Poop

Specifically, bear. And fresh, though not still-steaming fresh. It also wasn't steaming yesterday afternoon when I first happened upon it. But it hasn't appeared from under snow or anything. It's this-April fresh. And those little white things in it--not to get too gross or anything--are birdseed hulls.

The pile itself is down by the pine trees between the house and the lake, just in front of where we "store" the canoe and rowboat for the winter. Where the bucks were sparring.

The deer used to hang out there but recently have stayed in the back 40, nearer the road, under the pines out there. And now I think I know why.

Darn. The bears woke up before I was ready for them.

And I just happened on the pile, too--finding it was an accident, and I suppose I'd have to call it a happy one, since it's always better to know. I'd gone to retrieve the windsock from the reeds, where it had blown during one of the windstorms this season. Before that, I'd done feeder duty. The seed in the birdfeeder on the deck had been wet, then frozen. Generally, it had been yucky for a few days. I brought in the feeder to wash it, thinking I'd put some fresh out for the chickadees this morning.

Only now, perhaps not.

And I just wish I'd seen this pile before I emptied the feeder sludge onto the ground just outside my office window. Although I have to say, it is a front-row seat for whatever, or whoever, happens by. So far, all we have is a squirrel, who seems extraordinarily happy.

Scruffy

If you had a deer as a pet, what would you name it?

Bambi? Of course. There are other possibilities. Faline. Santa's reindeer names.

Descriptors always work. Lithe, Sleek, Pretty, Brave Boy (or Brave Girl--it's hard to tell until they get antlers, or don't), Piggy, Little One. Or, if you go by what they best like to eat, Rhubarb and Day Lily and Rotting Grapes.

Chances are, you wouldn't name a deer "Scruffy."

However, these days, that's the best descriptor. It's shed-the-winter-coat season. Of course, you wouldn't be able to tell Scruffy apart from Scruffy Too, Three, Four, and so on up through Seven, who have been hanging in the back 40 off and on this week.

I wonder if Scruffy Times N are shedding a bit prematurely. I keep adding layers of clothing, but mostly because the view out every window is one of cold grayness.

The weather system currently moving through can't quite decide if it wants to be rain or snow. The thermometer seems stuck around melting/freezing/whatever. Snow lingers back in the bush and under overhanging branches, but most of the ground is clear (and greening over the mud).

Days like today, April looks a lot like November. Like it could use a good exfoliation. You know. Scruffy.

Jiggity Jig

That means, of course, that I am home again. Take that, Thomas Wolfe.

The worst part of cross-border traveling is going through customs and immigration. On my way to Arizona, I really wanted to smack the border agent.

First of all, it was the second day in a row I'd gotten up at 4 in the hopes of flying out. The first day, strong winds and/or mechanical difficulties prevented us from taking off. The second day...well, it was my second day of getting up at 4 a.m. Not a morning person, me.

After the nerve-wracking experience of undressing to pass through security, you spend 1.5 hours in the tin can in the sky and another ten minutes hanging around inside the airplane while they process paperwork. Then you climb down this teeny little set of stairs to the tarmac and follow the rest of the herd (under close supervision this whole time) onto a bus without seats.

The bus takes you on a circuitous route through the scenic bowels of the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport to a back entrance. You crowd off the bus and push into an alcove (inside at last!) and then into the elevator once someone punches the button, duh, to call it down from upstairs. Finally, you get off the elevator into a huge space--about ten lanes for arriving immigrants.

And only one agent is working. I've arrived many times from Thunder Bay, and there has never been more than one agent working.

So you'll forgive me if, while standing in line as one agent processes 49 other people, my face gets a little blank. By this time, it's after 8:30 to my body, and I've been up since 4. Two days in a row. Not a morning person.

As the agent calls me forward from the yellow line, he says "Smile, young lady." I hate this. I have a face that isn't particularly smiley. I know this. People in the U.S.--perfect strangers, walking down the street--tell me to smile. I really really hate this. I'm not surprised to hear it, even though I hate it.

But I stay silent. This man carries a gun.

He starts his visitor's spiel before noticing my U.S. passport and stopping himself. Instead, he says "Welcome home," and I say "I live in Canada now," and he says with a wink, "Traitor." Seriously. He says this word, "traitor." And then he winks. I remain impassive (Four in the morning! Second day in a row!). Then he says "Why?" I say, "Why what?" He says, "Why do you live in Canada?"

Oh dear.

I really want to say, "Because in Canada, perfect strangers never tell me to smile."

I really really really want to say, "Shall I start with the 2000 election?"

I am seriously tempted to say, "Where do I start?"

Instead, I sputter.

Still holding my passport, he says, "It's usually either a job or marriage."

Eyeing my passport, I say, because it's easiest, "I got married."

He says, "Aha. I knew it was something. Enjoy your stay." Passport now in hand, I think, but don't say, "It can only get better from here."

Coming back is equally nerve-wracking, mostly because you have to declare your purchases and pay duty and whatnot. I'm always afraid they'll ask to search my luggage and then I'll have to explain those three jars of olives I didn't bother to declare.

However, generally speaking, most border agents in Canada don't carry sidearms. (The current government is trying to change that.) And to a man and woman, none of them--not one--has ever told me to smile.

Man, I love this country.

An Interlude

Today it's in the 70s, headed toward the 90s, and sunny. That's because I'm in Tucson.

