Buddies...

Dear Maria,

To the point, wet and green and the usual birds about at the feeder and many flowers blooming and nearly Christmas. Ground drenched, and grass green but not growing. Knockouts still may be showing come January 1, but not so sure about the lantana. Azalea and tea olive blooming. Pyracantha heavy with red berries. Now only need Cloudless Sulphur butterflies chasing about and then we would be nearly seasonally unadjusted.

Truthfully, I have not seen the butterflies at the lantana since before Thanksgiving—you know the ones, paper-thin, pale green-yellow, flitting about. I nearly always see a pair and sometimes as many as five. They seem awfully aggressive with one another for such fragile looking things.

Their flight looks like they are out of control, but they have a good turn of speed that also belies their delicate looking wings. Often I will see two hang about for ten minutes or more, which must be a long stretch in butterfly time. Of course, given where some migrate to, that may not be so. During the season they are as regular as daylight coming and going.

Two boys in the neighborhood—catching the middle school bus this year—set another marker for the ebb and flow of days. For nearly 5 years, I have watched them—traveling in both directions—either to the bus or from the bus. One on a bike, or both. Basketball in the mix or, and very rarely, a football tossed between them.

They push, they dare, they laugh, they chase. Perhaps they will be the ones at the end of their senior year to marvel at how much of their lives have been spent on this wedge of the world. They live but a block and a half apart and so can get into each other’s back pocket easily.

In the winter darkness, they are headed home at seven—I can hear the ball being pounded into the pavement. Summer nights, they are out until nine. Sometimes others follow as satellites to these joined-at-the-hip sons of the neighborhood.

I am glad for their coming and going. Returns me—in my mind—to running my neighborhoods with my best friend, and the unofficial gang, the incessant games, the occasional dustups, the firm footing for anchoring our young selves.

For some reason, I think this kind of kid-hood in our brave new world is disappeared, but here, at least, it is not so. I find it heartening.

But then, don’t we still have our buddies—sounds so old-fashioned, but it is true. Especially those separated from us in time and space, and yet not. In that spirit I wish you a very happy holiday season to be spent with family and friends.

And here's to 2016.

Yours, fondly, warmly, srk

Welder-Philosopher Kings...

Dear Maria,

Oh, so very quickly the Thanksgiving blowout now come and gone. Just 30 at our tables—end to end to end—three “Greats” in their 80s and two yet to have a single candle on their birthday cakes. Good fun, good food, good people. Might not be in the right order, but you can gather it was a success.

Weather has taken a turn for the warmer, and so blooms continue and birds seem chipper. While making the morning rounds with Max the other day, I watched a bluebird, a blue jay, and a cardinal zip into a hedge of overgrown holly. Tis the season.

Apparently there was some kerfuffle over welders and philosophers among men who would be king—or at least chief executive. My thinking is that I would be all for more welders as needed by the economy.  Maybe an expansion in infrastructure spending?

But, saying yes to more welders doesn’t change labor force needs or labor force interest—we seem never to talk about that edge of the coin. The what-if-no-one-wants-to-be-whatever-it-is-we-need-more-of conundrum.

Wait, is this a supply and demand wage-issue? More welders, cheaper labor?

As for philosophy—who isn’t a philosopher, even if a lot of folks would be struck dumb by the notion. And old—well, young--Senator Rubio seems tangled up in a philosophical web of his own weaving. The Miami Herald quotes him offering up Pope Francis as “a moral authority . . . reminding us of our obligation to be good caretakers to the planet.” Rubio further observes, “I'm a political leader. And my job as a policymaker is to act in the common good. And I do believe it's in the common good to protect our environment, but I also believe it's in the common good to protect our economy."

I would say: Well, Senator, you welded moral authority, environmental ethics, and political responsibility into a very heady fusion of philosophical concerns. Two common goods? Uh-oh, that can’t end well.

At least the “P” word was out in the open for a bit of the news cycle. I always thought that we give short shrift to the larger picture for our students as we release them out the door without trying give what the heck they have been doing some kind of broader consideration. Putting a little Decartes before the diploma wouldn’t hurt.

By the way—not to sound flippant—this letter may be the last for a good while. Some other projects are on my mind, but to offer up a “never again” seems a foolish thought.

Have the very best of a holiday season. Enjoy the family, and be well.

Yours, still, of course, 

srk

Swords or Sheaves?

Dear Maria,

Enjoyed your quip about finding my coat, but not worrying about Max’s, as cooler weather—cold even—descends. So, yes, I will jacket up during the near-freezing mornings in the offing.

