Dog Day Ruminations (July 08)

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Dog Day Ruminations (July 2008)

Since last I sat down to compose a small mind-trinket, a monsoon overtook our neck of the woods -- yes, you noticed. Even if one occupies the high ground, it's not possible to go anywhere without being stunned by the rearrangements of land and lives in the river valley. I grew up singing the spiritual, "God give Noah the rainbow sign. No more water, but the fire next time!" What the heck happened? That biblical covenant turned out to be about as trustworthy as the peace treaties our government signed with the Indians.

Even merely witnessing the agony caused by the loss of property, livelihood and possessions is harrowing, let alone be the ones suffering loss and dislocation. Clearly, the true cost of this catastrophe can never really be calculated. How do you put a price tag on self-sufficiency, or on confidence in an orderly universe that rewards hard work and playing by the rules of the game? But luck plays no favorites. The only real revenge may be to rise again from the mud (not ashes), in some simpler, purified form.

Too much of what resides under a roof is irreplaceable and intangible--the ambiance, all the little objects and memories that add up to "home." I imagine this will prove to be a literal "watershed" for many -- the event after which nothing will ever vaguely be the same. Of course, there are neither words nor actions that can truly palliate the shock and despair of those luckless individuals, families and towns who bore the brunt of the flood, but it is heartening to see lots of people turn out to try. Volunteers have offered and will go on offering a big psychological bandage with their labors and donations. Appropriate to such moments is Frederick Buechner's version of the basic Christian or humanist ethic: "There can be no real joy for anybody until there is joy finally for us all."

I'm a little embarrassed that part of my mind disengages from sympathy at times, seeing and responding to fleeting beauty even in the midst of ruination. Unbidden, one's breath catches at a cloud filled sky, trees, or a sunset mirrored in the reflecting pools and lakes that cover cornfields, backyards, roads to somewhere necessary.

At such times it is a relief to take refuge in the ordinary. This mid-July to mid-August moon cycle is one that ordinarily simmers with heat, rendering some of us brain dead, but bringing on a burst of good things to eat by way of compensation. There is little that is ordinary about 2008 so we'll have to see. A few of the signs and portents have been good for us here: an excellent early strawberry crop, first rate lettuce and spinach, a fair gathering of peas. We are not scientific about gardening, but the earth is kind.

Wild raspberries--blood-red, beating-heart-red -- best symbolize this lunar cycle called Berries Ripening Moon by the Chippewa. The hybrid varietals, coaxed by plant-breeder to bedeck themselves in several fetching colors besides red, are bigger, juicier, more delicate, but lack the vital tang of the wild ones. Nonetheless, they receive an effusive welcome at our table. We had a border collie once who pilfered raspberries from the patch, wrapping his licorice lips ever so carefully around each berry and daintily sucking them off the canes. Although he could make big inroads into a crop one by one, his enjoyment was so exquisite that (one gourmand to another) I never had the heart to scold.

A flood of another sort -- the rising green tide of beans and zucchini-- has hit with a wallop. As a fellow-gardener mentioned the other morning, she'd forgotten how crisp and sweet a just-picked green bean is. That's the upside of a rotten memory that you get to experience everything anew all the time.

I witnessed another portent recently that I don't know how to interpret except sardonically. I watched an eagle (potent symbol of our national identity) being mobbed by blackbirds (i.e. the hoi-polloi.) My own feeling is that it would be exhilarating if The Masses did a bit of mobbing of the national bird ourselves, right soon. Why is it that there always seems to be a ton of money to pour down rat holes such as testosterone-infused wars, and next to nothing to educate our kids, shore up our tottering infrastructure, house, feed and clothe our own people when they get into trouble, to name just a few of the crying needs all around us? If you have found the answer to this futile, dog day question while wading in some briar patch, give me a jingle.

In the meantime, an old Chinese sage purportedly said, "A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song." Thank you, old Chinese sage. Now, how about a verse or two of ...

"Down in the valley, valley so low,

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow."

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