Escaping Thoughts and Impressions of a Wandering Mind

Geese in smoky sky

Our Outdoor World

June’s weather story in northern Michigan was a flood. July’s is smoke. 

With over 800 wildfires burning in Minnesota and Canada, we are having evenings without sunset and mornings without sunrise. We catch a brief glimpse of the mid-morning sun before it is swallowed up by thick smoke (not haze, though it looks like haze), aromatic as a campfire but impossible to escape by walking away. A shifting orange-brown shroud hangs over almost half the country, though the flames are hundreds of miles away from us here in Leelanau. Will we get rain, and will it help dampen down the smoke? Time will tell. Meanwhile, I break out a mask for brief outdoor sorties.

Uncomfortable, but 95% protection is better than zero

“How’s your summer going?” It’s half-over! comes the unwelcome thought. But that’s only if summer is June, July, and August, right? If it’s July, August, and September, as I like to think, it is barely underway. After all, my cucumbers and beans have produced only flowers as yet, edible portions still to come. 

Black raspberries ripen continuously now and require twice-daily picking. There will be only a handful of gooseberries, but I’m hoping for a good apple crop this year, after two dud years (first codling moth worms in 2024, then in 2025 a late freeze that killed blossoms).

General garden knowledge can be gathered from books, but site-specific knowledge home accumulates only through the years. Monarda, a.k.a. bee balm, seems happy in my hard and has been blooming steadily in the border, a number of plants providing various colors in sequence—pale lavender, bright fuchsia, pale pink, deep purple. Hellebores are very happy in one spot; in another they were miserable, and I’m hoping they will be happier in a new corner. Hollyhocks by the backyard clothesline didn’t come back this year at all. That was disappointing, as I thought I would have them for the rest of my life, thinking of my grandmother’s hollyhocks growing by the outhouse. (Maybe if I’d had a working outhouse, my hollyhocks would have lasted?) In wild areas it’s all Black-eyed Susans and sweet peas now. 

My World of Books

Acquisition: It’s been two years since I made the big book buy from a former dealer in Leland. This year’s largest purchase wasn’t quite as big (only three carloads in 2026 rather than the eight trips in 2024, two with a pickup truck accompanying my car), but I am so well stocked that I almost passed on a chance to look at books from an estate—until I realized it was the home and the books of a very close friend of many years. The old friend’s house … his enormous book collection … some books he had written himself and many others by mutual friends … stray photographs and snapshots and prints by and of old friends … the yard engulfed by brambles, deck railings broken, electricity off in the house. As I went through shelves, selecting books, more and more memories kept coming to light. An emotional evening....

Authors: This past Tuesday Barbara Stark-Nemon was onstage at the Willowbrook, interviewed by another Northport author, Karen Mulvahill. It was the second in this year's Friends of the Leelanau Township Library summer author series and a lovely evening in every possible way!

Barbara's first embroidery project, a copy of her new novel's cover

Reading: Although I’d only gotten to Chapter 6 of that fascinating book about Roger Williams (a little about it in this recent post), more recently I fell into another that I’d never heard of before, its contents spellbinding and thought-provoking.

THE GURU PAPERS: MASKS OF AUTHORITARIAN POWER, by Joel Kramer & Diana Alstad.

Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books/Frog Ltd., 1993

Here are some lines from the preface: 

…We found authoritarianism embedded in people’s psyches, affecting much more of day-to-day existence than is generally conceived. This is because in most people’s minds authoritarianism is associated with political systems such as dictatorships rather than with worldview…. In the process of writing this book, we deepened our understanding of how authoritarianism in its varied guises has been and largely still is a primary mode of social cohesion—and also how it has now become a major factor in social disintegration.

Then toward the end of the preface: 

This book presents a point of view and ideas that we want to stand or fall on their own merit. … Our major concern is clarity—namely, that anyone who cares to follow the train of thought will understand it, whether in agreement or not. 

The authors' “enemy,” so to speak, is any individual who (or institution) that would encourage people to mistrust their own minds and impressions and perceptions. They hope to foster “self-trust as a foundation for living.” 

