In the springtime, blossoms fall
pink and white, yellow and purple—
like fat, flowery snowflakes—
each one different from the other.
In the summer, cold air collides with warm
causing thunderstorms. Lightning strikes
produce forest fires. Winds whip
and send ashes falling near and far.
In the autumn, leaves turn
yellow, red, and russet
and fall to the ground as surely
as their springtime cousins.
In the winter, the skies darken
and clouds release their moisture;
sometimes rain, sometimes snow,
but always falling to the earth.
So could someone please explain
that with all of the downward vertical activity
why only one of these four seasons
is called fall?
It rains. And it rains. Soon, the weatherman tells us, the snow will be gone from our yards and gardens, slowly whittled away by pelting water that falls steadily from the bleak skies.
The river roils with energy, its power unleashed and clearly visible.
The water pushes its way through town, tumbling toward the lower (but truly higher) falls where it hurtles over the edge and drops to a wider and more peaceful valley flow.
This is not the highest it has been in the past five years; there have been times when to stand on the suspension bridge meant getting soaked from the spray. However, more rain is expected over the next two days, with temperatures that will encourage continued snowmelt.
Downtown was quiet this afternoon compared to the noise of Saturday’s St. Patrick’s Day parade. We avoided the crowds and noise then (sorry, no parade pictures due to our 5th year of not going) but today SuperDad and I had a late lunch/early supper of corned beef sandwiches at the Irish pub. The taste was so rich and flavorful that I had to close my eyes and focus on each bite. As I write this, four hours have passed and I’m still smiling — this is what good food can do to a person.
The view across the street from the restaurant, however, is different story.
I’m not smiling over this scene, despite it being positive progress; this structure that was erected for Expo ’74 — and has housed the 1909 Looff Carrousel since 1975 — is being dismantled, torn down after 42 years. The carrousel itself, with its band organ and wonderful painted horses and other animals, is safely in storage (and/or being restored) during the time needed to take down the old building and put up a new one. The park feels achingly empty without the carrousel. I’ll have to wait another year to have that space filled once again.
Last Monday, SuperDad and I had a picnic brunch up at our favorite city park. The rose garden was not yet in total bloom, but here and there were some lovely roses to smell.
The bees were certainly busy.
The perennial garden almost always has something lovely for my camera to capture. The [both photos above] purple flowers are Allium, or flowering onion.
The formal sunken garden has been planted with annuals, as it is every spring, but they are nowhere near maturity. In another month it will be quite lovely here.
I’m back from our annual trek to the desert southwest and treading water in my photo files.
Twenty-eight years ago, on Saturday the fifth of March, there were flowers and blown glass swans on top of a tiered cake. Family and friends wished us well as we drove off in an old pick-up truck in the rain. Together we have bought 11 vehicles, driven thousands upon thousands of miles, moved 11 times, purchased 3 different houses (and sold 2 of them), and raised 4 children.
Today is also Saturday the fifth of March. We are expecting rain much of the day and I’m sure we’ll stay home, but it will be a day of quiet contentment.
We don’t always see eye-to-eye…
…but we continue growing together.
hope is a green shoot
pushing away the debris
of last year’s dead growth