Today’s guest post could only be by tim.

june is my favorite month.

the newness of vacation has the kids all a flutter and the weather is always pretty darn close to perfect. the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming. this is the way the world is supposed to be.

minnesota which gets a bad rap december and january could not make you prouder than it does in june. loons and ferns and thunderstorms and lakes and outdoor festivals and art fairs and parades and celebrations.

june was the beginning of the time of year that meant growth. when i went to school i would leave the day after school ended. vw van for the westward trip. the best travel happens before the 4th of july. It is like having an exclusive on all the wonderful places in the world. Ely, leach and dl are the spots that come to mind but I enjoyed the duluth blues fest for a couple years 20 years ago and the kayak trip to brule every first weekend in june for 20 years.

Years later it was Montana on route to many other places Canada. west coast zig zagging the rockies ( my favorite ) and all the while realizing I had the great luck to be able to do this and should savor it now before the responsibility of life aced me out of the ability to go. I realized later that I have a responsibility to pass on the ability to camp and vagabond to roll with the vibes of the moment in whatever moment you find yourself in. it is where I truly excel and among the best stuff I teach to my children.

Winding through the back roads I often don’t know where I am while I am there. It doesn’t matter to me at all. It is the moment not the details . Montana Idaho Utah Wyoming Colorado Arizona New Mexico then finish it up with the Washington Oregon California part of the trip wonderful places all but I realized after al my travels that Minnesota is the part of the world is where I have the perspective I enjoy. Never realized it more than hanging in Atlanta for a couple of weeks.

I haven’t gotten out much in june for a couple years with baseball and other summer commitments but I do love the memory of taking my oldest kids out on the road 3 or 4 days after school ended and road tripping it for three or 4 weeks to nowhere in particular for our time together. Nice way to do it. Maybe its time to put an x on the calendar for this summer before it all gets spoken for.

but june is the best.

what do you prize most about this time of year?
what do you make certain to make time for and never miss?

Today’s guest post is by Steve Grooms.

Crosby Farm Park is a former farm turned into a 736-acre urban park. It lies along the east bank of the Mississippi River just below Hidden Falls Park, across the river from Fort Snelling. Crosby includes almost 7 miles of trails, a boardwalk over a marsh, a long river shore and two small lakes.

It has critters, too. It was well known for years that there was a coyote pack in the park that was kept alive by a diet including rabbits, muskrats and unlucky house cats from the homes just off Shepard Road. On my first visit, I saw a gray fox (a tree-climbing variant of the usual red fox). I also know for a fact Crosby was home to a black bear for a while in 2001. Does a bear poop in the woods? Yes, and on the walking paths, at least that year.

Crosby is many things, but what it is not is a dog park. That is, any dog down there is supposed to be on a leash. I’ve always blamed the Russians for that. The park is used heavily by Russian immigrants, and they have a terrible opinion of dogs. If an unleashed dog approaches someone with a sweet smile and wagging tail, and if that person nearly faints away with fear and disgust, you’ve encountered a Russian.

In spite of the rules, Crosby is really attractive to dog owners. Dogs can sprint along the river beach and swim for sticks. The park is so big a dog gets to roam a lot without encountering other dogs or people. It is just a pretty place and great playground for people and dogs. And if you hike down there during low-use hours, you’ll probably not see a Russian or any other human. There’s no harm in that!

There is harm, however, if you get caught. It is risky to run your dog off leash in Crosby even if you are in remote areas of the park where others don’t go. At the end of your hike you have to get back to your car in the parking lot, and that means you have to walk where park rangers often go. When a friend got caught with her golden retriever off his leash, she was fined $75. When she got caught again, the bill went to $100. That’s a lot of dog food!

I’ve allowed my English setter, Katie, to run off her leash in Crosby since she was a puppy just a few months old. She doesn’t range far, and she is the sweetest dog I’ve known in a lifetime among dogs. That means she doesn’t intimidate anyone except a freshly-immigrated Russian. I’ll admit it feels spooky to walk around looking out for someone who could tag you for $100, but I did it for years with no close calls.

Katie and I took a hike in Crosby in the winter of 2008. Because the woods were full of snow that had gone through several melting-freezing cycles, all the paths were covered with treacherous ice. I adapted to that by lashing on “traction devices,” a sort of rubber attachment to my boots that carried short bolts like the studs in winter tires. With a traction device you can walk normally on ice without slipping or falling.

At the end of our walk, Katie and I were on the return loop about a mile from the parking lot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that a large man was following us, a large man wearing a chartreuse vest. Adrenaline hit my system as I tried to think of anyone who might wear a chartreuse vest except a park employee. Maybe this was just someone who was checking the health of the place, but the odds were good that he was a ranger with a pad of citation tickets in his pocket. But I was ahead of him by 200 yards or so, and I had good traction.

It was a fascinating problem. I had to get to my car before he caught up with me, and I had to get there with enough time to throw Katie in the back of the car and make my getaway without getting caught. Was my lead good enough for all of that? Probably not. But if I walked at a normal pace I could pretend I wasn’t knowingly breaking the rules. Authority figures in Minnesota are more likely to issue warnings than fines if they think you were dumb enough to break the laws. Or putting it the other way around, if you run and skulk and make it obvious that you are trying to get away with something, even Minnesota authority figures can get ticked off.

We came to a fork in the road. I went left, not taking the short path to the parking lot. The path I took went through deep woods, and it was used by few people. Without letting my pursuer know it, I turned just enough to peek behind me. Dang! The guy in the vest was still on my trail, having taken the path in the woods like I had. The evidence was mounting that I was his quarry.

