Upon my return from "sand country" I noticed a pitiful state of neglect in my Illinois garden. Yesterday, as I began to pull weeds, I became engulfed in a buzzing mass: mosquitos!

I seem to have forgotten about these needle-nosed summertime spoilers. With the rains our area received the past few weeks, the waterborne insect population has exploded. It was quite dry up north, and so we had (thankfully) neither ticks nor mosquitos to manage. Since preventative drenchings with 100% DEET didn't appeal to me, I put off my gardening for another day. Finally, the sight of my straggly yard disgusted me so much, I donned long pants (in 90-degree heat, mind you), a hat, and wore no perfumes or scented products (moisturizers, etc.) I have always heard that mosquitos "smell" sweat. True or not, I was sweating and did get a few nibbles, but overall I managed to finish most of the greenery manicuring without too many welts as a souveneir.

On another note, my husband spent the long weekend prepping and painting the exterior of our house and deck, which needed it desperatey. He's almost finsihed with the main house; the next dry weekend he'll tackle our oversized "shed" - most people would call it a garage but since most models of automobile do not fit inside it (although our old Jeep Wrangler did) "shed" is its legal designation.

We went from a dull beige with white trim and turquoise-green doors (it was like that when we bought it!) we are now in a more colonial/cottage/yankee palette of mid-tone greyish-blue, bright white trim and glossy black doors. With these changes, I now realize that the front yard landscaping - which consists of a berm with 5 arborvitae lined across it - is an ugly detraction from our cottage home. I told my husband it looked like a line of pickles standing on end in front of the house! He laughed, but agreed that it was an apt description.

I'm now researching a plan to put in minimal-maintenance plantings of varying heights and extended blooming times. I'm currently leaning toward tall ornamental grasses in back, "Royal Standard" hosta (blue-green leaves. w. white flowers) across the next row, and then various bushy perennial flowers and different colors that will manage in the dry soil in partial shade. I'm thinking of mums, coneflower, black-eyed susan, liriope, lilly of the valley, dragon's blood sedum...

I have to wait until both our bank account and the weather can support my vision.

In spite of the fact that we must have 4 brooms scattered throughout the house to sweep up the ubiquitous particles across the floors, I never knew that Big Flats, WI (Where we have our cabin) is known as "Sand Country." I have to wear a dust mask and goggles when I mow the field that is our yard, if there hasn't been recent rain. Aftermowing through the dust clouds, I look like a Bedouin caught in a windstorm!

For some reason, though, I love saying we have a place in "Big Flats." If you knew the area, you'd know there is absolutely ZERO cache of exclusivity about it, but to my ears, it rings with an outdoorsy authenticiy.

The article below appeared in today's Wiscon Rapids Daily Tribune:

COLUMN: That's not dust, it's just Big Flats sand

The 10-acre red pine plantation on our Roche-a-Cri tree farm has withstood rodent damage, insect problems, drought conditions and several different tree diseases in its 13-year history.

Domtar forester Juris Repsa said, "Your plantation is looking pretty good, Don, but being in a fire-prone area, you had better get your fire lane around the plantation back to bare soil."

We agreed to ask Dave Reinke of Port Edwards to come down to my tree farm and make a couple of passes around the plantation with his tractor/Rototiller combination.

As Reinke started tilling around the plantation a few days later, he disappeared in a cloud of dust, and as he continued around the plantation, the dust cloud grew even larger and thicker.

When he finished the job, he dusted himself off, creating yet another dust cloud, and commented, "Don, I have never seen anything like this."

I replied, "Dave, this is just Big Flats sand."

This incident got me thinking about the early days on our tree farm when there were open sand blows and pits everywhere. While this was great for keeping our children's sandboxes filled with fresh sand, it wasn't good for growing anything.

Early settlers to the area grew farm crops, but after a few years the sandy soil would no longer support crop growth, and in many cases, the farmers gave up and the land reverted back to growth of trees -- especially jack pine and black and scrub oak.

Longtime DNR Forester Nina Stensberg said that Big Flats in Adams County is in the center, and possibly the sandiest part of the Central Sand Plain, which also includes parts of Waushara, Juneau, Jackson, Portage and Wood counties. She described the Big Flats area as a land of "sand dunes which were deposited by wind and water during the last ice age."

With the sandy soil it's often hard to get trees started. She described the past two years as examples of this with hot dry summers killing most of the trees replanted in the burned over area of the Cottonville fire.

"It is very challenging to grow trees here with the lack of moisture and poor fertility. What's needed in the sand country is a good wet year. In '93 it was very wet. We had jack pines sprouting in the gravel on the side of the roads," Stensberg added. "We have had some acceptable years though, when trees planted in the spring have survived quite well, but overall, growing trees in this sand country is challenging."

Yet, there is a history of successful tree growing in the area, with many thousands of acres of pines planted over the years by individuals and industry. Many of these trees have been and continue to be harvested and replanted today, making Adams County an important wood fiber contributor to the state's forest products industry.

