Feeling Like Summer in the Lusty Month of May

Dandelion seed on May 4, before the first mow of the year, which was May 9.

May 15—it’s not exactly halfway there, what with 31 days an all, but we’re about that far into May.

And today feels a bit more like June than May. My phone says 73, but it’s a bit humid and mostly sunny, so it’s a warm 73.

Usually, by June, I’m getting anxious to see the first Monarch Butterfly. Not this year. I turned in grades yesterday, so today felt a bit like the first day of summer break for me—and I was doing a summer thing, trimming some bushes and mowing the lawn.

As I gathered debris from the lawn prior to mowing, I noticed a quick flit at the corner of my view. Something settled on a 6-inch Milkweed plant by my mailbox—and I quickly went inside to grab my camera. I didn’t see her wings very well, so I can’t judge her gender by the usual test of looking for wing spots (spots=male, no spots=female). But I will call her “her” because I think she was doing a very she-butterfly thing.

Laying eggs. And inspection of the images I made confirmed her as female.

About 11 a.m., May 15, 2024, first Monarch arrives on my Milkweed.

I’m used to recognizing when girl butterflies are laying eggs because they fly more and flit quickly from leaf to leaf. They also seem distracted—Monarchs are normally not the shyest of butterflies, but a laying female doesn’t give a hoot. Her tiny brain is not occupied by hairless apes in proximity making images of her intimate life moments. My wife enjoins me sometimes to leave off the photographing females laying their eggs—child birth not being the most public of activities for us humans.

I do use my long lens and try to avoid getting closer than focal ranges when photographing butterflies, about 9 feet, but the attitude of a laying girl Monarch is quite clear. “Frankly, my dear,” she says, probably in Rhett Butler’s voice, “I don’t give a damn.”

Three views of the same butterfly lady. Lay lady lay. (No brass bed)

At this time of year, the land in Iowa cities is taking on its early summer hues. Grass grows quickly after spring rains, and the early spring warm days with no shade are being replaced as nature’s parasols appear in the trees and there is some blessedly refreshing shadows.

Before (right) and after (left) of the lawn, day of first mow, May 9.

Mowing does make me feel like it’s summer. I let the lawn grow rather shaggy in spring due to early flowers planted in the grass—I want them to fade and have a few weeks to gain strength.

Well, today most of the early Peonies are past their prime, as are the regular Lilacs. The Apple trees have quickly transitioned from blooms to young fruit, and there is a lot of that this year. The Dwarf Lilacs and Honeysuckle have taken over the yard perfuming duties. I’ve seen Iris and regular Peonies in bloom in town, although neither is yet blooming in my shady late spring gardens although they are getting ready.

May 15–One of the early Peonies. Some have faded and gone but others are still in bloom.

Today, May 15–A second Clematis vine is now in bloom.

For me, my plan is to treat May as a work month, at least part-time. I have a few projects from the spring semester to finish up—student videos to edit and get ready to post, and a faculty summary report to complete. I was, honestly, very late with my summary report last year, but next year is my final one, and rather than slacking off, I’m hoping to finish things on time and have as stress-free a final year as possible. We’ll see how long that attitude lasts, but it’s how I am feeling today on this warm, sunny, summer-like day of mowing.

I checked online—Monarchs are usually expected to arrive in Iowa in April or May, although I don’t usually see my first one until June. So, the appearance of our egg layer this morning, while a surprise to me, is not out of the ordinary.

Well, I plant Milkweed in the hope that it will be eaten. Many several of her eggs sprout wings as summer, for me, begins.

May 15–Apples trees seem to have a lot of fruit this spring.

May 15–Tiny bee visits Prairie Onion flower in back garden. It’s summer for bees, too.

Enjoying the State’s Official Dinosaur and Others

April 21–Song pauses as singer grabs some fuel.

I went out to get my newspaper Sunday morning, and there was a nice chittering chatter, a busy, boisterous loud bird song that sounded familiar.

