Drummond in the Spring

Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable and safe in a confusing world.

The following poem was written by my granddaughter, Madison Rain Baker, in response to an English class assignment this spring. My heart sang when I read it for the first time. Who knew our family traditions - centered around time spent on Drummond - would have such an impact? Strong enough that a young, gregarious teenager would feel compelled to capture those feelings in prose? 


Drummond in Spring

Drummond Island is a friendly place.

Filled with different people

and different race.

Trees line the road like a trophy case.

Every day you meet a new face.

  
Surrounded by a big blue lake,

Sometimes I sit on the shore when there's too much to take.

We pull into the cabin and see the familiar image of the tan cabin with a green door.

Last time I left here I didn't want to go and I wanted more.

 
 
After we unpack we head down to the boat,

The red chipped paint sets a float.

We all sit down prepared for the cold sting

As our ears begin to ring. 

                        

This is Drummond Island in the spring

When the birds come out ready to sing.

by Madison Rain Baker

Digging in the Dirt . . .

To dig in one's own earth, with one's own spade, does life hold anything better? - Beverly Nichols

After a long, cold winter I am ever watchfull for the first glimpse of spring.

 How it thrills my heart to spy the first spring birds after their long vacation in Southern climes,

or the white trilliums and yellow lady slippers poking through the debris of winter,

or the new buds promising fragrant blooms on lilac bushes that dot the Island's landscape.

What I miss most, though, during the frigid, frosty months, is my connectin to the soil and what it produces, whether it's garden-fresh vegetables, sun-ripened fruits or brillant blooms.

As strange as it may sound, I need the feel of warm, black dirt running through my fingers. the outdoorsy smell of fresh-turned dirt on my work cloths and , yes, even the taste of a morsel of dirt on my tongue.

In an almost spirtual way, dirt is the substance that ties me to the earth. Just as soil keeps plants firmly anchored, it also keeps me grounded in what's real and what's important. It helps me stay connected. Working with my hands - tilling the soil, planting the seeds, watering the sprouts, hoeing the weeds, pruning the vines and harvesting the crops  yields such a rewarding sense of accomplishment.

The first day I dig my fingers deep into the soft earth I can feel its energy, and my spirits soar.

If April showers bring May flowers, what does April snow bring?

"Poor, dear, silly Spring,

preparing her annual surprise!"

- Wallace Stevens

photo credit: Coni Craig 4/8/2010 7:32 am Drummond Island

DIY Disasters . . .

Spring has arrived and with it comes a primordial need for fresh starts. For reorganizing, restructuring, renewing and above all remodeling. Spring just begs you to embark on a whole new batch of Do-It-Yourself projects. Hardware stores and lumber yards love people like me – I just wish my family understood me the way the folks down at Sune’s do!

“Candis, you know they don’t sell common sense at the University”, my father-in-law was fond of saying as he would survey my latest home project or review my plans for said project. Unfortunately, he was right – despite 4 degrees and a healthy start on a PhD –my DIY schemes have always been fueled by nothing more than sheer enthusiasm and grandiose visions. And our home on Drummond has endured more than its share of  Do-It-Yourself home improvement ventures.

Take, for example, the time I decided to single-handedly change out the light fixtures in the kitchen and living room. I taught physics right? I know about electricity, okay eh? What was there to know about pulling out two decrepit fixtures from the 60’s and replacing them with stylish Hunter ceiling fans? How hard could it be? Lesson learned – when you decide to break for a quick run to the hardware store it is not always smart to turn the power on so you can check your make-up before leaving the house. When you return to the job site you might not always remember to turn the power back off before clamping down on that last wire with your needle nose pliers. The floor can come at you pretty fast sometimes.

And power washing a home is no big deal right? It’s just water – no possible risks involved with this one right? Wrong. Dirt does come off wood siding quite quickly with one of these time saving devices - so quickly that if you are not in full control so will the first several layers of wood under said dirt. Lesson learned – skin cleans and peels much quicker than wood siding when exposed to the same high power blast. This whole job – meant to cut down on the time it would take to stain the house – actually added weeks to the entire job. Weeks spent hand sanding the aforementioned swirlies left behind by the simple to operate DIY home power washer. The one my husband has since sold – right after I mentioned I thought I had gotten the hang of it and could easily power wash our windows and deck downstate by myself.

While we are on the subject of common sense, I should mention that most of my projects start as dreams. I will be somewhere in that no-man’s land between awake and deep REM sleep when it will dawn on me – yes, the door would look good painted green to match the roof. (Note to self – buy paint in morning at Sune’s.) Three coats later I still don’t have the shade I like or wanted to say nothing of the fact that painting a steel exterior door with either a spray can or a brush does not exactly fall within the realm of my expertise. Not one family member likes the green door – but the door has stood there proudly wearing her green splotchy coat for several years now. This spring I am ripping her out and replacing her with a pre-painted deluxe model – in a burgundy tone – one that will match the new French door that went in last year where the old slider use to reside. I dreamt about them both one night . . .

