In the July flower garden

July is the month of flowers. 

My apologies to all that is beautiful in bloom for just now catching on to this fact.

We can get carried away by how fresh May is, and how green June arrives. These notes of the new season don't escape us.

And then it’s the 4th of July and it’s head-on summer. We settle into the pace.

Perhaps it’s the long, languorous stretch that is July that causes us to not bother so much about keeping tabs on the continuing beauty around us. 

Many of us, at any rate, don’t take the time to take apart and one by one identify that which delights the eye and our other senses as the season matures.

Besides succumbing to the restfulness of July it can be that we don’t tune in because we’re dodging the heat. 

We may be parked at the lake or are planning or taking vacations, as many of us do when kids are out of school and schedules free up a bit.

Whatever it is, we can dim, by missing it, the loveliness found now in the quiet places where the flowers grow.

My recognition of the beauty of July flowers began with the roses by the mailbox. Then the hydrangeas and orange daylilies in our yard jumped out at me. 

Appreciation roamed out to include the neighborhood. It kept on spreading as I kept looking for it. 

The flowers everywhere are admirable in their colors, height and regality.

Wildflowers are especially gorgeous this year. Substantial spring rains probably have something to do with this.

Take a drive anywhere in the countryside and you're treated to a palette of colors which is the showiest in some years. 

A wealth of wildflowers, in shades of orange, white, purple and yellow, compose dense patches and liberally sprinkle the grasses.

A visit to our library in summer always includes a stop at the outdoor garden which is riotous with color in July.

This week I stood amid the beauty of the library blooms and took in the scene. 

But what ultimately bowled me over was stepping to the edge of the drop-off on the property and realizing the steep south slope below me was a surging tide in wildflower hues.

The sun shone resplendently upon the hillside which was thick with flowers. 

As I get more practiced at identifying wildflowers each stands out separately though blending in with the others at first glance.

It was like being on the prairie in the days when the native grasses rustled in the wind as the untamed open space billowed like waves on the sea to the far horizon.

Out and about we notice a distinct trend in residential gardens. It’s been a growing preference and this year we can tell it’s become an established garden style. 

These are the gardens that have plantings attractive to butterflies and bees.

Homeowners plant these wildlife gardens as a way to give back to nature for its bounty. 

By planting flowers and herbs that attract butterflies and bees we help ensure these at-risk species will be able to find food that sustains them for their important cycles, and for the bees to do the critical work of pollination.

A big joy for me this July has been seeing bees, or the dip of butterfly wing, where basil, lavender or other herbs grow, or where bee balm stretches tall with its raggedy bright heads.

The lazy hum of bees in the July flowers is the peace of summer at its apex. A good time of the year, July is even better in the July flower garden.

Ro Giencke – July 25, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

Spontaneous beach lunch

Cherished times often become strolls down memory lane. 

Just give any good thing sufficient time and it will surely happen.

A place we fondly remember recently became our stroll down memory lane. 

Lane is a good choice of word for what we were on. It was a pretty country road passing through once familiar farmland and woods.

We were newlyweds, to go to the beginning of the story. Al’s job took us to a small town which we entered as strangers. The place grew in importance as we made it our home.

It had one long main street, which was a major US highway, which ran north and south through town.

It was intersected downtown by an east and west street which also claimed some commercial importance.

It was the street that was the US highway, however, that had the post office, Andrew Carnegie library and grocery stores on it.

This, then, was essentially the town. Count in several leafy residential streets with alleyways, schools, churches, possibly a golf course, a defunct theater, a lake and a river through it, and you have a picture of our first career assignment after marriage. We were there nearly three years.

Winters got long in the small town. The winters back then were especially cold. Cars didn’t always want to start and you bundled up to your eyes if you went out on foot in the strong winds.

You were cautious all the month of January about going too far away to find the bright lights on a weekend in case a new snowstorm blew up, or for fear you’d freeze to death in your car if the engine conked out.

You found your friends and clung to them. You were grateful for the chances to get together and beat back the dark and chill of interminable wintertime through social gatherings at each other’s houses or joint trips somewhere to eat out.

But then it became summer and suddenly you were embracing the small town setting as if luck had rolled around and looked right at you.

