It is raining on this warm spring morning, and although it may sound a bit strange to you, I am comforted by the sound of the water running free in my gutters toward their downspouts. It was just a week or so ago that I cleaned the last of the maple seedlings out of them.
It is among one of my personality’s strange quirks, I suppose, but I can’t stand the sight of gutters filled to their brims with leaves and twigs and maple “helicopters.” I have driven past homes in which the gutters have bowed under the weight of it all; some have even been growing miniature groves of silver maples in the 4-inch-wide compost piles that trail along the edge of their roof’s eaves, and I wonder if the owners are simply waiting for pulp woodcutters to make them an offer.
I have vowed to myself that as long as I can muster the wherewithal to tie my boots, to climb a ladder, and to manage the breath and strength to pull a leaf blower’s starter cord, I’ll keep my gutters clean.
I know it is inexcusably stupid of me, but I have often been spotted on my roof as the first drops of rain from an oncoming storm are spattering around me, as I try to clean my gutters before the deluge sweeps them full.
Maple seedlings are a testament to the inescapable persistence of nature.
We had what seemed to be a near-record crop of the things around our place this spring, and despite the charm of seeing the “whirligigs” fluttering to the ground on breezy May days, their near-hypnotic soothing is soon replaced by the irritation and work they cause.
We sweep them off our deck, off our porches, off the sidewalks; we wonder how they can work their way under our car’s windshield wipers, how one spring we even had them drop down a 11/2-inch pipe to clog our bathroom vent line as if they were equipped with Norden bombsights. I have raked them up by the bushels, have been disgusted by their septic odor while scooping their wet carcasses from around my foundation, and now, we have already begun the summerlong process of pulling their sprouts from our flower pots and garden — anywhere, in fact, that there’s a bit of bare ground, even where there is not.
The whirligig — the paper-thin wing that is attached to the maple seed — is actually called a samara; it is referred to as a fruit because it is the end result of the trees’ fertilization. Samaras are perfectly engineered little pieces of work because the timing of their fall to the earth comes perfectly matched with spring’s windiest weeks. Not only are our yards and roofs and walks covered with the things, but if we look close enough, we’ll also see that they are carried into creeks and rivers, and they often remain airborne much longer than we can believe, all to help transplant even more maples to destinations unknown. In other words, these whirling little lopsided kites, often called “maple keys,” that we can find at our feet by the bushels are, in fact, pretty efficient travelers, dumbly preserving their own species in the most innocent ways.
I never cease to be amazed by what I see in my own little patch of the planet. There is a subtle insistence to the natural world that is and always has been a step ahead of me. Within a few days of mowing the lawn, I see the whitecaps of clover reappear; I always have flowers to water, weeds to pull, trees to trim. Rainwater moves the rock near my mailbox down to a spot a hundred yards away to pile it up in my yard, and every so many weeks I’ll shovel a few wheelbarrow loads of it and trudge it back up to a place where I want it.
The irises I love will eventually push my brownstone borders aside until I come along with a shovel and chop and thin their ranks and re-pile the rock in puzzle-pieced columns again. Just the other day, I stood in my mini-barn and was amazed to see that the deep green ivy I have let creep up one outside wall, has stealthily pushed its way into a tiny crack in the eave and is now sending a pale tendril into the darkness of the inside. Yesterday, I pulled a walnut seedling from a mulched flower bed near my deck, the half-shelled nut apparently dropped there by a squirrel or chipmunk.
I don’t use much pesticide and herbicide around our place because I know that in going after my pesky weeds, I may be poisoning a tree, that nailing a few ants might be taking out our struggling honey bees, too. Mostly, I pull the weeds and swat the bugs, but I won’t lie and say that I have never had a spray can of toxins in my hand; in some cases, a hoe or shovel or bare hands can’t compete with nature.
