
A perfectly placed walnut??
I took these pictures while walking in the county park just across from our place. Spring was barely peeking out, but I could finally smell the DIRT thawing, I was squishing in the mud where melted snow had been. And robins! Such relief. And just around the the bend, on the trail next to the lake, on a brushy branch I found…a walnut. A walnut perfectly balanced in the crook of a scrub tree.…absolutely no walnut trees around. I didn’t see or hear the squirrel, and I tried to imagine the moments and possible stories leading up to this tiny present in the tree. And just as I was thinking about sharing these moments on the blog, in the middle of bright yellow-green leaves and squishy mud and twittering birds telling us they are alive and back!….my cell phone rang. Dad wanted to let me know that our closest neighbor Art had gone to the hospital.
Art and his wife Loraine are in thier 80s, and memories of them are part of the landscape of my childhood. He was the neighbor we traded work with, helping harvests or borrowing equipment. A strong tall Sweede, man of few words, Art was the handiest guy I knew. Art and Loraine married later in life and never had children. I suppose that early on some of our neighbor relationship developed when Art needed a second hand, but mostly, it seems it was Art that helped us. Another neighbor said, “If Art couldn’t fix it, you were in trouble.”

Art in the 1970s
I remember him most baling hay for us, small square bales popping into the hay rack in the field south of our house. At seven or eight or ten years old, it would be my job to take Art his “lunch,” a midafternoon snack while making the rounds, maybe cookies or a ham sandwich, and always, not matter how hot it was, a thermos of coffee.
Art has been in the rest home for about two years now, his wife Loraine visiting him every single day. She packs a lunch for him because he hates the food. Of course he hates everything about it, mostly because it isn’t home. When he first arrived the rec director asked him what he most enjoyed doing.
“You can’t do anything to help me,” he told her. “My favorite thing is being on the tractor.”
“Well, she told him, “you never know, once I was able to get some out here in the parking lot…”
“No,” he insisted. “My favorite thing is to be on my tractor out in the field.”

Home from the rest home for the weekend, saying hello to Buddy
It’s been a difficult few years, and when we got to the hospital to see Art, to say goodbye, Loraine and their great-niece Becky were there. He was unresponsive. Heavy labored breaths. Looking at him, but really seeing memories of overalls and tinkering on tractors, welding masks and a quiet nod to say hello, I wanted to say what never gets said. He’s just been there. It seemed funny to give him a hug. Art was not the huggy type. But awkwardly, I did anyway. And holding his hand, listening to his labored breathing, all I can tell you is what a strong, peaceful presence I felt, as if he’d left his weak, frustrating body, as if his spirit was already back on his tractor, making plans for spring. He died a few hours later.
As my sister Mary said, “I’m not surprised he died this time of year. Sitting there, knowing it was planting time, looking out and knowing you wouldn’t be out there. I know I’d feel the same way.”

Ditches burning
The days have passed since Art’s funeral. It’s now violet and asparagus season, deep green grass season. Our yards have been mowed a few times, and buffalo are ignoring big round hay bales in the corner of the pasture, preferring the new grass. We burned the ditches along the house, the fire carrying away the old to make way for the new. The buffalo surprising me that day, coming down in the smoke and walking along the field where the fire spread from the ditch into the cornstalks. Even they sense the new life that will come from burning what was before. This is Spring. This morning, the lilac and scrub oak, the raspberry bushes, the wild plumbs along the fences are busted out in leafy greens, as excited as anything to know it’s warm again. And I laugh at the way the old trees, the oak and the hickory, are NOT out yet, the big trees always holding back til the very last, as if they are saying in their old-man voices, “hmmm…maybe it’s spring, but we’ll see…”

Another season
But eventually even the old man trees will come to life, and as spring settles into summer, I see Art each new turn of green, in the tractors driving by to plant, in the stoic old trees. I remember the strong, peaceful presence of a life changing seasons. Art was not a huggy guy, but he was a kind, much-loved man. I hope you are watching from winds above, and I hope you know how much you are missed.