Ink Tarsia: word mosaic

At the cabin, it’s finally summer.  Aspens have leafed out, filling the glen with quaking clusters of caterpillar green, a bright shade seen only in montane spring.  My mother follows me as we cross the stream, heading towards the bench set in the rustling aspen grove.  She bends nearly in half as she walks, stopping to examine mysterious new sprigs of bushes and wildflowers.  “A wild rose…” she says.  “And potentilla.  Is that…”  I smile vaguely, because I can’t identify much without a field guide. 

We settle on the bench, which invites us to look up, at pines and aspens that reach tall for the sun on the south-facing slope, along the narrow, flat clearing that adjoins the stream.  Or technically, the crick.  The stream runs seasonally, and seems dry now, though there must be water seeping under the litter of decayed leaves and pine needles, fed by small springs upstream.  Evidence of water surrounds us – green grasses stretching tall, tiny clumps of moss clinging to aspen starts, midges and mysterious insects that nibble at uncovered skin.  This is precious habitat in a semi-arid land of decomposing pink granite.  

 “Are there chiggers?”  my mother asks.  If there are, they’ll find me.  I’m particularly tasty to chiggers. 

 At bedtime in the mountains I’m reading Beyond the Aspen Grove by Colorado naturalist Ann Zwinger.  She tells me about the insects and fauna I’m missing while I sit on the deck and watch clouds, or stare at treetops, rather than look into a microscope and draw what I see.  Zwinger’s book describes years spent exploring her family’s land 40 acres north of Woodland Park, called “Constant Friendship”, after an ancestral home from the 1700s.  The cabin sits at nearly the same altitude as Constant Friendship, perhaps 30 miles away.   

Years ago I attended a Poetry West meeting led by Zwinger, where she handed out blank postcards printed with her plant illustrations.  She led a workshop on “postcard poems,” pieces short enough to be penned on a card.  I scribbled iffy stanzas in my notebook, and quietly stashed the blank cards in my copy of Beyond the Aspen Grove, purchased used from the Aspen Bookshop run by a friend.  I would read sections of the book, and long for the day when I might observe a mountain land as closely as Zwinger had.  With that book, I could carry a dream in my hands. 

At the end of the metting, Zwinger signed my copy:  “A sense of place is what ties us to home…Beyond the Aspen Grove is where I’ve found such a place.” 

My family eats lunch on the large deck.  One end of the deck is marked with caution tape while the deck’s precarious steps are moved and rebuilt.  The east deck drops abruptly into space, like a third-storey door opening to nowhere in an Albert Campion novel. 

My mother says, “Is that an eagle?”  A dark raptor with a white cap makes a lazy circuit over the hilltop across from us. Perhaps he is eyeing the burgers and peach cobbler on our plates. I’ve seen eagles here only when my mother visits.  As the eagle heads downstream, I see the lift of his wing structure, shaped like a longhorn steer, as he sails just over the tops pine trees. 

Not long after, I point out a spectacular red-tailed hawk follows a similar circuit, cutting a circle over the aspens and then continuing west.  The hawk’s wingspan seems particularly broad from this close vantage–7 feet? Perhaps it’s a female hawk, which can be a third larger than a male.  The sun straight overhead shines through her feathers, making wings and tail glow a translucent, rusty red as she banks into the light.  She is the color of red granite lit and soaring. Her wings are flat and fringed with black as she flies west. 

I like to collect photos of funny signs—this one’s from Susan, who full-times in her RV.  She sees plenty of signs in her rambles.  

I regret being caught without a camera when I saw this sign:  VISITORS MUST USE PASS. The letter “P” was missing.

Wish I could locate the print photo of my favorite sign, taken on our first wedding anniversary. The marquee of the Ramada Inn in Glenwood Springs said:    WELCOME SEX CRIMES INVESTIGATORS.   

Luckily, we’d reserved elsewhere. Seen any good signs lately?  

I’ve been fascinated with solar power since I was a girl, when my mother attended classes to calculate what it would take to install photovoltaic (PV) panels on the roof of our middle-class, suburban home.  At that time, there was no option for grid inter-tie.  The decision to go solar meant batteries for electrical storage, and full disconnection from the power grid.  My mother decided the costs and hassles of maintaining the system weren’t feasible.   

