Winter Greens, a Stone Bridge, and a Fisherman

Diary of a week

Monday, February 19

I found another fisherman. A cable knit Irish wool fisherman’s sweater, that is. To replace the trusty one I’ve worn in the garden on cold spring mornings and chilly fall evenings. The one I pulled on over a white cotton shirt when the shadows began to slant across that high mountain lake that summer day. The one that had begun to show, by holes and pulls, the work it’s done over the years. The one I grabbed, without much thought, to tuck into Mama kitty’s house during the extreme cold of January, an extra layer to keep her warm in minus 40 degrees. She curled up with it, tucked right in (and weathered the cold snap just fine, frosty face and all). It’s hers now.

The new one arrives soon, and I’m relieved, knowing I’ll have a familiar layer to reach for when I wheel my barrow around full of garden tools in the windy days come spring. 

Tuesday, February 20

Joe grows butter lettuce in his greenhouse all winter long. Brian grows pea shoots, spring mix, kale, and spinach. One’s old, the other’s young, both cultivate the soil, sow the seed, grow the goodness for the those of us who live near enough to buy it. I dump this week’s bounty into the kitchen sink and let the cold water rinse it clean. I heap the leaves into a cotton bag, clinch the top with a good grip, stand on the porch, twirl it hard around in a circle this way, then that way, spin it dry. I dump it into the lidded enamel bin for keeping crisp in the fridge. Every midday this week, I grab a handful, put it in a bowl, add whatever fresh or roasted veggies are around. I crumble feta, sprinkle sunflower seeds, crack pepper, drizzle vinaigrette, and have lunch.

Wednesday, February 21

He grew up on a cattle ranch in central Montana, one that still had the stone barns and buildings, and the arched stone bridge that spanned the creek, built nearly a hundred years before. He'd played in them as a kid, without a thought about the architecture, history, and skill chiseled by Swedish masons into every sandstone block. By the time I met him, most of these relics were gone, tumbled down, wiped clean from their footings, relegated to memory and those bygone days. But by this evening light, he was reminiscing about those barns and buildings, about that bridge. I was listening. I so wish I could have seen them, I said. Are there pictures anywhere? Some photos someplace?

Then he remembered a book of valley history, compiled by the wives of ranchers, the daughters of miners way back when. A search then, and there it was, online, every page available to see. And sure enough, on 525, was a photo of the arched stone bridge. That’s it! he said. That’s the bridge on the ranch that I played on and under, and ran across as a kid. 

Thursday, February 22

She’s arrived! White Amadeus opened her first bloom overnight. She’s exquisite, all limey-white petals, tinged here and there with strokes of pink. And I wonder how I’ve lived without an amaryllis in my life before now. This is how it is, isn’t it? We don’t know what we’ve been missing until we experience it once and it changes us forever. 

Friday, February 23

I switched the reading light on, slid between the crisp sheets, and pulled the covers up over my chest. Peanut nestled into my side. I opened the old copy of Stillmeadow Daybook, still in its crinkly dust jacket, and read in February’s chapter. Sleep drew ever closer, my eyes grew drowsy, and I only got through half a page, but it was the part where Gladys writes that it’s time to bring in the branches to force into bloom - apple, quince, and forsythia are favorites, she says. 

Hmm. I perk up. Quince and forsythia aren’t native here in northern Wyoming, but I do know where some wild apple trees are…

Saturday, February 24

A gale wind started in the night and continues to blow a fury. Hurling leaves and tossing branches, it upturns buckets and overturns barrels, too. In the distance, there’s a rumble as it builds. It gathers steam and churns across the plain, the shelter belt, the pasture, and the matted, dormant lawn, blasting Maggie Mae’s ears back as she guards from the porch. She answers with vicious barking at everything that’s tossed askew, letting us know that not all is right in our world.