Their view of authoritarianism, therefore, is broader than simply a study of dictatorships, and they use the guru relationship not as the only variety of authoritarian structure but as a paradigm. The first, early stage of the relationship they call messianic proselytizing, with the guru preaching a message of higher good, such as saving mankind. This phase offers a “celebratory, party-like atmosphere” to new recruits. The fully enlightened guru is at the peak of the group’s hierarchical pyramid, his inner circle just below, etc., but even the lowest can feel superior to outsiders who have not yet even realized their need to be on this particular path to enlightenment.

Then, 

A time inevitably comes when the popularity and power of the group plateaus and then begins to wane. 

People begin to doubt and must be pulled in more tightly. Our authors say either one of two things happen (I’m wondering if both can occur simultaneously): either the guru’s message will turn to a doomsday forecast of disaster, or he “makes increasingly extreme promises and bizarre claims….” It is dangerous, he tells his followers, to associate with anyone not on their path, and the mistrust the believers have for outsiders is 

...not totally paranoid (there is a reason for it) because as the group becomes more closed and bizarre, outsiders react more negatively. 

The chapter on “The Attractions of Cult Hierarchy” (the cult offers certainty in a tumultuously changing life or world—though the authors are careful to point out that a hierarchy in itself need not be authoritarian) ends on page 90, so I have a lot of ground yet to cover, but this is a fascinating book! I will not draw explicit parallels to our world today, which you can do for yourself. Oh, but here is one more bit before I get off the subject: 

Looking carefully at a guru’s inner circle is extremely revealing. Those closest to him, his most dedicated students, display better than anything else where his teaching leads…. Are they strong and interesting in their own righter are they boring sycophants who continually feed his ego? It is also very enlightening to observe how gurus treat and refer to those who leave their fold.

Bad News/Good News/Bad News

The death-dealing ICE traffic stops struck once again. Lorenzo Salgado Araujo was on his way to work, as usual, and he was not even the target ICE was seeking, but he is now dead (his wife a widow, his children orphans), and so is Juan Jairo Coronilla Duran, and so is a 28-year-old man in Florida—three deaths in one week—no charges made against them, let alone any opportunity for a trial.

One day we had surprisingly good news: ICE did not plan to cease traffic stops completely but would scale back on the number. Unexpected relief! Because otherwise, what could we do? Protest each succeeding death, with no hope that there would be an end to them? Hope surged.

The very next day came the bad news: the president told ICE not to reduce the number of traffic stops. The idea, apparently, is to keep people running scared.

It was hard for me to work up a lot of enthusiasm for the 4th of July 2026, the 250th birthday of our nation. I love my country. I love its ideals, and I love the progress we seemed to be making for decades. Now, from where I stand, we are going backward at rocket speed. I cannot think of a single aspect of our national life that has been improved under the current administration. In fact, it’s difficult to see any positive aspect of that same national life that has not been reduced, degraded, or outright eliminated. 

Protections for workers and for the environment are stripped away. Public health is on the trash heap. There has been no real help for health care costs and inflation in general, despite the campaign promises. Is discrimination against minorities even illegal any more, or is bigotry what is now protected? The United States has become an aggressor country in the world theatre—the bully, not the one protecting others from bullies. And the president is so terrified that his party will be voted out of power that he threatens the election process itself. No surprise there. No surprise—and yet it is heartbreaking, maddening, so shameful!

One night I woke up with the thought: This isn’t even murder. It’s vivisection. A living entity, our country, is being tortured and torn apart and cut up in pieces. No more sleep that night!

Yet all of us go on with our lives, because we are alive and have no choice. Both those who oppose the current administration and those who—incredibly! inexplicably!—continue to support it live our lives as best we can one day after another, we the opposition with breaking hearts and determined, resolute hope. 

Do their hearts not break, the hearts of the supporters? Do they not miss the neighborliness we used to share? Can they look unmoved upon the deaths of children, of children’s parents, of their own neighbors? If they are so certain that God’s will is ordering everything that happens, what explains their frantic politicking and their desperate denials of fact? 

