Thwarted at Every Turn

I was at our most recent Book Club gathering when the woman next to me said to the group, "Did you hear about that Georgia father who forgot that his child was in the carseat and went to work? The child died. That poor father. What he must be going through." It was a couple of days after Book Club that they arrested and charged the man for allegedly murdering his only child by purposely leaving his toddler in a hot car to die from hyperthermia. Worse yet, the mother may have been complicit in the horrendous crime.

***

My husband's grandmother happily lived well into her nineties with nary a sick day nor any signs of stress, anxiety or depression. She immigrated from a Eurasian country to the USA where she lived on a small remote farm. She never quite got the hang of the English language. As a result she never watched the news nor read a newspaper. She lived in ignorant bliss of the world’s goings on as her family "sugar-coated" the current events for her as they arrived in the newspaper or on the six o’clock TV news show. Am I wrong to be envious of her? Or of the monks and nuns who choose a cloistered life?

I want to be well-informed, up on the latest pop culture, able to discuss current and past events in an intelligent manner at my book club.  But I feel, that at least for me, the big contributor to any stress or anxiety in my life comes from watching, reading or listening to the news. It's as if I hold 'be informed' in one open palm and 'be at peace' in the other, carefully weighing each to determine which is the better for me.

the informed me 

the blissfully ignorant me

***

I'm waiting in line at Casey's General Store, at 11:30 a.m. one weekday.  Bad timing as I find myself surrounded by hungry workers looking for food. Did I ever mention that there are no fast food restaurants anywhere near my home? Anyway, the young man in front of me, probably a worker from the crews repairing the local country roads, asks the cashier, "Where are the Five-Hours?" (-you know, those caffeinated energy drinks that the millennial generation seem to favor?) "Behind you on that shelf to your right," she points to a nearby area. He leaves his place in line and stands staring at the shelf, with that glazed-eyed look males often demonstrate when staring into a refrigerator. Shrugging he walks back empty-handed. She says, "You were right there." He goes back to the same spot and she says, "To your right." He turns a quarter left. "No, the other way." Now he does a 180º turn. "No, go back to where you were. They're right there." He turns to his original spot, puts his arm forth and from there she directs his hand, "Down one shelf. Now, just six inches to right of your right hand." Finally he locates the correct spot and selects a small bottle. The farmer behind me quips, "Better grab two of those, son." We all enjoy a hearty laugh, including the young man, who chortles, "Well, at least I got the extra strength."

As I inch my way up in line, and I mentally debate whether or not I really need this gallon of milk patiently wait, I glance at the papers on the local newsstand. It's there I see the Rockford Register Star headline article: Infant Wasn't South Beloit Mom's First to Die...

How I wish I hadn’t looked down. And now it's a battle within my brain. You'd think I'd know better by now.

Did I learn when I read the newspaper article about some nitwit guy the Chicago police arrested after he completely bound his two-year-old daughter's body in duct tape and then idiotically posted it on FaceBook with the caption, "This is what happens when my baby doesn't listen." For days I tossed and turned, the photo of a duct-taped angel seemingly permanently etched in my memory? No, I didn’t learn. And oh, that poor little girl...

Even at this very moment, I can still visualize the police mugshot of the South Beloit mother on the Rockford Register. And even though I didn't read the article, I can't stop fretting about some poor infant, and I don't even know exactly what happened, except that he or she is dead. And that, yet another parent has willfully harmed or killed their own child. Why? Why? Why-why-why-why-why-why-why?

Yet, there is a part of me that retains some insane child-like curiosity. Why would someone do this? Should I tune in Nancy Grace? Get all of the morbid details? Is it worth a month of sleepless nights?  "No," I argue with myself, "it's too much. You've never been good at squelching those negative images and the corresponding pain." And if fact, R, you have a knot in the pit of your stomach right now, just writing this part of the blog.

***

I had a dentist appointment yesterday. The dental group has a state-of-the-art, flat screen television playing in the waiting room. Now, I’m certain that there is some benevolent reason, like this dental group feels it will distract and perhaps even relax the waiting patients. In fact, my physicians’ offices do the same thing. The problem is that the TVs always seemed tuned to those perpetual news programs, like CNN or FoxNews. So of course, at some point I glance up. And I see it: an earthquake has struck the Honshu province of Japan, not terribly far from Fukushima. I feel myself beginning to grind my teeth, bruxism my dentist calls it. She's outfitted me with a mouth guard to wear at night to prevent wear on my teeth. Okay, Dr. A, then please help me out in the daytime by banning news channels from playing in your waiting room. Have pity on sensitive, teeth-gnashing souls such as me.

