2.25.12 Icy In, Icy Out

This morning it was as cold as the woman deeply in love with whom you have dared to flirt. I wore gloves but my hands were soon stinging anyway and I had to curl them into balls inside the gloves. (These gloves do not keep the fingers warm at all.)

So I set out early on this fine (but cold) Saturday morning, happy to have concluded the work week and have the chance to re-connect--up close and personal--with my island environs. I motor briskly off to work each morning and slide back into a spot along the curb at about 5:30 pm--head inside for dinner and the brief evening I have to myself before doing it all again. This workaday life is for the birds.

I circled the island, taking my old familiar route. I encountered one dogwalker on either side, and one jogger in the middle, at my beloved southeastern tip, where I was gratified to see that my Christmas balls remained hanging on their respective branches. I raised a hand in greeting to each one I passed and each responded in kind, including the mail carrier in his truck who passed me when crossing the railroad tracks on E. Island Ave., his island deliveries accomplished and my walk nearly concluded. He is in my good graces, as this week I happily removed the first mail delivery to hit our new mailfox ... I mean, mailbox.

Once again, the southeastern tip of the island was where I happened upon the most eye-catching photo opportunities. Here I couldn't resist capturing a spot where the river caught the light, which I snapped while looking down over a shoreline border of rocks. I realize that so many of the beautiful natural visions I behold on the island come to me courtesy of the river and the wondrous manifestations created by its waters. A river may be good for a great many things, but contributing beauty to the world is one of the things I value most. I didn't have to walk much farther before stumbling upon another unique aqueous display, a phenomenon the likes of which I'd never quite beheld before.


Here we see the low hanging branches of a tree caressing the surface of the river, where the elements have conspired to form small baubles of ice around each branch where it kisses the water. Truly one of the cooler manifestations of water (literally and figuratively) I've encountered here or anywhere. This was something I felt worthy of more than one photo, so I ended up with a few. Next, I'll share a more close-up view of these crystal jewels, where they nestle upon the face of the gentle flowing current.

It is as though Mother Nature has seen fit to create her very own Christmas balls for this tree, as if to show up my own clumsy attempts to improve upon nature. I daresay she has made her point, and I have no choice but to acknowledge the superiority of her handiwork.

Up along the eastern shore I proceed, along the return journey, and soon come upon the phenomenon encountered in my last post, this one engineered by man. This, as you may recall, is the small but ornate cluster of ice formed at the shore where a hidden pipe is pumping water into the river, for reasons unknown to me. This morning I manage to get a far more lovely shot of this manifestation, in which Mother Nature manages to play her part by throwing down a sunstream that fans downstream along the surface.

This is my favorite photo of the day, and has made my outing on this frigid morning well worth the pain coursing through my numb fingers, curled up inside my gloves like the rigid digits of a corpse. As I continue in a northwesterly direction, along the island's western shore, I grow pensive and poetic thoughts begin to flow into my mind. Where they come from, I know not, but I do know that they are generated, or rather, summoned, by the solitary and peaceful bubble in which I find myself, this blessed freedom to roam around a beautiful and tranquil place, the freedom that allows a mind and a heart to dance and play and to follow its very own promptings, rather than those of society. And so, as I contemplate this bubble I inhabit, a poem begins to form. When I reach my door, I pull out paper and pen and scribble it down:




Life flows on, in and around us—and the beauty of its many forms is there for the taking.

D.E.S.

2.20.12 Views Along the Shore

Nice to end my first week on a new job with a 3-day weekend, courtesy of dead Presidents. I took a walk around the island, and it was pretty frosty out, unlike yesterday, but not too cold for these two fair-weathered, fine-feathered fowl who were making quite a racket as I walked by. I figured they were in need of some attention, so I humored them and hopped over the guardrail by the side of the road and went down to the shore to snap a few pics. This was perhaps the best shot because they were so busy posturing that they wouldn't hold still for long.

