From a Country Churchyard

I'm diggin' Liam's T-ball practice. It is SO beautiful there, in the little dell below the church. The wildflower slope is the one to the right.
Wednesday, the wife of one of the coaches brought a baby Nubian goatlet, one of a set of triplets, who had been rejected by her mother. She was tube-feeding it, and the kid was coming back from near-death. Adorable. She was clearly completely gaga over the baby goat. I stole a kiss on the top of the baby's hard little head. The best thing the woman said was, "If you don't love on 'em, they ain't gonna live. They gotta know they're loved." AMEN. I told her that I'd found that applied to orphaned hummingbirds and chimney swifts, too.
The story from the country churchyard has not yet ended. May 2 was a fine day with high white clouds and slanting sun. There were only two women on the bleachers this evening, and I saw my chance to win converts to the cause of wildflower appreciation. First, I hung out with them and talked teachers, homework and school for awhile.

I've been thinking a lot about what happened last Monday, when I couldn't seem to summon any enthusiasm in my new companions for woods and wild things. I've come to the conclusion that it has much more to do with group dynamics and my own out-of-the-envelope behavior than any willful disregard for nature. Though most people visiting the comments section seem more than willing to give the other T-ball moms the benefit of the doubt, some of the comments that came in have been a bit biting, and that makes me unhappy...makes me feel I've miscommunicated something here. I hope it's clear on careful reading of my posts that I would not dream of looking down on the ones who man the bleachers. I have the greatest respect for moms who are there for their kids, and care enough to take them to sporting events. I have only felt sadness and frustration that they might--through shyness or simply not knowing what they're missing-- not get to experience even a fraction of the joy I feel when I walk in the woods. I burn with the desire to show them what's out there, just a few hundred yards beyond the playing fields. It's a pure, hot flame, and it has nothing to do with looking down my nose at them, or wanting to flaunt my knowledge to them. I just want to give them something of what I feel every day. They're living in paradise--we all are, truly-- and I want them to realize it!

These women are young-- only five or six years out of high school. I'm old enough to be their mother. Maybe I could talk them into a little walk. Slyly, I brought the conversation around to the beautiful weather, and then to all the birds that got in today. I ducked out for a few minutes to listen to my NPR interview on the car radio, something I thought it better to keep quiet about. When I came back, I said I was going to climb the fence again to see the wildflowers, and I made a show of inviting a reticent Phoebe along. She played it well, saying she couldn't do it because she was wearing flip flops.

"OK, then, we'll go on the road. I'd bet we can see just as much from there."
"Oh, I'd rather stay here. I'm tired."
"You're going, kiddo."
Casually, I turned to the other two women.
"Wanna come with us? We're going to see 21 species of wildflower in bloom. It looks like a magic carpet out there."
Shy, hesitant negative head shakes, but this time with smiles.
"I have flip flops on, too."
"That's why we're going on the road! No problem!"
"I should probably stay and watch my son."
"He's in good hands. It's just a practice. This only happens once a year. Greatest show on earth. You can't miss it."

I think I would have slung one over each shoulder if I'd been strong enough. It was an out-of-body experience, talking strangers into walking with me, but I was driven by my little flame.
And they both got up and came along. Phoebe shot me a pair of wide eyes and an incredulous grin. I could hardly believe it, but there they were, glancing back over their shoulders and waving at their kids.

"Mommy's gonna go for a little walk. She'll be right back."

I was pumping my inner fists. I walked ahead of them so they wouldn't see the big ol' grin on my face. Down, Zick!
We walked up a steep hill and hit the road. You could see most of the good stuff right from the road. Whew. I decided to treat it like a nature walk, a field trip, and I pointed out each flower, getting more and more excited as my new friends pointed out bigger and better specimens and commented on the color and form.Wild geranium. Hard to believe this delicate creature is related to the gaudy pot kinds. Oh, oh, oh. Sweet stuff.
Rue anemone, so called because the leaves look like meadow rue. Bladebladebla. I was jabbering. I knew the girls didn't know what meadow rue was but I forged on anyway.

They agreed that it was a lot nicer to walk on this quiet gravel road than on the treadmill. Apparently they'd both been exercising in their basements on treadmills (something I cannot imagine doing when there's a big ol' wonderful world to walk). Then they told me about a point farther up the road where the woods close in over your head and it's always cool even in the middle of summer. They know these roads a lot better than I do, having grown up here. We were talking, and enjoying the flowers and the wood thrush song and the hollow roll of pileated woodpeckers. We were sharing, and we were living.
We got back in time to cheer the kids on at batting practice. Speaking of beautiful...


Breakthroughs--they're nice to have every now and then.

The Herd Mentality

On May Day, you're supposed to bring flowers to strangers. Well, yesterday I tried to do that. I guess I'll have to settle for bringing them to you.
Wood betony, the red kind (it also comes in yellow) and bluets.