I can only concur with Nina's comments on growing trees in the Big Flats sand. We have lost our share, but then very few tree farmers I know are growing trees to make a quick buck. We spend long hours planting, weeding, and pruning our trees so that we can eventually walk under them and say, "We really did make a difference."

That's what tree farming is really all about.

Don Krohn is a tree farmer in the town of Big Flats. His columns appear monthly in the Daily Tribune.

I'm back in IL after a 10-day jaunt in PA/NJ with my extended family.

But I'm headed up to the cabin for anopther 10 days (before school starts) this weekend so my blogging and commentary may be sporadic. Just in case anyone was concerned...

I went boogie boarding today and despite getting walloped in the head not once but TWICE, to the point of possibly sustaining a mild concussion, it was an incredible time. I need to think about how I will write about today's wave-riding, as I experienced the most unusual and inspirational sight I've ever had in the ocean. I'll just leave you with that tidbit to consider for now...

On another note, despite my throbbing headache, I'm popping into this casino to claim some comp cash due to me...and natch, put it right back into the slot machines, probably accompanied by a few Andrew Jacksons...yeah, just call me "high roller." (NOT!)

My daughter and I spent the last 5 days up at our cabin. Since it was rainy on Sunday, after after Mass we had lunch at a bar & grille on Castle Rock Lake and then went hiking with our binoculars and cameras at the Necedah National Wildlife Refuge.

Although the guided tours to spy on some very special, rare creatures have been booked months in advance, we followed some less-traveled foot trails and ended up sighting a pair of huge, beautiful Whooping Cranes and were fortunate enough to also hear them calling. (They are the two white blobs in my bad picture)  I was moved to tears by the fortune of getting a glimpse of these endangered beauties in a wild setting. These birds are part of an eastern migratory flock - their incredible story story can be found here.



Besides the crane sightings, I had fabulous bird-watching opportunities at the cabin Monday morning, as most of the songbird babies born in the forest around the house have fledged - so we literally had each nest-ful of "teenage" (juvenile/immature) birds: 5 blue jays, 4 cardinals, 4 rose-breasted grossbeaks and 1 young downy woodpecker AT ONE TIME partaking of sunflower seed, suet and water I put out for them. Needless to say, it was quite a noisy scene; but surprisingly there were no bullies - everyone took their turn getting seeds. We also had 3 hummingbirds at my hummingbird feeder but I could not tell if they were mature or not. And the best treat was a pair - mature male & female - of Baltimore Orioles who seemed interested in the ripening plums on our plum tree.

Monday and Tuesday my daughter and I took horseback riding lessons! I realized after a few minutes that it is sort of like "riding a bike" - all I knew from my many lessons years before came back and I got "Rowdy" (a funny name, as he was so gentle and slow)  to do nice barrel turning and  to trot for me.

Here I am, "back in the saddle again!"

This morning, as I readied my daughter for camp, I noticed an unusual sight outside my window. I saw a Palatine police vehicle with "Truck Enforcement" driving slowly down my street and coming to a stop in front of my neighbor's house. What was most strange is: we don't live in Palatine!

Then I saw semi's, cube trucks...basically all manner of oversized vehicle coming to a halt in front of my house. Later, some state troopers arrived, lights flashing.

As I carefully pulled out of the driveway, I rolled down my window and asked the Smoky, "I live over here; what is going on?"

"Oh, just doing weight checks," he responded.

Click click WHIRRRRRR.

OK. I got it: all westbound truck traffic was being diverted from the 4-lane arterial expressway in front of our home to the frontage road (on which I live.) Why westbound only? Because about 1/2 mile west of my house is the on-ramp to an elevated state highway. Apparently this mobile weigh station was set up in response to the Minneapolis bridge disaster. Our governor issued immediate inspection of all IL bridges (according to the news.) However, there was nothing about mobile weigh stations mentioned in any news reports I heard.

So, now I am pondering if route 53 (the highway I mentioned) is truly safe for me to use if it is now the target of an emergency weigh-in.

I  had to hear RICHARD say it aloud before I understood. I thought it was pronounced "Bogercize", like BOGUS-exercize...faux workouts.

Its pretty damn ridiculous no matter how you pronounce it.

As I was walking solemnly in line to receive communion, the young woman in front of me had on a black t-shirt with the following imprinted on the back (so I could read it):

                                                                - Sex & The City

So, does the Blood of Christ count as "the cocktail I drink?"

A few months ago, a friend from church lent me a new yoga video. I tried it out but immediately was distracted by the incessant breaks for verbal instruction and philosophizing between poses. Instead of trying to coodinate my breaths and hold each pose, I just sat back and listened.

Then I went to the video instructor's website and found some insights that pertained to issues in my life.

When I returned the video to my friend the following week, he looked dejected.

"Oh, you didn't like it?" he asked.

"No, I'll explain later," I replied. I wrote him a note and explained that the value I found in the video wasn't the workout but the ideas that the instructor, Brian Kest, espoused.

I was thinking about this chain of events the other day.