Here’s a moment for you: The other day, I pulled into the driveway and up to my usual spot nearly to the garage, and when I looked up after closing the truck door, there perched a hawk on the very corner of the roof and perhaps six feet away, a crow.

The hawk gave me “the eye” and then flew off over the neighbor’s roof and into a stand of pines about 100’ away. The crow gave me “the eye” and just hopped about on the roof. Predator disinterested, but scavenger still lurking? I’ll need to review the symbolism for those birds before hazarding a guess on my fate.

Of course, I am not immune to the uproar—at least in the media, and social media, as well—over the Paris attacks, the refugees, and the ongoing war in the Middle East. No Pax Humana to be had apparently.

As always, I need to process events piece by piece. I think about a neighbor brandishing a sword as he comes into my yard while I bundle sheaves. His demand is that I renounce my way of life and submit to his viewpoint. And surrender my land and my holdings over to him. Now I can hold my hands up and submit or I can suggest peaceful coexistence, and he can either change his mind or cut me down. Or I can flee nearly empty-handed and hope to outdistance him. Or—and here we go—I can take up the sword and it’s to the death.

Too simplistic, true enough, but what trips me up is when he asserts either my assent or my death. His chosen tool, violence. The message, submit or die. Well, another end is in play—his. So to be acted out again, the cycle in all its historical ignominy returns: forced submission at the end of a sword, gun, or IED, but forces amass and via a countering violence, the ash heap of failed authoritarian empires grows.

And so goes another hapless, mindless, violent horror. More to come, I’m afraid.

Thankfully, it is almost that time when the day dims and the flowers seem to float above the garden’s darkening mass of leaves. Then the roses fade into the shadows, and just the lantana’s yellow flowers are visible. Moments like this—well, nothing more to say about much of anything.

The holidays are soon on us, and I know your family will be gathering as will mine. Enjoy—no, savor each and every minute.

And, maybe in our lifetime, peace on earth. Peace on earth. Peace on earth.

With much love, srk

Over the Line?

Dear Maria,

Had every intention of writing as we were on the cusp of November, but now we are post-cusp. Two months left for this calendar year? The notion that it will be 2016, I find impossible. I suppose, should I be around to see it so, 2020 will leave me afloat in a pool of incredulity. Should, that is, the incredulous be a liquid state of mind.

Thanks for asking about the smaller birds that are typically about but have been lately absent. Early in the week, a warbler made a brief landing before a sparrow chased it away. Then three house finches mugged the sparrow, which sent him over to a limb not far from the birdhouse. Yep, the bluebirds have set up housekeeping again, and of the course the male came soaring out to send the sparrow even deeper into the local wilderness. Territorial imperative or something. I think the topic has been in the news some.

In the news—if or when the Pacific coast should just crumble into the ocean and the economies of those states be utterly devastated, I wonder about the refugees streaming eastward into Arizona and Nevada and Idaho, maybe by the millions. Then, FEMA and the Red Cross and Doctors without Borders et al and at what point can they vote in an election and—well, unprecedented. There won’t be jobs for most of them. Of that reality, I am sure. Well, maybe, with reconstruction work.

Would we extend state borders westward to the new primary dune line and go with 47?

I also imagine—sorry—someone smoking pot at the Four Corners spot, standing in Colorado and leaning out over Utah or Arizona or New Mexico’s air space. Did you know Maricopa County is the 4^th largest in the US population-wise? Legalized pot, then not, and then Arizona and then Maricopa and then Sheriff Arpaio. Dots, to be connected.

You know, there is nothing like an adult cardinal showing up at the feeder and bullying all the other birds away from the food. As soon as he flies off—they’re back. What voice did you just hear?

Oh, yes, I can still be somber and serious and solemn, too. A couple of friends have said to me privately that I am funnier face to face than on Facebook. About that, IDK. Seems the venue sparks little bantering, or I am not well-equipped for verbal ping pong. Besides, who has time for that sort of thing with texting and downloading and uploading and tweeting? 

Okay, I do.

Be that as it may, earlier sunrises, earlier sunsets, and November, indeed. Should lunch be in the offing when next you are around, I will have at least 5 minutes of new material.

Until then, be well. srk

Say Anything? Okay!

Dear Maria,

Thanks for describing the last letter as—chatty? Chatty. Much have I been accused of before, but never of being chatty. I thought I might be a bit more emboldened this time around. Or not. Does seem that verbal blasts are the coin du jour. Pretty much can say anything. I’ll try to sling around some bombast here and there. Please don’t fact-check me into the corner boards.

