Never really Dull

 

My Mother penned this in 1964 for the writers contest and it was published in that year as a contest winner

 Under the Ledge

Or Never Really Dull

Our acquittance with the northeastern corner of the Town of Grover, in Marinette County, known familiarly as “Under the Ledge” came by shear chance. As discontented city-dwellers we spent our free hours wandering side roads in the hope that we would meet our vision of an abiding-place face to face.

This particular Sunday, we came down a gravel road toward the Peshtigo River, the old iron-bridge approaches were overshadowed by tall elms & maples, almost fostering the belief that a covered bridge from pioneer days lay ahead. As we crossed the bridge, we saw a weather-beaten barn on a rise overlooking the river with a small house nestled among some huge trees. Our thoughts quickened! Could this be the fulfillment of our dreams? We hastened around the corner onto a shrub lined narrow gravel road. There was the gate, open and inviting. So, we followed our hearts and approached closer. The dream became reality. Big basswoods marked the yard. The orchard, old and gnarled, spoke a quiet welcome. The red pump suggested cooling refreshment for a warm day. Yes, this was the dream and shortly the land was our piece of “Under the Ledge.” The limestone outcropping has become a familiar friend. Life is never really dull here. We have many visitors and friends to mark the seasons.

Spring is heralded by the marsh hawk, literally harrying his way across the fields. And once we are privileged to watch a male performing his aerial acrobatics for his lady-love. Such grace! Such sheer joy! The meadowlark calls before the frost is gone. The redwings’ notes sound while patches of snow remain. The kildeer utters its lonely cry, and a little later the Wilson snipe calls as twilight deepens to night with a hint of coming warmth in a soft breeze. Hearing a raucous series of sounds one spring morning we rush to the riverbank to see a pair of Canadian geese patrolling the far bank. They are our guests for a few days, breaking their long trek northward.

Another day with a hint of snow in the air we drive down from the Ledge and slow as we turn the corner. There, on a low branch, above the corner midden and among the potsherds of our local neighborhood sits an immature male summer tanager. Another red-letter day! Only much later do we learn that he is a rare visitor her. 

Time  speeds on and bird sounds grow louder as homes are built and territories staked out.  The phoebe whisks furtively in and out of the garage; a nest hangs against a rafter; and we try to be furtive as she so we can see too.

  
The bluebirds seem completely uninhibited when they arrive. Did someone say rare? Not here, by observation. They fight the tree swallows for homes and try almost any opening for size. A white can with a proper hole is as intriguing as a green birdhouse. Even the chimney is a target. Our eyes sting with smoke because the chimney won’t draw and upon investigating, we find a dead bluebird. How crazy can they get?

The tree swallows chatter and whirl. They, too, are temporarily bereft of sense for the transformer looks like a desirable house site. Suddenly, the male plummets like a stone to earth! The female waits around sorrowfully for several days before going husband-hunting.

Before long we notice barn swallows hurtling and sailing over the garden toward the pump. Then we note they’re building on an open rafter on the back porch. So they settle down to housekeeping, even though we don’t exactly appreciate using the front door instead of the kitchen door.

On our way to town, we see upland plovers and their chicks madly tearing around the highway intersection. We stop to look and even chase some out of the way of oncoming traffic. When we return, we see there has been a bloody carnage at the corner and wee blots lie around the intersection. 

The season plunges onward into summer. On a walk to the point behind the barn we wee a tall plant standing like a flare and almost as tall as the owners. Yes, deep summer is here, for the cardinal lobelia is in full bloom and the season will fade shortly into haze and fall.

 has brought some of our shyer neighbors into the yard. The hayfield has been cut and in the corner of the yard a disposed woodchuck alternately cowers and chatters defiance. He’s just a small creature and not at all as we had pictured him when reading about him. Finally, we convince the dogs he is just a harmless visitor. By late afternoon he has found himself a new home, we hope. 

Another time we are not so charitable.  There is an excited yapping while we are at dinner. The din becomes so vociferous we feel forced to investigate. There, under the car, baring his teeth, scooting around and screeching, is a mink. While we always try to be tolerant, we feel that he is presuming too much. A mad chase ensues around and around the car. Where’d he go? Open the hood! There his malevolent glare greets us from his hiding place in the motor. Finally, we win the contest, dislodge and dispatch him. We look askance at the sorry piece of fur left. Could this have been that wildly fighting fury?

