Folks, I sure struggled this month. Spring offers so many ideas and at the same time takes up every extra second. Between the weed wrangling, softball game chasing, mowing, watering, “Mom-I’m-bored-there’s-nothing-to-do-whining, did I already mention mowing?, and then there’s work of course; I plain struggled to find the necessary time to contemplate my “view” for you.

So I laid awake in bed, early this past Sunday morning as thoughts of not only my pending deadline, but so many other things were racing, though admittedly in slow motion, through my foggy brain; inspiration smacked into my North window as if the Gods were throwing me a fast pitch to see if I was brave enough to engage and take a swing. I’m fortunate in that I can see out every direction of my house from my bedroom loft so I sat for a moment at the edge of my bed and watched as this tiny, Quixotic, yellow warbler scratched and clawed at my glassy Northern view. She flapped herself silly in her vain attempt to perch on the smooth, vertical surface and then finally gave up and hopped over to the less resistant, more practical, honeysuckle branch. I made my way down the stairs without breaking my line of vision, I didn’t want to lose her and sure enough, as I’d hoped she might, she opened up and let forth with her characteristic song whose composition can only be classified as heaven sent.

A couple of years ago I read “The Big Year” by Mark Obmascik. The title refers to a race, if you will, where the world’s most avid birders compete to visualize the most bird spieces over a 365-day time period while remaining in the continent. Believe it or not they find in excess of 735 species by the year’s end. They spare no expense and it can get fairly vicious gaining the title of the “North American Birder” for their efforts. I have no intention of cashing in my chips, maxing out my credit cards, and going on that quest at any time in my life but I did make an immediate beeline to my favorite used book store in order to find myself a Petersens: those of you who know birds, know what that is. Since then I’ve studied my small, feathered, highly-conversational neighbors in more and more detail because I’ve found that knowledge can only enhance the enjoyment of just about anything….in my view.

I continued to appreciate my petite friend’s pleasant warble as I waited for my coffee, threw on my oldest therefore softest, most comfortable, holy sweatshirt and my tattered flip flops, grabbed a pen and a notepad and wandered up the short path to my chair on the southeastern end of my trees as I so often do on Sunday before the rest of the world comes to. George Bernard Shaw once wrote: “The best place to seek God is in the garden. You can dig for him there.” I think we each find our “way” somehow and his words seem to get me there just fine with the added perk of not having to struggle with the painful, strenuous feat of the donning of pantyhose in order to impress the other parishioners. I’m definitely in the class of women who could go a lifetime without ever finding the need to wear stockings up to her chest, for any reason. The beaked and furry members of my congregation don’t seem to mind my ratty attire as we worship together under the verdant, emerald and golden-flecked camopy taking the place of the grandest arches of any cathedral, the sweet, enmeshing voices of the birds: our choir, and this old, sun-faded, used-to-be-green lawn chair: my peronal, front-row pew.

Everyone’s gardens at this time are perfection…. I guess that’s the one word I can use to almost adequately describe them. I wish I possessed half the talent of so many of my siblings and could paint the beauty I see. I’d be able to capture the contrast of the glimmering, morning, dew-topped grass against the fat, fluffy, orange and creamy-white, overstuffed, blob that is our cat. He who chose us over all of our equally-worthy neighbors a couple of years ago as if he recognized the two people/suckers who would bestow upon him his rightful position of nobility in their home. He’s parked, in his usual spot next to me, with the tree trunk at his back, ears alert in contrast to the drowsy, smiling, I-could-care expression on this face, obviously listening as intently as I to the warblers, robins, wrens, nuthatches, finches, and sparrows who musically make their way through their day’s itinerary. A train whistle breaks up the meeting as it screams out it’s warning to the folks a couple of miles North of here. My heavy-set feline bothers to slowly turn his head toward the familiar, shrill sound, he cocks it slowly to the side as silence befalls our forest, and finally returns his head to it’s original position once the choir gets back to business.

Our resident squirrel has finally made his way over to the branches arched above the barn behind my garage to vie for my attention with his weekly gift of assorted nuts. He likes to shower me with affection to let me know I am intruding, more than anything I think. The cardinal couple as well are arguing with each other and then the male is the one nominated to step forth and scold me like your uncle might should you mistakenly over-stay your welcome.

By now the rising sun has illuminated each blade of grass and each delicate new leaf. It has also brought that stained-glass appearance to the flowers if you let your eyes go out of focus and it can only happen during these early hours of sunrise before the shadows disappear and the colors fall flat under the direct rays of that very same sun as it climbs higher with the passing of each minute.