I do still hope, fervently, stubbornly, however, that our country will survive and turn once again toward freedom and the common good for all our grandchildren and great-grandchildren—. Don't you?

***

Coming back to add another wandering thought I had this past week about Republicans in Congress: I was wondering whether they are simply spineless (afraid to lose favor with the naked emperor) or if they are terrified deer in the headlights of oncoming history, realizing full well that theirs is a doomed legacy of shame. The thing is that remaining paralyzed is no protection against history, which just keeps rollin’ along. The moving finger writes, and all that. So, in time, history itself throws cowards under the bus. Their only hope is to wake up, jump out of the road, and yell “Sorry!” as loud as they possibly can. A good first step would be to vote against confirmation of the most inappropriate candidate for U.S. Attorney General ever proposed to fill the position. 

On the Home Front

Merging households, especially in a busy season like summer, involves a period of transition, so there’s a little chaos and a lot of clutter at Casa Bookseller-Tree Guy these days. Small items go missing on a daily basis. We had that big three-carload book move during the heat wave immediately preceding the holiday weekend, too! Despite it all, we are finding our new life together almost unbelievably easy and natural, and Naughty Barker goes right along with it, too. She now has company during the day when her momma goes to work, and she gets extra walks and extra attention and another someone willing to throw tennis balls for her. And have I mentioned that Tree Guy is a reader? Icing on the cake!

Of Farms and Books

 

The days were long and fine and very warm. They practically abandoned the house. They worked together, all three of them in the hay-field.

- Adrian Bell, Shepherd’s Farm

If Shepherd’s Farm is, as I suspect, typical of Adrian Bell’s fiction, many readers I know would not care for it. I can easily imagine some literary critics calling it a weak novel, if a novel at all. There is little drama; what there is of conflict never boils over. Our main characters work hard and strive patiently and gradually achieve their goals, and while they ultimately lose, in a material sense, all they have gained, it is not through tragic flaws of their own or wickedness on the part of some antagonistic force or other character in the narrative, and they are not driven to despair or madness by their losses. Simply, life goes on.

Since I don’t believe Shepherd’s Farm has ever been published in the U.S. (Bell's stories are set in England), I'll give here what would be ‘spoilers’ if I expected any of my blog readers to be picking up the novel: 

We fear initially that Miriam will choose the wrong man and create tragedy for three people. She does not. When the wrong man marries elsewhere, it seems he may go frightfully more wrong and lose himself entirely. Nothing like that ensues, and his life goes on as it was expected to go on, in conformity with his family values. When Miriam’s uncle, who is her guardian, opposes her marriage to Luke, threatening to have Luke's dear-won farm bought out from under him if she persists in wedding plans, she and Luke quietly agree to wait, not seeing each other at all for the time being. Eventually the uncle dies, and they marry. Again, quietly. Everything is done quietly, without, as I say, drama. The gypsy girl does not seduce Luke. The horse does not trample the child. There are no murders, no suicides, no hatred-fueled feuds. 

I loved the book and only wish it had been three times as long and three times fuller of agricultural and environmental detail, all those descriptive passages that readers longing for action find tedious. 

All summer, market day at Winslowe was desultory and unsatisfactory. People would run in for half an hour and then hurry back to their hay-carting. There was a sense that the centre of gravity was elsewhere. But now winter bore in; the town was cheery; farmers came early and left late. Down the street pigs and cattle went in droves; barley, wheat and oats lay spilled about the steps of the Corn Exchange, where farmers appraised each other’s samples.

Or --

…It was a bad time with the ewes. The weather had been so wet that they had strained themselves heaving their heavy bodies through the mud from the field to the yard, and several lambs were born dead. In the living room of the farmhouse there were always one or two new-born lambs before the fire hand their bleating sounded loud indoors.

On the shepherd’s farm, horses are of prime importance. It’s horses that make or break a farm, and it’s best to have a pair that pull well together, plus a third that can do other jobs when the pair are harnessed together. Feeding the horses is Luke’s first job every morning. Miriam will make the fire, milk the cow, and churn butter. Luke loves the feel of the horses’ oats running through his fingers. Miriam pitches into the hay-making from the start of the book to the end.