Still curious about the lack of smaller birds at the feeder post-flooding rains. No wrens, no finches, no sparrows. Just watched Carolina chickadees chasing each other away—I’m at my desk—off the feeder and into the bushes and back and forth. Three of them, and no peace at hand.

Maybe if Trump is elected he cuts his hair a la Putin and we get into limited war bully e bully, not in the Middle East, but across the polar North. Goodbye Vladivostok and Anchorage, goodbye Archangelsk and Fairbanks. Then we stop just in time, but not before Trump’s son has made his fortune in development around Thule. Could happen.

The roses—some of them, at least—are growing sideways and out through the lantana that is now reaching more than 3’ in height. The pyracantha berries are reddened, the mums that I stomped into the high grass two years ago are bloomed, and the loropetalums are well over my head. Could easily believe it a false spring around here.

On cue, Max just grabbed up his squeaky duck and chased about with it. Fall, that’s right. He’s not likely to be much of hunting dog given his aversion to loud noises. Nor am I likely to train him to be much more than an over-sized house hound.

Maybe we could issue handguns to everyone 18 and over and firearms deaths would decrease, which would raise life-expectancy averages. Seems counterintuitive, I know, but given some of what I read—perhaps.

Of course, I have the time—and the all-important inclination—to follow through on stories in print or via the internet. Whenever there is some kind of dust-up, I read the counter-arguments, listen to the entire lecture or speeches, and scratch my head. A lot.

I am ever grateful not to have to offer up an opinion—few of mine are conclusive anyway. Self-aware, in a way, because I was just recounting to a former student how a former principal once confronted me in the hall with the following observation: “Your problem is you ask questions about things no one thinks about.” Oh, I can ask, Ba-bee! Told her it was one of my proudest moments.

Chatty.

Okay, let me stick my neck out. Someday a good-sized asteroid is going to hit the earth. I guarantee it. Not as bold as the first human to eat a raw oyster, but there you have it.

Be well, enjoy the cooler weather, and wear a sturdy helmet. You have been warned.

Yours, srk

Joaquin Walks, Floods Reign

Dear Maria,

Has ever half an inch of rain in the gauge looked so puny? Yes, more rain this weekend—even flash flooding warnings in some of the worst of the flooded areas in the Midlands. Here, not so much. Mercifully.

Thanks for checking on me. Once again I was in the right spot during a very trying time, and of course it is not nearly finished for so many. People displaced, pets displaced, buildings displaced, roads and bridges displaced. A billion dollar disaster, and no hurricane.

When the first track predictions were made, I dutifully filled up the truck and bought enough water and food to last Max and me five days.  While I was getting gas, a very pregnant woman—like at any moment—was filling up her car as she drank a sports drink. I could only think of a recent ad campaign and that those featured athletes should be kneeling around her, chanting “We are not worthy”.

Then the rain predictions—well, really didn’t register to be honest. Turned out to be spot on in terms of amounts, but only the lower reaches along the back of the neighborhood saw homes flooded. Maybe a dozen or so. Total for the main event here was 21.75” of rain, but the Wednesday before we had a late afternoon downpour that put 1.5” in the gauge, and then another 2” before the crush of water came.

The japonicas and tea olives are grown a foot this week, and the roses, which were already spiking upward, and the lanatana are blooming wildly. Heavily watered, and the fall growth spurt. 

A thousand-year flood, they say. How many times did we hear long-time residents say over and over that they had never seen anything like it—flooding where never before.  No doubt some folks will never return to their homes. If they can.

People did what they could for each other. And then they did even more. How often—paradoxically—we must be thrashed to come together.

I read that the remnants of Joaquin rained on Spain and Portugal this weekend. Just now realized as I look at the bird feeder that I haven’t of late seen any small birds. Crows, yes, and I hear the hawk from time to time.

As Max and I came around the final turn for home this morning, I realized that this last dose of rain changed the landscape yet again. Yards and street littered with yellow leaves. Snow is forecast for the upper sections of the Northeast at the end of the week. I would prefer not to think what the 1 in 1000 winter event would be here.

Hope all is well for you and your family. Here’s to clearer skies ahead. For a long time.

Yours,

srk

FPS, Cattails, and Time

Dear Maria,

Here we are, on the cusp of October. Can spring be too far behind? Thank you for alerting me to the fact that I will have to step over Santa’s elves to get to the Halloween bat mobiles at some local stores. I apparently need some serious seasonal adjustment, or a marketing degree. The disgruntlement? Oh, I’ve got that down.

