Planting Seeds

      There's been a lot of killing lately.  A lot of yelling and hatred too...but not a lot of listening, especially the kind where we really hear one another.  At first I was horrified at the images plastered across every screen at home, in stores, in waiting rooms, and restaurants.  It's nearly impossible to escape the sick reality show drama that has become the daily news.  I find, for myself, that I'm almost numb to it now. After all, a person can only absorb so much pain before something inside breaks.

      This leaves me, and I think most of us, with an ever-present question hammering in our heads--How do we fix this?  The truth is that we can't.  The problem is too big for us and too big to conquer in just our lifetime, after all, human atrocities have been happening throughout the ages...but we must try anyway.   We must be seed planters, planting random seeds wherever we go--some may be noxious weeds, but hopefully most will bear beautiful fruit.

      We plant millions of seeds for our children, one for every word and action their keen eyes and ears observe.  They feel our hugs and encouragement, they also notice the tone of our voices when we joke and complain.  Are we planting seeds of respect for all of God's creation? Seeds of caring and concern or seeds of judgment and selfishness?  Hopefully enough good plants grow to choke out the weeds.

      The seeds planted in our community are the type that float on the wind to far-away places.  We may never see these seeds sprout and grow, but we must plant them anyway.  These are the seeds of connection--the seed of hope planted in a lonely neighbor's heart when you look him in the eye and he is so thankful to have another person really "see" him, another neighbor's relief to share a heavy burden when you offer to lend a hand, the sense of good-will you share when you smile and greet people passing by.  These seeds of connection grow silently, out-of-sight, passed on when those you meet connect with others.

      Over time we can water these seeds with encouragement and try to root out bad ones like racism and hatred, but ultimately we cannot make them grow--chances are they will not even mature in our lifetime.  All we can do is faithfully plant good seeds...every day...and let God cause them to grow.  That is how we change the script of our daily news. That is how we build a better world. 

The Awesome Ash

                Listening to the crunch of leaves as kids walk past reminds me of a few of life's gifts that I am extra grateful for.  First, I love living on a street lined with ash trees.   (Actually, I think every place I've ever lived in the mid-west has had ash-lined streets.) The leaves of the ash tree curl up into crisp "C" shapes in autumn, resulting in an air pocket that makes the BEST crunch sound of all our local vegetation.   Tromping along the leaf-filled curb is a wonderfully noisy experience that can only be matched by the joy of free-falling into a huge pile of ash leaves--the air pockets having a very satisfying cushion effect.  If you've ever tried to enjoy maple leaves in this way, you'd find yourself sorely disappointed by their anemic crackling and low volume piles.  The maple leaves, while outstanding for their color, pile flat and disintegrate when you step on them.  In other words, they have a very low fun factor.

                Speaking of fun reminds me of the second thing I'm grateful for.  It is my all-time favorite experience that today's generation will never have because it's terrifically dangerous and very illegal…riding on the leaf pile in the back of Dad's pick-up.  Every fall of my youth, after we'd jumped in the leaf piles and scattered them three or four times over, it was time to haul them to the leaf drop on the edge of town.  I grew up on a corner lot with wide ditches that caught everyone's leaves as they blew by, so leaf hauling involved a number of trips.  Dad filled up the back of truck and my little brother and I were in charge of jumping on top to pack down the pile.  Then we'd burrow in for the ride.  Not only did I love the smell of the dried leaves, I loved being buried in that comfy pile looking up at the blue sky and bumping down the road.  If it was cold out, the leaves kept us toasty warm.  Of course,  we'd be picking leaves out of our hair and sweatshirts for days, but Mom usually rewarded our "work" with hot chocolate or apple cider, which made up for the itchiness.         

                My daughter, always properly restrained by a seat belt when riding in the cab of our truck, doesn't have the same memories, but we still made the most of leaf piles when she was younger.  Some days we would sit in the piles, read books, and look for lady bugs (the real kind, not the Asian beetles we have now). One of the favorite games at her childhood birthday parties involved hunting for candy-filled plastic Easter eggs in a gigantic leaf pile.  At the parties we also had a pile at the bottom of the hill with a plastic slide aimed at it and numerous piles on hand for general jumping and tossing.

                The latest reports say a tiny bug, the emerald ash borer, will reach our state in the next few years and eventually decimate the ash population.  It makes me more than a little sad to think about….