And so I encourage everyone of you to take a good old-fashioned Sunday drive this weekend, provided you’ve got the crop in of course. Find a place to park, and turn off the engine in a random alley; you’re all welcome to use ours here in Morse, it’s as good as any, maybe at the top of a hill on one of the minimum maintenance country roads, or best yet: venture onto an old, forgotten, unused car path that winds deep in amongst the ash, elms, and cedars along our bluffs. Lean back in your seat, put your hat down over your eyes, and just listen for awhile. I hope I didn’t loose too many of you with my nirvana-like musings but it’s Spring in Nebraska and as usual; I just couldn’t help myself.

—North Bend Eagle 12 June 2007

You’re driving around in the dark on a Spring morning, studying the street corners, scrutinizing the home-made advertisement signs stuck in the lawns and plastered to the poles to ascertain their freshness. Were they put up today or last week? There appears to be no one else around and you ask yourself; “What’s wrong with this neighborhood? The paper said “City-Wide Garage Sales Starting at 7 a.m.” don’t they know that means we are going to be ready at 6?” You become temporarily frustrated and mentally discouraged. “I think this is going to be a dud, I should have gone to Lincoln.”

All of a sudden; there it is! The first garage sale of the weekend. Not only is it the first to open on this Friday morning, but you are the first customer to “sale” in! You slow your car down and do a quick visual sweep to make sure it’s worth stopping for. Is it worth missing what might be down the road where the competitiion is first arriving ahead of you? You decide; “Yes!” your heart is already beating like that of an Olympic athlete, you take a quick swig of your gas station coffee, and you begin to feel that sense of relief because you’re confident your garage-sale-jones will soon be satisfied.

You are out of your vehicle before you even turn off the engine and your second step launches you into a dead run. You’re there and the game plan you formed as you turned off the car is under way. You’ve decided to stick with the old standby of “left to right” so you start on the west end of the driveway. It’s a nice, established neighborhood, the proprietor appears to be in her 70s and she informs you that she has to get rid of this stuff she’s been hanging on to for the past 50 years because she’s moving to a condo closer to the doctor’s offices and such. (It’s these words that make a garage sale junkie experience their peak as far as anticipatory rush goes!) “Oh happy day!” you say to yourself, then you remind yourself to calm down…don’t give her any leverage, don’t give her anything to bargain with, breathe, relax, focus….focus.

“Junk…junk….got that….junk…..trash….has-potential-but-would-cost-too-much-to-fix….junk….why did I stop here?….I thkink I made a horrible mistake….I’ll bet I’m missing a great bargain on the next street over….oh my gosh! I can’t believe she only marked that priceless jug at 25 cents! Is it reallly what I think it is” You turn it over with the practiced hands of a novice antique dealer and notice the mark that matches the one in your reference catalog. “It is! Calm down, calm down, don’t let on, take it up there and give that woman a quarter before she realizes she just gave away a $550.00 dollar collectible for practically nothing.”

You’re back in the car, you carefully lay your “treasure” next to you on the empty passenger seat and quickly start the engine with shaking hands. “I can not believe it! Such good fortune, and on my first stop! It’s almost like stealing but legal!”

It’s 0610 and you are off to the next adventure of your morning of, what I like to call: “Sale-ing”. The sun is starting to add to the light of your headlights, the adrenaline from your first find is still there but you must keep looking to the next sale. You’ve got to put it behind you for now and concentrate. You’ve probably got 20-30 stops all mapped out so you finish before 10 am. Every seasoned sale-er knows that everything will be completely picked over by that time.

I can personlly enjoy a good day of garage sales myself. I’ve felt that high-like buzz and I can vouch or confess that it is definitely addictive. If it weren’t for the generosity of other’s in their drive-ways and at their auctions, I wouldn’t have been able to furnish my house. Almost everything at my place is “gently used” including the water softener, the fridge, and even the windows. I cherish a book more if I know many others have read it and it’s always an added bonus if there’s anonomously hand-written notes in the margins.

When I first moved back, I went to so many auctions and had my parents bidding on other things I needed at simultaneous auctions, it seemed like that was our weekend kjob. We all know that it’s not so much the kill but the hunt that we crave…so I shouldn’t really classify this type of shopping as a job….it’s more of a sport.