Got home last Friday from a visit with my parents in Greenville. Only two observations about the drive home—one, a convoy of trucks on hills is a no go, and two, a lot of folks are texting, a lot. Maybe we should change the speedometers to read feet per second instead of miles per hour. I know, I know, I have carped about this idea before.

The problem is that around town going 40 seems not very demanding, and who is going to be driving a distance 40 miles at that speed? On the run to Publix?

Okay—a red-bellied woodpecker just landed on the feeder. That looks absurd, and the chickadees on the lattice next to the feeder seem stunned. The doves will have plenty of seed to peck at on the ground.

I’m telling you 58 feet per second on the readout might give some pause texting-wise. People understand a second and understand a foot. Especially when tailgating ten feet behind the traffic ahead. Or driving in a tight pack of traffic. Nope, can’t think of a way to talk about this problem without sounding like a scold, but when I see children in the car with a parent whose head is down—well, makes me more than a little crazy inside.

Over the past few months I have been taking a slower route home from Barnes & Noble because the view of sunsets is better. Costs me 5-7 minutes according the Google map directions. I can live with that. I have noticed that near the entrance of a trucking company along my drive there is a retention pond that over the summer added cattails along its banks.

Maybe a case of things that can be noticed at 66 fps rather than 95 fps. Plus or minus the five minutes or so. Time to rustle up lunch.

Hope all goes well for you and yours,

srk

P.S. Max just flushed four doves when I released him into the backyard.

Trump, Putin, and a Broad-shouldered Hawk

Dear Maria,

I know, I know—I offer no excuses. Not because they’re lame, but because they don’t exist. Zip, zero, none. Weather has been lovely, at least. Now that is lame. But, the roses are reaching above my head, the ornamental grasses are seeding, and the azalea out front is blooming. Yep, the azalea. I’ll enclose a photo.

While I ate lunch on the patio, the bees and butterflies were busy in the lantana. Max? Oh, he was on his back, grinding in dirt and dead grass and some crushed leafy stuff so that it could be vacuumed up in the house, rather than raked up outside. Good boy.

I still avoid thinking much one way or the other about Trump’s campaign—I guess it is a campaign. My hunch is that he will grow weary dismissing the nagging questions on the trail, and even may come to recognize that being CEO, or whatever title he uses, has little to do with serving as the president and so no longer merits his attention.

Putin interests me a bit more as he directs a military—ever expanding—and certainly knows his country’s history in Afghanistan and with Chechnya. Syria? That he is a narcissistic bully is no great insight, but Syria?  Of course, when he looks in the mirror, the only face that seems to matter stares back. But maybe he is the grandest grand master of realpolitik, and I should continue ever so quietly to tend my garden. Good boy.

Watched a good-sized hawk make a kill last week. The bird swooped in low and dipped behind a white panel van parked in my neighbor’s yard across the street, and then it came back up with something in its talons, only a shadowy ball with a thin tail. Mouse or rat, I could not tell.

I changed out the bird seed in the feeder and so far the usual suspects mostly—wrens, finches, and chickadees. The doves keep to the ground beneath, but a blackbird has been at the feeder. Although not that large a bird, he looks Godzilla-like, hanging on to the wire. Brewer’s blackbird, I think.

No news yet that might decide when I might be on the move. I’ll keep in touch. Schedule for that being—well, TBA. I’ll do better.

Putinesque? Trumpism? Maybe not.

Enjoy the cooler weather even as the nights lengthen.

Yours, to be sure, 

srk

Little Articles of Faith

Dear Maria,

Finally, September. Although Labor Day weekend is not until the end of this week, at least there is some kind of promise in the air that the weather will relent a bit. The truth is—the truth—four out of the last five mornings have been cool enough for breakfast outdoors.

Of course, you know how I feel about getting outside, and this morning was pleasant enough to take a little off the top of shrubs, pulls some weeds, and deadhead the roses without breaking into a sweat. Good business.

Now here at this address deep into the fifth growing season, I am able to count on certain patterns as the sun courses along. Across the street, the neighbor’s water oak dropped a bunch of colored leaves last week, which it has done late summer each year. The old vines that climb the white oak out back have started changing colors—always an early sign along with the neighbor’s oak.

Hummingbirds, morning and evening, have been working over the roses and the althea—sometimes in the lantana, but not often. The kites have not been about for a week or so, and the arrival of the big hawk that seems to return each fall to terrorize the neighborhood is a month away most likely.

