Yet There is Method

Just a quick word of thanks to the folks at Two Writing Teachers. I appreciate the work you’ve put into hosting this year’s Slice of Life Story Challenge. Thank you!

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It’s been a while since we’ve been to the zoo, and yesterday seemed like a good day to go.

This week is spring break for me, and my wife and her fellow tax preparers are enjoying the breathing room of the extended deadline.  We just happen to have two granddaughters, so it’s not like we had to go alone.  The weather was certainly cooperative: sunny and 78 degrees.  Clearly, the stars were aligned for a road trip north to Nashville.

Now that it’s over, though, I’m not sure what to write about.

I could probably write about the morning before the trip.  We didn’t tell the kids ahead of time, so they learned of the plan an hour before we left.  Thinking ourselves clever, we played Raffi’s “Goin’ to the Zoo” for them as our way of sharing the surprise.  Fun fact: subtlety is sometimes lost on six- and seven-year olds.  We had to just tell them.  Craziness ensued.

Passing on the pre-trip action, I could write about the time on the road.  90 minutes in a car with two young kids provided plenty of topics.  The dialog between stuffed animals was cute–and lengthy–so that’s certainly an option.  I could toss in our conversation about the words “extraordinary” and “exuberant,” or I could even describe the need for snacks, because, no, lunch wasn’t eaten before the trip as craziness was ensuing.  

I could write about how “ensuing” is an adjective, and the need to claim literary license in order to use it in the previous sentence.

The zoo itself, of course, provided lots of experiences to share:  

• The disappointment of seeing the kid in front of us claim the lion on the carousel, despite us being third in line and certain we’d get it.  
• The realization that, as a seven-year-old, carousels are more exciting as a memory than they are in real life. 
• How hard it is to hold one’s young hand still as two lorikeets are squabbling over the cup of nectar clenched within one’s fist.
• Cotton candy vs popcorn?  Nana’s idea of a healthy snack instead?  Circling back to cotton candy vs popcorn?
• My amusement at seeing the meerkats, almost certainly as a result of watching The Lion King countless times over the last 25 years (you know, bits and pieces I’d catch as my kids were watching it; not that I ever sat down for it).
• Gift shop!

What about the drive back?  The love Lisa showed for our daughter as she worked to keep the kids awake during the last 10 miles of the trip?

I could write about the two of us finally getting home, absolutely ready to collapse.

Hmmm.  If I’m going to get this post done, I’m going to have to decide.

Or not. 

Ah, springtime.

No, this isn’t another one of my tornado posts.  Let me start over.

Ah, springtime.

The days are getting longer, the flowers are blooming, the rains are falling.  And falling.  Torrentially.  With lightning and wind.  And the constant threat of a tornado.

Darn it, this isn’t a tornado post.

It’s a grass post.

I really do love this time of the year, all things considered.  One of the biggest challenges, though, is the way the rain takes the side of the grass and not me.  It causes it to grow, but the wet conditions make it hard to cut.  We can’t cut it, and it grows.  The more it grows, the harder it is to cut.  

Seriously, it’s the middle of June before we’re able to just go out and cut the whole yard.  To make things worse, my wife and I aren’t yard fanatics.  We don’t use chemicals, so our yard is a combination of grasses and, ahem, naturalized plants. (No such thing as a weed.) We like it, but the combination of plants sometimes make it look as if our yard is even more out of control than it is.

Sigh.

Oh well, June is right around the corner. 

Have you ever known something about, well, anything, and then come to the realization that what you know is only a fraction of what there is to know about the subject?

I did the best I could, but that was a convoluted sentence.  If you need to read it again, I understand.  I needed to, and I’m the one who wrote it.

Yesterday I wrote about a wonderful hike on a local trail after a heavy rain that had just ended.  I’ve been on a lot of wonderful hikes, but yesterday’s was a bit different in that it gave me a realization like the one I described to start this post.

One of the things the Chapman Mountain property is known for is its big trees.  It’s been logged in the past, like most of the land in this area, but it’s been close to 100 years since it last happened.  Hence the big trees.

As I was walking, I found myself at the base of a good-sized ash tree.  The bark was covered with moss, and it towered above me toward the blue-grey sky.  I felt compelled to stand there and just look up.