Before clambering back up to the road, I spotted an interesting ice formation and moved closer to get a better look. I wondered what had caused the ice to form in this way, then on closer inspection noticed there was a pipe in the center of the ice cluster, pumping water into the river -- why? Who knows? But it created a pretty cool ice sculpture there on the shore, to endure for as long as the temperatures will allow. I returned to the road and was soon back home, ready to enjoy the rest of my holiday. I didn't do much, but sometimes that's a good thing. In the evening we watched a sweet Cuban film about a young boy and girl--best friends who run away together to avoid being separated by the girl's impending relocation. We chose the film in honor of the trip to Cuba we're planning for next fall. It was a good choice, the name of the film: Viva Cuba. Give it a try.

Life flows on, in and around us—watch it closely and enjoy it, before it melts away.

D.E.S.

2.19.12 Your Island Blogger Redux

I guess the goal of writing a daily post was doomed from inception. My return to the work force last Monday effectively sealed that doom. But that's life, I guess. I will continue this record of my life on Nicollet Island, though no longer on a daily basis.

I spent today working on what I have dubbed "Operation Mailfox." It was so warm out (mid-February in Minnesota!) that I was working outdoors with no coat. In the early morn, I crept down to the eastern shore of the island where I had found and earmarked a fallen tree, which would be furnishing a branch to serve as my mailbox post. I brought along a saw and labored for about a half hour, since the branch had to be cut at both ends. There were a few passersby, whom I ignored, and who may have wondered why I was sawing a branch, or maybe they gave me no thought whatsoever.

I lugged the branch back home and set it aside until later, after I had obtained a weathered looking old whiskey barrel, typically used as a planter, at Home Depot, along with a couple of simple L-brackets. I also picked up (literally) a couple of 50-lb. bags of garden soil. Back home, I screwed the branch into the bottom of the barrel using the L-brackets, dumped in a layer of empty plastic coke bottles, then dumped in the 100 lbs of dirt. Oh, and before attaching the branch, I had also nailed a small rectanglar piece of wood to the top of the branch, upon which I intended to mount the mailbox, secured with a couple of screws on each side.

When I wasn't doing the above, I was inside applying three coats of polyurethane to the painting (of a fox) on the mailbox to help ensure that the acrylics paint could withstand the island elements and endure, hopefully as well as the living foxes could.

While I was outdoors working on my project, I walked to the car in front of the house to get something and who should I spot but old foxy himself, prowling around the house across the street! I crossed over and followed him around for a while, and he ultimately led me to E. Island Ave., where he crossed the road and descended the bluff, while I did likewise though I halted at the cliff and looked on from above. Meanwhile, I noticed a couple out strolling who had stopped to observe us both. After Mr. Fox effected his departure, I struck up a conversation with them, a friendly couple from Hopkins named Mark and Diane, out to enjoy this unseasonably warm day with a walk on Nicollet Island. I think they were entertained by the fox's performance, and by my less than graceful pursuit of him, with my crappy cell phone camera in hand.

I came back home, and some time later, mounted the mailbox on the post, and here you see the result. As weather permits, there will be shrubs/flowers/reeds/vines, etc. added to the planter. And this accounts for one day of my all too fleeting weekend.

Life flows on, in and around us—and when it flows in the form of letters and bills and solicitations, it must find a mailbox to receive it, come wind, snow, sleet, or driving rain.

D.E.S.

2.13.12 Foxes on Parade

Today was my first day on a new job, so I dispensed with the early morning island walk. It was a wonderful day and thus far I'm very happy with my new employer, workplace, and co-workers (those I've met). Snow had begun to fly moments before I left the office, and it was a slow and careful drive during the height of rush hour and still I reached my island home in 25 minutes.

I pulled over in front of the house a tad too rapidly, and the car slid, bumping into the curb. As I turned to open my door, silently hoping the car had sustained no damage, I caught a glimpse of something through my window, out of the corner of my eye. I did a double take and marveled to see my old foxy friend sauntering along in the middle of the street, right past my astonished eyes. No sooner had my amazement subsided when along comes another one, following behind, just as leisurely. "Holy crap," I think, "the island is being overrun by foxes!"