There was no mystery. I’m not an expert in bird calls, but this is a tune I’ve heard many times before in exactly this place. About 15 years ago, my wife and I planted a Birch tree in our front yard. And, singing his heart out, was a male Goldfinch near the top of the tree. I know that the state bird of Iowa is a seed eater—it especially favors thistle seeds—but what I didn’t know is that it can enjoy a snack of Birch seeds, too.

It seems like an appropriate time for a joyful noise, as spring enters a new phase. Suddenly, the Crab Apples are in their prime, and both the front and back yards are sweet to just stand in and inhale the scent. The traditional Lilacs are adding their own sweet scent to the mix, and although they don’t contribute much in the way of odor, Redbuds are clothed in their finest spring pink finery. They bloom just after their crabby cousins, although their bloom time largely coincides—our two Apple trees are also in flower.

April 7 in Magnolia in backyard.

It’s a good time to outdoors on a cool sunny morning, listing to the song of an avian dinosaur in between his pauses to for a quick Birch seed snack.

Happily, the Goldfinch is not alone. We’ve long overplanted our property in flowers, trees and bushes—and in recent years have emphasized more native plantings. It wasn’t a deliberate strategy to draw in the descendants of the small dinosaurs who survived the asteroid disaster that killed off their larger, earthbound relatives, but it seems to be having that effect.

It’s been common, in recent years, for cardinals to take up residence in our area. Robins are also usually around. This year, both species seem to have nesting pairs either nearby or concealed in a Trumpet Vine or some other shrub in our yard. Add to that the Goldfinch, and also the appearance of a Red Winged Blackbird.

That latter one is, as any Iowan knows, a mixed blessing, as such Blackbirds are notoriously aggressive during nesting season. Still, I enjoy seeing the bird. And I can wear a hat, which pretty much is an effective Blackbird defense.

Woodpeckers and Chickadees, Sparrows, Doves—the variety of birds that is often around is fun to watch. The Blackbird may be grumpy and the Robin definitely thinks it owns the backyard, but I’m still glad they are here. As I enjoy the spring air that will be especially sweet for a few weeks, they’re fun to listen to and to see—definitely makes planting all of those trees totally worthwhile.

The Sudden, Dangerous Explosion of Spring Colors

April 15–Tulips have joined daffodils in my backyard gardens.

There I was, between the heavens and the earth, perched and pulling on an object that looked like it could take me out.

It was Saturday, the second Saturday of April, a spring day that was giving Iowa a taste of summer. Temperatures that seem normal in the first week of June, with the thermometer flirting with 80, bright sunshine—all in all, a pretty day.

Almost four years ago, a derecho storm blew through Cedar Rapids, wreaking havoc with sustained winds over 100 mph. We lost a giant ash tree, a magnificent old maple and much of the wooden fence the prevents deer from consuming our gardens.

Branches from a neighbor’s willow tree and mulberry tree ended up ensnared in a tall, younger maple.

There, way up there, in the fork of the Maple, a pile of other branches that has been wedged there since they were gently tucked in by a 100-mph breeze in August 2020. JK. Nothing gentle about it.

In the days following the storm came the big cleanup. One of my sisters came over with a chainsaw to help remove many of the large branches, and we cut and removed what we could—but about 15 feet up in the maple, too high for us to reach easily even using a stepladder, there were several long branches stuck in a crook of the maple.

Saturday was one of those pretty, warm spring days that calls for some lawn work. With the help of a grandson, I planted some Aster seeds we had gathered in the fall in our gardens. And my wife had ordered a 2-pound bag of clover seeds, which the grandson and I sprinkled in barer areas of the lawn.

We also did some warm weather enjoyment—taking the grandson’s bicycle and ours to Lowe Park, where we rode and them played for a while.

The final summer-like day, April 15, many flowers in my backyard gardens, Lilac, Redbud, Crab Apple, Rhododendron, Daffodils and Tulips.

And then, the trees. Some of them were, post derecho, leaning, and I had thus staked them. After almost four years, it’s past time to release the trees. I have a better, taller ladder now, and I started with an Oak in the upper yard. After four years, the cord tying the tree to its fence-post stake had started, on one side, to be surrounded by tree tissue, so the removal took some time. At first, I was going to untie, but after 15 minutes or so, I gave up, climbed down the ladder and went to get scissors and a knife.

