We all have our share of worry and care, but nature is there to console us. From a fluttering wing to the greening of spring, she never neglects to restore us. ~Anonymous
It's just after 10 a.m., and the sun in its altering path is, at the moment, flooding the trees across the dirt road with light that glints upon each leaf. Through them the dark trunks rise and stretch their many arms, providing a sort of basting that binds this whole incredible tapestry of vegetation. Layer upon layer of rich color move the eye away from the most prominent surfaces toward infinity, that place deep in the woods where sunlight is a rare visitor and the wind has little effect.
I am reminded of the hemlock grove not far from here that I discovered one day on a walk when I noticed that the path to my neighbor's pond veered off into a much shadier area. Not being sure at the time of just what land belonged to which neighbor, I passed it by at first. Then one day, I veered off my usual course and suddenly found myself in a deep dark wood that allowed precious little sunlight in, and that only in the sparest beams that managed to force their way through tiny breaks in the canopy. It was so quiet in there, for not only are trees useful as windbreaks and air purifiers, but they muffle sound as well. It was like stepping briefly into another world, into a dark tranquil place where even my footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet composed of many years-worth of fallen hemlock needles. Despite the fact that others have surely been there, I still insist on thinking that it's my discovery and that no one knows about it, or at least no one looks upon it in quite the same way that I do.
It is such a short leap in this busy world from the wonders of childhood to the sensory wasteland that is often the adult experience, from feeling a genuinely innocent awe at a new-found flower to not even knowing or caring that it's there. What happens to dull this wondrous ability, or is it just that it seems silly when an adult feels that ancient thrill at coming upon something new and beautiful? It's hard not to when you live surrounded by trees and when the day's first sign of life isn't generated by another human but by a bird at the feeder or a chipmunk scurrying into its den. It's refreshing to see that wild energy devoted entirely to mindful pursuits and to the very task of living. Nothing in nature is wasted, for every move each animal makes is geared toward its survival, just as is every process going on unseen in those trees across the way. They're all still green for now, with just an odd reddish or prematurely yellowed leaf poking through here, the first to succumb to the shortening days and lessening light.
Early each day around 6 a.m., as sounds of traffic begin to reach me from the distant main road, a new sound greets me, that of a rooster crowing somewhere. And if I close my eyes, it's the 1950's again, and I am back on my grandfather's small farm watching my mother pull eggs out from under the brooding hens. Certain sounds have the ability to do that, to take you back to another time that awakens, if only briefly, old sensations that prove that you are not so different after all from the child you once were.
I don't venture out often enough, but I will as autumn moves in to cool and dry the air and discourage the insects that rule this place in summer. Everything is reaching its peak, from the tall tomato plants sporting their reddening orbs to the phlox that wave in the breeze. The hydrangea blossoms have greened, and the wild grape vine beyond the back slope has reached the road. It rarely bears fruit now, as it hasn't been pruned in ages, and its runners now cover the low vegetation below the sumac. I will also check on the witch hazel, as this may be its flowering and fruiting year, and I am always fascinated by its unusual blossoms that are not unlike tiny sunbursts.
Is it possible that, as we age, the things that once provided us with such a thrill evolve into things that bring us comfort? I know I find tremendous solace in these woods at all times of year, from winter's deep silence to summer's sunrises and autumn's riot of color. Maybe nature knows this and continues to inspire the more artistic among us to paint, dance or sing of those things that, as children, we considered treasures.
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Friday, June 6, 2014
Stormy Weather
As I write, nature is unleashing her power with rare ferocity as my neck of the woods experiences the latest phase of the storm called Irene. Appearing to be tracking northwest and toward upstate Vermont and the Adirondacks of New York, the storm is still wide enough to be expressing itself here in southwestern Maine via tossing trees and roaring wind. While I hope she remembers to practice wind economy, I am aware of what could happen were nature to vent her full fury upon this wooded place, a fact of which she is reminding me over and over again at the moment...