The other night at Barnes & Noble—yes, a java chip grande at hand—I was reading the short blurbs found at the beginning of The Economist, and then the next morning I happened to read online a much longer article on one of the same topics, Chinese dissent artist Ai Weiwei. I take those little snippets as gospel, so a 1,500-word effort must mean—well, what?  I can only imagine dozens of books have been written about on Weiwei.

Fourteen biographical or autobiographical works about Weiwei listed at Amazon. Yes, I had to check. Too easy not to. Speaks to how little I know, yet I read 5 or 6-sentence summations greedily and then feel like I know something of some situation or event beyond my daily horizon.

Read half-dozen or so articles on Katrina—schools, levees, breakdown of governmental services, police, Charity Hospital, small businesses. A sort of skimming the tip of the iceberg.

Pyracantha berries, I believe, will begin to redden soon.

I expect family gatherings will mark the upcoming weekend. Be well, and maybe next time I will get around to saying a little something about national politics. It will be brief. If I bother.

Yours, of course, 

srk

Our Birthdays

Dear Maria,

Good morning!  Guess you heard that the newest addition to the family arrived yesterday morning on my birthday. So little Ava is one day old and I am one day older. Maybe a tad more circumspect? Probably not. Wiser is just not part of my vocabulary.

I have already joked that she will be 38 as I turn 100. Perhaps she will have children moaning about being forced to celebrate my birthday—Oh, lord! Please don’t make me, Mom. Why I remember when we could drive our cars into things when we wanted to, I will tell them. The old man is daft, they will say, or super goofy as no doubt daft will be long gone and buried. As I may be.

The thought just struck me to mark off the days on the hall walls as so often done in the movies, like prisoners accounting for time spent. Yep, the old man is truly bonkers. Of course, I would have some catching up to do. Not sure I want to know the number specifically. Super huge, I’m afraid.

That I share a birthday with Ava is sweet, and that Alex Haley and Hulk Hogan are also birthday mates speaks to something—who is universally known in that pairing?  Says something about something.

I keep imagining, too—uh-oh—my birthday mates in other parts of the world, those specifically born on my birth date. Maybe a Ganbaatar from Ulaanbaatar, whose life in Mongolia may have been physically tougher than mine, but he may be the happiest man on the planet.

Begs a question or three, doesn’t it?

Or at least the same age—time to Google, just curious. Indeed, or Natsagdorj, who has a doctorate in teaching—one of only two in the country—and who got a laptop through a financial aid program so that he can write a textbook for Mongolian language teachers. He, too, is 62.

And Elin Ebba Gunnarsdottir, she a short fiction author from Iceland.

And now little Ava.

That we share the planet is both miracle and mystery.

Summer’s heat continues even as school days loom. Long past the time when my birthday meant weeks ahead of hot outdoor play before heading back into the classroom. My local colleagues are three days into their week of pre-season work and meetings.

Me? Just a day older.

Be well. Have fun. Always, srk

  

Flesh in the Game

Dear Maria,

Yes, yes, I am well aware of the passage of time. Just could not in my mind seem to reconcile recent events with rambling on for a bit about bluebirds and roses and strong winds. To every season, I suppose, but at least now this long-delayed letter.

I know you are deeply aware of the crime that took the lives of nine Charlestonians. And then the subsequent and continuing uproar over where we seem to be as a society. For me, beyond symbols and history and politics, is a compassion to be leveraged between whatever feelings I might have and the devastation being experienced by families and friends and colleagues of those slain.

Turns out that somewhere I have—or maybe my mother has—a news clipping proclaiming a distant ancestor’s despair and anger because Sherman’s March disrupted the return of her husband’s casket—a cannonball took his head. Her grief, I am sure, was deep. No single word for such emotions.

To be candid, I feel no emotive link to my ancestor’s pain. I can only imagine. However, even if I did, I cannot see how I might sit in front of the families of those murdered at Emanuel A.M.E. and equate loss with loss. And link my family’s loss to a flag as a sacred symbol that should trump their loss?

Can’t do it. Can’t make that leap. I don’t know what my ancestor thought he was fighting for, but slavery nullifies any consideration on that point. As does racism now.

A friend of mine once wanted to offer up a question after labeling me as a mainstream American. I redirected—longstream is the term I prefer. The Sunni-Shia conflict spans 14 centuries. Will we be beyond our divides in 3200?

Speaking of bluebirds, and I was—forgive a dull old saw like that one—my little couple seems to be in the second go-round of family-making, and several weeks ago, Max and I, as we rounded the final turn on the morning walk, saw a flight of 7 bluebirds on the wing at top speed across our paths. Impressive.