Which worried me. Joe and sharp tools—we’re never a good combination.

But it worked, with no blood spilled and no slips off the ladder (which, honestly, was my major concern—your amateur gardener is not fond of heights). I had to use a pair of pliers and work for some time to extract the cord from the tree. But I got the job done.

It took some time. I had thought this would be a quick project, but 30 minutes at the first tree suggested I was in for a long haul. So, I carried the ladder down to the Linden tree in the lower yard and climbed up. This tree was attached to two stakes, and I was anticipating twice the fun.

Luck was with me. The expected catastrophe, as so many expected catastrophes do, failed to materialize. I did end up cutting rather than untying, but extracting the two cords took, in total, maybe 10 minutes, most of that time just spent cutting the ropes.

Well, cool.

Yet, I wasn’t sure if I was done yet. There was that Maple. There were those branches stuck in it. Here I was with a ladder—and a hoe I had used, earlier in the day, to plant clover.

I think of this Robin as the backyard boss. He often is keeping an eye on me.

Could I use this taller ladder to get close enough to snag those stuck branches and bring them down, hopefully not bringing myself down in the process? Was this even a wise project to try?

Well, heck. One way to find out.

Yeah, a sort of “hold my beer” moment, but I had no beer and it turned out to be much, much longer than a moment.

There’s a reason those branches had been stuck up in the Maple for four years—they were truly, well stuck. I ascended the ladder, hooked with my hoe (please, no double entendre intended) and went to work wiggling. Push and pull. Hook and reel in. The branches could be rocked, but seemed very, very at home up in that maple.

It’s a nice to be or bee in the garden.

And, after a while, I grew to appreciate that stuck cord in that Oak tree—at the time, it seemed like the complication of the day but no. Also, I could not help but imagine what would happen when I finally loosed these rather substantial pieces of tree that were above me—me between them and the ground, gravity waiting to assert what can happen when the planet grabs an object and an old man’s noggin is in the way.

Too often, the noggin doesn’t win.

After a long, tiring half hour or so, I got the idea of, instead of trying to pull the branches down, to instead wiggle them sideways. The first fairly substantial limb started to fall—directly at me. At least at the start of the fall it was traveling slowly, and I was able to grab and guide it. To my surprise, based on its size, the branch was fairly light—I guess if you let dead wood sit up in the air for four years, it dries and gets lighter.

Next, the white whale, the big one, the long branch—a 10-foot-tall branching limb the size of an adolescent tree. As I wiggled it out, I could not help but notice that it was moving to a position even more directly above me, ready to swat me like a fly once it was free. As I worked with it, smaller side branches would break off, but the big one just moved and inch or so at a time.

Finally, its center of gravity approached a place to the left of the Maple. It began to tip and then to slide towards me.

And I died. This post is ghost written.

Second Magnolia to bloom, the lemon-colored one in the lower yard.

Just kidding! I was able to reach up with my left hand and grasp the end of the slowly tipping branch, and again guide it so that it didn’t make contact with the Joe between it and planet Earth. It was still quite a large limb, and not trivial in weight, but like its smaller cousin, turned out to be lighter than I had expected.

In fact, I had anticipated at least minor injury, maybe some arm scratches, but other than some tired arms, suffered to ill effects—no blood was spilled. Sadly, no drink flowed, either, but whatever. If the boys want to fight, you better let them.

But if they want to climb ladders and removed limbs, perhaps remind them to be careful.

April 15–Daffodils blooming behind Warde Hall, the building where my office is located. Blue sky, last really warm day before a dramatic change in the weather.

The day of lawn work was, overall, a success. And, meanwhile, the backyard has become a true slice of paradise. The run of warm days brought on the second phase of spring, where we move from daffodils and other early flowers and suddenly there is a more diverse, promiscuous explosion of colors. The yellows of daffodils still are everywhere, but now is punctuated with the more diverse hues of Tulips. The second Magnolia, the first Lilacs, Bluebells, the Dogwood, a Redbud, Crab Apple—suddenly flowers and sweet smells are everywhere. Like an old man on a ladder, spring seems to ascend slowly from the ground upwards, and the bushes and medium trees have all shaken off their winter slumber.