Such was my journal entry for Sunday, August 28, 2011. Craving a change of scenery and relief from the stale close indoor air, I went out to the potting shed at one point during the afternoon with my book and journal and sat awhile observing the storm from another angle. I realized quickly that this provided me with too alarming a production, and after seeing the trees dip down to the roof more times than I'd expected to, I went back inside and contented myself with a more narrowly framed view through a window. Once darkness settled, there wasn't much left to do without electricity but to light a few candles and, well, listen to the wind.
Earlier, around 10 a.m., I took a walk up and down the road and out through the woods to my neighbor's small pond. On the way back, I looked up and realized how close the trees hold me to them, evidenced by the branches that seem to hold my humble dwelling in a sort of embrace. A neighbor who occasionally flies over in his plane told me recently that he can no longer see the roof as it's now completely obliterated by the trees. While that did present me with a cause to fear during yesterday's storm, it seems that they did, after all, protect me. Most of the wind activity occurred in the outermost smaller trees, while the old nearby faithful oaks, pines and maples stood their ground, creating a barricade of sorts between the tempest and me. As low as a couple of them dipped at times, I just knew they would persevere.
What a welcome sight was the sunlight this morning after a long dark and uncertain night, as was feeling a wind that is now more friend again than foe. In my journal today, I will mention the sweet scent of the air at the height of the storm as the trees, their bark taxed to the extreme, exuded their fragrant sap at every turn. I'll devote a few lines to the sound of chainsaws in the distance as residents clean up and, in the process, benefit from debris left in the storm's wake that will warm both hearts and hearths in the cold months to come. And I will touch upon the frenzied dance the treetops did as they gave themselves totally over to the wind's lead. I notice quite a few leaves today dangling precariously from their stems, their bonds already weakened long before the trees are due to discard them. I wonder if this will hasten their fall and if I will see them turn crimson, orange and yellow sooner this year than they normally would. When I looked up into the maples in the back yard early this morning, it appeared that their topmost leaves have already started to wither and dry. Not surprising, considering what they endured yesterday.
There is laundry to hang out and plenty of kindling on the back porch to sweep into a pile. Here in the woods, one must wait till dawn to see the effects of a late night storm, and daylight now reveals the causes of some of the loud thumps I heard when there was no light to shed on them, larger branches that came to rest in odd positions against the porch railing, others piercing the earth where they fell. I look at them this morning and think of how much worse it could have been.
I will indulge today, too, in whimsical thinking, of how, because I insist on giving nature her due and never question her strength, she spares me time and time again. I will ponder, too, whether these trees and I have some sort of unspoken agreement whereby I afford them a slight edge by never tempting them to prove their might by falling on me. It's a delicate balance, this compromise between animal and plant, one of which I am reminded anew as the storm clouds part and the sun reappears.
Mere hours ago, this place was a dark maelstrom, and now, the sun-washed leaves float on the gentle air as though nothing had ever been amiss. Peace has returned once again to this green world, and though slightly altered for the experience, is yet still comfortingly familiar.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Such was my journal entry for Sunday, August 28, 2011. Craving a change of scenery and relief from the stale close indoor air, I went out to the potting shed at one point during the afternoon with my book and journal and sat awhile observing the storm from another angle. I realized quickly that this provided me with too alarming a production, and after seeing the trees dip down to the roof more times than I'd expected to, I went back inside and contented myself with a more narrowly framed view through a window. Once darkness settled, there wasn't much left to do without electricity but to light a few candles and, well, listen to the wind.
Earlier, around 10 a.m., I took a walk up and down the road and out through the woods to my neighbor's small pond. On the way back, I looked up and realized how close the trees hold me to them, evidenced by the branches that seem to hold my humble dwelling in a sort of embrace. A neighbor who occasionally flies over in his plane told me recently that he can no longer see the roof as it's now completely obliterated by the trees. While that did present me with a cause to fear during yesterday's storm, it seems that they did, after all, protect me. Most of the wind activity occurred in the outermost smaller trees, while the old nearby faithful oaks, pines and maples stood their ground, creating a barricade of sorts between the tempest and me. As low as a couple of them dipped at times, I just knew they would persevere.
