Springtime Oak Planting

Arnie and Tony planting a Black Oak

I may be the only person happy for the 5.18 inches of rain that found its way to the area this April. The first weekend of the month, friends and I planted 10 oak trees around Blackdog Bog. Part of my obligation when I enrolled the 15.9 acres into the Wetland Reserve Program was to help recreate an “Oak Savannah” – the pre-settlement condition of most of Washtenaw County.

To anyone in the mid-west, the sight of a single oak tree standing strong in the middle of a farmer’s field is no surprise. Before agriculture spread, the habitat was littered with oaks amid a sea of grasses such as Indian, Big Blue Stem, Little Blue Stem, and Switch. Many of the big Oaks standing today probably were witness to locals headed to garrison with Union troops during the Civil War. Any of these sesquicentennial giants who survive do so only because the barn builders didn’t need the wood!

Sonia affixing fencing around one of the new trees

The spring rains have helped settle the new trees nicely and already buds are present. Some unknown philosopher once quipped: “Tis an optimist who plants a hardwood.” That is likely true. I guess the gifts of previous generations to the quality of my life warrant my contribution to coming generations; anyone with grandchildren, please direct them to the farm to see if these Oaks cast a long shadow in the year 2070!

Andre watering

Tonight, Howard was home and receiving uninvited visitors. His gait, while not quite a lilt, was strong and his voice welcoming: “It’s good to see you Peter.”

He detailed how his surgeon (whom Howard described as looking like a high school student) let him know that new techniques would allow them to place stents where a scant six months prior was deemed impossible. The medico spoke with earnest confidence and Howard was convinced – well, after asking the surgeon’s age.

Surgery was scheduled for Wednesday, April 17. That morning, the nurse told Howard (who was admitted the evening prior) that he couldn’t have breakfast and would be in the operating room soon. “The hell I will,” he reported as his response. “I don’t feel up to any operations today – maybe tomorrow.” I’m pretty sure that they have his name on the “pain in the ass” list at his hospital.

And, indeed, Howard alerted the medical staff that he was willing to have the procedure on Thursday. As he described the procedure (“They put you in LaLa land – not quite out, but not quite there”) he remembers his personal Doogie Howser exclaim, “Perfect! That’s what I wanted.” A heartening commentary to hear during surgery for sure.

He had additional descriptions of the balance of his hospital stay (including telling a nurse that was reattaching the heart monitor to his chest, “Be careful. I’m a sex maniac.”). What was best was that he had descriptions and some hearty animation. He did acknowledge that he was in a down mood (“I’m 87 and not going to ever feel like I used to.”) the previous week, but he did discuss the future.

This has been a very nice evening.

More Boston

The suspects have been dispatched to the tomb or the authorities. Over 170 people were harmed – many horrifically maimed – and three dead at the race, a police officer killed, and others wounded. Not everyone hospitalized is certain to recover.

The suspects’ father has – as I suppose any father would at this point – vehemently defended his sons’ honor while denying their culpability.

In our justice system, we presume the accused as innocent prior to trial – even if we must while begrudged.

This isn’t the first major terror slap to the face since 9/11 (Fort Hood, Benghazi, the domestic violence in Colorado, Connecticut, Texas, Virginia, etc.) but this seems to have a special drama. Its setting? The traditions surrounding the Marathon? The random disregard to life (though, this disregard seems an echo to so many other tragic events)?

Is our reality permanently altered?

I remember when I was a grade-schooler who precociously read more than the comics in each issue of The Monroe Evening News. Often, there were reports of bombings or other violence in the Middle East, London, Northern Ireland, or other locations, I distinctly remember feeling thankful that I lived in America where that didn’t happen. I guess reality is altered.

I have no particular wisdom to share. I ask that we all pray and try really hard to get along. I also ask a fair hearing for Martin Richard’s message: “No more hurting people. Peace.”