Grass Monster Update

             As you can see from the photo, Toby has been busy "plucking" himself.  I suspect we'll be finding furry seedheads around the house for a few more weeks.  He continues to decline all offers to help.

Grass Monster

              Somewhere out there, in the far reaches of our neighborhood lives a patch of grass.  Not just any grass, but the kind with heads that stick like Velcro to long fur.  We may never know the location of this patch, but Toby does. He not only found the patch, but carried home at least 20 specimens, roots and all, nestled in his fur.  By the looks of it, he spent some time trapped in the vegetation before tearing loose.

          Toby strutted into the house waving his green bannered tail only to find himself the center of clowder attention.  The others were all over him, graciously trying to help by ripping the sticky seedheads out of his fur with their teeth.  As any cat owner can testify, there is a limit (usually extremely low) to the amount of indignity a feline will suffer.  Having spent the morning wrestling himself free of the grass patch, Toby had already reached the end of his tolerance.  No matter how miserable the itchy seeds were making him, he paid his housemates in angry hisses instead of gratitude. Finally he broke free of the pack and strutted out the back door with tail held high.  


            Sometimes it's hard to be a cat's friend.

Dreaming

the cat runs
& mews
& twitches
re-chasing that enemy squirrel
with all the ferocity
of a youthful hunter
in sleep unhindered 
by stiff joints 
and tired heart

Hunting Season

Frank enjoys our backyard jungle

                It’s autumn!  In South Dakota, that means it’s hunting season.  Since I’m a vegetarian and my husband is more of a motor head than an outdoorsman, we’ve never gotten involved in our state’s favorite pastime.  The cats, however, embrace it wholeheartedly.

                They began honing their skills when the first leaves hit the ground.  Any loose leaf tumbling in the breeze is fair prey.  The hunters jack up their hind ends, hunch down over their front paws, wiggle their butts in excited anticipation and…pounce!  Another dried leaf bites the dust.  Today, all five of the clowder spent the afternoon in the sun, alternating between naps and stalking. 

                Frank has moved on to more elusive targets:  grasshoppers and cicadas.  The crunchier the bug, the more fun it is to chew.  Eww…I’m especially looking forward to stepping on the crunchy remnants he’ll inevitably hack up this evening.  I’d better wear socks tonight to help cut down on the yuck factor.

                Toby, having reverted to a semi-feral state this fall, has foregone leaves and bugs (except for the occasional butterfly) and has focused his attacks on squirrels.  So far the score is Squirrels 153, Toby 0.  I hate to think what would happen if he actually caught one.  As noted, he’s shed his tame housecat demeanor this fall.  We only see him at night if he needs petting and in the morning when he wants canned food.  The rest of the time we glimpse him in brief blurs as he flies past the window in pursuit of aforementioned squirrels.

                Soon enough the snow will fly and the cats will be stuck inside for the winter.  Let them have their fun as long as these glorious days of autumn last!

Chicken of the Woods

Our homegrown fungus

(Warning:  despite the title this is an animal-free post) 
            Somedays the most wonderful surprises arise in the most ordinary places.  Yesterday we were enjoying a relaxing Sunday afternoon with a hint of autumn in the air, when a neighbor knocked on the door.  He and a friend wondered if it would be alright to cut the fungus out of our front ash tree.  
             The mushroom was one of those frilly, yellow-orange shelf varieties that I have admired my whole life and have even photographed, never dreaming it was edible.  Apparently it is and it tastes like chicken and is quite delicious fried in butter. Its official name is Chicken of the Woods. As a mushroom lover myself, I certainly couldn't say no to their request.
             The young man took one of those saws on the end of a long pole that people use to trim branches and sawed it off while his friend and kids stood below to catch it.  Sadly, it was too dried out to be edible, so the fungus hunters left.  
             Several minutes later there was another knock at the door.  There was our neighbor with an offering of a fresh "chicken" they found down the block. (I LOVE small towns!  I can't imagine this would happen in a big city.)  They wanted to give us a chance to taste this wonderful delicacy.  Guess what's for lunch today?  I can't wait to try it.  
             On this morning's walk, I found myself scanning the trees instead of the sidewalk.  Maybe mushroom hunting is in my future. 
(Postscript:  I fried the mushroom in butter and it does have the exact texture and taste of chicken.  Two thumbs up!)