moving slightly away from soaring with the eagles and experiencing the wider view, and coming down to earth…I had a very exciting outdoor adventure today! I walked down the road to meet Cheri and AJ, who are regular readers of this blog, from Ohio. They have a garage where they’re camping on our road, and plan to retire here eventually.
Cheri and AJ were probably the only readers anxious to get me home from the Florida vacation so they could hear how spring was progressing in the Upper Peninsula. “Yes, yes, Florida’s OK and everything, BUT…”
I tried to lure them on a tramp through the woods to a gorgeous ravine, but they were heading back to Ohio today. Oh darn! Next time, we all agreed. They are the nicest couple and I feel really grateful that the space of this blog brought us together. Stay tuned, you guys, for LOTS more Upper Peninsula outdoors adventures in the next…how many days?…getting out the calculator…256 days!
Joe Bollech captures a photo of a tiny yellow crocus. How many of these are there in the U.P.?
This day contained miracles. I suppose every day comes filled to the brim with miracles, but today they announced themselves loudly. Everywhere I walked outside the Miracles announced themselves.
The first picture isn’t even mine. Chatting with my friend Sue earlier in the day, she admitted the spotting of daffodil near her house. Really? A daffodil?? I said the hunt was on for crocuses, as a certain friend (yes, Margo, it’s you) had suggested the crocuses should be blooming. I was beginning to think Margo might be dreaming, as she now lives down in Arizona. But, sure enough, Sue decided to go look on the hill behind her house.
You see the results! Her husband received the job of conducting the photo shoot and emailing Spring’s delightful crocus peeking up from the earth. He sent a white flower bulb, as well. Now isn’t that a miracle?
Sap popsicle
The second miracle occurred immediately after leaving the house. A sap icicle dripped from a tree branch, maybe six inches long. I tasted the sweet icicle (better than any popsicle let me tell you!) before it dropped to the ground. Believe me, I was on my hands and knees looking for it. Only a small piece the size of a nickel remained. Oh how sweet it was!
Doesn't that look like a bird, maybe an eagle, etched in stone?
Walking slowly down the road toward the Eagle Pond. The above rock suddenly announced its very own Miracle. Wow, who etched that bird on its face shining for us all to see? Probably a road grader or bulldozer, as it rested on the edge of the road. My heart smiled, wanting to show it to all of you.
The Eagle Pond is my name for a lovely little pond down at the end of the road. An elderly neighbor recently shared that she calls it Timmy’s pond because her grandson used to fish there when he was a kid. They would wonder “Where’s Timmy?” and it turned out he was always fishing at the pond. I’ve decided the eagle’s own rights to the pond’s name it, as they spend the most time there these days.
Eagle fluff just blowin' in the wind
You see from the photo above that the eagle left a bit of his (or her) fluff as a tiny Miracle. In later summer, they’ll drop long black feathers or majestic white tail feathers to the ground. Each one is a gift to the Universe. I like to sit next to the sacred feathers and express gratitude, or pray, or admire the quill and tiny network of feathers. What gorgeous clothes the eagles wear.
Ice-encased branches over rushing stream
Twenty steps away from the eagle fluff, heading toward the running stream, already plotting how to cross it without falling in, another gasp rose involuntarily. What beautiful ice formations! The photos refused to capture the shimmering icy look of it. I’ve rarely seen such thick branch-icicles.
How many more Miracles can fit in a single blog? How about two more?
Language of pine needles and bits of cone on snow
OK, maybe you won’t count this pine needle photo as a Miracle. But I do! It felt like calligraphy in some weird way. Of course, I was thinking about calligraphy all day since visiting Salah’s blog and seeing how she’d captured a calligraphy shot out of simple aluminum shards. Hers looks like real calligraphy, but this photo felt strangely like it was telling a story. And if you stared at all the needles and cones long enough, you’d know. (Look around Salah’s blog; she has lots of great nature shots! I’m sure she won’t mind if you linger.)
And finally, our Grand Finale! How about a leaf etched in mud? It’s almost like art. I love it, how ’bout you?
