That is all. Enjoy your Friday.
That is all. Enjoy your Friday.
This isn’t going to be about what you think. No political ranting from me; I gave that up for Lent.
No, today I’m celebrating spring.
These grace my front yard and make me very happy every spring. I almost always make a lame joke, even if I’m the only one around to hear it. “Oh hello you darling bleeding hearts! From one liberal to another, I feel your pain!”
Nearby, is my son Christopher’s lambs ear, for which I can think of no politically related jokes. We all do enjoy petting it, though. As summer goes on, it develops flowers, much to my surprise. But now in spring, it’s just sedately ear-like.
St. Francis keeps watch over the ears o’ lamb, which I think is amusingly appropriate since he is the patron saint for animals. Also appropriate is the fact that Christopher chose him as his saint when he was Confirmed. The little animal.
Next we have this gorgeous tree, which graces the front entrance to Trassie’s elementary school. I believe it to be a flowering cherry, and every spring it is just stunning.
Just think how pleasant it would be to reign supreme as principal at this school, when you’ve got a view like this right outside your office window. Like so —
The photo really doesn’t capture how beautiful this tree is. And in case you’re wondering, yes I did ask before I barged into the principal’s office and started snapping away. I escaped without a paddling, though I don’t know how much longer that will be the case, now that I’ve plastered her office window all over the Internet. Good thing she’s such a nice lady. [/suck up]
Here’s another view. Savor the gorgeousness!
This last sign of spring, also pink, I spied one afternoon last weekend as I bopped down the street for a power walk at the park. It’s at my neighbor’s house, and the late-afternoon sunlight illuminated these tulips just perfectly.
No, I don’t know why there are Christmas lights around the base of this tree. But aren’t they pink and pretty? I think this picture came out fairly decent, considering it was captured via phone camera. (Thank you, Steve Jobs!)
OK, the power walk. Yes, I am walking again, and don’t it feel good? Last summer I surged around the walking park near my neighborhood as many nights a week after dinner as I could manage it — until the time change laid me low and I couldn’t get supper made, eaten and cleaned up in enough time to get myself in full workout regalia.
But I did make it several laps twice over the weekend, and I can feel those winter-hibernation pounds just falling right off me.
Well, not really. More like reluctantly deciding that maybe they’ll leave, if Miss Wide Butt can just stick to the exercise plan and lay off the Little Debbies.
It’s a great workout, accompanied as I am by podcasts to keep my brain busy and occupied while I try to get into some semblance of shape, and drink in the scenery, which often include ducks, rabbits, groundhogs and, on one memorable occasion, an actual beaver swimming in the creek.
I don’t know what his plans were for damming up the wetland; he didn’t pause long enough for me to ask. Perhaps he was just reconnoitering the area for his fellow dammers, or maybe just off on a swim for exercise, or a pleasure cruise at night through eel-infested waters. (Name that movie!)
At any rate, it’s been a long winter and I’m sure glad spring is here.
Travel along the twisting blue highways of Eastern Kentucky enough and you’re bound to see them: picturesque and practical, old-fashioned and mildly terrifying. They’re a sight that’s out of the ordinary enough to make a traveler pause and take a few photographs along the side of the road.
They’re known as swinging bridges, and most of them were built by the people who use them, out of necessity, to reach their homes. As you probably can guess, there isn’t a lot of flat land available in the mountains to build a house, or even to park a mobile home. And with flat land being in short supply, sometimes it winds up on the other side of the creek from the road.
And so they built them, these swinging bridges, out of wood and concrete, and sturdy-looking cable. Built them of their own design, in locations of their own choosing, and often with the help of neighbors.
The one appears along Highway 7, outside of Hazard, in the neighborhood of Cornettsville and Ulvah, along the road to Whitesburg.
It’s a little unusual, I think, in that it has a name.
I didn’t realize it last week, but I’d seen this bridge before; more than 10 years ago, in fact, when swinging bridges were the subject of a story in the second season of Kentucky Life, a long-running magazine program for which I was series writer (and sometime segment producer).
At the time the host was Byron Crawford, who spent his career roaming Kentucky’s back roads in search of stories just like this for the (Louisville) Courier-Journal. If you watch the clip, you’ll notice the boyish enthusiasm Byron exhibits for bouncing across the bridge, imagining what it might be like to be a child whose little world includes such a marvelous thing.
As we drank in the mountain beauty surrounding the bridge, snapping photos and recording a little video for a short segment and story we were working on that day, we were greeted by a resident of the small neighborhood which relied on the bridge daily to cross the creek.
Impervious to the sway and creak of the Ben Salley Bridge, the man made his brisk way across the creek, through the gate, and down to the roadside where I stood.
“That’s my bridge,” he said, pointing to the sign.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Salley,” said I.
I was a bit worried he was going to run us off but he mostly just wanted to know what we were up to, and to chat a bit. He told us he’d built that bridge, and he wished the county would put up a more permanent structure and right of way. He was a war veteran, World War II, and thought he deserved it. I think he’s right.
He also told me that his wife had died of cancer, and they carried her for the last time across that bridge on a scooter much like the one he himself now used. He didn’t say if her final journey across the Ben Salley Bridge was before she departed this life, or after. Either case would have been difficult, I would think.
The late September sun was hot on the green water. Fall has only just begun to touch the mountains, but soon they’ll be ablaze with color — so much color that you’ll think you’re in another world, where the beauty just takes your breath away.
It is another world, Eastern Kentucky, where some of the things that city-dwellers take for granted, like Starbucks, are unknown, and other things, like swinging foot bridges, slow you down just long enough to pass the time of day with a war veteran or a new-found friend.
Deep in the mysterious depths of the fathomless jungle, there lies a fearsome creature. He goes by the name Argiope aurantia. He is yellow and black.
OK, maybe not so deep, maybe not so mysterious. This is our New Best Friend, the Black and Yellow Garden Spider (bet you didn’t see that one coming) and he lives off our back deck.
Spiders, not unlike insects such as bees, are a popular topic among the 5-year-old set at my house. For the last week, our nightly reading has consisted of I Can Read About Spiders, a book I picked up for my son Christopher at a yard sale years ago.
I brought it out a few months ago when spiders seem to strike terror in Trassie’s young heart. Education, I believed, was the best way to combat his fear of creepy-crawlies.
I am pleased to say this mission has been a success. We inspect all corners of the garage for other new friends. We discuss spiders’ two body parts: the cephalothorax and the abdomen (just ask him: he’ll tell you) as well as the animal family to which the spider belongs — arachnids. Tarantulas fascinate him. He has a great curiosity, mixed with fear and respect, of the brown recluse. We captured, for a day, a little Daring Jumping Spider I found on the wooden blinds a few months ago, and kept him prisoner for a day as we learned all we could about him — including all about his iridescent green jaws.
I don’t have any plans to bring in Argiope aurantia for similar close inspection; field observation, in this case, is close enough.