There are laws that forbid smoking in public spaces. And tobacco is a good analogy here, if you think about it. I mean, if people want to use that stuff and slowly kill themselves, be my guest, but please don't pollute my airways. And while you’re at it, turn off your TVs and don't pollute my brainwaves.

I do pretty well maintaining my life with a minimum of anxiety and stress. So, as I sit in the dentist office I begin to wonder if we humans are somehow hard-wired for stress and anxiety. What are the odds that I pick up an out-dated waiting room copy of  Psychology Today with an article that says indeed, we are… "Why We Can't Just Get Rid of Anxiety and Distress." In the article I learn how the anxiety-induced adrenalin surge helped our ancestors when facing saber-toothed tigers and such. I guess I get that, it helps me when my brain says to me: "Quickly get as far away as possible from that guy, who is talking to himself and has his arm inside of a full-length trench coat and sports a stocking cap even though it is 97º and sunny outside."

The article also goes on to say:

...some research... suggests that suppressing thoughts while in a negative mood makes it more likely both the thoughts and the negative mood will reoccur.

So, that's my problem? The squelching? The suppression? ...The hygienist comes to get me before I finish the article. But not before I catch a teaser for an upcoming article:

"Become the CEO of Your Own Brain in Six Easy Steps"

I've been wrestling for control of my brain for 60+ years.  Look out, brain, because it looks like very soon, and I mean any minute now, I'll be taking charge. I think the first thing I'll do when I take over is to give myself a million dollar bonus.

Lists and Listlessness

I have a friend and a sister who are both masterfully practiced in the art of constant "busy-ness." They both have jobs that require them to travel often. And thus, one could see that their days would often be jam-packed with activities. But, I know that even if they were not busy they would make themselves busy. "Multi-taskers" is what they're called.

For instance, on a stormy night, even though she is completely caught up on her tasks, and there is nothing else to do, my sister will turn on her DVR to "catch up" on her favorite recorded television shows; but she won't sit down to relax and watch just the television programs, you know, give it her full attention? No, she will pull out her iron and ironing board and press all of her work clothing or her golf outfits for the following week. She's an avid golfer, who walks the entire course while her golf partner drives the cart, so she can multitask by getting walking exercise in with her golf. My friend, likewise, would figure a way to cook during her "downtime." For instance, she would probably make some healthy do-ahead meals for the week and at the same time pull out her sewing or knitting to work on while the food is cooking or baking.

And although neither of them would admit it, I bet they both think they are just a teeny bit better than sloths like me. They might choose to knit a scarf in their spare time, while I choose to knit thoughts in my head, most having little to do with reality. I’m more protective of my personal time. My time, now that I'm retired, may be spent daydreaming while staring slack-jawed off into space, much, I'm certain to my multitaskers' horror and, let's face it, disgust.

***

As a younger person, I had a pretty awesome memory. Not so much anymore. So I've become a list maker. I purchased this application that I use on my Mac laptop, my IPad and my IPhone. It's called "Evernote." If I type my notes in, the app will conveniently store my notes in a cloud somewhere, which I can later pull up on whichever device I have at hand. It's a pretty nifty tool. It has certainly helped me to reduce the piles of paper that seem to perpetually surround me like the dust that envelops the Charlie Brown character, "Pigpen."

Still, at any given moment, I have "old-fashioned" handwritten paper notes around. Like a list of science fiction I wish to read. Someday...

Or lists of possible titles for blog ideas floating in my brain.

But, sometimes I can't remember what inspired the title… like "The Pharmacy Queen"??
What the heck is that? I've no recall. 

Or lists of plants suitable for thriving in an area abundant with deer, rabbits, gophers and other plant-devouring mammals.

and this list…

becomes this...

Or this...

and I sometimes draw out this list and then the plans get muddy in the field.

