(Human) Nature
“Travel,” read the sign on a Seine River cruise boat, “is the ethic of caring for the world.”
We left a month ago to visit my son and his family in Paris. We charged around seeing as many of the sites as we could, visiting Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, following in the footsteps of the “Lost Generation” of writers on the Left Bank, and stopping in countless boulangeries, pâtisseries, boucheries, fromageries, and chocolateries. I have not been many places in the world. But I have been all over these United States and there is nothing to compare to the food emporiums of France, which are commonplace, one after the other. I believe we could experience a cultural revival in this country if we could just have bakeries on every other block and bread that is lying fresh on the counter each morning. Culturally, we keep looking in the wrong places, Hollywood or Wall Street. Trust me, it is about the bread, the tip of a fresh baguette poking out the top of each bag as you pass your neighbor on the street. Fresh bread says, have a great day.
It hardly seems a month ago, but that is because we have been back only two weeks and it has been a race to pack up winter and unpack spring. There are deadlines this time of year, mostly as regard the lawns, getting them thatched and raked. Also augmenting the garden soil with compost and loam, fertilizing fruit trees and shrubs, and planting and transplanting, if that needs to be done. We divided and moved several Sedum, and planted a young, flowering pear tree. The lawns have yet to be cut because in the short time they have been eligible it has been raining, a steady rain for the last five days. We brought out the rain gauge a day ago and it has recorded an inch, already. More inches came before. The small island in our cove we nicknamed Goose rock, because the Canada geese park there for a couple of days every spring and fall, disappeared underwater during the deluge. That does not happen every year.
But everybody is back, which made returning from France a happy thing despite pangs of homesickness for the family. It is possible to leave the Pond while it is still mostly winter and the neighborhood quiet, and return two weeks later to discover spring emerging and the crowd returned. This is true for the road we live on, along which Huckleberry has been allowed to run free all winter, criss-crossing with nary a look in any direction. Now, he will be on a leash for the summer until we get to the trail at the top of the hill. Good thing, because on our first outing that way since getting back, two trucks drove by, roofers and contractors on their way to perform whatever chores were scheduled to get the lake houses up to snuff. Daydreaming with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a cup of coffee, their reactions would have had no chance against a dog jumping at the window for a free ride.
Outside our window, nature is done whispering. It clamors. The Spring Peepers are chorusing as if their lives depended on it (because they do), each male doing its best to outshout its rivals in the interest of attracting a mate. Over the top of them, the vibrato horn of Loons warns of predators. Their caution might attach to the pitched voice of two Osprey circling overhead, although the Osprey's devotion to a fish diet generally mutes the reaction of the pond dwellers. As likely, the trumpeting Loons are dueling males--by now, the females have arrived from winter camp. And skimming the vegetation at every level, White-throated Sparrows, Blue-headed Vireos, Blue Jays, and more.
We brought ourselves and devices to the porch with our cocktails on one of those nights shortly after we got home to read up on the day. What was the point? Nothing was more interesting than the news in front of us, as you can hear for yourself.
I am given to wondering sometimes if a Loon floating on the water on a cool summer evening can experience fulfillment in its surroundings; or is that a gift only we possess? I think, why not fulfillment for a Loon? Anthropomorphizing (I do so regularly), I imagine the Loon, watching me pause to stretch behind my wheelbarrow and shovel, ask, why shouldn’t he have what I have? Fulfillment, indeed, after thirty million years.
I think, what is the Louvre to Spring Peepers?
It is many choristers, thick as frogs, at the Mona Lisa.
“Travel,” read the sign on a Seine River cruise boat, “is the ethic of caring for the world.” I see (human) nature, everywhere I go.
And a desire for fresh bread.