There’s just something about that rhythm of the auctioneer and that moment when Mr. Martindale says; “Sold to the young lady, number 56!” Or whatever number but it was ME he was pointing at! I always feel like I’m on the Price Is Right or something. Brad Martindale himself even delivered a stove that I had “won” at one of his auctions. Not only to my door, but up my steep, cement steps and right into the perfect spot next to my sofa of course. Now that’s service! You pay extra for that when you buy something new and instead of feeling like you’ve won something, you feel like you’re getting swindled somehow. Isn’t that the truth?

It may not be a favorite pass time of yours and even if you don’t necessarily “need” anything, you should go “Garage Sale-ing” one morning with a friend or spend a day at an auction. It’s inexpensive entertainment and everyone knows there isn’t anything you can’t find cheaper at a garage sale if you look hard enough.

—North Bend Eagle 8 May 2007

You’ve probably already read some articles surrounding the sale of Larry Racek’s lifetime accumulation of farm equipment which actually spanned generations of their family. You’ve heard details about this incredible collection, the amazing amount of bidder’s numbers sold, and the superb way in which the Stock’s handled everything. You’ve even seen a wonderful aerial photograph thanks to Ray; what a nice keepsake of an amazing piece of Morse Bluff history, thanks again Ray Stranik!

I had decided earlier in the week that I had to go, I just felt it necessary to be a part of it. So I called the ladies of the Morse Bluff American Legion Auxiliary and begged them to let me work at their food stand. Funny thing is; they were more than happy to accommodate me, imagine that.

I was there a little late; around 0745 and after a few attempts was told where I could and couldn’t park. I pulled up to the house and I had to ask Jerrine where the ladies were setting up shop. She motioned behind me: “They’re up in the machine shed, at the top of the hill, it’s kind of muddy.” I thanked her, walked around my car and right then and there decided that my old tennis shoes were probably not the best choice of foot wear for the day as I checked out the lane leading up to where all the action was about to take place.

I could feel the excitement in the air as I made my way to the massive shed, which by the way, I had no idea was back there behind the trees all these years, not to mention all of that equipment. I think most people who live around here felt the same way. Every person I met was on a mission and all was coming together in precise form. There were familiar faces everywhere, even at that early time, busy getting ready for the main event. They were wet, cold, and mud soaked from the knee down; but they were all willing and eager to help out. The Morse Bluff Auxiliary had the food stand set up long before I got there and we just had some last minute things to do before everything got rolling. The skies were dark and cloudy but that didn’t dampen the spirits of the people running around the Racek farm that early Friday morning.

Jerrine’s beautiful rendition of the National Anthem which kicked off the bidding, seemed to make the rising sun shine even brighter and in spite of the previous night’s rain, it turned out to be a beautiful morning, perfect by anyone’s standards. I watched as the trucks and trailers began to fill the lush, green alfalfa field to the south of the yard. Farmers were lining themselves up without any direction, just their normal sense of orderliness and respect to guide them. I’m sure it has somehting to do with that pride in a straight, furrowed row as they look back after each pass in their fields. From our view out the south side of the machine shed; it seemed as if people were just randomly walking up from all directions. Their boots and over boots heavy with mud, some succumbing to the sticky coolness, but not letting it faze them, they just picked themselves up, wiped their hand off on the clean spots, and kept on pushing until they reached the auctioneer’s van to secure their numbers.

In spite of the fact that they hadn’t hiked that far in a long while, folks still showed in great numbers. Every farmer, including those that wished they still were; turned out from miles around just to get a peek at the tractors of their past, if not to vie for the chance to own one once again.

Some women showed in total contrast to their appropriately-clad husbands, with Spring suitable open-toed sandals and white pants. I remember thinking; “If that were me, I’d be carrying 5 pounds of the muck just between my toes”; but somehow these ladies remained in their pristine form. Most of the women came from the farm in their work boots and flannel, promptly after chores I imagine. Their small children bundled similarly on their’s and their husband’s hips. The older kids with their too tall, brightly-colored, rubber boots and overly large farm caps with the bill pressed to a curl, dressed to match Dad as best they could. Sheer joy shown on their faces due to the fact that Mom didn’t care, just for today, that they were getting delicioulsly covered in mud.

The talk of tractors between farmers, and the: “When I was a kid, son…..” conversations that could be overheard throughout the day are irreplaceable memories for me and add to the long list of reasons I came back to live in this wonderful place.