When I first moved to our homestead — almost 28 years ago — the woods that bordered our yard had encroached to within a few feet of our back door. I was less than half the age I am now, so with little more than an axe and a push mower and stubborn energy, I cleared out a hillside that now flourishes with hostas and ivy, irises and pines. I hauled in a dozen old railroads ties to hold the ground in place and stacked bucket-sized stones into retaining walls, yet I still pull and hack and sweat over the descendants of the hill’s original tenants. The wild grapevines still encroach, the poison ivy still waits along the wood line to invade, and maple seedlings sprout and silently grow under leafier plants hoping I’ll miss them…
Near one of those old ties, a tulip poplar seedling sprouted a few years ago; it is nearly 6 feet tall now. I planted what must be its parent in my front yard, for I have no other yellow poplars nearby; it is perhaps 50 feet tall now and graces its place near our driveway with wonderful fall color.
I have every intention of leaving the off-spring poplar right where it is — no transplanting it despite its being just a bit too close to a white pine I purposely placed nearby a few seasons ago. Like so many of those maple sprouts, it has emerged where it wants to be, and in this case, I will just leave it alone.
As is most often true, nature wins again.
Mike Lunsford can be reached at hickory913@aol.com, or by writing c/o the Tribune-Star, P.O. Box 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808. Go to www.mikelunsford.com to learn more about his book, “The Off Season: The Newspaper Stories of Mike Lunsford.”
Mike Lunsford
The Off Season: Helicopters in the gutters, and other imponderables…
- Mike Lunsford
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A walk in the woods
I went for a walk in the woods one day last week after work. It was a warm and green afternoon, and a fresh blue breeze blew in from the west like a new spring friend.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘Dowsers’ provide hope more than science
My grandfather was a man of God. Many times I saw him, his right hand held high in the air at his Wednesday night “prayer meeting,” praising the Lord before weeping at the altar on his knees. And yet, he was a “dowser,” a “diviner,” a “witcher” who, as a favor, would grab a forked sassafras stick and find water for some poor unfortunate whose well had gone dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: As of today, it’s unofficially spring
Despite the calendar telling us not to rush things, I think it is all right to go ahead and say spring is here. The Ides of March has passed, Easter is coming soon, and I have already been out in my yard with a rake, getting my boots muddy. It looks like spring to me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Twain’s Sawyer helps us yearn for ‘wilderness of childhood’
My cousin, Roger, stopped in one day last summer for a glass of tea and a little conversation. Rog has lived an hour’s drive away for years and now, and besides summer reunions, I don’t see him nearly often enough. He’s a good man who has raised a good family, and he owns a healthy sense of appreciation for not only the life he has now, but also the lives we had years ago as kids.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Cheerful green of wheat fights winter blahs
There is a light drizzle of freezing rain tapping at the door of my cabin today. It is little more than a week before the words I am writing are due to appear on your breakfast table or work desk with your morning coffee and scrambled eggs. But I write when I can, and today, despite a full schedule of televised football games, and the stacks of ungraded papers in my briefcase, and a good book lying open on my nightstand, I am clacking away on a keyboard to the whir of a heater and the steady drip of my gutters.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On the simple joys of watching it snow ...
It began to snow about 20 minutes ago, as I write this, light, wind-driven flakes that fall silently into my woods as I watch from a window.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On this day above all, ‘Peace on earth, good will to men’
More than a year after his wife’s death, the great American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, wrote in his diary on Christmas Day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Remembering a Lefty Frizzell-kind of Christmas ...
