Avoca St. Patrick's Day Parade

Is there anything more Americana than a small town parade?  Even if the parade is in celebration of the life of a European minister, small towns go all out and the atmosphere is always charged with joy and expectation.  Children line up in the front row with empty bags in hand, waiting for the initial launching of candy from the first float.  Parents mingle with other adults and enter into pleasant conversation.  In the distance the sound of drums beating and brass instruments tuning up announce that the big event is about to begin.

As I stood along a street in the tiny town of Avoca last Saturday it occurred to me that everyone seems happy when attending a parade.  I never saw a long face in the crowd.  People are generally more pleasant and patient at parades.  I find them more gracious and giving.

It further occurs to me that I have never seen a brawl break out at a parade.  I'm sure that it has happened somewhere at some time, but I have never seen one.  Over the years I've been to countless parades, making the observation all the more significant in my mind.  I've seen fist fights and shoving matches break out at all kinds of other gatherings of large numbers of people:  sporting events, concerts, county fairs, parties, tractor pulls, you name it.  I even saw a fight break out at a flea market one time, but never at a parade.

What is it about a parade that makes us better people?  I know that I'm a better person at a parade.  This is true unless some moron suddenly stands in front of me while I sit in my favorite lawn chair (which happens to have a cup holder and a head rest.  It's a thing of beauty.)  Then I get cranky.  Inconsiderate people tend to make me so.  But other than that, I am a decent person and downright neighborly when I go to a parade.  My lovely wife, Lisa, even admits to others that she knows me when we're at parades.

Maybe the world needs more parades.

At any rate, the following pics were taken at last Saturday's St. Pat's Day parade in Avoca, Wisconsin.  I was not the photographer.  Lisa captured these scenes I must say that she did a spectacular job of it.

After the passing of the color guard came a group of people in green shirts.  Some rode a wagon, others walked, and others still rode motorcycles.  There were no signs indicating what they were about, but they seemed to be having fun.

While small in number and some in stature, these Irish dancers were a delight.  Particularly the little one that is just beginning to step out and perform her solo routine.

Ah yes, you've got to love small town parades.  Even garbage trucks are considered float material.  The amount of decorating done to this garbage truck must have taken hours to complete and, no doubt, must have cost the owner a great deal.

Addy and Grace always enjoy a good parade.  It provides them with candy, something that we do not buy, for a few weeks or even months.  I happened to notice that they were hesitant about going after the candy that came shooting out of the garbage truck.

Nathan was in charge of our dog, Dugal.  Yes, even on St. Patrick's day we McDougals wear Packer garb. Nathan is clearly thrilled to be at this exciting event, as is Dugal.  So much for my parade theory.

Somehow the parade planners were able to come up with a genuine Leprechaun.  I personally viewed this as crude and repulsive.  It was clearly an exploitation of this particular Leprechaun and belittling to Leprechauns in general.  They do not wear green suits.  They do not wear green top hats.  They most definitely do not wear sunglasses.  And where in the heck is his little pot of gold?  I hate to say it, but I am beginning to doubt that he is actually a Leprechaun at all.

A few members of the U.W. Madison Marching Band joined in the festivities.  They were quite a highlight for the crowd.  Go Badgers!

By far the biggest highlight, and most disturbing site, was this individual.  We don't know what his story was, and  we do not want to know.  We shielded the eyes of Grace and Addy as he came down the street and we prayed that he would not stop by to offer them candy.

Stinging Nettle Quiche

The unseasonably warm weather has brought about changes on the farm that we normally do not see until April.  The grass in the lawn has not only greened, it's ready for a mow.  Leaves have developed on Honeysuckle and other bush-type plants in the woods.  The elm trees have grown their leaves.  Our Nanking Cherry bushes are blooming.  Mosquitos have been attacking the kids whenever they go down to the creek.  Red Wing Blackbirds and Robins appeared a couple of weeks ago and are now looking completely at home as they go about building their nests.

Yesterday was the first day of Spring.  It began for me when Grace came in from the barn with a large smile on her face and something hidden behind her back.  "Surprise!" she shouted and held out the egg basket.  Two fresh eggs were inside.  Grace would find a third  to add to them later in the afternoon.  It's amazing that our chickens would come out of their winter egg-laying dormancy and begin doing their business again on the first day of Spring.  The girls have impeccable timing.  Yeah, pun intended.

Yesterday afternoon I was assessing the state of the garden and came upon a patch of Stinging Nettles.  The tallest of them was about six inches long.  I've never seen nettles so far along this time of year.  The discovery of the eggs combined with the appearance of the nettles put me in the mood to forage for dinner.  I started on our hill near the Hickory Grove.  I only found a half a dozen small patches of nettles, and they were smaller than the ones I had found in the garden.  I then went to my favorite spot for nettle picking: the barn's foundation.  In the best spot I found nettles with stems that were nearly a foot long.