I frequently make lists of menu ideas when we are expecting guests. This week I'm expecting both a vegetarian and an absolute meat-lover, so it gets a bit trickier. I try to recall what I've most recently served them and plan to prepare something different. So, lists help with that, too. I used to be able to remember every dish I served to every friend or family member on any given occasion. When those memories began to fog, I switched to lists.

Lists like this have always helped me with my shopping.

It takes time to plan a menu, shop for ingredients, prep and cook the food. Lists help. Especially when the nearest decent grocery store is over twenty miles away. There is no running at the last minute to buy a forgotten ingredient, nor is there much hope that a nearby store will have the forgotten ingredient.

Much to my husband's dismay, I rarely worry about the cost of the foods I purchase for entertaining. I know what foods my family and friends enjoy and I like to serve those foods. Be it for two or twelve or twenty, I enjoy feeding people. Some people have big bankrolls and can take guests out to eat at expensive restaurants. Not me. And even if I did, there are few acceptable restaurants within a 30 mile radius of our home. So planning and prepping and cooking is my way of nourishing the people I care about.

And I don't mind one bit when guests arrive and one of the first things they ask me is, "What's on the menu?"

Regarding Beauregard

Psst… Yeah, you! Remember me? Your blog?

I'm the blog that you vowed you'd write and post to every week. Or at the very least, every month? Doesn't ring a bell, huh?

***
My blog reminds me of my garden, which I am looking at right now from my window. Life happens, I become busy or otherwise preoccupied and it shows signs that it will shrivel and die without my immediate attention.

***

I have an hour or so before I pack up and travel to Chicago for a three-day visit. Hmm, what should I write about? Let's see, it's Father's Day. Personally, I have nothing to draw from there, as my own father left my life when I was but a tot. I don't feel scarred from the event as I was too young to remember much. Mom remarried a few years later and my step-father was a nice man.

Borrringgg...

***

As I sit gazing at weeds that I'm just itching to pluck, I remember Beauregard...

But, that's the way Beau is. I won't see nor hear from or about him in years when suddenly he'll pop up either in person or in my thoughts. Most recently I saw him a year ago last November when he came to my older sister's funeral...

A group of us were standing amongst the timber on the woodsy side of the graveyard, waiting for the arrival of the guy who was going to preside over the burial service, when Beau pulled up in a beat up minivan. Out piled five adults and a little kid, about four years old. Beau and his entourage ambled up the slight incline, greeting folks as they made their way toward me.

Beau is much taller than me, so when he approached, he had to stoop down to kiss my cheek, where he said softly near my ear, "Hey, it's good to see you." Then aloud, "You remember my daughter, T*****? This is her husband, A****** and their son, W******. And you know the boys," as he gestured to his two, now grown, sons.

Over the years I'd seen Beau's children only periodically, like when they were just babies, then when they were toddlers, next when they were preteens. Here they were standing before me as adults.

I swallowed, smiled at Beau and said, "Congratulations, Grandpa!" and turned to chat a bit with his offspring when the presider arrived and herded us together to begin the service.

"Aren't you freezing?" I asked him after the ceremony, as he stood in the cold November Wisconsin air, hatless and wearing a only a shirt, sweater, slacks and, of course socks and shoes. He laughed, "You forget I work in a meat cooler all day long. I'm impervious to cold." The service ended, but he couldn't stay for the meal afterward, "Gotta get the kids back to their homes."

Beauregard is a dozen years younger than me. His mother and my mother were as "thick as thieves" as children and remained friends as adults as they both happened to relocate in Chicago. Beau grew up in a slightly seedier side of the Uptown neighborhood where we both lived. He attended a nearby public school, while I went to a Catholic school in the nicer adjoining neighborhood of Edgewater.

I saw him a lot when he was in grammar school, but not much in his high school years, as I had married by then and moved away from the old neighborhood. Every now and then I'd ask my mom how he was doing. He was a good kid and I don't remember him ever being a bit of trouble for his mother. When Beau was a junior in high school he met a girl and they began to keep regular company. By his senior year she was pregnant. After graduation they married and took a small, one-bedroom apartment not too far from his mother's place. Beau began working for a painting contractor and his wife stayed home to raise their daughter, and soon-to-come son. She was pregnant with a third child when Beau came home one day to find his wife doing drugs with Beau's then friend, Larry.