The lunch stand was the best place to meet and greet folks. There truly were people from all over the United States; I even met a guy who had never heard of kolaches! Fortunately, Nadine had donated several hundred for the sale and this “kolache virgin” was able to sample the World’s Best right off the bat; we heard no complaints I assure you. The smell of sloppy joes is always a good draw for any food stand and they flowed in steady all day, each with a happy greeting, a healthy appetitie, and most folks had a kind word of thanks as they left us.

The afternoon came to a close as the new owners took turns pulling their flatbeds, trailers, and trucks up to the top of the hill to claim their “winnings”. The farmers I saw were grateul that the walk back to their trucks, which were parked along the highway, was downhill. They were full and exhausted but smiling. The sun was just warm enough on our backs to guide a perfect day and a memorable farm sale to a perfect end in our small corner of the world.

—North Bend Eagle 10 April 2007

Park’s, Burpee’s, Breck’s, Gurney’s, Wayside, Springhill, Four Seasons…..

If you recognize the list above and can easily declare what each item has in common, you are a gardener and I know what you were doing or thinking about while the snow fell and you were stranded in your home for a weekend or two this past month. It may sound crazy, but after I got the sidewalks, stairs, and walkways shoveled for the final time after the “Blizzard of ‘07?, I went over to my magnolia bush and dug down through the snow to see if my crocus were blooming yet. What? Like I’m the only one!

I don’t know if it’s the seed catalogs that we are bombarded with through January, February, and March…(by the way, did you know that January is National Mail Order Gardening Month?), the fact that the daisies I brought in before the first frost began blooming and filling my south window with their incredible color, or if it’s just that we find comfort during the uncomfortable, unpredictable weather that is March in Nebraska by thinking about our dormant plots underneath the snow. Whatever the reason, my garden and my trees start calling me around 5:30 am, before the buzzer, each morning and I lay there planning the layout of the rows, dreaming of new varieties to try, and wrestling with the blankets of snow that cover the new flower beds of my dreams. I just can’t wait to get out there!

My obsession with flowers started with simple, petunia pot gardens on second floor balconies; they were always unusual and cheery amongst the rusting grills and empty beer cans that graced the low rent apartments I stayed in near the Air Force bases. By getting my hands in the dirt I was able to clear my mind and decrease stress. When you’re a farm girl chained to a windowless desk job for 40 hours a week; you can find solace in the manual labor of carrying 40lb bags of potting soil up two flights of stairs and across your beige apartment carpet….well, at least I could.

Most of us don’t raise a garden to feed a family or support one, we do it because we love to have the flowers all around, in every view of every window of our homes. It’s a fun and easy pastime that anyone can do. I basically put seeds or plants into the ground and wait, occasionally I weed but that part tends to get away from me and I’ve learned to relax…because it’s okay. I’ve learned most from my closest professional gardener: my Dad. His most important lesson: the best thing you can do to help ensure the crop or the veracity of the plant is to irrigate: don’t be stingy, don’t miss a day, and don’t rely on Mother Nature. You can fertilize ’til the cows come home but if you don’t water enough you might as well forget it. I’ve learned about placement, when to let it grow out, when to cut it back, when to plant, when to harvest, etc. from the ladies around me. In the beginning they even had to explain which plants were weeds and which plants were not. I was definitely familiar with what to cut out of a row of beans with a corn knife but which seedlings are from the seeds I planted and which are indigenous weeds….not really a clue and it’s best to catch them early if you can , so I paid attention.

I don’t know how it is in your town but in Morse Bluff, we tour in the early morning or in the cool evening to check each other’s progress. We discuss techniques over the fence leaning on our hoes, we share bulbs, we exchange seeds, we gather the fruits of our labors and swap tomatoes for cucumbers at each others’ garden gates, we even give it away at the post office. It’s a great way to get to know your neighbor, catch up on gossip, and bypass trial-and-error-gardening by listening to the tips from folks who’ve been at it longer.

I guess I miss that during these winter months when we are all in our houses, barricaded against the cold. I fight the urge on the occasional day in March when the temperature reaches into the 50s to bring my daisies out of their warm window and onto the still cool deck. Fortunately, reality hits and I know I’ll just have to lug them back in again, so houseplants, they remain. Me, on the other hand, I’m venturing out and “touring” each morning or evening; getting in a good walk while checking the firmness of the earth with each step to determine if the frost is actually fading, breathing deeply to hopefully detect that faint, sweet, familiar smell of distant blossoms on the air, and to share the road with the robins bathing in the puddles next to the melting snow piles on the sides of the streets. These are all sure signs that the Spring we gardeners crave, will soon be more than just a dream.

—North Bend Eagle 13 March 2007