The Croscuses

Winter’s bitter bullets have lost their grip on the ground and I can hear the birds singing in the meadow. The receding snow line left a wake of last years litter and created a river in the backyard, and the snowplow girl dug the plow to deep and mowed the lawn with gravel.

I hiked up the ridge that separates my property from big John’s in search of rocks. Deer had already cut a path through bracken and brush, and I followed their sign, skirting over dead wood and jumping over the muck and mush. Cholo, my son’s black lab, misses making dog angels in the snow but enjoyed wading in the new river.

It’s important to be prepared when you hike. I wore boots with good traction, a baseball cap to protect me from the brilliant sun, and carried jelly bellies (popcorn and peanut butter are my favorites) and the green water bottle my daughter gave me for my 50th birthday in my backpack.

We traversed along the ridge and then headed up toward bear cave. Although we had spotted bear sign down by Herrmann Lake, I hadn’t seen any around my place, and figured fearless Cholo would protect me from all harm.

The annoying “cheeseburger” birds harped at me, a woodpecker added percussion, and a goose couple blasted their trumpet duo as they flew toward Herrmann Lake.

The cave, a shelter of rocks really, offered some shade. I sat and ate a couple (ok, about 20) jelly bellies and gulped some water. Amazingly enough, my bad knee gave me no grief, and I hadn’t broken a sweat.

I picked up two heart shaped rocks, one with a white line down the middle, the other, a bit bigger and deep purple, and stuffed them in my bag. My son Nik loved rocks. One summer we drove to Calif. and stopped at numerous rest spots. He searched for volcanic rocks and saved them in the trunk of our car. We went to Hawaii and he packed sand and stones in a plastic bag; his suitcase weighed twice as much on the return trip.

I taught Nik how to drive on the back roads of Marijuana knob. We combed the dirt roads for garden rocks; loading up the truck with slate earned him time behind the wheel. When I moved to Sagle last fall, I dug up the prettiest ones and hauled them to the new house. The neighbors must have thought I was crazy, because the land here is already rock heavy.

But the rocks I moved were heavy with memories, and I wanted them for Nik’s memorial garden. We intend to build a rock wall around the perimeter, which means I get to collect rocks wherever I go.

Cholo and I headed down the ridge, and I picked up two more heart shaped stones. We got home, and I added my plunder to the growing pile of rocks near the garden.
And now that spring has sprung, I can start breaking ground. The shovel feels good in my hands and the sun radiates a warmth I haven’t felt all winter. New grass spits out splotches of green on an otherwise brown horizon, and I saw crocuses dotting the landscape.

Next spring, the crocuses will bloom in Nik’s garden, next to his tree, the memorial block Monique made, the rocks Michelle painted, the glass bird feeder, the no moose crossing sign and snowboard bench. His ashes will feed the earth, his essence will linger, and his spirit will soar with the birds.

11 months