A dear, loyal bookstore customer and reader of this blog once mused that perhaps I romanticize farming life, which is in reality dirty, hard, repetitive work, but I don’t see the contradiction. A career in fashion design or event planning would never have suited me, but if I had married differently and had farm work all my life, I don’t think I would have been discontented. Outdoor work that challenges physical strength and perseverance is much more to my liking than housework, although without livestock or poultry and with no field crops, my work life outdoors is limited to mowing grass, planting and tending gardens, pruning my apple trees once a year, picking fruit in season (soon, black raspberries; later, apples), and keeping the dread autumn olive at bay—that last a never-ending chore but one I keep at, year after year, because I will not give over my small piece of land to the invader. There is satisfaction both in the work and in surveying the results, temporary (the grass grows back, and the autumn olive rears its head in new corners) though they will always be. 

The other day I was thinking of books I love and feel are not well enough known, and I realized how many of them have agricultural or at least outdoor themes: Mary Webb’s Precious Bane; Louis Bromfield’s Malabar Farm; Conrad Richter’s The Trees and The Fields. Richter was awarded the Pulitzer for The Town, the third book of his “Awakening Land” trilogy, but it’s the first two that I love. Even in Mary Norton’s series of children’s books about the little people called borrowers, it’s the second in the series, The Borrowers Afield, that is my favorite, the time in the little family’s life when they live out-of-doors and must live off the land. 

Why would anyone think life has to be easy to be good? Where is the pleasure in not working? In my winters of seasonal retirement with the Artist, our seasons in the Arizona ghost town cabin, my days were filled with hiking, learning the desert vegetation, feeding wild birds, cooking and baking and writing and studying Spanish, all that indoor activity with sun flooding through the windows and, whenever possible, doors open to the air, so that—not in the middle of winter but as winter segued into spring—indoors and outdoors became one.

Indoors and outdoors as a seamless whole, going from one to the other without putting on or shedding extra clothing—that is another glory of summer, along with the outdoor work. “They practically abandoned the house,” writes Adrian Bell, and I smile happily at that sentence, although I certainly do love my porch!

For now, the grass in my yard is mowed (hours of satisfying work for me, my exercise, lots of “steps,” as people say) and Sunny’s jumps set up again so we can keep at our agility teamwork, also. She and I did well at last Monday's session after a winter away from the sport.

Getting there --

Black raspberries are beginning to ripen, and I have warned Tree Guy that soon we will be harvesting berries morning and evening, day after day, filling the freezer against the time of jam-making. In the orchard surrounding me, many varieties of grasses grow tall, and there is alfalfa blooming now, its flowers from deep purple to pale lavender and even a light yellow. Alfalfa is so lovely! Farmers Tom and Kathleen Koch down on South Lake Leelanau (he also has the Polish food truck in Cedar, behind his wife’s wonderful shop of Polish wares) feeds his animals on barley, not corn. It was good to enjoy Polish food and farming talk one evening with Tom. I'll bring photos from Cedar the next time we go.

Grasses in morning rain

Alfalfa, coming back year after year --

Adrian Bell again --

Hill Field was the best of it: this field would grow the finest malting barley, with that delicate almost silky look to the skin and pale golden. And when one cracked a grain it was not steely inside like that which grew on the light land, but white and mealy.

Meanwhile, of course, for me, my bookshop life continues, and lest I grow melancholy over reminders that I am not a farmer and don’t have time left in my life to become one, I thank my lucky stars ever day that I am a bookseller. (Especially, yes, a bookseller lucky enough to live in the country!) Schlepping heavy boxes of books, I think of my graduate school friend James, who when we were graduate assistants to professors called us “donkeys for philosophy” and then of the Artist, who, loving James’s phrase, when joining me in a big book move (such as Tree Guy and I undertook last week), called himself a “donkey for literature.” Bookselling is a much more physical line of work than many casual shoppers might imagine! 

Just as many people claim affiliations to larger groups, groups so large they can never know all the members personally, some political, and others consider themselves related by a sports team or a university (and of course there are many other possibilities), thinking it over I realize that book people are my tribe. 

