I never read much in the way of nature writing before this class so I didn’t realize that the genre was so large. It was interesting to see how other people view nature and what they consider harmful to it. This class has made me take a closer look at Boise as a whole also. I didn’t realize they had so many environmentally friendly programs or so many classes on how to take care of the environment. They are working hard to preserve what we have and it makes me proud to live here, not that I wasn’t already.
The bummer deal about spring in Idaho is that it comes late, and it didn’t snow much this year. So all I saw at my bench was cold and windy, with the occasional torrential precipitation. I did start seeing many of the same people walking the path by my bench. Most of them seem nice. There’s one old guy who always has headphones on and never says hi to me. Many of the changes are just now taking place. The park is filling up with people practicing softball, the trees are budding and the canal is full. It’s still crazy windy, but at least it’s reaching the 60’s now.
I’ve learned that it is possible to write a blog about the same place for an entire semester. I was a bit leery at first, which made it more interesting to see that I could do it, and that each entry was different. Sadly enough, I have never enjoyed journaling- horrible, I know, coming from an English major. But I did enjoy the blog format.
I’ve also started looking more closely at trees and plants, making mental notes about what would look good in my garden and what wouldn’t. Do I want plants that attract butterflies? Do I want to grow my own herbs and vegetables? The answer is yes to all of them.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Place Entry #7
Today smells like my childhood. The musky scent of a weed that used to flower with great propensity in a field at our grade school is borne on the breeze. To my friends and me, this wasn’t a weed. It made bouquets, it was food, it was shelter. Whatever purpose our imaginations envisioned for it, it served. And now its bright purple flowers dot the path on the way to my bench. As an adult, I see them as weeds that need to be gotten rid of, but as a child, they were a source of great fun. As a kid, I didn’t care what things looked like, so long as they were fun or left room for imagination. Our backyard could have been overrun with weeds and I wouldn’t have cared.
Somewhere, a lawn mower growls and the tangy odor of freshly cut grass wafts by me. That is the aroma of high school track. Whenever I smell that, I get an unquenchable urge to run, and it’s been eight years since my last track season. That urge runs so deep in my blood, I doubt I’ll ever lose it.
It’s Easter Sunday and all around me things are springing to life. Today is the first nice day we’ve had in a long time and the trees and flowers are taking advantage of it. Just like Christ rose from the dead, so these plants are rising from their winter tombs.
The tree that marks Jason Cody Rowly’s place is still small. At first glance, it’s nothing more than a bunch of twigs. But there is life there- small buds biding their time. The canal that was a mere trickle when I began this blog in January is half full of cold, slow moving water. In another month, it will be full to bursting.
This is my favorite season of all, the only reason I can make it through the cold of winter. It’s one of the reasons I love Easter so well. It’s an offering of hope- a Savior risen from the dead, bursts of color blooming all around, the relief of a warm breeze and the love of family.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Blog Prompt #6
I decided to try to write about the same place (Montmartre, Paris) from three different perspectives: child, tourist and native.
“Mom, can I get one of those pastry things?”
“In a minute. Your Dad and I want to look at the pretty pictures.”
Ugh. This is so pointless. We’ve been walking through Paris all day already and I haven’t been able to eat any yummy dessert yet. Until my parents get to look through all the art stuff in this square, I won’t get any dessert.
I follow behind them, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk and avoiding bird poop. Pictures are boring.
“Little girl, little girl! Over here. I draw picture of your cute face.”
I look up and see a small man pointing with his pencil for me to sit down in his chair. His fingers are black and smudgy. He looks odd. I look at Mom and Dad.
“How much?” my dad asks.
“For you, only 5 Euro,” the small man says. Maybe he’s not so scary.
I jump up into his chair.
“Sit still ma petite chou,” he says and turns to a large white piece of paper. People keep calling me that. Mom says it means ‘little cabbage.’ I don’t look like a cabbage. “What you want to be?” he asks.
“I want to be eating a chocolate pastry thing,” I mutter.
He laughs, “You want to be queen of pastry? That, I can do. All girls want to be queens or princesses. But you so cute, you a queen.” He talks funny, like everyone else here.
His smudged fingers fly over the canvas and he keeps telling me to sit still.
“Voila. Ici.” He flaps his arms toward the canvas like the pigeons that are all over.
Mom and Dad and I look.
“How come I have a chocolate pastry in the picture but not in real life?” I ask.
“Because you queen of pastry,” the man smiles proudly.
Dad hands him the money. Mom says, “Oh, you look so cute! Like Strawberry Shortcake!”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Something from my childhood. Let’s get you an éclair.”
“Yes!”
-
Melissa has always wanted to walk around with a baguette in Paris. She also has her nose to the ground for anything that smells like crepes. She’s currently striding ahead of me through Montmartre, head swiveling this way and that, looking for a crepe shop.
“Wait, Melissa, we have to look at the art.”
She slows her pace and turns to look.
I was here as a senior in high school and now, six years later, I’m back. I’m not about to miss this place.
“Oh yes, art.”
“Eat your baguette while you browse. Can I have a bite?”
She tears off a hunk for me. The baguette is warm and cooked to perfection.
“This is where van Gogh, Matisse, Renoir, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec painted.”
It’s sunny and warm and artists are out in full force. There’s a row of caricature artists but the rest of the square is dedicated to painters. It’s not a large square, which gives it a homey feeling. The artists are surrounded by old buildings containing homes, shops, and cafes. The smell of baked sweets floats on the air from a creperie and a patisserie.
Bright colors leap from canvases in bold swirls and landscapes. I know what I’m looking for, but I take my time looking at each painting. These artists come in all shapes and sizes and have varying degrees of English and interpersonal skills. Some bend over their paintings as if they are the only two things in the world that matter. Others paint and chat with each other and with tourists like me.
“You like, eh?” asks the artist with the white beard.
I figured he’d notice me. I’ve been standing in front of the same painting for a few minutes.
“Oh yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful. Tres magnifique.”
“Ah, American. This is my favorite painting. Just like Paris is the city of love, this is the bridge of love. Perfect for a pretty lady like you.”
“How much?”
“100 Euro, just for you.” It’s like I’m supposed to feel special, like he gave me a unique price. But I want this painting. I finally get him down to 75 Euro, just for me, so I can give it to my fiancé as a wedding present.
-
There’s a chill in the breeze this morning. Fall is coming, just like it has for the last seventy years of my life.
I pull the old wooden door closed behind me. I rub my fingers over a long scratch in the wood, a memory from a younger time when my brother and I were kids.
“Bonjour, Jean-Claude,” I say as I set my bag of art supplies on the ground. “Bonjour, Henri. Ca va?”
“Bien. Et tu?” I say, just like I have every day for the last forty years.
“Bien. Mais mon arthrite...” he says with a shrug, just like he has for the last forty years. Although is arthritis has only factored into conversation in the last few years.
I tighten my scarf around my neck and begin setting out my canvases and paints. The leaves are turning a brilliant scarlet. Perhaps I will paint them today.
“Bonjour messieurs,” says Elodie, our angel. She’s an art student at the university and she’s been coming here often to paint.
“Café?” She asks, even though she doesn’t have to. She hands us each a mug of espresso. “Une crepe pour Jean-Claude, et un éclair pour Henri.”
We take these things with grateful hearts and in return, we teach her what we know. I often wonder what it is I have to teach anyone. In seventy years of life, I feel as if I’ve just begun to learn, as if my painting is only now being perfected. Imagine what I could do with another seventy years.
I pull out a blank canvas and find a comfortable place on my stool. Today is only about me and those red leaves.
“Mom, can I get one of those pastry things?”
“In a minute. Your Dad and I want to look at the pretty pictures.”
Ugh. This is so pointless. We’ve been walking through Paris all day already and I haven’t been able to eat any yummy dessert yet. Until my parents get to look through all the art stuff in this square, I won’t get any dessert.
I follow behind them, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk and avoiding bird poop. Pictures are boring.
“Little girl, little girl! Over here. I draw picture of your cute face.”
I look up and see a small man pointing with his pencil for me to sit down in his chair. His fingers are black and smudgy. He looks odd. I look at Mom and Dad.
“How much?” my dad asks.
“For you, only 5 Euro,” the small man says. Maybe he’s not so scary.
I jump up into his chair.
“Sit still ma petite chou,” he says and turns to a large white piece of paper. People keep calling me that. Mom says it means ‘little cabbage.’ I don’t look like a cabbage. “What you want to be?” he asks.
“I want to be eating a chocolate pastry thing,” I mutter.
He laughs, “You want to be queen of pastry? That, I can do. All girls want to be queens or princesses. But you so cute, you a queen.” He talks funny, like everyone else here.