More: The neighborhood pair of kites finally returned last week. The roses are spiking upwards like it is autumn. Crape myrtle still hasn’t bloomed, but close. Not sure what is going on season-wise.

Maybe I should keep updating the progress of birds and flowers and weather. At least as a counterpoint to the rest of world that seems a bit mad at times to me.

Hope summer is as summer should be for you and your family.

Yep, yours, srk

Courage, and Other Words

Dear Maria,

Oh yes, summer has arrived. Humidity up, and temperatures in the mid-90s forecast for all of next week. The morning walk with Max is on around 6:30 and may happen a bit earlier over the next few weeks.

Of course I saw the Vanity Fair cover shot. Even without a television or an American weekly newsmagazine, I saw it. Really didn’t have much of a reaction other than “Hmmph”.

More interested in the ratcheting up of the discussion on the word courage. I could go the dictionary definition route, but then I would have to add an “Ugh!” as I did on student essays when confronted by that tactic.

The use of the soldiers displaying wartime valor seems to be the trump card. A sense of well look here, true courage. Makes me wonder how many who gave a thumbs up clear that bar in their lives. Most of us most likely will have moments of courage under much less violent circumstances.

First thing I think of are kids trying to make their lives move forward in a positive fashion without support in the home or perhaps while battling bullies or peer pressure. For some kids, just doing their homework and trying to be a success in school takes courage for all the hounding they receive from other students.

I haven’t read a word one way or another regarding Kaitlyn Jenner’s transformation, but common sense would tell me that most probably she knew she was going to lose support from friends and maybe some family members. Anyone who has churned against the prevailing tide with family and friends knows it takes a serious dose of strong resolve. Is there some other force at work here with Jenner? I don’t know. Don’t really care much beyond wishing her well.

The only frustration I felt was seeing another barrage of public harangue based on gotcha or trump-ism. This is what true _____ looks like. I’ll see your suffering unemployed mom and raise you a burn victim. Is that how it goes now?

Or, I love _____ more than you do. Does it work the other way around? I hate _____ more than you do. Now there’s a real race to the bottom.

By the way, I do love my dog more than you love your dog. How do you feel about rutabaga?

Just kidding about the dog. You know I love you. Take the measure of that sentiment as you will.

Nearly 3 inches of rain and still coming down. Max is under his safe chair, and I am headed for a scotch.

Later, srk

A Beauty Night

Dear Maria,

A hot sun this morning while I pushed around the mower, the air thickening, and what’s coming is how summer goes around here—you know it well. The viburnum, pittosporum, and ligustrum out front are growing as if bamboo rather than shrubs, and the birds more and more are keeping still in the middle of the afternoons.

The other evening while walking out of Barnes & Noble, I could relish a coolness that may not be here for us much longer. The sun was well down, and contrails being dragged apart were illuminated, and two jets barely showed themselves as silver flecks against the sky. The nearly first quarter moon, too, was overhead. It was, as I recalled a friend’s way of putting it, “a beauty night”.

He would also tag the times when we helped each other out as “doing a friend”. Me, helping retrieve his tractor from nearly toppling into his pond or dragging it out when hung up on a berm. He, bringing his chainsaw over to help clear a big pine fallen across my drive leading in from the paved road.

Certain coded phrases developed between us that said more than would be understood by a stranger. “Scott, there’s something I’d like you to take a look at with me.”  Uh-oh. That meant changing from school clothes into real work clothes. And boots, for sure.

Back in the day. Sort of.

Oh, I decided against buying any books now that I am trying to come to grips with what to do this time around with 50 or 60 box loads and if—if—they are to move with me.

Almost forgot—I read that koi may live to be 100 to 200 hundred years old. All I could think of was the dumping of koi out in a Colorado lake—dumb move, of course. But imagine great-great-grandchildren standing on a dock feeding those same fish. The state is going to try to get the koi out of there, but still….

Just think about a baby koi and the year 2215.

Or don’t. Think about summer plans instead, beating the heat, getting the kids out of the house.

Be well. And maybe our paths will cross soon enough.

Yours, srk

In Due Time

Dear Maria,

I guess the newsiest of the news is my intention to move from my spot here to somewhere in the Upstate where I will be closer to family. Four generations are gathered now in the Greenville area, and that locale seems to be next for me.

Have to sell the house here, of course, and sort out a few things, but while the timeline forward is uncertain, the direction is clear.