What a welcome sight was the sunlight this morning after a long dark and uncertain night, as was feeling a wind that is now more friend again than foe. In my journal today, I will mention the sweet scent of the air at the height of the storm as the trees, their bark taxed to the extreme, exuded their fragrant sap at every turn. I'll devote a few lines to the sound of chainsaws in the distance as residents clean up and, in the process, benefit from debris left in the storm's wake that will warm both hearts and hearths in the cold months to come. And I will touch upon the frenzied dance the treetops did as they gave themselves totally over to the wind's lead. I notice quite a few leaves today dangling precariously from their stems, their bonds already weakened long before the trees are due to discard them. I wonder if this will hasten their fall and if I will see them turn crimson, orange and yellow sooner this year than they normally would. When I looked up into the maples in the back yard early this morning, it appeared that their topmost leaves have already started to wither and dry. Not surprising, considering what they endured yesterday.
There is laundry to hang out and plenty of kindling on the back porch to sweep into a pile. Here in the woods, one must wait till dawn to see the effects of a late night storm, and daylight now reveals the causes of some of the loud thumps I heard when there was no light to shed on them, larger branches that came to rest in odd positions against the porch railing, others piercing the earth where they fell. I look at them this morning and think of how much worse it could have been.
I will indulge today, too, in whimsical thinking, of how, because I insist on giving nature her due and never question her strength, she spares me time and time again. I will ponder, too, whether these trees and I have some sort of unspoken agreement whereby I afford them a slight edge by never tempting them to prove their might by falling on me. It's a delicate balance, this compromise between animal and plant, one of which I am reminded anew as the storm clouds part and the sun reappears.
Mere hours ago, this place was a dark maelstrom, and now, the sun-washed leaves float on the gentle air as though nothing had ever been amiss. Peace has returned once again to this green world, and though slightly altered for the experience, is yet still comfortingly familiar.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Night Sounds
Some nights I have trouble falling asleep, and it has nothing to do with not being tired enough or having too much on my mind. I can't sleep because I don't want to miss a single thing that is going on out there in the dark woods just beyond my bedroom window. It's particularly bad on warm nights when the window is wide open and my face is just inches from it. While it's too dark to see anything, there is plenty to hear especially now as summer is winding down and many woodland creatures are putting on their best performances of the year.
If the woods belong to the woodpeckers, crows and hawks during the day, then the night definitely belongs to the owls. As early as 9 p.m., I hear them sometimes far, other times near, but never to be mistaken for anything but the mysteriously magnificent creatures they are. While I've never seen one in all the time I've lived here, I've certainly heard them plying the night air with this distinctive calls. If my research serves me right, I'm hearing the barred owl a lot these nights, as well as the great horned and the long-eared owl. And not to be outdone are the loons, whose calls exhibit a new sense of urgency as though they are giving it all they've got before it's time to leave for another year. It always begins with their first haunting notes, then builds to their more insistent tremulous calls as they move from place to place.
This is also the season of the cricket and other insects that fill these woods with sounds both high-pitched and insistent. I hear the coyotes barking and yipping from deep in the woods and a nearby dog barking its response or its distress. Sometimes I hear something come crashing down among the trees, as I did one night not long ago when something screamed before the crash came. I suspect that one of my cats had approached a raccoon and it scrambled up a tree only to find a branch that wasn't strong enough to hold it. I went out the next day to inspect, but with so much dead growth interwoven along the forest floor, it's always hard to tell if anything new's been added to the pattern.
Last night, the rain came down steadily and heavily for several hours, and this morning, the residual raindrops sparkled in the sunlight as they slipped from the leaves. I lay awake a long while listening to it and feeling the spray coming in through the open window, of hearing the rain bearing down on the roof. At one point, it was hitting the ground so hard that my room was bathed in the rich earthy smell of the soil as its particles were being displaced by the insistent raindrops. It occurred to me then that, along with all the others wonders that nature keeps presenting to me, it now seems that she also has the capacity to turn and aerate the earth simply by raining down upon it. It's a scent that I always eagerly await in the spring and that touched a somewhat bittersweet note in me at this point in the year.
