Be Not Idle

When I mow the lawn or weed the garden behind the house, I always watch for Mr. Toad, the amphibian that suns himself near the garden. It’s not unusual for him to leap suddenly from the grass or scurry into the flowerbed.

So today when I was coming around the side of the deck, I wasn’t particularly surprised to see movement in the grass head of me. But it was too fast and furry to be a toad and too slow to be a chipmunk. It was followed by a small explosion of other bodies running away from the horrible Mower of Earsplitting Doom.

Bunnies! Two itsy bitsy rabbits went hopping through the grass and into the garden along the privacy fence. One remained in the grassy nook between the trunks of the maple cluster until it, too, lost its nerve and made a run for the greenery. Since I like the lawn is little longer and my yard is relatively dog-free,  the backyard must have looked like a little sanctuary (until I began mowing).

I figured that their mother had left them in what she thought was a safe place, so I kept mowing.  Then she burst from the garden and ran away, leaving the three little ones behind. I got a nice look at them, since they weren’t sure at first if I were evil, too.  They are very young, so that their ears are more round than long, and I could hold them in one hand (which I wouldn’t). Then they voted that although I didn’t make a lot of racket, I was clearly a Hateful Beast. They hid in the mums.

Mother took several hours return.  She was none too subtle, either.  I looked up and there she was in front of the deck, scratching her ear. I moved and she hopped over to the corner of the deck, “hidden” by a statue of Our Lady. I could see one exquisite black pool of an eye staring at me. Once in a while the long fuzzy frond of an ear would twitch into view. 

While she waited, the three youngsters came out from the garden. I left the deck and moved to the bedroom to get a better view from that window and saw something unusual: a wild rabbit grooming her brood while they nursed.

I took some nice photos before she spooked and hid in the sedum. Then I realized there were FIVE babies. Cute ones, too. 

The Clamster (aka Kasia) and her readers were talking about the consequences of consecutive rainy days in the urban landscape, and I was filled with nostalgia. A kind of “Thank God that’s past!” sort of nostalgia, to be sure, but it’s nostalgia nonetheless.

 I used to live in Warren, first by myself and then with the Baby Brother (and older brother, and friend M’e, and BB’s buddy Rob, and any other pal who needed to crash on the davenport for a few weeks or months**).  Days of heavy rain meant the storm sewers would overflow onto the road. If it didn’t happen on the commute to Troy, it happened before the commute home.

 On two non-consecutive years, I drove my car through an enormous puddle and stalled it until the engine compartment dried out. When it rained heavily for a few days, ants would come up from cracks in the slab, trying to escape the water. Once I woke up to a sound like irregular dripping from the bathroom. It wasn’t water but hundreds of winged ants flying and then falling back into the bathtub.   Come to think of it, that was just before the mouse moved in and the Baby Brother moved out, like a mini-Pestilence drama.

Now I live in a floodplain, but only because FEMA decided to extend it after I bought my house. My neighbours and I won’t buy the insurance because FEMA doesn’t pay unless over 50% of the house is underwater. The only way for that to naturally happen would mean the St. Clair River had flooded miles (or km) of inland Ontario and Michigan and overwhelmed the islands.

UNnaturally it would mean that when the Channel 4 chopper came over the area, they’d find me and my neighbors pumping water INSIDE our towering walls of sandbags to make the FEMA percentage requirements.

Seriously, the wetlands are intact here, so there are seldom standing puddles. The only downside is the high humidity near the marsh and the state park, as opposed to surrounding areas.  But that’s okay. I haven’t had to water my lawn yet and, so far, the mushrooms are minimal.

 **crash on the davenport = sleep on a fold-bed in a full-size sofa or couch) Sometimes my colloquialisms are indecipherable without footnotes!

My clay class is officially over, with just an unofficial  ”glazing party” later. I have about 15 pounds of leftover clay, which means I’ll be using my dining table as a workplace from time to time this summer. 

My work has been a mixed bag. My first tile came out fantastic! My beautiful bowl with the painstakingly-built leaves, however, will make a rather nondescript planter. I dipped it in the glaze and wiped off the excess, but the glaze still filled all the spaces. It’s now a nothing-special planter. 

On the other hand, my failure has prepared me to use a different glazing technique when I make Jesse’s bowl. I covered it with galloping horses and horseshoes.

I find myself making gifts, mostly. I want to make Pat a tile of St. Anthony, for example. Someone else wants an angel like the one that I based on Eastern icons. And I’ve had it in my head to make a tile with an image of the Divine Mercy. 

In June, I’ll be free to volunteer more at the Art Association. I enjoy it, even when it’s actual work.  Meeting people is the main lure. I met a couple of professional maritime artists and an up-and-coming muralist. A month ago, a lovely couple named Parks came in to admire the children’s work. The wife was an absolute peach, and the husband obviously knew a lot about technique. He mentioned he painted but he humbly omitted that he illustrates Dean Koontz’s children books.   

I’ve often heard that artists are difficult, but I think the truth is that some difficult people are artists.  Mostly I’ve met people with humor, patience, and a willingness to make mistakes.

