Good-bye Ice

Today, on the river, most of the ice was gone. This is not to say that there will not be more tomorrow, but the Red River is flowing quickly, the ice is melting and what has not already melted is being carried northward, dissolving as it goes. Last year at this time, the river was still solid ice - four feet thick - no visible cracks. This year, the slabs of ice that remain, are no more than a foot thick. When it is winter, I never think about how thick the ice is once it has frozen solid. Ice is ice. But, apparently, that is not so - degrees of thickness makes the difference between an early spring and a late one. This spring is definitely an early one. Even if it should storm tomorrow (which is could) it would still be early. Today, in my backyard, (southern exposure) the tip of one tulip is visible. March 22 - one visible tulip.

A Classroom of Cats

It has been such a long time since I posted anything but this weekend's weather and these cats are so fine that they both need to be recorded in some way. On the left is Scooter the Snow Cat painted by Troy who is six years old and his friend, Michelle, who is older. On the right is Miss Riley Fancy Cat by Anne and Lexxus, both six years old. She is a spring cat, all dressed up for flowers and sunshine. And at the bottom, is Tiny Cat by Raphael. The wind is blowing his fur. These cats are all friends, and they have many more friends on the walls of their classroom - a whole classroom of cat friends who visit each other in the pages of stories. A nice place to visit. You might even want to live there.

After a week of wonderful weather, the snow in Manitoba is nearly gone. No more snowmen for now. Yea! It is mid-March, (The Ides) and remarkably mild. Thank you, Sky God or El Nino or whoever you are. And tonight we had an extra hour of light before night. One more reason to say thank you and celebrate.

The Snowman Edition

I went out today looking for someone who was glad it was still winter, happy that the snow had no intention of leaving soon, someone who loved the colour white and did not miss green at all. I met no other people, only snowmen. They did not have much to say but they looked pretty happy, even the ones with no faces at all . . .

At the Conservatory

Just when I forgot this place existed, I remembered, and here I am in February, in Winnipeg, in the middle of a blooming garden - grape hyacinths, primroses, crocuses, a glass ceiling partly covered with ice and snow, but mostly just blue sky and sunlight. On the other side of the walls, spring is still months away, but inside it has arrived. This place is always filled with either little children, just learning to walk, or the elderly, needing a hand to help them walk. The little ones run wildly, meeting the flowers at eye-level, greeting them with kisses and claps; the elderly stoop forward, murmuring "ahhs" and "mmmms" trying to remember names and other gardens they have known. The snow outside is still deep, but today I think the bulbs underground are not sleeping as soundly as they were yesterday.

At the Library

"Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Use

Just Starting Out?"

- Ron Koertge

Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave

your house or apartment. Go out into the world.

It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap

one is best, with pages the color of weak tea

and on the front a kitten or a space ship.

Avoid any enclosed space where more than

three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware

any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks

across the muffled tennis courts.

Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.

And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle

where a child a year or two old is playing as his

mother browses the ranks of the dead.

Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.

The title, the author's name, the brooding photo

on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray

book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher

he gets, the wider he grins.

You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower

falls, be like the child. Laugh so loud everybody

in the world frowns and says, "Shhh."

Then start again.

At the library the other night, not my usual library, but another, I heard the sound of running feet - going, going, going. I knew from the sound, the feet were small, maybe two years old, probably less. It was 8:30, dark outside, (cold and snowy, of course). I was surrounded by rows and rows of silent books, but there was the sound of little feet, more alive than any of those books. And there was the little boy, rounding the corner, running down one aisle, up the next, just smiling, and running, not even bothering to check whether any one was following him. What better reason to be in a library in winter than to throw caution to the wind and run? I do not think I have ever appreciated the story of The Little Gingerbread Boy quite the way I did that night. "Run. Run. As fast as you can. You can't catch me . . . " I gave up on the books completely. I just watched and listened. Then I went home and built a tower.

Blooming

Moonrise: 7:53 P.M. Sunrise: 8:02 A.M.

Moonset: 8:29 A.M. Sunset: 5:20 P.M.

Amaryllis

R.G. Everson

When I was born my mother was given an amaryllis

which she tended carefully, cutting it back

after it had bloomed each year It was known

as Ronald's amaryllis That amazing flower

continued to bloom decade after decade until I

was forty-seven years old, when it withered and died

Since then I've jokingly (or not so jokingly)

said I was living on borrowed time beyond my means

It is cold outside, there are angels in the snow, but my amaryllis is blooming inside. She is definitely a "she", astonishing in her beauty. I have no idea how old she really is, how many times she has bloomed before, and who has watched her bloom. It really does not matter. She is blooming now for me - four magnificently large flowers at the end of January, in the middle of winter.

22 Minutes of Light

The night is a big black Cat.

The moon is her topaz eye.

The stars are the mice she hunts at night

In the fields of her topaz sky.

- G. Orr Clark

Moonrise: 11:23 A.M. Sunrise: 8:11 A.M.

Moonset: 2:46 A.M. Sunset: 5:08 P.M.

i888899 My big tabby cat, George Eliot, just jumped on the keyboard, adding his own contribution to this posting. I have no idea what those numbers mean. Now he is purring on my lap as I type, eyeing either the cat on the screen or the stars behind it. It has been cloudy and grey for days - little chance to see either the sun or moon rise or set. Still, both are on my mind a lot. Since New Moon, 9 days ago, we have gained 22 minutes of daylight. If this is a contest, light is winning. The amaryllis on my window sill thinks so too!