Which brings me to this, the fact that I have now been sharing my thoughts and observations here for nearly a year as the seasons once again come full circle. I began last year around this time to put down what I see and feel here, what I've learned and what realizations I've arrived at simply by looking at things such as leaves and by listening to what the wild creatures have to say. As I end this today, a crow is cawing from a nearby tree, announcing its presence in this rain-washed sunkissed place I call home, where I hope to continue, at least for a little while longer, to find new things to write about. Somehow, I don't think that will ever be a problem.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
If the woods belong to the woodpeckers, crows and hawks during the day, then the night definitely belongs to the owls. As early as 9 p.m., I hear them sometimes far, other times near, but never to be mistaken for anything but the mysteriously magnificent creatures they are. While I've never seen one in all the time I've lived here, I've certainly heard them plying the night air with this distinctive calls. If my research serves me right, I'm hearing the barred owl a lot these nights, as well as the great horned and the long-eared owl. And not to be outdone are the loons, whose calls exhibit a new sense of urgency as though they are giving it all they've got before it's time to leave for another year. It always begins with their first haunting notes, then builds to their more insistent tremulous calls as they move from place to place.
This is also the season of the cricket and other insects that fill these woods with sounds both high-pitched and insistent. I hear the coyotes barking and yipping from deep in the woods and a nearby dog barking its response or its distress. Sometimes I hear something come crashing down among the trees, as I did one night not long ago when something screamed before the crash came. I suspect that one of my cats had approached a raccoon and it scrambled up a tree only to find a branch that wasn't strong enough to hold it. I went out the next day to inspect, but with so much dead growth interwoven along the forest floor, it's always hard to tell if anything new's been added to the pattern.
Last night, the rain came down steadily and heavily for several hours, and this morning, the residual raindrops sparkled in the sunlight as they slipped from the leaves. I lay awake a long while listening to it and feeling the spray coming in through the open window, of hearing the rain bearing down on the roof. At one point, it was hitting the ground so hard that my room was bathed in the rich earthy smell of the soil as its particles were being displaced by the insistent raindrops. It occurred to me then that, along with all the others wonders that nature keeps presenting to me, it now seems that she also has the capacity to turn and aerate the earth simply by raining down upon it. It's a scent that I always eagerly await in the spring and that touched a somewhat bittersweet note in me at this point in the year.
Which brings me to this, the fact that I have now been sharing my thoughts and observations here for nearly a year as the seasons once again come full circle. I began last year around this time to put down what I see and feel here, what I've learned and what realizations I've arrived at simply by looking at things such as leaves and by listening to what the wild creatures have to say. As I end this today, a crow is cawing from a nearby tree, announcing its presence in this rain-washed sunkissed place I call home, where I hope to continue, at least for a little while longer, to find new things to write about. Somehow, I don't think that will ever be a problem.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Fall-like Mornings
This place sits roughly 15 feet above the dirt road, so that I essentially look down on any passing traffic, which at this time of year, is still quite substantial. Trees grow along this north-facing slope at different heights, and one oak is close enough so that its branches are now nearly touching the siding. The combination of the height and the tree's proximity give the illusion that I am actually sitting in its branches like a bird from whose perch I am afforded the most marvelous view of life going on below.
I sit often at that particular window, primarily because of those branches. They are visible proof that these woods hold me in their vast arms in that ineffable way that trees have of providing comfort and security. On rainy days, their leaves glisten with moisture, the droplets clinging to their leathery surfaces before slipping off and falling to the earth. And on sunny days, they reflect the light, casting shadows upon the ground, upon this place and upon each other. High winds set the boughs to swaying, and in winter, when only a few dried reddish-brown stragglers remain, snowflakes accumulate in the tiny bends created by leaf stems protruding from branches. The drama of an entire year of seasons can be observed in these few branches, one from which I never tire and that, on some days, is able to restore calm to my innermost workings.