The ducks have been extremely busy all summer chasing bugs. Insect collection suffers from their activities, even without the help of kittens, who have already consumed two sets of 4-H insects. So, we betake ourselves to “Flutterbut Corner” to replenish the collections. Even the large dragon flies rest themselves there. One day there is one at least five to six inches long. He looks like a small branch, but we cannot net him. Just recently we learned why. Butterflies and dragon flies are not disturbed by seeing us but by the movement of our shadows. We are not equipped to approach the big blue dragonflies which laze along like bluebirds over the river.

‘Twill not be long until the harvest is completed so we snatch eagerly at a last fling with summer. The moon rides high; the southerly breeze is soft and warmly caressing. We take our can of worms, poles, and buckets and choose our favorite rocky seat at the bend where the fishin’ hole lies. Indeed, the wind blows the bait in the fishes’ mouth, and we ardently pursue our pastime for we shall certainly appreciate these panfish on a cold winter day.

    The season moves on. The Aurora lights the northern sky at night. Suddenly there is a real display. The shimmering waves of golden light roll like a surf to a semi-circle at the Zenith. Roman candles in shades of green tinged with rose and golden flicker, flare, and depart.

    There is a distinct chill to the night air. An evening stroll takes us to our favorite point above the river. The stars and huge and close. A splash here disturbs the reverie of sky – water – stars. Which are the stars and which the reflection?

    The next day a big northern takes the bait and our frog-pond inlet becomes still. The bottle gentians are long gone. A flock of geese honks noisily by. The summer visitors have departed. An occasional “dee” flirts” through the yard. Before long we should have winter callers.

    The moon is full. The corn is dry in the adjoining field. There is a swish of many rustling wings, accompanied by a sudden screaming honk, wild geese! They may have been misled by the moon on the bend our Peshtigo, but they stay awhile to rest, eat, and discuss among themselves. In about an hour they are on their way south.

    Taking a walk to see what’s new at the frog-pond we go over the rise by the point and hear branches breaking ahead of us. We have noticed our dairy goats standing on the crest looking down the far side. So, we look around, too. Yes, there is a cedar with “buck markings”. So, we do have deer out here. We see a path through the deep grass along the edge of the pond. Closer to the house we see a large depression in the grass, so we presume the deer have been sleeping close by. Later we notice that they have also visited the orchard. 

    After the first snowfall all the small glacial rises show, and thoughts go back in time. Surely before this valley was partially tamed it must have been breathtaking, for it is still awesomely inspiring. Some neighbors, whose parents came as homesteaders, tell us of the Ledge with its streams of water running from between the chinks in the limestone. These streams are dry now. The springs which our predecessors on our small piece of land used for water are undiscoverable. The heavy rains carry any loose soil into the river, thus continuously stealing from an unprotected field and covering springs. Our frog-pond entrance, which was very wide when we found our piece of “Under the Ledge”, is now narrow and shallow. The sandspit beside it has stretched about 7 times is original length and is so built-up it provides a beach of sorts for sunbathing and swimming. The river is still wire at times, but what it must have been in years gone by?

    The season wears on. The river has been up and out. Ice covers the river flat. Upon a sudden turn in the road a doe stands revealed. We open a window, and our voices disturbs her. The quiet of the night reverberates with sound as she crashes her way frantically along the river flat.

    One late winter afternoon the air is filled with chirring’s in such quantity we go see the makers. The back orchard is brimming with a flock of bohemian waxwings gorging on frozen greenings. 

    Another time the cedar in the yard houses many little birds. We investigate and see pine siskins, just like the picture in the book.

    Again there is a change in the air. It rains; the river rises and overflows it’s banks. We stand at the bridge and see an animal straight out of a Walt Disney book. Is it an otter? It must be, for it has no flat tail. When we do get the boat out onto the river, we row over to the bank into what is the frog pond. We see a popple lying in the water. It wasn’t there last week. After the usual family accusations and denials, the subject is dropped. Later inspection reveals we had at least another visitor. Only a beaver could have done that! Then a neighbor reports a brook with a beaver dam where there had been a beaver dam fifty years ago. 

    Soon the spring will be here full tide and another stream of visitors, furred, feathered, and otherwise will be upon us. Who will be the next stranger we meet? Life “Under the Ledge” is never really dull.