Times have changed.  Passage of Amendment 37 in Colorado required local utilities to provide grid-tie options, so that people could install PV panels to produce solar electricity during the day, and draw from the electrical grid at night.  No batteries, no mess.  Just good, clean power.  And no need to install 100% of a building’s electrical demand – a partial solution would work, too.   

I’ve followed the solar industry for about 15 years as an outsider.  Not much a technological type, I’ve simply thought that solar made a lot of sense for where I lived.  In 2006 I attended  the American Solar Energy Society (ASES) national conference in Denver.  Plenaries focused on several aspects of climate change, including a moving presentation by Dr. Jim Hanson of NASA.  This was probably my “come to Jesus” moment for renewables.  Hanson said we had 9 years to make significant changes in order to offset serious and catastrophic effects due to global warming.  I staggered out of Hanson’s lecture, wondering how I was going to prepare my young boys for what might be coming.  If Hanson was right, this might be the dominant issue of their generation. 

 Chuck Kutscher, of NREL, chaired the Solar 2006 ASES conference, and edited a report compiled from the plenaries, called Tackling Climate Change.  This free report has had 500,000 hits since publication, and represents a serious, balanced, solution-charged approach.  It’s possible, if we are aggressive with renewable and conservation solutions, to fill the gap between our current trajectory (what Hanson calls BAU, Business As Usual), and what would be required to lower carbon emissions.   It will be hard work, expensive.  But much less expensive if we act now, rather than wait. 

 On July 7, 2006, I decided the time had come to do our part by installing solar panels, to offset our need for electricity from our city’s coal-burning plant.  We could not install a 100% solution due to roof configuration, but we did what we could.   Last month (April), we were billed for only 107 kilowatt hours of electricity.  BSP (Before Solar Panels), we averaged 400-500 kwh a month on our bills. 

 The new EIRP plan by our local utility studies and predicts energy demand for our community over the next decade and more.  When the first version was released, several people noticed hints about the need to build a new coal-burning power plant.  Community response was small but powerful.  Climate change data was rolling in, and people were understanding that emissions from coal plants were a huge part of the problem. Architect Ed Mazria cites that 80% of global warming is caused by coal-burning plants.   The new EIRP is under revision, but now renewables will have a bigger part of the future energy mix for our community.

 Our family cut our home’s need for coal-burned electricity nearly in half, a teeny investment against building a new coal-burning plant.   Solar panels are expensive, and out of the reach of many families.  The solar industry is working hard to cut costs for solar energy, and bring new technology to the market, to make solar power available to more and more people. 

 We often see long trains carrying coal to the city power plant.  I ask my kids, “What’s on that train?”  Coal.  (hear the bored voices)  “What’s it used for?”  Making our electricity.   My son now says, “Making way LESS of our electricity.” 

When I was a kid, my brother and I competed in the sport of cut-down:  May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.  May the bird of happiness crap on your shoulder. 

In January, we returned to the mountain cabin to discover a bird had moved in.  Evidence suggested a small bird, what a neighbor calls an “LBJ,” a little brown jobber. The bird enjoyed several perches throughout the house, on nearly every piece of furniture except the kitchen table, and particularly the sham on my husband’s pillow.   

That afternoon, we heard a happy chirp coming from the master bedroom upstairs.  We crept quietly up the steps and peeked in the door, to see an LBJ sitting on the old pink armchair, singing in a patch of warm sun coming through the window.   

The bird was not afraid of us.  When the children sneaked too close, the bird simply disappeared by a convenient escape, to chirp merrily in another room–from a bedpost in the boys’ bedroom (nicknamed the Bunkhouse), from a kitchen chair downstairs, from rafters in the downstairs den.   

The finish carpentry for this log cabin is eccentric—the original owner ran out of energy or funds or expertise—and there are holes in corners, gaps between wall and ceiling, mismatched boards, strange configurations of space and storage.  Plenty of fix-up budget will be spent on finish trim. The cabin may have been built from a barn kit; it seems better adapted to horse stalls than bedrooms. 

My youngest boy loves the closets in our bedroom. Abracadabra, he can enter my closet, squeeze behind shelves set in the eaves, and exit through the other closet.  But the bird could slip from an east room upstairs to a west room downstairs  There are more gaps than we realized.  After allowing a single photograph, the wren would reappear to another room and continue singing.  Eventually the LBJ was shooed out a window missing a screen. 

We successfully evicted the Bird of Happiness. 

