Gretchen Steele

Easter has just passed through, we’ve been eating big grey morels for a good week, and even the big sought-after yellows were found by a few in the last few days. Lilacs are blooming.
Then today, as I sat down with my plate of morels, bluegill, and an omelet full of spring greens for my lunch, the weatherman on the noon news forecasted snow tonight and in the morning.

Every year, it happens the same way. Somewhere in late winter, after one too many gray afternoons and one too many evenings spent looking out the window instead of being out in the woods, the camping itch starts up again. It begins as a harmless thought.
Maybe it’s time to go camping.

If you want to understand politics, family dynamics, or the delicate art of running a rural committee meeting, I strongly recommend spending a February afternoon watching a backyard bird feeder in Southern Illinois.
The recent winter storms have given me plenty of opportunities to be endlessly entertained by the feeder drama outside my window. Late winter is prime time.