Our home on Drummond is my respite – where I go to renew my soul. It is also the catalyst that fuels my spirit, gives wings to my imagination and lets me feel as though I can accomplish anything. No “I can’t” allowed. But there are days I would gladly trade my university degrees – my bushel of learning – for a handful of common sense! While I wait for that to happen, however, I am going to get started on a spice rack for the kitchen and I might add a real drawer to the false front under the sink. Hey, it’s spring right?!

“Common sense is the knack of seeing things as they are,

and doing things as they ought to be done.”

- C. E. Stowe

Breathe . . .

Breathe deeply. Enjoy every nuance of this new season we deserve.

Spring is in its infancy, my friends. Time to roust and look for a place where the sun shines on your face. Work yourself out of that indentation on the couch that's been deepening since November.

The time for moaning about five months of weary weather is finished. Cheer now the seven glorious months ahead!

The blooms of spring that speak to the coming warmth of summer. We are sure to get another visit or two of weather deemed distasteful, but the persistence of this past Michigan winter will most assuredly give way to a refreshing new season.

We have been beaten by the clouds, the sleet, the downright miserable weather. The fruits of our labor? The glory of spring!

No more internet Sudoku or Scrabble; log off of Facebook and Farmville. You can leave those virtual worlds behind until next winter. Time to enjoy friends you can reach out and touch. Time for real people. Real gardens.

Getting through the isolation of winter is no small task for some of us. A daffodil breaking through the wood chips in my yard parallels what spring means for many Michiganders. The rusty color of the wood chips makes me smile. The flower has made it through to Spring's doorstep.

Television gives way to bike rides.

As inviting as the fireplace has been, it pales in comparison to the fire pit out back that will warm us for the next seven months.

Boy, does a s'more sound good! Soon I will be making them with my grandchildren 'round a bonfire on Drummond. They'll eat. We'll laugh. And the days will get longer.

Green grass. Fresh smells. Wide smiles.

Sometimes I think I make too much of the change of seasons. But there never really is too much.

It is time to breathe the deep breath of Spring!

Smile, breathe and go slowly.

~Thich Nhat Hanh

Wild Harvest . . .

Fiddleheads emerge as miniature dervish dancers covering the forest floor and heralding in Spring like no other woodland plant. Tiny gray-green spirals reaching into the first really warm days. Each of them wearing their own little fur overcoat to protect them when it was chillier weather. Snapped up and eaten by whoever has the sense and taste to do it.

There isn’t anything that says spring as well as fiddleheads.  Just when I have had slightly more than enough of winter, this familiar and much-welcomed spiraled green, novel and tasty morsel appears.

The flavour of fiddleheads has been likened to asparagus, with a slightly nutty taste, and to artichoke and okra. I concur with those who describe the taste of fiddleheads as the taste of spring!

You can pick your own fiddleheads if you know where to look and when to catch them unawares at just the right moment in their growth.

• A tight coil and only an inch or two of stem beyond the coil
• The coil should be one to one and a half inches in diameter
• There may be brown papery chaff around the head. This is okay, much like an onion skin, you will remove it before cooking
• Choose firm, bright-green, tightly-curled fiddleheads; the little brown shells still intact. They should be crisp.
• Fiddleheads are best eaten fresh and don't store well even when refridgerated.

The flavor of fiddleheads goes well with cheeses, tomato sauce and oriental cuisine. Excellent with Hollandaise sauce. And truly delicious when combined with other spring foraged delicacies like wild leeks or morels.

The following is one of my favorite ways to prepare this Spring treat:

Steamed Fiddleheads With Wild Leek Greens

1 pound Fiddleheads cleaned

(CLEANING FIDDLEHEADS: If more than 2 inches of stem remains attached beyond the coiled part of the fiddlehead snap or cut it off. If any of the paper chaff remains on the fiddleheads you may rub it off by hand. Since the chaff is very light, you may want to clean off the chaff outdoors by fanning them or lightly shaking them in an open wire salad basket.

 After the chaff is removed wash the fiddleheads in several changes of cold water to remove any dirt or grit. Drain the fiddleheads completely. Use them fresh, and soon after harvest. They don't store well - only pick what you will eat that day.)

1/2 cup plain yogurt 1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice, or to taste
3 teaspoons Dijon-style mustard
3 tablespoons finely chopped Wild Leek greens

Steam the fiddleheads over boiling water for 5 minutes,or until they are crisp-tender. Drain, then chill in a bowl of ice and cold water to stop the cooking. When they have cooled transfer to colander to drain.

In a small bowl whisk together the yogurt, mayonnaise, lemon juice, mustard, wild leek greens. Add salt and pepper to taste, whisking until the sauce is smooth. Serve the Fiddleheads topped with the sauce.

Serves 4 to 6

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well,
if one has not dined well."

'A Room of One's Own', Virginia Woolf, English novelist (1882-1941).

The Earth Laughs in Flowers . . .