Not an hour later, we heard chirping upstairs.  This time my oldest boy was prepared.  He consulted his bird book from Grandma, and announced we had a house wren.  Wrens tend to nest in boxes.  This wren selected a heated, 2000 square foot box, and could move freely from outside to in.   

I enjoyed hearing the birdsong in the house, which I did not confess to my husband, who held a contrary view.  The sound of a cheerful song animated the cabin, gave it a heart, like the tick of a deep-toned clock.  Spring sound echoed through the home in a bitterly cold season—surely this was a good omen. Despite LBJ’s significant contribution to janitorial duties, I secretly wished the bird could stay.  We covered couches, tables, chairs with newsprint when we left, hoping he wouldn’t invite a mate, or a house party, before we could return to seal the points of entry. 

In February, my husband slithered through the narrow attic space to tack screening over vents and penetrations.  We didn’t see the wren that day, but learned he now preferred sturdy posts on the upstairs balcony under the skylights, and spent afternoons on the open door to the Bunkhouse.  In March, we found the wren had gone after a brief stay on the Shrader wood stove.  My boys muttered about the Bird of Crappiness as we cleaned the mess.   

Last weekend, there was no evidence of the wren.  I walked outside with the dog after 7:00 a.m., hearing many species of birds fill the glen with song as April sun paints the tips of rocks and pine trees.  I’d like to think the wren found a new home without much trouble, that he had not been trapped in the cabin.   

I’d like to think only one of my brother’s predictions will come true, and that this will not be followed by a plague of fleas.

Last year, in early June, we visited Pearl Lake near Steamboat Springs.  We stayed in a cabin on a small ranch, where the boys could feed ravenous baby lambs with bottles, or watch a bedraggled, grumpy peacock strut in his stall near the horse paddock.

 A storm moved in the afternoon we arrived, bringing microburst winds through the canyon, toppling old growth Ponderosa pines (just missing the cabin roof), and dumping nearly a foot of wet, fluffy snow.  I sat by the crackling fireplace, reading scrapbooks about the ranch and local history.  One told the story of Minnie Pearl Hartt, PEO member and “prizewinning fisherwoman,” who donated part of the family’s sheep-ranching spread to the Colorado State Park system, including the lake that had been named after her.  A smaller pond had been reserved for Minnie to fish, nicknamed “Mini Pearl Lake”. 

The next morning, the snow had stopped, and we drove to Pearl Lake.  Heavy snow dragged the tops of laden aspen trees to the ground, and coated pines with globes of white.  We were alone in the park as we walked the path to the lake, through a tunnel formed by bent aspens, like walking through an arch of swords at a royal wedding.   

The forest was still, except for chunks of soft snow plopping through branches.  Quick-melting snow dropped from treetops, and limbs would shift upwards with a crack as they were liberated from the weight.  The rapid melt sounded like artillery.  We grabbed trunks of bowed aspens lining the path, and shook off some snow, just to hear the swish of leafy branches snapping back to full height.       

Fog and cloud had settled low, obscuring the mountains ringing the lake.   But when we returned the next morning–snow melted, weather warm enough for shirtsleeves, forest floor nearly dry–all the trees stood tall and green.  Skies clear, sun shining, we saw Pearl’s legacy.   

    The calendar changed from February to March while I was in Oxford, MS.  The season changed to spring, right before my eyes.  The first night in Oxford was chilly with humid cold that seeps into the bones, past fleece layers and gloves.  By Sunday lawns were greening, tidy quilts of pansies appeared in beds, a bright red bird (not a cardinal, but what?) sang in the tree outside my hotel window.  That afternoon my flight would land in ice-coated Denver.  I’d make the long drive home on treacherous roads, dodging accidents.  It would be months before I’d see daffodils again.         

Springtime in Colorado is more a concept than a season.  Winter tends to move right to summer, with alternating patches of both in September or May or July.  When I was a girl, my teacher put up calendar posters with daffodils and grass for March, flowers blooming irreverently all over April.  I’d look out the classroom window at the dusty, brown brown brown playground outside, the April-bare trees, and daydream about the Easter dress my mother was sewing for me.  That Sunday I’d have to choose: wear a heavy sweater over the yellow checked seersucker, or wear my scratchy old Christmas dress to church.         

Why couldn’t otherwise smart teachers get the seasons straight? Those dumb posters were a full two months ahead of Colorado’s spring. I’d never hunted Easter eggs without a heavy winter coat.