ONE DAY, IF I’M LUCKY

One day, if I’m lucky, all my friends will be gone. 

Wait...what am I saying? Would that really be so lucky? Sure, I'd have lived the longest life, but…

I reflect on this now and then, like on a sultry summer night like this when I’m alone, deep in thought, sipping a nice tequila on the deck. Maybe it’s the booze, but in such moments I often yearn for that sweet, simple connection: calling to chat with a dear old friend. So I call. Usually, they answer.

             I hope there’s room left in the 
             loneliness for joy and gratitude.

Those chats nourish me, mind and spirit. They reaffirm who I’ve been, who I am, how lucky I am to be both alive and befriended so well. They also make quite clear how empty the former would be without the latter.

How fortunate I am to still have such friends!

But if I were indeed to be the last, I hope missing my old pals wouldn’t hurt too much. That there’s room left in the loneliness for joy and gratitude. That remem-
bering might feel just a bit like calling one of them from my deck. 

               

Living friends or not, I hope I’ll have kindled the kind of relationship with the rest of my world where that affection, too, might sustain me. That, for one thing, my companionship with Nature, with all her familiar ways, might feel like being with an old friend. Someone who cares, who shares their wisdom with me, who’s got my back. And, dare I wish it, laughs at my jokes.

HOCUS FOCUS – The Utter Reality of Magic

Now and then something happens in one’s life whose elegance, whose grace, whose aura just can’t be explained. It excedes the art of any individual; it’s more than matter, scale or place. 

You may think you can describe it, but often the emotional impact leaves you speechless but for a gasp or a breathy “Wow!” You end up apologizing: You had 
to be there. 

IMAGE: Greg Rakozy / Unsplash

Some folks are uncomfortable when they can’t quantify or explain things, but I rather like it. For one thing, it keeps me humble, reminding me just how limited even a writer’s vocabulary is—not to mention how infinitesimal my place in the Scheme of Things. 

And I’m more than okay with what turns out to be both the simplest and most impenetrable description of such awe: It’s magic.

        Magic, you see, is not just a quality 
        or an emotional state; it’s a connection.

A CONNECTION
Of course, that declaration bothers folks whose education, culture and world view all revolve around the tangible. Who believe everything needs a reason, and that if you can’t come up with one you’re either a brick short of a load or just not trying hard enough. 

PHOTO: Paramount Pictures / CBS

Well, there’s the catch. Some things, no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t make happen. Sometimes you have to stop trying altogether and let them happen. It’s that way for magic, and that, for many, is very hard indeed.

But that’s exactly where magic is brewed. In that moment when one abandons logic and opens oneself, body and soul, to wonder.

IMAGE: No attribution found

Magic, you see, is not just a quality or an emotional state; it’s a connection. It lies not just in the beguiling thing or event. But, like an electrical circuit, unless the power has someplace to go, it remains mere potential. Until, that is, you emanate your intention, that mystical signal that you are that place. 

    It’s what makes the Mona Lisa 
    seem illuminated from within.

CASES IN POINT
The kind of awe sparked by that cause-and-effect connection may come from something very big or very small, quite obvious or extremely subtle. Let me give you some examples of magic—a couple of them very personal:

• Magic is what makes Lionel Messi better than anyone in futbol (soccer). 

• 

  PHOTO: Kriangkrai Thitimakorn

  It’s what makes Starry Night’s sky-
  scape swirl and the Mona Lisa seem illuminated from within.
• It’s the spectacle of 10,000 herring surging back and forth as one.  
• It’s what lends the Taj Mahal its celebrated powers of seduction. 
• It’s why a 50-foot gray whale cow 
  swims under her 20-foot calf, lifts and carries it to my extended hand.

BELIEVE  
Magic is Creation’s sleight of hand. You’ll never figure out how it’s done. You can’t measure it. You can neither time it nor tame it. Most often you can’t even describe it.

Nonetheless, please believe in magic. It lives not just in exotic places; it’s present all around you and even in you. The key is to realize that looking for it usually fails. It will find you if you let it.

ILLUSTRATION: Matthew Burgess and Doug Salati

        "Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it." – ROUALD DAHL

IN A NEW LIGHT – Attached to the Moon

(With August nibbling away at our recent full moon (the buck moon,* July 29) I offer this reflection on the storied orb. May it move you to get outdoors and experience the wonder in a new light. By the way, this month's full moon, on August 29, will be a Sturgeon Moon.**)

Sun shadows fall heavy on the earth. Stark, stretched, hard-edged forms, so common we barely notice their attachment any more.

