While my poppy passion is no secret to Rosslyn Redux readers, I’m less vocal about my partiality to wild flora like trillium and Jack-in-the-Pulpit. One learns to protect these treasures!
But today I pause for an overt gawk at this exotic Jack-in-the-Pulpit, a sylvan surprise with almost impossibly green and purple stripes.
Jack-in-the-Pulpit (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Jack-in-the-Pulpit (Arisaema triphyllum sensu stricto or Arisaema triphyllum s.s.) is one of the most extravagant spring flourishes our woodlands offer. Coming across this beauty recalibrates, we’ll, just about everything. The day, the week, one’s mood, one’s wonder, one’s optimism. A gift of nature. A gift of springtime.
Beyond the beauty, there is mystery. A wondrous, semi sibylline wild neighbor. Let’s take look…
Jack-in-the-Pulpit (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Jack-or-Jill-in-the-Pulpit
Let’s take a look at the reproductive realm.
The inflorescence can be male (with male flowers only), bisexual (with both male and female flowers), or female (with female flowers only). In a small plant, most if not all of the flowers are male. As the plant matures and grows larger, the spadix produces female flowers as well as male flowers. The transition from male to female continues until eventually the plant produces female flowers only. This is an example of dichogamy, a rare phenomenon in flowering plants. Due to this sex-change lifecycle, this species is sometimes called colloquialy as Jack or Jill in the pulpit or Jill-in-the-pulpit. (Source: Wikipedia, June 23, 2023)
Fascinating, right? Let’s look into “dichogamy” a little further.
Sequential hermaphroditism (called dichogamy in botany) is one of the two types of hermaphroditism, the other type being simultaneous hermaphroditism. It occurs when the organism’s sex changes at some point in its life. In particular, a sequential hermaphrodite produces eggs (female gametes) and sperm (male gametes) at different stages in life. Sequential hermaphroditism occurs in many fish, gastropods, and plants. Species that can undergo these changes do so as a normal event within their reproductive cycle, usually cued by either social structure or the achievement of a certain age or size. (Source: Wikipedia, June 23, 2023)
And you thought I was just showcasing an extravagant bloom! Sometimes nature amplifies our perspective, offering a fresh twist on ideas we consider in other aspects of life…
Last Sunday my bride and I settled in for a post-lunch-tea-and-snooze in the parlor. The previous week’s unseasonably temperate spring-going-on-summer weather had yielded to cold and rain, so we weren’t feeling too guilty about playing hooky. No gardening or tidying up the waterfront for spring boating. No orchard pruning or apple tree grafting for us. Just a lazy afternoon on the dry side of our rain pelted windows…
Whaplumf!
That’s the noise of a dove crashing into a window pane.
Hawk Attacks Dove
We headed into the breakfast room where we discovered a fierce looking hawk pinning a dove to the ground on the lawn near the bird feeders, ripping beak-fulls of feather and flesh from the stunned dove’s back.
Did I mention that the dove was still alive? Despite the predator’s fierce talons and efficient beak, the dove periodically struggled and lifted its head to look around. The efforts were futile and only increased the hawk’s aggression.
It was a fascinating if deeply disturbing sight. A real world immersion in the sort of wild spectacle usually limited to the Discovery Channel. A Rosslyn safari sequel to the the Fox & Squirrel episodes.
Cooper’s Hawk on bird feeder (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A dusty impression of the dove was still visible on the glass, and I surmised that the dove had crashed into the window while attempting to flee the hawk. I had seen a similar image about a week before on the kitchen window, as if a dove had been rolled in flour and then pressed against the glass, wings outstretched and head turned to the side revealing an eye and and the beak. Had this same drama played out then?
My bride was horrified. She raced outside flapping a pair of bright pink dishwashing gloves and shouting at the hawk. “Stop that! Get out of here. Go away!” The hawk looked at Susan flapping the pink gloves menacingly less than 10 feet away, then looked down at the dove, then up at me standing in the window, then back at Susan. The dove lifted it’s head, eyes wild with fright.
A standoff? A detente?
Suddenly the hawk flapped its wings lifting the still struggling dove from the ground. My fearless bride leaped toward the hawk, flailing her gloves and shouting angrily. The hawk settled briefly in front of the kitchen window and then flew away, abandoning the injured dove.
My bride pulled on her gloves and lifted the injured dove from the grass. It gazed up at her, struggling to breath. She carried the dying bird to the edge of our front lawn where placed it gently into a comfortable nest of leaves and twigs.
In recent weeks we’ve seen three of four piles of feathers near the bird feeder on different occasions, but I assumed the fox had switched from squirrels to doves. It turns out that we have two efficient predators who’ve discovered the benefits of dining on critters drawn to our birdfeeders.
