Disperse Their Seeds, Vigorously

Walking slowly but still 20 steps ahead of my young son, I led the way down the wide trail.  We wore two layers apiece and caps today as the cool winds of autumn circled around us.  He meandered from side to side as the undergrowth dictated.  A smooth, well-trod path was just as alluring as the patch of  waving grasses, jungle-like from his vantage point.
We share a curiosity that makes walking in the woods a slow, inquisitive jaunt.   Every leaf, pine cone, flower and fern is susceptible to our inspection and play.  Yes, we play.  The pine cones gets kicked, the sink holes gets plugged with sticks, the turkey feathers ends up in hat bands, and the acorns get tossed back at the trees from which they fell.

In this wonderful spirit of fun and discovery we happened upon a magical puffball colony.  Merely a gentle shoe-tap released wispy clouds of  spore dust like little puffing steam engines.  Imagine the mystery this brings to a two year old. And imagine the wealth of natural lessons these little wonders afford an instructive daddy. I kept it brief, this time, saying "these are little plants that puff out their baby seeds."  And then we commenced to helping them disperse their seeds, vigorously.  As language builds, so too will the length of the lessons.  Some day, I'll show how this very fungus can be cooked and eaten, if taken at the right time of its life.  Perhaps we'll talk about the mighty, distant volcanoes who similarly puff great plumes of smoke and ash.  But today we kept it simple and fun...as simple as a smoke-puffing little round "plant" can be to a two year old.

The Privilege We Shared

We spent a cool afternoon in the Virginia foothills. A visit to The Homeplace, a part of my wife's history;  now part of our family's history.  The rural county is our son's namesake. Grayson is a land of beautiful hills, valleys, and creeks.

We traveled with my sister and her boyfriend on a farewell roadtrip.  They will be living in another country soon.  We will wish them well and be comforted by the excitement we hold for their future.  But it isn't easy to say goodbye.

As we walked the quiet sites of past goodbyes, thinking of the changes we face, we found ourselves face to face with a living and breathing model of change.  The archetype of transformation.  Curled under the shelter of a fading milkweed leaf, hung the caterpillar in preparation for its trip to a new world.

We didn't discuss the symbolism.  We simply acknowledged the beauty and the privilege we shared as witnesses.

But With Cooler Evenings

I didn't catch the Cardinal Flower in all of its brilliance this year. But thankfully I noticed it the other day, as it stood scarlet over the drying creekbed.
I walked down to that corner of the low back yard this evening, after a gentle rain shower, to photograph this late summer beauty.
Late summer is here. As the ruby petals of Lobelia cardinalis continue to fall, and their hummingbird friends begin making plans for long southward flights, I take a deep breath of anticipated fresh air. September in the Piedmont of North Carolina is still very much summer, but with cooler evenings, when we can finally open the windows and fall asleep to the pleasant hum of the night creatures.

Limbs, Knocked Down

As I was cleaning up the many tree limbs, knocked down by the winds of Hurricane Irene, my thoughts swirled. I was a bit frustrated that I had to spend my weekend cleaning up the mess. Then I was thankful that it wasn't any worse. Then saddened for the folks who had lost friends and family. Then accepted it as part of life. Then acknowledged that nature cleans house every now and then, as it has forever past.
Then amused that I got my trees pruned for free as a result of some butterfly who stirred the air on the other side of the world (that's how it happens, right?).
Then really amused to think how the news media and associated sponsors owe a debt of gratitude to that quiet foreign butterfly. Then reminded how the citizens of whole cities, states, and countries are brought closer together by the shared misery, curiosity, sensationalism and fear, generated by natural disasters (and by those of us who write about them).

So as I picked up the pieces, I thought about the wind and rain swirling on to the next community-another reminder that we all breathe the same air, drink the same water, and live on the same borrowed land and borrowed time.

Blue Wiggle Sneak

We sat on the boulder pitching pebbles into the calm river. Actually, little Gray did all the pitching, while I did the retrieving. Upon returning from my third trip down to the water to re-supply, I saw a blue wiggle sneak up behind my son. Little Gray never saw a thing, he just kept making rings appear on the water. I began to realize that every time I got up to get more rocks, the tiny skink would scurry away down the side of the rock, and by the time I returned he was back, inching ever so close to my son's shadow. I laughed quietly and finally pointed out the curious critter. Gray pointed and smiled like he knew it was there the whole time; then he resumed his practice.

