Labor Day thunderstorm

Labor Day thunderstorm --

bedraggled squirrel resting in the

handicapped parking

Labor Day, a day of rest from work. I wake to the raucous sound of our weather alert radio: Severe Thunderstorm Watch. Sure enough, torrents of wind and rain, hard enough to bring down dead branches. But then the sky clears to a bright end-of-summer blue with a beginning-of-autumn bite in the air. I go early to the indoor pool, figuring most folks will be eager to use their last chance to play outdoors, only to find the high school girl's swim team hard at work, taking up three of the four lap lanes.
          On the way into the Aquatic Center, I spot a wet and muddy fox squirrel resting on the wooden railing next to the blue and white handicapped parking only sign. The bedraggled critter seems immobilized. It doesn't even raise its head when I stop a few feet away to take photos for several minutes. With its tail hanging straight down, the squirrel really does look handicapped. Or maybe it's just keeping the custom of rest on Labor Day.

Virginia Creeper vine

Virginia Creeper vine

twining around a fence post,

five fingers reaching

Labor Day, a day to honor those who labor and a day of rest from labor. Tomorrow it's back to school for many children. Today they are riding their bikes, bare backs, bare feet, care free. It's still officially summer but the leaves have already begun to turn red and yellow and fall to the ground. This Virginia Creeper has been laboring for a long time to climb up a fence post. The creeper, with its five-finger leaves, is a prolific climber, reaching heights of 20 to 30 m in the wild. It climbs smooth surfaces using small forked tendrils tipped with small strongly adhesive pads. This particular wild vine, after reaching the top of the fence post, fanned out in all directions, seeking something else to latch onto, something higher to surmount. But what? The sky's the limit.

on the Louden Bridge

on the Louden Bridge

three kids waving at a train,

sound of three long blasts

Labor Day weekend. Saturday, rain all day, the first good long rain in two moons, enough to soften the edges of the deep cracks in the ground. Sunday, clear, cool, windy. Everyone is out. Picnics and Frisbee in the parks, swimming in the lake, walking and biking on the trails. We walk the trail from Chautauqua Park to the Louden Bridge over the railroad tracks. Ceramic insets along the bridge depict equipment produced by the Louden Machinery Company since the late 1800s: hay uploading tools, dairy barn equipment, hog house equipment, litter and feed carriers, sliding barn door hangers "to keep out birds." A trio of children are standing in the exact center of the bridge, clinging to the chain link barrier like blonde bats, their little bikes abandoned as they wait for a train to appear. Their father waits patiently. "This is the third train today," he says. "The first one was a loaded coal train going east. It honked at the kids when they waved. The last one was empty, going west. They go really fast when they're empty." The little girl turns to her father, hair blowing across her face. "When is it going to come?" she asks. "Soon." Now we hear the wail of the horn as a train enters the town from the west. "Who's going to see it first?" I ask. "Me!" they all reply. There it is, the headlight shining as it comes around the curve in the distance. "Where's the coal?" the youngest boys asks. "It's not a coal train," their father answers. "It's carrying other things, covered up to protect them." The kids start waving when the engine gets close enough. The engineer lays on the horn, three long blasts. The little girl grins up at me. "One for each of us!"