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I don shorts, t-shirt, sunglasses, my squeaky tennis shoes, and head out the back door for a walk in Carver Park. It is 9:30 a.m. Step, squeak, step, squeak. I remember it took a while last year before I determined which one of my new shoes was doing the squeaking. It's the right one.
I take a deep breath and greet the great outdoors. It's beautiful. It's delightful. The sky is gorgeous blue, as blue as it has ever been blue. I'm in awe of it and everything around me. It's a perfect unclouded day. Eddy Arnold sings a song about an unclouded day ...
Oh, they tell me of a home
far beyond the skies.
Oh, they tell me of a home far away.
Oh, they tell me of a home
where no storm clouds rise.
Oh, they tell me of an unclouded day.
As I step onto Park Drive, I am scolded by two sparrows perched on a telephone line directly above me. They flitter here and there until I'm several feet away, then resettle on the claim they have staked for the coming summer months.
The sky is huge. I can't get over it. Just up ahead, as I approach the entrance to the Park, I study the scrawny evergreen tree that sticks its cone head high above all of its neighbors. The pine always seems out of place to me. The top thirty percent of it turns as though the tree lives on an ocean's edge and has been windswept all its life.
Step, squeak, step, squeak. All winter long the sumac clung to its red hairy clusters of fruit that point like arrowheads toward the sky. I bet the Indians that once roamed this area of the Big Woods used the powdery stuff to make dye and paint their faces.
The maple trees are still very naked, except for their buds that are about the size of my little fingertip. Through the bare branches I can see glistening ripples on Schutz Lake and the big new homes that sprang up across the lake, high on the hills of Swiss Mountain. The lake is so peaceful and quiet this morning.
Towering above me now, like spokes of an opened umbrella, straight maple branches stretch across the sky. In the depths of summer, when the umbrella acquires the fabric of its life, I can be under those same branches for a full twenty minutes before the rain penetrates. Today, and only for a few more days, I experience the splendid blue sky through the canopy.
On either side of me I become aware once again of the devastation from that nightmarish storm of May 15th, 1999, when tornadic winds played with the forest trees as though they were mere toothpicks, splintering them here and there, strewing them wherever they pleased.
I see that some of the crippled trees are still leaning against each other, hanging on for dear life, with half their roots exposed and half still buried. If they didn't have each other, they'd be down and dead long ago. Soon the lush green wardrobe of summer will hide evidence of the storm's fury.
Step, squeak, step, squeak. The brook is babbling. It runs crystal clear and I'd consider drinking from it if I were thirsty. But I'm not thirsty. The blue, blue, beautiful sky and everything around me are intoxicating. They quench my thirst. They rejuvenate me. They feed a hunger and thirst outside my stomach.
I hear a cardinal. I imitate his song. He answers me. I answer him. I see the cardinal. He's singing from on high, so radiant red against the brilliant blue. I wonder if I fool him. I wonder if he recognizes my accent.
As I come upon the stately gathering of huge oak trees, the jagged scraggly branches are extraordinarily outlined against the remarkable blueness. I'm reminded that God writes straight with crooked lines.
And I'm also reminded of the story of the oak tree and the willow tree that were caught in a terrible storm. The oak cracked and fell to the ground, but the willow bent with the wind and survived. It might seem easy to some people, but I'm not always sure which it is best to be. Is the goal survival at all cost? Survival of what? I think the upright oak preserved its soul in the storm, while the willow lost part of its soul in the bending and com-promising of truth -- which is why it's weeping.
Step, squeak, step, squeak. Swamp frogs are making a racket just around the bend. The frogs all fraternize at the same time, like the noisy blackbirds. In all the 30 years we've lived here in the same place, the frogs have also lived here in the same place. Not the same frogs, of course. Some of them have croaked.
Across Stieger Lake I see the new Victoria water tower. It gives me a bearing. Perspective changes so easily because of all the bends in the roads and trails. Geese are honking as they land on the edge of the lake. They seem irritated by something. An otter? A beaver? Me?
Returning to Park Drive and the downward homeward stretch, I am rewarded, as usual, with the sight of the St. Victoria Church steeple in the distance, clear and distinct in the Victoria horizon. Did you know that no matter from which direction you enter Victoria, you see a church? Coming from the north and west you see Lake Auburn Moravian. Holy Cross Lutheran was also from the north. From the east you see Faith Lutheran. From the south you pass Christ Victorious Lutheran and come upon St. Victoria Catholic. Did you know that's why there's a church on the City of Victoria logo? Did you know the logo was designed by Victoria resident Hilda Caspers with that thought in mind?
Step, squeak, step, squeak. I swear it's the bluest sky I've ever seen in my whole life. It's beautiful. It's breath-taking. It's a perfect unclouded day. Thank you, God.
Oh, they tell me of a home
where my friends have gone.
Oh, they tell me of a land far away
Where the tree of life in eternal bloom
sheds its fragrance through
an unclouded day.
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