Spring Northwoods Report
I am not of this Realm. Among the sick trees, a time slip sent me here.
PREDICTION: a fiery cataclysm coming soon.
When I first came here, everyday was like an episode of Lost, the TV drama. Then Twin Peaks, including Log Lady, became the backdrop and still is in many ways. Now It's Groundhog Day and I'm Bill Murray. My life is a bardo, a Buddhist purgatory.
In this area of the country folks shop the middle aisles of the grocery store. The kind of people that don't need hamburger for Hamberger Helper. Health doesn't seem near the top of their list, by and large (and I do mean large). It's a drinking culture up here without a doubt. I'm not a fan of either, but it seems the folks would rather have a WalMart than a doctor. They are quite happy with the nurse practiconer that hands out prescription drugs. The two musicians I have been playing with weekly, my contemporaries, never heard of Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I mean, afterall, they were a popular band. I'm afraid to ask where my bandmates were during those times. They entice me to play in the Praise Band often. I beg off, respectably.
I'm not a big fan of the Natives but their brand new 65 million dollar community health club center is awesome. Once I get past the front desk attitude, the swim is worth it. The pool is almost always mine because only a few people swim when living at 45 degree latitude. Next month at this time I'll be in Boot Lake on a daily basis soaking up warm morning rays doing a long, lazy backstroke.
I can see people stick with their clique and stay suspicious for a long time. The rural version of the city adage, "We don't want nobody nobody sent." If one doesn't hang at the bars or attend religious church sevices regularly, that person is an in-betweener, not connected, a phantom. A bardo scenario if I ever heard one.
The local government leadership has changed recently. The 20+ year incumbent got bounced handily 2-1. The new Poobah's first town meeting is next month. I may start going regularly and make more enemies as I speak out at the mic and be a pain in her ass. Something to do, I guess, for the good times.
The ice will be off the lakes soon. Time to pay the government, get a license, so I can fish. I'll push my pink paddleboat, The Old George Jones, out for her 2023 inaugural voyage. Springtime is beautiful here, the light as it bounces off the firmament is glorious. I'm surprised there isn't more Bob Ross aficionados in residence. Two hundred feet from my door, me and the OGJ can paddle to six different bodies of water. It is always a pleasant ride sticking to the shoreline. Bluegills aplenty waiting patiently to get onto my hook.
The birds have returned big time. Missing the blue jays and the crows, but finches, chickadees, nuthatches and warblers in abundance. Some juncos, and too many woodpeckers. They are a sign of a dying forest. Hearing the waterfowl, the loons, geese, swans overhead bark like dogs, always catches my attention. The robins are frolicking. Sandhill Cranes in the farmers' field and the new Tibetan Yak foals tell me spring is here. It's only temporarily cold.
We had a tickle of five days of 8o degree weather last week, then, bam, back to winter, snow and fireplace. Minute by daily minute we get more sunshine and warmer. Time is on our side. The Son has resurrected, 'member?
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