I heard most of this second-hand through my mom, apparently they tried to work on the health of their relationship and family, but after some attempts to get her act together and stay clean, Beau realized his wife was pretty much a hopeless case. So one day, with no protest from their mother, he packed up the two preschoolers and the infant son, who, as it turned out, was Larry's child. He moved them lock, stock and barrel to a small midwestern town just over 300 miles away, population 100,000. He didn't know anyone in the new town, but had visited there once as a child and he remembered thinking then that it seemed like "a wholesome place to grow up." My mother saw him before he moved and he told her, "As far as I can see, there is nothing good that can come from keeping these kids in Chicago."

In the new town he rented a house, got a job at a local meat packing plant and enrolled the kids in preschool/daycare. After they moved, I didn't see Beau again until he brought his now preteen children to my mother's funeral. But God, they were beautiful, well dressed, well-mannered, gorgeous little angels!

He told me then, that on occasion, he'd brought the kids to the city to visit their mother, but that she continued to struggle with substance abuse issues. The children were doing well in their small town school, and at the time, his daughter was soon to begin high school. We asked him if there were any of my mother's personal effects that would be of use to him or the kids.

"Well, the kids could use a computer for their school work."
"Done! It's theirs. Say, do you need any dishes or kitchen equipment?"
"I don't know, let's ask the kids, they're the ones that have to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. Hey, guys, do you want anymore pots and pans to clean?"
The children laughed and, in unison, shook their heads.

At that moment I realized that he was one of the greatest men and fathers that I would ever know.

When my older sister was diagnosed with stage-four cancer, Beau called to ask about her. Again it had been years since I'd heard from or about him. As we chatted he updated me on his now grown children. I started to cry. 

He reassured me that there was still hope for my sister. "I'm not crying about her," I said, "I'm crying tears of joy for what you did for those kids of yours. You are amazing. I have the greatest respect for you and I want you to know that I am proud to know you."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Now where did that come from? I'm quite taken aback. But, thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me."

Happy Fathers Day, Beauregard!!! 

Scenes from My Backyard, Part Two: Young Blood and Old Farmers

I could swear I just heard that same snap, crackle and pop noise that I heard in the sports doctor's office I'd visited years back, armed with an MRI showing a small tear in my ACL. As the doctor gazed at the previous report, he asked: "Do you ever experience pain in your joints?" "No." "How about stiffness in your joints?" "Sometimes in the morning but it goes away quickly upon stretching." "Any clicking or other sounds when you move?" "Nope." He points to a 3-step block on the floor, "Would you step up on this, please?"

In the quiet of his office the crackling and popping of my ankles and knees seemed to resound. I chuckled, "Well, I guess my joints do make some noise." The doctor shook his head in amusement, "You're like an old farmer who's riddled with arthritis, but has a high pain threshold, so when you ask him about pain or discomfort he says, 'No, Doc, no pain at all!' "

***

He arrived bundled for warmth one spring morning. I'd never seen him before, but his red-checked hat reminded me of my grandfather.

I'm familiar with the regular crew. Although they are all cross-trained for each task, they each have their own regular specialty. For instance there is my nemesis, the tee-box mower. He has it in for me, I could swear. When I golf in the early morning, I'll frequently happen upon him as he is in the midst of his work. He will politely move his mower to the side and idle the motor in neutral, so that it is quiet as I tee-up, address and swing, but the very instant, and I mean the very nanosecond my club makes contact with the ball, he engages the gears and revs up the engine. It's the knowledge that he will consistently do this that tenses me up. It takes every bit of my meditation and relaxation powers to focus on the drive alone and obliterate any thought of him. But Nemesis is an exception, as the rest of our grounds crew are unfailingly considerate and well-mannered.

Greens are, weather-dependant, mowed every day. Since the green is right outside my back door, I've observed many a green mowing over the past couple of years. So, with curiosity I watched this new guy pull up on the mower.

Like I said he is wearing a woolen red plaid hunting hat, plus earmuffs, a Carhartt jacket and good work gloves as he drives the mower to a spot beside the green itself, just past the the  collar. Here he stops the mower and begins to disembark. I notice that he is a slight man, about 5' 7'' or so and probably not weighing more that 145 pounds, soaking wet. He's quite a bit older than the regular greens mower, I'm guessing he's a few years closer to 70 than I am. I immediately wonder how they found this guy. He's probably retired, looking for a little extra income, maybe even a retired farmer. Farmers usually have extensive mowing experience.

