Jack's Back

This morning, before things got hot, we took the big red canoe out for the first trip of the season. Of course we went to the upper Eno, just down the road from our home. Along the banks, rosy Pinxter (wild azalea) flowers hovered over the water and made me wonder if the bees and hummingbirds know the beauty from which they feast. Further upstream we explored. Despite the many trips along this route, the new season always brings surprises. We navigated carefully around a snag of downed tree limbs and rocky boulders just as a two-foot-long snapping turtle glided gracefully, though startlingly, away from our commotion. Dinosaurs are still among us…trust me (right Heather!).

This season, during our hikes and paddles, I have been paying careful attention to the wild flower blooms that I missed last year. My interest seems to be two-part: 1) appreciate the natural beauty and 2) learn a little more about the life cycles of these neighbors.



For this day, I had planned to take a quick walkabout halfway into the trip to see if there were any Lady Slipper plants in a thicket of pines I had seen before. My parents have Lady Slippers under the pines on their mountain property. Well, I didn’t find any of the rare orchids, but I did happen upon the secret Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Last year I missed their blooms, but wrote about their brilliant seed clusters in August. Yes, Jack’s back and, hidden below a rather ordinary cluster of green leaves; he sits in the moist shade soaking up the breath of the river. I now know, at least in our area, the Jacks bloom in late April and seed in August: More clues to a scavenger hunt that will keep me entertained for years to come…all in high definition. Now I just need to find those Lady Slippers.

To Check on Spring Blooms

It was a nice outdoor Easter Weekend in Hillsborough. Saturday morning warmed slowly as we took a short walk, down by the Eno at Occaneeche Mountain, to check on spring blooms. We had a surprise towards the end of the walk; fortunately I spotted it before Heather and was able to give her advanced warning. She handled it well. And so did it.

Sunday was a little warmer, with less wind. Most of the day was spent in the garden where I seeded the tomatoes, cucumbers and peas. The quick little wren kept watch throughout the day. If I left the garden for more than 20 minutes, a pair of doves dropped down to pick through the fresh-turned soil. Photos of the garden will be added soon.

I'm pretty itchy.

Happy Spring

I finally put the first seeds in the ground for this season’s garden. Now begins the weather-watching! I have a few more things to do in preparation. The pole beans will need some poles and the shell peas will need a trellis. The tomatoes will need staking. And I’m going to piece together a perch for the cucumbers this year. Oh yeh, we are already getting lettuce from the winter cold-frame (a first for us!). Anyway, it feels good to be back in the garden.

On another note, as I yawned at the bedroom window this morning, my foggy eyes caught sight of the illusive pileated woodpecker rooting around on the old rotting log at the edge of the property. I quickly found my glasses in time to clearly see a spring bunny hop up onto the log. For one brief moment, in the early sunlight, peter and woody came face to face. I swiftly shelved the urge to write a children’s book, and resumed my morning activities. Happy Spring!

Death Away From Home

I stepped out the front door into the sharp cold morning, mind set on the day ahead. My eye caught a glimpse of a solitary bird nestled in the leaves below the living room window. Its head was down. damn. Before I got to the bottom of the frosty brick steps, I involuntarily breathed out a quiet eulogy. “Sorry little fella’" is what I whispered.
The feathers were soft, the body rigid. I wish it hadn’t died at my window, at my bird feeder. I wish it hadn’t died a cold morning death away from home. The small warbler with the yellow patch on his tail was a migrant, heading north for Spring.

I know it was an accident, but I won’t deny some guilt. I’ve always had mixed feelings about feeders near the house. For now they stay and I hope for safety. I’m not convinced the birds need us as much as we need them.

As I sat on my couch this morning, watching the seemingly happy flutter of activity at the feeders, I thought of the Myrtle Warbler. Sorry little fella’.

