Category Archives: Nature

Nature

Spring Departs Lickety-Split

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Today I’m going to take a break from gushing about our beautiful library and its new addition. But never fear! There will be several posts this week about the goings on at Bailey Public Library.

Instead, I am focusing on the astonishing speed in which spring turns to summer in Maine. And I have the pictures to prove it. Three weeks ago—on May 3—our friends John and Beth came over for brunch. We happened to hit a sweet spot where the day was sunny and warm but the black flies had yet to rear their ugly little heads. After the meal was over, we had blueberry cake and tea and coffee on the patio.

The sun was warm on our faces. The birds fluttered from the trees to the bird feeders, and this is what the trees looked like on May 3:

A little chickadee

A scant three weeks have passed, and this is what the trees look like now. The leaves are nearly full grown, and summer is tapping on our shoulders.

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Every year, I am flabbergasted by how spring rushes headlong to summer. In Maine the change happens so fast it almost seems that if you stood quietly and watched for several hours, then you could actually see the leaves and the plants growing.

Let’s just say that winter does not depart with the same haste. And neither does summer nor fall. Instead, it is spring, spring, spring—the wayward child—that grows up and leaves so fast. But what a beautiful child she is, and how we love her while she is here.

As a Maine native I wonder, does spring pass as quickly in other places where winter is not as long? If so, then perhaps spring knows that she needs to hurry to make way for sister summer. If not, then perhaps it is just the nature of spring to rush and hurry.

When I started this post, I did not intend to personify spring and summer, but I have a fanciful mind that turns easily to such things. Besides, when you live on a wooded road in Maine, you are very much aware of the seasons and all that they bring—the beauty, the joy, and, yes, the hardships. It’s not much of a stretch to think of each season as a real presence and, at times, a force to be reckoned with.

At any rate, spring is nearly gone. Farewell, farewell, you lovely season.

Food, Home, Nature

That Exuberant Burst of Green

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Despite the scourge of blackflies, this is the time of year when I can hardly stand to stay inside to do household chores. I want to be outside, where even hanging the laundry is a pleasure. I force myself to dust, vacuum, and clean the bathrooms, all the while looking outside at the deep blue sky and the tender yet exuberant  burst of green that surrounds the little house in the big woods.

My gardens come into their own in June and July, and right now there is not much in bloom. But never mind! There’s more than enough going on with the trees and the yard to keep this amateur photographer happy.

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And because we live on the edge of the big woods, there are spring wild flowers to admire.

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Even the dandelions.  I like their sunny heads, and when it comes to the lawn,  my philosophy is that if it’s green, then it’s good. No herbicides allowed in our yard! However, should dandelions stray into the flower beds, I must admit that I dig them out.

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Then there are the ferns. I admire their green grace, and I have encouraged them to take root all around our house. Ferns do well in deep shade, which this yard has in abundance.

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With so much time spent outside, taking pictures and working in the yard. there hasn’t been much time for cooking, and our meals have been very, very simple—baked, breaded chicken, wraps, scrambled eggs and toast. Last night I soaked some black beans, and I cooked them this morning. Tonight we’ll have black bean burgers—from a Mark Bittman recipe—with oven fries.

I’ll make the burgers this afternoon and put them in the refrigerator to chill. Then, after a satisfying day of taking pictures and yard work and household chores, I’ll have those burgers ready to pan fry.

Ah, spring.

Home, Nature

Jack is Back

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Every spring for the past few years, Jack has come for a visit. He stays quite a while—into early summer—but he is such a thoughtful guest that he never wears out his welcome. Conscientious about how much space he takes up, Jack neither intrudes nor dominates. Flashier friends might attract more attention, but Jack’s modest qualities make him especially dear to me, and I always wish he would stay longer than he does.

This year, I was afraid Jack was not going to come back for his annual visit. I looked and waited, but no Jack. My heart felt a little heavy. Spring just wouldn’t be the same without Jack. It had been such a hard winter. Was this the reason for Jack’s absence?

But then, a couple of days ago, he arrived, and I was so happy to see him. Jack was a little late, but then so is everything else this spring after the long, cold winter.

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I am also happy to report that Jack’s offspring have come with him, and when they emerge, I will be sure to post pictures of them.

Jack and his kin have settled on the edge of our yard, which is lined with trees and dips into the forest. I feel very fortunate to have a patch of Jack-in-the-pulpets in my own backyard. I love the little pulpit flower, and when the flower passes, as all flowers do, its bright red fruit is interesting, too.

In a couple of weeks, we will be babysitting the granddogs for quite a few days. Jack and his brethren are in the large fenced-in area in the backyard where the dogs can safely roam. I think I will put a little barricade around Jack and his family so that he is not accidentally trampled by enthusiastic dogs.

After all, I want to be sure that Jack comes back not only next year but for many more years as well.

Home, Nature

May Gallops

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In Maine, May is a month when everything gallops. Each day brings some kind of change—the grass is a little greener, the plants in the flower gardens are a little taller, the red buds on the trees are now tinged with green. Every year I think, “Slow down, slow down you lovely month.” And I wonder why oh why March couldn’t speed ahead the way May does. While May rushes headlong, March drags its mucky yet icy heels. It’s funny how two months with the same number of days can feel so different.

In two days, the hyacinths have bloomed. The blossoms are not fully opened, but in another day or two, they will be.

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In two days, new green leaves have begun to emerge on the trees, displacing the delicate flowers that preceded them.

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In two days, I have cleared half the gardens out front, and if all goes well, they will be three-quarters cleared today.

