We celebrate two events close to my heart today:
- World Wetlands Day Dakota: Mni Wiconi (water is life) Ojibwe: Nibi gaa-bimaaji'iwemagak (water gives life)
- Groundhog Day Unfortunately, Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, six more weeks of Winter. Spring Equinox: March 20, 45 days from now, the same week as, but after, daylight savings time begins and St. Patrick's Day occurs.
Although the prospects for an early Spring have failed because Phil saw his shadow, that doesn't mean we might not enjoy an early Spring anyhow. Phil has been found to be accurate only between 35% and 40% of the time. If I'm assessing the equivalent of a double negative correctly, seeing his shadow and being less than 60% accurate actually means the odds are better than 50-50 Spring may be early this year.
Some of the happier hours of my life have been spent in a swamp or marsh, usually in pursuit of waterfowl, sometimes, back on the East Coast, wandering tidal marshes searching for clam flats. Much of my professional career focused on identifying and ameliorating, or, better still, preventing, water pollution. Without wetlands, and there are precious few of them left, our water supplies become like a family living from paycheck to paycheck, with no savings in case of emergencies. Those whose land Minnesotans inhabit today had a better, healthier perspective since they recognize that water is life. Minnesota could better manage its storm water by creating the urban equivalent of wetlands: rain gardens of various sorts. The state could also improve its carbon footprint by better protecting and restoring its peatlands, bogs and fens.
British soldier lichen appear as snow melts
Photo by J. Harrington
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Whenever Spring's real thaw sets in, I'm looking forward to getting into the Sunrise River wetlands behind the house as the snows melt and mosses and fungi appear. Celebrating the change in dominance from white to green is something else those of us living in the North Country might want to pay more attention to honoring.
What's left is footage: the hours before Camille, 1969—hurricane parties, palm trees leaning in the wind, fronds blown back, a woman's hair. Then after: the vacant lots, boats washed ashore, a swamp where graves had been. I recall how we huddled all night in our small house, moving between rooms, emptying pots filled with rain. The next day, our house— on its cinderblocks—seemed to float in the flooded yard: no foundation beneath us, nothing I could see tying us to the land. In the water, our reflection trembled, disappeared when I bent to touch it.
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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