Before going up to visit around Mother’s Day, I chanced one late afternoon to see about a dozen chimney swifts in tight formation fly over the garden out back and then scatter in chaotic fashion to chase bugs. My immediate reaction was that I hadn’t seen that before—seen much along the way, but haven’t seen everything yet. Outside my parents’ condo after supper, as I was taking Max for a walk, dozens and dozens of swifts swooped right overhead. Even Max was startled. Hadn’t seen a sight like that either. Check.

Maybe on a subconscious level some of the decision to move on is to see some things I haven’t seen before. Doesn’t feel like change for the sake of change, but just time to take on somewhere else. Been here 30 years nearly.

Mentioned to a few friends how I had in my mind that the next owners here could very well decide to tear out the garden. They were aghast, but for me, just a shrug. I am reminded of the sand mandalas that are so intricate and so beautiful and then are swept away in minutes. Gone. Only in memory. Well, in photos on Facebook, too.

I have lived under 11 roofs in the Charleston area. I had students come and go 28 times in my career here. And the sunrises and the sunsets, by the thousands.

Max, of course, is of genuine concern. For him, a fenced backyard, and for us a good place to walk daily. Not sure what the next home will bring in that regard. Won’t be an apartment or condo.

But that question will be answered in due time.

A little wistful, to be sure. Sky is overcast today, but no rain most likely. Haven’t seen the bluebirds of late.

I’ll stay in touch. You be well, and may your family thrive.

Yours, srk

A Matter of Balance

Dear Maria,

Thank you for your kind words about “Bear, My Heart”, which I think reached a few folks who understood the sensibility behind it. In rather clumsy fashion I told a friend of mine that our greatest vulnerability is the vulnerability of those we love. Our inability to step in and either shield them from harm or lead them to safety. He’s a parent of two daughters, so he has a finely tuned sense of concern.

And thanks for letting me off the hook on my lax writing schedule. My personal news is not so very compelling, which might not be a terrible shortcoming when I think of friends and family who are wrestling with serious issues—so many health-related that it is unnerving.

I play, then, a little game with myself. Some sad news, or some alarming news, and I bring to mind something that pushes the meter toward the positive. Like how for three consecutive mornings, an Indigo bunting appeared at my feeder. Stunning. That such a color could appear in nature—naturally—well, astounding.

A bit of a more localized flare up over minimum wage last week, but I kept quiet. Of course, just like you, I did some time in minimum wage jobs. In every case, I believed I would be moving on, but I also worked with adults who would not be moving on. They showed up, got along with people, and did their jobs the way they needed to be done.

Was the work honorable? At least, my fellow employees were honorable in their performance. Maybe the question is if the job needs to exist, isn’t it worthy of pay that at least keeps up with inflation? I know the ripple effect—if they get X dollars for doing that job, then we should be paid more.

As for the earthquake in Nepal—what to say. We cling to the skin of a dynamic sphere hurtling through space. At least survivors are being found. A little 4-month-old boy covered in dust, but breathing. What his future holds, in terms of family or friends of the family, I don’t know, but he lives.

And, yes, Baltimore.

I have four and five blooms bunched together on some of the roses. Enough flowers to cover the spread of my hand.

A string of spring days is forecast that can divert us all for whatever time we might have to spare. Of course, I am lucky enough to have plenty of such moments. Don’t quite know how to lend them out, yet.

Thank you for your encouraging words. May you and your family be safe and be well.

Yours, srk

Upon Further Review

Dear Maria,

Temperature in the 50s and suddenly I am chasing down a sweater for the morning walk. And rain. The good news is that yesterday I saw the first hatch of bluebirds take wing—and not so gracefully—and make it from the bird condo to the white oak and then off through the trees that grow along the property lines behind my neighbors. Also, the pyracantha is blooming for the first time, the knockouts are coming along, and even one of the pittosporum out front is showing a little flower.

I guess you have seen the news of the shooting in North Charleston. Maybe watched the video. About an hour ago, on my way home from the grocery store, I saw a car pulled over by a local officer, and, honestly, I couldn’t help but think not only of his safety, but the safety of the woman behind the wheel. Ferguson didn’t prompt such deep consideration on my part, but when geographical proximity narrows, maybe events hit home more forcefully.

Or maybe it was the circumstances.  I don’t know, but I have read enough commentary to think that policing as a public, state-sponsored effort is complex and beyond punditry. I do know that when lethal force is a possibility I want, like everyone else, no mistake to be made. But then, of course, there is that human element. That in-the-moment moment. All I see, I see with an outsider’s eye.

The only parallel I can offer is thinly drawn—mistakes in the classroom in the moment, and, yep, sometimes in the heat of the moment. Not too often in a heated fashion, or so I recall. And as for folks who are not teaching, plenty offer up views on what is right, what would be better, or what is wrong with education.

