OH TO BE IN BISMARCK, NOW THAT SPRING IS HERE

A BOUQUET OF DANDELIONS

by Gundula Jacobs

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Spring is a series of firsts:

1. First barbecued chicken of the season (last night), accompanied by my husband's famous Fredericksen potatoes - sliced, sprinkled with herbs, dotted with butter, wrapped in foil and cooked on the grill.

2. First thunderstorm (last night). It was pitiful, as thunderstorms go, but the rain did settle the dust.

3. Lawns dotted with dandelions (dents-de-lion, or lion's teeth, in French). I loved the sight, probably because it wasn't my lawn they were covering. Like my mom before me, I always put my daughter's dandelion bouquets in a glass of water.

4. Finally, a glimpse of red and yellow tulips.

5. Newly-leafed trees.

6. Clouds of white plum blossoms.

7. Irises poking up by the driveway. I have gorgeous lavender blue irises whose stems are extremely sturdy.

8. And - ta daaa - saving the best for last, The St. Mary's Central High School Marching Band's first practice. I had forgotten that every spring, this band from a high school just a few blocks from my home practices in the neighboring streets. It used to be a wonderful background to getting ready in the morning, but today, it blasted me awake when I had no need to get up early. I woke up with a headache, and the band only aggravated it. Not only that, I found out something I never knew before. The band practices a SECOND time later in the morning.

The second round featured even more vigorous drum solos than the first, with a low booming drum beat that resonated perfectly with the throbbing in my head: Boom, throb....boom, throb....boom, throb.

Oh, it's grand to be in Bismarck, now that spring is here!

There was no more sleep, so I started googling jobs, and found one I would really, really like to have, so I hope you all pray for me, to God or your higher power, that I get it. I have until Wednesday to figure out how to do Microsoft Access, or even figure out what it is. It seems that whatever job I want to apply for, I am lacking knowledge of some sort of computer software. I already wrote that I flunked the 10-key test. For another job I applied for last week (and also would really like), it was PowerPoint and Photo shop.

Egad, I am from the days of overhead projectors and cut-and-paste newspapering. Not to imply that the Tribune's methods were outdated, but I didn't have to do layout there, just write. Now, it's Access, like some form of mysterious ancient code that I'm going to have to try to decode before the villains get to it. (Sorry, I just read "The Last Templar.") I want to tell my potential employers, "I can write it, the rest will come." (didn't Kevin Costner say something like that in "Field of Dreams"?) But of course, that's not what they want to hear.

Today I also made a trip to the library to do some research. I could do it at home but my printer doesn't work and I wanted to print out my research instead of enlarging and reducing screens, which makes me dizzy. Then, I visited my local Barnes & Noble, with a credit burning a hole in my pocket. I found a book set in 14th-Century England, "The Illuminator", by Brenda Rickman Vantrease, and a book set in modern day San Francisco, "Summer of Glorious Madness," by Christy Yorke." I spent a grand total of one cent.

AND THE LION LAY DOWN WITH THE LAMB

In Dakota Country, March came in roaring in like a pissed-off lion, riding in on the chariot of the gladiator he ate. (Translation: the lion was a nasty storm that dumped a foot and a half of snow in the eastern part of the state.) But in Bismarck the storm was tempered by a little bit of woolly soft weather. Although we, too, were supposed to get the brunt of the storm, we only got 4.5 inches. Plus, the temperature wasn't too cold and the wind wasn't whistling too sharply around the corners. So in Bismarck, the lion might have looked as content as the one in the picture above, with nary a thought about lunching on lamb.
The only problem is that the storm will probably "turn back west" and attack our flanks. When has a Dakota storm ever turned back west? We haven't heard the last of the lion's roar, I'm afraid.

I, myself, came into March like a pissed-off, cranky, boorish, thorn-in-the foot lion. It was one of those days that my skin felt like it was stretched too tight, my eyes wanted to go crossed, my hair decided to grow sideways. A tight band was wound around my forehead. Even my teeth hurt.

I wasn't ill, couldn't call in sick. It wasn't the weather. I've dealt with worse before. It wasn't the job. Ditto on dealing.

Maybe my blood pressure was too high. Maybe my blood sugar was too low. Maybe the ion balance in the air was wrong.

Pure and simple, it was just one of those days when I wasn't in sync with my body. If I were a lion the burrs would be sticking in my coat, the wild game would be scarce and the flies would be buzzing around my head. Not to mention that pesky thorn.

In short, I was cross. Don't you love that word? "I'm cross, so don't cross me." Don't you wish that on those days, you could just let off a few well-timed roars? Just let it out in a primal scream.

Those are the kind of days that you want to tell the people that annoy you: "Hey, I've got one nerve left and you're getting on it." Better, yet, let's throw those annoying people to the lions and tell the lions "Bon Appetit."

"My damn paw hurts and somebody better come take this this thorn out of it," says the lion. The human says, feed me some soup, give me a hug, tell me how great I am. Better yet, just go away and let me take a nap. Tomorrow will be better, and it's just 45 days until spring by the Julie-n calendar.

