An unexpected rainstorm after tepid temperatures and windless conditions. Radar indicated the the system to go north of us, but we are in its southern reaches, thunder a way off heralded its approach. The sky began filling with dark clouds; temperatures dropping slightly providing a welcome coolness on the skin. Treetops fluttered. I carried in our plastic picnic table, partially folding it to fit off the aisle in our little porch. Grandson wanted to wait out the rain on his bicycle but as it began to fall more rapidly, Grandma told him to come indoors and bring the bike with him, and so the rain fell straight down, harder, hard enough to fill the gutter over the door and cascade out its open end and plunge splattering into the grass below, its cadence wavering as the rain slowed, then fell hard again. Mists arose in the corral. The drips spattered from the roof edge one by one. The leaves hissed. Cars out on the county road could be heard faraway as the storm quietly moved eastward ... and blue patches of sky could be seen again.
This is the first channel wide moving water I've seen since the spring of 2023 --and it's in February! On maps, the creek (or ‘crick' depending on your dialect) is spelled ‘Mickinock’ for the Anishinaabe man who lived at the Indian camp at Ross, but had seasonal camps around Wannaska and other places. The Euro-American immigrants who homesteaded here in Roseau County called him ‘Chief,’ but he may have been just a spokesperson who knew enough English to get things done peacefully and simultaneously meet the needs of his people; the word, ‘chief' was often used in derision of any Indigenous male adult. I spell Mikinaak the Ojibwe way, in a gesture of respect; what the Dakota, who were here before the Anishinaabeg/Chippewa, called this place, this body of moving water I don’t know; just as I don’t know who came before them exactly. I was told that one of Mikinaak's camps were here on our place in Palmville Township. Its locat...
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