Life in the Cheese Drawer

i’m not sure i would file this under delight, but i find it interesting.

there’s a moment in the late spring when the frogs stop croaking. occasionally you’ll hear an outlier, but the symphony of peepers and croakers in the evening and early nighttime slowly dwindle to nothing after two months of chaos in the swamp.

there’s a moment in the early july when you hear the first cricket, maybe on a walk along a field with tall grass, or in the ditch while you drag your trash to the curb, but it’s singular and early in the evening.

then there’s a moment in mid- to late-july when the the birds have moved north and no longer swarm the trees, and the birds who do live locally are asleep early.

and it’s this moment when you step outside after the gloaming, and you hear no sign of life. no frogs, no crickets, no birds. it doesn’t last long and it’s nothing like the deep silence of winter, but it’s disconcerting nonetheless.

and then a few days later, the crickets start singing in the evenings into the nighttime, and in august the cicadas will start up.

but the silence of summer is the height, the shift. the sun no longer stays out past 9 p.m. the leaves are soaked in their chlorophyll. tips of sumac start turning red. motes of floating plant fuzz drift to find a spot of dirt to hibernate.

oh but don’t you dare come at me with fall vibes and pumpkin spice. it’s not sweater weather when it’s 90º in early september.

it was a hot and muggy day today, one of the hottest of the year, i’d bet. and likely one of the muggiest. even at work where the AC was running, the humidity crept in and made everyone sticky, and woe to those who had to do some work outside.

when i got home, i pulled out my paddleboard after taking it to a week-long lake excursion and inflated it, sweat flinging off my forehead (the electrical airpump is looking better every minute).

tossed that baby in the back of the truck and headed to lake sag at st. john’s.

the water was glass.

and only one fishing canoe on it – where were all the people?? not that i was complaining.

i slipped my sup into the water and glided so easily across it. the water was wonderful – not chilly or cold that would shock your body if you jumped in. i paddled to the middle of the lake and slipped over the side into the water. (made kind of a ruckus as i did and definitely disturbed the smooth surface.)

the water was lovely, with small sections of colder water as i swam around my paddleboard, floated on my back, and enjoyed not being hot.

and if i thought i made a ruckus getting in, it was even worse hauling myself onto the board! i made it, even after my calf cramped up.

then i took a paddle around the lake and found the loon family. they were floating in the lilypads, rolling onto their backs so their white bellies showed with feet flipping around in the air. the loon pair had two chicks this year, and it seems they are about young adult age. their brown fuzz isn’t completely gone, but their bellies are white and you can tell they are loons and not a fluffy brown blob.

then one of the young loons did the thing that loons do when they’re looking pretty in the water: flapped its wings and stretched out, like the photo below (not my pic!).

i left the loons to be solitary and then paddled over to the stella maris chapel and then back into the middle of the lake for another dip in the water before i headed out, creating a few more ripples on the flat surface of the lake.

i was camping at savanna portage state park and about an hour from duluth, so on my way home, i decided to just hop over that way before heading southwest.

i forgot how much in ENJOY the big lake. i drove north of duluth (which is always surprisingly more industrial than i think it should be) along the scenic route, stealing glimpses of the lake’s expanse as i drove farther and farther north.

i only went about 15 miles or so north of duluth and stopped at an historical marker (thanks norm wallace), which had a little path down to the lake.

the rocks were hot under the sun, but the lake was cool and clear, and it went on to the horizon. it doesn’t have the sound of the surf like an ocean, but it looks like the ocean. or maybe it just looks like the big lake.

i sat on the hot rocks in the sun with the lake before me for 10-15 minutes before i headed south again. i have to remember to go north to just look at the lake once in a while.

(one of my goals in the next few years is to go around the perimeter of lake superior, camping as i can along the way and stopping for some time in cour de’laine. maybe the other shores of the big lake will have the sound of the surf.)

mornings in the summer mean coffee on the patio.

the patio faces northwest, so the patio is in shade while i sit i my chair, either reading a book or scrolling on my phone. i hear birds, sometimes traffic from the freeway, and the rustle of leaves and other greenstuff. and it’s so pleasant to be able to sit out there, taking in all the warmth and green and loveliness that is spring, summer, and fall.

sophie likes to come hang out with me on the patio. she will flop over and enjoy the outdoors while mocking stan who is meowing from the door. (stan gets outside and tears off into the woods. no outside time for him.)