Hawk Attack Dove “Research”
Never having witnessed this before I turned to the interwebs for assistance in deciphering what we witnessed. I found forums and blog posts documenting the exact same experience, in many cases even including the dove or pigeon smashing into a window before being nabbed by the hawk. And there’s a veritable glut of video footage online if your stomach is strong and your emotions are steely. (Note: If you are remotely squeamish, these videos are not for you.)
Are we contributing to the predation by overfeeding wildlife. I’m increasingly concerned that we are. Is there a better balance between feeding songbirds during the winter and over-concentrating/over-fattening the squirrel and dove populations? Certainly. But we haven’t quite figured out how to proceed.
I’ve recommended limiting bird feeding to the cold winter months, and my bride has reluctantly agreed. Verbally. When the food runs out. Which means that Rosslyn remains a fast food restaurant for foxes and hawks. And while my bride had repeatedly decreed our yard a safe haven for wildlife, we haven’t figure out how to communicate this to the predators. All advice welcome!
Hawk Attacks Dove Update
Half a year later I flash back to this experience.
It’s autumn, and we’ve just placed the bird feeders out for the winter. I’ve seen a fox slinking among the cedar hedge, spying on the squirrels, planning his next meal. The first pigeons arrive to peck the overspill sunflowers from the ground beneath the feeders.
Still no hawks.
And then, one crashes through the interwebs, plunges into my day, startles me, horrifies me, fascinates me. A hawk. A hare. An attack so familiar it seems as if I had watched the hawk attack the dove only yesterday.
Looks like my spring 2023 veggie garden exuberance (and perennially Pollyanna optimism) served me poorly. As we all well know from the time tempered tale of Daedalus and Icarus, the consequences of taking risks can send us plunging. Or, in the case of cheating the calendar by prematurely planting tomatoes, tomatillos, and other delicate spring starts in the hoop house, the fickle fates can zap our healthy vegetable transplants. Ouch! The consequences of high tunnel hubris is at once humbling and heartbreaking.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Peppers (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Rewind the calendar a few weeks. I was chomping at the proverbial bit, anxious to get plants into the ground, overconfident that the high tunnel would take the sting out of any late frosts.
There’s something about springtime, about gardening, about the promise of colorful blooms and produce that I’m finding too tempting to resist… with all the enthusiasm and optimism of an almost 100% planted garden. May 2023 be as abundant as 2022!(Source: Giebel Garden Flashback)
For a couple of months, we’d been monitoring a dozen data logging thermometers positioned strategically throughout the high tunnel. I made the apparently ill informed decision that we were ready.
High Tunnel Hubris: Freeze Watch (Source: Apple Weather)
I’ve learned again, and again that worrying about the weather is an unhealthy and unhelpful practice. So I won’t. Or, I will try not to worry. Nature, benevolent nature, will offer us what she considers right. (Source: Giebel Garden Flashback)
Benevolent, yes, in the grand scheme of things. But the peaks and valleys of nature’s day-to-day EKG is perhaps, slightly less benevolent.
This will be our second season high tunneling, but it’s our first opportunity to jumpstart planting (by about two weeks).
[…]
We’re tempting fate by leapfrogging the typical Mother’s Day planting date, crossing our fingers, and imagining tomatoes by the 4th of July. (Source: Green Zebras 1st in High Tunnel)
There it is: “tempting fate“. No blame, except my own optimism. I understood the stakes. I understood the risks. And I understood the consequences. But, friends, I find no analgesic in any of this today.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Tomatoes (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
With metaphorically melted wings and a painful plunge, it’s now time to regroup. Time to triage.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Eggplant (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Geo: How do the damaged plants look?
Pam: Not good. Looks like three tomato plants survived. Possibly lost all of the tomatillos as well.
Geo: Crushing. Hardly seems possible. Let’s allow them to adjust. Tomatoes may send out new shoots. Tomatillos too, but less likely.
Pam: The garden is fighting me this year. Soaker hoses and timers have been a struggle.
High Tunnel Hubris: Damaged Peppers (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Although the perspective is pretty bleak, at this point, I’m tentatively hopeful that some of the tomatoes may recover. If the soil was warm enough, the roots may remain vital. If a sucker shoots in, we can cultivate it into a new plant. The prospect, of course, for tomatillos is less good. But I’m not prepared to give up yet. The possibility of new growth might yet eclipse the discouraging dieback we’re now witnessing. After all, I’m not aware of anyone who has ever died of optimism!
It’s that remarkable season of reawakening, spring, glorious springtime! And more than all of the other blooms that announce the season of unslumbering, Dandelions remind us that nature is nourishing and vibrant and brilliantly colorful.