Moon, though, lays down her strokes gently, subtle shades of black 

on black. Now we feel the attachment more than know it.

* Buck Moon is the traditional name for the full moon that happens in July, referring to the time of year when male deer grow new antlers. 

** A Sturgeon Moon is a full moon occurring in August, named for the large lake sturgeon of the Great Lakes and Lake Champlain, which indigenous peoples found easiest to catch these late-summer days. 

I'M ALL EARS! – Sweet Corn As If For the First Time

There are a few foods which, if you haven't tasted them really fresh—like a day 
or two after picking— you haven't tasted them at all. Among them, home grown tomatoes, apples, strawberries, and, so apropos of midsummer here in Minnesota, corn on the cob.

        

Obviously, the main attraction with corn is eating it—that sublime interplay of flavor and texture that only really fresh corn can serve up. (I like mine with a little butter and enough black pepper to make my lips smart.) M-m-m-m, I can't wait!

But wait you must; first you've got to shuck it. Like so many of life's little chores, you can look at that task as a nuisance...or you can choose to see it as an experi-
ence, a joy. I highly recommend the latter.

                                                  *     ~     *     ~    *

KERNELS OF TRUTH
Pick up an ear of fresh sweet corn and the first thing you notice is that it's heavier than a green, leafy thing should be. I've always imagined that heavy gifts in small packages held special promise.

The next thing that strikes you are the silken tresses spilling out the tapered end in bleached yellow-green, tips perhaps tinted golden brown by summer air and sun.

The snug, slightly sand-papery leaves peel back easily one at a time; try for more and they voice their squeaky objection. Layer by layer, the green softens from dark and dry to light, tender, translucent. The 
last ply or two cling tight, conforming like shrink wrap to the pebbly texture beneath.

      Emergent kernels, near the tip, wander 
      randomly, then fall into neat rows as they 
      march smartly down the cob.

The kernels greet you cheerily, buoyantly. Slightly cool and moist, they grab the tips of your fingers like so many tiny, shiny, pale yellow balloons all squeezed together— inflated, it seems, to the point of bursting.



Emergent ones, near the tip, wander randomly, then fall into neat rows as they march smartly down the cob. Here and there someone loses the cadence and falls out of line for a step or two.

        A few strands always hold out, ducking 
        stickily into crevices between rows.

Then it's back to the silk. Most of it lets go willingly, but a few strands always hold out, ducking stickily into crevices between rows. I suppose this is where some might let the job get a bit tedious. Don't let it spoil the wonder; a few threads of corn silk may even be good for you!

Now just cut or break off the remaining stalk—appreciating the cob's tough, woody core—and your cob's ready for the pot.*

Corn on the cob: whether you're shuckin' it, cookin' it or eatin' it, enjoy! And if you have any funny or informative takes on corn we small-wonder freaks would love to hear from you in the comments!

* There are as many suggestions out there on how to cook sweet corn as there are on how to swing a golf club. I lean toward the less-is-more approach: Boil the water; turn off the heat; plop the corn in; and wait three minutes.

Even better and way easier, microwave your corn: Do not shuck the ears; cut off the stem end just before it starts curving in toward the stem; and nuke for: one ear - three minutes / two ears - five minutes / three ears - seven minutes. 

Using hot mitts or pads, grab each ear by the pointed, silk end and squeeze as you would a big tube of reluctant toothpaste. The denuded ear will slide out the fat end and leave you holding all the husk and all the silk in your hand.

BIRD’S-EYE PEE-EW – The Sad Decline of Balconies

As a designer and former architecture student, I despise the plague of cheap, soulless apartment and condo buildings popping up around town in recent years. Especially here in the neighborhoods surrounding the University of Minnesota’s sprawling Minneapolis campus.

Most are dull, three- to twenty-story cuboids clad in various colors of stamped metal siding. (As if color could mask the lack of imagination.) With little dimen-
sion, detailing or texture, they appear to have been built on the cheap for a shelf 
life of about ten years.

HANGING BY A THREAD
As if to double down on the shallow design, the builders—pretty sure they’re not architects—nearly always tack on a bristling of tiny, barely-closet-size balconies. Underscoring the tackiness, they opt not to even try integrating them into the building’s structure. 

Instead, they’re more or less screwed into the façade, where it seems the only thing keeping them from simply falling off under their own weight is a pair of half-inch cables. I'm sure the wires are up to the job, but they don’t look like it.