i have been slowly upping my patio game – in addition to a couple chairs and an end table. it started with solar lights hanging from the edge of the gutters. then i added a rug. the next year i added a better rug. this year i found a cushy ottoman and new pillows, as well as an offset umbrella for when it’s too bright on that side of the house. finally, a week ago, i got a fire table that my sisters bought me for my birthday.

patio mornings are when i can enjoy the stillness and possibilities of the day, opposite yet compatible (enhanced by coffee).

after a very wet spring, it’s been rainless for quite a while across minnesota. in april, my pond was overflowing, and now two months later, it’s halfway to empty. i let my lawn go for the month of may (no mow may) and mowed it on the 29th, and i haven’t touched it since, save a few spots where i needed to tame the thistle weeds. the parts of my lawn in full sun are very dry, brittle, and not green.

so when the forecast showed rain this weekend, i was happy yet hesitant, because i know how these normally go, especially with snow (9″! oh wait, 6″! oh wait, 3″? oh, well, you get .5″). then it rained thursday night, and friday it started to rain during the day, thundering and then starting a solid downpour.

i stood under my covered front entry and watched the rain run down my driveway and into the engineered watercourse that took it down to the pond. i watched the heavy rain overflow the gutters and start to spill over the edges. i listened to the rush of water from sky and hitting the ground. smiled as my plants got soaked with droplets.

it didn’t last very long, but it was something. and afterward, goldfinches swarmed the birdfeeder, which i’m still curious about.

after a humid break today (and a very sweaty run), there’s more rain to come tonight. i did yoga on the patio tonight, and i watched as a cloud meandered across the blue sky in the distance and listened to distant thunder, a harbinger of (good) things to come. i generally would like rain to show up during the week, or at least overnight, but at this point, i welcome rain at any time.

(good thing I didn’t name this daily delights.)

we have a woodchuck. the first time i saw her, i didn’t know what kind of rodent she was. sort of non-descript, really. no flashy tail, no special ears, nothing to differentiate her nose or feet. but bigger than a chipmunk, that was for sure!

then nate sent me a text with a pic: we have a woodchuck!!! (aka groundhog)

she has tunneled a home under the shed.

we’ve named her petunia.

some days when i come home, petunia is gallumping across the driveway to dive in her hidey hole, after having dug around in the flower bed.

and i’ve caught her chomping away at the leftovers in the compost pile (good for you, petunia).

so when i came home one day and saw my vegetable garden in disarray, i was dismayed. would this be the end of petunia? do i need to google how to get rid of woodchucks? install a fence only to have her tunnel under?

not only was the garden in disarray, but my baby honeycrisp tree had the leader broken off, hanging by a thread. that night i had a dream that it completely got bent over and i cried in my dream. i didn’t know i had such attachment to the tree.

but the next morning nate looked at the tree and said, there’s no way that was petunia. that was a deer.

stupid deers. continue to be a menace.

so i put some deer repellant (and other garden eaters will stay away) around the garden, and i still have to attend to the tree, but for now, petunia remains in her cozy tunnel under the shed and occasionally gallumps across the driveway when i come out the door or drive in.

after all, says nate, woodchucks were here first.

tonight i was taking a walk–during walks i always listen to podcasts instead of music–and on a fluke i played the most recent “this american life”, which i haven’t listened to in probably years.

one of the guests was ross gay, who compiled a small book of essay-ettes called “the book of delights.” example: carrying a tomato seedling through an airport. this book has been on my to-read list ever since john green recommended it in one of his videos, and now: 1) i definitely want to grab the book and 2) i’ve found some inspiration to do some sort of blogging.

*******

in the springtime, it’s always a surprise to be on a drive or a walk and see a sudden burst of tall color in the ditches where wild irises have sprouted up. sometimes they’re the traditional blue or purple, and other times they’re dark red or yellow. i’ve seen more wild irises this spring than i have in several years past.

tonight i almost missed them, off the side of the road as the cattails and other ditch detritus were already reaching to their full heights, as the sun was slanting slowly toward the horizon. i just happened to glance toward them and saw curves of purple from the corner of my eye – just some irises claiming a small spot in a ditch to push through to bloom.

irises always remind my of my uncle squire; he had a patch on the east side of his small house in austin, and for memorial day we’d cut some of the blooms on their sturdy stalks and take them to lay on the graves of people i’d never met but in stories and memories.