A Stewardship of the Heart

“…in any true sense there is no such thing as ownership of the earth and the shadow of any man is but for a time cast upon the grass of any field.” Henry Beston, Northern Farm.



It would be all too easy for me to fall into the trap of thinking that I own this land, this wooded five-acre hillside that slopes down from Grant’s Hill to Swan Pond. One of my neighbors has perhaps a better claim to that thinking, as this entire area, including my own humble parcel, once belonged to his father. So I’ve come to understand his attachment to it that extends even to my land, as it was once in his family, and he’s never stopped thinking of it as such. I, however, am a relative newcomer here, and unless I will the place to my own heirs, someone else will someday invariably take stewardship of this knoll.



But can any of us, no matter how long we’ve occupied it, truly own the land? Are the trees, hills and fields to be owned, or do they simply allow us the luxury of our imagined dominion over them? We’ve all witnessed the ravages of progress, how it can strip away acres of trees and replace them with shopping centers and apartment complexes. Yet, once abandoned, does the earth not take over again, with nature slowly but inexorably reclaiming what is hers? No legal proceedings are involved, no hand needed to sign deeds or easements. She simply moves in quietly, and over time, refashions the hills and fields into something more befitting her eclectic preferences.



Our history is full of stories of those who held unwritten rights to this land for centuries before the Europeans decided it was theirs simply to take. Who better to attest to the fleeting nature of ownership than those very souls who now eke out their existences in the places allotted to them by those with the power to decide such things? I think I know a little of how they must have felt as they left their ancestral lands, I, who have only been here a few years and who is hardly rooted yet can feel how tenuous my grip is on this place.



A good friend of mine once said that no one ever really owns the land, that we are all merely stewards, a reality that extracts from us a promise to leave it as we found it. He and his wife owned 80 acres of pine-studded wilderness not far from here, and he, too, had a healthy reverence for that wild place that held him in tenancy only. Even in death, whatever small space any of us occupies passes to someone else: heirs, new unrelated owners, even developers, and all perhaps thinking it is theirs, all theirs, to do with as they will.



None of us knows what lies ahead, and it’s perhaps better that way. If I should have to reluctantly leave this place someday, I hope that whoever comes after me will see the light golden in the pines at sunset and hear the wind approaching from the west on a stormy night. I hope they care for it, give back whatever they take from it, and not interfere too much with processes that have gone on long before any of us were here. But most of all, I hope they hear what it has to say and that they, too, take comfort in the truths it has to share.

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House Finches

My cat, Muffin, alerted me this morning to the spectacle going on outside. Oh, she didn't exactly approach me directly to inform me of this. Rather, she did her cat thing and spent much of the morning dashing from window to window in an attempt to get the best vantage point from which to watch the show. And I know enough to realize that she doesn't act this way unless there is something out there worthy of my time and attention.

As the various weeds and grasses once again reach maturity, the birds have descended upon them in a frenzy. For the last few days, I've been seeing them streak by my windows and have heard their peeps and tweets as they forage among the tall full-headed stalks of grass and other plants that are once again bearing their annual or biennial loads of seeds. There they were, dozens of them, flitting from place to place, from shrub to shrub, poking through the vegetation that grows near the back steps and flying back and forth from the top of the surrounding fences to the thick unruly growth just outside the bedroom window. Not until just now did I take the time to check on what type of birds these actually are, and a quick (because they don't stay in one place very long) look told me that they were all female house finches, the very drab nondescript counterpart to the more colorful males who sport bright red feathers on their heads.

There wasn't a male among them to be seen, and it caused me to wonder just what the ratio is of males to females and when exactly the boys come out to partake of the feast that, if this frenzy keeps up, will be short-lived at best. It doesn't take any time at all for a flock of birds, male or female, to totally deplete an area of desirable food, and I'm wondering if this isn't some kind of avian "early bird" shopping experience whereby the girls just HAVE to get there first for the best deals.

A few of them gathered briefly in the butterfly shrub next door where they were joined by a few monarch butterflies and honey bees, themselves feasting on the nectar hidden deep inside each tiny floret. They seemed oblivious to the birds' presence, and it appeared that there was plenty of room for all concerned as the various species did what comes naturally to them.

This is such a rich time of year. There is a distinct scent of ripeness in the air, trees and shrubs are as full as they're ever going to get during a single season, and it seems that they somehow know this as they dance about in the breeze when just a few days ago, they were sagging under the weight of the humidity that blanketed the area for several weeks. I'm hearing chickadees again, too, and remembering how they prefer cooler crisper weather, I welcome them back to the fence posts and feeder perches where their summer absence is always noticed and mourned.

The great finch invasion will continue until not a seed is left, much to my delight, for it's not much of a stretch for me to picture myself soaring with them on the air currents that dip and rise between the buildings and among the trees that delineate the properties here where the line between urban and rural is smudged, and some of each spills into the other, including flocks of birds that don't know or care that these are not open woods and fields but simply front lawns and back yards where small miracles, such as their exuberant foraging, happen almost everyday.