Even while struggling to avoid a $100 fine, I could see the humor of my dilemma. I had to make good time, flying over the ice, without looking like a guilty person. I was a bit like the duck that seems placid above water while he is actually madly paddling beneath. And I thought of the OJ Simpson low-speed chase. I was walking and the ranger was walking, but we were both trying for as much speed as we could get without breaking form and actually running. In spite of my casual body language, arms gently swinging, I was panting by now.

As we neared the parking lot, a fellow got out of a white car and headed down the woods path right at us. With this fellow were a black Labrador and some sort of gray mutt.

“Hello!” cried the newcomer. “Do you know how I can get down to the beach?”

“Just keep going,” I said, “and turn left when you get to a T in the trail. You’re going just the right way now!” This guy with two off-leash dogs was going to run smack into the ranger.

As I passed the newcomer, I smiled broadly. “Damn! You wouldn’t believe how happy I am to see you down here today!”

Today’s guest post is by Donna.

Every 6 to 8 weeks I spend close to 2 hours and a bunch of money at a beauty salon called, The Stylist. It always goes pretty much the same way.

When I arrive, Gary, my stylist, greets me with a smile and escorts me back to his station. He makes a thorough assessment of my hair by running his hands through it and asking, “How has this cut been working for you? Have you noticed any problem areas? How have you liked the color? Are you thinking you’d like to make any changes?” Then he disappears for a few minutes and reappears with a bowl of coloring solution that he masterfully applies, separating the hair into sections and sweeping the brush upward to ensure complete coverage. It feels refreshingly cool and its fumes immediately clear my sinuses and cause my eyes to water and blink enthusiastically.

All the while he engages me in fascinating conversation. We visit about his back surgery, his parents, his herbs, his new sofa, and Mike and Sassy. (One of these is his Pomeranian and one is his partner. I can never remember which is which.) He asks me about the happenings in my life and I share a couple of anecdotes about my first graders and he laughs like I’ve said something hilarious, but we both know it wasn’t that funny and that my love life is still dormant. Next he brings me a bottle of water and coffee and some magazines to help pass the time while the color processes. I drink the coffee and have a sip or two of the bottled water, but no more, because I will take the rest of it home to share with my cat. Then I read a magazine until I nod off.

When Gary returns he gently rouses me to my feet and leads me over to the sink. This is my absolute favorite part because after the rinse, he caresses my head for an entire 60 seconds, using a massage potion fused with pomegranate and pesto.

All too soon it’s time to go back to the chair for the cut, and at first I watch him very closely because if I could learn how to do this myself, I’d save so much money and I truly do need to scale back because of the pay cut I have to take next year, thanks to our governor and legislature. Then I start visualizing the kinds of punishment that await them in the afterlife, and before I know it, Gary‘s moved on to the blow dryer and I’ve forgotten all about that impractical notion.

I compliment Gary on his remarkable ability to transform my fine limp hair into a temporary voluminous mane. He responds by holding up a bottle of heat-activated spray gel that smells like strawberries – apparently he applied some during my sadistic daydream – and hands me a ten percent-off coupon for any product in the store this week only! Then he says what he always says, “This color looks fabulous on you! I am so glad we let your hair grow longer!” And I say what I always say, “You’re the master!”

Then I go up to the counter and pay my bill and leave Gary a liberal tip. It may or may not surprise you to learn that I also splurge on the strawberry styling product. I do this not because I think it will actually give me salon results at home, but because it smells sooo good and because my pay cut won’t go into effect for three months yet.

How do you justify luxuries that are totally worth it?

Today’s guest post is by Jacque.

Tuesday morning I went to the gym at about 7:00am. I was still a little groggy, waiting for the coffee to kick in, as I wandered toward the door of the community center when I heard hissing. To the right next to a bush was a Mama Duck protecting at least 10 little fluff ball chicks. And that Mama was MAD. Clearly I had committed a duck faux pas by thoughtlessly walking too close.

One of the most fascinating things about living in the Twin Cities is the population’s attitude towards these broods of ducks and geese each Spring breeding season. Normally fast moving traffic on the interstate will slow to a crawl, then a full stop, to allow a misdirected Mama and her babies to clear the road. These are drivers who sometimes seem willing to run their own slow Mama off the road.

In the mid-1990’s when I worked at a local Chemical Dependency Treatment Center for teenagers and young adults there was a Mama duck who returned to an interior outdoor courtyard of the facility every single Spring to build a nest and raise her family. The facility custodian would haul out the kiddie pool each spring, install it in the courtyard filled with water then place a plywood ramp up to the pool so the ducklings could learn to swim. These ducklings learned to walk up the ramp then jump into the pool for swimming lessons. Our teenage addicts stood for hours watching this through the window. Soon they would have to learn to swim in life stone sober.

When ducks could swim and walk the facility Executive Director would announce the date of The Duck Walk a week in advance. Each treatment group held Duck Walk Orientation so the kids would know what to do! During the duck walk every juvenile delinquent in the place was responsible for holding his or her piece of large cardboard in just the right place so the Mama and Family could be escorted through the building without escaping, then out the door. These juvenile delinquents and addicts found this event thrilling, often mentioning it as a highlight of the rehab program.

Last year on my way to work a goose family was confused and stuck in the middle of a four way stop. Traffic was carefully edging by them, slowing, stopping. When my turn came at the green light the family was positioned in a place where I would hit them if I proceeded. No one was moving while the panicked Mama tried to get the goslings off the road. But one crazy driver behind me wanted to MOVE NOW and laid on her horn. Not one other car moved to allow that driver through. Did she really want to run down the geese? Apparently so.

However, that lady is the exception. If you want to see living beings treated with compassion, gentleness, great care and loving kindness come to the Twin Cities during the Spring when Fowl run our roads and nest in our yards.

Do you have stories of Families most Fowl?