I didn't have my camera with me (wished I had!), but they looked just like the one in this picture. They continued sauntering down the street as I got out of the car and called and whistled to them. They didn't pay me any mind but just continued on their way. I felt more vindicated than ever in the choice of what I'd painted on our mailbox.

For those who may not recall, here is my tribute to our island co-habitants, and after this evening's sighting, I don't mind saying it's a pretty good likeness. I now feel surer than ever that I haven't seen the last of my vulpine friends. My reading tells me that red foxes either establish stable home ranges within particular areas or are itinerant with no fixed abode. Given the urban landscape that surrounds us, I suspect that these foxes would be most apt to adopt the stable home range provided by the island. With any luck, I will have my camera with me during our next encounter.

Life flows on, in and around us—and sometimes it is covered with fur and walks on four legs.

D.E.S.

2.11.12 Coming Home

As wonderful as it was to spend time with our children and grandchild, there is no denying the pleasurable feeling of arriving back home to our island sanctuary. We got back last night, and first thing this morning I logged on and learned of Whitney Houston's passing, saddening if unsurprising news. Then, having missed the island and eager to renew our acquaintance, I bundled up and headed out for my morning constitutional.

I made a quick circuit of the island, and it was cold enough to freeze a few nose hairs. I saw nothing especially noteworthy, except perhaps for a group of about ten runners loping along E. Island Ave. as I headed up that shoreline toward home. Before that, though, I paused on the Merriam St. bridge when I noticed that a train was passing and would block my way unless I dilly-dallied a bit. So I hung fire on the bridge and snapped this photo, which only served to remind me of what a schlumpy, nerdy picture of a doofus I was. Oh well, in Minnesota in the winter, there is no place for vanity.

I would much prefer to reflect upon this photo of a pleasant family meal enjoyed at a highly touted Chinese restaurant in Kansas City. Here we see my eldest son, my younger son and his girlfriend, and my wife and I. The meal was fantastic and we all left feeling very satisfied. I miss them already, and our granddaughter, who joined us shortly after this shot was taken.


There was a considerable amount of reflecting upon Whitney Houston this afternoon and evening. Although the cause of death remains unknown, the conclusion one leaps to is that drugs were involved. And I can't help feeling saddened for her, and for all those who allow drugs into their lives, not fully realizing how strong a hold those substances can have, and the extent of the dangers they represent. My own brother, like Whitney, was a user of crack cocaine, and many other drugs. He died in his bed at 36 after shooting up what he surely did not realize was to be his final high. I'm thinking that maybe Whitney did the same thing, just another occasion of getting high, not realizing the toll that drug use over many years had taken on her poor vulnerable heart.

The human heart is good for so many things—but there are so many things that are not good for the human heart.

Life flows on, in and around us—embrace it, protect it, and love it as long as you can.

D.E.S.

2.10.12 The Game of Life

Last night we played the game of Life. And all I have to say is: this game is in serious need of updating. Put another way: the game sucks! And I'm glad to see that I'm not the only one who feels this way.


Granted, I don't feel strongly enough about it to emblazon my proclamation of disdain across my chest in a permanent manner, and I do suspect the person in this picture may be commenting upon more than the Milton Bradley game, but I do feel that the board game is no longer politically correct (if it ever was), and my family members agree.


First of all, just as each player must choose between attending college or going directly into the workplace, there are certain other aspects of real life where choice is a factor, and accordingly, this damn game should present them to the players as such. For example, since when is marriage a given? Only I should have the say-so as to whether I am joined in my vehicle by a little blue or pink companion. When it comes to the question of marriage in the game of Life, put me down as Pro Choice! Having made the college/no college decision, players should then be given the choice of marriage/no marriage, where each option then precipitates appropriate benefits and/or disadvantages (I'll leave these to your imagination).