An Almost Biblical Plague

The 13 year cicadas (Brood XIII) emerged this summer in many parts of the US. We have them here in NC. As we've visited different parts of the state this spring and summer, we've noticed different concentrations of the bug eyed bugs. Sometimes they sounded like a cool sci-fi soundtrack in the distance, while other times the noise was akin to the more grating rhythmic clatter-buzz commonly associated with the cyclic wonders. There was one memorable day when we ventured to the Eno River in Durham for a splash. But the brood was so thick and loud, almost unbearably so, that we had to shorten our stay and head for home. The frequency was bad enough to make my teeth hurt. No cliche. On that day I could imagine an almost biblical plague of cicadas. What would I do if we had to endure a full summer of the mind-numbing distraction? We would adapt or go crazy (probably a combination of both).
I immediately slipped into naturalist mode to develop some coping mechanisms. So here is my non-scientific list of silver-linings should you find yourself deep in the heart of a cicada crisis:

1. More cicadas equals more food (for fish, birds, cats, and children who visit science museums)
2. The holes, from whence the cicadas emerged, serve a variety of purposes (aerate the soil, mitigate storm-water runoff, save the ants and worms some work and energy, provide one more opportunity for my little boy to stick his fingers into something)
3. The noise can compete with, sometimes even trump the loudspeaker music blaring from your neighbor's half-deaf teenage rebel son's window (car or bedroom).
4. Of course everyone knows the thrill a young sister gets when she discovers the spooky cicada exoskeleton you quietly perched on her shoulder.
5. The uneaten remains return to the soil to complete the circle of life (great opportunity to introduce this concept to children (or naive friends), thus convincing them that anything bad is actually good and essential to life!)

Well that list should get you started. For now, since the cicadas have not yet emerged within a 5 mile radius of my house, I'll enjoy the peace and quiet. If I need to experience any of the items on the list, I know where to find them.

Enrich The Story

Hello there. Hope you’re doing well. I’m OK. Thanks for asking. Just sitting here on the edge of your photo. You seemed to have focused on the cool guys there in the middle. No worries, I’m used to it by now. I’m just glad you didn’t step on me or crop me out. Yeah, I know I’m different, what with the 9 petals instead of 10. The cool guys in the middle each have 10… big whoop. I get by with 9. At least the pollinators still visit me often, if you know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong, I would love to take center stage from time to time. When I was young I thought I had potential, I mean real superstar potential; the kind that can get you a cover shot in “Wildflower World.” But fate had other plans as petal # 10 wilted away one stormy, overcast day. You could say I lost my flower power in a midday shower. Sometimes I have to joke to make folks feel comfortable around me. But I’m no joke.

I belong here. I have a purpose. My roots hold the soil down just like everyone else. I can make friends with anyone if given a chance. One of my best friends was Miss Daisy. She was a looker and a real sweetie too. But looks can get you booked. Her life was cut short and she was laid to rest in a bright-eyed 4th grader’s flower press book. I guess if there’s an afterlife, that would be a good one. I sure miss her. Just before she was plucked away, she told me something I’ll never forget. She said “Keep your head up kid; you enrich the story of life.”

I’m beginning to understand what she meant. I suppose you could say I balance the composition. Thanks for noticing me.

Every Feather Clean

Stalking the brackish muck, keeping every feather clean and in order, he hides in the marsh grass. You can't get too close to the snowy egret. When you do, he leaps with awkward grace to become the prettiest one in the sky. From a distance you admire him. Up close you respect him.

And So Too the Roost

Edge of town. Edge of the woods. A big wild bird walks a known path, cautiously. The road I'm on crosses his travel route. I stop. He turns and struts awkwardly into the woods.

The first time I saw turkeys in this location, I counted twelve, pecking slowly in the short grass. Sometimes I see mom and chicks. Follow the leader. I only saw the one this evening. Big Tom. Dusk was near. And so too the roost, I assume. He disappeared into the timber.