Ah, yes, book people are my tribe, farmers are my neighbors, and I am a lucky woman!

In the shop

Outdoors

Visual fruits of my labors

P.S. To see some cool barn stuff, visit here.

P.P.S. I come back to add a few lines from Delacroix’s journals written in the 1850s, a page I opened to only because it was a July entry. He notes that man can often take comfort in misfortune, thinking himself so much better than his situation —

...but it far more frequently happens that man is bored in the midst of prosperity, that he even considers himself unfortunate while possessing. LaFontaine’s shepherd, when he had become prime minister and was surrounded in his elevated position by jealousy and intrigue, must have been an object of pity and must have felt himself to be one; he must have experienced a vivid moment of happiness, when he had donned his simple shepherd clothes and when they gave him his standing in the eyes of all men, so that he could return to the scenes and the life where, with this costume, he had tasted the happiness the most genuinely suited to man, that of a simple life devoted to work.

- Eugène Delacroix, Journal, the Walter Pach translation with a new introduction by Robert Motherwell

The Summer Blur Is Underway

(Reminder to self and others: Make time to write letters.)

Calendar and community are full to overflowing.

When summer hits, it’s hard to keep up. Everything—grass, gardens, weeds—is growing; everyone is shopping and visiting; and not a single day on the calendar is empty of some sort of meeting or concert or lecture or art opening. There are more temptations and obligations than there is time to fit them all in, but we do our best. 

This Friday--today!--is the Friends of the Library book sale in Northport, 9 a.m. - 3 p.m. It's also the weekly farmers market, and when I was at the market I saw that people had already staked out territory, with folding chairs and tablecloths, for tonight's Music in the Park. 

On Saturday, the 4th of July, tomorrow, there will be a reading of the Declaration of Independence in front of the post office at 10 a.m. The Cancer Run for Funds race also begins at 10 a.m. on the 4th. And of course, in the evening there will be fireworks, best in the county. 

Northport Flood, 2026

The big news this past week in our village, though, was a flood of historic proportions on Monday. It made the news far from northern Michigan, with distant friends calling and texting to see if we were all right. We’re fine. No loss of life, and as far as I know no injuries, but lots of road damage and some structural damage to buildings. Second Street was a river, and the edge of the parking lot at the visitors center was the top of a waterfall, as a cascade descended from there to the overflowing creek. More rain pounded down on Wednesday, but not as much, for which all were grateful.

A few of the delicious dessert offerings! Can you say "sugar buzz"?

Then there was a lovely gathering at the Willowbrook on Tuesday evening, hosted by Mimi and Joel Heberlein, to celebrate the life and honor the memory of the late David Chrobak. David’s specialties were flowers and delicious, beautifully decorated cakes, so along with shared stories we enjoyed all manner of sweet desserts and then tossed flowers wild and tame into the creek to be carried down to Grand Traverse Bay in his memory. The Fabulous Fish Queens were on hand in their regalia. David Chrobak loved the Fish Queens. When asked if he had invented them, he is reported to have said, "No, but I made them famous."

Note one of my favorite wildflowers top left. Can you name it?

The FABULOUS FISH QUEENS!

The preceding Saturday (unfortunately, on the same evening as a village choir concert at the auditorium), the Northport Arts Association hosted an open mike night (now called open mic, but I am old-fashioned) for writers, poets, and story-tellers. Featured guest was Traverse City author Jerry Dennis, whose readings moved me to tears, but all participants were excellent. 

I was glad I went that night and also on Tuesday night to the Willowbrook and am sorry I can’t get to everything, but my energy runs out faster than it used to, along with my young dog’s patience. People are getting used to hearing me say, “I have to get home to my dog."

Farm news is news for everyone. 

It’s been 12 years (is that possible?) since I first wrote a blog post about where I get my news. Yes, way back in 2014. I did an update in 2021 and am coming back to add what has become my #1 source of information on current events, because more than anything else I now rely on a weekly midwestern newspaper called the Farmers’ Advance to keep up-to-date. Published in Mansfield, Ohio, Farmers’ Advance (since 1898!) focuses on Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan but covers issues from local to global. It is way more than a report on soybean futures. 