I know well the stiffness of arthritis and it's clear this guy has it. It is slowly and with painstaking effort that he lifts that first leg off of the mower. In fact he uses both hands to lift his thigh up and give his leg a boost to get it going in the right direction, and that's when I could swear I heard the snap-popping of his joints from the comfort of my kitchen chair, as I sipped my coffee and watched.  Finally with both feet on the ground he stretches and arches his back, then walks over, retrieves the flag and brings it back to the mower, where he starts up the engine and begins to mow.

Now right off the bat, this is different from the young fellow who usually mows the green. Young Blood hits the ground running, so to speak, by never stopping the mower, and grabbing the flag on the fly during one of his mowing passes. He then drops the pin back into the cup the same way, on the fly, two passes later, quick and efficient. The contrast in speed and time spent makes me worry for the viability of the old ex-farmer's job.

But, there is another component to greens keeping, more important than the quickness with which the task is completed… it is the eventual way your ball will play on the green, the speed with which your ball will travel, the uniformity, the holding ability, why the very integrity of the finely mown grass are all critical to the person putting. While the science of greens maintenance is crucial, such as how often to water, type of grass, aeration, fertilization, etc., the refined and precise art to properly mowing a green is at least equal in importance. And it's here, where Old Farmer beats out Young Blood every time.

The finest, skilled greenskeepers originally came from Scotland. Is it a coincidence that this golf course shares a zip code with Lanark, the ancient city of Scotland? Perhaps this Old Farmer has some Scottish genes?

His zen-like movements are like watching meditation in motion, like his raising and lowering of the mower blades when he exits or enters the green. His turns are always completely off the collar and apron. His cuts are straight as an arrow. I especially enjoy watching how he leans the top half of his body off of the mower with his eyes glued to the sight of the edge of the mower blade. And he never skips the final step, the cleanup pass (as Young Blood others are known to do).

The cleanup pass is where it's easy to make a mistake. But if you don't do it, over time you can actually shrink a green, or make a collar larger, depending on how you look at it. And many's the time I'll spot a shaggy green edge in the morning when Old Farmer is not on the job. The morning dew is a dead giveaway for a skipped cleanup pass.

Also, Old Farmer is the only greens mower here that I've ever seen make a visual inspection of his results. It's here, as he slowly walks over to replace the flag, that he'll fix anything that is not up to his standards, like the hand picking up of any bits of grass that clump with the dew and fail to make it to the catch bin. I've come to appreciate him as the quintessential greens mower. It's as if he's the greens tender for the Master's at Augusta, or something. Yup, a greens mower must love the finished product. And when Old Farmer is on the job our greens receive a "spot on" coddling.

But, to me the best thing is the difference, after two years on the job, in Old Farmer's movements. He now hops easily on and off the mower, his movements are quicker and have a more youthful ease. Coming out of retirement was probably the best thing for Old Farmer. I know he's the best thing for our greens.

a final pass

a walking inspection

Scenes from My Backyard

With his bright vermillion hair, all slicked-back, it looks like he’s wearing an iridescent red cap. His quick and erratic, albeit graceful moves are almost artful and definitely meant for evasion, I'm thinking. Finally finding a suitable spot he stops, but his head turns quickly side to side, like a dope dealer checking for the narcs. Unsatisfied that the area is safe at the moment, he darts away, only to appear again just moments later.

***

They are the oddest family and new to the neighborhood this year. They remind me of a cartoon show and comic book I viewed back in the late 1950s. As a child I enjoyed seeing Baby Huey's comparatively petite parents struggle with their sumo wrestler-sized offspring, whose strength and bearing would eventually wind up damaging some piece of furniture or belonging in the process. Oh, the blind love of parents… I can't help myself and pick up the binoculars to get a better look at these new guys in the area. I just find it fascinating that they don't seem to notice that their baby is a bit, hmmm, well "different," I guess is how I'd put it.

***

***

They call it "brood parasitism" when the cowbird deposits her eggs in another's nest.

This warbler will feed and raise the larger fledgling cowbird as if it were her own.

Things That Make You Go...