Routinely dismissed, even abhored, as an annoying weed, dandelions are for me a welcome harbinger of warming temperatures, greening environs, several seasons of blooms and fruit and vegetables. And yet dandelions remain mostly symbolic representatives of reawakening, vivid reminders of the abundance we’ll soon celebrate.
Friend or Foe: Dandelions (Photo: Geo Davis)
A decade or more ago Tom Duca introduced me and a gathering of Essex area friends to The Teeth of the Lion: The Story of the Beloved and Despised Dandelion by Anita Sanchez. His enthusiasm for her enthusiasm about dandelions made an impression on me that afternoon. I planned to read it, but it slipped off my radar. Until now. I’ve located a copy that is presently wending is way to me. So, soon I’ll be able to amplify my understanding (and presumably my appreciation) for dandelions.
But even before educating myself I’ll comfortably come down on the side of dandelions bring friends. Yes, I know that many might consider them an invasive scourge peppering the perfection of an otherwise green lawn.
Friend or Foe: Dandelions (Photo: Geo Davis)
But I do not share this disdain. Rather, dandelions evoke childhood wonder and enthusiasm for spring a perennially optimism inspiring season for me. Simply put springtime is seasonality’s metaphorical morning. And rambunctious riots of dandelions are one of the most exuberant symbols of the season. Persistent, yes, but in so many cases we’re able to recognize the merits of persistence. Why not dandelions?
We know too that dandelions are a forager’s friends, Nature’s nourishing gift of vitamins and minerals after months of hibernal stinginess. I’ve enjoyed tender dandelion greens in a spring salad mixes from the store, but I’ve rarely made the effort to harvest these spicy freebies from the yard. It’s an embarrassing oversight I intend to remedy. Soon. And dandelion wine? So many experiments to explore…
Friend or Foe: Dandelions (Photo: Geo Davis)
So for now, I’ll optimistically file dandelions as friend (and not foe) despite the proclivity of so many among my gardening aficionado cohort to vilify and endeavor to extirpate this sunny sojourner. If designation by and large comes down to bias, I’ve now made mine known. Caveat emptor. And once I’ve made it through Sanchez’s book I’ll be able to update this post with a meatier installment justifying my somewhat sentimental declaration that dandelions are our friends. Stay tuned…
Exciting update from one of Rosslyn’s wildlife cameras when I awoke this morning. Not sure why, but I always get especially enthused when we document a Bobcat. The sequence of three images captured at 2:29am appears to be the same bobcat we photographed a few months ago. Still healthy. Strong. Well fed.
Bobcat, May 10, 2023 (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
I’m struck by the fact that we capture bobcat photos and witness bobcat tracks, but I’ve never actually come across a bobcat at Rosslyn. Elsewhere, yes. But it would seem that our Lynx rufus representatives are especially stealthy, keen to avoid human encounters. Susan prefers it that way. But these photos do incite a persistent yen to meet — safely, respectfully — one of these regal neighbors some day.
Bobcat, May 10, 2023 (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
Thank you, John Davis (@wildwaystrekker) and Tony Foster (@anthonyfoster335), for siting and creating this trail last winter. Susan and I thoroughly enjoyed our cross-country skiing outings on thus new loop back in February and March. And it’s abundantly clear that our wild neighbors are fans as well!
Bobcat, May 10, 2023 (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
In this third photograph a small sapling appears to have sprouted along the downhill side of the trail. Do you see it camouflaging the front legs of the bobcat? It took me a moment to determine that’s what I was seeing. The disparity between the stout forward striding front leg and the strong but slender rear extended front leg — likely an incongruity exaggerated by the angle more than actual physiological discrepancy — initially drew my attention. But the darker mottling, especially on the forward leg, perplexed me. An injury? Atypical fur patterning? A skull and crossbones stocking?!?!
I missed my mark — Earth Day, April 22, 2023 — with this post extolling the poetry of earth. It was germinal then, and it remains germinal today (albeit marginally more mature?)
Sometimes a seed germinates with exuberance, practically exploding into existence as if overcome with the glory of imminent bloom and fruit. Other times a seed lingers dormant — cautious or reticent or simply, inexplicably vigorless — for so long that its potential is overlooked, obscured by the foliage and flowers and harvest of its neighbors.
And through it all nature’s song endures. Just when we are lulled into torpid tranquility it swells in symphonic crescendo.
“The poetry of earth is never dead.” — John Keats, “On the Grasshopper and Cricket” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Poetry of Earth, May 2, 2010 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Often a blog post is sketched out with a few simple strokes that distill the essence for what I expect to write about. A mini map yo I de ate my route. As I develop the post, filling in the voids, perhaps adding texture and color and context, I approach the anticipated narrative scope. Upon arriving at my destination I publish and share. But exploring a preliminary sketch or fleshing out a rough outline sometimes occasionally renders surprises. Wayward adventures lurk in the most unlikely places. I plan to take journey A, but I end up taking journey B.