Al and I used the long summer evenings to fish the many area lakes. My fishing was quite minimal and I’ll leave it at that.

I was happy to be in the boat with him and letting the casting and reeling in of the fish happen around me.

The quiet of the lake, the call of the loons, the restfulness that comes when shore is distant and land voices reach you faintly over the unruffled surface of the water make a summer slip gently away on long twilight nights.

Other times, rather than boating, we went swimming. The swimming lake was not the lake in town but was located about three miles out.

The city lake was a reservoir of the river. River current flowed through it. The current probably made the lake somewhat risky to swim and, consequently, a public city beach was not developed there.

We went swimming after work. I don’t recall going to our lake on weekends but only in the evenings. Supper dishes were done and we were free as the breeze to do whatever we wanted.

Just as cold winters were a trend then, so were dry, toasty summers. Nature balances itself.

An evening jump in the summertime lake was a cooling thought. It was easy to suggest and carry out. We got out there quite often, especially the first year.

The beach was at the end of a turnoff from the highway. It was in a stand of oak trees. There was a scattering of picnic tables. It was all very simple as you’d expect of a picnic beach in the countryside.

On the opposite shore was a farm. In sight were a farm home, red barn and fields. Sometimes the farm's dairy herd grazed in the pastureland.

Occasionally the cows came down to the shore to drink. It was fun to watch the cows as we let the day slide off us in the shallows at our end of the lake.

Passing through the area on the way home from an event this month, we had the spontaneous desire to see our old swimming hole again. It’s been years since our time there.

We have revisited our former home but haven’t put on the paltry extra mileage to get to the swimming lake.

We took the Interstate off-ramp and stopped at a food mart to buy provisions for a picnic lunch. Then, without difficulty, we navigated to the road that would take us to our lake.

The farmhouse and red barn are still standing across from the beach as we remembered their shapes seen from our side of the lake.

They were like old friends, keeping true to an image held of them.

The cool clear beach waters invited us in. We ate our lunch and skipped a pebble across the waves instead. Time, even with its memories, gracefully moves on.

Ro Giencke – July 17, 2014

Song of the nations

My friend and I are connected by a song which was specifically sung for the 4^th of July weekend.

She heard the song at the church she attends when at her lake place.

The song, "This Is My Song," was also played where my family was in Sunday attendance, at a little country church filled to capacity with Independence Day vacationers.

“This Is My Song” isn’t a new song for either of us. Each time we hear it we’re touched by the words and the images they stir in us.

The beauty of the song was, in fact, the main reason for my friend’s email. She wanted to share the verses she’d taken the time to write down.

“I am going to take the liberty to type the verses to you now,” she said, “as I feel so strongly about them.”   

My email back to her said the song is a favorite of mine as well. Only, I added, the name I give it is “Song of the Nations.” It’s what comes to me when it’s heard.

The phrase “My Song” in the song title doesn’t do justice to the sweeping scope of the verses. The song has a motif that encompasses the world. It's a song all of us on earth carry within us.

The line in the song which really grabs me is in Verse 2. It’s the line that says my country’s skies are bluer than the ocean.

The music goes on ahead of my musings. I stay behind in the images. I’m picturing people everywhere looking up. 

We find solace, freedom and inspiration in our native skies. They cap our space and are an unlimited boundary over our heads. 

Bright with sunlight the skies can be so blue we are lost in the wonder of it. Nothing can be more beautiful we think.

The verse goes on to point out that other places also have their beauty, “and skies are everywhere as blue as mine.”

The message sticks. Home skies are our roof and shelter wherever we are. We consider things of personal experience as unique. They are – to each of us. 

But we mustn’t rule out that others have the same conviction and passion in what they hold dear and see as evidence of their blessings.

The verse ends with the words: "O hear my song, thou God of all the nations, a song of peace for their land and for mine.”

“This Is My Song” masterfully teaches the idea that peace is a song within the universal heart. It reminds us to think and act globally as a way to peace.

“This Is My Song”

1. This is my song, O God of all the nations, a song of peace for lands afar and mine. This is my home, the country where my heart is; here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine; but other hearts in other lands are beating with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

2. My country's skies are bluer than the ocean, and sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine; but other lands have sunlight too, and clover, and skies are everywhere as blue as mine. O hear my song, thou God of all the nations, a song of peace for their land and for mine.  