In the past two days, we’ve had thunderstorms and cooler, windier weather. We’re dropping back down to more normal temperatures, which is fine with me. It’s the second half of April—a slight chill in the morning and a sweater day is OK with me. The warm days were nice, but in April, they arrive sans the advantage that June will have: Shade.

Well, all in good time. I’m just happy to be here, un-speared and unbroken with a young maple unobstructed with dead derecho wood.

Bluebells!

Consider the Not-So-Humble Daffodil

March 6, 2024–first Daffodil in my garden in bloom.

I know many gardeners in the Midwest are going gaga over native plants, and in recent years, I too have shifted my focus in that direction.

I plant many more native flowers, now. To be honest, it’s partly because the Indian Creek Nature Center in Cedar Rapids, at its annual Monarch Festival each summer, gives away native flowers—and “free” is a pretty good bargain. But it’s my choice, too. The most common flower I’ve probably planted for the past three years or so are varieties of Milkweed. They are hardy, pretty and do a service in that that they directly support a beautiful, endangered, regal butterfly.

Past images of Milkweed and Monarch Butterflies, mostly from my garden, all images made in 2022 by me.

However, I’m not a purist. I’ll plant what I like and not feel too guilty about it. Gardens exist to please the gardener—and while I think some attention to what benefits the environment and native pollinators is a good thing, I honestly admit that the main benefit I see in my gardens is that I get to see them.

So, in fall, I plant spring bulbs—in this case, daffodils. I thought of using the “humble daffodil” in the title, but frankly, daffodils aren’t very humble, in my mind. They are loud and colorful and showy—which is the point, frankly. They come in many varieties, and are early among garden flowers, providing a splash of cheery yellow as winter is losing its grip and spring is finally arriving.

Whatever else the daffodil is, in a strict sense, it does not belong here. Like my lineage, it was brought from the “old” world to the “new” world (quotes because both worlds are the same age). Unlike my lineage, which displaced what was “native” on this continent (again, quotes, because humans didn’t evolve on this continent either, and if daffodils aren’t native, neither are any of us), daffodils are at least less harmful to what is already growing here.

March 5, 2024–first Daffodil in my garden, the afternoon before it bloomed.

They may come from another continent, but once settled here, according to various gardening sites I consulted, they are content to stay where they are planted. They’ll live for years (daffodils are sometimes used to identify old homesteads where the house and other buildings are long gone—the plants clearly say “some human once had a garden here”). But they don’t displace native plants.

They also, honestly, don’t do much good. While they provide nectar, their bloom time doesn’t seem to be a busy time for any native pollinators, and they aren’t very attractive to those insects, anyway. They’ve also evolved with a nasty chemical makeup that makes them unpleasant for most animals to consume (they are related to onions but will make your stew nasty and dangerous to eat, not tasty). They provide no food for wildlife and not much in the way of pollinator aid.

So, they just exist for humans. Supposedly, the volatile chemicals that make them not-great-to-eat may have made them useful as natural medicines in the past, which is one reason humans planted them so far and wide, but in my quick research to see if Narcissus were evil, I didn’t encounter what those medical uses might be.

In sum: Daffodils, the scorecard. Pretty: A+. Invasive, A (not being invasive scores higher). Useful or helpful to nature: C (no harm, little help). In Joe’s Garden: A, strong A. Maybe it’s just self-love, but the plant named after Narcissus still makes me feel good about myself.

Early March images–early spring in Iowa in 2024.

I love these cheery signs of spring. This year, they started blooming on March 6, which is freaky early. In a normal year, they would bloom either in the last few days of March or early in April (unscientific finding, but based on checking my Facebook galleries for several years to see when I posted my first daffodil image).

Thus, I am a bit conflicted, this year.

Hi, Daffodils, nice to see you. But WTF? (Why the flower?). It seems a bit cognitively dissident. I both like these early signs of spring and feel out of sorts that spring is arriving so shockingly early.