And then there are the posts that linger dormant. A seed is planted, but it doesn’t leap to life. Perhaps the ground is still too cold, the earth isn’t sufficiently fertile, or the rain and sun remain elusive. A sketch, an outline, a map. Perhaps even a journey — or several journeys — but they are abbreviated and fruitless. False starts.
It is wise on these occasions to move on. Maybe circle back in the future. Try again. Or compost the effort that it might fertilize another seed. For this is the wisdom of nature and the gardener. This is the poetry of earth.
My mind meanders from Pollyanna printemps — nature reaching and bursting, reinvigorating all that withered and laid dormant these frosty days and nights of winter — to autumn’s harvest. Symphonic crescendo and resounding applause. Such success and such succession. Sweet reward and bitter decline. Decadence and decay.
This seasonal swan song’s poignance is the marriage of expiry and infinity, waning and immortality.
As when winter succumbs to spring’s tender caresses, thawing and refreezing, thawing and refreezing, melting into muddy mess, then gathering composure, turning etiolated tendril toward the sun begins to warm, to green, toward foliage and flower and fruit and… fall.
The poetry of earth is a consoling refrain. It is a reminder that beginnings end and endings seed new beginnings. Out of the mud, a sprout. From the sprout a life full of wonder and another generation of seeds.
“The poetry of earth is ceasing never…” — John Keats, “On the Grasshopper and Cricket” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Keats’ poem delivers where I have come up short. Perhaps grasshoppers and crickets and birds lend themselves more willingly to the poetry of nature. Perhaps not. Perhaps this still muddled effort is destined for the compost where it’s decomposition will enrich a subsequent effort to compose this song of seasonality that so far eludes me. To convey the tragic beauty, and the profoundly consoling inspiration of the poetry of nature…
The past lives on in art and memory, but it is not static: it shifts and changes as the present throws its shadow backwards. — Margaret Drabble
I return today to a recurring theme, a preoccupation perhaps, that wends its way through my Rosslyn ruminations and my collections of photographs and artifacts. While the past lives on, the present riffs, repurposes, and reimagines the past. Adaptive reuse. Upcycling. Reinvention. Art.
Buckle up. Or pour yourself a cocktail…
The Past Lives On: NW Corner of Icehouse and Carriage Barn, September 21, 2021 (Photo: Geo Davis)
NW Corner of Icehouse
Before tripping too far into the wilds of my imagination, let’s root the present inquiry in something a little less abstract, a little more concrete. Like, for example, the northwest corner of the icehouse about a year and a half ago, September 21, 2021. That’s what you see in the photo above as well as those below.
I’ve titled this post, “The Past Lives On”, and if you’ve been with me for any time at all you’re well aware that Rosslyn, the property around which this multimodal inquiry circumnavigates like a drunken sailor, is rooted in the past. And the present. Starting out in the early 1800’s and spanning almost exactly two centuries.
I’ve pilfered the title from the quotation above, ostensibly the perspective of Virginia Woolf filtered through the mind of Margaret Drabble. The broader context for Drabble’s perspective is landscape. Let’s look a little further.
The past lives on in art and memory, but it is not static: it shifts and changes as the present throws its shadow backwards. The landscape also changes, but far more slowly; it is a living link between what we were and what we have become. This is one of the reasons why we feel such a profound and apparently disproportionate anguish when a loved landscape is altered out of recognition; we lose not only a place, but ourselves, a continuity between the shifting phases of our life. — Margaret Drabble, A Writer’s Britain: Landscape in Literature, Thames & Hudson, 1987 (Source: Ken Taylor, “Landscape: Memory and Identity”)
In the photo above I’ve recorded the exterior of the icehouse and adjoining lawn as it has looked since approximately the 1950s which is when we understand that a clay tennis court was built behind the icehouse and carriage barn for the pleasure of Sherwood Inn guests.
Actually, I’m slightly oversimplifying the contours of history. Given what I understand, the clay court was installed for Sherwood Inn patrons, but at some point in the decades since, the court was abandoned. Or at least *mostly* abandoned. The +/-10′ tall wooden posts for an enclosure along the northern end of the court remained until we removed them early in our rehabilitation. And one of the two steel tennis net posts will at long last be removed in about a week when Bob Kaleita returns to tune up the site for hardscaping and landscaping. But a long time ago the clay surface was abandoned and a perfectly flat lawn replaced it. We’ve enjoyed using it as a croquet, bocce, and volleyball court for years.
