Spring takes wing in triumph and tragedy

As I write this a single, small wild turkey is moving across a field in front of my house, employing a slight strut, head moving forward and back with each step. She is headed toward a spot I marked with a small flag, one that will remind me not to mow over a thatched, furry nest newly created by an eastern cottontail rabbit. Not sure that it’s a wise place to build a nest, as predators will easily spot the comings and goings of the little creatures. I suppose on some level or other we all fall prey to our own stupidity.

For the past week dozens of brilliant American white pelicans have been hanging out on a nearby small river, significantly lowering the fish population. Soon they’ll be back in flight, heading toward the Great Lakes, Canada maybe. A part of me envies their ability to simply move on, something I cannot always do successfully, hanging on to vestiges of both happiness and grief. One of these days I hope to throw some clothes into a bag, pack up my cameras, find a nanny for my cats, and move on for a while, just to reacquaint myself with what’s out there, what I’ve been missing, or simply not noticing.

Wild plum trees in the hollow are in bloom, standing out against a backdrop that hasn’t entirely leafed out. Soon the petals will float to the ground and the trees will go to work growing what has to be one of the most sour fruits on the planet, one I ritually sample at summer’s end, as I’ve done for the last quarter-century, like a brief taste of a now-lost, beautiful, glossy-lipped lover, knowing the end will be neither satisfying nor pleasant.

Early last December on a cold, snowy day someone delivering a package decided that coming down my lane was too treacherous, so the package was put into a clear plastic bag and knotted to my 911 post at the top of the drive. It was so cold I could not get the knot unraveled, so I sliced the bag, took the package, and left the bag, where, five months later, it continues to fly proudly. Not sure why I leave it there, maybe because a friend from a nearby town visits on occasion and she uses it as a marker telling her where to turn into my lane. Generally, I don’t much care for visitors, but this one brings food.

A couple of hen pheasants lost their battle with traffic up on the two-lane last week and a neighbor who knows about these things told me that their deaths mean that a bunch of already-laid eggs won’t be hatched this year. The pheasant population out here continues to dwindle.

Recently I was in a patient waiting room at a large university hospital when a tall, nice-looking young man sitting near me pulled out his cellular telephone to make a call. “Hi. Can you tell me how much it would cost for an alternator for a 2006 Chevy Trailblazer?” After a long pause, and an answer that likely tested his pocketbook, he asked, “If I found one at a junkyard, what would it cost to have you install it?”

The young man’s predicament took me back almost a half a century, to a time when I had neither money nor decent transportation, a time I don’t miss, but also a time when I was simply feeling it for the first time, encountering a world both frightening and exhilarating, a world I didn’t, and don’t, understand.

When his appointment with his doctor was complete he walked past me. I spoke to him. “Good luck with the alternator,” I offered. He slowed a bit, gave me a big smile, and said, “Thank you, sir. Hopefully I can get it figured out.” I so wanted to tell him that it would be OK, that he should remember the admonition in Voltaire’s novel Candide, in which the title character believes, despite evidence to the contrary, that everything always turns out for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds. I didn’t say anything, as he’d have thought me a nut job. I just smiled back. Then he was gone.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.