His smudged fingers fly over the canvas and he keeps telling me to sit still.
“Voila. Ici.” He flaps his arms toward the canvas like the pigeons that are all over.
Mom and Dad and I look.
“How come I have a chocolate pastry in the picture but not in real life?” I ask.
“Because you queen of pastry,” the man smiles proudly.
Dad hands him the money. Mom says, “Oh, you look so cute! Like Strawberry Shortcake!”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Something from my childhood. Let’s get you an éclair.”
“Yes!”
-
Melissa has always wanted to walk around with a baguette in Paris. She also has her nose to the ground for anything that smells like crepes. She’s currently striding ahead of me through Montmartre, head swiveling this way and that, looking for a crepe shop.
“Wait, Melissa, we have to look at the art.”
She slows her pace and turns to look.
I was here as a senior in high school and now, six years later, I’m back. I’m not about to miss this place.
“Oh yes, art.”
“Eat your baguette while you browse. Can I have a bite?”
She tears off a hunk for me. The baguette is warm and cooked to perfection.
“This is where van Gogh, Matisse, Renoir, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec painted.”
It’s sunny and warm and artists are out in full force. There’s a row of caricature artists but the rest of the square is dedicated to painters. It’s not a large square, which gives it a homey feeling. The artists are surrounded by old buildings containing homes, shops, and cafes. The smell of baked sweets floats on the air from a creperie and a patisserie.
Bright colors leap from canvases in bold swirls and landscapes. I know what I’m looking for, but I take my time looking at each painting. These artists come in all shapes and sizes and have varying degrees of English and interpersonal skills. Some bend over their paintings as if they are the only two things in the world that matter. Others paint and chat with each other and with tourists like me.
“You like, eh?” asks the artist with the white beard.
I figured he’d notice me. I’ve been standing in front of the same painting for a few minutes.
“Oh yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful. Tres magnifique.”
“Ah, American. This is my favorite painting. Just like Paris is the city of love, this is the bridge of love. Perfect for a pretty lady like you.”
“How much?”
“100 Euro, just for you.” It’s like I’m supposed to feel special, like he gave me a unique price. But I want this painting. I finally get him down to 75 Euro, just for me, so I can give it to my fiancé as a wedding present.
-
There’s a chill in the breeze this morning. Fall is coming, just like it has for the last seventy years of my life.
I pull the old wooden door closed behind me. I rub my fingers over a long scratch in the wood, a memory from a younger time when my brother and I were kids.
“Bonjour, Jean-Claude,” I say as I set my bag of art supplies on the ground. “Bonjour, Henri. Ca va?”
“Bien. Et tu?” I say, just like I have every day for the last forty years.
“Bien. Mais mon arthrite...” he says with a shrug, just like he has for the last forty years. Although is arthritis has only factored into conversation in the last few years.
I tighten my scarf around my neck and begin setting out my canvases and paints. The leaves are turning a brilliant scarlet. Perhaps I will paint them today.
“Bonjour messieurs,” says Elodie, our angel. She’s an art student at the university and she’s been coming here often to paint.
“Café?” She asks, even though she doesn’t have to. She hands us each a mug of espresso. “Une crepe pour Jean-Claude, et un éclair pour Henri.”
We take these things with grateful hearts and in return, we teach her what we know. I often wonder what it is I have to teach anyone. In seventy years of life, I feel as if I’ve just begun to learn, as if my painting is only now being perfected. Imagine what I could do with another seventy years.
I pull out a blank canvas and find a comfortable place on my stool. Today is only about me and those red leaves.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Place Entry #6
It’s about a ten minute walk, or a five minute run, from my house to the park bench. Some days the houses I walk past are empty, other days they teem with life. Today I passed a man on his cell phone, pacing in quick bursts across his driveway.
“No baby, it’s not like that…. Come on, don’t be an ass…. I told you…. Look sugar cakes, you can’t believe everything you hear.”
My first question is who in the world would go out with a guy who called her an ass and sugar cakes. My second thought is that he cheated on his girlfriend and she got wind of it. He isn’t doing a very good job of oiling his way out of his mess. I didn’t stay to see the end result.
I’m jogging today, trying to outrun the massive storm boiling in from the southwest. I’m running toward it, casting a wary eye upward, gauging how long I can stay out at my bench before I need to beeline it back home. It’s a rather odd feeling. The sun is shining brilliantly in a mostly clear sky. The early tendrils of white clouds haven’t reached the sun just yet. I’m in shorts and sunglasses but I perhaps should have brought an umbrella. The outer reaches of the storm cloud just took over the sun. I slide my shades up to the top of my head.
A few brave women are scurrying along the path, walking happy dogs. All of them are walking briskly away from the storm, their usually relaxed paces quickened. They all, knowingly or unknowingly cast glances behind them, checking the progress of the clouds.
I probably shouldn’t still be out here, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped but for some reason I don’t want to let the storm intimidate me. So, for kicks and giggles I start jogging toward it, playing chicken. It will win of course, but for my brief instant of defiance I felt free. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could see life’s storms brewing on the horizon and have the chance to outrun them as well?
I may have dared the storm a bit too long, if I want to get home before the hail, for that is undoubtedly what these black clouds are carrying, I’m going to have to pick up the pace. The man is gone. Either his ex-girlfriend hung up on him or he’s continuing his pleading inside thanks to the storm.
Tulips and daffodils and crocus and hyacinth don't even acknowledge my presence as I sprint past them. The sky is inky black now but I’m almost home. I put on a last burst of speed. Just as I step onto my covered front porch, the sky booms and lets loose a torrent of hail. The white balls bounce harmlessly a few feet away.
I smile.
I beat you.
“No baby, it’s not like that…. Come on, don’t be an ass…. I told you…. Look sugar cakes, you can’t believe everything you hear.”
My first question is who in the world would go out with a guy who called her an ass and sugar cakes. My second thought is that he cheated on his girlfriend and she got wind of it. He isn’t doing a very good job of oiling his way out of his mess. I didn’t stay to see the end result.
I’m jogging today, trying to outrun the massive storm boiling in from the southwest. I’m running toward it, casting a wary eye upward, gauging how long I can stay out at my bench before I need to beeline it back home. It’s a rather odd feeling. The sun is shining brilliantly in a mostly clear sky. The early tendrils of white clouds haven’t reached the sun just yet. I’m in shorts and sunglasses but I perhaps should have brought an umbrella. The outer reaches of the storm cloud just took over the sun. I slide my shades up to the top of my head.
A few brave women are scurrying along the path, walking happy dogs. All of them are walking briskly away from the storm, their usually relaxed paces quickened. They all, knowingly or unknowingly cast glances behind them, checking the progress of the clouds.
I probably shouldn’t still be out here, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped but for some reason I don’t want to let the storm intimidate me. So, for kicks and giggles I start jogging toward it, playing chicken. It will win of course, but for my brief instant of defiance I felt free. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could see life’s storms brewing on the horizon and have the chance to outrun them as well?
I may have dared the storm a bit too long, if I want to get home before the hail, for that is undoubtedly what these black clouds are carrying, I’m going to have to pick up the pace. The man is gone. Either his ex-girlfriend hung up on him or he’s continuing his pleading inside thanks to the storm.
Tulips and daffodils and crocus and hyacinth don't even acknowledge my presence as I sprint past them. The sky is inky black now but I’m almost home. I put on a last burst of speed. Just as I step onto my covered front porch, the sky booms and lets loose a torrent of hail. The white balls bounce harmlessly a few feet away.
I smile.
I beat you.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Blog Prompt #5
People die here.
This land is as remorseless as it is beautiful. Our efforts to modernize and educate can only change those who visit. They cannot change the terrain itself. It stands tall, immutable to all human influences. Gneiss, schist and limestone bare themselves before the awed eyes of tourists and to the elements. We flock to it by the thousands, snapping pictures, taking tours, hiking or rafting. It is famous, a celebrity, and it doesn’t care. We are mere phantoms, coming and going as it has seen people come and go over thousands of years.
It is a great rip in fabric of the earth, a giant furrow slashed across the surface, a testament to the power of water in flood. Was it painful, having that much of you ripped away? To lose the solid ground you thought you stood upon? There are some things time can never heal.
The Colorado River surges a mile straight down from my feet, a tiny ribbon of blue winding its way for miles and miles through the heat, chipping away at the rock walls as it goes.
It is a pleasant 75 degrees where I stand on the edge of the North Rim, camera dangling uselessly. No photograph can do this place justice. It’s too vast, too old, too personal to violate with a picture.