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And in two days time, the black flies have emerged. There is something in my body chemistry that draws them, and they swarm in a black cloud around my head. Any bit of exposed skin is fair game for those little bighters, and at times I resort to wearing a cap sprayed with insect repellent.

The black flies will be gone by June, and good riddance to them. Unlike the flowers on the trees, I don’t wish the black flies to stick around one day longer than they do.

It is good to have some things gallop by.

Food for Thought, Nature

An Old Story that Never Gets Old

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IMG_8531Last night, Clif and I went to Waterville for a Cinema Explorations meeting. (Cinema Explorations is a community-curated film series that runs from January through March at Railroad Square Cinema. Clif and I are on the planning committee.) As we sat at the long table in Buen Apetito and drank margaritas and ate chips with salsa, we talked about the 2015 film series. Overall, it was a success, and there will be a 2016 Cinema Exploration film series.

Once business matters were settled, we moved on to other topics. I sat across from Sam and Alan, who manage Railroad Square, and we talked about the glorious spring we are having. Perhaps it’s no nicer than any other spring, but after the hard, cold winter we had, this spring seems especially sweet.

Sam said, “Alan and I love to go to a swamp not far from where we live and listen to the peepers this time of year. We went the other night, and the peepers’ song was so loud. I am always moved by it.”

I knew what she meant. “It is the oldest story in the world,” I replied, “but somehow it never gets old.”

Each spring, after the quiet of winter, life bursts out in every direction: leaves and blossoms on the trees, flowers in the garden, unfurling ferns, and the green flush that spreads across the lawns and fields. Insects emerge—some welcome, others not so much—and the small frogs sing their loud, ardent songs.

At the little house in the big woods, I wait for the return of certain birds that have come to seem like old friends. The loons, with their wild, lonesome call, have returned to the Narrows, and we live close enough so that we hear them almost every day. Yesterday, when I was hanging laundry, I heard a hermit thrush, a modest brown bird with the most piping, ethereal voice. Soon the humming birds, with whir of wings and flash of color, will return, and I will hang out their feeder filled with sugar and water.

For thirty years, I have been rejoicing when the loons, hermit thrush, and hummingbirds return. This familiar cycle never gets old or stale. It never loses its charm. I suppose you might even call this rejoicing  beginner’s mind, a Zen Buddhist concept “where everything is fresh and new,” even when it isn’t.

My friend Barbara Johnson, who has been dead for ten years, was the perfect example of someone who had beginner’s mind. Barbara was a keen observer of the natural world, and she studied it with the zeal of a true naturalist. One time, when we were driving somewhere—I can’t remember where—Barbara suddenly cried out, “Oh, stop, stop!”

She startled me so that it’s a wonder I didn’t drive into the ditch. Somehow, I managed to safely park the car on the side of the road. On the other side of the road was a snapping turtle laying eggs. The car had barely stopped when Barbara jumped out, racing across the road to observe the turtle.

How many times had Barbara observed a snapping turtle laying eggs? Many, many times, but with Barbara this event was as fresh as the first time she saw it. Truly, Barbara had a beginner’s mind that a Zen master would envy.

When it comes to spring, it seems to me that most people have a beginner’s mind. With sheer delight they greet the return of leaf, flower, and bird, even though they may have seen this return many, many times.

As William Wordsworth wrote, “Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.”

 

 

Home, Nature

Song Birds, Loons, and Hawks and the Struggle for Life

IMG_8352The longueurs of winter are over, and every nice day is a race against time—raking the lawn, removing leaves from the gardens, putting compost, ashes, and organic fertilizer on the beds, planting. The list is long, and the window of opportunity is short. By the beginning of June, everything that must be done should be done.

Rain is also a complicating factor. Yes, it is necessary, and, yes, it gives the tired gardener a much-needed day of rest. But too many rainy days in a row interfere with outside work, and this time of year, I scan the skies as anxiously as a sailor. Will I be able to work outside today? Even more important, will I be able to hang laundry on the line? Oh, the daily dilemmas at the little house in the big woods.

This morning, the weather forecast on the radio was not good, but when I lifted the shade to peek out the window, the sun was shining, and the sky was blue. A load of towels immediately went into the machine, and as soon as I am done writing this post, they will go on the line. If worse comes to worst, and it starts to rain, then I can whisk in the towels and put them on racks. (We don’t have a dryer.)

I am hoping to have lunch on the patio, as I did yesterday. With the birds fluttering from the trees to the feeders and the sun warm on my face, what a splendid way to celebrate Earth Day. I thought I heard a loon calling—we only live a quarter of a mile from the Narrows—but I could be wrong about that. As of two days ago, there was still ice on the Narrows, and the loons might not be back yet. Still, they will be soon, and their haunting calls will echo from the Narrows, especially at night, as Clif and I sit on the patio.

As I ate, I heard shrill calls overhead, and this time there was no doubt about what I had heard. Two hawks circled just over the tree tops, and I watched them as they flew over the yard. Suddenly, the fluttering in the woods stopped. No birds called or came to the feeders. The only sounds were the calls of the hawks. After a few minutes, the hawks flew away, and the woods were still for a few minutes longer.

Then, the chickadees, nuthatches, titmice, and gold finches all came back, and the yard was again filled with their songs and fluttering. I like to joke about how not much happens at the little house in the big woods, but daily, right outside, is the struggle for survival—for those that hunt and for those that are hunted. There is courtship—several days ago I saw two mourning doves dancing around each other—and new life as spring babies are born.

In fact, a lot goes on at the little house in the big woods. Some of it I see, but I know I miss a lot, too. However, I look and notice as much as I can, with my little camera at the ready and my notebook within easy reach.

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