If you look at the bottom right of the photograph at the top of this post you can see that there’s a topographical bulge in the lawn, sort of a grassy hummock that is crowding the building(s). In the photo below you can again see how the ground is higher than the framing on both buildings.
The Past Lives On: NW Corner of Icehouse and Carriage Barn, September 21, 2021 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Not an ideal situation when organics (lawn, landscaping, etc.) crowd wooden buildings. Unfortunately the tennis court was built above the sills of both buildings, and inauspiciously close. Moisture, snow, and ice buid-up over the decades compromised the structures of both buildings because of this miscalculation.
Today, both buildings have had their framing rehabilitated, and their structural integrity is better than ever. In addition, significant site work last autumn (remember “The art of Dirt Work“?) and again next week is restoring the ground level adjacent to the icehouse and carriage barn to more closely resemble what it likely looked like in the 1800s when both buildings were originally sited and constructed.
A landscape altered. A landscape restored.
A memory recreated with the art of landscaping. The past made present. And yet, not. The new grade has been reimagined as an outdoor recreation and entertaining area not likely resembling the environs a couple hundred years ago. And so it is that the past “shifts and changes as the present throws its shadow backwards”…
The Past Lives On: NW Corner of Icehouse, September 21, 2021 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Present Shadowed Past
What if innocence, in a sense, is less unbiased naïveté than wonder-wander, curiosity, and experiment? Or kneading gray clay dug behind the barn, behind the garden, before the forest (but barely before) after summer rain forty years ago. Stiff and cold at first, loosening with touch, oozing through cupped palms and playful fingers, shapes suggest themselves. Contours and textures echo yesterdays unrecorded and likely forgotten but re-emergent, confections conjured of sodded clay, and curiosity.
The Past Lives On
Indeed, something endures, but rarely should we be confident that we are knowing the past as it was. As it once was. We are informed and perhaps sometimes misinformed by our perspective sometime subsequent to the archival echo we fixate upon. And yet, perhaps allowing for reimagination, adaptive reuse, and even ahistoric reinvention, drawing upon the artifacts and memories we inherit but investing them with whimsy and wonder is one of the best ways of rehabilitating the past. Art from artifacts…
Did Punxsutawney Phil see his shadow? Is spring around the corner? Are we headed into six more weeks of winter?
In this high tech era of satellites forecasting weather from beyond the beyond, intricate algorithms gobbling gargantuan data sets, and media channels dedicated to analyzing and communicating meteorological mysteries in real time, we still get excited on February 2 to see how a groundhog will react to brisk midwinter conditions. It’s folksy fun, I suppose. Maybe a result of cabin fever…
Today the furry fellow decided it was wiser to double down on hibernation. Spring’s still a long way off, at least in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.
To be sure, Essex isn’t exactly tropical compared to Punxsutawney, so a belated de-wintering would seem inevitable based upon this morning’s proceedings. But, I’m pro-spring, even if that puts me in disagreement with Phil.
Unlike the groundhog,
fur ruffed against shadowed chill,
I suspect springtime.
I love springtime almost as much as I love morning, and for similar reasons. So much possibility in both reawakenings!
And who’s to say that haikupoetry is any less indicative of spring’s arrival than a groundhog coddled by top hatted members of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club gathering at Gobbler’s Knob? Not I. (Which begs the question, what *else* do marmots and micropoems have in common?)
What to make of an annual tradition centering around a groundhog venturing out of hibernation to prognosticate on the coming season? Let’s dig into the legend of Punxsutawney Phil.
Each February 2, on Groundhog Day, the members of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club make the pilgrimage to Gobbler’s Knob, Phil’s official home.
The group waits for Phil to leave his burrow and, legend has it, if he sees his shadow we’re in for six more weeks of winter. If he doesn’t, we get to bask in an early spring.
Scientifically speaking, winter will officially come to an end on the equinox on March 20, regardless of what Phil predicts. But Mother Nature doesn’t always follow the timetable, and neither does Phil.
Though Phil has no meteorology degree, every year the United States tunes in for his prediction.
Phil’s track record is not perfect. “On average, Phil has gotten it right 40% of the time over the past 10 years,” according to the National Centers for Environmental Information, a division of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration… (Source: CNN)
So, the meteorological marmot’s not the best indicator of whether or not winter will yield early/late to spring.
This year marks the third straight year the groundhog spotted his shadow, something that he has often done since making his first prediction in 1887. Of the 127 recorded times Phil has predicted the weather, he has now seen his shadow 107 (84%) times. His longest streak of seeing his shadow remains at 31, when he saw it every year from 1903-33.