I decided to try them in a quiche.  After washing them and cutting the leaves from the stems, I blanched the the leaves for a few minutes.  I do this to kill off any creepy crawlies that may have come along for the ride.  Heating Stinging  Nettles in any way also removes the oils that cause them to sting when touched.  I saved the broth and will either use it to make tea or Stinging Nettle and Fiddlehead soup.

After they cooled down I poured them into the egg/sour cream/softened cream cheese mixture that I had prepared.  I added my favorite seasonings (which almost always includes garlic powder, onion powder, sea salt, fresh ground pepper, and chicken soup base) and stuck it in a 310 degree oven.  I pick 310 degrees because I find the traditional 300 or 325 degree cooking temperature to be too boring.  When the edges were just beginning to brown I added shredded cheddar cheese and voila!  Stinging Nettle Quiche.

I have to admit, I done good on this one.  I was surprised at how well the flavor of the nettles and the eggs complimented one another.  It also received rave reviews from the family, which is always a good thing.

The Bobcat Returns

These photos of a bobcat were captured on March 13, 2012, a little over a month since the last time that my trailcam caught him/her.  It seems a little less freaked out by the camera flash than it was the first time.  I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not.

Straight Lines and Right Angles

For many years now I have waged a war against conformity. I do not seek nor do I wish for anarchy. I am not anti-establishment for the sake of being anti-establishment. If anything I desire to avoid conformity only upon reaching the conclusion that the only good reason to conform in some matter is to join others who have already conformed.  If the sole benefit is being numbered among the masses, I'm not interested.

I would prefer and actively seek to be a person who thinks outside the box. It sounds easy enough. It is not.

I am not referring to some simple adolescent battle with peer pressure here. What I battle is far more hideous. It is often subconscious.  It is second nature. It is somehow deeply imbedded in my soul and seeks to destroy my uniqueness. It wants to obliterate any abstract thought. Rather it rewards an ordered life and lifestyle with a pseudo-peace and a pseudo-comfort that come from making straight lines and right angles. Curves are out of the question.

I hate the drive from Dodgeville to Madison on Highway 151. There are no curves. It's flat and it's straight and it's boring. Two or three miles to the north are some of the most beautiful hills and prettiest country roads that you'd ever want to see. Knowing this makes the 151 journey all the more miserable. Yet the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. So I bow to the wisdom of the highway planners and take a road well traveled.

The woods are one of my favorite places to be on all the earth. Put me in a couple of acres of trees that reach well above my head and I am at home. It is nearly impossible to walk a straight line in the woods. I like this.

I noticed some time ago that forests planted by humans are different than the natural variety. Regardless of the age of the forest, you can usually find rows. Nice, straight, orderly rows. It's as if we human beings are incapable of duplicating natural beauty.  We can't even get close.  We reject abstract design and surrender to an overwhelming need to add straight lines and right angles.

The other day I took a break from tree cutting and bush trimming. Physically exhausted I looked for something good to read while my aging muscles recovered. I settled on E. B. White's, “One Man's Meat.” It is a collection of his essays that I picked up last week at the Spring Green library.

In the section entitled, “Removal,” I came upon these lines: “This life I lead, setting pictures straight, squaring rugs up with the room- it suggests an ultimate symmetry toward which I strive and strain.” In his ongoing struggle to bring straight lines and right angles to his world he concludes that it, “satisfies something fundamental in me, and if, fifteen minutes later on my way back, I find that the rug is again out of line, I repeat the performance with no surprise and no temper.”

I immediately thought of the bushes that I had just pruned. They had been placed near the edge of our yard by the previous owners. They had been planted in a straight line. They had looked more like small trees rather than bushes. They had grown so tall that they were now blocking precious sunlight needed by the cherry trees that I had planted near them. So I attacked them with my Stihl chainsaw and my hand trimmers.

As I read E. B. White's words I was struck by the fact that I had once again failed to battle that fundamental weakness within me that seeks, “an ultimate symmetry.” I chopped the tops of the bushes to an even height. I pruned their branches to make straight lines. I made right angles at the ends. Never did I entertain an abstract thought regarding their appearance. Not once did I consider allowing each bush to retain its own identity. I forgot all about curves and I felt ashamed. And then I laughed.

The battle had been lost and once again I had failed to realize that I was at war. I took a photo of my handiwork. It's there, and now here, to remind me of my shortcomings. As Frost put it, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by.” Hopefully I will do better with the lilacs.