Leaf etched in mud. OK, is anyone else excited about this?
Underwater greenery in forest pond
Lately I sense the Earth is trying to teach me something that I’m not hearing. She’s trying to whisper in my ear but I’m too preoccupied with thoughts about “having an outdoor adventure” or pre-writing this blog or trying to capture just the “right” photo angle for the day. And I’m missing something important, something vital.
It’s so cold and windy. Barely 32 degrees. (Remember in mid-winter when 32 degrees felt like a heat wave?) Today I dressed in two pair of pants, heavy jackets, big boots, warm gloves and hat and began to wander rather unenthusiastically.
First, I passed our slate pile in the woods. Several miles away there’s an extinct Slate Quarry which operated from 1870-1892 as the Huron Bay Slate Company, and then again in the 1920′s under the direction of Henry Ford. Perhaps a hike up there in warmer weather might prove intriguing. All that remains are piles of waste slate and a water pit. Locals have foraged for pieces of slate for decades. We’ve utilized pieces in our entrance-way, and once used them as decorations against our house, until we planted a perennial garden a couple years ago.
Slate rocks tossed helter-skelter in pile in woods
Further along, a log presented itself for sitting. It’s always nice to find a good sitting-log. Fortunately, it rested in a ravine, out of the fiercely-blowing wind. Then the sun peeked through the clouds! What an immediate mood-lifter. I sat. And sat. And sat. And sat.
Oh it felt good to just sit. I feel like what the Earth is trying to say is this: Come outside for a longer time. Come outside all morning. Or all day. Just drop all of your concerns and thoughts and just follow your feet around in circles, or down by the bay, or across the woods. Come outside and just wander. Don’t set a time limit. Don’t rush back into to the computer. Just relax into the Silence of nature for a longer period of time.
I answered, “OK, yes, but can I wait until it gets a little tiny bit warmer?” The Earth didn’t answer, but I’m sure she must have said “yes, if you must”. (I’m sure that’s what she replied, aren’t you?)
Weird tree (or, rather, a bush) in the woods
Do you ever feel like that tree? Kind of like your trunk or branches are snaking around in circles or odd directions? I’ve been kind of feeling like that this past week or so. That’s why it might be a good idea to just take a break from the usual routine and dedicate some time to really sinking deeply into this outdoor experience. Not just for a half hour or hour. But for an extended stretch.
I did learn something new the other day. Something very obvious and basic. Probably everyone else in the Universe knows it already. How can you spend 51 years on this planet and miss some obvious and basic things? With some embarrassment, here goes.
I learned that ponds sometime reflect the color of the sky. That their usual water color (clear, brown, tan, blueish) can become fiercely vibrant blue when the sky above shines vibrant blue. It wasn’t until the camera captured this phenomenon that my heart momentarily stopped and my eyes looked, truly looked, at the bright blue pond in the middle of the woods.
Sky and pond are One
Amazing!
Looking up to a world of gray
You people who live in spring-country. You people who are enjoying 40 degree or 50 degree or 60 degree days. We’re all envious of you now. Because do you know what the weather was like today in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan?
The thermometer barely nudged 30 degrees. A cold biting wind nipped in from the northwest. And the skies stayed leaden gray all day. (Well, make me a liar. My husband said the temperature has inched up to 33 degrees as evening settles in…and the sun is poking through the clouds. Go figure. Just when you start stating facts, things change…)
Anyway, you get the drift about the weather most of the day. It was so gray it settled into everyone’s spirits. People here are ready for spring. They’re ready for sunshine. They’re ready for green. This is the season where we wait it out. We are prepared for spring, but we settle for this in-between season. Sometimes cheerfully. Sometimes with gritted teeth.
"The Scream" in white birch!
We traveled up to Houghton today to buy organic vegetables, grains, beans and other supplies at the co-op. We drive there once every week or two to get supplies that can’t be found in our small town. We planned to stroll leisurely around town, maybe along the canal, snapping photos and enjoying an outdoor experience in the “real” city.