April 2, 2023

April 10, 2022

March 9, 2023

March 19, 2023 (crocus, no daffodils yet)

March 31, 2022 (bloomed 2-25-24 this year)

March 31, 2023–day before bloom.

Spring Comes Early to Dry Iowa

First flowers at Mount Mercy Campus, which I saw coming home on a bike ride Feb. 25.

Will there be spring rains? I’m not asking for a flood, but the ground is pretty dry, and we need more moisture from the sky.

Spring came early this year to Iowa. In this time, as February has turned into March, you can already see some insects active on warm afternoons. The snowdrops and crocus are in bloom, and I’ve even seen the first dandelion.

Tulips are showing and daffodils are pregnant with flowers that look like they could bloom any day now. Trees are mostly still asleep, but I have seem some maples that are getting fuzzy with early flowers. Lilac buds are swelling and turning green—the tiny first leaves have not yet opened, but we’re getting close.

Images of spring, from top, let to right: March 1, MMU campus; Feb. 29, MMU; Feb. 25, MMU, Feb. 26, MMU; Feb. 27, MMU; Feb. 27, MMU; Feb. 22, my yard; March 2 my yard; March 2, my yard.

Well, it’s March. Usually it is the transition between winter and spring, and has elements of both. This year, that transition was in February.

I have several new trees in my yard, and for their sake and the sake of all the land, I do hope that, as spring gets going, the weather patterns can shift and more moisture from the gulf can quench our thirsty land. Still, if one were to pick a month when a drought may not be consequential, March may be it—even in this warm year, the early flowers don’t use a lot of resources and the trees aren’t awake enough to care much about less dew in the dirt.

So for now, I’ll try to just be happy with the first flowers. Here comes the sun and I say, it’s all right.

Magnolia buds on Feb. 20 at sunset.

Feeling Fine While Contemplating Death

Nov. 3–Ginkgo Tree in my backyard, one of the few leafs still clinging there. For those leafs, its the end of the line.

How are you doing? Thought about death lately?

In the recent movie “Barbie,” one sign that the title character is facing a crisis is irrepressible thoughts of death, which, it turns out, are leaking into Barbieland from a sad mom, a Mattel employee, in the real world.

And this is a season to contemplate mortality. We’ve just had Halloween, a holiday whose name comes from All Hallows Eve. In the Catholic Church, that’s a reference to All Saints Day, a holy day on Nov. 1 that recognizes, well, all saints. And the next day, Nov. 2, is All Souls Day—to recognize those we aren’t completely sure about, I suppose.

Morning of Oct. 30, ice on Creeping Charlie in my front lawn.

Nov. 3–After several freezing nights, fading rose in garden at Mount Mercy University. Those buds beside the flower won’t ever bloom, but the plant will be back in spring.

Another look at another Ginkgo leaf on young tree in my yard.

Anyway, these coincide with Dia de Los Muertos, a tradition in Mexico and some other Hispanic countries of celebrating and remembering past family members.

It’s fall. Christianity began in the Northern Hemisphere, and while it may be spring in Argentina, up north where most humans reside, it is that time when the sun recedes, the crops have been harvested and cold settles into the world. In ye olden days, it probably literally was the season of death, as winter can be the hardest time of year to survive in a subsistence existence.

So maybe it’s not a surprise as October turned to November and daylight savings times ends and we enter the dark months that we have cultural touchstones to remind of that, as Ruth says in “Barbie”: “Humans have only one ending.”

Mt. Calvary Cemetery, Nov. 4, 2023. I was on an afternoon bike ride and was trying to take pretty sunset pictures. This is the area of the Catholic cemetery where Sisters of Mercy, who founded the university I teach, are buried. It’s a peaceful, beautiful place.

I don’t want to be morbid and focus too much on that truth. After all, thoughts of death can get in the way of living each day, and the fact that life is destined to be limited makes each day more precious.

And I kind of enjoy this time of year. I know some Christians don’t care for Halloween as a holiday due to its horror motifs, but I always liked that day, especially when I was young. This year, I wore a Santa outfit and sat on my front porch and enjoyed the interplay with young trick or treaters.

