Spring 2010

Spring 2010

Since the Willamette Valley has a marine climate, spring does not suddenly one morning appear as a surprise: crocuses arise in January, pussy willow blooms in February, then daffodils, tulips, the crab apple by the deck, apple in the orchard, and plum, cherry, fruit, ornamentals.  And throughout, rain, clouds and rain.  In one seven day stretch last month, four feet of snow fell in the mountains.  In the valley, rain.  A good friend, transplanted from Texas 60 years in the valley, has never acclimated, is moving to Arizona.  We will miss him.  I like Oregon rain.  When a touch of seasonal affective disorder hits, I dose it with single malt, an antidote distilled in a similar marine climate.  And then, one day, a few days ago, I step out to feed the animals and discover the sun: spring is here.

Bees are burrowing in the crab apple blossoms.  Some years ago, bees were so thick I could hear them across the yard but colony collapse disorder has so reduced their numbers that I am moved to record their efforts.

Their snuggling into the deepest organs of flowers brings to mind Georgia O'Keefe.  They make photography difficult, mostly I get the butt end; now and then one cooperates.

I would worry more about the bees except for the example of the frogs.  Thirty or so years ago, the spring frog songs were so loud they would wake me at 2 or 3 in the morning.  I don't know how frogs survived summers here; in August the ground is like concrete: digging fencepost holes is almost impossible.  When the rains return and the ground is so mushy walking is difficult and horses sink to their hocks, the frogs returned.  And then twenty or so years ago they didn't.  The nights were quiet.  All over the world, frogs disappeared.  Frog experts offered many possible explanations.  Then in February a few years ago, I heard them sing again.  Not so loud, perhaps, but after years of silence, even a quiet chorus was a delight.  I have hope too for the bees.

Behind the barn, spring puddles attract a Mallard pair.  This morning I see the drake among the geese and try to sneak a photo.

He's sly, pretends not to notice me as he moves toward the water and after I snap the first photo I see the hen.

In the pasture, camas is blooming.  Once, it covered the bottom lands.  Native Americans ate the tubers; it nourished Lewis and Clark as they wintered over.

Baked, it is supposed to be tastier than sweet potato, but I've never tried it.  It is rarer now as most of the swampland in the valley, that is, most of the valley, has been tiled, drained, and given over to domesticated crops, especially grass seed for suburban lawns.  But now that I no longer run horses or cattle, it has returned.

In the yard, daffodils have already gone but the tulips are in full glory.

 Bogie guards them.