But no. It was too cold. We weren’t dressed properly in heavy winter coats. The thermometer up there mocked “24 degrees”. The wind whipped around buildings. Snow covered the path by the icy canal and we wore shoes rather than boots.
Instead, I walked through the woods after returning home. You’re sheltered in between all those trees. It’s almost pleasant. You have your boots and warm winter coat and mittens. Besides the gray skies attempting to envelop everything, it’s almost pleasant.
Yesterday we experienced sun. So don’t think it’s always gray here. I sat in the woods on a log and watched shadows play. Look at the balsam shadows dancing on this fallen tree:
Forest shadow play
But back to our gray discussion. Maybe if we experience a good rain the dust and dirty snow might disappear. In the meantime, we wait. It’s only April. One year, who knows what year, the temperature reached 90 degrees in late April. No fooling. It happened. (My husband just said it was April, 1980, and my parents came to visit with cross-country skis atop their car.)
Anything is possible!
The stream behind our house is running merrily with melted snow-water down toward the bay. Doesn’t it look cheerful? I’m guessing we’ll be warm soon. If we get beyond tomorrow’s possible lake-effect snow forecast, that is…
Tiny waterfall in stream behind house
Spruce tree sap
Watch out you don’t get stuck in this blog. You know how sap can get kind of messy. Syrup-y. Sticky.
Mission today: look for sap. You know it’s running through the tree veins these days. Everywhere you look as you drive to town you see white buckets hanging from maple trees. Well, not everywhere. But in certain locales.
Somebody is tapping those maple trees for sap
I wandered around outside, trying to determine if you could tell by looking at trees that the sap was running fiercely inside. Mostly that answer seems to be No. I found some wet areas on branches or trunks, but most trees felt dry. Standing stock-still in the woods near one maple tree, I felt drips on my head. But was that sap? Or leftover condensation from morning? Or something else?
The spruce trees tell another story. Look at the sap running on those! Big goblets of sap pour out and solidify. And if it’s not solid, you don’t want to get it on your hands. Very hard to wash off with plain soap and water.
Remember the truck-load of trees in our driveway, awaiting being cut and split into firewood? They oozed sap from their pores today, dreaming of the days before they were chopped. I felt momentarily sad for their plight. But happy for our warmth next winter. The things one does to bask in heat…
Sappy end of log
I know there’s a scientific explanation about tree sap. You can adopt that view if you choose. I prefer to look at it like this: the trees are dreaming about their babies. Their babies, as we all know, are leaves and fruit and needles. Their yearning is translated into sappy energy that springs from the roots to the tree-fingers. The energy soars into creation. The sap-juices spur Life into Being. Yep, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Somebody, somewhere along the line, discovered you could tap some of the sap and boil it down to make syrup to put on pancakes. Maple syrup is oh so sweet and blissful. Especially “real” sap-filled maple syrup. Not that fake artificial grocery store look-alike filled with chemicals that parades as real tree juice. Stay away from that.
Instead, find yourself some real Michigan Maple Syrup. (I suppose it’s OK if it comes from other states or countries.) Make yourself or your family a big whopper of a pile of whole wheat pancakes. Pour on the syrup.
Taste that sweetness. Grin! And pass the syrup over here, please.
Pure Michigan Maple Syrup...yum
Beautiful pine cone
Feeling a little blue today. Until later in the afternoon the skies were heavy, gray. A cold northwest wind blew off the lake, attempting to blast us back to winter. I’m usually an optimistic happy person, but every once in a while sadness or restlessness or inertia strikes. And today was one of those days.
You know, of course, the best part of the day. The very best hour of this day was the hour I spent tramping around across the bay, on Indian Land behind the Pow Wow grounds. An access road leads to the beach, and behind the shore lie almost-hidden ponds. They possibly grow wild rice back there, although I’m not sure.