Eat and enjoy your candy now, kids, while you can.

Young Oak in fall colors in front of Warde Hall at Mount Mercy University, seen Nov. 2.

I teach at a Catholic university, and in the Campus Ministry lounge there is a table display set up that lists “recently deceased alumni.” An ofrenda in the U Center has traditional Dia de Los Muertos sweet breads, plus images of members of the MMU family who passed in the past year.

Allison McNeese was among them, and, frankly, I was happy to see her image there. No, I’m not happy she’s gone, it makes me happy that such a gentle and loving soul is remembered.

Image of altar in U Center.

Decoration on altar for Dia de los Muertos at MMU.

Sign seen in Campus Ministry lounge, Dec. 3.

Which seems appropriate to me. Halloween, All Saints Day, Dia de Lot Muertos—bring it on. We can’t escape death but should not live in its shadow, either—and to me, the healthiest way to appreciate life is to now and then remember those who were dear to us.

And now we’re past Halloween. Time to turn to gratitude, as Thanksgiving approaches. And after that, think of family and friends and Santa and gifts (and, for Christians, God coming to join our mortal existence) as Christmas approaches.

Fall is here. Dark months are coming. Yet in this mortal vale, there are points of light in the dark, too, and life, while limited, has its own pleasant rhythms.

I find this season of contemplating death this year to be comforting. It’s nice to look at life as it is and still feel it worthwhile.

And if winter is coming, it also means spring is, too.

The leaves are turning brown and falling off of the Magnolia tree behind Warde Hall, but the tree is also covered in buds that will be among the earliest to flower next spring. Fall may bring reminders of death, but it’s time to plant flower bulbs, too, and to think of new life also.

In Praise of Daffodils

April 1–One of the first daffodils to bloom in my garden, no fooling.

They aren’t the earliest flowers, and I do like seeing Snowdrops and Crocuses as the first early signs that winter is ending.

March 9–Have been seeing daffodils emerge for some time, but it’s taken a few weeks for them to bloom.

But I am very fond of Daffodils. They come in many colors, but most of the ones I plant are yellow. As March has faded into April, daffodils in my gardens are just starting to bloom.

March 31–Getting close.

It makes me think that spring is really here, even if it’s still a bit brown out there. It will take a while and maybe some more rains before the grass finally turn green. The maples in my yard have not yet bloomed; spring seems to come from the ground up with early flowers and then bushes and later trees waking up. We’re weeks away from the big change when our world turns fundamentally green and “shade” is produced by tree foliage.

March 31–Crocus in bloom.

But before we get there, there are daffodils, bright yellow signs of better days to come.

March 24–White crocus on still brown grass.

Welcome to Your Scheduled Thursday Storm

Snow falling in my backyard March 9. Campus closed at 12:30 in the afternoon due to snow.

It’s March in Iowa, that in-between month which is still part of winter but can foreshadow spring.

Today (I wrote this on March 9, a Thursday), it’s more of a winter memory. Heavy, wet, pretty-but-inconvenient snow is blanketing this corner of the planet. March snow is different. In October or November, when the first such snow is falling, the reaction is “aw, how pretty.” In March, the reaction tends to be more like “not again.”

Well, I should not complain. In fact, I won’t complain, much. The political climate makes me want to reconsider my residency in Iowa, but not so much the climate climate. I’m OK living in a place with four seasons, and those who reside in North Dakota, Canada or Minnesota would scoff at an Iowan complaining about “harsh” winters. And California is experiencing extreme March weather, which makes our normal March snowstorm seem, well, fairly normal.

March 8–Snowdrops blooming the day before snow falls.

March is when we often get our heaviest snows. The dry air of winter is slowly fading into a damper weather pattern. The warming Gulf of Mexico is available again to send H2O high up into our air, and this year, remains of dramatic California snows sprinkle on us as they pass.

I hope you all, by this time in winter, know the rules: check the roads and drive carefully.