It has been so great to hear from all you women out there who feel rolled under by housework and the sudden, hot hand of summer, with all its associated chores. I got an email from Wendi saying she grinds her teeth as she sits on the bleachers and cheers, thinking of all the other things she'd really like to be doing instead. And one from dear Erin reminding me how much it means to Liam that I'm there "watching" him do his thing. His shy little smile and waving hand say just that. He's the tallest kid on his T-ball team, and the helmet's way too small for him. I love to watch him run, elbows flopping.When can I hit?? Everyone's hit but ME. He looks so much like his dad here.

Yesterday, I tried to do some of both--support the kids and self-actualize. My reasoning goes thus: A happy mom is a better mom. So I brought along my camera and, with a self-conscious smile at the other moms, watched the practice for awhile, then climbed down off the bleachers and headed for the woods. I had to cross the playing field and climb a pretty tall barbed-wire fence first.
I am sure this cow had never seen a sports mom get down off the bleachers and climb her pasture fence. She was flabbergasted.What in the blue tarnation is that woman doing?

And I stampeded the whole herd. Ack! Ack! She's going to kill us! They thundered away, screwing their tails in the air, spewing manure and lowing.If I were the kind of person who got easily embarrassed, I'd really have been embarrassed at this point, with an audience watching me climbing a barbed wire fence, festooned in swinging optics, ripping my pants, and stampeding the herd.

But I had a strong feeling there was something worth seeing on the wooded slopes of that cowpasture. Little did I know.Jacob's ladder, named for its ranked pinnate leaves. And golden ragwort.

A fairy carpet of wildflowers lay spread before me. I walked carefully, trying not to crush any of them. I counted 21 species in bloom, and another four (Virginia waterleaf, bloodroot, hepatica, Solomon's seal) that were either done or not yet blooming. Too many for this late night post. More tomorrow, I hope.This is dwarf larkspur, a wild delphinium.

The magic that lies out in the woods, for anyone who's willing to climb down off the bleachers and cross a barbed-wire fence, is inestimable. I felt sorry that I hadn't brought anyone with me. I didn't know if they'd appreciate it as I did, if they'd realize what a treasure this one wooded hillside amounted to. So when I got back I passed my camera around and showed them. I got some "Huh's" and a couple of raised eyebrows and silent nods. Nobody said "Wow," or anything resembling it. Nobody seemed to want to see more than one picture, even when I told them there were 21 species of flowers blooming all at once. Nobody had any comment at all. Just a kind of lackluster boredom, or perhaps just reticence, an unwillingness to be challenged. I wondered about that, about this apparent lack of any enthusiasm for the natural world at its most enchanting and spectacular. It made me so sad. Who wouldn't want to see firepink? It brings me to my knees with joy whenever I see it.

To be fair to them, I considered the possibility that they may be afraid to engage me, this strange woman who had just done a series of things far outside their comfort zone, things they'll probably be able to tell their friends about, how she climbed a barbed wire fence and stampeded the cattle and disappeared into the woods. Imagine. I'll never know, probably, what they were thinking, or if they were thinking at all. It was probably a mix of all the above, with shyness and trepidation in the lead. I'm strange to them. And strange might be dangerous. Just ask the cattle. My perspective on the scene. Undeniably different. Oh, how I loved crouching on the flowery hillside, watching and reveling, and wishing there were someone to share it with.

Finally, Walking Weather

It being April 17, I spent most of today in service to the IRS gods, scurrying from financial planner to accountant, writing over-large checks. Ow, ow, ow. When I walked into my financial planner's office, just to find out into which IRA or simple plan I should dump money to avoid intense tax pain, it became apparent that he had picked that moment, nay, the next hour, to do a full frontal financial intervention. He whipped out his dry erase markers and memo board and went at it. Full display, tail spread, gobbling; I felt like a hen turkey mutely watching him strut his stuff. OK. OK. Just tell me how big a check to write, and to where. I love my planner and am grateful that he cares enough to guide me. I believe him when he says he can double my money, what paltry sum there is, in seven years. I just don't like thinking about any of this, and the language is foreign to me. Before tax, after tax, deferred tax, simple plan, college plan, Roth, traditional, big bucket small bucket deduction adjusted gross income please release me let me free. Maybe someday I will invite him out here and give him the lowdown on, say, warped bluebird psychology. And see if his eyes roll back in HIS head. P, if you read this (and I doubt you do), know that I'm grateful, hopelessly ignorant, and deeply appreciative of your skills, and I hope that someday I have enough money to actually play with, to justify your effort.
The only thing to do when I finally got home was to take a walk. Head all bunged up. It was finally and absolutely beautiful out, 60 degrees, just the right temperature for a Carhartt jacket with no lining. As beautiful as my orchids are, I'd like to see them survive 11 days of subfreezing nights and come out blooming. These flowers may not be hot pink or molten magenta, they may not be noticeably fragrant or the size of my palm, but they are what is at hand, and they are beautiful in a small, white way. My friend KF gently chided me today, reminding me that there HAD to be something blooming out in the woods, so this post is for him. The little bumbershoots of mayapple.