The third verse my friend emailed, not included here, has the words “Let  . . . hearts united learn to live as one.”

“This Is My Song” is a song not exclusive to one individual or one country. It’s a song of all peoples, all nations. It's a song of our human experience. It is our song. 

Ro Giencke – July 9, 2014

 

Gazing

At church on Sunday the sermon was on the help silence gives us to better situate ourselves for good listening communication with God.

It was mentioned that summer is an excellent time to put into practice this exercise of quieting our thoughts and tuning ourselves up to listen well.

Summer is made for gazing we were told as we sat in the pews with the side door open to the street filled with bright ten o’clock sunlight.

Gaze upward to the blue sky, we were urged, with 4^th of July and the broad canvas of summer beyond it offering plenty of gazing opportunities.

Gaze across our beautiful blue waters. Gaze out on Minnesota greenness, particularly made green this past season of rain. 

Gaze on loved ones God puts into our lives. The suggestions flowed over us in an inspired theme.  

When the gaze we hold on anything has the awe of absorption in it we allow ourselves to be changed by what we see. 

We’re moved to an affinity with our experience. The scene we behold or the faces of humanity in front of us enter deeply.

A concentrated gaze coming from mindful and deliberate action powerfully connects us to life. It can heal us. We can recognize more clearly the unity that is in all creation.

Sunday’s sermon makes me want to share it. I think it’s because truth has a path that sweeps you up in it.

As I give consideration to the concept of gazing for growth it makes sense that gazing is a natural partner of gratitude.

Gazing – the spiritual act of putting your attention lovingly on all moments of your life – cannot be initiated without a response of equal measure arising from it. 

This becomes the sense of gratitude which in full expression is made to pass along.

When you allow yourself to look, to be pulled into a moment with eyes wide open, taking it in, noticing the grandness in the smallest thing, and the heart of the matter in each event, great appreciation wells up.

My wish for this 4^th of July is that we all do some gazing. Let us gaze upon friends and fireworks, watermelon and fried chicken, burgers on the grill and beer on ice in the tub.

Let us, this Independence Day, gaze on the American flag. Let us gaze on its glory as it identifies civic buildings and waves at its post at porches and residential mailboxes.

Let us gaze upon the truth of freedom. Let us gaze on the truth that freedom isn’t free. It never was and perhaps isn’t meant to be.

Freedom is free only when we work for it, use it, defend it and make it our ideal. Millions have died giving its gift to others whose times they did not live to see.

Gaze around. Gaze inwardly too. Reflect on your gazing and what it tells you. Gaze, listen to the silence and its words, and let gratitude quicken you.

Ro Giencke – July 2, 2014

On the lake

We had our boat out yesterday. 

For me it was the first time on the lake this season. 

There’s a no-wake rule which puts boats to very low speeds. 

That’s fine unless you happen to be out when you see rain clouds form.

You don’t get very far with one eye on the sky and the other surveying the distance it’ll take to get to shore at 5 mph. But more about that later.

Because of the snail pace imposed we didn’t try to take the boat far out into the lake. 

It takes forever to get anywhere. Instead we hugged the shoreline. This gave us a lake tour of the big homes being built on the bay.

We marvel at the size of roofs on the brand new places. These estate homes are like an expensive bracelet around the lake. 

They add their own beauty and proportion while not always, in my opinion, in strict proportion to the scope of nature around them.

Dark clouds formed in the distance. In short order the sky to the south grew inky. 

The ominous deepening of the clouds began to overrun the sky. With one more glance in that direction we knew It was time to go in.

Our boat and a squad of sailboats, out not far from the sailboat marina, all came in like chicks following a mother hen when it appeared wise to pull into shore.

Boating was 70% getting ready and 30% actually on the water. Being on the lake, however, even for that short while, was summer in our hands with not a care in the world.

Ro Giencke – July 1, 2014

June moon in Grand Marais

Beautiful sunshine between bouts of rain sums up our June which closes out today.

Midway through the month we took a weekend trip to the North Shore. 

North of Duluth the numerous rivers that come down from the highlands to Lake Superior were running fast.

We made several stops to click and shoot. 