The canyon floor is at least twenty degrees hotter than it is up here. This is something the rangers try to get everyone determined to hike the winding 11 mile trail down to the floor to understand. It’s hotter, bring two gallons of water per person, start around four a.m., spend the night in the canyon, start hiking back up around four a.m. Bring water. Hike together. Bring water. People still die here. Because they don’t listen to the rangers, because they don’t read the posters that tell stories of hikers who didn’t bring water and have returned to the dust from which they came. And still, people think they are invincible, nothing bad will happen to them. Then they slowly go out of their minds, begin seeing things that aren’t there and lay down to rest. They never get up again.
All the while, the canyon watches.
The sun dips, touching the tip of the limestone rim. Blazes of color ink the clouds and the path at my feet is illuminated in a brief flash of light. I should have hiked out then, while I saw clearly the way I should go. Instead, I waited until twilight fell and stumbled my way out by flashlight, seeing only one step ahead of me, trying to flee the giant rip in my life, but never knowing quite which way to turn.
This land is as remorseless as it is beautiful. Our efforts to modernize and educate can only change those who visit. They cannot change the terrain itself. It stands tall, immutable to all human influences. Gneiss, schist and limestone bare themselves before the awed eyes of tourists and to the elements. We flock to it by the thousands, snapping pictures, taking tours, hiking or rafting. It is famous, a celebrity, and it doesn’t care. We are mere phantoms, coming and going as it has seen people come and go over thousands of years.
It is a great rip in fabric of the earth, a giant furrow slashed across the surface, a testament to the power of water in flood. Was it painful, having that much of you ripped away? To lose the solid ground you thought you stood upon? There are some things time can never heal.
The Colorado River surges a mile straight down from my feet, a tiny ribbon of blue winding its way for miles and miles through the heat, chipping away at the rock walls as it goes.
It is a pleasant 75 degrees where I stand on the edge of the North Rim, camera dangling uselessly. No photograph can do this place justice. It’s too vast, too old, too personal to violate with a picture.
The canyon floor is at least twenty degrees hotter than it is up here. This is something the rangers try to get everyone determined to hike the winding 11 mile trail down to the floor to understand. It’s hotter, bring two gallons of water per person, start around four a.m., spend the night in the canyon, start hiking back up around four a.m. Bring water. Hike together. Bring water. People still die here. Because they don’t listen to the rangers, because they don’t read the posters that tell stories of hikers who didn’t bring water and have returned to the dust from which they came. And still, people think they are invincible, nothing bad will happen to them. Then they slowly go out of their minds, begin seeing things that aren’t there and lay down to rest. They never get up again.
All the while, the canyon watches.
The sun dips, touching the tip of the limestone rim. Blazes of color ink the clouds and the path at my feet is illuminated in a brief flash of light. I should have hiked out then, while I saw clearly the way I should go. Instead, I waited until twilight fell and stumbled my way out by flashlight, seeing only one step ahead of me, trying to flee the giant rip in my life, but never knowing quite which way to turn.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Place Entry #5
There is a difference between sitting on a bench and actually exploring the place. From the bench, geese are majestically serene, the breeze is a chilly nuisance, and mud sits there, begging to be included in the story. All of these things are seen as “through a glass darkly.” It isn’t until I actually get onto the field in earnest that these things become more than observations.
It’s forty degrees outside and the wind is gusting quite strongly on occasion, in fact, we’ve had a wind advisory. But, blissfully optimistic, or stupidly ignorant, we’ve gathered together this Saturday for a game of Ultimate Frisbee. A few others had the same idea about getting outside that we did. Six guys in their late teens or early twenties attempt to play soccer. They are trying to show off for their lady friends but with their shorts hanging below their butts and nothing but their thin white boxers to keep out the wind, they are having a hard time of it.
We have come dressed for the occasion in our sweats and gloves. It’s Boise, where one never knows what the weather will be like from one minute to the next. Even though the sky is clear- what few clouds broach our vision, sprint quickly from view- we could get snowed on, hailed on, or rained on at any moment.
From the field, the geese are no longer majestically serene. Stepping in their frozen poo doesn’t help the neon blue complexion of my new Nikes. Getting shoved to the ground makes the mud much less enjoyable. Wide swaths of mud freeze to the black workout pants my mother-in-law bought me for Christmas (pants that are much tighter than anything I would have ever purchased for myself. But she is on a quest to make sure I dress in clothes that fit me.) The wind plays havoc with our throws and catches, arbitrarily dropping a wild pass right into a teammate’s hands or lofting a straight shot just out of reach.
Despite my many layers and two hours of sprinting, I am chilled to the bone. Weary. Mud speckled. And elated. Running, and playing, always make me happy. Did we win? No. My husband’s team won. Naturally. But I got to spend two hours in God’s creation, playing with my friends. My biggest worry was whether or not I could catch the Frisbee or throw it right. I wasn’t worried about my seniors and their poor life choices. I wasn’t worried about my mom’s illness. I wasn’t even worried about getting dirt on my new shoes. I was free. If only I could I spend my life outside, without goose poo and guys with their shorts barely hanging on, I feel life would be much simpler.
It’s forty degrees outside and the wind is gusting quite strongly on occasion, in fact, we’ve had a wind advisory. But, blissfully optimistic, or stupidly ignorant, we’ve gathered together this Saturday for a game of Ultimate Frisbee. A few others had the same idea about getting outside that we did. Six guys in their late teens or early twenties attempt to play soccer. They are trying to show off for their lady friends but with their shorts hanging below their butts and nothing but their thin white boxers to keep out the wind, they are having a hard time of it.
We have come dressed for the occasion in our sweats and gloves. It’s Boise, where one never knows what the weather will be like from one minute to the next. Even though the sky is clear- what few clouds broach our vision, sprint quickly from view- we could get snowed on, hailed on, or rained on at any moment.
From the field, the geese are no longer majestically serene. Stepping in their frozen poo doesn’t help the neon blue complexion of my new Nikes. Getting shoved to the ground makes the mud much less enjoyable. Wide swaths of mud freeze to the black workout pants my mother-in-law bought me for Christmas (pants that are much tighter than anything I would have ever purchased for myself. But she is on a quest to make sure I dress in clothes that fit me.) The wind plays havoc with our throws and catches, arbitrarily dropping a wild pass right into a teammate’s hands or lofting a straight shot just out of reach.
Despite my many layers and two hours of sprinting, I am chilled to the bone. Weary. Mud speckled. And elated. Running, and playing, always make me happy. Did we win? No. My husband’s team won. Naturally. But I got to spend two hours in God’s creation, playing with my friends. My biggest worry was whether or not I could catch the Frisbee or throw it right. I wasn’t worried about my seniors and their poor life choices. I wasn’t worried about my mom’s illness. I wasn’t even worried about getting dirt on my new shoes. I was free. If only I could I spend my life outside, without goose poo and guys with their shorts barely hanging on, I feel life would be much simpler.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Blog Prompt #4
The heart of our valley is the Boise River. It was drew the initial explorers and settlers to the area, an oasis in the middle of the desert. But, as always happens, rivers take years of abuse before anyone realizes it has to stop. Up until the 1960’s the shoreline around the river served as a dumping ground for trash, industrial waste, and sewage. By 1964, we finally realized that this was not a good thing and decided to do something about it. At the suggestion of a consultant, we looked toward building a “green belt” that would run next to the river and be open for public use. No longer would trucks dump cement or the zoo spray out its cages on the river’s banks.
A community effort to undo all of the damage launched in earnest and some of the land was donated to the city. It developed quickly and people loved it. They loved it, and the river so much, that in 1990 they came up with an annual summer event called the Boise River Festival. In addition to a parade down the river, there were fireworks, concerts, food and trinket stands, activities, and hot air balloons. After a few years, the city recognized that having that many people on the banks of the river to watch the parade was eroding the soil, killing the flora, and chasing off wildlife, so they moved the parade to the streets. Until its demise in 2003, the River Festival was the highlight of the summer in Boise. There was a great deal of public outcry when it was cancelled in 2004, but the parks breathed a sigh of relief. With that many consumer minded people concentrated in one area their needs trump nature’s needs.
Today, our Greenbelt is a 26 mile long biking and walking trail that connects nine parks and hundreds of people between Lucky Peak Dam south of Boise, and almost to Meridian, a town twenty minutes north of Boise. It is maintained by Parks and Recreation and now the dozens of people and groups dedicated to making it as clean as possible. Wildlife is flourishing in the river and near it and plants enjoy mostly unimpeded growth. A community organization called Watershed Watch heads to the river every April, when the water gushes at 6,600 cubic feet per second, to test pH, oxygen, bacteria, and macroinvertebrates.
