Blue is Just the Minnesota Sky

I'm not afraid of storms.
This is why: I spent approximately 13% of my Iowa childhood summers in the storm cellar. At my grandparents in northern Iowa it was more like 21%. During these times my grandma would scuttle me to the basement and shove me under the bureau. . . whilst my grandfather stood chest to the wind on the sidewalk between the house and the barn. Scanning the horizon. A human barrier to any hot spinning air that might approach his precious crops and livestock and family. He was not afraid. I was not afraid. Still. . . mysteriously I was under the bureau. . .sending the clear message that my life must be more important than his. My grandmother went up and down the stairs between us trying in vain to coerce him down and reminding me to duck my head.

I'm still not afraid. But. . when that sound of wind and lightning and hail and that green tinge of the sky bears down upon us. . . it can creep up on you.

Mary cried as we scuttled her to the basement. By some miracle of God her "dada" that is her security blanket appeared in her grasp. Go figure. . . children have their ways. Mary?  Where did that come from?  I don't know.

All night the sound of firetrucks up and down Blackhawk Road--clearing the street of downed trees and all day the sound of chain saws and backing up trucks and the outline of cranes lifting 100 years old trees from the backyards of the unlucky ones. I counted more than 50 big trees just on our road. One blue spruce went through the garage two doors down. Some uprooted and some snapped in the middle. Uprooting actually feels more dignified to me.  Four pines in a row, fifty-footers, at the park.

All day long the melody of John Denver's song Matthew rang in my ears. Had an uncle named Matthew. . . if you know the song. . . it will be in your head too now.  Ultimately the song is about a boy who lives on in joy even after a storm destroys everything else.

Our storm did not destroy everything else. We will probably only need some roof repair, siding repair and Bill's folks' car will need some substantial work, as they were here visiting. Bill's Dad had to choose between the hail and the tree falling and he choose wisely as the huge limb of the maple fell where the car was moments before he moved it.

My garden is a loss for the year. Ferns and hostas and hydrangeas aren't as strong as my grandpa's chest.

So. I held back the tears last night to put on the brave face. And this morning. And this afternoon.

People. Today was about people. Good people. Kathy our builder stopped by shortly after 8:00 a.m. just to check on us. She choked up. Sara, I'm sorry. She got it. Bill stayed home an extra hour this morning to help me with the big branches. He got it. My landscape hero sent over two of his best guys and they helped me for an hour and took all the thrash away in their superhero trailer. It would have taken me a week. He got it. Mary Lynn stopped by to see how we faired. We all fought back tears. Well, not the yard guys, but even they had compassion in their eyes. They had, after all, just put the finishing touches on the new backyard project yesterday afternoon, one and a half hours before the storm. Is that irony?

Why? Why the guilt? Why can't we openly cry over ferns and flowers and trees? Yes. . . yes. . . everyone is okay. . . we are so thankful.  No. . . no. . .we are not farmers who lost a crop. But something that was beautiful is now wrecked. I think that matters.  Well, it matters to me.

If tending a garden can feed our soul, then I think it's only fair that when it gets wrecked our soul can and will bleed at least a little.

I don't have that many hobbies. My garden is my creativity and my exercise and my vice. I spent twelve hours today cleaning up. It will all be okay. Next year. The little fern fronds will pop their little heads through the damp leaves. The hostas will be just as temping to the deer next year as they were yesterday. The hydrangeas will be better for the pruning.

I'm thankful. A walk down the street to the park reminds me that we were lucky. Very lucky.
I don't know why my blue spruce is standing and the neighbors to the north is through their screen porch.

But I'm still blue. For them. For me. For the ancient trees uprooted and the smallest trampled frond.

Joy was just the thing that he was raised on

Love was just the way to live and die

Gold was just the windy Kansas wheat field

Blue was just the Kansas summer sky

Link to John Denver's song. . . that will stay in your head too if you listen.