Shy blossoms of rock saxifrage.

Golden ragwort, a lousy name for a sweet plant.

I am in awe of these plants, that send shoots up in 35 degree weather, that persist and survive. We should all be so indefatigable. If we could just get on with living the way they do, and not let gloom and icy cold--the irrefutable evidence that the universe cares naught for us--get us down. They grow and bloom, despite it all.

Coming up the old orchard, I checked boxes. The backyard bluebirds are due to hatch in about six days. Yayyyy. I was elated to find the Carolina chickadees nesting in the same box they chose last year. I LOVE these birds. They're excellent nest architects and even better parents. They have chipped out the whole inner front of the box, making a fabulous wood chip foundation for a layered parfait of moss and animal hair. Check out this lining. Deer and rabbit, and plant down...In my next life I want to come back as a baby Carolina chickadee. I dug down a little to see if there were any eggs, but none yet. Chickadees cleverly hide their eggs under a layer of fur until they're ready to start incubating. They leave them cold until they have five or six, and then they pull back the blanket and start incubating. Soon come. Nothing sweeter than baby chickadees, take it from me.
For his part, Baker had a fabulous time. He loves to run up fallen logs.
I love to take pictures of him, running up said logs.
He loves to be photographed, running up logs. It's a symbiosis. It's so exhilarating to walk with someone this enthusiastic. I took him into town this morning to run errands with me, and he hauled me down Front Street like a Nantucket sleigh ride. How can you not smile when you're being forcibly pulled down a springtime sidewalk by a 23-pound Boston terrier? Come on, Mether. There are spring beauties and squirrels to be found. Maybe even turkehs.

Gifts of April

The old pear tree that dates from the original farm on our site has horrible rock-hard fruit, but it more than makes up for that shortcoming in April blossoms. The deer and butterflies like the fruits, especially when I mow over them. Brrrrp!

Any time I see a forecast of 80 degrees on April 3, I plan to take a walk. Chet and I set out on the Loop to see what we could see. The first tiger swallowtails drifted overhead--a good omen, though I worry for them, because it's all of 39 degrees and dropping as I write this. April is nothing if not cruel. It's the cruelest month of all. But yesterday, Chet and I were in the moment, basking in her warmth.

Falcate orangetip butterflies fluttered ahead of us, just a foot off the ground as is their wont. I've long since given up trying to get a photograph of a FOTI. They never alight, and I've learned to enjoy the spectral orange on their wingtips as they go by, eating them up with my eyes. Which I kept peeled for the first Henry's elfin, Incisalia henrici. Those are hard to come by, but easy to photograph. A surefire April specialty of Indigo Hill. I adore these little dark bugs. They fetch up on black raspberry twigs to watch for rivals. Their brood plant is redbud, and there's plenty of that around. Gorgeous little things. I'm happy with the way the telephoto blurs out the background for a nice, unicolor backdrop. This could be the cover for Enjoying Elfins More, huh, BOTB?
On this day, I carried my 300 mm. lens, and I was thrilled with its performance. I could shoot butterflies without disturbing them in the least. No creeping up on them with this lens! It's tricky to get it to focus, but when it works, it works really well.

At the overlook, spring was creeping up the valley. How green is my valley! I was eager to see what was blooming farther down on the rich slopes in the Chute. I was not disappointed. Spring beauties and dentaria were going full bore.
Some bee-mimicking flies (dressed for cold weather, I noted) and an honest hymenopteran were vying for space on the dentaria blossoms.
I didn't even see the little flying wasp until I viewed this on the computer screen. I love how the camera captures what's there, whether we see it or not.

Coming back up toward home, a violet smiled shyly from the forest floor. I haven't keyed this one out yet, but it had a round, slightly downy leaf and the most bewitching blue color. I don't think it's Viola sororia. Maybe downy blue violet? If Jim McCormac ever commented on other people's blogs, he could tell me. That was a taunt, in case you missed it.

A chipping sparrow sang to the clear blue sky. This male was giving a slow, melodious trill. The male only a couple dozen yards down the driveway was giving a dry, buzzy, colorless trill. I thought it was interesting that they were countersinging with such different styles.
Chetty was thrilled to be back out in the woods, even if he got a tad hot when he scared up a pack of turkeys and two deer. They had to be pursued.He's back, victorious, sending me pictures of fleeing turkeys.See the splashes of mud on his back? That's the spatter of a high-speed doggie. We're drunk on April.