Fickle March

The wind is blustery today in the Valley, and it's just as well that Gladys stayed behind in the garage. As I turn the corner heading south, February slaps me in the face. I'm glad I wore the wool cap and gloves on this jaunt. There will be no swallows today silhouetted against the banks of thick gray clouds. Smoke drifts from the chimney of the Streutker homestead. A woodfire day for sure.

In spite of the wintry weather birds abound in the Valley today, especially the robins. They are everywhere: in the trees, berry fields, pastures or en route to those places. Today Tualco Valley would be a delight for Rachel Carson: no Silent Spring here.

The corner at Swiss Hall has coughed up another penny: 1974, Denver mint. Traffic has abraded Abe's face considerably, heaping more insult upon J. W. Booth's injury. When you think about it, the Lincoln penny as a talisman of good luck seems a bit ironic. I wonder what Mary Todd Lincoln would have to say about that kind of luck? And I wonder what sort of luck today's find will bring me? Hopefully nothing as severe as Lincoln experienced at the performance of My American Cousin.

On the return route I see a northern harrier (Circus cyaneus). This time of year they frequent the Valley, flying up and down the rows of wrapped berry canes as if cruising the aisles of a supermarket looking for small birds, rodents, and frogs. Harriers are raptors termed "accipiters" and are characterized by their slim bodies, long, slender wings and tail. They are open ground and marshland fliers, gliding effortlessly low over the earth in search of prey. It's a delight to watch them float, using the air currents to move rapidly, covering large areas of ground with little wing movement. The British named their vertical thrust jet fighter, the AV-8A, after the harrier hawk because of its versatile flight capabilities. The Harrier Jump jet can take off and land vertically like a helicopter because of the vertical tilt function of its engines. The similarity ends there, of course; the northern harrier is a silent hunter powered not by jet engines but currents of air.

There is always something different in the Valley and today I notice Ed's new mailbox standard. It is a masterful blend of carpentry, geometry, and 6 x 6's. All it needs is a coat of paint.

Swallow Watch

March 9, 2010, 1:10 p.m.

I'm on swallow watch today as I have been the past few days in early March. March is swallow month, and they always appear in the Valley before the month exits like a lamb. It has been a mild winter here and an early spring. Swallow time, anytime, any day. And today I see my first pair of violet-greens at ten minutes after one p.m. They appear, as always, high in the SW sky, re-entering the Valleysphere for the first time this year. The saying goes: "One swallow does not make a spring." That may be so, but one swallow will last me until the lilacs bloom.

The violet-greens (Tachycineta thalassina)appear first. A month or so later tree swallows( Tachycineta bicolor)make their entrance. Last on the scene are the forked-tailed barn swallows (Hirondu rustica). In the fall the three species leave the Valley in reverse order.

The violet-greens' yearly debut usually occurs on a a foggy morning which this time of year presages a clear and sunny day. When the fog lifts I look for them in the SW sky. They appear as specks, swooping, gliding, flitting upwards. Their flight is unique and to me best described as "gleeful." At least that's the emotion I feel when I watch their carefree aerial antics. This year they, as the spring, are early. But in 2008 I saw them March 4 (12:55 a.m.). In '06 on March 12 (10:32 a.m.); March 24 in 2007 (12:55 a.m.); March 8 in 2005 (10:05 a.m.); and March 21, 2009 (11:10). This year is my first afternoon sighting, perhaps because I was not on morning watch--and the day is cloudy. I will not see these little sky darters again for a week, maybe two, but come the next sighting, I know they are here for the summer.

A week and a half ago I left my walk to talk to Tony Broer who was reweaving the blackberries alongside his house. I took that opportunity to ask him questions about the old family farmhouse down the road. He interrupted me, pointed south over Gramma Snow's house, and said, "Swallows!" And swallows they appeared to be. I congratulated him on the first spring sighting, disappointed that I could not claim the glory for myself. But the sighting proved false. I resumed my walk and observed the "swallows" to be starlings that were swooping and diving around the trees in Gramma's yard. From a distance their flight appeared swallow-like. Up close--definitely starlings. No mistaking those bold black bullies. On my return I broke the news to Tony, told him I had to discredit his sighting.