It’ll take some time to figure out if Phil’s prediction will be right, but given his history, he’s likely wrong. (Source: USA Today)
But math be damned! There’s a whimsical charm surrounding the event. Seasonality keeps us in sync with our environment, wondering and wandering about nature, so the meter-marmot’s sub 50/50 track record isn’t really the point.
To better understand the popularity of Groundhog Day, Troy Harman (Penn State University history professor and Gettysburg National Military Park ranger) talks left brain, right brain and the science-to-tradition spectrum.
“Throughout history, whenever there has been a real strong emphasis on science, its counterpart of intuition, instinct, emotion, imagination — the right side of our brain — pushes back a little bit,” Harman says, explaining that Groundhog Day took off right around the time of the industrial revolution.
He says those massive societal and technological changes spurred a desire to return to what people imagined were simpler times, in the form of things like literary romanticism and gothic revival architecture…
“I strongly suspect that the people that go to Gobbler’s Knob are fully aware of the power of science, but at the same time want to hold on to traditions and a deeper vibe,” he says. “There’s the instincts and the intuition and the imagination that every human being has that has to come into balance with logic and reason.” (Source: NPR)
It seems there’s plenty more to be said on this logic, reason, and science versus intuition, emotion, and imagination comparison, but this isn’t the time or place. And I think that Harman’s probably right. Trusting in science and logic, many/most of us still allow room for romantic traditions and intuition. It’s quite likely a part of what humanizes us.
So whether today’s shadow viewing gets chalked up on the wins side or the losses side of Punxsutawney Phil’s tally, we’re likely to see another six weeks on winter weather in Essex. Sure, there will be some balmy days when the mud oozes, but it’s a rare year that February and even much or March aren’t snowy or at least inclement. But we’re hoping this year to take advantage of the high tunnel to fast-track spring in the vegetable garden, so we just might stand a chance of realizing the optimism in my haiku!
In closing, you may be wondering what the difference is between a groundhog and a woodchuck. And what about a marmot?!?! Although the three names are often used interchangeably, the “marmot” is exactly the same as the other two. While a groundhog and a woodchuck are one and the same wildlife (taxonomically Marmota monax), the term “marmot” generally refers to the entire genus Marmota and/or the subgenus Marmota which includes the groundhog (aka woodchuck, whistlepig, monax, moonack, whistler, groundpig, etc.) Armed with that tidy tidbit of trivia you’re armed and dangerous for happy hour this evening. Cheers to Phil. Cheers to spring!
Starting today, Epiphany will be Shirley Bacot Shamel Day.
Susan chuckled this morning after reminding me that her family hadn’t celebrated Epiphany when she was growing. I had reminded her that my family had, and for some reason she considers it slightly droll. It’s true that we did celebrate some holidays that my peers did not. I’m not certain why. In addition to Epiphany, we celebrated Saint Nicholas Day (aka Saint Nick’s Day) a month ago on December 6.
We celebrated all sorts of holidays that my friends did not. Christmas, yes. But also Epiphany (Three Kings Day) and another near-to-Christmas night when we placed our shoes at the top of the stairs and St. Nick (I think) came and filled them with treats. Pistachios. Chocolates. Silver dollars. (Source: Rabbit, Rabbit « virtualDavis)
Other Davis family habits and traditions make her chuckle as well, including rabbit-rabbit-ing the end and beginning of months; using “Christmas crackers“ to celebrate not only Christmas, but New Years, Thanksgiving, and just about any other festive meal; and corn cakes and turkey gravy as a customary follow-on meal after Christmas and Thanksgiving.
Although Susan thinks some of these observances amusing, it’s worth noting that she has embraced year-round crackers with gusto. Any excuse for miniature fireworks and crown-wearing appeals to her!
It was encouraging to hear Susan start the morning today with a chuckle. Today, of all days. Her spontaneous laughter instantly lifted the ominous if unspoken heaviness that had settled upon her, settled upon us, over the last 24 hours.
In addition to Epiphany, January 6 marks a more painful anniversary. Susan‘s mother, Shirley Bacot Shamel, passed away three years ago today. The loss remains palpable, and grieving is ongoing, intermittent, and usually unanticipated, triggered by a song, a memento, a photograph,…
Today’s melancholy was anticipated, and by yesterday memories were being shared. I knew that today would be difficult, but I hadn’t come up with any clever ways to support my beautiful bride.
But Susan’s early morning laughter lifted my hopes and prompted an epiphany! (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) Suddenly I had an idea how to transform this solemn day into a more joyful remembrance. Let’s start a new tradition of our own.
Starting today, Epiphany will be Shirley Bacot Shamel Day.
Epiphany2
To follow my logic, if there is any (and I’d venture a suggestion that epiphanies needn’t follow the laws of logic), we might first take a look at capital “E”, Epiphany.
