Spring is so pretty

March is a great month in the south. Winters in Maine were like this:

And they lasted a long time. This photo could well have been taken in March.

But in Madison County GA, spring begins with green grass in January and February.

The absence of foliage throughout the year isn't as heart-breaking because the grass is like a velvet carpet that livens the eyes.

The forsythia pops. They are blooming now.

And then it's flowers, flowers, flowers! Yay!

Snow, winter, and spring

The above is a screen shot from the WCSH-6 tower cam. There is a howling snowstorm in Portland Maine right now, my old stomping grounds (actually 17 miles to the city's north.) It is not fit for man nor beast out there. And by the looks of the empty streets, not for cars, either.

Chicago is expected to have had the snowiest February on record as their storm and this month closes out. "Wednesday's slushy snowfall at O'Hare International Airport sent the February 2011 snowfall total there to 27.0 inches putting it within 0.8" of the city's all-time February snowfall total of 27.8" established 116 years ago back in 1896.  With significant snow expected to arrive in the city tonight that record should easily fall by the wayside, elevating February 2011 to the month's snowfall leader."

I hate snow. I really, really hate it. I suppose that comes from a lifetime of living in it, and trying to make a living in it. It was the years of running the newspaper that did me in on snow. No matter what, the paper had to be gotten to the printer by a certain time even if it was howling snow outside. It had to be delivered even if the sane people were all hunkered down. I didn't mind it so much as a teacher, of course, because we were allowed to stay home when it got too bad. But doing the paper forced me to ignore all weather and keep trucking along irrespective of the cold, poor visibility, danger, or personal choice.

I moved to Georgia and with only a couple of exceptions have been free of dealing with snow for the four and a half years I've been here. I enjoy spring, not dread it because another storm is coming. The dogwoods are blooming now. The crocuses are coming up and the tiger lilies and daffodils are hurtling above ground at breakneck speeds. Next up will be the pear tree blossoms.

It is not always possible to move to where the weather suits your clothes, as the song said. So I admire the stalwart perseverance of those who literally plow through it year after year. I applaud those who stay positive in the face of dark storms one after another. And in the end the sun will shine on a warm spring day...sometime. That is always something to look forward to.

Here is some prettiness to keep the northern friends anticipating their own bounty.

From my backyard last March

Pear blossoms

The driveway has a row of tiger lilies

More backyard stuff

Taking a walk the other day out my backyard yielded surprises. I inspected microscopically, down, beneath my feet at the blades of grass hiding tiny mushrooms, as well as macroscopically, up, at the leaf patterns of the towering trees above my head.

Living here cracks me up, actually. I am a mile from town, yet folks have large yards, hayfields even. It is quite rural. One person has free range chickens and a rooster walking around on the lawn. They are pretty to look at, the rooster is a rust color and contrasts with the green grass and the pale hayfield behind him. As I return from the Post Office, I drive by the farm stand with pink neon cardboard posters announcing the latest produce for sale. Yesterday it was "Turnip greens," next to signs announcing "Open" and "Check it out!"

At night, as the windows are open and the little traffic we get during the day dies down, I hear dogs, chickens, roosters, the train, owls, birds and an occasional car. Sometimes someone laughing in the distance.

So the spring has progressed and I wandered out to the back corner of my yard and drifted near the hedge. I was interested in the part of the yard between the stand of apple and pecan trees and the mowed line where the hayfield begins. There is a line of birdhouses on posts, and standing on tiptoe I saw that they were all occupied with chicks. Well, I'll be dogged! I could not see them but I heard teeny little peeps and was completely charmed.


















I could not get the blue jay to turn around for me. A zoomed picture taken dark at dusk was the closest I could get. He is a fat boy, isn't he!

















Ah, the culprits of the pollen explosion. Spring is great, but the resulting yellow dust that grits everywhere is not.
















The regularity of this pattern reminds me of the Fibonacci sequence. There is mathematical harmony in growth. In my opinion of course, it is Designed.














I love wood. In this case, the differing colors caught my eye, from gentle tan to slate gray to green mossy lichen. The tree was still stately despite losing a branch.













Later dusk now, it was this little guy who got me outside to see what the ruckus was. He is standing about 15 feet from my bedroom window cawing up a storm. When I got out there and saw it was just a baby cardinal tweeting as the sun went down, I laughed and chided him gently. He paid me no mind and went right on calling. Such a huge sound from a little guy! I dubbed him my Sundowner Bird.

Backyard expedition

I really loves that so many birds are hanging out in my backyard. There are lots, blue jays, robins, and many others I can't identify (yet). I am also tickled that flowers are blooming, grass is greening, and the landscape changes almost before my eyes each day.

On the hunt for junk

There's a neat blog called Junking in Georgia where the woman explains the history behind some of the finds she makes. A friend and I went antiquing last Saturday. I was on the hunt for ephemera to use in my collages. I found a fantastic photo album that contained ephemera from the 1940s instead of photos. Inside was an occupation currency bill from Japan's occupation of Malaya, and French occupation bill. 1940s and 1950s travel brochures. Postcards from wartime Europe. Empty envelopes from a convalescing soldier in CA to a woman in NC. He had carefully and beautifully drawn art on the front of the envelope, with tiny notes to the woman he as writing to. All kinds of stuff.

I was intrigued by the Bridal Chamber brochure. What on earth is going on with that disembodied hand wearing a bracelet? First I researched Silver Springs and learned that it is Florida's first real tourist park. Since at least the mid 19th century, the natural beauty of Silver Springs has attracted visitors from around the country. Glass bottom boat tours of the springs began in the late 1870s. In the 1920s, Carl Ray and W.M. Davidson made the land around the headwaters of the Spring into something resembling the attraction that is there today, now known as the Silver Springs Nature Theme Park. (According to Wikipedia). These wealthy tourists lodged at robber baron Henry Flagler hotels, using his railroad of course. When the 1920s and 30s rolled around, folks had bought their own automobiles, and streamed into this previously undiscovered warm weather mecca. They were called Tin Can Tourists and that pretty much did Flagler in, because they stayed at the more cost effective campsites, B&Bs and guest houses.

Silver Springs is known for the clear springs and thus, the glass bottom boat rides. The legend goes that an 100-year-old black woman named Aunt Silla told the story of local poor woman Bernice Mayo and wealthy son-of-a-magnate Claire Douglass fell in love. They met at Silver Springs often, where, fascinated by the undersea world, Bernice would gaze longingly into the waters while Claire rowed. Eventually, they decided to marry. Of course, Claire's father was opposed, sent his son on a lengthy business trip, and destroyed all incoming letters from Bernice. Pining away, perhaps like the Norwegian Blue parrot, Bernice with her dying breath begged to be buried in a cavern below her beloved clear waters and then she expired. Assuredly, she was not "just resting."

Arriving home Claire sought to meet with Bernice, and discovering what had happened, disconsolately rowed out and drifted around, whereupon he saw a hand waving to him, wearing a crystal bracelet he had given Bernice his beloved. Diving into the water, Claire and Bernice embraced and now dwell forevermore under the caverns, in a perpetual watery Bridal Chamber.

Interestingly, in the 1970s and 1980s the story changed from two locals Claire and Bernice to an Indian princess named Winona and rival prince Chulcotah from another tribe. Political correctness?