Where I Live

I love it that there are no city lights close by, and the sky is dark, and we can see stars. I love it that we can watch a meteor shower and have even seen the Northern Lights this far south.

I love my beautiful hardwood floors. I love it that I can get more hardwood floors as soon as I can manage to find the time and energy to rip out more carpet.

I love it that I can see the horizon. The horizon to the west is about 13 miles away, and to the east it's about 6 miles away. We can see the sun make its trek across the sky, setting way down there in the south now, past the garage. We can see it start to move north next week until at Easter it will be setting behind the tree that's smack dab straight out the front window. And in summer it will be way up there in the north, beyond Paul's bedroom. Although I learned this science in school, it didn't gel in my brain until I lived with it, watching it out my window year after after.

Seeing the horizon also means we can see the storms approaching, and judge whether the rain will be here in 10 minutes or 30. We can watch the lightning dance and flitter its way from Rockford to Beloit to Janesville to Madison. We can see from the shape of the clouds whether to expect huge gusts of wind such that we need to hide lawn-chairs in the garage.

On a mostly-sunny, partly-cloudy day, I love watching the isolated shadows of those few cumulus clouds crawl across the hayfields and the bean-fields.

I love that my bird-watching is more than robins and finches and cardinals. I love watching the red-tail hawks hunting and the turkey buzzards floating on the warm updrafts of air. I love watching (and hearing!) V's of sandhill cranes migrating.

And most of all, I love marking the passage of time by the wildflowers that are blooming. I love knowing when the St Johns-wort is early, or the wild roses are late. I love the ribbon of chicory and Queen Anne's Lace that lines the country roads in July. I love the phlox of spring, the soapwort of summer, and the goldenrod of fall. The inexorable flow of one flower's season to the next flower's month is a beauty and a comfort and a sturdiness that can't be known in the city like it can in the country.