In the summer, hundreds of people float and swim the river, fishermen fish for trout, exercisers jog, run, walk, or cycle the pathways. Ornithologists come to see and hear the Belted Kingfishers, Violet Green Swallows, Euraisan Wigeon, and Lewis’s Woodpeckers. Families come to picnic and to teach their children about the river, and how to take care of it, like my parents taught me. The Boise River is our life blood. Without it, there is no Boise.
When I was a kid my parents used to take me there to splash around in small eddies. As a teenager, my dad and I went on long bike rides, bonding with each other and enjoying nature. As a college student, my mom and I would walk the Greenbelt, catching up on life. Today, my husband and I live in Meridian, but I still go back to the Greenbelt every summer to take in the smells, the sights and the sounds. I feel at home here surrounded by the rush of water, the laughter of small children, the wiz of bike tires and the bird calls- The Black Capped Chickadee and the Pied billed Grebe. But most of all, I love the Northern Flicker. I hear these by the canal behind our house in the summer and every time, I am transported to summers on the Greenbelt with my family.
http://www.cityofboise.org/Departments/Parks/ParksAndFacilities/Parks/page18151.aspx
A community effort to undo all of the damage launched in earnest and some of the land was donated to the city. It developed quickly and people loved it. They loved it, and the river so much, that in 1990 they came up with an annual summer event called the Boise River Festival. In addition to a parade down the river, there were fireworks, concerts, food and trinket stands, activities, and hot air balloons. After a few years, the city recognized that having that many people on the banks of the river to watch the parade was eroding the soil, killing the flora, and chasing off wildlife, so they moved the parade to the streets. Until its demise in 2003, the River Festival was the highlight of the summer in Boise. There was a great deal of public outcry when it was cancelled in 2004, but the parks breathed a sigh of relief. With that many consumer minded people concentrated in one area their needs trump nature’s needs.
Today, our Greenbelt is a 26 mile long biking and walking trail that connects nine parks and hundreds of people between Lucky Peak Dam south of Boise, and almost to Meridian, a town twenty minutes north of Boise. It is maintained by Parks and Recreation and now the dozens of people and groups dedicated to making it as clean as possible. Wildlife is flourishing in the river and near it and plants enjoy mostly unimpeded growth. A community organization called Watershed Watch heads to the river every April, when the water gushes at 6,600 cubic feet per second, to test pH, oxygen, bacteria, and macroinvertebrates.
In the summer, hundreds of people float and swim the river, fishermen fish for trout, exercisers jog, run, walk, or cycle the pathways. Ornithologists come to see and hear the Belted Kingfishers, Violet Green Swallows, Euraisan Wigeon, and Lewis’s Woodpeckers. Families come to picnic and to teach their children about the river, and how to take care of it, like my parents taught me. The Boise River is our life blood. Without it, there is no Boise.
When I was a kid my parents used to take me there to splash around in small eddies. As a teenager, my dad and I went on long bike rides, bonding with each other and enjoying nature. As a college student, my mom and I would walk the Greenbelt, catching up on life. Today, my husband and I live in Meridian, but I still go back to the Greenbelt every summer to take in the smells, the sights and the sounds. I feel at home here surrounded by the rush of water, the laughter of small children, the wiz of bike tires and the bird calls- The Black Capped Chickadee and the Pied billed Grebe. But most of all, I love the Northern Flicker. I hear these by the canal behind our house in the summer and every time, I am transported to summers on the Greenbelt with my family.
http://www.cityofboise.org/Departments/Parks/ParksAndFacilities/Parks/page18151.aspx
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Place Entry #4
These two clouds are giant dragons- heavy, dark bellied, and fast. They sit on the world. They hasten toward each other, dragging their mile long bodies through the sky. They shake their legs and shed unwanted scales which land on the ground at my feet, wetting the path with small, inconsistent droplets.
The sun is straining against these monsters, trying to let its light shine on the world a little longer, trying not to get jostled below the horizon by things it should be able to control. The dragon, realizing Helios’s weakness, slams into the sun again and again. Helios’s white glow illumines the beast in protest and tries to give battle. But the dragon pushes on, relentlessly, toward its friend and their home in the garden of the Hesperides.
Helios succumbs to the power of these Titans, and slips behind their black bellies, his white light winks, and fizzles, abandoning me to Boreas’s chill wind and the twilight of the Hesperides.
Naiads gurgle in the canal behind me, displeased by the cold. Their long tangles of soft green hair float carelessly behind them, strung along by the black current. Ducks float along, trying not to tangle their webbed feet in the algae. Three of them waddle out of the canal, two mallards and a regal lady who doesn’t belong in these waters. There’s not a feather out of place. Each of her latte brown feathers lies smoothly against her plump body. A few streaks of pure white feathers highlight her curves. She stands apart from the mallards and watches them in their menial labor. This must be a Naiad, she’s too beautiful to be anything else. She eyes me and waddles a little further away. Perhaps she knows I’ve discovered her secret. But she’s not concerned about me, she is above such things.
The sun is straining against these monsters, trying to let its light shine on the world a little longer, trying not to get jostled below the horizon by things it should be able to control. The dragon, realizing Helios’s weakness, slams into the sun again and again. Helios’s white glow illumines the beast in protest and tries to give battle. But the dragon pushes on, relentlessly, toward its friend and their home in the garden of the Hesperides.
Helios succumbs to the power of these Titans, and slips behind their black bellies, his white light winks, and fizzles, abandoning me to Boreas’s chill wind and the twilight of the Hesperides.
Naiads gurgle in the canal behind me, displeased by the cold. Their long tangles of soft green hair float carelessly behind them, strung along by the black current. Ducks float along, trying not to tangle their webbed feet in the algae. Three of them waddle out of the canal, two mallards and a regal lady who doesn’t belong in these waters. There’s not a feather out of place. Each of her latte brown feathers lies smoothly against her plump body. A few streaks of pure white feathers highlight her curves. She stands apart from the mallards and watches them in their menial labor. This must be a Naiad, she’s too beautiful to be anything else. She eyes me and waddles a little further away. Perhaps she knows I’ve discovered her secret. But she’s not concerned about me, she is above such things.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Blog Prompt #3 (The Wombat of my Life)
“Oh my gosh! How cute!” I squeal.
“That, mates, is a common wombat,” says our guide through this Aussie nature preserve.
“It’s like a mini teddy bear!” I point to an adorable specimen just beyond the wire mesh.
“That it is.” His accent is amazing. I’m a sucker for great accents.
We’ve fed kangaroos, watched Tasmanian devils attack their prey, chased emus (even though we weren’t supposed to), and held koalas. But the wombat has stolen my heart.
She follows the sound of my squeal with her tiny cat ears and turns her large brown nose to sniff the air. Her mottled chocolate fur is short and puffy. Her eyes are wide open, black pools of obsidian taking all of us in before she waddles over to get some carrots.
Wombats reach about 40 inches in length and hit somewhere around 55 pounds. Their claws are extremely strong, and most wombats are able to curl their paws into fists to pull up the grasses they like to eat. Like the marmots or ground squirrels to which they are compared, they live in burrows underground.
They are the second largest marsupial, kangaroos being the first largest, and are extremely strong diggers. The wombat’s pouch faces to the rear so her babies don’t get faces full of dirt when Mom decides to go digging. Babies live in the pouches for about five months, until they are strong enough to venture out into the world. But for two months afterward, they still retreat back to the pouch for food, warmth, and comfort. I want to see a baby wombat, but our guide says that all the babies they had are grown up now.
Wombats are mostly nocturnal, but zoos have a way of changing some natural habits. This one toddles slowly around her enclosure, sniffing leaves and examining our faces. She is cute. She is serene. She is unassuming.
“Can I take her home with me?” I ask.
“That would be a bit hard,” our guide says. “Wombats are an endangered species. In fact, most Aussies have never seen a Wombat in the wild.”
My face falls. I've lost my heart to a creature I may never see again. If I want to have a pet wombat, I’m going to have to move to Australia. I'll have to think on that one.
http://www.wombania.com/wombats/wombat-facts.htm
http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/wombat/
“That, mates, is a common wombat,” says our guide through this Aussie nature preserve.
“It’s like a mini teddy bear!” I point to an adorable specimen just beyond the wire mesh.
“That it is.” His accent is amazing. I’m a sucker for great accents.
We’ve fed kangaroos, watched Tasmanian devils attack their prey, chased emus (even though we weren’t supposed to), and held koalas. But the wombat has stolen my heart.
She follows the sound of my squeal with her tiny cat ears and turns her large brown nose to sniff the air. Her mottled chocolate fur is short and puffy. Her eyes are wide open, black pools of obsidian taking all of us in before she waddles over to get some carrots.