While doing so, I was nearly overwhelmed at the beauty of the scene.  The rain had stopped, but the tree was still dripping.  Big, fat water droplets from nearly 100 feet above my head were falling toward me, and their starting height allowed me to actually follow their movement.  

As could be expected, one of the drops fell–splat!–onto one of the lenses of my glasses.  I laughed out loud to my own amusement, and continued to look up, amazed at the sight.

When I eventually brought my head down and took out a handkerchief to wipe my glasses, I saw that there was “stuff” on the lens.  Stuff that had apparently fallen with the water droplet.

So, back to my opening question.  I know that trees and other plants drop their leaves, those leaves decompose, and the deposited nutrients help the tree grow. Now, though, I’m wondering: what else is dropping besides leaves?  What was in that drop of water besides water?  How did it get to the top of the tree?  Aside from leaves, just how much stuff falls from trees in any given period of time?  Is all of that stuff from the tree, or are there other things up there?  

I don’t know.  I’m not even sure how to find out, but I’m certainly curious; that, I believe, is a good thing.

If it’s been a while since you took a walk in the woods, this is a great time for doing so–get outside!

In what is the latest chapter in the annual saga entitled, Alabama Spring, it rained last night.  Hard.  No tornadoes, I’m happy to say, but we still saw well over three inches of rainfall during the last 24 hours.  

I like to joke about the water evaporating from the Gulf of Mexico and falling back down before it even gets a state away.  That’s one of my jokes. I don’t get invited to a lot of parties.

Anyway, it rained.  Which was a bummer, because I was supposed to go on a guided hike this morning. For better or worse (ok, worse), I’m one of those people who tends to lead more guided hikes than participate in them, so I was really looking forward to getting out there and learning from someone else.  

I checked my email and text messages: No cancellation notices.  Since I’m one of the Land Trust’s hike leaders, I have a phone number for the hike coordinator, and I’m not afraid to use it.  A text message later and I knew that the hike was a go!  Or, more accurately, that it hadn’t been cancelled.

Yet.

That actually happened when I got to the parking lot.  Again, that rain was a bummer.  The hike leader said he’d done some looking and the trails were just too wet.  

I understand the need to stay off of wet trails, but as the group broke up I decided I wanted to just poke around a little and check things out.  This was a Land Trust property that I’d never actually hiked.  I’ve been there many times to give presentations in the pavilion, but I’d never hiked the trails.  

Another one of my jokes: People rarely donate flat (read: easily developed) land.  The preserve I was standing on, the Chapman Mountain Preserve, is not flat.  The hills aren’t too bad, but the land is not flat.*

The first bit of the trail wasn’t too bad.  It was wet, but not “slippery” or “leave ugly boot print” wet.  So I went on a bit more.

The next bit of trail wasn’t too bad, either.  So I went on a bit more.

The next bit of trail was actually a creek, but it was a rock-bedded creek only an inch deep.  No mud, no sediment, no foul.  So my wet boots and I went on a bit more. 

I was on that hillside for two hours, and it was absolutely glorious!  I had the place to myself (with the exception of a trail runner who–and I don’t understand this–wasn’t muddy from falling.  I mean, the trails weren’t sloppy, but running?  I was impressed.

The tail end of the rain had actually ended within 20 minutes of my arrival on site.  Water was still dripping from the trees, the ephemeral streams were running strongly, and the sounds of moving water could be heard the whole time I was there.  Springtime in Alabama is beautiful (thank you, Gulf of Mexico), and I walked among budding trees, a variety of wildflowers, and the sounds of birds everywhere.  Bird sound highlight: two amorous great horned owls just out of sight.  

It was simply wonderful, and I left with relatively clean boots and a list of poem topics for the upcoming month.  I’m looking forward to getting back out there soon, but maybe without the humidity from a recent rain.

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*I need to say that this land is actually more suitable for development than many of our properties.  The family that made its acquisition possible were committed to seeing the land preserved.  Totally awesome.

One more note: The trails the hike leader planned on really were too wet. I didn’t hike on those, and the trail I did take was only a two hour walk because I like to mosey, take pictures, and stand and listen. Not guided hike material.