Personally, this snow is a bit of a hassle. I drove to work today, and while it was a pleasure to hear Clare Duffy on my radio again for a few minutes, I would frankly rather be on two wheels than four. I cancelled an afternoon session. Today is a mid-term exam, and not all students are making it (although to be fair to the students, it’s either a school trip or health crisis preventing their attendance, not our normal March weather).

March 9–Snbowdrops in snow, and a clump of daffodils.

We are still waiting to get a “nice” day this March. Generally, in March, while you can expect snows, you can also expect a sunny day or two with springlike temperatures that draw the first early, tiny bees to the first, early flowers. Spring comes from the ground up.

Well, the flowers are starting to show even if most will not bloom for a few weeks, and if I can manage it, I may photograph some snowdrops in my garden poked up through actual snow.

It’s Thursday. Last week we had an ice storm on Wednesday, and everyone around here was like “what, is it Thursday already?” For the past five weeks or so, as if it were part of some divine appointment rather than random arrangements of wind and water whipped up by an increasingly volatile climate, Thursday has been Stormday. Was it tempting fate to name this day after the Norse god of thunder?

March 10–Daffodil buds in snow by house in back garden.

Not really. Random chance. But random chance means that things sometime align in a funny way. As for me, I’ll slosh through the snow, enjoy it at some level, endure it at another. Be grateful that I own a snowblower, which will again see some use.

And be glad, even if I’m OK with their being four seasons, that we’ll soon be in a more pleasant one. Those barely showing green sprouts will yield pretty flowers when the weather turns, and it will. Maybe we could also have spring without our regularly scheduled Thursday storm?

March 10–Caught a tender moment, boy Cardinal giving seeds to girl Cardinal in bush outside my window.

May Day! It’s May, the Lusty Month of May!

April 30–Magnolia flower on final day of April.

On May Day, a visual, virtual May Day set of flowers, a cyber version of a May basket.

April was a cool one in Iowa, kind of a repeat of a typical March. And today, May 1, Mother Nature hasn’t flipped the controls to “warm” yet.

April 21–First day that seems warm enough to see plenty of insects. Ants on a Peony bud.

April 21–Still have not bloomed 11 days later. Lilac buds.

But, cold as it is, it’s no longer winter here in the medium Northern Hemisphere. Daffodils are at their peak, but new flowers are coming on. On the last day of April, one of two Magnolia trees in my backyard bloomed. The first of the bluebells finally went from pink buds to the first blue flowers.

Speaking of blue, hyacinth are coming on now, too.

April 21–Bees appear in the garden.

In my defense, because I know better than to plant them (they were a part of a set of trees and were not supposed to be in the set), two pear trees in my yard also broke into their stinky bloom. As I age, my allergies act up a bit more, and maybe it’s a blessing that I have a less acute sense of smell these days.

But lilac, which has not yet bloomed, is budding on many of bushes. Better spring smells are coming.

It may not yet feel much like spring. But smaller trees are already showing some leaves. Two apples trees in my yard, which have never yielded fruit, look like they’ll bloom with unusual vigor. Few tulips are in bloom, but many buds are showing their colors–they are on their way and will be following on the heels of daffodils.

Images from April 21, 23 and 30. Lots of Daffodils, also Apple buds, Hyacinth, Pear bloom, Magnolia bud, Bluebell buds.

I have not purchased any Morning Glory seeds yet, and that will be a quick gardening job to do, soon. The lawn is looking shaggy, although I’m going to ignore it for a while until early spring flowers planted there fade a bit more.

Spring! It may not feel like it’s here, but you can see it, and I’m betting soon enough we will feel it. So, happy May Day!

April 30–First Bluebell just starting to bloom.

Another Scary Spring: 2 Years of COVID-19

The new look of Joe in a KN95 mask.

Spring is here again, a time of new life, flowers and high anxiety.

Well, how are we doing? Let’s see, a son, two (or is it three?) daughters, more than half of my grandchildren—a number of family members have experienced the novel coronavirus and have lived through at least one bout of COVID-19. No re-infections that I know of, which is good because sometimes the second bout is more serious than the first.

So far, knock on wood, my generation seems to be mostly evading the plague, although my wife and I are forced by our profession (we are university professors) to be frequently indoors with young people whose virus-evading habits are reluctant and lackluster.

