Spring Lake, Summer and Winter

Once upon a time a stone quarry sat near the north bank of “Kyte Crick” as it curves around the south side of Rochelle turning westward toward the Rock River. From as early as the 1840s blocks of limestone cut at this site were hauled away to become foundations for buildings, sidewalks, and gravel for roads in the area. As rock was removed and the quarry grew larger, a spring on the west side gradually filled the hole with water, creating a pond. In the winter months men harvested ice and loaded it into Miles Braiden’s ice house, and undoubtedly during the summer months people from town were attracted to the spring-fed pond for swimming and fishing.

In 1924 Braiden’s widow sold the land to the city of Rochelle, and the quarry and pond officially became a park, eventually named Spring Lake. Over the years the site was improved. The south end of the pond remained undeveloped, decorated with “no swimming” signs and sometimes dotted with rowboats and fishing poles, but the north end became the city’s swimming pool. Probably in the 1930s or ’40s concrete edges were added along the northern third of the pond, making it more pool-like. Wooden fences and walkways were built to divide the swimming area into shallow, medium, and deep sections, and to separate the swimming area from the forbidden “no swimming” south half of the pond. Most notably a castle-like bathhouse was built against the rock cliff at the north end, to serve both as the official entrance to the pool and as an announcement of the pool’s presence for anyone driving into town from the south on US Highway 51. Old pictures show that at some time in the past a large slide was added to carry bathers swiftly down into the pool from the third floor of the bathhouse, but I don’t remember ever seeing that — it must have been removed before I was old enough to go to the pool.

Spring Lake (1940s?) looking northwest

From my house I had about a 15 minute walk — south on 9th Street, past the city power plant that lurked like some fire-breathing dragon hulking over its treasure hoard between the two sets of railroad tracks, across Lincoln Highway on its west-bound journey out of town, then a block east on Avenue A to near 8th Street where a flight of wooden steps took me down the old quarry wall to the pool entrance on the second floor of the bathhouse. I paid my admission and entered, still clutching a few precious coins for some later treat from the concession counter; a flight upstairs to the dressing room to change into my swimming trunks if I hadn’t arrived wearing them, and then two flights down again to the sandy “beach” at the side of the pool, not forgetting to step into the box of pale green liquid disinfectant that I assume was supposed to reduce the spread of athletes’ foot.

In my memory the pool was always filled with the noise of splashing water, friendly (mostly) shouts, and laughter. The old quarry wall on the west side of the pool was terraced with limestone outcroppings overlooking the pool, and teenagers generally lounged in these shelf-like spaces to rest from swimming, to talk with friends, or simply to bathe in the sun. From time to time a lifeguard’s whistle or shout warned someone to stop doing something.

And then, as the afternoon ended, there was the return trip — back up to the dressing room, back down to the entrance, and back up to the street and on to whatever else we had in mind to do that day.

But that was the summer. Winter at Spring Lake was entirely different.

Spring Lake, Winter 1951 looking south

I don’t know how many winters Spring Lake became a skating rink. Perhaps it was only that one year, 1951, when the Rochelle Lions Club tended the ice surface and made a place for winter activities (the picture above was taken during preparations). I don’t remember ever skating there myself.

The old bathhouse is gone now, and a completely man-made and enclosed pool has replaced the old quarry pond.

Some information used in this story comes from Franklin Kruger, History of Rochelle and Flagg Township, Illinois: Ten Historical Articles (Revised edition; Rockford, Illinois: Waldsmith Illustrators, 2000)

Sunday’s Visitor

Our yard, our neighborhood, much of Clarksburg and surrounding area along the West Fork River is filled with large, old trees — almost a mixed hardwood and conifer forest, even though we are in town — and many of the normal animal residents of such forests can be seen, at least from time to time, in our yard. Red squirrels dance from tree to tree, a fat groundhog resides someplace in the far back yard and in summer scurries close to the house to pilfer vegetables from our tiny garden, and lately a large hawk, a Cooper’s hawk perhaps, has been lurking in the trees overlooking our bird feeder.

There are other woodland creatures around as well. Ever since we moved to Clarksburg we’ve been aware of pileated woodpeckers in our neighborhood. It’s not that they abound, but we see or hear them with some frequency — distinctive drumming, more rarely a hysterical laugh, from someplace unseen, sometimes near, sometimes far; a fleeting glimpse of a large black body with flashes of white on its wings, gliding among the trees; a red-crested “hat” barely seen among branches or leaves just beyond the edge of the yard.

From time to time one drifts through our yard, sometimes perching for a while on some bare branch or an old stump below the retaining wall. Occasionally they’re more obvious. Once, only very briefly, I saw one on the bird feeder outside the dining room windows. It cleverly clung to the side of the feeder opposite the house, perhaps not hiding but not easily visible, then flew away before I could get my camera.

I don’t know if the birds we have seen each time have been the same one or two individuals, a resident pair perhaps, or if various birds pass through from time to time. I have not seen any evidence of a nest, and don’t know the birds’ territories. In any case, they are quite elusive for such large animals.

But Sunday one startled us by spending a surprisingly long time visible from our dining room window. Well, partly visible anyway. It seemed to be entertaining itself, flitting up and down a dead branch on a tree in the next yard, showing itself spottily through the hemlock branches as it scattered scraps of bark onto the ground below.