Not to gloat, but I made a phone call this evening. Tony Broer answered the phone, and I broke the news. Of course he asked for confirmation which I could not grant, but in the end he took my word and did concede. After all, what farmer would deny spring!

"Nothing Gold Can Stay"

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower; but only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost

It is this poem that sends Gladys and me out in the Valley today in search of gold. Forsythia, it is, that startles the eye nearly everywhere. Explosions of yellow, as if someone had dumped piles of daffodils here and there: sometimes a truckload, a wheelbarrow full, a bushel basket.... But this gold is fleeting. The other day I picked a bundle of forsythia from the yard of of Jerald and Tina Streutker who planted the bush years ago. Jerald and Tina live in town now and their grand-nephew Brett De Vries lives in the house today. I thought the Streutkers would like some golden Valley spring from the old homestead, so I mixed in a few pussy willow branches and dropped the bundle by their house in Parkplace, delivering spring as if it were pizza. We had a nice visit and they seem to be doing well, I believe.

So Gladys and I peddled about, seeking the cheerful splashes of yellow blossoms, hunting for gold in the Valley. If you do not have forsythia in your yard, you're denied spring. Add this Midas touch to your landscaping design and next spring reap its gold!

Note: Click on the forsythia link and see a poem that transforms a forsythia bush into words.

Gladys Gets Hosed

Yesterday's ride in the Valley ended in a much needed spring bath for Gladys. Breezy Blends Espresso hosted a charity carwash for the family of Lt. Bruce Ramsey in his memory. I peddled up behind a big sudsed-down black SUV, let down the kickstand, and announced, "She's next." While Gladys waited for her scrub down, I went over and talked to Mr. Darren Roller, my former neighbor. That guy has a heart as big as he is and just loves doing things for other people. I would have helped "fly the sign" but I wanted to record Gladys's spring baptismal. The young man did an excellent job sponging down my "ride." He uncovered words on her chain guard I never knew were there...even washed behind her fenders!

The carwash was well-attended. The event raised $2,277 for the Ramsey family. The Valley has good people in it. And Roller, you are one of the best. Thanks for all the good things you do for other folk!

Yes, We CAN Get Along...

Even as we go about our daily lives, small dramas unfold even though we are not there to witness them. Today my environmentally-sensitive friend Nancy L stopped by to chat. You may recall the beer can issue under Bridge 52 mentioned in an earlier post? That issue, as I post this, has been resolved, thanks to Nancy L, and the vagabond aluminum is now in her safekeeping. She was able to negotiate the steep bank down to the slough and retrieve those Mickey's "blasters" lying about on both sides of the bridge. As Nancy L retrieved a can, she would toss it up on the bridge to collect later. And this is where the drama begins and how an aluminum altercation was averted. You see, there is competition for can collection in the Tualco Valley. Mrs. Schmidt and her little ewok-faced dog Lucy scour the roadside ditches for discarded cans, and with both Nancy L. and Mrs. Schmidt on the job, an aluminum can does not sojourn in the Valley for long. At a certain time and a certain place our lives intersect with others. And this happened the other day at Bridge 52. At the same time Nancy L was playing the troll beneath the bridge, collecting the cans and chucking them upwards, Mrs. Schmidt and Lucy began to trip, trap, trip, trap across. It was then Mrs. Schmidt saw the cans. "Oh, cans!" she exclaimed when she and Lucy spied the aluminum goldmine. Nancy L quickly made her presence known and claimed the fruits of her labor. Mrs. Schmidt did not contest, and I am happy to say that a showdown at Bridge 52 was averted and the litter patrol did not have to respond. No one was harmed and the only violence done was to the cans which were crushed under heel. And Peace reigns in the Valley again.

