Seeded Earth

Even yesterday evening’s shower of heavy snowflakes can’t keep this tulip beauty from sharing Spring with everyone.

While I was in Illinois this last week attending to my mother’s care - it was a middle-of-the-night phone call from the hospital kind of trip - my Spring bulbs appeared in all corners of the yard. They were a happy sight when I pulled into my driveway, nodding their ‘hellos’.

(And good news on all fronts - my mother is quite a bit better, too.)

Once, a half century ago, the home was proudly tucked and painted… there was a green trellis trailing with wisteria vines and a long bench covered with potted plants… there was a rocking chair for long rests during the hot humid afternoons and a calico cat snoozing in a sunny circle on the gray porch planks. There were voices calling through the doors - yoo-hoos and howdy-dos.

A half century ago.

This is me. I’m the photographer - see the arm with the camera raised in position to take a photograph of the bare path. And the other shadowy figure? He’s my camera Sherpa. That is my partner’s description of himself when he is out in the field with me.

At first, he only carried my camera gear - HIS choice - because he didn’t like the (very) casual way I flung my sling backpack around when I was in a hurry to change lenses for the next shot. He thinks camera lenses are not expensive toys to fling about, and he is right.

He is also a numbers guy: lots of initials behind his name at the office; analytical; organized in a scary sort of way; innate ability to read 30 pages of tax code and interpret the gobbledygook into meaningful directives. (Well, maybe not meaningful, but he does interpret them.)

But now, the changes are a’ comin’. He’s arriving home from his work-related meetings, hours away from our town, and saying, “You gotta see this barn. It will make a great photo. Three silos!” Or “Let’s drive to Galena this weekend. If we get there early enough, the sunlight should be perfect on the old stone houses.” He knows the Golden Rule and the Rule of Thirds. He’s commenting on my photos, and not saying things like “nice” or “pretty” or “what is it?” any longer.

And not only are his talents blooming in the creative direction. He’s also muttering things like, “Turning your photography into a business makes so much sense…” and “Now as a legal entity, you need to make a business plan…” and “When you go market your product, keep your receipts…” and “Our photo expedition to the Southwest this fall - $5.00/gallon gas - all those expenses… tax-deductible!”

Hey, no wonder I’ve kept this guy around for 33 years. He’s pretty remarkable.

In lots and lots of ways.

Travel down the streets in Quincy. Illinois on a spring day and you’ll see why it’s been recognized as a Tree City USA.

During the annual Dogwood Festival, the Dogwood trees seem to compete in their own beauty pageant. Every yard seems to sport its own tree, a mixture of creamy white blossomed trees and the more familiar pink Dogwood flowers.

The annual Dogwood Festival will be held next weekend, May 2 through 4, 2008, though I should be returned to my home in Madison by that time. I’m anxious to see what the last blast of winter did to my just-peeking-out bulbs and perennials, not to mention my own flowering trees.

This is the very bleeding heart plant I loved as a child. Returning to my hometown to tie up loose ends this week, I made a stop at my childhood home.

Each Spring my grandmother and I would eagerly watch this plant from the back porch, awaiting the blooming of the little hearts. Today I made an unplanned visit to the old house and found the bleeding hearts blooming bravely, standing amidst all the old memories.

Humor does not rescue us from unhappiness, but enables us to move back from it a little.
Mason Cooley

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I haven’t seen any swimmers yet. I haven’t seen any lifeguards either. . .

Lake Mendota
University of Wisconsin
Madison, Wisconsin