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.
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