Almost every policy decision our federal and state governments take affects farmers one way or another. The Farm Bill is only one example, but naturally that gets coverage, the July 1 headline on the topic reading “Senate farm bill omits E15 [biofuel], Proposition 12 [which would have imposed California standards on animal housing across the nation] and pesticide labeling.” Another article in this same issue bears the headline “Missiles, drones and rising prices: What Trump’s war in Iran has cost the US.” There’s more. Farm production costs, like fuel and grocery prices, are up and expected to hit record highs next year, according to the USDA. Fewer Americans are now receiving SNAP benefits (rolls down 10%), and administrative costs are moving to the state level. New immigration policies, it turns out, are lowering legal immigration faster than illegal entries—2-1/2 times faster in the first nine months of 2024, which makes it more difficult to find farm workers while reducing the number of workers paying into social security (non-citizens have to pay in, though they do not receive the system’s benefits), the generally declining workforce also leading to lower economic growth. These policies affect all of us: Farmers just see it more easily and faster than the rest of the nation. 

The July issue tells of fairs in Ohio, equine therapy for people with physical disabilities, what to do for monarch butterflies, and a rare goat-sheep hybrid born in Olmstead Falls. Most issues have at least one story on organic methods. There are warnings of invasive plant species and unwelcome animal pests. (July 1 issue shines a light on invasive elm zigzag sawfly, not nearly as terrifying as the horrible screwworm found in Texas recently!) There is a Bible trivia quiz in every issue and, often, memories of family jam-making sessions. 

One ongoing saga since I started subscribing is data center developments in rural communities. Well, naturally, that’s where “empty” land can be found, but rural areas usually constitute also what might be called news deserts, something like the food deserts found in poor urban neighborhoods. Even in cities, local newspapers have been in steep decline, but in rural areas if there is one newspaper in a county, it may have only one reporter. Add to this the rash of nondisclosure agreements insisted upon by developers and the middlemen who scout locations for them, and you can see how difficult it is for local residents to have the information they need to govern their rural communities. The July 1 issue of Farmers’ Advance directly addresses the question of middlemen, while previous recent issues have looked at acreage lost, volume of necessary water inputs, etc. 

There’s no way I can get everyone in Michigan to read this newspaper every week, but I did the next-best thing and paid for a second subscription to go to our local township library. As I read my own copy, I generally pass it along to one friend or another. 

Leelanau Township Library

What I have been reading lately

A couple of new memoirs went home with me recently, Unfixed: A Memoir of Family, Mystery and the Currents That Carry You Home, by Kimberly Warner, and What Happened to Icarus: Encountering the Unfathomable in a World in Crisis, by Theodore Richards. The Warner book has a northern Michigan connection, and Richards promised a bit of philosophy. I found both engrossing enough that I rather raced through them. 

John M. Barry’s history of Roger Williams and the Creation of the American Soul: Church, State, and the Birth of Liberty is impossible to race through, and there are a lot of interruptions, as I’m reading it at the shop, but I have made my way into Chapter 5 and don’t intend to stop. Quite extraordinary, how the issues of Englishmen in the 17th century feel so relevant in our United States of the 21st century! King Charles I, who succeeded King James, warned Parliament in his opening address to them that if they failed to give him

“What the state at this time needs, I must, in discharge of my conscience, use those other means which God hath put into my hands…. Take not this as a threatening, for I scorn to threaten any but my equals.”

Barry notes that Parliament “bristled” at the king’s words, telling them they were not his equals (as if they didn't know that!), and they reminded him of the “many necessary liberties and Privileges” that belonged to the king’s subjects, “by the common laws and acts of Parliament.”

Freedom of conscience—and, by extension, speech—was one those liberties exercised by the brave and repeatedly punished by the king. Also habeas corpus and due process. Plus ça change…. Oh, my, what drama Chapter 5 holds! Is the king above the law or the law above the king? Can the king imprison his subjects, seize their private property, even have them executed on a whim? This is the issue at stake. Chapter 5 alone is worth the price of the book, and if I could quote the entire chapter here, I would. 