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Summer in York County

Roaming the York County countryside means seeing fields shorn of their tall grasses and corn standing knee-high right about now. Raspberries are filling out on their canes, and blueberries are ripening a little more each day. Birds linger longer on tree branches, particularly among the flowering varieties whose blossoms have given way to yet another year's-worth of seeds. It's July, the seventh month, which means that we are over half-way through yet another year. The heat rests heavily on the land, and the sun shines down more intensely than it will at any other time.

I'm not a big fan of hot weather, so when I do venture out, I try to get as early a start as I can. Driving along with all the windows down, I bask in the still-cool morning air that, by noon, will feel more like the heat pouring from an oven. On hot days, even the trees seem weighed down by it, their leaves barely moving in the moisture-laden air moving in from the south and the west, completely resigned to the elements that constitute summer in southern Maine.

Much has been written of late about conservation and the actions of many dedicated individuals geared toward protecting unspoiled land for future generations to enjoy and appreciate. While their efforts are indeed commendable, it occurs to me that conservation can take different forms and that it can be deliberate or simply the result of of land being left undisturbed for many years. The long swaths of open field and meadow that I see in my many travels illustrate what I like to call passive conservation. Such acreage emerges from beneath the snows each spring, sprouts a full component of grass that is eventually cut back to ground level. That is about as much as ever happens to such land, and year after year, it is wisely left in nature's domain. The hay or straw harvested from these lands fills many needs, but such undisturbed lands provide another benefit as well by enhancing the countryside and making a lot of lovely scenery possible. Visual beauty, as well as the survival of relatively untouched places, are indeed valuable components of conservation, passive or otherwise, that sometimes get lost in the shuffle of providing areas for people to enjoy in other ways.

We all owe a debt of gratitude to those landowners who quietly, and without much ado, leave large portions of their land in nature's care. Because of them, we have many places to escape to in this part of the world where life's busy-ness and the wilderness live in close proximity to each other. And although much of this land is private and, in some cases, posted against trespassers, I feel that just having it to look at as I drive by or stop along a road somewhere to enjoy is a gift.

I sometimes park my car and walk along the by-ways that border such properties, camera in hand, always on the lookout for that special something that would be missed if I'd just passed by without a second glance. From such a limited vantage point, I am still able to gaze out upon rolling pastures and deep into dense woods where the leaves split the sunlight into glimmering beams. I can gaze down from a bridge into flowing water or look up at clouds that break up a rich blue sky above a field of golden grasses bending in the breeze, thankful always to those wise landowners who know that, when nature is given full rein, nothing short of the spectacular will do.


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Making Hay

It's been my observation that haying takes place in installments, the first being some time in June followed by another round in late July or early August. The tall grass lies in winnows in the fields, its greenness fading a bit more with each passing day, the air around it redolent with its sweet aroma. The oblong bales are quickly loaded onto the hay wagons pulled slowly along the country roads by the veteran farmers who've been at this for generations. The somewhat recent innovation of wrapping the round bales in white plastic caught me off-guard the first time I saw a field off Route 35 dotted with what appeared to be enormous marshmallows.



Each season brings with it its own rituals that have nothing to do with what appears on the shelves in local department stores. In these parts, talk of county and regional fairs is filtering into some conversations as local growers and their families prepare to display their year's best bounty either in the form of livestock or other fruits of their labors. Cases of canning and jelly jars appear on discount and hardware store shelve, and it won't be long before the 'pick your own apples' signs begin appearing on roadsides and at back road intersections. The sound of chainsaws is becoming more frequent now, as there isn't much summer heat left to coax the dampness from newly cut maples and oaks and to build up the woodpiles that are surely a boon when the cost of other ways to heat a home become prohibitive.



There was a time when I spent such days canning tomatoes and making pickles and other preserves. At no other time does a housewife feel as close and as intimate a kinship to the growing things as when she is putting foods by. Taking what the earth provides and storing it against hunger and need are ancient practices that date back to a time when sustenance involved so much more than a quick trip to the corner store. My own grandchildren look at me in innocent wonder when I tell that just about anything they find in a jar or package at the store can be made at home. The pleasure of slicing cucumbers and watching them turn golden in a sweet brine defies explication, as does hearing the pop of the canning jar lids as they seal themselves while cooling. And there is nothing like the aroma of bubbling fruit destined to turn a lowly cupboard shelf into a cache of preserves that provides the extra satisfaction of knowing you made them yourself.



Another sign of the seasonal times is the sound of acorns leaving the oak trees. As with so much in nature, it's a progression, beginning with just one or two and building to the torrent it will become once the squirrels start knocking them down. Walking across the yard will be like walking on marbles, and if I don't rake them up, many will quickly take hold and establish themselves as seedlings before the first frost. As it stands, I never get them all, and I spend most of the spring and summer pulling up oak seedlings, their large pale green gently lobed leaves obvious interlopers among the blades of grass and lemon balm stalks.



Aside from her occasional bursts of energy in the form of storms or high winds, nature takes her time with just about everything, pacing herself so as not to disturb the gentle rhythms that rule all that lives and grows in her vast domain. In the spring, the peepers start slowly, first one then another until the spring night air is filled with their song. And then, just as methodically, summer's end slips in, and I awaken to the sound of acorns hitting the roof. Not as pleasant a sound, yet a necessary element of the endless cycle of life in these woods.


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