The next decision (you can see what's coming, right?) should be that of whether or not to have children. The board game, as currently constituted, presumes that everyone desires the pitter patter of little feet in their lives. Pardon me for stating the obvious, but—hello!—not all do! Once again, players should be given the choice whether or not to have kids, which then results in appropriately corresponding benefits and/or disadvantages.

As we finally ground our way to the game's finale (and it was a long time coming, I assure you—if only real life lasted so long!), everyone began to contemplate the ultimate reckoning. I refer to the criteria which establish who is the winner—do you recall what those criteria consist of? That's right, the winner in the game of Life is the player who ends up with the most money—the greatest net worth.

Seriously?

I sincerely hope that, when I die, nobody presumes to judge how successful a life I had based upon how much money I had when I died. It would be absurd. While money may be important and necessary for survival, it is a poor barometer of how happy or successful or worthwhile of a life one has had.

In the film It's A Wonderful Life, George Bailey is reminded that "no man is a failure who has friends." With all due respect to the friends I have had, and to Frank Capra, I would submit that life is not a popularity contest, and the merit of my life depends on the number of friends I have had no more than it does upon the number of dollars I have had. If, after I've died, I were given the chance to judge the success of my own life, I would consider my life successful to the degree that I made it the kind of life I wanted it to be. And I think everybody else's lives ought to be judged by the same criteria. It's not about how much you loved or how much you were loved, it's not about how much money or how many friends you had, and it's not about how successful others considered you to be. Your own criteria are all that matter with respect to your own life. And there's no reason that all of us can't be winners. Milton Bradley—take note!

Life flows on, in and around us—we takes our chances, we makes our choices, we lives with the consequences—and it is what we make it.

D.E.S.

2.9.12 Leaving Home

I title this post Leaving Home because my lovely companion and I have left our island home for a short road trip, a 7-hour jaunt southward along Interstate 35 to visit progeny in Kansas City: our two sons and 3-year-old granddaughter.

The title might also refer to our sons, both of whom have (obviously) left home, to build lives of their own in a place considerably distant from the island home of their parents. Whether they remain long in that place, return to Minnesota, or move someplace else, time alone will tell. They have not yet seen their parents' new island home, the place for which the home of their childhoods was forsaken, but it is expected they will visit in the spring or summer. Whatever possessions they had left behind in their parents' house have now been delivered to them, and I suspect they are now spending some time inspecting items long unseen and unmissed, which are perhaps now evoking fond memories of their childhoods and youth.

Most of us leave home at least once in our lives. Some of us, many times. My sister left home when she turned eighteen (by the way, Happy Birthday, Pat!), I left when I was twenty-two, and my brother never left. He died in his bedroom at the age of thirty-six, but that is another story. (See Sunday's post for a little more about my brother's premature departure.)

I do wish our boys were making their own homes a bit closer to ours. But some circumstances are out of our control, and we must make the best of them. Both of them are gradually making homes for themselves, according to their means and lifestyles and preferences, working out their own definitions of what sort of home they would ultimately like to have. I realize that home can mean something different to each of us. The kind of home that makes one person happy might make another miserable. And the kind of home that makes a person happy during one period of his or her life might make that same person miserable during a different period.

I'm very happy with the kind of home that my companion and I have made, and are continuing to make, on Nicollet Island. It perfectly fits the type of people we are during this period of our lives. Our island home is compatible with our lifestyle, our interests, our means, and our goals. It is a small hobbit hole of a home, but it is snug and cozy and a place to which we are happy to return after having been away. How much more can one ask of the place he or she calls home, except that it also be a place where kindness and love abide and prevail, abundantly and consistently? At this time in our lives, we can ask no more. So we visit the children we love, offer them our love and support, enjoy their company, and return to our island home, thankful for a safe journey.

Life flows on, in and around us--we make a home for it as best we can, and when it outgrows that home, we make it another.

D.E.S.