As for fiction, I have ventured a few pages into an old novel but not far enough to tell much about it yet except that the pace and setting please me. More on that next time.

What is blooming these days

Bee balm, bergamot—call it what you will. The species Monarda is one that both bees and butterflies appreciate, and I like it as much for that reason as for its deep colors. Pansies are annuals always worth having around to fill in between blooms of perennial species and for their own cheery faces. Snapdragons, now: I did not buy new snapdragons this year but took last year’s pots in onto the front porch, where they overwintered in freezing temperatures, without any water, and came back again this year. That is one hardy annual! 

Second summer for these snapdragons

Spiderwort, Tradescantia virginiana, has long been one of my favorites. I like the way it takes care of itself, the way it multiplies, and the way it lasts for days and days as a cut flower, its leaves possessing what I think of as architectural interest. And it’s blue. Blue like lobelia, blue like false indigo. Blue makes such a statement in a garden border, impossible not to notice.

Purple? Okay, that's in the blue range.

And everywhere, for the monarchs, milkweed!

On the home front

We three --

Besides gardens, the big news at home is that Tree Guy, Naughty Barker, and yours truly have formed a new household. We are embarked on a new adventure, unforeseen a year ago, and it feels exciting and entirely natural at the same time. Tree Guy hit the ground running, as his first two evenings with me involved packing and schlepping heavy boxes of books. I told him my life isn't always this arduous: It's not every week I buy a three-carload private library, in the middle of a heat wave, with 4th of July coming right down the pike at us!

Happy 4th, everyone! Be safe, celebrate the holiday, count your blessings, smile at your neighbor, and signal all your turns, whether in an electric or gasoline-powered vehicle or on a bicycle. And watch out for deer and pedestrians on the roadways!

Now, if ever, come perfect days.

Weeds have their place in my landscaping.

As it always does, June is racing by, and our northern Michigan world is a flowering chorus. Can’t you hear these hawkweed and lobelia singing? Lilacs are spent, poppies dropping their petals, but the show goes on and on and on, succeeding blooms arriving on cue to fill the stage with song. Hawkweeds are a special favorite of mine, both the dandelion yellow and the lollipop orange colors.

A volunteer rose made itself at home in my small shade garden, and I let it be for a while, but at last it had to move, as it was blocking from sight the more appropriate shade garden inhabitants. And a rose, anyway, needs sun. So on Tuesday evening I dug it up, replanted it in a border, pruned it back, and tucked a couple of cuttings into what I think of as my “nursery,” where this summer I hope viburnum and lilac cuttings in vermiculite will also take root. 

Before, with volunteer rose hogging the stage --

After, with evening light reaching everyone --

and finally, rose in its own new location. There!

As always, I am digging into books, too, though my reading progress slows when summer arrives. Whereas in winter I can get through three books a week, now in June, with so many customers in my shop (not a complaint!) and so much work to do outdoors at home (I love that, too!), it can take a week for me to read a single novel, so you can imagine how long it may take me to get through a serious book of history, even one as brilliantly written and engrossing as John Barry’s Roger Williams and the Creation of the American Soul: Church, State, and the Birth of Liberty. 

Barry tells a compelling story: that of the 17th century’s search for a balance between government and religion. The ascent of King James, son of Mary Queen of Scots, to the English throne in 1603, made a lot of people nervous. Would he lead them away from Calvin and back to Rome? But James was more concerned with his own power than with that of any religious group: The “divine right of kings” was his own pet theory. Kings are gods, claimed King James, in that they can “make and unmake their subjects, …have power of raising and casting down, of life and death, of judges over all their subjects of all causes, and yet accountable to none but God only…,” and so to question or rebel against a king was to rebel against God! The problem for James was English common law, which had long established property rights for Englishmen. Thus, the law and the king were in conflict! Interesting, no? And yet, how many times did Parliament roll over to placate the king? You can see why the 17th century is still relevant for Americans today.