Abundant state parks and roadside pull-outs make the drive, as it follows the Lake Superior shoreline, a vacationer’s paradise. 

It became a succession of mini-breaks to walk trails or span bridges for close-up views of waterfalls and vast chilly Lake Superior.

We were headed to Grand Marais 260 miles north of the Cities. A photography class was the reason for going. Al had signed up for a class at North House Folk School located there.

North House Folk School is located on the harbor as you come into town on Hwy. 61. It's an artisan center which teaches northern crafts as part of its community building mission.

It was established to keep alive, and pass along, past and present trades, skills and stories of those who call the rugged forested swath of land bordering the western shore of Lake Superior their home.

Painting & photography is among programs North House Folk School offers. 

The full slate includes basketry, blacksmith skills, boat building, timber framing, sailing , shelter, woodworking and northern ecology, but is by no means the complete list. 

Wildflower photography blends photography skills with appreciation for the natural world. 

Al regarded it that way at any rate. He was primed to catch images of the blooms that are as transient as the short northern summer.

We arrived in lovely Friday sunshine. We knew this was it for the good conditions. The weekend would be rainy. The weather forecast was straightforward about that.

Checking into the Best Western on Lake Superior we stepped onto our private balcony overlooking the lake. 

We admired the view for about one minute. We decided, lovely as it’d be to go no further, that with prediction for rain after today, we better step lively to see the town at its June best while the chance was there.

Al’s class was set to start shortly. It gave us enough time for dinner at the Angry Trout. 

Our meals were delicious. The food and view of the harbor are worth the wait, which happens, probably frequently at this season, so plan ahead.

Full moon that evening was the lucky dividend. About 9:30 PM, before skies clouded over, to stay glum or drippy the rest of the weekend, the moon became visible on the lake horizon.

June full moon is the “strawberry moon.” It was majestic in appearance and of a deep golden hue.

Seeing it rise above Lake Superior, we’ll relive the scene when "strawberry moon” is used again. 

We’ll be reminded of the dark waters made choppy by strengthening winds, and the softened effect of full moon on the rough lake surface.

Saturday I had my own mission. While Al snapped away with his photography colleagues at Cascade State Park my goal was no less a matter of commitment. 

I was going to shop and explore, eat and learn a lot about Grand Marais.

With a population of about 1500, Grand Marais mixes a marine setting with the backdrop of the Sawtooth Mountains behind it. 

It’s a town easy to lose yourself in. Not “Darn, miss my GPS” sort of lost. It’s the satisfying response that comes with forgetting time as you take it all in.

Grand Marais is an outdoorsy community reflecting its setting. It balances the generosity of nature’s four seasons with a seriously artsy vibe. It makes for an invigorating combination. 

It’s picturesque enough to be a New England coastal village. Comparison isn't the town’s intent. Its charm and authenticity are strictly its own. Its well documented heritage and history draw me particularly.

Canoes and kayaks are strapped to the tops of many vehicles seen about town. This isn’t a country for slackers it occurs to me. 

Grand Marais is a jumping off spot for the Gunflint Trail (Cook County #12). This adds another shade of interest.

The Gunflint Trail, extending north about 60 miles, takes canoers, campers and all zestful types to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) on the international boundary with Canada.

The town reminds me of Livington, Montana. It seems to have outfitter establishments galore. 

Plaid shirts, denim jeans, fleece vests, hoodies and raingear comprise a sort of dress code here. You opt for practicality in places where outdoors is embraced and chunks of time are spent in it.

Stone Harbor Wilderness Supply is one of the neat local shops. Range of sporting gear and the expertise available to guide your purchasing decisions lets you customize the wilderness experience to your needs. 

Ask about the Stone Harbor's full moon paddle tours when you visit.

Lake Superior Trading Post is another great emporium. You can browse on two floors. 

There’s something of everything, whether buying for a camping vacation or picking up northern lifestyle touches for your home.

The Ben Franklin on Wisconsin Street is another must-see for those who treat main street shopping as a form of outdoor sport. 

The family-owned store carries a diverse inventory. You expect to find souvenir T-shirts, swim wear and grooming essentials you forgot to pack. And you will. 