I admit it--I needed a break from "spring" weather north of 49. The real reason I'm here, however, is that yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my father's death, and I wanted to spend it with my sister, who was also there, in the place where it happened. 

Yesterday was a great day, just as the time of my father's month-long illness last year was a wonderful time. It wasn't exactly fun--but it was oh-so-very rewarding. It's a luxury to have crystal-clear priorities, to know you are exactly where you need to be, for your presence in a situation to be enough. What a gift that was.

Yesterday, my sister and I attended a morning service at the Episcopal church where my father went to his last service and whose priests supported all of us last year. (My sister also works there.) I then spent time learning about technology for a volunteer project I'm involved in back home. Later, my sister and I got pedicures in hono(u)r of Daddy and went to a fancy restaurant in the same plaza for appetizers. 

I'm serious about the pedicures. My father was always so pleased that my sister and I get along well. Many a visit, we'd be doing something silly together while he smiled at us over his crossword puzzle. Pedicures are one of those ultimate nurturing, spiritual experiences--a lot of foot-washing goes on in the Bible, after all. 

In the midst of our celebration and remembrance, we also had news that my brother's father-in-law passed away yesterday--the same day, one year later. Another family confronts a long-dreaded day, figures out what changes need to be made, struggles together to make them. They are in our thoughts and prayers. I hope the time in which they create a "new reality" turns out to be as rewarding for them as it was for me.

So this visit has had many purposes, not the least of which has been to let me sit outside in April with nary a trace of fleece. I'd post pictures but it seems too much like gloating. 

Nor' Easter

Today, April is no longer brown. It's white, and it howls.

We're having a spring storm. We can't see too far beyond the deck, but there's still plenty to look at: snow devils, huge flakes in loop-the-loop patterns, and bending evergreens. There's even a little sparrow-ish bird outside my office--brown back and face, white belly.

I keep looking at the thermometer because I'm sure I'm reading it wrong. But it still says about 30F or 0C. Freezing/melting, in other words. It sounds far colder.

Looks like another great afternoon for a book and a cup of hot chocolate.

UPDATE at TEATIME: What a day. We lost power for a half-hour around 1.

Then there was the wind. The cover of the barbecue (what they call gas grills up here) went flying to the end of the deck. Roy retrieved it. The barbecue itself recently followed suit. Roy patiently went to retrieve it. He can't bring it inside through the sliders on the deck they're frozen shut. He can't wheel it around the side into the garage, either--no sidewalk. So it sits on the deck, waiting for another funhouse ride.

This is the first time all year we've seen any movement on the deck. In April!

Do What?

People sometimes misunderstand each other. (Stop the presses.) What you say when you think you may have misunderstood what someone else said depends on where you are. In the southern part of the U.S., the following conversation happens daily.

He (standing 15 feet away and facing the other direction while she is rummaging through closet for something): Honey, have you seen the xygfrmph?
She (straightening to look at him): Do what?

Yes, while it's acceptable in some cultures to say "huh?" or "pardon?" or "what was that again?," in Arkansas (for example) you can say "do what?"

It's also an acceptable response when the problem isn't simply a hearing problem--when you have heard the words but don't know what the other person means. Which is the reason for this post, now that I've explained the title.

A recent local ad extols the virtues of good-quality tailored suits. It includes this statement: "With a quality suit, it tailors easily to perfection."

Do what? What tailors easily? The suit? Then why not "A quality suit tailors easily to perfection"? You still have a few problems with that statement, of course. For example, all suits are of some quality. They mean "a high-quality suit." Suits themselves don't "tailor"; people wield the needle. And about that "easily": Do suits of some other quality than "quality" "tailor to perfection," wherever that is, only with difficulty?

I think what they really mean is "You can tell a high-quality suit by paying attention to the details" which they already list previously in the commercial. Then: "A high-quality suit, tailored to your individual body structure and taste, will make you look swell." Substitute something else for "swell," like "successful" or "wealthy," which is what they want you to think.

Here's a way to get really DIRECT about what they're selling: "Start with one of our high-quality suits, add the expertise of our staff tailors, and you have the perfect business attire to make you a winner in more than your own mind." (Perhaps stop talking after "winner.")

I know, I know: I'm back on "tomatoes have no knees" territory. But here's the thing: unclear writing dulls the brain. When you hear these commercials as often as we do, you can start to tune out. You might accept that ads are incomprehensible, which means local businesses pay for junk more and more often.

You might even start to think that unclear writing is OK wherever you read it (newspaper) or hear it (radio). And it's simply not. Unclear writing is not OK anywhere. And Thunder Bay copywriters can do better.

April is the Brownest Month

We've had various snow squalls in the past week, but we've also had our share of sunny days and some rain. Signs of spring lurk in more than just these weather patterns, too.

If you know where to look, you can see grass greening. You have to look hard, though--it's mostly down by the roots. When you look over an expanse of grass, you still see only thatch-toned brown. But the fact that you can see either brown or green means that much of the snow has melted off, too.

Last week, the snowplow or grader or some big piece of equipment went along the avenue back of the house and scraped snow and ice off the asphalt. If I can get down the driveway without getting too dirty, I can walk on asphalt now instead of hobbling along on icy roads.

That driveway: one large lake with two smaller puddles. Sometimes a skin of ice on top; sometimes not.

More snow is falling today, but it won't last long. And when it melts off, I'll be able to look, again, for greening grass.

Sometimes being able to look for spring without feeling the fool is confirmation enough of its approach.