Again, I was writing to my church/yoga/pop culture compadre, discussing my initial concern over some weight creep. But then I realigned my mindset:

"...I have a freaky weird body type. Believe it or not, I used to be a triathlete (completed 4 in 2003 and 2004 ) I thought about doing it again but I don't enjoy anything but the open-water swim. I am not a fan of bike riding or running, really.

But its all about perspective. I did a hard treadmill intervals workout on Wednesday afternoon. I was so sore that, on Thursday, instead of my usual strength training/challenging yoga class, I opted for the concurrent "gentle yoga" class with a different teacher. It was just what I needed to work out the strained muscles.

After class, the senior ladies in there were half complaining, half admiring aloud about me, "She is soooooo flexible!" I reminded them that it isn't a competition (a Brian Kest-ism!)

I felt pretty good about that all day, though!"

I am finally feeling better now that my couse of antibiotics (Xifaxan) is almost done. I am also getting back into my pilates reformer training at least once a week to prevent injuries to my back and knee when doing cardio (a vicious cycle.)

Despite a recent chain of frustrating foibles with my body, this week I am feeling quite confident. I am looking forward to boogie boarding and possibly surfing** in a few weeks when I head to the Jersey Shore for 10 days. I am not remotely intimidated by the idea of wearing a bathing suit.

**sidebar: my sister and surfing partner is pregnant again so unless my hubby is willing to try surfing again (I don't feel its safe to surf alone, especialy as often as I wipe out!), I may skip it and opt for the boogie board, which is plety 'o fun in my book, anyway!

As another DelCo summer commenced in 1986, I received a phone call from the younger brother of my friend, Amy. Amy was one year ahead of me in school; she had graduated and was headed to Oberlin in the fall. Prior to college, she went with her parents to...Brazil, I recall, for a family vacation. Although of Italian-American descent, she spoke fluent Portuguese as she spent a year abroad as an exchange student. My mother did not like her because she was "wild", which in retrospect is laughable, as her main vice was occasional use of the F-word.

Her little brother was one year behind me in school and was kind enough to accompany me to my Junior Prom when I couldn't get a date. His name was Steve, and all I really knew about  the quiet, recessive-gened brother (blonde) of my spirited, olive-skinned gal pal was that he played the drums and was musically devoted to The Police.

He was very sweet at the prom, renting a tux at his own expense, and getting me a corsage. He invited me to join a group of his prom-going friends to dinner at a local Houlihan's restaurant. Somehow I managed to enjoy a meal of chicken tenders in elbow-length white gloves!  In all honesty, that was one of the more refined dating experiences I ever had - he was truly kind, respectful, and considerate...yet did not try to bust any moves, which disappointed my teen ego.

I hadn't heard from him after prom. Despite having a pleasant time, there was never any perceivable chemistry between us.

Thus, his phone call that warm Saturday morning was quite a surprise. He asked if I wanted to go to the mall, or similarly contrived date idea...ok, why not; I had nothing else to do, as my best friend was out of the country.

The moment I hung up the phone after his call, I failed to connect the dots of the situation. His family was out of the country and he was here, with a car, a license to drive and an empty house because...I think he had a job or band camp or similar obligation that precluded international travel. The bottom line was: I didn't see it coming.

We ended up at his house, engaged in tepid conversation. Finally he sighs, goes to his room, returns with a pile of porno mags and plops them down on the floor, saying nothing but offering a pleading yet serious glint in his eye. I grinned. And then I played stupid. I began to critique the various airbrushed body parts on the pages before me, much to his frustration.

Finally I asked matter-of-factly, "Steve, did you want to make out?"

Somehow, despite what should have been an awkward start, we had alot of fun and  discovered an excellent kissing chemistry between us. But not much else.

Back then, I recall being cautious about rounding the bases with a boy, as you never knew if a guy would blab and embellish to the locker room, thus thrusting you into the vicious teen rumor mill that is high school.

But in 1986 there was no email or MySpace or text messaging or cell phones; there was no private means of communication for teens to broadcast their exploits or trash one another out of earshot of wary parents. And, as it was summetime, there was no locker room for trash talking.

So we "fooled around" on a few occassions, no pretense of dating, no drugs or booze to get in the mood. Just very natural, fun kissing and touching - always protected from going too far by our respective pairs of white cotton underpants. My parents started to question what Steve and I were doing on our "dates."  I had no movie plots or concert playlists to feed back to their inquiries. Instead of making excuses to them, I just cut off the action. After two turned-down "dates" he got the hint and never called again. He never even said anything to me in school - until nearing the end of my Senior year when he surpised me by suggestively shoving me up against some lockers in a quiet hallway after school. At that point, I knew he was not looking for kissing and cuddling. I could see it in his eyes. He wanted something more, but I was preoccupied with college preparation and a lackluster relationship with a boyfriend/classmate.

After listening to the hits of the 80's on XM radio in my rockin' van, I was thinking about those balmy weeks over 20 years ago. I still find it incredible that despite the circumstances, he never pushed the envelope in terms of what we did; and I am grateful for that to this day. It is a secret I have kept (until now.)