My brother and sister and I sat around a Thanksgiving dinner table a month ago, shifting in our seats just enough to make our yet-to-be digested turkey sit a little more easily, and, as we often do when we get together, we reminisced about our childhoods for a while.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The wonders of wading in ‘The Iridescence of a Shallow Stream’
I have no idea how many times I have written a story that begins with the wistful phrase, “When I was a boy. ...”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Little man who came to dinner changes feel of household
My 7-year-old nephew, Carson, came to visit us last week. That in itself isn’t earth-shattering news, for he often drops by with one of his parents or the other, the last time dressed as a ghoul for Halloween. But for a couple like Joanie and me, whose youngest child is now nearly two decades past Carson’s age, having a little guy like him in the house, even for a few hours, takes a bit of adjusting.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Reflections: a bit of red glass and our daily thanksgivings
I sat in the half-light of my old desk lamp a few nights ago, a chilly wind blowing in from the northwest that made me appreciative of my long-sleeved shirt and purring heater.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Growing up — and ‘old’ — with many mouths to feed
At our family reunion last summer, I asked my brother if I could borrow a pair of photo albums he had put together. Over the past couple of years, I have committed quite a few of our family’s old yellowing snapshots to newly cropped and digitalized lives, and I wanted to do the same with some of the pictures John has collected for himself.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Violets in October – a pleasant surprise
I guess I don’t pay much attention to the weather forecasts these days because it surprised me a bit when our furnace kicked on a few nights ago.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A library is a good thing — even a little, homegrown one
I grew up with libraries, and I can’t imagine there ever being a time when I won’t want to wander one exploring it like some bookworm-Balboa, finding an author or title that I never really knew existed before. Creating those “Eureka” moments seems to be a dying interest now that so many of us download and digest books electronically without ever really considering that there just might be some hidden gem we’d have liked even more had we simply stumbled upon it on a shelf by accident. I think those moments of discovery are not unlike kicking up lost treasure a mile from where X marks the spot.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The ‘soothsayer’ who came to dinner
I’ve had a good time opening my mail these past few weeks. Sure, I still received the usual junk about lower credit card rates and satellite television packages, but the genuine letters made me smile; most were about a story I wrote in late August.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The agony of de‘feet’ has this writer on his heels
I don’t know if I can electrocute myself by using a computer and soaking my feet in a pan of warm water at the same time, but I am contemplating taking the risk. My feet, particularly the right foot, have staged a 10-digit rebellion over the past few months. After a half-century of commendable service, my pods are screaming to be taken in for repairs, a big inconvenience for a guy who works on his feet all day and whose “sole” form of serious exercise is putting one foot in front of another walking the local roadways.
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Mike Lunsford: Summer’s hidden beauty worth the wait
The great naturalist John Burroughs once said that nature teaches more than she preaches. I can’t recall a summer where that rings true more than this one, for that old sun of ours truly taught us a thing or two these past three months.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time to redefine the concept of ‘assisted living’
Although it has been nearly two months now, I can’t forget the few afternoon hours I spent on a hot June day this summer at a local “assisted living” facility in town. I had been asked to speak to a group of men there about Father’s Day, but for most part, the wonderful old guys who came to listen certainly made my day more memorable than I did theirs.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Observations on smooth stones and blue-green water…
It was raining when I began to write this. Although no one could rightfully call what we got this afternoon a “downpour,” it was nice to have my windows open to hear the steady drops of a passing shower tapping on my dry-as-dust deck and hard-as-concrete yard.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: This summer has us recalling the heat of ’36
It was “only” 99 degrees one afternoon last week when I decided to work on a backyard deck. With a jack and a drill and a little more sweat than I wanted to invest in the project, I went about the business of leveling its sags and dips a bit. The sun pounded down on my head and shoulders like a thug’s blackjack, but as I packed my tools and drank a glass of cool water under a big maple tree a few hours later, I couldn’t help but think about how lucky I’ve been these past few dusty and drought-stricken weeks. I have worked under this summer’s heat lamp for only a few hours at a time, but God help the roofers and utility linesmen and firemen, and so many others, who are out in it day after long hot day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: We had no better friend than Andy Taylor
The world is a sadder place now that Andy Griffith has died, but at least we still have Andy Taylor.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Wading deeper into the subject of Blue Herons