Flowers have spoken to me more than I can tell in written words.

They are the hieroglyphics of angels,

loved by all men for the beauty of their character,

though few can decipher even fragments of their meaning.

~Lydia M. Child

*note: The title of today's Blog comes from Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Hamatreya"

In Need of a Spring Tonic . . .

Thanks to being brought up around a Great-grandmother who held fast to the ways of the "old country" the memories of my childhood are sprinkled with rituals and traditions that are more fitting for someone from a generation before my time. Spring tonic is one of those recollections. The recipe might have varied greatly from one family to another back then but one thing remained constant, there was no getting around taking a dose of it.

Victorian America believed in spring tonics: medicines to eliminate poison from the blood and tissues, purifying the system of all leftover infelicities of winter, and rehabilitating the body for the rest of the year. The practice endured well into the mid-20th century: and my Great-grandmother was an ardent believer in tonics. She once forcibly dosed me with a mixture of sulphur and molasses to cleanse my blood of something that ailed me.

But Dandelion wine was Great-grandma's special Spring Tonic. I believed it was bottled sunshine, the rows of jars gleaming in the dim light of the cellar.

I am in need of a spring tonic this year. I need something that will make me feel alive and full of energy, something that will melt all the excess fat off my body and something that will take away the lines of stress and pain on my face. Do you think someone makes Dandelion wine for the retail market?

"Dandelion Wine. The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered...Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in."  - Ray Bradbury

Spring Cleaning . . .

I am trying to break up. With my past lives.

I am feeling the pressure to trade them in for a more mature, less cluttered one. I am, after all chronically ill, for Pete’s sake – I am expected to be a walking advertisement for one preparing to move into the final phase of a life well-lived. Especially in the material things department.

Except, that over the years I have grown crazily attached to the concept of being prepared. I have tried paring down my stuff in the past – once living the frugal life prescribed by Mother Earth News and the various publications of the Rodale Press. I did, I did – but I just ended up gathering even more paraphernalia, partly because I needed it in order to live “the simple life”, and partly because on the extremely rare occasion I threw anything away, I would find that it would suddenly take on critical importance. It would morph into a life saving tool – a scrap of information clipped from a magazine/a stub of a candle that could be remolded/buttons clipped from shirts turned cleaning rags/a paper written for some college course.

As a result, I once vowed to never, ever get rid of anything again – which means every spare space of our home is filled with things stored for some future imagined use.

Now that spring is approaching, I’m bracing myself for separation anxiety as I take on the formidable task of dunging out. And to be frank, I am also feeling quite breathless at the prospect of having clean, clutter free spaces in our home. For some reason these imagined orderly spaces are beginning to symbolize some soul cleansing quest I envision myself embarking on.

Not that my soul necessarily needs refining – but you get to a certain point in life and you wake up one morning with the realization that all the stuff you have amassed is just that – stuff.

Like a collection of golf balls each discovered while diving in locations throughout the Great Lakes and Caribbean. Do you think The Container Store has a suitable stylish box designed for life experience artifacts such as these? One that will let me sort them by type, color and location found?

I love The Container Store. What’s not to love about a store that advertises they offer “an exceptional and eclectic mix of products devoted to helping people simplify their lives”. A slogan that definitely has appeal for a reformed Earth Motherer like myself – who admittedly can’t shake a desire to simplify life despite being born with defective “clean genes”.

Peg Bracken, well known author of The I Hate to Housekeep Book, has clumped housekeepers into three types: spotless (won’t stop), spotful (won’t start), and random. I fall in to the random group – my heart is in the right place, but when it comes to housekeeping, I’d rather be doing nearly anything else, and generally am. Which explains my own personal invention for oven cleaning – simply let the run-overs bake on high until charcoaled and then vacuum.

But back to the dunging out dilemma – how do you know what can be eliminated and what should be saved for prosperity? Thoreau claims, “Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify.” But as I sort through the details of my life I, like Bracken and her housekeepers, have discovered there are three distinct categories: the obvious toss outs, the sentimental saves and those things that fall in the DMZ. You know, that no-man’s land of accumulated things – like golf balls found diving. You have no idea how or why you started collecting them. They will never serve any purpose in preparing you for life’s unexpected moments. But they sure do bring back a flood of memories as you attempt to toss the whole kit-and-caboodle into the trash.

And so here I sit, with the detritus of my life piled around me and I am reminded of what Stanley Kunitz once wrote, “Live in the layers, not on the litter.” Golf balls definitely fall into the litter category – even if The Container Store can come up with a solution for stylishly storing them!

It’s not our things that change, it is we who change in relationship to them.

March Mud Madness . . .

"Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush."
- Doug Larson

The Return of the Common Loon . . .

 

From far out in the center of the naked lake

the loon's cry rose . . .

it was the cry of someone who owned very little.

- Robert Bly

With spring comes the return of the Common Loon to the waters surrounding Drummond Island. I can't wait to hear their cries echo through the mist . . .