         

These dime-a-dozen, afterthought balconies are more insult than asset! I wonder if prospective renters or buyers actually see these little appurtenances as an attraction—one that probably added a couple hundred bucks to their payments. 

             These “McBalconies” always look 
             more like swings than solid ledges.

CANTILEVER…OR CAN THEY?
More damning than my esthetic gripe is the fact that very few residents even use these bitty balconies. If I scan twenty of them—say on one of these fine summer evenings—I’d be surprised to spot one of them occupied. Few have as much as a folding chair on them.

No wonder. The thin, woven strands holding up all these “McBalconies” make them look more like swings than solid ledges.

NOW THAT’S A BALCONY 
A thoughtful, well-designed balcony, one you’d actually want to use, is a wonder, especially for those without the space, or with too much altitude, for a deck. It affords one a chance to step outdoors now and then, breathe some fresh air, maybe catch some rays. What’s more, you get a bird’s-eye view.

A balcony should at least provide enough room for a couple of chairs and a small table. Room not simply to sit, but to stretch your legs out without them poking through the railing. Even better, space for a few potted plants, perhaps a bird feeder, and—codes permitting—a small grill.

Besides the issue of space, there’s also an esthetic baseline here; a deck has to look solid, as if it’s actually incorporated into the structure of the building, not just glued on. It’s that visual integrity, that intentionality, that makes a decent balcony feel solid and safe.
   It’s a bonus when your balcony’s made of wood.

Though rare these days, it’s a pleasant bonus when your balcony’s made of wood. I know it can be a maintenance issue, but it’s a warmer vibe—kind of like the feel of sitting in a wood canoe instead of one stamped out of cold, hard aluminum or some synthetic supermaterial.

         

          Nature blesses us with a vital spiritual 
          connection to Mother Earth.
 
ENTREE TO THE REALM
We human animals have a primeval need for secure, elevated vantage points. That need, once driven by the sheer will to survive, eventually gave way—once we gained the luxury of leisure—to simply a desire to enjoy a few of Nature’s won-
ders, even when living in the city.

We all, especially children, need regular doses of what author and Children and Nature Network co-founder, Richard Louv calls Vitamin N (Nature). It calms us, cures us, and blesses many of us with a vital spiritual connection to Mother Earth. A good balcony offers us at least a maintenance dose.

But we’ve been steadily losing touch with Nature since the Industrial Revolution. And never at the staggering rate that’s come with the Digital Age. The Internet, social media and artificial intelligence have all taken ravenous bites out of that essential connection. Bad balconies don’t help.

While I feel sorry for a kid who doesn’t have a back yard to play on, or an adult who’s too busy to spend much time outdoors, thank God there are still ways to experience Nature in an urban setting. A walk, a bike ride, container gardening…all offer us entrée to that precious realm. 

So does a good, solid balcony.

PHOTO: iStock

WATER, WIND AND SPIN – My Go-round With the June, 1981 Minneapolis Tornado

It's prime tornado season here in southern Minnesota. (From May through July we average 41 twisters each year.) 

I've been fascinated with tornadoes since I was a boy, and find it pretty ironic that, while I've still never seen a twister, I have, indeed, been in one. This post marks 25 years since that unforgettable experience.

A DRAINING EXPERIENCE
It’s June 14, 1981—a Sunday—a bit before 4 PM. I’m upstairs in my little house on 16th Avenue South, Minneapolis, chipping away 60 years of paint that's lost its grip on a window sill. Though it’s far from taxing work, I’m sweating.

The air outside, and even more so inside—on the second floor of a non-air-condi-
tioned house—is thick with humidity. I’m grateful for the occasional waft of breeze that finds me.

The work is pleasant. I’m accomplishing something, listening to some nice Hall & Oates on the stereo, and Bess, my sweet black lab, is lying on the rug beside me, panting.

At one point, I notice it’s getting kind of dark outside, and that now those breezes are holding their breath. You can almost smell the rain coming. Oh well, I figure, I’ll work until I feel it on my hands.

 A few minutes later the gunmetal sky and everything I can see out the window has taken on an eerie greenish cast. I realize this can’t be good.

I don’t remember hearing the civil defense sirens going off. Just that soon it’s raining, then hailing. Then the air starts churning…and that’s when I hear it.

          I picture the massive, vacuum-cleaning
          vortex swirling overhead.

