In the garden this year: sunflowers, asparagus, carrots, green peppers, mild red pepper, iceberg lettuce, romaine lettuce, onions, eggplant, brussel sprouts, zucchini, squash, pumpkin, tomatoes. I'm sure I'm forgetting something; I always seem to. Old successful standbys, a few new tries.
I've also started a small compost pot. In it, cantaloupe and organic strawberry bits from our barbeque night, dried leaves from the yard, basil.
See more gardening pictures here.
I don't know what it is about this place that draws us--perhaps the closeness, how easy it is to let the dogs off the leash, the ease of ambling about, but here we are again. I didn't get much sleep the night before, so we kept ourselves active: walked downtown for breakfast, gardened, went to Hay Creek--to keep me from the temptation of the nap. Zephyr returned with a serious slice to his paw (we would have taken him to the vet had they been open, but it is, after all, Memorial Day weekend)--he'll go in tomorrow, I hope.
See more Hay Creek adventures here.
This is a page from a book called America At Home, a collection of photographs of people in their own environment. This page caught my attention--and though I couldn't read the details, I could get an idea of this Thoreau-like existence. It called to mind Angie's excitement over moving into a smaller home in the Twin Cities this past winter; the idea to live a contained life, one that doesn't sprawl to not only clutter up, but also absorb too many resources, appeals to me.
After going to the garden shop, Ryan took me up the bluffs to look at these brand new, absolutely huge houses. I marveled at the view, at the yards with towering trees, at the wrap around porches, but it wasn't the size of the houses (or that sterile, plastic-y feel new houses seem to have). I love the idea of living in the woods with a sprawling yard. A yard to sprawl, not the contained walls. The pit-in-my-stomach jealousy was over the greenery, the mature trees, not the brick and mortar.
I always wondered why my paternal grandparents didn't live somewhere larger. They had the money, and they built a house on a lake, but the house was normal--three bedroom, two bath sort of affair. But that's all they needed--enough for them, for our family to come and stay too. A peaceful life on a lake overlooking the woods. I can see the reason in that.
Also interesting: One Local Summer. This lines up with the CSA we recently joined and the 100 mile diet (and, similarly, the 100 foot diet) also recently discovered.
PS: Two weekend mornings, up before 8am.
I am grateful for:
- Living in a place that has this beauty so nearby.
- Learning more about the landscape of here, now.
- Girl friends who are held close in your heart.
- Clever students who make good company.
- (The patience these two had while I took endless photographs.)
- Six hours in the fresh air.
- Juice and roughage at a local coffee shop after.
You can see more photographs from our trips up Barn Buff here.
Also, in anticipation of the blog move, I've created a new photo blog as accompaniment: from the field. The goal is to take a photograph of the natural world on a regular basis, perhaps even once a day, but with a more critical eye than something like today's collection (though this is winnowing even from the entire collection I uploaded onto Flickr!), perhaps limited to no more than three images per post. I don't intend, as of yet, to end my standard photo a day project, as I've really loved the way it documents my life in a simplistic manner.
Above: Elm, I believe, American (ulmus americana) from the Urtels' backyard
Last night, as I was falling asleep I rolled over and smelled something--I'm not sure what--and I was instantly transported to my childhood in Chattanooga, was rapid-fire recalling bits and pieces of that place I loved so much--memories of Yvonne and the mountains, of the drawl and honeysuckle.
I recently learned that without smell, your taste buds diminish in power significantly (Max 82-93). I also have heard that when you are smelling something, you are tasting it as well, which always simultaneously repulsed me and thrilled me when I was a vegetarian.
I love that there are certain smells that tell me, really, that the snow is over: the metallic smell of water from the hose being sprayed out onto bare patches of lawn, the smell of grass clippings, the way fresh air, circulating air smells in the bedroom at night. Winter and gray are so long here in Minnesota; it's so easy to forget what it means to be out in the world, to see everything so blue and so green. (Did you see that sky in the pictures below from camping? Wow.)
Our countdown is at nine student contact days (after this final hour coming up) and a half day for teachers. That's it, all on my fingers now. I was just writing a letter to my sister and though I am thrilled to close the door on teaching high school, I know I have some responsibilities waiting for me on the other side before I can feel free to completely focus on my MFA. I have the pesky issue of the M.Ed, a British Literature distance learning course with an incomplete that needs completion, and I'll have the regular responsibility of being a Wings mentor (oh, and the guilt there, some of the mentors have already met once or twice!). I need to be methodical as I work through these hefty tasks. I need to be responsible and kick the procrastination habit. (I need to do a little jig--today I finally returned the Humanities tests, which many had forgotten even existed--that's how long I've had them.) Methodical, goal oriented. Those are words I don't normally attribute to summer.
Work Cited:
Max, D. T. "A Man of Taste: A Chef With Cancer Fights to Save His Tongue." New Yorker 12 May 2008: 82-93.
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We went camping this past weekend. You can see the rest of our photos from the trip here.
More of the random:
- After today, eleven student contact days, two of which are exams. I feel steam rolled. Grading is beginning to reach an even clip, and I might actually get everything back by the end of the week, though this is incredibly wishful thinking. I am plowing though, determined to close out this school year without great stress. Just great exhaustion, as it always goes. ("Seriously, are you going to offer more extra credit?") ("Um, is there any way I can pass?")
- Last night I dreamt a serrated knife had burrowed into my skin, grinding against the small of my back. In the dream, Ryan was telling me the only way was to pull it out, that we couldn't remove it any other way but to press it through my skin, my muscle, that it would be narrow enough and would hurt, but at least it would stop cutting my lower back like a steak. I woke up, pained, sleeping on my stomach. I can move about a bit faster today; the soreness has dissipated. But yesterday, every time I stood up, I had an invisible line reclining me back down, bits of me crying out in protest.
- I will not miss lockdown drills. We had one this afternoon during my prep hour, and it was phrased something like, "Attention staff, there is a situation in the cafeteria. Please lock all doors." Of course, my imagination began to bat about, forgetting that it is the beginning of the hour, prime time for a drill, and late spring (competing with early autumn as the best time for drills--tomorrow, fire). I listened intently, huddled on the floor, Humanities tests in my lap, listening to booming sounds, trying to determine if it was the special ed class down the hall or truly a lockdown situation. We're fine, of course; just when I forget and feel safe in the classroom, I am reminded of random calamities and how dangerous a school can be.
- New York Times: Someone else must find a house to fit the book collection and how to get the most out of your vegetables.
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