Nighttime Kayaking

Tonight the river was black, the sky sparkling with diamonds, as we kayaked home from the rapids about a quarter mile upstream.  No moonlight made our take-out more challenging than usual, and no use trying to dodge the poison ivy patches.  We had to wonder why we wait a year between these excursions.

Perhaps this seems like nonsense to people who persist in fighting over ancient history, religious differences, contrasting genes and other things they think divide them.  How sad.

Dark Months

I entered a land of natural tinsel as I began the climb to Arrowhead Lodge this morning.  Looking out the Lodge windows, I see why a superintendent of schools might cancel classes.  All the tree branches are coated, like ubiquitous glass paperweights.  On days like today I entertain second thoughts about our decision not to install code-compliant railings around our deck.  A slip-and-slide could land me humpty-dumptied in Opossum Run -- and no one would find me for hours.

Down on our little farm, occasional balls of sleet had begun to join the raindrops minutes before I left.  If I were blindfolded and transported roundabout one location to the other, I might think they were in different gardening zones.  One spring day not long ago I ran from the cabin, warm in shorts and a tee shirt until the valley floor, 20 degrees colder, coaxed me to a faster pace.  Typically, we have 3 or 4 frosts on the farm before the first one on the mountain, but in the summertime we can count on the cabin for cooling off.

As I prepare to practice piano, it sounds as if a million toy soldiers are fighting battles on our metal roof.  The creek drones a persistent pedal point.  Otherwise, the woods wait, silent, for Spring.

"You could use better ears," says Virginia.  "All sorts of things are happening out there.  They may look dead, but the woods aren't waiting."

That's what pulls me through January and the "hungry month" of February -- that, and, I'm told, Omega-3 fatty acids.  (Some folks prescribe lots of fish, free-range eggs, and pasture-raised meats, great bearers of healthful nutrients, to battle winter blahs.)

Nursery Time

After a month of unusually cold, white weather, a warm spell speaks Spring.  Of course, it's a tease.  Fortunately, the nights remain cold enough not to coax the flora into premature rebirth.  As my posting yesterday ("Where the Rubber Hits the Road") suggested, animals may be stupid but plants are not.

Have you ever met an unkind plant?  Virginia steps up to the microphone, "Poison ivy?"  My view on that is a repeat of something I posted a few days ago ("Taking Responsibility") -- if you're too lazy or stupid to recognize and avoid, or wash off, poisons, don't blame the plant.

"What about weeds?" Virginia asks.  Yes, sometimes uninvited plants greatly aggravate me, but even they aren't mean or unkind.  They're simply complicatedly inconvenient, which by definition is what a weed is.

"Bananas," my sister might suggest.  I love bananas, but she wants to form an online Society of Banana Haters, people who think even the smell of a banana is hazardous to their health.  My friend, Mike, used to have a similar problem with celery, although he seems to have aged into tolerance.  One of the SBH mottos would be "Bananas are mean."  I won't touch this one.  How can you argue with such an extremely skewed perspective?

The point is, Spring-like weather portends a kinder world.  My first 2010 seed packets arrived yesterday and I'm itching to get this year's garden growing.  The warm sunshine has melted most of our white blanket and uncovered my November planting of garlic.  It's time to start the earlies on windowsills -- things like broccoli, cauliflower and onions -- so in March they can keep the garlic company.  A couple months after that, my gardens will be overflowing with friendly plants, co-existing in a way animals (humans, anyway) apparently cannot.

"I thought you said plants don't need human help," says Virginia.

"I may have gotten carried away," I say.  "Some of them do better with a little help from friends."

"Otherwise, they get crowded out, just like animals," says Virginia.

"Good point," I surrender.  "They both have their good points.  Why must it always be 'us vs. them'?"

Mountain Climbing

The day I blogged tubular ("Tubular," December 21, 2009) I neglected the orange, yellow, green and black tubes we retrieve from the barn loft to float down the James River. Last night, Adam and a friend found a different use for those toys. For pictures, click on Karen's blog, Holes in My Jeans, in the right margin of my blog, and go to "Sledding in the new year" (January 2, 2010).

The James River Face rises three thousand feet above the pasture in those pictures. I read recently that many millions of years ago these mountains were taller than Mt. Everest is today. At the south end of our valley, Thunder Ridge guards our cabin, Arrowhead Lodge. Today Thunder Ridge is a mystery I have an urge to explore.

It's too cold for such a long walk and the ice-crusted snow might toss me into a hospital (or morgue). When the snow melts, I'd like to head up there with a friend to feast on overlooks. The only friend willing to join me, unless I import one from somewhere else (Victor, Rick, are you there?), is my cellphone. (I hear fake violins playing.)

If I were to make a new year's resolution, it would have something to do with these mountains and woods. In them, I can run 20 miles without being passed by a car or truck and, as I go, deadlines and commitments fade into nothingness or I laugh at the stress-less-ness of my life compared to what used to be. But I don't have to walk or run 20 miles for this. I could step onto our porch or patio, settle into a hammock or lawnchair and watch the mountains fret and the forest mend.

"Your garden would beckon," says Virginia. "You couldn't simply sit."

Could I prove her wrong?

Finity

PopPop, age 95, prepared Thanksgiving dinner for several of his ten children. "Let's say grace," he said. "Thank you for giving me another day to cook dinner for my family." Later, one of his great-grandchildren said, "I wonder what it's like to wake up every morning and be grateful to be alive one more day."

I used to go to bed knowing I would wake up the next morning. I didn't doubt it. Now I'm not as sure, although I'm very hopeful. I have aged into the uncertainty of infinity. Some of us are becoming more and more hopeful that infinity will know us, everlasting. At the same time we are growing to value the finiteness of the present.

If we're going to use religion to guide our behavior and we believe in the sanctity of human life, I don't know how we can ignore most of the people who will ever exist -- our descendants. Our great-grandchildren need our help. It's not a matter of believing or not believing that humans are contributing to the end of the Earth as we know it. All we need to know is simple arithmetic. If we're running out of food, we don't wait until our cupboards are bare. We plan ahead. The earth contains a finite amount of coal and petroleum. If we continue to use them the way we're using them now, they will run out.

Most young people view life as endless, even though they "know" it is not. We know this because yesterday we were young. They deserve our help and our planning, now. They are worth our investment.

"I sang into an overlook this afternoon," says Virginia. "No one but I heard me, except maybe some wildlife. Sometimes I wonder if I hear myself."

Happy New Year!