Butt Ugly

On my walk in the Valley today I strolled through the little parking lot behind Swiss Hall and found this. The Washington State Legislature is about to impose a one dollar tax increase on a pack of cigarettes. Sounds like a good deal to me. What do you think?

Roll on, Columbia, Roll on...

PROFILE: "GLADYS"

Make: Columbia

Model: Adult female

Year: Vintage

Options: 3-Speed on the handlebars

Braking: Hand brake, fore and rear wheels

Extras: fore, port, and rear wheel reflectors

Condition: Previously owned, not great, but satisfactory...well, at least functional

Price: Practically a steal at $50.00

Eccentricities: an asthmatic wheeze that an oilcan has not yet been able to stifle

Gladys came to our family by accident and goodwill. Our daughter Marika and past boyfriend enjoyed cycling together, but because she did not own a bike, she borrowed his mother's. Mother enjoyed bike riding, too, so oftentimes her bike was unavailable. We decided to surprise Marika and purchase a bike for her very own. We found what we thought was a bargain ride at the bike shop in town. Cash exchanged hands and the bike came home with us.

I must admit we weren't quite prepared for the reaction to our gift. When she finally regained her breath after a lengthy fit of laughing, Marika said the bike looked like a "Gladys," and so Gladys she became. She also became mine by default and derision because in those days of peer pressure and fancy mountain bikes, she was not about to be seen mounted on such an embarrassment.

That was years ago, and a new rear wheel and a replaced left pedal later, she still faithfully hauls me down valley and back. By pure coincidence, I guess, my first full size bike was also a Columbia, a bulky behemoth with a thirty-six inch wheel base and cartoonish balloon tires. (Classy whitewalls!) I was so proud of that bike, a two-tone red and white, with its rusted out fender light and horn button on the "console"that continued silent no matter how many new batteries you tried, no matter how hard you pressed. It was a man's bike and a bit beyond my ability in those days. And just as Gladys now, it had the unpredictabilty of a Missouri mule, who in the words of William Faulkner "... would work patiently for you for twenty years for the chance to kick you once." A patch of sand, at slower speeds, would brake you to a halt. At any speed in the same patch, the bike would whip, fishtail,and dump you, leaving you nursing barked elbows, and spitting sand for days. That bike threw me several times; Gladys just once...but she is a patient lady and waits--I know she waits. I grant her her whims, however, because she allows me to tour the entire Tualco Loop in a convenient amount of time, time I could not otherwise afford if I had to walk the same route.

Today spits rain. Gladys and I don't like to venture out in it, but today we are anxious to inspect the repaired bridge over Riley Slough. I saw Miss Sheri Miedema at Safeway this morning where she works and brightens up the place. (Yes, Sheri is still "Miss Miedema," but I will continue to inquire from time to time.) Her grandparents live in the Valley south west of the bridge. She had visited them the day before, a day before the bridge was to be finished, and said the work crew was just taking down the signs then. Surprise! Finished a day early in spite of all those work breaks.

Gladys and I ride onto the bridge, gliding smoothly over the new asphalt ramp onto the solid wood deck. The egress south is less than smooth: the County guys have left a roadwidth depression two inches or so deep and four feet wide. Gladys stumbles across it. "Motorcycles take Extreme Caution." No kidding! The bridge deck is a big improvement, but to me, it looks like the job's not finished yet. There's that hole to fill. And certainly the county boys can afford the time to powerwash those slime-covered guardrails and paint 'em. And while you're at it, crew, for heaven's sake! Clean up those unsightly beer cans!

It is with complimentary parody, I pose Gladys mid bridge just as Neal Peart poses his BMW bike mid road preceding each chapter of Ghost Rider, his solo cross-continent version of Easy Rider. Then we head home to get out of the rain.