May flowers, among other things

Somehow it's the middle of May, and I'm not quite sure how that happened.  Mentally, I'm still back at the end of April.  I guess two weeks behind isn't too bad . . .

I'm sitting here on the living room couch while Greg makes dinner.  The evening sunlight is streaming through the window, and the new leaves of the maples are backlit and glowing.  In just the past week everything has leafed out--maples, cherry, apricot, kiwi, lilacs, and even our oak tree.  Pale spring green leaves arch over the streets; all the trees are misted in myriad shades of green.  On the solo hike station for our 4th grade field trips at work, there's a card that asks, "How many shades of green can you see?"  This time of year, the spectrum is vast.  Deep green ponderosa pines.  Pale greeny-yellow cottonwoods.  Bright green larches.  Yellow-green maple flowers and slightly deeper green leaves . . .

After too many weeks of chill, clouds, and rain, we've been getting the warmer side of spring weather.  Temps in the 60s, sunshine, spring breezes, poofy white clouds.  AT LAST.  I've been able to wear my flip-flops (!) and skirts without leggings underneath.  The Farmer's Market has started up, and we've bought local cheese and asparagus and native plant starts.  So many delightful signs of spring!

And our garden is finally starting to take off.  The garlic, of course, is doing marvelously, as is the spinach (from last fall), but now this year's spinach is leafing out, as well as our kale and onions and broccoli.  Despite the slow start, I have high hopes of a good harvest this year.  Our chickies are growing rapidly, too--then again, they have a heat lamp, which our plants do not have.  They're now five weeks old, and this past weekend we expanded their home.  They're supposed to stay indoors until all their feathers have come in, so we have a few weeks to go, and the box they've been living in has become far too small.  Thank goodness for $1 screens from Home Resource and vast quantities of duct tape!  Here are their new digs:

(Their original home was the cardboard box on the left side.  Yah, it was definitely time to enlarge their space!)

We have now named two of them, and are still waiting for inspiration on the last two.  In the picture below, the dark Araucana (the one standing next to the water dish and looking at the camera) is Isabelle, and the larger of the Buff Orpingtons, just left of the thermometer, is Henrietta the Fierce.  Henrietta's been named since day 2, but the other three we've been calling Peeper, Cheeper, and Fuzzbucket (guess who picked those names?  Hint: it was NOT me!) while we wait for their personalities to be revealed.  However, if you have name suggestions, feel free to share!

Other exciting happenings:  our tulips are blooming!  They are so beautiful!  Pictures are most certainly worth a thousand words in this case, so enjoy:

YEAH, tulips!

In February, I finished the field journal I began last year in the Montana Master Naturalist Class, which was an exciting accomplishment.  Even more exciting, however, was beginning a brand new journal.  I love new journals.  All those empty pages with nothing written on them yet, clean and white and fresh-smelling.  Since February 14th, I've been writing and sketching in my field journal several times a week, often during my 15-minute "sanity breaks" at work.  MNHC is located right on the river trail, one block from a huge city park, and two blocks from the Clark Fork River.  In the afternoons, I try to make a point of spending 15 minutes outside, breathing the fresh air and experiencing the weather instead of staring at a computer screen.  I find a place to sit, note the time, weather, and temperature, and then simply look, listen, smell, breathe.  I draw swelling cottonwood buds and snowflakes, the curves of the mountains, the shapes of the clouds, and birds that sit still long enough.

I am so grateful to be taking note of the world around me.  Sometimes I come home, open up our Sibley's Guide to Birds, and sketch a new bird that I've seen that day or week, trying to get to know it better.  Or I'll sit and draw a flower, pick one to press and tape into my journal, and then, at home, I'll look it up in our field guide and learn a little more about it.  I love having this gorgeous, intricate, achingly lovely world around me to explore.  The more I learn about it, the more I love it, and the more I want to get out into it and learn more.

Today I went out to Council Grove, a state park a few miles west of Missoula, to help lead our 4th grade field trips.  One of the stations is a wildlife hike, which MNHC's top volunteer, Valerie, led, but as we walked along looking for birds and animal sign, I was amazed at how much I knew.  I can identify a Lewis' woodpecker and a rufous hummingbird.  I know the calls of the northern flicker, the western meadowlark, and the red-winged blackbird, of the osprey and the cedar waxwing.  There is still so much that I don't know, but I know so much more about the natural history of western Montana now than I did six--or even two--years ago.

This may be my plug for getting to know your place.  So many states have Master Naturalist courses, and even if you've lived in your place for years or decades, there's always more to learn.  It may be one of the most important things you can learn:  the natural history of your place.  Even if there is no MN course available, you can buy yourself a bird guide, a plant guide, an insect guide, and teach yourself.  That may be one of the things I love most about this discipline.  I am grateful for a husband who knows the intricacies of Montana's plant world, and for friends and co-workers who are passionate and knowledgeable about birds and insects and mammals, but even if I didn't have these people in my life, I could teach myself simply by going outside, being curious, and looking closely at the world around me.

If we don't know what's in our world, we'll have little motivation to protect it.  But the more we learn about our place--its seasons, its rhythms, its intricacies, its balances--the more we will want to preserve it in its entirety.  When it comes down to it, we can't afford not to learn about our place, because we can't afford not to care about it.

All right, stepping down from my soap box now . . .

I'll end this by posting some other signs of spring:

Ice cream at the Big Dipper!!

Snow melting from the low mountain areas, leaving behind green landscapes and pools of water:

Transplanting tomatoes into bigger pots as they grow:

Kitty cuteness in the OPEN window!

Two words:  Future.  Cherries.

(Last year, we got four blossoms and no cherries, due to a late May frost.  This year, we have dozens upon dozens of blossoms and we are hoping for no more severe frosts . . . )

The Dude (i.e., Basil) in his happy spot, viewing his domain.

The Shmub (i.e., Nutmeg) looking cute and deceptively dignified.

Gorgeous sunsets, with the sun setting much farther north:

Naps for Greg, who is done with classes for the semester and has a week-long break before the summer session starts, and for Nutmeg, whose life is basically one long nap interrupted only by eating and pooping.

Greg and the kitten have a very special relationship.  One of massive cuteness, among other things.

Happy spring!