After spending three seasons missing the linden flower harvest, I finally got it right: summer solstice. The blossoms have a beautiful delicate scent, and make a lovely tea. As the elderberry flowers are also in full bloom, I’ve been enjoying the two together in the evenings.
We planted linden trees in and around the parking lot of Amazing Space. Not only will they grow quickly, to provide shade for the vehicles, but their blooms are popular with the bees (and me!). The leaf buds and young leaves are also edible.
It was difficult to pick the perfect tree for landscaping the parking lot. On a completely practical level, the criteria were straightforward: native, edible, and no messy fruits or large nuts to drop on cars. The linden gives us that. I hope, as they mature, the landscape will evoke the same feelings one has when visiting the Lindenhof in Zurich, Switzerland. It is a place rich in cultural history and a place people gather to share time with one another.
The land is waking up from winter’s slumber.
This is the Indian Creek I know and love, by its confluence with the Red Cedar River. By the river, the creek ranges from 50 feet to 80 feet wide. The Cedar empties into the Iowa River, which empties into the Mississippi, which carries our top soil and excessive nitrogen down to the Gulf of Mexico. Not only does Iowa lead the nation in corn production, hog production and chicken egg production, we also are the lead contributor of excessive nutrients that cause the dead zone in the gulf of Mexico.*
The bank is encrusted by rip rap for stability. Both the Union Pacific Railroad and Otis Road cross Indian Creek within view of the confluence. I swim the shallow pools of Indian Creek on hot August days and tap the sugar maples along its banks in February. I have watched the belted kingfisher nest in its banks and rescued fawns from its floodwaters. Every spring, and sometimes in the summer, I watch the water slowly edge out of its banks, submerge the land, and creep across Otis Road. Indian Creek is where I met my first gar and taught my nephew how to fish.
I have kayaked the creek in hot summer days, when I felt like mostly I was just dragging the kayak across the gravelly bottom and had to portage at the golf course. Other days I have watched the water go ripping by so high and so fast it has torn the pedestrian bridge off of its footings.
Less than a mile upstream from the mouth is the historic Daniel Mills bridge, a wrought iron truss bridge built in 1876. It is commonly called the blue bridge, in part because it is painted blue and in part because who Daniel Mills was is fading from cultural memory. Along its banks is an ancient black walnut tree, the biggest I have ever seen, and a rare old-growth grove of Kentucky Coffee trees.
On Sunday, a friend introduced me to another version of the creek, 14 miles north as the crow flies. By car, it was a 17.5 mile trip to the origin of Indian Creek. If we had followed the meandering course of the stream, we would have traversed 24 miles. At its headwaters, the creek is a beautiful and dainty little thing, meandering through a pasture, so narrow you can step over it without breaking stride.
As the creek journeys south, East Indian Creek, Berry’s Run, and Dry Creek join it, creating a 93 square mile watershed. For the first 11 miles or so, the creek runs through conventional crop land. Tile lines protrude periodically from the banks, dumping fast moving frigid water laden with nitrogen into the creek. After that, it becomes an urban creek, running through four cities. It cuts through the edge of the landfill, back yards, schools and golf courses. Hard surface pavement dumps fast moving warm water laden with oil residue and other chemicals into the creek.
Indian Creek is full of diverse problems as well as diverse beauty. It is my watershed. It is my home.
*This is a tangent in our prowess at leading the nation, not a tributary of the creek. We are the largest ethanol producer in the country. In 1869, Iowa had the first woman lawyer in the country. Every four years, Iowa holds the first presidential caucuses, and in August 2020, we also led the nation for most Covid-19 cases.
February 28. The fog is so thick the horizon between prairie and forest, between snow and air, is subtle. I got in what would be my last snowball fight of the season.
March 7. The maple sap stopped flowing. The skunk cabbage is up. This morning, we sit in the open doorway, feeling the world wake up between the first raindrops of spring. Nitro, Peaches and Jeff pause in an unspoken moment of truce. They are not in pursuit of peace, they are just entranced by that delicate, ephemeral moment when the warmth of the furnace on their backs shares equilibrium with the warmth of outdoor air on their faces.
March 15. The sound of clattering ice wakes me up. It is being driven by a solid 25 mile per hour wind into the side of the house. Tree tops, unattached but suspended in the air since August, have been wrenched down to the ground. The precipitation vacillates all day between snow, ice, and rain. Spring lies buried under a layer of frozen slush.
The flock of roosters was initially unintentional. I thought they would all be in the stew pot by autumn. I was wrong. I have the setup, the routine, and lonely birds. It is time to add some ladies, and I spent a lot of time at the Hoover’s Hatchery website and the Murray McMurray Hatchery website. The new additions need to be the right birds.
The flock free ranges. No fence in sight. Except for the garden fence, which they go over, under and around freely. They established their own range and stay within 130 feet of the chicken house. That range overlaps with predators: the dog, the cats, the racoons, the mink, the fox, and yes, the hawks. I need birds that forage well, are rugged, friendly and independent. Just like me.
My current flock makes me smile, and any additions need to be just as eye-catching. The Sapphire Gems are a gorgeous blue-grey and lay 290 large brown eggs a year. That makes them one of the top layers on the market. They are also a bit on the big side, weighing in at 6 pounds, and that makes me nervous.
Guineas are small, weighing about 3 pounds. That means my guineas could easily end up at the bottom of the pecking order. When guineas end up at the bottom of the pecking order, they end up in the tops of trees. I am trying two of the Sapphire Gems, which a neighbor will take if they become too dominate in the aviary. I am getting five Blue Andalusians. The heirloom Andalusians are smaller, and each feather is a dark laced grey, which means they will be exquisite looking birds. The Andalusians lay 280 medium eggs a year, so the production is significantly less than that of the Sapphire Gems.
If two of the seven hens survive to maturity in my yard, which is statistically what will happen, they will still produce more eggs than I can eat in a year. The trade off of smaller birds, smaller eggs and fewer eggs is worth it to me if it keeps my mixed flock content.
I am lying on my back under the sun, under the sky.
I am lying on the snow, suspended above the soil, above the prairie I burned last fall.
The flames of fall reduced the grass we think of as prairie to ash, reduced the grass we think of as prairie to the air I am now lying in.
Underground there is still a massive tangle of roots, woven together by mycorrhizal structures.
I can feel the transformation of spring through the sun on my face, through the snow on my back.
The snow insulates the prairie from the seasonal shift; I suspect the roots feel nothing yet.
I wonder if the air feels the emptiness of the space, if the air misses curling around the silicon-laced stalks of big bluestem and gliding over the petals of the gentian, if the air misses flitting through the styles of the prairie smoke.
I wonder if the air around the unburned autumn prairie was more dense than the open air I now lie in.
I wonder if the barred owls, chattering and hooting night and day now, are calling the prairie roots awake through the snow.