Wombats reach about 40 inches in length and hit somewhere around 55 pounds. Their claws are extremely strong, and most wombats are able to curl their paws into fists to pull up the grasses they like to eat. Like the marmots or ground squirrels to which they are compared, they live in burrows underground.
They are the second largest marsupial, kangaroos being the first largest, and are extremely strong diggers. The wombat’s pouch faces to the rear so her babies don’t get faces full of dirt when Mom decides to go digging. Babies live in the pouches for about five months, until they are strong enough to venture out into the world. But for two months afterward, they still retreat back to the pouch for food, warmth, and comfort. I want to see a baby wombat, but our guide says that all the babies they had are grown up now.
Wombats are mostly nocturnal, but zoos have a way of changing some natural habits. This one toddles slowly around her enclosure, sniffing leaves and examining our faces. She is cute. She is serene. She is unassuming.
“Can I take her home with me?” I ask.
“That would be a bit hard,” our guide says. “Wombats are an endangered species. In fact, most Aussies have never seen a Wombat in the wild.”
My face falls. I've lost my heart to a creature I may never see again. If I want to have a pet wombat, I’m going to have to move to Australia. I'll have to think on that one.
http://www.wombania.com/wombats/wombat-facts.htm
http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/wombat/
Saturday, February 11, 2012
An entry that has nothing to do with blog prompts or place entries but does deal with nature
The weekend camping trip that lasted a night
Our first clue that this camping trip wasn’t going to go well should have been the fact that our city slicker Honda Accord was having issues navigating the deep ruts into Horsethief Reservoir. If I subscribed to the Ancient Greek belief that there were omens to be seen in every bird wheeling overhead, I would have read the omens in every mud caked, heavy duty truck towing a trailer that rumbled past us. But we bounce happily along in our little blue car, nine months into our marriage and excited about showing off the camping prowess we had developed as kids.
When I was younger, my family went camping every summer with my grandparents (who had all the camping stuff). Grandpa and Grandma did most of the preparation. They also had the tent trailer, which was the only way Mom and Dad would go camping. Gram would have breakfast hot and ready by the time my brother and I rolled out of bed and we would spend our days hiking, splashing in the lake or reading and our evenings playing cards, roasting marshmallows, watching meteor showers and listening to Dad teach us all about the stars and the constellations. This is what I had envisioned for our camping trip that June, and it is exactly what didn’t happen.
“Well, we can’t go any further,” Brian says, pointing to a sign that said “No Trespassing.”
“Looks like it,” I say, frustrated. He hadn’t turned down any of the roads we’d passed that had signs promising camp grounds. He always has to explore everything and I hadn’t figured out how to handle that yet.
After a very long time and a rather tricky turn around, bookended by two large trucks waiting for us to quit trying to turn around so they could roar past us, skimming over holes we kept trying not to sink into, we head back to the campgrounds.
The Horsethief camp ground we finally bound into isn’t at all like I remember. It is a small, flat plain of grass populated mostly by campers and tent trailers, with a few tents sprinkled in for good measure. Where are trees? I remembered a forest populated by fir, hemlock, pine, and spruce. But all I see is grass and a few token trees scattered here and there.
We snatch up the last camp site available. A campsite entirely devoid of trees and backing up to a large camper.
“This is Horsethief?” I ask, getting out of a car that is more brown now than blue.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brian bounces out of the car. “Do we have any food?”
Do we have any food? I laugh. Of course we have food, I personally packed the food. I am so good at food packing that I have enough food for a very long weekend. Well, actually, Gram told me what to pack and gave me her “camping kitchen” box with all the stuff I could possibly need to make meals. But I like to think I’m good at it. I even packed steak for dinner.
I toss him some trail mix. “Shall we put up the tent?”
We break out the tent we got for our wedding, the tent we haven’t opened yet. The only thing I know about any tent is that it has to go up. The only other thing I know about this tent is that it’s bright green. It wasn’t until that night that we realized it is a summer tent and not meant for keeping in warmth at high altitude early in June.
I unzip the tent bag, forgoing the instructions because I have to look like I know what I’m doing, and dump out the contents.
“So, we stick the poles in these holes?” I ask, awkwardly poking a still disassembled pole at the green canvas. Maybe I should have read the directions.
Brian’s blue eyes are twinkling and he’s trying not to laugh, “Something like that. How about we lay the tent out first and then stick the poles in.” He then proceeds to wander over our camp site, sitting or laying down at intervals rather like a dog. I just stand there holding my limp tent pole.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find the best place for the tent. We don’t want our heads on the down side of a slope and we don’t want a place with lots of holes. Or rocks,” he adds as he tosses a few into the gravel road. “Let’s put it here.”
We put the tarp down over a patchwork quilt of wild grasses and tiny wild flowers-blue and white and pink.
Not long afterwards a lime green tent sprouts from the ground. Looking at it, I realize that I’ve never actually slept in a tent before. This could be interesting.
Brian wants to go fishing off the bridge. I hate fishing. When I was a kid, I went with my grandpa once or twice and only ever succeeded in catching logs, sticks, algae, or myself. But I go fishing with Brian because he wants to and I want to make him happy. We take our poles and join a few other couples on the edge of the bridge. Brian tosses me a worm.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask. I’m sure my face registers my disgust.
“Stick in on your hook like this.” He sticks his worm on his hook and casts, very nicely I might add.
I stand there with the worm in my hands, looking very grossed out.
“Here, let me get that for you,” he leans over and hooks the worm for me. “There you go. Now you cast.” He kisses me on the nose.
“And how do I do that?”
He laughs.
“What? I haven’t been fishing since I was, like, ten, okay? And I almost hooked Grandpa!”
He laughs some more and shows me how. I have to concede, he knows way more about camping than I do.
I mostly just sit with my line in the water until Brian tells me to reel it in and stare at the beautiful, welcoming trees across the reservoir. That must be where we camped when I was a kid. There’s five times as many trees over there as over here.
Night falls quickly in the mountains, as does the temperature. At night fall, we toss our Walmart brand firewood onto the fire, hoping for a raging one like our neighbors have. We get a few small flames. That’s it. It isn’t even enough to roast marshmallows by, let alone stay warm. There is a sign that tells us we aren’t allowed to gather firewood here, which is unfortunate since there’s a huge pile of wood down by the water from a dismantled dock. I shake my fist in protest at the sign. Next time, we’re chopping down our own firewood and not letting Walmart do it for us. In the mean time, we huddle by our almost nonexistent fire and shiver until we can’t take it anymore. We didn't play cards, we barely read and we didn't go on a hike. We did look at the stars, and there I did know more than Brian. But they didn't look like the warm, happy stars I remembered. They looked like cold points of light, shivering in the frigid and airless void of space.
But that may have been because I was freezing.
We decide to crawl into bed where it will be warmer. Or so we think. Unfortunately, we neglected to bring sleeping bags. We have a pile of blankets and sheets to throw over our split double air mattress, but as we find out later that night, none of them were warm enough or big enough for two frigid persons at three in the morning.
I wake up from my half dream state to find Brian trying to share my side of the mattress-which is only barely big enough for me.
“Wha?” I ask. I think I’m trying to ask what he’s doing, but it doesn’t come out that way.
“My side deflated,” he moans. “Can I share yours?”
“No,” I mutter. He squishes closer anyway. At least he’s warm.
As an added comfort, we are serenaded all night by a generator huffing on and off, despite signs that tell people not to run generators at night. The inconsistent growl keeps lurching me out of my sleep and my wonderful dreams about Grandma and Grandpa coming to save me with their tent trailer.
We leave at eight the next morning. When I'm unprepared, nature is not my friend.
Our first clue that this camping trip wasn’t going to go well should have been the fact that our city slicker Honda Accord was having issues navigating the deep ruts into Horsethief Reservoir. If I subscribed to the Ancient Greek belief that there were omens to be seen in every bird wheeling overhead, I would have read the omens in every mud caked, heavy duty truck towing a trailer that rumbled past us. But we bounce happily along in our little blue car, nine months into our marriage and excited about showing off the camping prowess we had developed as kids.
When I was younger, my family went camping every summer with my grandparents (who had all the camping stuff). Grandpa and Grandma did most of the preparation. They also had the tent trailer, which was the only way Mom and Dad would go camping. Gram would have breakfast hot and ready by the time my brother and I rolled out of bed and we would spend our days hiking, splashing in the lake or reading and our evenings playing cards, roasting marshmallows, watching meteor showers and listening to Dad teach us all about the stars and the constellations. This is what I had envisioned for our camping trip that June, and it is exactly what didn’t happen.
“Well, we can’t go any further,” Brian says, pointing to a sign that said “No Trespassing.”
