Lay of the land

From the Mayan calendar: Ak’abal days are like the opening of a flower. The world is full of potential: fresh, new and bursting with life. A new dawn has come with fresh light to clear away previous obstacles so that new ideas and acts of creation can be born.

Yesterday spring was teasing us with temperatures of 40 plus. The winter hasn't been cold enough which has caused problems with the ice. With the ferry closed, we have kept our humor because frankly, I am a bit of hermit. I need to do so much – with spring coming, the realization of what we would like to accomplish is at the forefront. One task at a time, I tell myself; recycle, measure clothes to be sewn, do some baking, make jam, organize supplies, become a non-profit, organize the community garden, look for funding, check in on the websites and let's not forget fix Little B’s fur coat since he has been scalped by the local dog groomer.

I watch out my dining room window, sitting at my 75 year old, long oak table - mismatched chairs standing at attention. Being hooked on Britain's xfactor on YouTube is teasing my resolve to be dutiful.

Tearing myself away from the morning sounds, to bake bread but as a reward for paying attention, two swans have just taken flight, reflections intact on the open water where ice is in sharp Gothic chunks on the great Lake Saint Clair. It is times like these that remind me of how lucky I am to be alive and why I wanted to inhabit my body in the first place.

I miss the spring views out of the window which bring so many conflicting sights. The Indians in small fishing boats, roaring across the lake from their reservation on Walpole Island. Coming across like the old bootleggers did when Al Capone used to run in these parts. On their way to our Harsens Island to buy beer and something a little harder to take the chill out of their bones. It makes me wonder what it was like in the days even before Capone, when it was their land. Highly mystical land, inhabited by strong red skinned people, setting up camp – even where the cottage sits.

Yesterday, I poked around some of the Harsens Island websites and found a great link on Bob Stewart's site for Stewart Farm. A historical view of the Indian tribes that inhabited these parts. As far as historians know, the first inhabitants on the St. Clair River were, the Hurons, Ottawas, Miamis, Ilinois, Pottawatomie's, Algonquins, Loups, Kickapoos, Santeurs, Ojibwas, Sacs, Menominees, Shawnees, Wyandotts and Chippewas. The Ottanamies (or Foxes) lived around Lake St. Clair. The earliest industry on the St. Clair River, especially in the Clay Township, St. Clair Flats area, was fur trading between the French and Indians As early as 1615 Frenchmen had come to the shores of the St. Clair River to obtain the fine fur trapped by the Indian tribes.

With this history in mind, it's no wonder that my husband Joe feels an infinity for the place. After our daughter's completion of a family tree/history, it turns out that Joe's great great great great grandfather (really, I don't know how many greats), Charles Beaubian, on his father's side, came from France, married one of the Chief's of the Miami's widowed wife. This is after he turned traitor to the French and the British, finally siding, trapping and selling furs all while living with the tribe. The genetic DNA once again rears it's cosmic head and reminds the body what the brain has forgotten - you have come home.

I look over to the tree where my various bird hangers are dangling off the weather beaten branches. The birds seem to have an extra zip in their flight as they go from bird feeder to bird bath. They too know that in a couple of months spring is almost here.

Tomorrow’s weather is supposed to be more of the same.... Doubtful if the ferry will run. I will find all kinds of reasons to cook and read and not do what I am supposed to. I feel loaves of bread coming on.