Pileated woodpecker hiding

Can you see it, that speck of red there among the green near the far right edge of the picture? You might have to click on the picture to get a better view.

After a while the bird flew away and I returned to other tasks. But about a half hour later it returned (or another arrived?) and started grazing on a main branch of a large maple. She (I think it’s a she — she seems to lack the red “moustache” of a male) was kind enough to stay clearly visible for some time, although generally staying in the shadows and occasionally slipping to the other side of the branch.

Pileated woodpecker

I don’t claim to be a skilled nature photographer, and my camera is only a “point and click” digital with limited zoom capabilities, but at least I managed finally to capture an image of “our” pileated woodpecker.

The Seasons

An Icelandic reckoning of the seasons and months of the year, according to Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241):

From the equinox it is autumn until the sun sets in the position of none. Then it is winter until the equinox. Then it is spring until the moving days. Then it is summer until the equinox. Harvest-month is the name of the last one before winter, slaughter-month is the name of the first one in winter, then it is frost-month, then ram-month, then Thorri, then Goi, then single-month, then cuckoo-month and seed-time, then egg-time and lamb-fold-time, then it is sun-month and shieling-month, then there is hay-making, then it is the month of corn-reaping.

– Snorri Sturluson, Edda, (Skáldskaparmál), translated and edited by Anthony Faulkes

Frá jafndægri er haust, til þess er sól sezt í eykðarstað. Þá er vetr til jafndægris. Þá er vár til fardaga. Þá er sumar til jafndægris. Haustmánuðr heitir inn næsti fyrir vetr, fyrstr í vetri heitir gormánuðr, þá er frermánuðr, þá er hrútmánuðr, þá er þorri, þá gói, þá einmánuðr, þá gaukmánuðr ok sáðtíð, þá eggtíð ok stekktíð, þá er sólmánuðr ok selmánuðr, þá eru heyannir, þá er kornskurðarmánuðr.

– Snorri Sturluson, Edda, (Skáldskaparmál), edited by Guðni Jónsson

The hour of none (or eykðarstað) was the ninth hour of the Medieval day, around 3:00 p.m. In Iceland the sun sets around this time at the winter solstice. The Icelandic “moving days” (or fardagar) are four successive days at the end of May during which it was legal for a person to change his residence.

Cyclamen

Cyclamen

Accepting Oneself

But deep inside you was a frantic longing to be something or someone other than you are. It is the greatest scourge a man can suffer, and the most painful. Life becomes tolerable only when one has come to terms with who one is, both in one’s own eyes and in the eyes of the world. We all of us must come to terms with what and who we are, and recognize that this wisdom is not going to earn us any praise, that life is not going to pin a medal on us for recognizing and enduring our own vanity or egoism or baldness or our potbelly. No, the secret is that there’s no reward and we have to endure our characters and our natures as best we can, because no amount of experience or insight is going to rectify our deficiencies, our self-regard, or our cupidity. We have to learn that our desires do not find any real echo in the world. We have to accept that the people we love do not love us, or not in the way we hope. We have to accept betrayal and disloyalty, and, hardest of all, that someone is finer than we are in character or intelligence.

– Sándor Márai, Embers, translated by Carol Brown Janeway

Giving Thanks

A profound sense of God’s goodness came over him, and he would have liked to have given thanks to Him, but he was a socialist and stood there helpless …

– Agnar Mykle, Rubicon, translated by Maurice Michael

Autumn Chores

Part of what I did last Saturday.

Leaves Waiting

More Leaves Waiting

I raked the leaves onto a tarp, then hauled them to a depression in the hill that we have decided to fill, gradually, with leaves and clippings in hope of its becoming black compost.

Then we planted the last of the new bulbs for this year — 50 crocus, 25 galanthus, and 6 lilies of the valley, to join the roughly 300 other bulbs we planted a couple of weeks ago — before the rain interrupted the planting.

We’re looking forward to a colorful spring and summer.

2011-11-02, or, Fun With Calendars

It’s a palindrome, if you just take out the second dash — 2011-1102.

Or you might prefer the US standard format — 11/2/11.

I might be too easily amused.

Scarecrow

Years ago my then very small daughter said that she wanted a scarecrow. We were living in our first house in Austin, and actually had a more-or-less functional garden at the time. I thought about it for a while and decided that there was no reason not to. I had an old, worn out flannel shirt, a battered pair of blue jeans, and a “gardening hat” that had seen better days. I took a couple of pieces of lath and made a rough frame — “arms” nailed across an upright. Then I wrapped a piece of pale cloth around some rags to form a head and added an old dust mop for hair. I assembled it all into a hint of a person and stood it in the garden. I thought he looked pretty good.

Austin Scarecrow

So that evening I showed him to Hilde. She wasn’t impressed.

It took me a while, but eventually I realized that she didn’t want a scarecrow; she wanted the Scarecrow, from the movie The Wizard of Oz.

My scarecrow didn’t dance like Ray Bolger, and as far as I know no one ever had a conversation with him. He was, however, about as effective at driving off crows as his predecessor in Oz. He stood in the garden for a season.

Ready for the Harvest Festival

Permanent pumpkin, waiting for Halloween

Jack O'Lantern