“Looks like it,” I say, frustrated. He hadn’t turned down any of the roads we’d passed that had signs promising camp grounds. He always has to explore everything and I hadn’t figured out how to handle that yet.
After a very long time and a rather tricky turn around, bookended by two large trucks waiting for us to quit trying to turn around so they could roar past us, skimming over holes we kept trying not to sink into, we head back to the campgrounds.
The Horsethief camp ground we finally bound into isn’t at all like I remember. It is a small, flat plain of grass populated mostly by campers and tent trailers, with a few tents sprinkled in for good measure. Where are trees? I remembered a forest populated by fir, hemlock, pine, and spruce. But all I see is grass and a few token trees scattered here and there.
We snatch up the last camp site available. A campsite entirely devoid of trees and backing up to a large camper.
“This is Horsethief?” I ask, getting out of a car that is more brown now than blue.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brian bounces out of the car. “Do we have any food?”
Do we have any food? I laugh. Of course we have food, I personally packed the food. I am so good at food packing that I have enough food for a very long weekend. Well, actually, Gram told me what to pack and gave me her “camping kitchen” box with all the stuff I could possibly need to make meals. But I like to think I’m good at it. I even packed steak for dinner.
I toss him some trail mix. “Shall we put up the tent?”
We break out the tent we got for our wedding, the tent we haven’t opened yet. The only thing I know about any tent is that it has to go up. The only other thing I know about this tent is that it’s bright green. It wasn’t until that night that we realized it is a summer tent and not meant for keeping in warmth at high altitude early in June.
I unzip the tent bag, forgoing the instructions because I have to look like I know what I’m doing, and dump out the contents.
“So, we stick the poles in these holes?” I ask, awkwardly poking a still disassembled pole at the green canvas. Maybe I should have read the directions.
Brian’s blue eyes are twinkling and he’s trying not to laugh, “Something like that. How about we lay the tent out first and then stick the poles in.” He then proceeds to wander over our camp site, sitting or laying down at intervals rather like a dog. I just stand there holding my limp tent pole.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find the best place for the tent. We don’t want our heads on the down side of a slope and we don’t want a place with lots of holes. Or rocks,” he adds as he tosses a few into the gravel road. “Let’s put it here.”
We put the tarp down over a patchwork quilt of wild grasses and tiny wild flowers-blue and white and pink.
Not long afterwards a lime green tent sprouts from the ground. Looking at it, I realize that I’ve never actually slept in a tent before. This could be interesting.
Brian wants to go fishing off the bridge. I hate fishing. When I was a kid, I went with my grandpa once or twice and only ever succeeded in catching logs, sticks, algae, or myself. But I go fishing with Brian because he wants to and I want to make him happy. We take our poles and join a few other couples on the edge of the bridge. Brian tosses me a worm.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask. I’m sure my face registers my disgust.
“Stick in on your hook like this.” He sticks his worm on his hook and casts, very nicely I might add.
I stand there with the worm in my hands, looking very grossed out.
“Here, let me get that for you,” he leans over and hooks the worm for me. “There you go. Now you cast.” He kisses me on the nose.
“And how do I do that?”
He laughs.
“What? I haven’t been fishing since I was, like, ten, okay? And I almost hooked Grandpa!”
He laughs some more and shows me how. I have to concede, he knows way more about camping than I do.
I mostly just sit with my line in the water until Brian tells me to reel it in and stare at the beautiful, welcoming trees across the reservoir. That must be where we camped when I was a kid. There’s five times as many trees over there as over here.
Night falls quickly in the mountains, as does the temperature. At night fall, we toss our Walmart brand firewood onto the fire, hoping for a raging one like our neighbors have. We get a few small flames. That’s it. It isn’t even enough to roast marshmallows by, let alone stay warm. There is a sign that tells us we aren’t allowed to gather firewood here, which is unfortunate since there’s a huge pile of wood down by the water from a dismantled dock. I shake my fist in protest at the sign. Next time, we’re chopping down our own firewood and not letting Walmart do it for us. In the mean time, we huddle by our almost nonexistent fire and shiver until we can’t take it anymore. We didn't play cards, we barely read and we didn't go on a hike. We did look at the stars, and there I did know more than Brian. But they didn't look like the warm, happy stars I remembered. They looked like cold points of light, shivering in the frigid and airless void of space.
But that may have been because I was freezing.
We decide to crawl into bed where it will be warmer. Or so we think. Unfortunately, we neglected to bring sleeping bags. We have a pile of blankets and sheets to throw over our split double air mattress, but as we find out later that night, none of them were warm enough or big enough for two frigid persons at three in the morning.
I wake up from my half dream state to find Brian trying to share my side of the mattress-which is only barely big enough for me.
“Wha?” I ask. I think I’m trying to ask what he’s doing, but it doesn’t come out that way.
“My side deflated,” he moans. “Can I share yours?”
“No,” I mutter. He squishes closer anyway. At least he’s warm.
As an added comfort, we are serenaded all night by a generator huffing on and off, despite signs that tell people not to run generators at night. The inconsistent growl keeps lurching me out of my sleep and my wonderful dreams about Grandma and Grandpa coming to save me with their tent trailer.
We leave at eight the next morning. When I'm unprepared, nature is not my friend.
Place Entry #3
The moon is being eaten by the sky. One fourth of this lunar Oreo has been swallowed by the endless blue sea that stretches above the earth. There is nothing in the sky to defend the waxing gibbous, not even the merest wisp of cirrus clouds.
Canadian geese can be found year round in Southern Idaho. According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Canadian geese enjoy open spaces with short lawns, not only because they love eating grass, but also so they can see any potential predators.
Brian points out a flock of geese incoming from the north. They alight on the meticulously groomed grass of softball field two, thinking and munching and in general ignoring everything around them, including the three teenage guys on bikes three sizes too small. We must not pose a threat to them because they bounce and chatter, their hoarse voices carrying across the fields.
I have a long standing fear of geese. When I was a kid, Mom used to take my brother and me to feed the ducks in the Boise River. We would bring a loaf of fluffy bread and shred the pieces for the various water fowl that waddled our way, smiling and quacking and thanking us for the food in their ducky voices. I loved ducks. But invariably, halfway through the feeding, the noisy, smelly, messy, huge geese would catch wind of the Wonder Bread and overrun the place. I always dropped my slices and ran away because the geese were as big as me and because one of my good friends was once pecked by an overprotective mamma goose.
Today, there is a goose missing a leg. He hobbles around as well as he can, hopping awkwardly from place to place. None of his friends seem to notice that he’s different. They treat him just like any other member of their family. How I wish people were more like this.
We watch skateboarders trying to show off for the girls they like in the small skatepark near the parking lot. But the girls aren’t paying attention. They’re flirting with other boys or glued to their iphones. On the other side of the parking lot, parents push small children in swings or chase them around the playground. I wish kids didn’t feel like they have to grow up so fast. Too often, we can’t enjoy the phase of life we’re in because we think that the things we don’t have are always better. We can be so fickle.
Apparently the geese agree. They lift off to explore another area, to see new people, to find new food.
http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Canada_goose/lifehistory/ac
Canadian geese can be found year round in Southern Idaho. According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Canadian geese enjoy open spaces with short lawns, not only because they love eating grass, but also so they can see any potential predators.
Brian points out a flock of geese incoming from the north. They alight on the meticulously groomed grass of softball field two, thinking and munching and in general ignoring everything around them, including the three teenage guys on bikes three sizes too small. We must not pose a threat to them because they bounce and chatter, their hoarse voices carrying across the fields.
I have a long standing fear of geese. When I was a kid, Mom used to take my brother and me to feed the ducks in the Boise River. We would bring a loaf of fluffy bread and shred the pieces for the various water fowl that waddled our way, smiling and quacking and thanking us for the food in their ducky voices. I loved ducks. But invariably, halfway through the feeding, the noisy, smelly, messy, huge geese would catch wind of the Wonder Bread and overrun the place. I always dropped my slices and ran away because the geese were as big as me and because one of my good friends was once pecked by an overprotective mamma goose.
Today, there is a goose missing a leg. He hobbles around as well as he can, hopping awkwardly from place to place. None of his friends seem to notice that he’s different. They treat him just like any other member of their family. How I wish people were more like this.
We watch skateboarders trying to show off for the girls they like in the small skatepark near the parking lot. But the girls aren’t paying attention. They’re flirting with other boys or glued to their iphones. On the other side of the parking lot, parents push small children in swings or chase them around the playground. I wish kids didn’t feel like they have to grow up so fast. Too often, we can’t enjoy the phase of life we’re in because we think that the things we don’t have are always better. We can be so fickle.
