Being Native
Once, in the days before children, in earliest years of marriage, we went camping with another couple. Dear friends. It was winter. We were young. It was cold. We stayed in a tent. The temperature dipped into the teens. I believe we were in Arkansas, but memory sometimes strips away all but the most vivid details. The vivid details in this case were the feral cats who tried to climb on top of our warm tent and frozen waders standing against a tree in the morning after we used them to set out a trotline the night before.
We liked winter camping because the parks were empty, the bugs non-existent, and the quiet and cold compelling. Staying warm was mostly up to wool, layering, good sleeping bags and someone with whom you could cuddle. We’d bank the fire before bed and stir it to life in the morning. Those were simpler times for sure, but memorable. This morning the temperature is in the teens once again, but the house is warmed by central air, there’s no one with whom I can cuddle, and the feral cats have nice kennels with heat lamps.
That’s progress of a sort, especially on the staying warm front. We’re not supposed to get above freezing today, and the temperatures will go into the teens again tonight. I’ve covered one plant, the surviving rose, but everyone else is on their own. They’ve proven their mettle over the years, and that’s why I like native plants. They just deal with things and come back in the spring. And that’s what I’m doing, dealing with things, taking what life gives me, and coming back in the spring. I’ve got deep roots, a pretty good leaf cover, and I know this, too, shall pass.