Bare-knuckle Snow-blowing

Bare-knuckle Snow-blowing 

By John R. Greenwood 

It’s a good day when you can snow blow your driveway with bare knuckles. There is a huge discrepancy between snow-blowing on November 24th and snow-blowing on March 24th. Knowing there is green grass in your near future feels good. The attitude gap is immeasurable. If it wasn’t for the half-dozen Amazon packages headed our way I might have left the snow to fend for itself. There is nothing more rewarding than clearing snow when the thermometer is hovering in the forties and the lawn was already raked and fertilized the week before. Knowing its Toro’s last hurrah puts a smile on your face and a skip in your boots. It did give me a chance to thank Old Faithful for getting me through the winter without a hitch. 

In my last post I vowed to stay positive and productive while this virus turns our lives upside down. My wife and I are doing our part to keep ourselves healthy and safe. We’re not ready to be sacrificed to keep stock earnings healthier. 

With that thought I’m going to make an effort to pump a little life into Raining Iguanas. I owe it to all those who have supported the blog and encouraged me to continue writing. Life got real over the last several months and priorities sometimes require recalibration. 

Yesterday while I was pretending to dig out from a pretend blizzard I snapped a few pictures to help get my mojo back. If you haven’t visited here in a while I want to thank you for stopping by. 

ALREADY!

Frozen Tundra 

Dazed and Confused 

Snow Bunnies

Table Talk Pie 

Be Kind.
We're All In This Together

Trash Talk

Trash Talk 

By John R. Greenwood 

It’s the second day of Spring 2020 and I needed to un-Covid-19 myself. The stress of the last few weeks had grabbed me by the throat and threatened to choke me. Whenever this happens I go running to my mother. Mother Nature has taken the place of mom’s attentive ear. Because mom is now busy tending to dad high above, she sometimes delegates her co-mother to fill in when she knows fresh air and the smell of pine needles is what I need most. So like a good son, I grabbed a hoodie and headed out the backdoor. A walk up the road is always a good starting point. I was just fifty feet from the end of my driveway when I spotted two empty beer cans, a soggy cigarette pack, and McDonald’s soda cup. I turned in my tracks and went back to the garage to grab a large shopping bag to collect road trash in. It was one of those gigantic plastic ones with handles. I thought it would be easier to carry than a trash bag and it would hold plenty. Wrong! I was still close enough to hit my garage with a rock and the bag was already half full. I figured if I did end up filling it I would leave it and pick it up on the return trip. My relaxing hike turned uglier the further I went. By the time I got to a grove of pines halfway down my road I was looking at dozens and dozens of single serve plastic wine bottles strewn as far as I could see. You can read my fall 2018 rant about this issue here: I'll Drive You To Drink

My relaxing walk had turned Covid-like. The vision of someone winging their drinking problem out the window and on to the roadside cranked me up like a BJ’s shopper watching someone buy (2) 32-Pack’s of Charmin during a pandemic. 

WTF! 

I regained my composure and filled my liquor-bag to the brim. By now I was drenched in perspiration and wine fumes, so instead of continuing my walk, I turned around and headed home. I’d gotten my exercise even if Mother Nature ended up getting the better end of the deal. She was a little cleaner. I burned a few calories, more by anger than effort, but in the end I did feel better that my walk wasn’t in vain. I’m sure the wine sommelier that knocks down these bottles of swill has no moral conscience and would consider me the problem with the world. Although my anger will probably fall on deaf ears, I needed to get this off my chest. There’s probably two or three more bags of trash to pick up around my 1.5 mile block. I will attempt another walk tomorrow. Maybe by the time Covid-19 is a fading memory my drunk friend will loose their license and have to start drinking at home. 

Rant over. 

Maintenance-Free

Maintenance-Free

By John R. Greenwood

I will never understand people who want to live in a maintenance-free house and live a maintenance-free life. I hear them on HGTV shows all the time. "We want a low maintenance yard." 

Why?

Isn't that what the American Dream is all about; mowing your own perennial rye grass front lawn and trimming around your white picket fence while the kids play Frisbee with Riley the black lab in the backyard? 

Saturday morning I was up at the break of day loading the back of my pick-up with brush I'd cut late last fall. I made three trips to our local landfill with leaves and branches that will ultimately be recycled into mulch. I wasn't distressed by the work involved, I was in man-heaven. That is what I always thought was "livin' the dream." My truck, filled with my leaves, from my trees, from around my house. Yes, I know there's more to life, but if you can't embrace the joy of maintaining your own hunk of real estate, how successful are you going to be finding true happiness in anything?

Don't get me wrong, I've been running the same springtime ritual for over fifty years now and it can wear you down, but to me there's nothing like the feeling I get when my .54 acre is all cleaned up and ready for those soft, gentle April rains. Those afternoon rains that have the dandelions shooting out of the ground and tree buds popping out like Jiffy Pop eight hours later. 

I swear I could actually see the Hosta growing as I sat on the back steps knocking the fresh dirt out of my boot treads. The birds were filling the air with tweet music and you could feel the maple tree roots stretching their legs in the soil below. In a week or so I'll be snorting tree pollen and getting high on May. 

Maintenance Free? 

What the heck do you people do for real enjoyment? 

Off Into The Woods

Off Into The Woods

By John R. Greenwood

A Sunday walk in the neighborhood brought me to the top of Hilltop Drive. Hilltop Drive is a blacktop road to nowhere, or so I thought. It curves up toward the sky line where you find a turnaround surrounded by galvanized guardrails. In the far corner of the turnaround there is a path carved deep into the woods. It called me to come and visit. The snow was not deep but I also wasn’t prepared for a hike. I paused briefly-- seconds later Hilltop’s blacktop was nowhere to be seen. With each step the scenery changed. 

