A Really Good Stick
The past few two weeks have been rather a blur with a quick trip to Wisconsin and a new job. I have a farm in Wisconsin, my ancestral home and although I am not fond of snow, I do love the peace and beauty of the landscape. One of my brothers has been very busy remodeling the farmhouse built during the Depression by my grandfather and his brothers. It is odd to walk inside and see it stripped to the studs with a lovely wide stair down to the basement. I remember helping my Dad put those steps in. He was well over 6 feet tall and he made those steps to fit his long legs—the rest of us had to lift our knees nearly to our chins to climb those stairs.
My brother is incredibly talented and I have given him free rein to do whatever he likes inside as long as the bathroom is handicapped accessible, I have a closet that is bigger than 2 feet long, a big wrap-around porch—this girl has been in the South so long a porch is a necessity, and it look different inside so that it becomes my house-not my parents.
Wildflowers were blooming and I wandered a bit in the big woods taking pictures of trillium, mayflower, and jack-in-the-pulpit. There are pink lady slippers in that woods that my Dad would bring to me each spring but I didn’t find them; that will be a project for another year. We hunted in vain for morels that I know are in there; Dad would come back with a 5 gallon bucket full.
While in Wisconsin, we attended a Trials weekend. This is like motocross in some ways but it is all outdoors in local environs. Trial Riders of all ages tried their skills at riding their motorcycles around trees, through ravines, and up rocky walls. Both of us took photos but I admit to being entranced by the apple trees in full bloom and a very large patch of shooting stars. A gorgeous Golden retriever mix played ‘fetch the stick’ with any available adult but declined the offer from a small carrot-headed boy who looked to be about 5 years old. He said his stick was a really good one but the dog wouldn’t play.
Looking back at ‘home’, looking for morels and lady’s slippers, and a disappointed little boy —we look for the expected and what we remember to be true—rather than experiencing each day and event for itself. If we don’t find it, turn away still in search missing out on the opportunity for something new and fresh. I suppose artists do the same; repeating what we know, revisiting the familiar, but the artists in history that we remember are the ones who took a chance and did something wildly different from their peers.
I don’t know that I will do something wildly different, but I am going to look for those morels again next spring.
Photos of the farm are here:http://ysr612.smugmug.com/gallery/8331535_4Ei8W#545951741_Nkhjr
Photos of the trials are here:http://ysr612.smugmug.com/gallery/8289224_q2Xki#542729057_EGTae