Apparently the geese agree. They lift off to explore another area, to see new people, to find new food.
http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Canada_goose/lifehistory/ac
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Blog Prompt #2
Clouds surf overhead, allowing the sun to get an occasional glimpse of the land below- wet brown sand, small puddles of salt water, tall russet grasses, waving at their shorter green cousins, and the remains of a concrete bunker.
The March wind shrieks, mimicking the cries of dying men. Salt spray wets my face like tears. Waves buffet the beach, clawing desperately at the sand, trying to erase the memory of the horrors that happened here 60 years ago. This is Omaha beach, where over two thousand men lost their lives in an almost botched offensive that was rife with danger from the very beginning.
This beach has always been beautiful, a destination place. Before the Germans took over France it was a vacation spot. After thousands of men gave their lives for the freedom of a nation they perhaps had never seen before, it became a destination spot once more. But now the people come to reminisce or to find their loved ones in the cemetery. I’m walking the same beach where thousands lay dying or dead. These are the same swells that washed men toward the beach, dumping them unceremoniously on to the sand, their cold fingers wrapped around a weapon they never fired. The same water that expunged their blood chases my feet. The black shells I see half buried in the sand belonged to creatures that didn’t exist when the 1st Infantry Division landed. The same kind of wind that caused destructive swells 60 years ago tangles my hair.
Whatever memories remain on this beach, nature is trying hard to erase, but we refuse to let it. Many have come here to remember. I’ve come here to learn.
What spurred these men on to leap from their landing crafts and swim to shore under heavy fire, even after they realized they were jumping out too far from the beach and that most of their tanks sank.
The grasses offer no answers. Instead, they hide bunkers, remnants of landing craft, Rommel’s dragon’s teeth, and trenches. They only tell me that the Germans were prepared to meet the 34,000 troops we finally landed on the beach. They tickle my legs when I walk up the gray stairs toward the cemetery- their touch rough and fleeting as life itself.
Gray birds wheel in the wind, cresting bluffs that rise from the sand and sailing away homeward.
On top of the bluffs sits the American cemetery. Beneath the vibrant green grass rest thousands of men. Pristine white crosses mark their resting places, gold lettering deonotes officers.
In death, we are all the same, relegated to the ground with a marker over us just in case anyone cares. People do care. There are tourists from all over the world walking through rows of crosses. Four German soldiers, in uniform, somberly examine these memorials. Even though it’s been 60 years, I find myself angry. “What are you doing here?” I want to ask. My eighteen-year-old brain believes they have no business being here. Their people killed all of these men.
But these men weren’t alive in 1944. I’m judging them without knowing them, just like Hitler did to thousands of people.
I press my hand against the cool stone of the Wall of the Missing, tracing one of the 1,500 names that have forever been etched into history. Here, the wind only moans as it slides through stone walls and around white crosses, mourning with the rest of us.
The March wind shrieks, mimicking the cries of dying men. Salt spray wets my face like tears. Waves buffet the beach, clawing desperately at the sand, trying to erase the memory of the horrors that happened here 60 years ago. This is Omaha beach, where over two thousand men lost their lives in an almost botched offensive that was rife with danger from the very beginning.
This beach has always been beautiful, a destination place. Before the Germans took over France it was a vacation spot. After thousands of men gave their lives for the freedom of a nation they perhaps had never seen before, it became a destination spot once more. But now the people come to reminisce or to find their loved ones in the cemetery. I’m walking the same beach where thousands lay dying or dead. These are the same swells that washed men toward the beach, dumping them unceremoniously on to the sand, their cold fingers wrapped around a weapon they never fired. The same water that expunged their blood chases my feet. The black shells I see half buried in the sand belonged to creatures that didn’t exist when the 1st Infantry Division landed. The same kind of wind that caused destructive swells 60 years ago tangles my hair.
Whatever memories remain on this beach, nature is trying hard to erase, but we refuse to let it. Many have come here to remember. I’ve come here to learn.
What spurred these men on to leap from their landing crafts and swim to shore under heavy fire, even after they realized they were jumping out too far from the beach and that most of their tanks sank.
The grasses offer no answers. Instead, they hide bunkers, remnants of landing craft, Rommel’s dragon’s teeth, and trenches. They only tell me that the Germans were prepared to meet the 34,000 troops we finally landed on the beach. They tickle my legs when I walk up the gray stairs toward the cemetery- their touch rough and fleeting as life itself.
Gray birds wheel in the wind, cresting bluffs that rise from the sand and sailing away homeward.
On top of the bluffs sits the American cemetery. Beneath the vibrant green grass rest thousands of men. Pristine white crosses mark their resting places, gold lettering deonotes officers.
In death, we are all the same, relegated to the ground with a marker over us just in case anyone cares. People do care. There are tourists from all over the world walking through rows of crosses. Four German soldiers, in uniform, somberly examine these memorials. Even though it’s been 60 years, I find myself angry. “What are you doing here?” I want to ask. My eighteen-year-old brain believes they have no business being here. Their people killed all of these men.
But these men weren’t alive in 1944. I’m judging them without knowing them, just like Hitler did to thousands of people.
I press my hand against the cool stone of the Wall of the Missing, tracing one of the 1,500 names that have forever been etched into history. Here, the wind only moans as it slides through stone walls and around white crosses, mourning with the rest of us.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Place Entry #2
Today Jason Cody Rowland is buried. A quilt of snow has erased not only his presence but that of almost anyone else who might have come to the park. Only four other sets of prints converge near my bench, blending together over the footbridge and scattering away homeward. One set of prints is far apart and so large I can almost stand with both shoes in one impression. The rest are small like mine, and spread in quick chops which makes me think they were women wanting to get their exercise.
A new chain link fence has sprung up around the canal banks. It looks terrible and serves only to detract from the beauty that is this park.
My bench has changed. It’s not the old fashioned bench with slats that reminded me of my grandparents. Now its two lackluster boards painted blue sitting on a metal frame. Even the paint can’t hide the fact that this bench is nowhere near as inviting as my old one. It’s not my bench anymore. It’s only a bench. I’ve been betrayed.
More snow seeps into my shoes, darkening my light purple socks. I probably should have changed out of my work clothes for this venture, but I was too eager to see my place covered in snow.
The park is silent save for the slight, dull thump of the rain sinking into the park’s coverlet. Even the sound of my sniffing is deadened.
The rain is jealous of the snow because of its beauty and serenity. It’s working hard to erase the creamy bane of its existence, pummeling it with its tiny fists, willing it to go away. Snow can settle lightly on trees and make over twiggy maples so they look stunning. It coats this bench with a soggy seat cushion. It deadens sound and softly kisses upturned faces. Rain can’t settle gracefully on small branches. It weighs them down and saddens their complexion. Its bulbous drops strike the ground instead of floating lazily on the wind.
The rain has already destroyed the snow that perched on the treetops and now it’s working on my bench. It’s pelting my head, trying to make me understand its plight and sympathize. Instead I tuck my head and run away from its pestering, trying not to skid on the snow-covered slats of the foot bridge as I rush home, eager to be warm.
A new chain link fence has sprung up around the canal banks. It looks terrible and serves only to detract from the beauty that is this park.
My bench has changed. It’s not the old fashioned bench with slats that reminded me of my grandparents. Now its two lackluster boards painted blue sitting on a metal frame. Even the paint can’t hide the fact that this bench is nowhere near as inviting as my old one. It’s not my bench anymore. It’s only a bench. I’ve been betrayed.
More snow seeps into my shoes, darkening my light purple socks. I probably should have changed out of my work clothes for this venture, but I was too eager to see my place covered in snow.
The park is silent save for the slight, dull thump of the rain sinking into the park’s coverlet. Even the sound of my sniffing is deadened.
The rain is jealous of the snow because of its beauty and serenity. It’s working hard to erase the creamy bane of its existence, pummeling it with its tiny fists, willing it to go away. Snow can settle lightly on trees and make over twiggy maples so they look stunning. It coats this bench with a soggy seat cushion. It deadens sound and softly kisses upturned faces. Rain can’t settle gracefully on small branches. It weighs them down and saddens their complexion. Its bulbous drops strike the ground instead of floating lazily on the wind.
The rain has already destroyed the snow that perched on the treetops and now it’s working on my bench. It’s pelting my head, trying to make me understand its plight and sympathize. Instead I tuck my head and run away from its pestering, trying not to skid on the snow-covered slats of the foot bridge as I rush home, eager to be warm.
Blog Prompt #1
Boise: the city of trees.
