Indian Spring

After a frigid week and an all-night drenching, the earth awoke to a remarkable redoux -- a humid, balmy simulacrum of Spring, wedged into a crevice of Winter.   And so, though my son and (since the bereavement) principal hike-mate  was still tarrying up in New Jersey (like Odysseus on Ogygia,  entranced by Calypso), I set out for the lake, alone save for ever-sensed presence of my late beloved bride, ethereally by my side.  (For those of you with a Classical background, this will recall the eidolon of Helen of Troy, in Euripedes.)

The lake, only recently frozen over, was now quite free of ice. A flock of diving-ducks made sport with this, plying their dippy trade; and a few turtles had seemingly emerged from whatever mudhole they hide in to escape the winter’s wrath, and were sunning themselves on a log.  Solitary joggers  in T-shirts and shorts  passed by.

On the far side of the lake, a brisk wind had sprung up, and this fickle, now from in front and now behind.  I sat down on a sunlit bench, half-hoping the Muse might whisper, but in the event  I mostly joined the turtles in a dozy pleasure of motionless, wordless sunbathing.  Such exposure increasingly abundant sun is prophylactic against Seasonal Affective Disorder, a kind of dermal dialysis.

[-- 21 Dec 2018, officially the first day of Winter.]

Spring monostich

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forsythia,  poking out  its little heads

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Back from a Bit of a Walk

[Sunday, 10 February 2013]

The librarians are holding a book for me, it lured me out of my slippers and out of the house.  My wife was busy in the kitchen, so I set forth alone -- but now cheerfully, since her kiss on the cheek lasted me all the way to the library;  and on the way back, I had my new book.

Very bright, but cold.  I scanned the expanse of the lake  and determined that, but for a patch out towards the middle, it was completely covered with ice, though in what appeared a very thin sheet.   Enough to support the seagulls, though.

Observation by an amateur naturalist:  Seagulls have a lot of leisure time.

Down near the footbridge, a small boy on a small bike -- not a trike, but the big-boy kind (albeit with training-wheels).    Passing some muddy patches by the side of the path, he articulated, basically talking to himself but aloud for all to hear, 

“I hope I don’t fall in the mu-ud…!"

There was little chance of that, since his mom was right behind him, providing the bicycle with additional stability, with a steady hand;  and his father a couple of paces behind that, chuckling at what the boy had said, and holding in readiness  the stability the boy will later need, when life would becomes much muddier than he is now aware.  But as the boy well knew -- and as all boys know -- falling-in-the-mu-ud is just one of those things that keep happening to kids, like getting hit in the head with a spitball, y’cain’t hardly help it.

At the checkout counter, I managed to catch the eye of the reserved but fetching librarian, who came over quietly and accepted my card.   By good fortune, fate had provided an appropriate conversational opening.  “Two out of the three flags outside are at half-mast," I asked her,  "Why is that?”  It was pretty much a foolproof opener, since, in case there had just been some national tragedy that I would have heard of if only I stayed glued to the TV set like everyone else, the question would then seem to be asking, Why weren’t they all lowered.  (Actually  it couldn’t well be a national tragedy, since Old Glory stood at the top of the mast, flapping proudly above the lower two.  Perhaps some local setback -- someone’s soufflé that failed to rise.)  She said she didn’t know, but was so nice as to look the matter up, right there on her library screen. -- No explanation available. -- Due back in three weeks.

Towards the end of the journey  as I retraced my steps, I noticed that a good half of the lake was now quite free of ice, as the westering sun had shifted it into its glint.

A good sign.  Several good signs, in fact.

Word (and walk) of the Day: "Constitutional"

[Note:  The only reason I'm reposting this is so as to depost it from its original URL, where it has become the landing-site of hordes of basement-dwelling richly-pimpled incessantly-onanating spammers (this means U, Acne-Boy).  But while we're at it, let us note that today's title-word is in fact a noun, widely familiar in Grandfather's day, though little-known now (in this healthclub treadmill age), denoting a stroll taken for one's health.
The essay below was originally posted on 30 October 2011.]