Practically anyone I care to hear from is programmed into my cell phone, which just rang. I look to see who's calling and see an "815" prefix. This means it's local, someone from our new-home area. I recall that just a couple of days ago Barb had me write down my contact information. She has an "815" prefix. I like Barb, she's one of the first people I met when we bought our house out here. But, I could swear I programmed her info...

"Hello."

"Hi, Rae, it's Barb."

From the voice I know that it's a different Barb than I'd thought. This Barb is the head of the women's golf league, which held a sign-up event just the night before.

"Rae, we didn't see you at the sign-up for ladies' golf. Were you planning to join us this year?"

"No, Barb. I'm skipping league this year. I'll golf this year, but just for fun with friends and family."

Her voice changes to a subdued tone, "Now I understand you had a bad experience last year, and I'm sorry for that."

This last comment of hers sends me into a fit of laughter that I manage to stifle to a snicker as I gasp out, "I did?!" All the while I’m wishing someone had shared with me the details of this bad experience of mine. I can only imagine that it's a juicy tidbit.

A couple of people had asked me why I quit the women's golf league last year. My response was always that I found that "league" play took the fun out of the game for me, to say nothing of elongating the time of a sport that already takes a long time.

***

If you don't like to be talked about, do not move to a small town-like community. But, I really don't mind, I guess.

And I get that whole "Harper Valley PTA" thing. I kind of do the same thing myself. You know, conjure up suppositions. The only difference being, I guess, is that I don't share these hypotheses of mine with anyone. Well except for, occasionally, my trusted husband. But, he's used to me and my conjectures.

Like for example, this couple, I have in mind. A couple I consider to be an odd match. They say "there's a lid for every pot", but… Anyway this couple lives out here. For purposes of anonymity, I'll call them Sam and Syd, with Sam being the husband and Syd the wife.

For almost two solid years I can't recall ever seeing them together. Most often, I see Sam. He   shows up at different events and he always has some excuse for Syd being off doing something else.

On the other hand, if I attend a women-only event, there is Syd, sans Sam, of course.

I noticed both of their names together on a sign-up sheet, for our annual "Lake Clean Up." But, come the actual event only Syd showed up, with Sam being "sick."

My husband and I were golfing with Sam one day. I can’t remember how we got on the subject of sleeping, but Sam mentioned something about sleeping alone. When I asked "What about Syd?" he quickly explained that he and Syd had separate sleeping quarters, due to Sam's excessive snoring.

But, the event that set my crazy mind to wondering was the day when I was shopping, in a town some 50+ miles away, and there was Sam in the women's department of an apparel store. I did a double-take as I saw him pulling some yoga pants, with a hot-pink neon trim, taut against his waistline. With the pants draped down, he lifted one leg and turned his ankle, to get a look at an angle of where the hem fell. Just like a woman might check for fit and length. He looked up and spotted me. He smiled sheepishly and said, "Syd's just a bit smaller than me and I wanted to see if these would fit her." I didn't respond verbally. I couldn’t. My head was swirling as it all came together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I stood there, nodding I'm sure with my mouth agape. With a wink, Sam said, "It's a surprise gift. So, don’t you tell her."

When I got home I asked my husband, "Have you ever seen Sam and Syd together?" My trusted husband was reading at the time. He put his book down, lowered his reading glasses, looked at me and said, "I'm sorry. What?"

"You know, Sam and Syd. Have you ever seen both of them at the same time and in the same place? Think hard, now. And I'm talking Clark Kent and Superman, here. Have you ever seen them together at one time and in the same place?"

He looked off for a moment, then turned back to me and said, "Sure. Weren't they both at the "Winter Festival?"

"No. Remember, Sam told us Syd was out-of-town for that conference, or something."

"How about "Snow Golf? I remember having a lengthy conversation with Syd."

"Yes! But, do you recall that Sam was not there?!"

"Oh, that's right."

My trusted husband paused for a moment more and said, "No, I guess now that you mention it, I never have seen them together." He readjusted his glasses, picked up his book to resume reading, them abruptly put it down again. He looked at me with incredulity, "Surely, you're not suggesting..."

Oh, but aren't I?

Springing Up All Over

This year Old Man Winter was rough on us, in the rural upper-northwest corner of Illinois, so any signs of spring are welcome. Well, maybe not so much the smell from the hog farm just a couple of miles away (as the crow flies and the wind blows.)