It was given this name by the Frenchmen who accompanied Captain Bonneville on his expedition out west in 1833. After weeks of trudging through high desert, the Boise River and the trees growing from its banks were a welcome site. The only reason Boise remains a city of trees today is thanks to irrigation. Take away the water and Boise succumbs to the Owyhee desert’s dusty sagebrush fingers. Travel too far west of Boise and the landscape turns to twisting volcanic rock and low shrubs populated by ticks, jackrabbits, snakes, grouse, and ground squirrels. I never liked this desert. It’s always seemed too barren, too monochromatic, too harsh.
Until Lincoln declared it a territory in 1863, Idaho was of minimal interest to anyone because of this. It was merely a pit stop for settlers or prospectors on their way to Oregon or California. Even though we struck gold, and later silver, in the north, most people remained uninterested.
Boise wasn’t much of anything until Major Pinkney Lugenbeel built Fort Boise, his military outpost, in the foothills. Shortly thereafter, settlers began building houses. They intended to stay a while. Their houses lasted only a few generations. Most of them are gone now, destroyed by harsh desert conditions and lack of care.
Eventually, sprawling farms and a bustling town emerged from the dust and sagebrush. In early July, 1890, Boise became the 43rd state to enter the union. But we were still a farming state, a thoroughfare for people on their way to somewhere else, and we were glad to let them keep going.
Because of the adversity of farming in desert and thanks to years of being ignored, Boiseans are a tenacious and self reliant breed. But we are also a kindly people. I am no different- stubborn, hard-headed, competitive, and yet compassionate.
We take pride in the small-town feel of our city while still offering as many amenities as we can. We work hard to treat the land well and we resist the influences of the larger capital cities. We plant trees and maintain parks and roadside landscaping in town.
Like the French explorers, I too am glad for trees. I grew up playing in arbavidas, which are conifers used as natural fences because of their penchant for growing taller rather than rounder, and climbing in Japanese maples that had grown unnaturally large for their species. The maples in our backyard proved hardy enough to withstand the onslaught of a determined gymnast practicing her bar routine in its branches. These trees are my home. I used to spend hours each day climbing them and sitting in the crook of their arms reading. I examined their leaves in all seasons, whether from the top branch or by leaping into piles of them on the ground. The gardens too were my habitat. I sat among the rhododendrons growing used to their bitingly woody smell and watched goldfish dart about in the pond we dug that sat in the shade of a towering pine. I examined pond scum under my microscope and sat for hours with a dried corn husk in my hands, trying to lure in squirrels. This was the backyard where many adventures were concocted, cuts and scrapes were earned, and persistence proved to be a good thing- I finally got a squirrel.
http://www.cityofboise.org/CityGovernment/VisitingBoise/
It was given this name by the Frenchmen who accompanied Captain Bonneville on his expedition out west in 1833. After weeks of trudging through high desert, the Boise River and the trees growing from its banks were a welcome site. The only reason Boise remains a city of trees today is thanks to irrigation. Take away the water and Boise succumbs to the Owyhee desert’s dusty sagebrush fingers. Travel too far west of Boise and the landscape turns to twisting volcanic rock and low shrubs populated by ticks, jackrabbits, snakes, grouse, and ground squirrels. I never liked this desert. It’s always seemed too barren, too monochromatic, too harsh.
Until Lincoln declared it a territory in 1863, Idaho was of minimal interest to anyone because of this. It was merely a pit stop for settlers or prospectors on their way to Oregon or California. Even though we struck gold, and later silver, in the north, most people remained uninterested.
Boise wasn’t much of anything until Major Pinkney Lugenbeel built Fort Boise, his military outpost, in the foothills. Shortly thereafter, settlers began building houses. They intended to stay a while. Their houses lasted only a few generations. Most of them are gone now, destroyed by harsh desert conditions and lack of care.
Eventually, sprawling farms and a bustling town emerged from the dust and sagebrush. In early July, 1890, Boise became the 43rd state to enter the union. But we were still a farming state, a thoroughfare for people on their way to somewhere else, and we were glad to let them keep going.
Because of the adversity of farming in desert and thanks to years of being ignored, Boiseans are a tenacious and self reliant breed. But we are also a kindly people. I am no different- stubborn, hard-headed, competitive, and yet compassionate.
We take pride in the small-town feel of our city while still offering as many amenities as we can. We work hard to treat the land well and we resist the influences of the larger capital cities. We plant trees and maintain parks and roadside landscaping in town.
Like the French explorers, I too am glad for trees. I grew up playing in arbavidas, which are conifers used as natural fences because of their penchant for growing taller rather than rounder, and climbing in Japanese maples that had grown unnaturally large for their species. The maples in our backyard proved hardy enough to withstand the onslaught of a determined gymnast practicing her bar routine in its branches. These trees are my home. I used to spend hours each day climbing them and sitting in the crook of their arms reading. I examined their leaves in all seasons, whether from the top branch or by leaping into piles of them on the ground. The gardens too were my habitat. I sat among the rhododendrons growing used to their bitingly woody smell and watched goldfish dart about in the pond we dug that sat in the shade of a towering pine. I examined pond scum under my microscope and sat for hours with a dried corn husk in my hands, trying to lure in squirrels. This was the backyard where many adventures were concocted, cuts and scrapes were earned, and persistence proved to be a good thing- I finally got a squirrel.
http://www.cityofboise.org/CityGovernment/VisitingBoise/
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Place #1- Tully Park
This used to be farmland. Cows and horses once meandered near this canal, crops previously grew here. Farmer’s hopes and dreams lived and died on this land.
Hopes and dreams still exist here, but they are different from the ones of 1893. The initial settlers of Meridian may have never guessed that one hundred years later this nineteen acre park would spring up instead of crops. Tully Park boasts two softball fields, a skate park, basketball courts, and a playground. A walking path follows a canal, wandering lazily behind neighborhoods and through Tully Park.
Despite the fact that it’s January and 41 degrees, people are out in force, taking advantage of the sunshine and lack of precipitation. It hasn’t snowed here yet, which is unusual. Our local ski resort doesn’t have enough snow to open its doors for the season. The latest opening date prior to this year was January 6th. The lack of freezing temperatures has tricked the local plants. Trees and roses are starting to bud, which will be dangerous when the snow and ice bluster in later this winter. It also means that bugs will be bad this summer.
Dozens of birds fly away together in the distance, their tight knit circle ebbing and flowing like the tide. A winter wind zips between the slats in my coffee colored bench, causing me to shiver. A small trickle of water slogs its way through the canal behind me. Dry, brown cattails rub together, rustling anxiously. A dad takes pictures of his kids hiding among the reeds. Older couples walk slowly along the path before me, either leading languid old dogs or being led by bouncy puppies. We all smile at each other and say a polite “Good afternoon.” We are all thankful to be outside and goodwill abounds.
Tully Park, like many parks in the area, has a long line of memorial trees. A plaque buried crookedly in the ground in front of a diminutive tree beside my bench reads “Jason Cody Rowland- eat, sleep, ski- Sept 1. 2007.” I wonder how old he was when he died and if he died skiing. Does his family come back to this tree to read his name, to remember? How many hopes and dreams were sucked into the vacuum of his absence?
Hopes and dreams still exist here, but they are different from the ones of 1893. The initial settlers of Meridian may have never guessed that one hundred years later this nineteen acre park would spring up instead of crops. Tully Park boasts two softball fields, a skate park, basketball courts, and a playground. A walking path follows a canal, wandering lazily behind neighborhoods and through Tully Park.
Despite the fact that it’s January and 41 degrees, people are out in force, taking advantage of the sunshine and lack of precipitation. It hasn’t snowed here yet, which is unusual. Our local ski resort doesn’t have enough snow to open its doors for the season. The latest opening date prior to this year was January 6th. The lack of freezing temperatures has tricked the local plants. Trees and roses are starting to bud, which will be dangerous when the snow and ice bluster in later this winter. It also means that bugs will be bad this summer.
Dozens of birds fly away together in the distance, their tight knit circle ebbing and flowing like the tide. A winter wind zips between the slats in my coffee colored bench, causing me to shiver. A small trickle of water slogs its way through the canal behind me. Dry, brown cattails rub together, rustling anxiously. A dad takes pictures of his kids hiding among the reeds. Older couples walk slowly along the path before me, either leading languid old dogs or being led by bouncy puppies. We all smile at each other and say a polite “Good afternoon.” We are all thankful to be outside and goodwill abounds.
Tully Park, like many parks in the area, has a long line of memorial trees. A plaque buried crookedly in the ground in front of a diminutive tree beside my bench reads “Jason Cody Rowland- eat, sleep, ski- Sept 1. 2007.” I wonder how old he was when he died and if he died skiing. Does his family come back to this tree to read his name, to remember? How many hopes and dreams were sucked into the vacuum of his absence?
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