Last Tuesday morning a big, white truck pulled up outside our house and two beefy young fellows came to the door wheeling a furniture dolly. No words were necessary. I opened the door and gestured toward the old kitchen range, which I'd already moved out from the wall. Moments later they had it strapped on the dolly and were taking it out to the truck. As I watched it go, I couldn't help but feel conflicted.
During a recent foray to Florida, my wife and I kept running into people playing pickleball.
A week ago my wife and I walked down to the shore of the small lake we live near to see what was going on. Each spring, with the melting of ice and the greening of branches, we feel compelled to take inventory of returning life forms, most of whom happen to sport feathers, and to give them a hearty welcome. Nearing the edge of the pond we heard the unmistakable burble of a red-winged blackbird; a male, no doubt, come to lay claim to some choice territory from which to attract a mate.
In the first few pages of her newest book, "The Human Age," Diane Ackerman draws the following sketch of human history: "People who are recognizably human have walked the Earth for roughly two hundred thousand years. During those millennia, we survived by continuously adapting to our fickle environment. ... After a passage of time too long to fully imagine, we began rebelling against the forces of nature. We grew handy, resourceful, flexible, clever, cooperative. We captured fire, chipped tools, hewed spears and needles, coined language and spent it everywhere we roamed.
A recent conversation with a friend about the pros and cons of buying precious metals unearthed a mother lode of boyhood memories, all centered upon the actions of our next-door neighbor, Mr. Nielsen, and his intriguing quest for gold. At the time, our family lived in northern Illinois and the Nielsens lived across the street from us in a pleasant house with an attic. Like many other Long Lake dads, Mr. Nielsen took the daily commuter train to and from Chicago, where he worked as a Linotype operator. But his real passions lay elsewhere.
In his excellent book Second Nature, A Gardener's Education, Micheal Pollan offers some intriguing insights into a subject which has aggravated mankind for thousands of years: weeds. He begins by recounting his experiences as a novice gardener in love with "nature," dreaming of living off the bounties of the earth. At this stage his understanding of the natural processes is decidedly romantic. He will simply plant seeds and a magical garden will spring up. What springs up instead is a bumper crop of weeds.
March, as everybody knows, is a changeable time of the year, chock full of surprises. Of all months, March seems the most volatile. Each day brings something unexpected, now raising one's yearnings for spring, now dashing one's hopes in a sleet storm. But those who make records of things have found through the years that many events are in fact predictable during March. Reading Janine Benyus's 'Northwoods Wildlife', I discovered that much of what happens in March is upbeat and life affirming. According to Benyus, the reason for March's notorious snowstorms is rooted in rising temperatures.
Browsing through some yellowed clippings in a notebook the other day I came upon something by my old mentor, the late journalist Sydney Harris. Titled "How to Understand What's Going On," it offers a 10-question guide toward making sense of what's happening to the world today. 1. Start by taking a long, hard look at yourself to determine whether you have significantly altered your views or stance in the last 20 years, or even in the last decade. 2.
All good gardens start in February. Fortunately, this aspect of horticulture is not only the cheapest and least strenuous, but also the grandest, in that one's dreams may grow toward greatness unfettered by such paltry things as crabgrass or an insufficiency of fertilizer. This is the Walter Mitty phase of gardening, a wonderland of bumper crops and blue ribbons, a utopia unmarred by any blemish. In the garden of one's February dreams, the cabbages grow green as dollar bills and round as basketballs, undefiled by moth or worm.
Like many guys of my vintage, I grew up believing that a woman's place was in the home, keeping things tidy, cooking the meals, washing the clothes, supporting the husband and always being there for the kids. True, there were a handful of exceptions in our little town. My friend Pete's mom commuted to work full time as a proofreader for the World Book encyclopedia company.