For an hour I wandered in the underbrush, forgetting myself, forgetting everything except nature’s miracles and gifts and, well, challenges. Every step offered a new and interesting view. However, the first thing I found was not so…happy. It was morbidly fascinating though. Once again, I would love to show the entire carcass, but this skull shot is going to be challenging enough for some of you. (If you’re squeamish, scroll down quickly and do not pause to examine the following photo. It’s probably the most graphic nature-shot in this blog so far. It’s the skull of a dead beaver, near the pond. And the skull hasn’t yet bleached to whitish purity. It’s still covered with…well, those of you who aren’t squeamish can look and the rest of you just look for the next paragraph.)
Beaver skull beside pond
Nature acts like Prozac sometimes, I swear. You can be depressed or blue or just not cheerful, and it acts as an elixir. You’re suddenly out of your self, and your blues trail on behind you. Or maybe they just disappear. Sometimes they get lost out in the woods and don’t return for the rest of the day. Or sometimes the walk out in nature just provides a respite, a cushion, a timeless hour to forget the cares and worries we might be carrying around. (Disclaimer right away! I am not saying nature is a cure-all and throw away your Prozac prescription. Just sayin’ that nature has a Prozac-like component. Please don’t get me depressed again by arguing, anyone.) 
You’d think getting one foot soaked as it fell through the snowy ice on the edge of the pond might make one even bluer. Instead, I laughed. How funny. And then the other foot got soaked. But there was so much LIFE bursting from all directions that it didn’t matter to be sloshing around with wet feet. (They were my boots, but the spring-boot ankle version, not the heavy winter-boot variety.)
The pond. Look at the reflection of the trees in that water.
A flock of Canadian geese floated on the pond. What a squawk started up as I stumbled toward them. One goose, in particular, honked and honked and honked in indignation for five minutes. I silently entreated they swim on over for a close-up photo shot. The goose replied with more indignant honks. Until, finally, as I rested quietly upon a log, silence resumed. Punctuated occasionally by honks that sounded more like goose-conversation among themselves.
Geese on pond
I have lots of other photos to share with you. That’s a problem these days. A glut of photos. They’re sitting in a folder labeled “April” and every day I think, “well, tomorrow I’ll post this one.” But when tomorrow arrives, tomorrow comes complete with its own overage of photos. Alas.
So imagine these photos which you may or may not ever see on this blog: beautiful green cedar, fairly close up. Yellow mullein. Pine burls. A half-buried clear bottle which reminded me of childhood hunts with Dad for old bottles. (Remember that, Dad?) Beautiful tree growing in the middle of the sand. Red berries. Wait a minute! You must see red berries. Just because they exist and because they offered me so much pleasure today.
Splash of red by the swampy edge of the pond (watch your feet, don't fall in!)
Ahhh…can you feel the peace exuding from the land? Can you feel nature stimulating your serotonin? Can you notice that the “blues” have hiked off in a different direction? Ahhhh…don’t you feel a little bit better now?
Yes, Mother Earth, I do. Thank you.
Meandering river meets tumultuous sky
Peering through old barbed wire to see Lake Superior
What to do today? A strong impulse arose to visit our Lake Superior and discover if the ice has melted. More specifically: to see what winter washed up upon the shore. It’s like nature’s flea market or rummage sale. You never know what treasures you’ll find!
I drove two roads up and one road over. Slowly puttered down toward the Keweenaw Bay, meeting two women-walkers. We arrived at the water’s edge (or shall I say the ice edge?) at the same time. We briefly discussed the weather, photography and walking . They lamented walking back up the hill, wondering if they’d make it. I offered to pick them up on my way home if they didn’t.
Sacred view (I did not stack those rocks)
I tiptoed out on the ice and rocks. Oh, watch it! Those rocks are surprisingly slippery. You think they’re dry, but some of them are coated with a fine layer of nearly-invisible ice. Let’s not fall in. Please.
A wave of pleasure, back here on the shore, hunting for treasures. And what’s the usual abundant treasure? Rocks. Stones. Lots of them. In every shape and form. In every style and texture. What beauty! Even on this gray early-spring day, the rocks were already telling stories of their wintering.
