In awe of ancient bluffs, but nothing lasts forever

During a time called the Silurian period, 430 million years ago, my land was covered by a shallow sea, and when the oceans receded they left extraordinary limestone bluffs and caves. How anyone truly knows this stuff to be true is beyond me, but I believe it. On some level most of us need to admit that science is something to which we should pay attention. Just to the north of me is a state park, first designated as such in 1933, a place for folks to truly see what has taken millions of years to form.

The state park, as well as my land, is filled with creatures that live almost entirely in the moment, neither dwelling on the past, nor worrying about the future. There are lessons to be learned here and it occurs to me that most of what I know comes not from textbooks but from those enjoying the here and now and, of course, those who write poetry. On rainy days I enjoy listening to a jazz station out of Glasgow, Scotland, Luna curled up on my lap, poetry or Kerouac in my hands, resting on the cat’s soft side, a steady beat of water hitting the roof.

I love the rain. It helps me to not feel guilty on days when I don’t really wish to be outdoors, working. Some days I don’t care to mow, wield an ax, or trim the forest. I just want to sit in a chair that makes me forget my aching back, pour a glass of decent scotch, and read. Rain helps with that. Oh, Luna, what a fortunate, grand life we enjoy, you and I. May you remain on my lap forever, and may the rains never stop. But we know all too well that none of this is forever. We come and go, pets and humans, and that’s about the extent of it. We are here and then we are not. And if we know love along the way, then so much the better.

A couple of days ago I came to a full stop on a highway that rides a ridge, leading to the closest town. Birds are always on the road ahead and are pretty reliable in terms of taking off before my car gets to them. I saw what I assumed were two birds up the road, but they weren’t taking off, so I stopped, turned on the car’s flashers, and watched as two very tiny raccoons played with each other on the centerline. Their little movements were pure dance, worthy of Bob Fosse, but I knew it had to stop, so I honked the car horn a couple of times and they headed for the grassy ditch. Some folks hate raccoons and want them dead, a notion I don’t share. My wife hit a large raccoon some years ago and the repair bill was $3,500. I felt bad for the raccoon. I suppose if I was trying to cultivate a garden visited by raccoons or had a corn crop they enjoyed decimating I might feel differently, but I doubt it.

Almost 30 years ago my wife and I toiled for a couple of days, planting 300 evergreen trees around the property. Within two weeks virtually all were gone, eaten by deer, and my wife said, “Well, at least we gave the local deer population some dessert.” The perfect response. The voices that comfort me and offer some wisdom and equilibrium are almost always the voices of women. Not sure why that is but in the end, when I’m praying for just one more day out here, I hope the listener is a woman because she will understand.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald recently published a 60-page magazine of Kurt’s columns. The magazine can be purchased here