I got a notion a few years ago to grab my loppers and trim that back slope of all of its excess growth. Lots of things grow there, some whose names I know, and others that would require a bit more research to identify. I was ruthless in my cutting, and the result was a neatly trimmed drop-off that opened up a clearer view of this side of the property, restoring its illusion of suspended weightlessness. Such positioning offers privacy of a rare kind, for it is impossible to see much of the inside of this place from the road, a vantage point that affords a view of nothing more than the ceilings if the lamps are all blazing. This advantage makes curtains and window shades unnecessary, as it would be the energetic intruder who would trudge up the hill to get a closer look, especially in the winter when the ice settles in. And at that, anyone under 5 feet tall would need a ladder to look in. As it stands, no one ever pokes around up here other than the occasional neighbor's child selling candy, the folks who read the electric meter, or an invited guest or two.
One's senses become more finely tuned from living in the woods, where even the slightest unfamiliar sound gives pause. In the dead of winter, when traffic is at its lowest point, the sound of any vehicle brings me to the window, if only to see which among my few year-round neighbors has dared to venture out that day. Of course, this dirt road is never a clear indicator of what the main road is like after a storm. What seems to be an impenetrable mass of snow here has usually already been removed by the time I have to go anywhere. Yet the sense of being snow-bound persists until I get to where the dirt ends and the tarmac takes over.
This all seems like a lifetime away at this point, but experience dictates otherwise, for in not that many weeks, the wind will shift once again, bringing colder temperatures with it. The days will shorten, and the sun will smile upon a different part of the earth for awhile, leaving us to close in upon ourselves for yet another year like so many spent flower buds. For now, I sit near my window gazing upon those oak branches, willing them to stay green for as long as possible before nature and the cycle of the seasons deem otherwise.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
I sit often at that particular window, primarily because of those branches. They are visible proof that these woods hold me in their vast arms in that ineffable way that trees have of providing comfort and security. On rainy days, their leaves glisten with moisture, the droplets clinging to their leathery surfaces before slipping off and falling to the earth. And on sunny days, they reflect the light, casting shadows upon the ground, upon this place and upon each other. High winds set the boughs to swaying, and in winter, when only a few dried reddish-brown stragglers remain, snowflakes accumulate in the tiny bends created by leaf stems protruding from branches. The drama of an entire year of seasons can be observed in these few branches, one from which I never tire and that, on some days, is able to restore calm to my innermost workings.
I got a notion a few years ago to grab my loppers and trim that back slope of all of its excess growth. Lots of things grow there, some whose names I know, and others that would require a bit more research to identify. I was ruthless in my cutting, and the result was a neatly trimmed drop-off that opened up a clearer view of this side of the property, restoring its illusion of suspended weightlessness. Such positioning offers privacy of a rare kind, for it is impossible to see much of the inside of this place from the road, a vantage point that affords a view of nothing more than the ceilings if the lamps are all blazing. This advantage makes curtains and window shades unnecessary, as it would be the energetic intruder who would trudge up the hill to get a closer look, especially in the winter when the ice settles in. And at that, anyone under 5 feet tall would need a ladder to look in. As it stands, no one ever pokes around up here other than the occasional neighbor's child selling candy, the folks who read the electric meter, or an invited guest or two.
One's senses become more finely tuned from living in the woods, where even the slightest unfamiliar sound gives pause. In the dead of winter, when traffic is at its lowest point, the sound of any vehicle brings me to the window, if only to see which among my few year-round neighbors has dared to venture out that day. Of course, this dirt road is never a clear indicator of what the main road is like after a storm. What seems to be an impenetrable mass of snow here has usually already been removed by the time I have to go anywhere. Yet the sense of being snow-bound persists until I get to where the dirt ends and the tarmac takes over.
This all seems like a lifetime away at this point, but experience dictates otherwise, for in not that many weeks, the wind will shift once again, bringing colder temperatures with it. The days will shorten, and the sun will smile upon a different part of the earth for awhile, leaving us to close in upon ourselves for yet another year like so many spent flower buds. For now, I sit near my window gazing upon those oak branches, willing them to stay green for as long as possible before nature and the cycle of the seasons deem otherwise.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
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.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
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.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Summer's Waning
And so it begins, the slow and imperceptible yet inexorable progression of summer toward fall. Daylight's hold is weakening, and the sun's morning and afternoon rays penetrate the tree canopy from a slightly different angle at slightly different times each day. Oh, there is much left yet of summer, of those bright days and warm afternoons that distract from what lies ahead. And there is yet the early fall, that dry shining time of Indian summer and nights of cooler breezes and bright stars.
