Scampering Toward Earth Day

It was Friday, and to be honest, I wasn't thinking of Earth Day when I decided to make a fire out of some grape vines I was extracting from the thicket beside our neighbor's fence. I was thinking of the French Riviera. 

Hilary had just pointed out that the vines were dead. They had been severed during some clean-up months ago and were now dangling in space. As I was pulling them away from the branches they were still fiercely clinging to, I was reminded of a morning we spent in Grasse--the world capital of perfume--decades ago. It was late March, and workers were pruning vines in the vineyards nearby and tossing them into wheelbarrows fashioned out of old oil drums, inside of which fires were smoldering. A haze of acrid smoke filled the air.

I liked that smell and was curious to find out if these vines would produce the same aroma. They didn't.  

Nor was I thinking of Earth Day on Easter when we gathered at Hilary's cousin's house, out in the country, to eat and chat and take part in the annual egg fight. It was a bubbly afternoon, with lots of food and an egg hunt for the kids. The talk ranging from Rory McIlroy's emotional win at the Masters to California redwoods, from Bruce's days as a racecar driver to the difference between the songs of the goldfinch and the indigo bunting.

At one point, dimly aware that some of the guests were too young to know who some of us old folks were talking about, I tried to explain to Missy who Cassie was. "Cassie is Ginny's daughter, you see. And Ginny was married to George. George was Skid's brother. Skid was married to Ollie. Ollie is Laura's mom, and also Dorothy's sister. Hence, Laura is Hilary's cousin. Got it?" 

Missy's thoughts seemed to have drifted elsewhere by that point, and I don't blame her.

* * *

We have the good fortune to live near a parkway. It runs for miles down the west side of Minneapolis and we’ve driven it countless times. This time of year—and especially after an overnight rain—a simple drive down the hill through the golf course and past the Quaking Bog and the Wildflower Garden will take us to the Chain of Lakes.

The sky is gray but the air is warm and people are out, biking and on foot. We haven’t reached that slice of the season when the leaves begin to appear en masse like a green mist, but it’s easy to enjoy the nascent efforts of the honeysuckles and the bright blue carpets of squills that are appearing here and there.

Today is Earth Day, and we’re on the way down the parkway to see how the ducks are faring. They pass through at about this time every year. A few days ago there were coots everywhere on the south end of Lake Harriet—cute, clumsy gallinules without much stature or cachet. This morning there are hundreds of them on Bde Maka Ska. Quite a few red-breasted mergansers—among the most striking and elegant of all the ducks—are swimming nearby. Ten or twelve bright white buffleheads have also joined the party. 

Everyone’s milling around. the mergansers occasionally perform their neck-craning ritual, and the coots, who have short necks, have come up with a feeble version of their own.

A few hundred yards south of Lake Street we pull over, park, and approach the shore, where thirty-six ruddy ducks—yes, we counted—are casually swimming together, off by themselves. This small creature, with a bright blue bill, compact body, and upturned tail, might almost be a Disney creation.

Lake Harriet is somewhat quieter, but down on the south end we meet up with a similar raft of waterfowl--coots and red-breasted mergansers, along with a few mallards and wood ducks, and two horned grebes!

From here it’s only a few minutes’ drive to Turtle Bakery. I don’t know the name of the flaky chocolaty pretzel-shaped thing they sell next to the caramel rolls and the croissants, but that’s what I got to go along with the coffee. Hilary picked out something that looked like a custardy caramel roll topped with raisins. Most of the tables and booths were filled with middle-aged women and men deep in morning conversation. On the bulletin board I saw a flyer proclaiming that 25 percent of Mayor John Frye’s campaign donations came from Republicans, and I thought to myself, “That’s a good thing. Right?”  '    

We drove back to Lake Harriet, past the newly resurfaced tennis courts at Beard's Plaisance that I haven’t gotten a chance to try out yet, and parked on the road overlooking the lake. 

Some Bach cantatas had been playing on the radio but we turned it off, the better to hear the chuckling and squawking of the coots.