That’s why this store is so valuable. It has what we left at home. Don’t, however, go into this Ben Franklin under the assumption that's pretty much it.

The store sells Hudson Bay point blankets. It has the Pendleton brand. You’ll discover Woolrich sweaters. 

You can try on Uggs or Clarks for shoe wear. There’s seasonal outerwear. The aisles had room for dozens of us, jammed into the store, as the rain came down.

Other stops were Cook County Whole Foods Co-Op and Sivertson Gallery. 

These places bring forward an aspect that can be missed with the out-front focus on sports that challenge and test the spirit. 

Add an enjoyed visit to a local bookstore, whose name I cannot remember, and the picture of Grand Marais was coming together for me.

I spent quite awhile at Johnson Heritage Post Art Gallery. The art of  Anna C. Johnson caught my eye, and compelled me to make a return visit to further study her work.

The nonprofit art gallery has the name of this local artist. The west wing is the permanent display of her original art. 

The Swedish immigrant girl arrived in Minnesota by way of Michigan. She tells her story in the North Shore landscapes and homey scenes she depicted.

The day went fast. It was randomly sampled. I stepped into one place here, another place there. Certainly much was missed. Some places noted but not visited:

Blue Water Café

World’s Best Donuts

Dockside Fish Market

The Java Moose

and more

Grand Marais harbor with Lighthouse and Artist’s Point make the list too. All were given up because of the rain.

Happy Hour was at Gunflint Trail Tavern as the afternoon wound down. Through the misted windows, and with my drink on the table in front of me, I mused on the procession of cars on Wisconsin Street.

Each carload had weather nixing its weekend plans. Probably for these fellow vacationers, as for me, to be rained out turned out to be not a big deal.

There’s so much to do in Grand Marais. Clots of weekend visitors everywhere made it feel like a rainy day at the State Fair or a chilly Disneyworld adventure. One becomes weather impervious when having fun.

Then it was time to decide where to have supper. Al wouldn’t be back for us to eat together.

His meal (included in the seminar) was homemade pizza. Dough for individual  pizzas was rolled out by each of the attendees. 

There were a variety of toppings to put on. Each pizza was baked at 800 degrees in an outdoor oven. Nothing I ordered was going to be able to top that.

My idea was to have something simple and trundle back to our lodgings. 

Dampness had penetrated top layers. I was paying for my nonchalance in terms of the weather. I pretended not to notice those staying dry. They wielded umbrellas, having heeded the forecast for rain and ready for it.

Where to go – where to go to eat. This is the interesting question when new in town and spontaneous about choices.

You accept that you may bomb with a bad choice or get lucky with a fabulous restaurant find - because you were meant to, perhaps. 

The list to choose from narrowed because I wanted a spot relatively close.When you don’t know it’s eeny meanie meinie moe. Into Sven & Oles I went. 

A sign seen somewhere around town probably ultimately decided me. 

It said something like you haven’t been to Grand Marais if you haven’t been to Sven & Ole’s. Or “best pizza around.” Let’s say Sven & Ole’s advertising worked successfully on me.

Al came back, more drenched then I'd been, but replete with pizza, and proud owner of some great photos. 

The entire day was in the rain but the reward was some cool shots. Rain beads flower petals. His camera caught the dainty glow of wildflower colors that dim background thrusts forward.

The weekend gave deeper understanding of the Grand Marais area. 

What strikes me the most is the great friendliness encountered. With motel staff as a start, and others talked to.

It’s neat to participate – if only by proximity to it - in the rugged side of life. To see kayaks and canoes and fleece vests and outdoor wear of those headed up the Gunflint Trail or as hikers on Lake Superior trails.

You absorb the vitality of the North. It renews you to see life lived fully at so many levels of challenge and appreciation.

Ro Giencke – June 30, 2014

 

Rattled along the river

The no-wake summer of 2014 continues. Rivers have flooded. 

Lake levels are high. Boats on some lakes are allowed to operate only at very low speed to prevent shoreline erosion.

Possibly the only waves being created are at Target Field. That's baseball central for Minnesota Twins fans. With our boys of summer blowing hot and cold this season the team needs all the waves we cheerers in the stands can make.

We were in Red Wing recently. We go there about this time every summer because June is so pretty there.