It's August, my favorite summer month, and once again, the wood and hermit thrushes have departed for other haunts, for woodlands less besieged than these by winter's extremes. And it will be many months before I once again hear them plying the hot muggy nights with their flute like melodies. The blue jays are more conspicuous now, as they seem to like this time of year when their cries seem to pierce the air more sharply, and many smaller birds that make these woods their home are more vocal, almost as though they are asking "Will you feed us again this year?"
The corn stands almost as tall as I am now, and there is lots of it to see this time of year in this area where woods open upon field after field lush with that familiar greenery. A few local farmers lease land on which to grow corn, and I watch its progression from mere green specks along the neat furrows in early June to the first young stalks to the tall proud plants that fill the rows come August. Tassels will be appearing soon, indicating the formation of the ears, and a few farms hereabouts are known for their corn, with many people finding the summer incomplete without a sampling of it.
Apart from its ancient beginnings as a dietary staple, corn still figures highly in both the human and animal diet. What isn't sold by the dozen from farm stands or grocery store produce bins is processed as silage for ruminating animals such as dairy cows or as feed for deer and other wild animals. In the Midwest and other areas of long summers, it's grown to be ground into the basic ingredient that goes into cornbread or hush puppies or processed as popping corn. The corn still standing in the fields in September in this neck of the woods is more than likely destined for the silo or the corn crib, while the corn that graces our dining room or picnic tables is reaching its peak as I write with people everywhere commenting on their "first corn of the season." Species that produce the sweet white and yellow kernels are in greatest demand, as all it takes is a bit of butter and salt, and for some, a bit of black pepper to round out the treat that comes only once a year in Maine. While corn can be frozen, it rarely retains that just-picked flavor and texture that can only be achieved by plunging it into the pot as soon as it's been picked, the reason being that the breakdown of sugars in the kernels begins the moment the ears are pulled from the stalks, a natural process that significantly alters its sweetness and flavor.
It's always a somewhat melancholy moment when, one day, the corn in one particular field is standing, and the next, it has all been sheared off close to the ground, its stumps awaiting burial when the soil will be put to bed for another winter. It represents another ending, just like the wood thrush's departure and the diminishing daylight. It speaks to our ancient beginnings and yearnings, when the seasons governed our lives, and we lived by the rising and setting of the sun, a way of life whose ingrained memory I think never entirely leaves us.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
It's August, my favorite summer month, and once again, the wood and hermit thrushes have departed for other haunts, for woodlands less besieged than these by winter's extremes. And it will be many months before I once again hear them plying the hot muggy nights with their flute like melodies. The blue jays are more conspicuous now, as they seem to like this time of year when their cries seem to pierce the air more sharply, and many smaller birds that make these woods their home are more vocal, almost as though they are asking "Will you feed us again this year?"
The corn stands almost as tall as I am now, and there is lots of it to see this time of year in this area where woods open upon field after field lush with that familiar greenery. A few local farmers lease land on which to grow corn, and I watch its progression from mere green specks along the neat furrows in early June to the first young stalks to the tall proud plants that fill the rows come August. Tassels will be appearing soon, indicating the formation of the ears, and a few farms hereabouts are known for their corn, with many people finding the summer incomplete without a sampling of it.