January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ. (Source: Merriam-Webster)
For some readers this is familiar. For others, not, so here’s a slightly more expansive explanation.
After the 12th day of Christmas, believers take down their festive decor. But they don’t let January 6—or January 19 for many Orthodox Christians who still abide by the Julian calendar—pass by without another Christmas-connected celebration.
Tied to biblical accounts of Jesus Christ’s birth and baptism, the holiday of Epiphany is a chance for Christians to reflect on the nature of God’s physical manifestation on Earth and pay homage to three important visitors in the biblical account of Jesus’ birth. (Source: National Geographic)
The three important visitors in the second explanation and the Magi mentioned in the first are one and the same. Also known as the three wise men, the three kings (sometimes even by name: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar), and sometimes more by association with the gifts they bore: gold, myrrh, and frankincense.
If you’re anywhere as keen a Christmas carol aficionado as I am, you’re familiar with these three gift bearing gentlemen, but if not, you’ve at least a basic understanding now.
So that’s capital “E”, Epiphany. What about this morning’s lowercase “e”, epiphany?
Again I need to reach back a little. I’m as keen on getting and decorating a Christmas tree as I am on Christmas carols, and given the anticipation it represents (and the beauty it adds to mornings and evenings) I prefer to jumpstart Christmas by finding a handsome evergreen and decorating it midway between Thanksgiving and Christmas. And that means I’m ready by New Year’s Eve for it to morph from crispy needle-dropping leftover to lush, colorful memory. But we rarely manage to get the tree down by New Year’s Eve or even New Year’s Day. So, in keeping with National Geographic’s observation, it had struck me that today might be the perfect time to un-decorate the Christmas tree.
But that’s not the epiphany. In trying to anticipate a way to brighten my bride’s morning on a particularly mournful morning, I thought wishing her a happy Epiphany and proposing that we start a new tradition of removing the Christmas tree each year on January 6 might shift her perspective and strike her innate sense of logic. But…
That chuckle.
Starting today, Epiphany will be Shirley Bacot Shamel Day.
Shirley Bacot Shamel Day
The eureka moment catalyzed by Susan’s superpower smile and laugh suddenly made it all clear. Yes, we needed to launch a new family tradition. From now on Epiphany should be a holiday to celebrate the legacy of Susan’s mother. Three years ago we lost Shirley. On this day. And on this day we recognize three kings bearing gifts. Loose logic? No logic?!?! But sometimes the universe rhymes, and in that moment I could hear the singing underneath, connecting these nominally connected dots into a perfect picture of Epiphany as Shirley Day. Sure, we could remove ornaments from the tree, and I could drag it out back for wood chipping. But maybe we should think bigger. A hooky day. No work. A day to remember and celebrate and show our love for the lady who blessed our union before it even existed. (That story for another day.)
And so today we started a new family tradition. We canceled commitments, bundled into our ski gear, and headed into the snowy mountains for some outdoor bliss. And you know what? It worked. It recalibrated our brains. It lifted our spirits. Whether or not the tree is going to get tackled is still uncertain. But a delicious dinner this evening; a hot tub soak as we were enjoying the night Shirley passed; and some time together gazing up at a bright star that guided three kings, a star that Susan named after her mother three years ago, a star that now helps guide us; this is 100% certain.
Autumn Landscape, October 27, 2015 (Photo: Geo Davis)
TGIF… time to put another log on the fire, pour yourself something refreshing, and unwind for a moment together. Busy-ness and a continuous cascade of commitments can gradually hypnotize us during the weekly hurly-burly, so let’s take a few minutes to exhale and redirect our attention at this dramatic time of year. Transformation all around us. Breathtaking beauty all around us. I invite you to round out your week by contemplating the autumn landscape.
As another week of icehouse rehab draws to a close, I’m shifted gears a little. I’ll post an update soon, however there’ve been several compelling-but-competing intrigues to pursue. Yesterday’s post about rehoming the “truckling” in exchange for an inspiring reuse/recycling story has elicited several compelling possibilities. (Hoping to make a decision soon, and I’ll share the winning story!) I’ve also been crowdsourcing (albeit quite limitedly among friends and family) perspectives on what makes a house a home. Can’t wait to share the riches tomorrow! For now, with this pair of jolly Jack-in-the-box updates about to spring out into the open, I’m recalibrating and refocusing on autumn landscape.
Autumn Streamscape
As wildlife crisscross
these riparian byways
scents, tracks, graffiti.
— Geo Davis
This haiku takes as its seed the layered narrative along Library Brook which meanders the western margin of Rosslyn’s back forests and fields. So much wildlife trafficking this vital corridor, and all of them communicating, carrying on a distributed dialogue, and creating artistic artifacts.
