AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES the weather has changed. After returning from south Florida and its heat on Friday, we found good old Minnesota warm summer weather. Perfect for a Saturday motorcycle ride. Today we have clouds and overcast and a very cool day, having apparently missed any serious storms overnight. One notices how similar the weather of the
IT IS A GRAND SEASON AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES. As the song says, June is bustin’ out all over. The ferns are nearing chest high. The lilacs and honeysuckle are in blossom. The air smells even sweeter than usual. Our congregation is all here, the pews are full. We have a good congregation—well-intentioned and well-behaved—mostly. Of course, the
HERE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES it is a rainy Wednesday, which is, of course, Church Choir rehearsal day. And the choir is in fine form. The ethereal Wood Thrush is playing the Pipes of Pan from deep in his green loft. The song echoes and trills and fills the woods with an otherworldly music. Even Sparky the Cardinal,
HERE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES IT IS MOTHERS DAY. It is not clear that all the furred and feathered congregation know that it is Mother’s Day, but it seems likely they do. There are bouquets of wildflowers strewn around the woods—Bloodroot and Hepatica, Trout Lily and Spring Beauty. And all the mothers are busy being… well, mothers. Endlessly
HERE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES it is a fine day to be Church Caretaker. Or Parson. Of which I am evidently both. The chapel and aisles will soon be brightened by snowy drifts of Bloodroot, the blossoms now just beginning to make their appearance; and in a few weeks will be replaced with taller drifts of Trillium. We
WE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES ARE GREATLY SADDENED to learn of the awful fire that has ravaged the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I often feel a parallel between groves of tall trees and the great cathedrals, though I am not entirely sure if it is the tall trees that remind me of the great cathedrals, or the tall
SOMETIMES WRITERS GET UPSTAGED, EVEN AT HOME. OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FATHER OF WATERS, about 100 yards off our shore, the trunk of a great tree has lodged itself in the sand during the spring flood. On that tree, in the midst of our blizzard, now sit about 18 double crested cormorants, snoring and croaking. I remarked to
IT IS A GREAT PLEASURE TO TAKE THE OLD DIAMOND WILLOW WALKING STICK AND TRAIPSE off into the newly thawed and melted Spring woods. There to make the acquaintance of Wood Ducks and Mallards and Goldeneyes and Buffleheads in hidden spots along the riverbanks. The pleasure is intruded upon, somewhat, by the knowledge that another blizzard is bearing down upon
HERE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES it is a peaceful morning. The tall pine deacons stand with their heads in the mist and the river flows by, one assumes, hidden in quilts of fog. Occasionally a floating Goldeneye decides to take to the air, wings whistling, and leaves a dark trail across the water—proving that there is indeed water
HERE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES we awaken to another inundation. Limb-sized snow bombs roused us several times during the night, shaking the little cabin—and at least one large limb broke off and fell on the deck. But we arise this morning to sparking sunshine and a barometer that says the storm is past. Yesterday was The Caretaker’s first