End of Summer Walkabout

The weather report described the upcoming day as "sunny," but I noticed, looking at the more detailed hour-by-hour report, that at no specific time was the sun actually predicted to be shining. Hmm. In any case, cool, dry, and overcast sounded good to us, and we headed down the parkway, intent on seeing what the day would bring.

We parked on the west side of Lake Harriet and proceeded on foot along the north side of the lake, catching snippets of bourgeois conversation along the way as we passed the yoga class in front of the bandshell and then the beach, where two or three people were swimming,  Bicycles, dogs, and runners were everywhere, but it was a pleasant scene. We might almost have been in Argenteuil.

 A regatta seemed to be taking place on the far side of the lake. We could see a few buoys and two fishing boats that might have been carrying officials in the midst of ten or twelve single-mast boats—Class C, if I recall correctly from my non-sailing youth on White Bear Lake.

There wasn't much wind. Each of the boats held a single sailor.  No one seemed to be trying very hard. But it's hard to tell; maybe the race hadn't started yet.

When we reached the Rose Garden, we were astounded by the riot of color, both within the garden and along the outer border, where an impressive late-summer planting of blue, magenta, and white flowers was in full bloom—lots of ageratum and sweet alyssum in varying hues, along with other larger shrubs I couldn't identify.

Inside the enclosure, the roses were also doing very well. I was just taking a whiff of a "Queen Elizabeth" blossom when someone said, "Seen any golden-winged warblers lately?"  

I turned around. The man was standing nearby, tall and gangly, slightly Frank Zappa without the heavy mustache. T-shirt, running shorts. He'd spotted our binoculars. 

"Not lately," I replied. "We saw a few this spring. Lots of them nest in Minnesota."

"I know. But your golden-wings migrate to Mexico. The ones farther east migrate to South America. Where could I find one nearby?"

He seemed to know his birds. His name, he told us, was John Edward Myers.

"Well, do you know where Elm Creek Reserve is?" I said.

"Don't worry. I can find it," he said.

"Go to the Eastman Nature Center and head north along the bike path. Cross the road and down the hill. There might be some hanging around there. Are you from around here?"

"I grew up here but I've been living in Columbia for the last fifteen years. I work for environmental groups. Build eco-programs, trails. Make films. Have you ever been to Latin America?"   

"Not really."

"Go to Costa Rica. It's close. It's safe. The programs are well established. And the birds are fabulous."

Not a bad idea.

But for now, we were content to continue our stroll, past the muted Zen garden and on up the hill to the trial gardens, which, under the bright gray skies, possessed an unusual intensity of color. At one point we spotted three hummingbirds feeding at a flowering bush—our big bird sighting for the morning.

In recent years I have found myself entranced with increasing frequency by the forms, the patterns, the intricacy of plants. This is true in the deep woods, where the various forms of goldenrod and aster and club moss, for example, display their remarkable form and stature. And it's no less true in a highly cultivated garden. Many of the plants in our shady, dry, and woe-some yard are looking bedraggled. Not here under the sun and care of local garden clubs.

Our next stop was Magers & Quinn. The religious historian Karen Armstrong was interviewed recently in the Star-Tribune  under the title "A Spiritual Solution to Climate Change?" Hilary was curious to see if her new book, Sacred Nature, was in stock. No luck.

Nowadays, when I visit a bookstore,  it mostly just reminds me of books I already own that I really ought to read. Umberto Eco. Ken Wilber. Upon learning of the recent death of Javier Marias yesterday, I pulled my twenty-year-old copy of Dark Back of Time off the shelf and started in. Now's the time.

On the bargain rack outside the bookstore I saw a paperback describing the 100 best hikes in northern Oregon. Tempting....but I resisted the urge.

Our final stop was the terrace of a pizza place back in the Linden Hills neighborhood called Rosaria. It had just opened for the day and the after-church crowds hadn't shown up yet. I ordered the  Funghi: mushrooms, gruyere, porcini crema, scallions, chili flake, in honor of all the wild mushrooms we saw during our hikes on the North Shore last week. Hilary went for the classic Margherita.

I was slightly disturbed when another couple sat down at a table nearby. It wasn't the big, chocolate-brown dog that accompanied them. It was that I recognized the woman, but couldn't place her. How embarrassing. Did I work with her on a book of poems, years ago? Should I say hi?

Near the end of our meal Hilary went to the restroom, and when she got back she said, "That woman is our senator, Tina Smith."

As we were walking back to the car, Hilary said, "I wanted to walk over and tell her what a great job she's doing....but I didn't want to spoil her lunch."