I spent some time flail mowing near a small portion of this riparian region last summer, eliminating some invasive that have clogged the stream, and encouraging native flora to thrive, ensuring a healthy habitat for our wild neighbors. I thought that I had taken photographs of a mesmerizingly beautiful glade thick with stream-side wildflowers, but I’m unable to find them. Perhaps these images were meant to remain wild, earned quietly on foot, cross country skies, snowshoes.
These contemplative places abound at Rosslyn. And my haiku doesn’t offer a sufficient snapshot. Perhaps I’ll be able to update this page with another poem that offers the scents and sounds of this this wild autumn landscape. For now I’d like to offer you a potent portrait by a Vietnamese poet, Hồ Xuân Hương (1772–1822), that hints at the intoxication I’m alluding to. If “the banana leaves” are overlooked, her poem feels as if it might be leaning against a stump beside burbling Library Brook.
Autumn Landscape
Drop by drop rain slaps the banana leaves.
Praise whoever sketched this desolate scene:
the lush, dark canopies of the gnarled trees,
the long river, sliding smooth and white.
I lift my wine flask, drunk with rivers and hills.
My backpack, breathing moonlight, sags with poems.
Look, and love everyone.
Whoever sees this landscape is stunned.
— Hồ Xuân Hương (Source: Narrative Magazine)
Let us all breathe some moonlight tonight, and let us all let go the of the week just lived and look at the autumn landscape, allow it to stun us, to remind us how to love. Everyone.
This winter Rosslyn’s trail camera silently monitoring a fence opening (along the margin of a woods-fields transition) recorded our second most frequent nocturnal visitor, the Eastern Coyote. The images in this post, captured this past January (2017), might even offer a glimpse at the animal frequently referred to as a “coywolf”.
[pullquote]The coyote—or possibly “coywolf”—was easily as large as a malamute… and the head and tail were notably larger than other coyotes I’ve seen.[/pullquote]Although none of these photographs portray exceptionally large canids, on several occasions I have witnessed firsthand coyotes of significantly larger proportions. My first experience took place almost a decade ago while brush-hogging one of the rear meadows. The coyote—or possibly “coywolf”—was easily as large as a malamute and considerably more robust than the coyotes in these trail cam photos. Coloring was mottled grays and browns, and the head and tail were notably larger than other coyotes I’ve seen.
My second experience was more recent.
An almost black coyote/”coywolf” of still larger proportions was startled by me during an early morning orchard inspection. S/he loped away from me across the near meadow, slowly and confidently, gliding through the high grass with a confidence and elegance I’ve never before witnessed among coyotes.
Spectacular!
Coyote Captured on Camera, January 2017 (Source: Trail Camera Photo by Geo Davis)
If you’re interested in learning more about coyotes and/or “coywolves” in the Adirondacks, I recommend friend and neighbor John Davis’s post on our Essex community blog, “Welcoming the Coywolf.”
I will share additional game/trail camera photos of Rosslyn’s native wildlife (including Bobcat) in the near future. Stay tuned!
Early Autumn? The weather Channel tells the story…
Autumn appears to be coming early this year. For at least a week nights have been dropping into the chilly 50s. And this morning I see that temperatures slid even lower.
Perhaps this is normal? Yet it doesn’t seem normal. The 40s in mid August? In Essex, New York? On the shores of Lake Champlain which usually acts as a “heat sink” effectively extending our warm season?
Early Autumn’s Reminder
Early Autumn? The thermometer outside my bedroom verifies the chilly story…
Whether or not early autumn is here to stay, it’s serving as a reminder. Get out and enjoy the temperate weather before it’s gone. Today and tomorrow promise to be sunny and warm, perfect days for cycling and hiking and gardening. Perhaps even windsurfing? Or wake surfing? Hopefully one or the other!
And there’s another goal I’ve set but neglected for several years. I’d like to make a habit of working in the boathouse for a few hours away from my study, my desk, my piles and files. No better time than the present. No better motivator than a crisp, early autumn morning when I can faintly see my breath in the sir as Griffin sniffs around the yard. Soon it will be too cold to work in the boathouse. Soon…
Anticipating Autumn
Of course, early autumn whispers aren’t all “Caution!” and “Carpe diem…” After all, Adirondack autumns might well be the finest time of the year. The harvest reaches its peak. The hiking and biking are unquestionably superior to all other times of the year. Photography. Sunsets. Sailing. Fly fishing. Fall foliage. The day the ginkgo leaves shower down…
In short, August’s recent summer lullaby marks both a bittersweet ending and a joyful beginning. It’s a time to savor summer’s delicacies and anticipate autumn adventures ahead. I think I’ll call a chum and bum a sail!