The variation kept pulling me to the next rise, the next outcropping of rocks. Water trickled from surface springs. Stonewalls lay smothered under a hundred years of maple shed. The volume of the singing birds kept increasing. Their excitement evident as they skirted from branch to branch, like happy tour guides anxious to show off their hometown highlights. I stopped from time to time, not for rest, but to absorb my surroundings. I was just beginning to worry about how far I had traveled when the trees separated and opened up onto a trail christened with two sets of fresh snowmobile tracks. The trail was wide and clear. It pointed up the mountain and pointed down the mountain. My wife would be starting to worry. Instead of heading back the way I came, I decided to follow the snowmobile tracks downhill toward the main road. The woods were welcoming and invigorating. I was glad I chose to leave the blacktop and venture into natures arms. Now as my spontaneous safari was coming to an end I began to hear the sound of cars again. The steep hillside was behind me now and I was sure I could see the dark shadows of a large building. I had an idea where I might exit the woods. I was curious to see how close my estimate was. I was not surprised to see the familiar sign of a garden center about one mile south of where I first entered the woods. 

I was about three quarters of a mile from my house, the entire walk probably consumed about three to four miles. It was much more satisfying than doing them on a treadmill. As I climbed the steps to my backdoor a sense of renewal warmed me. It wasn’t the accomplishment of a high peak but it did revitalize me for the day ahead. That’s the way it should be. I left the house searching for something and I found it. It was another circle that brought me back home better than when I left. Do I smell bacon? 

Taller

Taller 
By John R. Greenwood

It was the last Saturday in March and I needed a lift. Although it was a generic winter by Northeast New York standards, it still took a toll on me. My weight was up. My spirits were a little damp. Although there were exciting things approaching in the weeks ahead, I still needed a, “good swift kick in the pants.” I decided an early morning walk was in order. I threw on a warm hat and gloves, grabbed the camera, a small writing pad, and my driver’s license (just in case a texting terrorist happens to use me for morning target practice) and out the back door I went--in search of a sign of spring. I knew I needed something special to ignite my soggy mood. I began to think about my friend the mocking bird. The mocking bird who inspired me to write one of my first published pieces, Life Is Where You Look. I couldn't think of a more appropriate sign than to see and hear some tree top tunes. 

I was a quarter mile down the road when I took a right hand turn into the office complex where my feathered friend likes to sing from the light pole tops. That's when I caught a hint of music. It wasn’t Lady Gaga coming from the Honda Civic that scooted by, it was coming from above and beyond. I tilted my head and lifted my ear to the sky. Sure as sprouting crab grass I heard it. It was a song mix that could only come from Disney magic or a mocking bird and all signs pointed to my friend. 

I am in some unexplained way convinced that this spring ritual of visiting the mocking bird at the end of my road is some affirmation from mom high above. In some warm and personal way I have taken it as a sign that her and dad are okay and that I should continue on my midlife journey with youthful exuberance. It's a simple way to reenergize my heart and my spirit. What happened next took this little story to another level. Trust me when I tell you this bird never flinched when I approached. In fact mocking birds seem to take great pleasure in entertaining anyone who will watch or listen. As I stood there leaning against the adjacent light pole I put away my camera and pulled out my pad to jot down the notes I used to create this post. At that exact moment, that white bellied bird took flight and set itself to dance. It soared in and out of the trees like a small kite in a brisk wind. She swooped and darted, she flitted and circled. Around and around a small group of trees she danced. You could see the joy in that birds flight and as I watched the choreographed performance play out, the joy in my heart swelled like a bucket of sponges. There was something extra special about that ninety-second display. Then something strange happened. I slowly pulled out my camera to capture the moment, and the second I brought the camera up in front of me the dance ended and she flew back to the top of the pole and stared down at me. She looked  right at me as if to say, "I knew what you needed. That dance was for you and no one else." I tucked the camera back inside my coat, tipped my head in respect and walked away with just what I needed, and much, much more. 

As I left the parking lot of Community Care Pediatrics I heard a different chorus being directed my way. I looked up and saw the fattest, reddest, happiest robin I have ever seen, singing her big fat heart out. Singing backup on the right was the brightest, proudest, most energetic cardinal I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Both birds seemed to be saying goodbye. It was as if the whole group had gathered in this highly populated place to take a stand and let everyone know how much joy there is left in the world. It was as if all three were sending me the same message. 

There is beauty throughout the world. You can find it when you want to. You need to trust your instincts and never hesitate to follow where your heart tries to point you.

On the last day of March I was reminded of this and how it turned a short walk down the road into a 'growing' experience. On my home my lungs and my heart were replenished and my stance; well let's just say I was walking a little taller...

Good Night Irene

Good Night Irene

By John R. Greenwood

She’s a bitch

A full-throttle

Foul-mouthed

Rain-coated bitch

She hates everyone

She has no favorites

She’ll wipe the smile from your face

Coasting upward 

Only power-line sparks,

Wet cuffs,

Broken limbs, and 
Dead flashlight batteries

Make her smile

She simply 

Doesn’t care

Fox News still loves her

State Farm pencils snap under her pressure

Sand bags tickle her ankles

Oh, the National Guard?

A mere poke in her side

Round and round she goes

Where she stops?

*Hurricane Irene August 2011

This post is a sprig of gentle humor in times of quiet consternation. 
It is not meant to diminish the concern we all have for those whose lives will be affected by this catastrophic storm.