Jack Burns Lives!

The Coming of Spring

Once again I’ve lived to see another Vernal Equinox. Assuming I live until tomorrow, I guess. I’ve survived cycling on bustling city streets, driving on interstates that resemble NASCAR races, flying in airplanes, Directors meetings and the mind-bloggling blunders of George Bush and the cadre of power hungry moguls that run the affairs of man and ruin the affairs of all.

It’s no small feat to live another year on Mother Earth.

In my hideaway from all those unwelcome intrusions, Lamium amplexicaule blooms freely. More commonly known as Henbit, it’s a non-native annual considered by many to be an early emergent invasive species. But although a non-native, it’s widely naturalized in Eastern North America and is an important plant for bees. We need the bees and since I have a strict no-poison policy, the plant thrives at Casa Burns.

Despite winter’s retreat, a spattering of Dark-eyed juncos remain, lingering to enjoy the warm temps before returning north. A pair of Purple finches and a pair of American goldfinches make a surprise visit along with the more numerous and typical American robin, Downy woodpeckers and Mourning dove. At dusk, a solitary Cooper’s hawk surveys the scene from one of several Sweetgum trees, a prolific southeastern tree known for its use in furniture and cabinet production.

I’ll check for bats this week under the light of a full, Southern moon and continue my work on garden expansion. Additional clearing, as yet more precious, American lawn is destroyed by the hoe and the shovel. And for what? To make way for more food production. More tomatoes, lettuce and veggies.

Lawn destruction is a noble pursuit, so I get started today on the clearing. My neighbor is working too, but on lawn preservation, moving his mower over precious bee habitat, blowing biomass with his blower and doing his damnedest to maintain the status quo. I’m sure they think we’re the “back to nature” freaks. Hippies. Dirt under our own nails when we could have hired some Mexicans or blacks to do the work for us.

“That’s the ‘Merican way, son.”

Probably got some dope in there somewhere. The Tibetan Prayer Flags and wind chimes raise suspicion, but the western and cowboy stuff in the garden probably throws ‘em off. Hippie cowboys? Damn straight. Dime store version, at least.

We’re weird, and we like it.

I’ve been giving some thought to slipping away to the better side of the mighty Mississippi and to the Ozark Mountains (really just foothills). Camping by Sylamore Creek, a scene, many years back, of some raucous, chemically enhanced foolishness with two unnamed accomplices.

Those boys are still living, as well, gawd bless ‘em, but all of us probably survived our youthful folly by just pure, dumb luck. Emphasis on dumb.

photo credit: one of the unnamed
accomplices

But there’s much to do right here in my own little patch of Mother Earth. No need to fill up the car with fuel and go gallivanting about. If the neighbors keep the mowers and blowers quiet, there’s plenty of good work and blessed solitude right here.

Comment from Roy - March 19, 2008 at 9:54 pm

Thanks for keeping me “unnamed”. Association with a renegade and a Communist like yourself has certain “stigma” attached
Roy