We’re both vaccinated and boosted, and we probably would suffer only mild symptoms if we catch the virus. Yet, you never know, and I have no incentive to run an experiment with my health when the results are not certain and the downside is premature death.

And this spring, I have a strong sense of foreboding. A new sub-variant of the fiercely infectious omicron version of the virus is bringing a new surge of disease in, of all places, China. Cases are also ticking up in the UK and elsewhere in Europe, and for the past two years, the U.S. has been just a few weeks behind Europe for surges.

Above and below, crocus and maple, seen March 18. Yay, spring! May more of us survive to breath the fresh air of more springs, unmasked, after the virus dies down. It hasn’t yet, and we’re in a rush to help it spread right now.

And each surge has proven especially deadly here in the U.S. of A. where our incoherent, fractured leadership and sometimes self-defeating sense of personal independence have given us an astonishingly outstanding mortality rate.

Two years. Spring break has just ended, 2022. In 2020, my wife and I felt like we barely made it back to Iowa from San Francisco at the end of break as the world ground to a halt. We never went back to class that semester after that 2020 spring break, as the country went into a temporary freeze to try to slow the spread of a new virus.

But in Iowa, our governor could never bring herself to mandate masks, and when the thing so many of us were praying for—vaccines—finally arrived, our splintered, ineffective reaction continued. Since then, our Republican leaders have weakened measures that local officials can take, in the name of freedom.

In our own Declaration of Independence, “life” comes before liberty and the pursuit of happiness, something we seem to forget. Yes, it’s dangerous to cede to government too much power over our own bodies—but it’s also dangerous to ignore science and circumstance and a reality that requires coordinated, community action. There is always a tension between the collective and individualistic impulses in the culture at large, and I like living in a culture that gives a lot of weight to the individual, but please. Asking us to get shots and wear masks is not creeping fascism—avoiding them is creeping craziness.

We seem to think that “freedom” means “nobody can tell us what to do, ever.” An infectious airborne novel virus creates a situation where community needs need to intrude on personal choice for our mutual protection.

Oddly, those most opposed to masks and mask mandates seem also to be most opposed to shots. And recently, the governor of Florida scolded high school student for wearing masks during an event, making typical conservative false claims about the virus and efforts to battle it. Shame on leaders who spread nonsense—an Iowa GOP lawmaker recently said “the science industry” is not respected because of promoting what he claimed was a false narrative around vaccines. No, sir, what’s losing my respect is ignorance presenting itself as wisdom, and please: The “science industry?” Science is a branch of knowledge, it can and does spawn industries and derives support form industry, but it’s not an industry. And you are not an intelligent leader.

As for me, I am still masked. As the country ends restrictions and a new, more infectious strain brings another tsunami of infection, I’ve upped my mask game. Using masks purchased by my academic department—and free government masks—I’ve switched from cloth to more effective filtering materials.

More effective—but are they effective enough? Florida’s governor is a jerk for telling young people that masks are “COVID theater,” but masks, like every other step to control this virus, are far more effective if the community acts together.

And that’s where the foreboding comes in. We seem incapable of coherent, joint action in the face of a common danger.

Sadly, this is a community virus that can be best minimized with a community response, but two years on, the community is giving up. Mask rules at the university where I teach are slowly being eased. States are also ending mask mandates. Events are back to normal, theaters are open, restaurants serve diners in confined spaces, and we act as if the pandemic has become endemic.

But endemic is not a political label, it’s a descriptive one. From the “science industry.” An endemic virus is in the background, predictable and not circulating everywhere, all the time at high pandemic levels. COVID-19 still rages and another surge is coming. Such surges are not caused by an endemic virus, no matter how much we want to label it that so we can stop all the stuff that we don’t like.

Two years. It’s not over. I wish it were. But the next wave is coming. I don’t have the same sense of personal fear as I did two years ago—but is that because the risks is really that much less, or just because, like everyone else, I’m becoming too tired to carry on the fight?

I think I could soldier on if we were all in this together.

Why aren’t we?