Like a relative who has worn out his welcome, the hot, parched weather of this young summer has already overstayed its visit with us, so my wife and I have found ourselves walking our road later in the evenings to keep our feet cool and our backs dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Thanking two dads whose gifts have never stopped coming…
It is nearly a week until Father’s Day, but I have had my dad, and my father-in-law — a second dad to me — on my mind today. I wrote about both men just a few weeks ago, but I have set my mind to write about them again anyway. I don’t want this story to be sad; they both loved to laugh and wouldn’t want that. No, I just wanted to tell them hello, and to thank them again for what they still do for me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Raising a flag for my father, veteran or not
My daughter, Ellen, and I stood at my parents’ graves on Mother’s Day a few weeks back and talked about how it couldn’t possibly have been so long since we lost them. My dad, for instance, has been gone for 16 years, and that is nearly unimaginable
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Time to become one of the boys of summer again …
Besides writing for a living, I teach school, and I’m not ashamed to tell people that I still love my classroom. I’ve been a teacher for 33 years, all of them in the same school district, and virtually all of them in the same building. But I also have to tell you that if the next few weeks don’t slide by pretty quickly, I may just let loose of the last thread of sanity from which I have been dangling for a while now. There are a lot of teachers out there who feel the same way.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time for us to get the real lowdown on dirt…
I have had my hands in the soil as of late. Two Fridays ago, I planted a viburnum bush, three chrysanthemums and a yellow poplar, not because it happened to be Earth Day, but because it was sunny and warm, and I had the whole afternoon to myself. The dirt I scraped out of and back into the shallow holes I dug near a backyard picket fence smelled good, and when dampened with a few sprinkles of water, it soon found its way into the deep wrinkles of my knuckles and under my fingernails. For the most part, I have nothing but good things to say about dirt.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Make big money: Raise worms at home for fun and profit…
When I think about all of the crazy things my brother and sister and I did just to make a few dollars when we were kids, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for teens this summer as they try to find jobs in what is supposed to be a very tight market. Money, to say the least, was a rare commodity when we were growing up, but you have to at least give us credit for trying.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d…’
Had white lace curtains been hanging in the west window of my cabin, I would have had a perfect Wyeth painting to watch last Thursday. A gentle breeze was wafting through my screens, and the sunlight of a warm late March day was fractured by the window sill as it poured onto my legs and feet. I could catch the scent of lilacs as it was carried in by that wind, and it and the subtle melody of the chimes that hang just outside made me as lazy as an old cat.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A report from the country as a new season brings sense of renewal
Regardless of what the calendar may yet say, spring has happened. It couldn’t have come too soon, and it wasn’t just last week and its windy 70s that have convinced me. I have been keeping a journal of sorts in my head for a fortnight now, stashing away reports of birds and buds and sounds in the crammed cabinets of my mind, all in a file marked, “The New Season.”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Feeding time at the homestead draws a host of new guests
I stepped outside into the warmth of an unusually mild early March morning last week to do what I always do just before I grab my briefcase and book bag and lunch bag and head off to work. It’s nearly always dark when I leave, even as the sun gets up earlier and earlier in the late winter, so I often go about the business of feeding our cats with porch lights on and a flashlight in hand.
- More Mike Lunsford Headlines
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Jodi Arias: Death Penalty Would Cause More Pain
Looking for Love? Take the Prague Metro
Raw: Costa Rica Volcano Roars to Life
Today in History May 22
Raw: Students Clash With Police in Chile
Raw: Japan's WWII Atrocities Under Fire in Seoul
First Person: Baby Falcons on a New York Bridge
Oklahoma: Images of Devastation, Reunion
Crews Race to Find Survivors of Okla. Twister
Tim Cook Defends Apple's Tax Accounting
Police Ram House to End Hostage Standoff
Raw: Aussie Zoo Shows Off White Rhino Calf
Families Begin Returning to Their Homes in Moore
Reunited Dad, Son: 'We Just Praise God'
Lawyer: Feds Investigating Susan Powell Case
Protests Outside Cincinnati IRS Office
Moore, Okla. City of Reunions, Tears After Storm
Raw: Aerial View of Moore Tornado Damage
Slow Pokes: Acupuncture Helps Sick Turtles
Former Rep. Weiner Running for New York Mayor
Morgan Freeman falls asleep on air!
DWTS Crowns a Winner
Crowd Chants '¡Si, Se Puede!' After Passage of Immigration Bill
Demi Moore a Rocks Bikini at Harry Morton's Family House
Anthony Weiner: I'm running for New York City mayor
Kate Middleton's Dress Flies Up
VIRAL: Baby makes epic soccer goal
The Hangover Baby All Grown Up
Olivia Munn Flaunts Her Bikini Bod
Britney Spears Under Fire Once Again For Being A Bad Mom
Arias Tells Jury What She'd Do if She Gets Life
The all-new Xbox One
RAW: Massive tornado strikes Oklahoma
Nidal Hasan paid $278K while awaiting trial
VIDEO: Teacher reunites mother and son after tornado levels elementary school in Oklahoma City
Okla. tornado survivor finds dog buried alive under rubble
Jennifer Lawrence Gets Naked and Painted Blue as X-Men's Mystique
Pickler's Dance Moves Cause A Stir
Obama to tornado survivors: The country stands beside you