Speaking of which, I must mention one of my favorite things about going to Pistons’ basketball games: The Spare Tires. They are a group of large men who perform dance routines during halftime.  I know it sounds like a gag, but they are impressive.  

Go here and click on “Spare Tires Photo Gallery” or check them out on Youtube:

   http://www.nba.com/pistons/dance/sparetires.html

Fill us with Your love that all our days we may sing for joy. - Psalm 90:14

For a few days, I have heard the familiar chirp of the robin. However, the first robin of spring is never official until I see it. Yesterday I finally did.

Often people make disparaging remarks about the climate of the Midwestern States. They speak of ice and snow as if those were all there are to life here. But there’s a beauty to autumn - the changing of the light, the particular crispness of the air, the glowing color of maple leaves against a gray sky - that’s more pronounced than in warmer climes.

I spent one spring in Florida and noticed that the season wasn’t as astonishing as it is Michigan or Ohio. When crocuses poke out of the snow, even if it seems too early - perhaps ESPECIALLY if it’s too early -  joy alights in the heart. Even if you like winter, there’s still a certain childlike sense of anticipation for those first signs of spring.

 Perhaps the best example I’ve ever had occurred when I was taking classes at Wayne State University in Detroit.  It was early February, an overcast day in which the only brightness seemed to be the dull white of snowbanks. I was walking past  the School of Education when I heard a robin singing. I stopped and looked for it.

I wasn’t the only one.  The sidewalk was dotted with people, heading in different directions, and several paused. The robin was on a bare tree, singing its song to attract a mate. Someone commented that it was the first robin; another that spring was coming. We smiled at each other as we went on our way.  No matter the forecast, we knew winter was at its end.

One of my favourite people is Pat who runs Celebration of Faith, a Catholic bookstore in St. Clair.  About a month ago, I stopped in and she gave me a statuette of St. Anthony. She wouldn’t allow me to pay for it. She said that’s the deal she has with St. Anthony. She’s asked him so many times to pray for her and her family, and she’s seen that he’s tireless in his intercession. So she gives away his paraphenalia.

I thought it was very cool that St. Anthony is one of her “prayer friends”. I used to have a few in college, mostly other young people in the Navigators’ Bible study group. They were the people I could ask to pray with me or for me.

I was never great at asking saints to pray for me. I’d call on St. Andrew from time to time when I was kid. (Usually when in a boat.) I had a feeling that they were very busy with God. Seemed a shame to interrupt them. I prayed the Rosary, of course, but that was more a meditation on Christ than asking for anything.

So the angels took the brunt of interceding when I had no one else to pray with me. St. Michael got a lot of desperate calls late at night when spooky sounds or general oddness abounded.  And my poor guardian angel! My mother’s grandmother had told her, and she passed it onto me, that if you began the Rosary at bedtime and fell asleep, your angel would finish it for you. Poor Phred must have covered 9/10 of every Rosary I prayed before I hit puberty. (Phred is my guardian angel. When I was a kid, someone got it into my head that guardian angels have names. I hope mine has a sense of humour. :) 

 But it’s a relatively new thing for me to ask the saints to pray for me. It’s really only been since I moved to this area. There are more Catholics around here, but I haven’t really become a part of my parish. Ironically, I know more people at the daily Masses in a neighbouring community, since so many older volunteers are Catholic.

Anyway, I’ve had St. Anthony’s statuette in a box since then, languishing on a coffeetable. I was looking for a good place to put it. I have the Holy Family on a bookshelf in the livingroom, surrounded by family photographs - which makes perfect sense the more I think about it.

On Saturday, I picked up my friend Karen. We both had errands in Port Huron, and she was going to be my guide to find the St. Vincent de Paul Society. I let her have first crack at what I was getting rid of: two boxes of houseware and three bags of clothes. 

I find it hard to describe how wonderful I felt watching her try on things and finding treasures among my discards.  It made me think of how people might react to finding something just right for them at St. Vincent’s. But what really floored me is that she immediately said, “I’ll go through my closet and see what I have to pass on.”  And when she saw something she really liked but that didn’t quite fit her, she said, “I could hang onto this, but someone else will absolutely LOVE this!”

She has an automatic generosity and honesty that puts me to shame. When we were in Home Depot, she found some money and immediately looked for the person who left it behind. Then she informed the management. No “finders, keepers” or hesitation.

 She herself works two jobs and is looking for a third. She always is on the look-out to help other people, even if it’s inconvenient.

 She’s not alone by any means. I’ve met an octogenarian last summer who fixes up broken appliances and sells them to help his neighbours pay their bills. He considers himself in good financial shape because his social security check covers his basic needs and his little trailer is in decent shape.  He said God gave him his health and longevity so that he could keep helping others.

 Then there are the kids, the ones who get free school lunches and wear out the clothes passed down from their older cousins. But they collect pop cans so they can raise money for Christmas gifts and groceries for other families. 

 I wonder how such people learn so much generosity, yet those of us who have more have such a struggle with being generous.