https://www.riverteethjournal.com/blog/beautiful-things/2021/06/07/reclamation
Author: crowcityblog
Riprap Sushi
The Big Sioux River is stained darker than my morning coffee from all the silt and manure that’s washed off the farmland upstream. I’m fishing below the spillway after leaving my sons to play at their cousin’s house. I caught a couple good walleyes at this spot years ago--that other lifetime before I was married. … Continue reading Riprap Sushi
Mercy
Like most people, I tend to be parsimonious with my mercy. Mostly because time is like blood to me. I only have so much. When you are a letter carrier, people try to befriend you. Often they have nowhere to go. They are prisoners of their maladies and handicaps. They pester you as if you … Continue reading Mercy
A Happy Couple
Each day the trees along the river seem to burst with more color. The drabness of winter is turning to spring. I went fishing today at Hidden Falls Park and didn’t catch a darn thing. Except for this photograph—a mating pair of Canadian geese. I was glad I went. It kept me human. And that’s … Continue reading A Happy Couple
The Bridge, the Bird, the River—a Triangle of Perception
I paused on my bicycle ride across the Franklin Bridge because I spotted a small patch of white in the bare trees that I immediately recognized as a bald eagle. Far below in the Mississippi River, teams of scullers rowed downstream toward the Short Line Bridge and the Lake Street Bridge beyond that. The eagle, … Continue reading The Bridge, the Bird, the River—a Triangle of Perception
Waiting for the Sun
The stasis of family life can sometimes seem unbearable. We make origami shapes of our hearts, folding ourselves smaller and smaller to not offend the other. It’s a sad spectacle for the kids to watch, even if they half understand it. “Is Covid worse than cancer?” “I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” she says. … Continue reading Waiting for the Sun
Finding Bukowski
"What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love." Fyodor Dostoevsky I first encountered Charles Bukowski in a used bookstore, quite by accident, while browsing the stacks for William S. Burroughs. Notes of a Dirty Old Man? The title itself was enough to make me laugh. I paid the … Continue reading Finding Bukowski
A Riverine Christmas
I drink coffee while everyone else is asleep. Alone in an armchair, I stare at the yellow rectangle of light coming from the kitchen. The furnace groans and floorboards creak. The house is like an old man farting. Five more years and it will turn one hundred. I think of the other families that have … Continue reading A Riverine Christmas
Cawing into the Abyss
Crows assemble at this U of M tower like children around a birthday cake, hoping for the killing to begin so they can have lunch. You are fools they say, everyone is black until you pick our feathers. Each December they fill the sky along the river in flocks too numerous to count. Such gatherings … Continue reading Cawing into the Abyss
The Last Third
With November upon us and the skyline a lattice of sticks, I think of The First Third--the posthumously published memoir by Neal Cassady. Cassady was Jack Kerouac’s muse, the Dean Moriarty of his famous novel, On the Road. I read both those books when I was about twenty. Kerouac admired Cassady for his frenetic energy … Continue reading The Last Third