I finished the second of my Jean-Luc Bannalec policiers as recent bedtime reading. Quoi qu’il en soit.... I translate that as “Whatever!” Bannalec’s characters say that or a variation of it all the time. 

Now my bedtime book is a slow meander down the shores and lakes of the Mississippi River with Virginia S. Eifert’s River World: Life of the Mississippi. Her piling on of adjectives in the Introduction made me wary, but I relaxed into the first and second chapters as she described the spring breakup of ice and the first birds and frogs and green plants arriving and appearing for another season of life and growth. The Upper Mississippi, after all, is much like northern Michigan, so I felt right at home, especially in the section on ground pines, which called up for me memories of walks with friends in the dunes near home, the place I remember seeing these little plants and knowing what they were for the first time.

The ground pines or club mosses, those miniature evergreen “trees” which are more closely related to the ferns than to anything else, standing nobly a few inches tall, are plants of ancient design and incredible endurance. Each year they faithfully bear thin, spore-filled, primitive cones on the tips of their stalks. 

They have been doing this since the Carboniferous period some 250 million years ago when the Lepidodendron trees reached their greatest size and variety. They were giants as they grew in the ancient coal swamps and prehistoric forests of the world….

- Virginia S. Eifert, River World: Life of the Mississippi (1959)

The ground pines are part of what Eifert calls the “Canadian carpet,” and here the term Canadian refers to C. Hart Merriam’s life zones, which I first learned about far from the Mississippi, out in southern Arizona, where one can ascend through life zones not by traveling north but simply by climbing a mountain. In the West (where I think Merriam came up with his categories), it is elevation rather than latitude that determines a biome.

Eifert’s book (with illustrations by the author—always a plus in my eyes) was written and published well over half a century ago. How different is that same river world today? Am I reading of a world that was, or one that still is? That I can recognize the Canadian carpet from her description and place it here in my own Leelanau County gives me hope that the river world the author described in 1959 still lives on, if only in certain stretches of the river’s length.

I pause briefly over “250 million years ago” and think of the difference between that and the mere 250 years that our country has been in existence. Our country’s age times a million—that’s the age of club mosses, and yet how many of us give a thought to their existence? Did you even know of them? What will the universe look like 250 millions years from now? Will there be anyone then to give a thought to us?

St. Johnswort

We’ve had a cool stretch of sunny days in Leelanau, perfect for making hay. Today is the Feast of St. John. Last night, on St. John’s Eve, I saw the first bloom of St. Johnswort. Cool weather must have slowed it down, or there would be more in flower by now. Meanwhile, coreopsis, which I associate with the Longest Day, was going gangbusters long before the solstice. 

Coreopsis

One tragic note this June is the extreme heat in Europe, casting a pall (in the form of a heat dome) over summer festivals such as Faites de la Musique, or Fête de la Music, which in Paris took the place of the old St. John’s bonfires back in the late 1980s. (In 1987, St. John’s Eve was in full swing; after that, music took the stage in place of the traditional bonfires. I had mixed feelings about the change, but Quoi qu’il en soit!) Celebrating music or a saint or national history is joyful. Celebration is joyful! People dying of heat is not at all a cause to celebrate, and finding relief from deadly heat in a city like Paris is difficult, to say the least. Fountains will be teeming with microbes, and in an apartment without air conditioning (or anywhere else), there is a limit to how many clothes a person can remove: skin stays on! I was there one summer in the early 1990s, my head wrapped in a dripping, water-soaked towel, and the maddening heat made me want to scream! Although I guess wanting to scream was a good sign I was not on the brink of death, so I pray for those in Europe who have gone beyond screaming.

Beautiful Sunday clouds. Today (Wednesday), rain?

Sunday was a day to make hay.

My Michigan life did not slow down with cool weather. Far from it! Mowing, planting, pruning, weeding, watering—I’m not making hay myself (not literally, anyway), and yet the pace of summer can sometimes be daunting, and I remind myself to stop and take a deep breath and employ my mantra: I’m here now. I’m here now. 

Sunny reminds me that she’s here, too, and ready for action! Enough with the books and gardens! Time to play, Momma!

Momma's girl!