An outsider’s view has merit, of course. But unless you hear the voicings, unless you know the history, unless you are there—well, second-guessing comes easily. To strike a balance between being there and post-event appraisal—can’t do it in 30 seconds or a post on Facebook.

Not that anyone wants to read anything much longer than a paragraph or so.

Overcast skies, cooler temperatures, and more rain coming. Bah humbug!  Can I say that in April? Want me to end on a more positive note? Max did not snap and bark at the vacuum cleaner Monday. Three-year-olds.

As always, my very best to you and the family.

Yours, srk

Time Banditry

Dear Maria,

Glad to hear all is well, and as for me, I am easing along with spring’s progress. Of course, as I have said, should I complain, I should at the very least be smacked upside the head. Repeatedly.

Thanks for sending along the article that suggested the potential for a child today to live to 140 perhaps. A staggering thought—and a red flag raised that as with inequality in wealth, we might witness an inequality in lifespans and resource usage that worsens divides that plague us now.

I had the good fortune to have lunch with friends in town for a whirlwind visit as part of their spring break from the schools where they work. They were very gracious and good company, and I truly was appreciative of them spending some of their limited time with me.

More and more I have come to feel very grateful for folks spending off-duty time with me. Now that I am so unencumbered, I see how generous it is for others who are working, raising, families, and trying to meet their own needs to allow some time for a visit with me.

Recently, I confessed that when I worked I was fiercely selfish with my off-duty hours, even with those who were working. Sort of “my time trumps your time” thinking. Very misguided, and disastrous to a number of relationships. Like I said, selfish.

I’ve heard from a few friends that my yapping about time of late has mirrored their heightened awareness of time’s speedy pace forward. Sort of like when students would tell me that they were suddenly seeing a vocabulary word everywhere—or, were no longer skipping over it when reading. That always made me laugh.

My perception of time is changed only in the sense of pace, mine being slower of course even as the arrow forward is still fast, fast, fast. I, too, think it shouldn’t be coming on two years retired, or a child I know can’t be three, or even with Max. Yesterday he turned three. I reminded him that he had until five to become a perfect dog, and that clock is ticking. His response was, well, muzzled.

So, I no longer have a count of days—time measured—to the AP Exam, the last day for seniors, the last day of school. Sunrises come, sunsets follow, and time here and there with family and friends. With gratitude.

Finally, by the way, some leaf appearing on the Chinese elm. In its own time, I suppose. Got a message that I can start a little earlier on a yard chore for some friends. Time waits? No, ma’am.

Be well, and enjoy.

Yours, srk

March Gladness

Dear Maria,

Greater number of daylight hours, longer stretches outdoors, and a bit of a slowdown letter-writing-wise. All good, not to worry.

Of course, this time of year a lot of our friends and colleagues are—well, yearning for their spring break. Hungering? Starving, even. Somehow I still feel its tug, even after just about two years out. Nearly gravitational, internally.

This weekend marks the Azalea Festival where thousands and thousands of visitors will invade. I can hear my mother’s eyes rolling. Thousands, will visit. Y’all come back, just not all at once. As always, there has been talk about whether the town will be in spectacular bloom or is this the season of an erratic rollout of redbuds and dogwoods, wisteria and azaleas, pear and cherry trees.

I daily have my eye on all that I have planted, front and back. This season—so far, at least—my little slice of the planted world is tracking as expected. Tea olives first, followed by the young plum trees. Next the Cleveland pear and the loropetalum. Then the Drake elm in that spring shade of green that at times seems like it can’t be real.

The acoustic lily—now a threesome after the bulb crumbled in my hand two years ago—is breaking ground. Tiny buds are forming on the knockouts, and soon the Japanese maple will leaf—one of my favorites.

The laggard is the Chinese elm, the one I rescued from Lowe’s four years ago. Easily more than a week behind the Drake, just now the first bit of leaf emerging. That I pruned it significantly in February caused me some anxiety: I may have killed the rescue elm.

But, leaf is coming. It lives. And I will shake my head when I think back to my worry when it is fully greened out and growing vigorously. Another reminder that Mother Nature is the pacing guide.

After all, Mother Nature has all the time in the world. Need to remember that simple truth.

And as sure as spring comes, summer will follow.

Lackadaisical, yes, but always holding you and yours in my heart,

srk

P.S. Out back with Max a few minutes ago, and the crape myrtle is showing the first leafy signs of life. All good, still.