Look at this one. Just imagine the story it’s sharing with us. (Doesn’t it look sort of like a lopsided heart? Could it be telling us, “I love you?”)
Lake Superior stone
It felt too chilly to simply sit on the shore and gaze dreamily into the Great Lake. Besides being too cold, very few areas looked dry. I stepped cautiously here and there, peering deeply, turning the camera angle to capture some of the shore’s delights.
So here’s the scene, if you haven’t figured it out photographically. As you approach the lake, you witness the layer of rocks. They’re not everywhere, as snow still covers the majority of the “beach”. Out further, between water and rocks, exists a layer of snow and ice. It’s thinking about melting and disappearing. It hasn’t decided. It’s weighing its options. “Should I stay or should I go?” It didn’t ask my advice, but it probably knew I was opting for its departure. That’s probably why it sprayed the rocks with ice and almost sent me sprawling…
Now, you want to know about the magical world which exists just upward from the exposed shore? I can’t believe I’m sharing this with you. But here goes. This place is so beautiful it astounds the rock-hunter. Greenery everywhere! And this exists year-round. Shhh…it’s a secret known only to the dedicated searcher.
Beautiful green hidden shoreline world
But you can’t stay in the enchanted forest forever, so you find your way back to the rocks, wondering if you’ll stay upright. You inch your way back toward the road and car, pausing to truly see Gitchee Gumee (the name for our cold deep-water Great Lake, as coined by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in The Song of Hiawatha.) The real Annishnabe name is Gichigami which means “big water”. Close enough, I suppose.
There’s still some iceberg remnants floating out there, but they declined being photographed. A fallen and rotting birch tree, instead, asked to have its picture taken.
A downed birch fellow rests among the rocks and snow
And finally, because so many photos are clamouring “include me! include me!” shall we honor the rocks one more time? We’ll be back later in the summer to see how they’re doing and what other treasures exists beneath all that snow and ice. Summer? What am I talking about? We’ll be back this spring!
Rocks and more rocks...waiting for the snow to melt
Meet Mr. Bee. We're staying inside the rest of the year.
I’m done. The door is locked. Not going outside any more. It’s over. What’s it been…102 days?…forget it. No way I’m going outside again. Ever.
Mr. Bee and I will just sit here in front of this computer for the next 263 days. Maybe forever. Or I’ll sit on the couch and just…vegetate…or maybe meditate. Or maybe both.
Since I’m not going outside ever again, you’ll have to look at indoor photos. Indoor photos which depict the outdoors.
Exhibit A: Our Christmas cactus (which does not know it’s not Christmas due to all the snow and cold) is blooming.
Perfect bloom, yes?
Exhibit B: Just look at how we decorate our house! If you’d like to add one to your home, please go outside and look for wasp-departed nests. You’ll know after the first hard frost arrives and the paper wasps leave. Once you’ve figured it out, use them for decorations. The neighbors will be impressed (or dismayed).
How did the bird get inside on top of that wasp's nest?
Exhibit C: Feathers in hollowed pine knot found in woods. Remember the gift of peacock feathers we received this winter? The special “eye” found its way into this decoration. The spotted fellows are from guinea hens. Can’t wait to see what feathers appear this summer!! (oops, no, um, I mean…forget that…I am not going outside again this year. Really.)
Many splendered feathers
Exhibit D: OH I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!! It’s a JOKE. APRIL FOOLS!!! It’s a joke, really. I wouldn’t give up on this outdoor commitment. Promise. Cross my heart. (to the best of my ability to comply, anyway…)
I almost couldn’t write this because I DO NOT like April Fools jokes very much. But Barry and I have been laughing about writing this for a month or so now, and just as I was ready to abandon it…not wanting to scare you all or anything…he convinced me to “write just a draft, and we’ll see”. So now the draft’s written and there’s NO WAY I’m writing another one.
So…April Fools! (was anyone fooled?) Of course I went outside today.
The other reason I had to quit this tomfoolery is because…guess what! Behold Exhibit E!
The first definitive robin sighting. Hurray! They're really back!