Marathon Madness

Can we not go to first grade? Can we not attend the movies? Can we not walk peaceably around college campuses? Can we not run a race?

Can we not confidently say to our loved ones “see you later” as they venture forth to their daily lives?

I can’t wrap my head around today’s terrorism. As of the freshest reports I can find, two bombs detonated and two more were discovered. One witness said: "Somebody's leg flew by my head."*

I do not have a direct connection to this marathon – though, I do know a gentleman who won the race in the past (a good guy) – but my real connection is that this is my country, my people, my fellow citizens. I don’t care if I’m called a jingoist, but I’m mad.

This may feel as though it brings us past the tipping point – do we need to be wary when in big crowds – do sacred spaces no longer exist? Should everyone be strip-searched? Are the airport protocols necessary for daily errands? Do we give up?

Screw it. Do not be afraid. Do not let “them” win. Lift your chin and give those who will seek to victimize us a mighty “ F___ Y___.” Remember the thousands of races, the millions of classroom days and the non-stop campus walks that happen daily without incident. They can't win. They can’t destroy our security and our lives.

Cowards detonate bombs from afar and lift arms against the undefended. Today’s perpetrators are cowards . . . those who died and the dozens suffering maiming injuries have our prayers and our determination for vengeance. Our brothers and sisters deserve our prayers and our actions.

Let us pray. Let us act.

*Read more: http://www.foxnews.com/us/2013/04/15/explosion-reported-near-finish-line-boston-marathon-spokesman-says/#ixzz2QZvT3C6h

Image report to be in the public domain

Trust your instincts and bunnies

The sun almost compensated for the brisk breezes on Easter – but the chill winds didn’t stop us from enjoying cigars on the deck after an exceptional afternoon that included smoked ribs, Caesar salad, fancy hors d’oeuvres, deviled eggs (some betraying a bit of the bunny’s dye!), and a sterling victory by Michigan’s basketball team over Florida. I’m grateful to my friends for their hospitality – and the basket bearing my name that included their homemade maple syrup.

Easter is a bigger deal than Christmas within the Christian faith but, on average, it doesn’t evoke the same buzz as the December holiday. Maybe it’s because the commemoration of a birth is more accessible intellectually and emotionally than the prospect of resurrection. Everyone is born; only one resurrected (I don’t mean any disrespect to Lazarus – but his resurrection didn’t atone for all of mankind). The buildup to Christmas is Advent – a season of anticipation; the buildup to Easter is Lent – a season of penance and reflection. Christmas traditions often include trees, wreaths, lights, feasts, gifts, carols, Santa and Rudolf; Easter brings remembrance of the Passion of Christ and the solemnity of Good Friday – with a bunny, candy, and dyed eggs offered for counterpoint. Somehow it doesn’t seem fair.

Easter’s challenge is one of faith – accepting the intersection of God and man in a way that is beyond our scope of understanding. It’s tough – even Scripture acknowledges our doubt through the story of Thomas.

Tonight, I saw a familiar truck in Howard’s driveway on my way home: his son’s. I continued on my way not wanting to interrupt their visit. Something told me to turn around and less than a mile past I backtracked for a visit. For some reason, I believed it to be the right decision to go back despite knowing that Howard had family present.

And it was. Brent met me at the door and shook my hand like an old friend. Hellos all around and Howard updated me on his condition while Brent and his friend Melanie tidied the kitchen from dinner. Soon, Melanie, Brent and I were a semi-circle around Howard enjoying his stories and admonishing him to call on any of us (he shared that he had had a very bad spell last night and he hadn’t called anyone for help). There is potential for some medical procedures later in the week, but Howard doesn’t know if he’ll comply – either way, I trust his judgment despite bemoaning his stubbornness.

I didn’t stay long and Brent walked me out to my car. He was genuinely appreciative that I’d visit his father and I told him it was my pleasure. I was able to give him my contact information and he agreed to let me know if there was any news of substance. We embraced – any doubt that stopping by was the right decision evaporated.





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