Comment added Friday, March 2: Worse sh--, different day. Dakota storms do turn back west. The Bismarck lion ate the lamb. There's not one woolly curl left. This day gives new meaning to the phrases "ground drifting" and "almost wet my pants"due to near accident.

WINTER ALONG THE MIGHTY MO

Above photos: Winter views of the old railroad bridge, which is on my left as I drive to work every morning. The photo directly above must have been taken right at the spot where I take the on-ramp onto Interstate 94.

For more than a year, my working days in winter have been bookended by sights like these and the ones below. Each day, I cross the Missouri River twice, going westward toward Mandan in the morning, and back eastward toward Bismarck each evening.

While I've been making my daily treks, I've come to see that my winter days do have touches of grace, due largely in part to the time I spend in the vicinity of the Missouri River, the Mighty Mo.

At this stage in my life, I don't spend a lot of time outdoors in winter. I mainly go from my front door to my car to the parking lot at work, with return stops at the grocery store and gas station. So most of my views of winter scenery have been from the vantage point of my car windows, frosted though they may be.
Grace. There is no other word for it. Every morning, when I traverse the river on the Grant Marsh (Highway I-94) Bridge, I have been graced by the sights I encounter during my commute, whether it be the winter fog or mist rising off the river, or the pure white plumes coming from the Tesoro Refinery on the north. (I'm sure the that steam isn't really pure, but I'm not going to think about that right now.)

Even though I'm not as closely in tune with nature as I should be, I still sense the wheel in the sky turning toward spring. Just few weeks ago, I would have raced the sun after work, challenging it not to dip below the horizon before I reached the turn for the Memorial Bridge. Now, the sun is still suspended high in the sky when I go home.

Each morning earlier this winter, I noted what time the sun crested the horizon (through my rear view mirror). One morning, just as I was climbing the overpass near the eastern edge of Mandan and Josh Groban was singing "You Lift Me Up", the sun "came up like thunder," to quote John Mellencamp. What a moment!

Grace. To spot deer and wild turkeys along the river. To see giant birds soaring on the air currents (too bad they were turkey vultures, not - as I thought - eagles). To see spring-like melted-ice-cream clouds on a supposed winter's day.
Even the most punch-drunk drivers, passing unawares through Bismarck-Mandan, would have a hard time driving through this valley without marveling at its wonders. A few days ago, the north-facing slopes just west of my exit were striated with snow, just as geological formations are layered with deposits of coal and other minerals. Today, the snow had all but melted, leaving the hillsides bare.

I have noticed the subtle signs as well: The color contrast between the red willow branches and the snow, or the patterns the staghorn sumac makes against a snow-covered slope.

Sometimes my errands take me across the Expressway Bridge in the evening. If my timing is right, the sun turns the butt-ugly band of condominiums on the southeast side of the river into a city made of molten gold.

Lit by the setting sun in the above picture is the Veterans' Memorial Bridge along with the construction cranes for the new bridge. Four bridges span the Missouri River at Bismarck. This bridge, the old railroad bridge, the Expressway Bridge and the Grant Marsh Bridge. I take the Grant Marsh Bridge in the morning and usually take the Memorial Bridge home. When I started working in Mandan, I always took the Memorial Bridge. A year ago, engineers tested its footings and found they were crumbling. They temporarily closed the bridge and poured concrete into sleeves around the footings to stabilize them. That's when I started using the Grant Marsh Bridge. For a while after the Memorial Bridge had been declared safe again, I was afraid to drive on it. I've gotten over that, but I still only cross it in the evening. I still drive over the Grant Marsh Bridge every morning, just to enjoy the view, see what's new and clear my head before beginning another work day.

Giving much credit where credit is due, the attributed photos, all taken in and near Bismarck-Mandan in January and February, 2007, are Sky Spy photos from KFYR-TV. The photographers are:

Missouri River fog: Brian Austin, Mandan

Missouri River steam and Blue Skies, Ken Yetter, Bismarck

End of another day: Lauren C. Stewart, Mandan

SNOW ANGELS

North Dakota re-claimed its snow angel record on Saturday with 8,911 people flapping their arms and legs in the snow. I should have been there. I excused myself on the grounds that it wouldn't do my arthritic knee any good. Now I'm ashamed of myself because a 99-year-old woman showed up on her birthday and made her first-ever snow angel. And an 8-year-old boy with cerebral palsy. I am ashamed of myself.

There's no doubt that if they had done this 20 years ago, Kristen and I would have been there. If they had done it in 2000, Kristen would have been there, as well as Val, our Venezuelan foreign exchange student. I would have probably tagged along too, even if they wouldn't have let Mom be in the same row with them.

Houghton, MI, recently had to cancel its attempt for the snow angel record, ironically because of too much snow. But if they or anyone else ever beats our record, and they hold another catch-up event here, I'm showing up. no matter how old I am. I'm too embarrassed not to.