Excuses, Excuses

It appears I’ve taken quite a leave of absence from blogworld. I’ve missed the writing. There have been several occasions and inspirations for the typing out of thoughts, but for whatever reason I didn’t. Actually, to be honest with myself (and you), I know the main reason: LOST. Back in January, during that post holiday hangover, I happened across the online archives of this little TV show. I had never watched an episode before; couldn’t name a character if I had to. I believe I even held some pride in not falling victim to yet another “amaaaazing” cult status tv program. I am now a victim…I think a willing victim. My boss lent me the first 4 seasons on DVD and now I’m addicted. I still manage to bathe and feed myself, but as soon as those petty tasks are done its time for Jack and Kate, brotha’. Don’t worry; somehow I’ve maintained my job and marriage (right honey?... where’d she go?).
There is something mysterious and unsettling about this situation I find myself in. It’s like there is a strange force involved…and I can’t tell if it is good or bad. Before LOST, I could never endure TV dramas. Couldn’t even follow the plot of a Tom and Jerry cartoon. I had an attention span the length of a music video. But ever since I crashed on that islan…err…started watching that show…it’s like I’m a new person. I’m whole…yet unfulfilled.
As the blogosphere keeps on spinning around, I’m looking ahead to the future and learning from my past. Spring is around the corner and nature is calling…but so is season 5…I’ll be back in a little while.

A Patient Artist

Finally some really cold weather settled into the Piedmont of North Carolina…for a couple days anyway. And by “really cold” I mean it stayed below freezing for 45 whole hours. If you live in Florida, that sounds cold. If you live in Minnesota, that sounds like spring.

I wanted to see some ice-rimmed river-water…you know, for proof it is actually winter here. From the bedroom window, the creek looked to be running free, trickling over the rocks, not frozen in time. A short drive downtown, near the few folks shivering at the farmers market, I sought the edges of the Eno. The footpath crunched under my boots. Much of the Eno flowed quiet and free. A reminder that our winter is not fierce.

The last time I had walked the path to the Indian fields it was early Spring. The trees were bare then as now. Much looked the same. I have missed two seasons along this route. I missed the spiders, the mosquitoes, and the poison ivy. Now, as I crunched down the path, looking for ice, I realized it is a good time to be out. A muskrat hole, usually hidden under a low tangle of briers, became exposed as warm moist air escaped the depths to condense and hang amongst the brambles…an icy chandelier marking the hole. I saw several of these, but no muskrats. I continued down the path, stepping beside deer tracks in the frozen mud.

Then finally I reached a stretch of slow water in the shadow of a north facing bluff. Here the ice held anchor to a river rock and jutted thinly into the cool current. Winter is a patient artist.

White Tufted Hemlock Groves

I got to play Mountain Man this Christmas! Honestly, I was just playing. We spent a week up in Pennsylvania with 8 inches of snow and a fire in the fireplace 24/7. I fantasize about that life, don’t you? No? Maybe? Well, the jolly old fellas who wrote Jingle Bells and White Christmas sure did. And since they crafted all those cleverly cozy rhymes along with rolling melodies, and then finally hooked up with the Hallmark Company, I’ve been suckered since childhood.

I don’t think it’s only the music’s fault though. I probably have to blame...err, thank Marty Stouffer of Wild America. As a restless kid I could sit on the couch in front of the TV in Oklahoma with a warm bowl of spaghettios on my lap and simultaneously track an elusive wolverine through the deep snows of the Rocky Mountains. I’m not sure why it appealed so much to me other than for the grand imagination of childhood, together with the mystical footage of far off (to me) wild lands. Though it was probably due to some subliminal marketing scheme, or simply Marty’s mildly patriotic, wide eyed parting salutation to “Enjoy Our Wild America!”

So I find myself now, always giddy at the first hint of prolonged cold and snow. Being on vacation helps deepen the satisfaction. I don’t have to get up early in the morning if I don’t want to. Or I can get up early, track a few wolverines, then come home and sleep in front of the fireplace for the rest of the day.

On this trip, we did it all: Hiked in early morning snow, followed deer trails through fields, huddled under white tufted hemlock groves, flew down snow-packed roads on wooden sleds, crafted grapevine wreathes collected from the thick woody hedges, watched wild grouse cross the street, made snow angels, made snowmen, knocked old apples out of the trees for the deer to eat, stood on the high ridge overlooking the valley, and fed a steady supply of seasoned hardwood into the stoves to light and warm our loft.

I acknowledge it as play. I did not toil and labor on the land we wandered. Not this time. Someone else had before me. Thank you.