We found out that river flooding from our June rains has caught up to Red Wing, which is downstream from the Twin Cities.

The river has spilled its banks. The park we visit when we go to Red Wing is partially submerged. The road to it is cordoned off.

Park grills are up to their necks (so to speak) in water. Seat swings thoughtfully spaced along the riverbank for watching boat and barge traffic, and to catch a breeze, are like lost souls cut off and isolated by deep water that surrounds them.

Downtown, near the old train station where Amtrak comes through, cruise boats at the docks are temporarily without business. The docks are underwater.

The Mississippi River is now a dangerous conduit. Whole tree trunks, tangles of brush and other debris float on the galloping current.

Two women, walking back from inspecting the river at the docks, came my way.  

Finishing with some shopping at the stores of St. James Hotel I was rejoining Al who, in the meantime, zeroed in on a park bench in the shade by the river.

The women were in obvious discussion. They turned around and looked back at the river.

"Be careful,” they warned as we drew even with each other. “Don't go down there.There’s a diamondback rattlesnake in the river.”

Sure enough, disbelievingly though I heard them, a largish snake writhed and contorted in the shallow water at river’s edge.

The snake was strong. You could tell this by its vigorous movements. It looked angry, or perhaps it was how it used its body that made it appear menacing. The power of the snake was palpable from where we were.

Possibly the snake had been washed off a river island. High water may have swept it out of its hole in the bluffs or wrested it from a sunny ledge where it was snoozing in the pleasant sunlight.

It was almost on land. The necessary thrust to make it onto the riverbank didn’t happen while we stood with our eyes never leaving it.

I remarked, not very bravely, reacting in a bit of a daze at sight of the snake, that diamondback rattlers aren’t in this area. Where does a venomous snake like this come from was registering in my mind.

The answered was immediate. “Oh yes, diamondbacks are around here. We’re from” – the one who spoke up named a nearby Wisconsin town – “and we have them there. They’re in the bluffs,” she added.

I’m aware that the driftless area of southeast Minnesota – the Mississippi River bluff country which includes Red Wing - has timber rattlers. Terrain breeds its own kind of native life, and this is rugged, forested landscape. The snake in the water was therefore likely a timber rattler - diamondbacks, as the women called them.

I learned about timber rattlers at age twelve or so. My friend had her cousins, who hailed from this general area, visiting her.

We played and visited. We exchanged information as we talked of one thing and another, not  recognizing then that this is how one's knowledge base widens.

My friend’s cousins told about timber rattlers. They’re a regional fact. I grew up familiar with garter snakes. Of the venomous timber rattler I'd never heard.

Garter snakes don’t overly spook me, even when they slide unexpectedly out of the tall grass right in front of you.

It’d be nice if they didn’t do that but that’s their trick. A glance to confirm it is indeed a garter snake, and not something else, and I beat down my desire to flee and let them glide on by.

At twelve I knew rattlesnakes from TV westerns my dad liked to watch, and also from Western camping trips. Rattlers had more than my respect. Just the thought of them made me never want to meet one.

Discovering that the rattlesnakes of TV westerns (forever coiled and ready to strike at the bad guys), and the feared potential tentmates of my early camping vacations, had a shirt-tail relative in the form of the timber rattler made me glad 200 miles separated the Minnesota river bluffs from my home.

Despite many visits to bluff country we’ve not come across a timber rattler. Lack of sightings tends to make you forget they’re there. This made the rattler in the river a very emphatic image.

The snake appeared to debate whether to make landfall or not. We didn’t wait around to see if it did. It clearly had will in it to do whatever it wanted.

The current, which likely dislodged it, could with equal force shove it to dry land. It was as if the snake wasn’t yet of a mind to let the current assist it.

We didn’t look for rattles on its tail as it kept its place in the water. We can’t report it had a diamond design on its back. There’s no scientific takeaway at all from the chance observation of the snake, which came about from someone pointing it out.

Whatever reason the snake was in the water that warm June afternoon, it symbolizes the overturning of the day-to-day which a river in torrent can do.

The rattler, purposeful in motion as it gathered our attention at the riverbank, is for me a symbol of the disruption of life, and also the tenacity to hold on, in the flooded communities along the Mississippi River.

Ro Giencke – June 28, 2014