When we lived in the city a sign of spring might be: the return of the cart food vendors and street musicians, the ice cream store reopening, the last of the tiny melting mounds of soot-blackened snow, or the runners along the lake front donning shorts once again.

The cooler temperatures still linger here but, I'm heartened by signs that warmer weather is soon to arrive in our corner of the world, like another nearby farm that sheared their ewes in preparation for lambing (shearing makes it easier for the babies to find the udder, I'm told), or the return of the bluebirds and red-wing blackbirds. My husband is relieved that the mailbox is no longer in jeopardy of being knocked over by the snow plow.

This week I noticed the hyacinths and other early perennials poking through the ground...

Speaking of rising up from the ground, spring always reminds me of a story John once told me. John was the "jack-of-all-trades" that the Sisters of Charity employed at their suburban Chicago "Mallinckrodt" motherhouse, named for their German foundress. The nuns were downsizing to just one or two small buildings and a small plot of land, having sold most of their acreage and their huge school/dormitory to the university, where I was employed. The university would use the space to open a satellite campus.  Part of the contract stipulated that the university must hire John, with full university benefits. John's work had been essential to the sisters over many years. He knew the grounds and buildings like the back of his hand, so it was almost a win-win situation they claimed. The nuns would have no worries that their loyal assistant would be unemployed and the university would have the benefit of an honest, dependable and capable man who already knew the nuts and bolts of the operation (and I'm pretty sure the cunning sisters had reckoned that this type of situation would assure keeping John nearby for when they needed his help.)

The nuns were correct about one thing, John seemed able to fix anything. He was an electrician, a plumber, a carpenter, a machine mechanic, and I think he even worked on the nuns cars. He had a roomy, well-equipped and orderly workshop in the basement of the school building.

If I needed to place a work order or arrange a catered event with the staff chef, there were university protocols in place, such as voice mail or online requests. But I always liked, if time permitted, to make my request in person. It never hurts to schmooze, I always say.

On one of those days of kibitzing, John told me the story of the burial casket. It seems one of the nuns had died in the winter and the ground was semi-frozen. Did I mention that John also was a grave digger for the nuns' on-property cemetery? Anyway, John told the nuns that he would place the deceased sister's casket in a holding vault, to be buried when the ground was properly thawed in May. The sisters, believing John to be capable of miracles, insisted he could think of some way to get the nun immediately buried. So, John, using a portable heater and tenting to warm the ground, did the best he could. When the spring thaw came, it was accompanied by unusually heavy rains. "It was Easter Sunday," John said, shaking his head, "when the dear departed sister's coffin popped up right through the soil."

And do you know that golf balls also pop up in the spring? During the golf season a ball might become, figuratively, not literally, buried in the rough. These golf balls are sometimes then run over by a golfer driving a cart willy-nilly, as he frantically searches for his ball in the area he last saw it. The weight of the cart, two golfers and two sets of clubs, further buries the ball, this time literally. The ground freezes and contracts in the winter, sucking the ball in even more. But come spring, come the melting of snow, the thawing of soil and the heavy rains, up pops the ball. Why it's almost miraculous!

For my husband and I, spring is one of our two annual ball hawking ventures. We live on a golf course that is closed from December 1, until April 1, weather dependent. When  closed, we walk the course twice a year to look for lost and unclaimed balls. We usually go in early December and then again just before the course opens in April. The spring season is when I spy my favorite finds, the balls just peeking up from the ground, right between the first and second cut of rough, just off the fairway.

We clean the balls and reuse them. We have a friend who visits, who can easily go through a couple of dozen balls in 18 holes of golf and it helps to have a bunch on hand for him. The grandkids have fun playing with a large assortment of balls, and because they’re young they still enjoy washing the golfballs for us. On occasion I have found my own ball, which I'd lost the summer before.

A gift from a loved one, special ball-finding glasses

And sometimes when you're looking for golfballs, you find other signs of spring like an antler shed.

***

bend, tee up my ball

breathe, swing, making good contact

smile, watching it soar

Ev'ry ball starts as

a shot delivered hope-filled

but some hook or slice

lost ball, where’d it go?

mourned, then found again, revived

reused, then re-lost

first sign of spring here,

confession from a ball hawk,

thaw heaves up golf balls