The Cultural Infidel

It's a warm enough day, for here and now, with a light breeze and an outdoor temperature of 61 degrees. Anything over 60 is my excuse to open the windows and let the air through. In the front, out the back -- until evening, when it reverses. I just love mountain air convection currents, especially in Summer when the daytime temperature can reach into the 90s and the downslope evening convection current comes to cool everything off again.

There is almost certainly still more snow between us and (what ought to be) planting time. Many of my remote acquaintances are already planting, some are already harvesting radishes and a few salad greens, but it's a month away yet for us here at 6250' on the Western Slope of the Colorado Rockies.

I'm not planting this year as the landlady/slumlord has decided that I shouldn't make use of the ground where my 2500 square foot garden once was. We don't know why she came to that decision; the story she gave me is nothing like the one she gave to a neighbor. A couple nights ago, right around sunset, a big dog wandered over and deposited his calling card right in the middle of what used to be my garden. My first feeling was outrage, momentarily, but then I realized that it's not my problem. I'll never again plant that ground that I worked so hard to improve for my beautiful organic vegetable and herb garden, the earthworm populations in the soil will dwindle, the ladybugs, dragonflies, damselflies, wasps, toads, snakes, robins, sparrows, et al. will not find it such a happy hunting ground as it once was, and some day (probably soon) it'll all be under either concrete or a damnable lawn full of pesticide, herbicide, and chemical fertilizers -- perfectly unfit for living things.

No matter. This is just another town along the road, and if my business will do well for the next few months we'll blow on down the road once more, closer to where we think we might want to be. The ultimate goal being to buy (with cash) a nice chunk of ground upon which we can put down roots and remain for the rest of our days. Other than occasional forays into town for the things we would like to have but cannot provide for ourselves, I intend to stay within my own fences, tending to my own affairs and minding my own business.

Now there's a novel idea: minding one's own business. More folks ought to take that advice, I think, and make that demand of their appointed rulers, too. If we all just let well enough alone and didn't concern ourselves with things that are not properly ours to direct, more of us would be free to enjoy a beautiful Spring day such as the one we're having here today.

There's nothing quite like a fine Spring day in the mountains. The air has a quality that cannot be found at any time anywhere else. There's a hint of life in it, some indescribable quality of it that signals that out there in the world new life is emerging from the soil. It's not the cold, lifeless air of winter, and it's not the life-abundant air of summer with definable fragrances of pine, oak, aspen, grasses, et cetera. There's just a hint of something there, something green and growing but as yet still too young to have developed its personality. It's the air of hope, and of trust, the trust that the days will warm, the rains will come, and once again the seasons will play out as they always have. There may be hordes of voracious grasshoppers in the future, or fires, or drought, or even excessive rain, but the air of an April day in the mountains doesn't give any hint of them. This is the kind of a day that makes me think that I might just want to live forever so I don't miss any of them.