Tree of Infinite Sorrows

A number of years ago, I read a children's book entitled: Because of Winn Dixie. The story was charming but a part of the book that continued to resonate with me involved a tree filled with dangling glass bottles. The bottles were intended to keep the ghosts away. I loved this image and knew I'd probably start my own hanging bottle tree someday. That day has arrived. My tree is called the "tree of infinite sorrows." For every bottle of "spirits" we empty at Mystic Marsh, we fill it up with all our sorrows and hang it on a tree limb where it appears in gentle sway and clink. There is something soothing about loosing oneself of pent-up sorrows and sending those bottled-up woes into a literal bottle that glints and glows as it swings those damning feelings into oblivion.

Always on the Edge of Reason

Is it any wonder a somewhat sane person often finds themselves teetering on the edge of reason when Murphy's Law is the only constant in life? Take for example, our seemingly jinxed work abode. Two days ago, our shared printer ran amok spewing out scads and scads of paper bordered with what can only be described as some ancient script dating back to the inception of the PC printer. For over an hour, we booted, unplugged, disconnected, re-fed, reset, shook, dismantled and flung a few vexing words at this seemingly innocuous machine. Even the best damned troubleshooting from our brilliant tech. folks, couldn't foil the monster in the machine. Finally we left that pugnacious piece of plastic alone to stew. By morning the tantrum was over and (knock wood), all systems go. Okay, so that was two days ago. Yesterday morning I thought I'd do a nice turn and wash staff dishes. Flip went the faucet handle and -- you guessed it -- no water! Never having enough patience to leave anything alone, I monkeyed with it and then had a nice little shower. I flung a towel over the offending appendage and stalked off to find some real work. Should have thought to warn staff who all turned the faucet on and were met with a squealing leak. What we didn't notice was the rivulet running behind the sink, saturating the carpet. I received my second washing that day while tucked under the sink in an attempt to turn the water off. Success was sweet but now I need to suck it up and call a plumber. Maybe I need to first look at one of our do-it-yourself plumbing manuals. Hmmm ... I'll let you know how it turns out!

Lakefront Property

Well I didn't know I owned lakefront property. The torrential rains did a number on the fields of Mystic Marsh. What once were corn and wheat fields (we rent some parcels to brother farmers), are now four foot deep lakes. Being barely over five-feet myself, I thought better of attempting to traverse these temporary waters. Alden, a seasoned fisherman, of course had hip boots handy so with camera in hand, he walked the hundred acres and brought back a photo diary of the lakes. Fortunately our cabin is perched atop a high spot and is in no danger of becoming a houseboat, so in misfortune, we found a bright spot. Probably a bleak outlook for our farmers. I suspect the crops are beyond saving.

I should also mention I own a pond on my home property - in the basement. Yep, the troubling rains raised the creek behind our house and I now have to wade to my washing machine. Don't worry, we have the appliances up on blocks so you won't read any "shocking" news about me at the moment. I'll let you know when the trout start jumping.



All-in-all, we are counting our lucky stars. Wish the same could be said for so many others.

Fleeting Spring and Other Things

I believe it's time to lament the lack of Spring. Just when we're lulled into thinking the warmth is here to stay, in blows the wind intent on shivering me timbers and reminding me how fickle Wisconsin weather is. I suspect summer will hurry in on little pig's feet and blow like a furnace without reprieve now that it's June. Weather is always a good contribution to life analogies.

Though Spring continues it's dodge and dart game, it didn't prevent the return of our lovely winged friends. The tree swallows are back and mating up a storm. We have a number of bird houses on our land (Mystic Marsh), but the chickadees and swallows decided they want the same digs. Quite a fuss ensues as they charge and flap at each other. We're pretty sure the chickadees won, however, the swallows continue their barrage, poor losers that they are. The orioles are back and we believe there are two pairs. Rose-breasted grossbeaks, cowbirds, catbirds, common yellow-throats, indigo buntings, bluebirds, and my beloved cranes have all made an appearance. The cacophony on some mornings is beautifully maddening. Did I mention the wacky male pheasants and their incessant crowing? Calling, calling for a mate from sun-up to set. I can't get enough of any of them.

We discovered a small pond not too far from our cabin. It was rife with tadpoles one week and now they're gone. We kicked up a few lingering tree frogs as we circled the pond. Then a bullfrog voiced his opinion so I carried on a conversation with him as Alden looked on in indulgent amusement. I would be perfectly content to spend my days exploring every nook and cranny of our marsh.