SO MUCH DUST

Nearly everyone who’s lived through a tor-
nado says they heard an unearthly rumbling heading toward them. Like a freight train. That’s exactly what I hear. Bess hears it too and gets really squirrelly.
 
I’d always wished I could see a twister. I admired those daredevils who tear along back roads in Kansas, Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle to document them. So here’s my moment, I'm thinking; I’m about to be in the middle of one. But I can tell you, what I’m experiencing is not a thrill.

IMAGE: The Weather Channel

I imagine the massive, vacuum-cleaning vortex swirling overhead.** And here’s this flimsy little house, these two minute creatures helpless in its path. If it’s an F4 or F5, we’re like so much dust.

I take the cues and start down to the basement. First I shut the window, and I feel my ears pop as if something just sucked all the air out of the house. In the kitchen I grab some candles and my portable radio, and by the time Bess and I reach the cel-
lar it’s like we’re under a trestle and the train is thundering right over us.

     The entire roof of the three-story apartment
     building next door gets lifted off and dropped
     across my back yard and garage.

FOREST FOR THE TREES
We’re not in the basement for more than a few minutes when the ominous roar ebbs. And we still have a roof over our heads! I head cautiously up the stairs and, thank God, everything appears intact.

It’s when I go outside that I see the destruction. Eighty-foot, half-century-old trees ripped from the ground. Cars piled on one another. Large sheets of drywall and other building materials strewn in the street. (I later find out they’re from the Sears yard a mile away.) And the entire roof of the three-story apartment building next door lifted off and dropped across my back yard and garage.

IMAGE: teapots happen

• The so-called Har Mar tornado, rated an F-3 with winds reaching nearly 200 miles per hour, was on the ground for 26 minutes.

• The human toll: two fatalities, 6 serious injuries, more than 80 minor injuries. (Experts considered it miraculous that these numbers weren't much higher.)
• Other impact: $47 million in property damage; 1,300 homes, 50 businesses and 400-plus vehicles damaged or destroyed; 3,500 trees killed; some 30,000 customers without power.*

So I’ve finally experienced my tornado, up close and personal. I suppose that affords me certain bragging rights. The good fortune of having survived it is not lost on me, but I'm also disappointed that I never saw it. 

Maybe this tornado season I’ll get that chance (from a safe distance this time).
                                               ~       •      ~       •      ~      

* Storm data thanks to CBS News, WCCO and Minnesota Public Radio, and
   Hennepin County Emergency Management.

** I should write a post just about all the ways air acts like water. Suffice it 
to say for now that how water drains from a sink or bathtub, how it swirls—counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere—is exactly the way air acts during nearly all tornadoes. And yes, just like water, most tornadoes spin clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.

I BEG YOUR POLLEN – The Joyous Succession of Summer Flowers

The other day a friend and I were comparing notes on our daily walks. He won-
dered how I, as Mr. Wonder himself, manage to spot something new to photo-
graph and write about nearly every day. 

I explained that if, instead of simply waiting to be struck by wonder, one seeks and expects it—a notion I call SEEING GENEROUSLY—there’s always something new to see.

 Each plant hands off the duty of beauty to the next.

PASSING THE BATON
One example, I explained, is the splendid sequence of flowers that bloom through-
out the summer here in Minnesota. No sooner does one species shed its blossoms—turning to the work of reproduction—than another’s unfurl. 

It’s like a bloomin’ relay race; each plant hands off the duty of beauty to the next. Something's always flowering afresh, serving up something new to see, smell and carefully touch. 

First, the heralds of spring: Siberian squill and snowdrops. 



Then, in order:

• Crocus, hyacinth and daffodils.
• American tulips and Virginia bluebells

• Common lilacs, followed by late lilacs
• Bleeding hearts and lilies of the valley
• Peonies

• Irises
• Hydrangea
• Lilies and gladiolus
  
  

• Bee balm and coneflowers
• Asters and dahlias
• Chrysanthemums

Of course, this is just a sampling; there are so many other plants—including trees—that join the bloomin’ cavalcade. 

Catalpa flowers 

CYCLES OF LIFE
Besides just flowers, lots of things change during a Minnesota summer: Bird song, smells, the shades of green bedecking trees… Even people’s faces. So don’t let your walks get stale. Look for wonder, expect wonder, not just in all these plants and crit-
ters, but in change itself. 

And don’t let this, another of Nature’s countless lessons on life, be lost on you: 
We all bloom at different times too!