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A bright and cloudless day, following yesterday’s freak pre-Hallowe’en snowstorm.  As on most Sundays, I walked the couple of miles to the library, to pick up any goodies they might be holding for me, and to return books I’m done with, even if they’re not yet due.  It’s that early Jesuit training in deontological librarianism.

The trek takes me down to the lake, around it, past a bower, and then to the playing-fields, which stretch for quite a ways beneath the brow of the library mesa.  A bit behind the interfaith center, there’s an obscure short-cut through a little isthmus of the woods, which I’d never seen anybody use, and cuts about a quarter mile off the journey.  You wouldn’t even see it unless you were about three feet away from it, and where it’s situated, you’d have no reason to suspect that there was anything worth looking at  and so you would never find yourself within that radius of three feet.  The only reason I found it myself is that I’m always nosing about looking for alternate pathways to vary my routes.  Not opsec, really;  just for variety.  Anyhow I was quite pleased to have found this secret passageway, and announced conspiratorially to my wife, before revealing to her this new route, that it was a secret known only to myself and one old elf.  It’s the sort of narrow gap a hobbit might pass through.

About a month or so, though, as I was heading that way, I saw a bevy of squad-cars, two in the road and a couple right up on the lawn.  What -- was this a crime-scene? had a body been discovered in the little strip of woods, pierced by a dagger of rare Oriental design?  But they we just doing casual cop things -- donuts, mostly -- and I never did find out what happened there, since cops don’t like it when you ask them what they’re about.

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There’s always something interesting to see, whenever you walk out, unencumbered, into God’s green earth.  Today there was a middle-aged couple on a lakeside bench, sprawled together in a dramatic pose, and a young photographer with professional equipment  was snapping shot after shot.  The couple were notably homely -- no celebrities with paparazzi in tow -- and seemed to love each other.  Maybe hired someone to help them with a scrapbook of their marriage.  Well why not.

I sometimes tip my hat to strangers, but of course many people don’t meet your eyes.  Today a couple of people I didn’t know -- a little boy and perhaps his mother -- gave me an unusually prompt and almost effusive greeting.  I Hi’d back, but as I walked on, wondered:  Did they figure I was open and approachable because of my funny hat ??  (Rather sensitive about this, as you may know by now.)  And then reflected, Those things probably do correlate.

Disappointingly, there turned out to be nothing for me at the desk.  The computer had said the item had shipped a day or two before, but they don’t do transfers on weekends, I learned.  So I browsed the shelves a bit and plucked off a big fat Steven Pinker, which you’ll probably be hearing about in these pages before long.  That’s what blogs are for.

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On the way back, curiosity got the better of me, and I went out of my way to walk up to the shadowed northern entrance to the now-forbidden crossthrough.  The path was blocked by, not one, not two, but three new signs, including one that claimed the area was under continuous closed-circuit surveillance.   To further defend against the anticipated hordes of alpenstock-wielding Alpine-hatted hikers, a metal gate had been drawn across the path, and -- not making this up, folks, go and see for yourselves -- had piled a heap of branches behind it, as though anticipating a siege.   I considered simply walking around it, but quailed at the image of me standing there, with my funny hat and Steven Pinker book, while a SWAT team leaps out from the bushes screaming FREEZE !!!

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~ Commercial break ~

Relief for beleaguered Nook lovers!

http://murphybros.blogspot.com/p/read-murphy-on-your-nook.html

We now return you to your regularly scheduled essay.

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A legal footnote, though.  One of the menacing signs specified that the area was a no-go zone because it is PRIVATE PROPERTY (a.k.a., in Proudhon’s formulation, theft).  Only… On this side are the playing-fields, and yonder the interfaith center, both owned by the township: the very township to which we all pay taxes.  So how does this little isthmus become private?  Has Donald Trump taken to buying up tiny speculative properties in obscure strips of random woods?  Where are our rights as a free proud people, the sons and daughters of pilgrims and pioneers?  I ought to write the township about it.  As usual, I won’t.

[For more from this pen:  ]

http://www.linguasacrapublishing.com/justice.html

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