Apart from its ancient beginnings as a dietary staple, corn still figures highly in both the human and animal diet. What isn't sold by the dozen from farm stands or grocery store produce bins is processed as silage for ruminating animals such as dairy cows or as feed for deer and other wild animals. In the Midwest and other areas of long summers, it's grown to be ground into the basic ingredient that goes into cornbread or hush puppies or processed as popping corn. The corn still standing in the fields in September in this neck of the woods is more than likely destined for the silo or the corn crib, while the corn that graces our dining room or picnic tables is reaching its peak as I write with people everywhere commenting on their "first corn of the season." Species that produce the sweet white and yellow kernels are in greatest demand, as all it takes is a bit of butter and salt, and for some, a bit of black pepper to round out the treat that comes only once a year in Maine. While corn can be frozen, it rarely retains that just-picked flavor and texture that can only be achieved by plunging it into the pot as soon as it's been picked, the reason being that the breakdown of sugars in the kernels begins the moment the ears are pulled from the stalks, a natural process that significantly alters its sweetness and flavor.
It's always a somewhat melancholy moment when, one day, the corn in one particular field is standing, and the next, it has all been sheared off close to the ground, its stumps awaiting burial when the soil will be put to bed for another winter. It represents another ending, just like the wood thrush's departure and the diminishing daylight. It speaks to our ancient beginnings and yearnings, when the seasons governed our lives, and we lived by the rising and setting of the sun, a way of life whose ingrained memory I think never entirely leaves us.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
The Wonder of Plants
Once again, the haze and humidity have cleared, and I am left with a sharper brighter image, as though nature washed her windows clean. Every growing thing is renewed, and the early morning light smiles in bright yellow-green on the leaves of every tree and shrub.
Plants are remarkable things, and I've learned so much about them lately from all the research I've done for various online content articles. Here, in these woods, I'm literally surrounded by more varieties than I can count, and I doubt I'd be able to discover them all, considering how playful nature is in forever introducing new varieties into the landscape. From the tomato plants that I myself so lovingly put into the ground each year to the tallest pine that grows up on the ridge, all share growth characteristics all the while possessing features that are unique to each species.
Plants grow from the roots up, with the first cells originating beneath the soil, and it is almost magical the way they just seem to know to grow downward while the aerial parts of a plant know to grow upward. When a seed germinates, it simultaneously sends out both a fledgling rootlet and a pair of false leaves known as cotyledons. The root orients itself in the soil to seek out as much as moisture and as many nutrients as possible, while above the soil, the cotyledons eventually give way to the true leaves whose job it will be, with the sun's help, to manufacture food that the entire plant will need. Both parts of the new plant work in unison to support it toward the eventual goal of flower, fruit and seed production.
As I sat today looking at one of the tomato plants I have in a pot on the porch, I tried to imagine what is going on inside it. Is the process of cell development and enlargement actually visible, or does it happen in such infinitesimal degrees that it cannot be observed, and like so much else in nature, we simply have to believe that it's happening? For with each passing day, the plant's leaves are a bit higher against the railing and soon, they will surpass it entirely, at which point I'll have to tie it a little higher along the vine so it doesn't topple over. And then, without warning, I'll look one day and there will be the characteristic yellow blossoms indicating the spots where tiny green tomatoes will eventually appear, much to my eternal delight.
A plant grows in much the same way as do other living organisms-by cell production and enlargement. As new cells are formed, they fill with water drawn up into the plant through the roots. As they swell, they push the cells above them higher, causing the stem to elongate and grow. Some cells store water and others starches, and it is water that gives a plant its ability to stand upright and not keel over, a characteristic known in botanical circles as turgor or turgidity, which is the pressure the engorged cells exert on each other and on the stem walls. That's why a wilting plant seems to magically right itself once it's been given a drink, as the water floods the cells deep within the stem.
From the tiniest moss plant to the gigantic California redwoods, all plants follow this pattern of growth and development, each according to its own genetic code. Here, in these humble woods, I am reminded of that fact each time I look outside at my tomato plant and at the trees beyond, that never cease to amaze me in their variety, their tenacity and their eternal capacity to look ever upward.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
Plants are remarkable things, and I've learned so much about them lately from all the research I've done for various online content articles. Here, in these woods, I'm literally surrounded by more varieties than I can count, and I doubt I'd be able to discover them all, considering how playful nature is in forever introducing new varieties into the landscape. From the tomato plants that I myself so lovingly put into the ground each year to the tallest pine that grows up on the ridge, all share growth characteristics all the while possessing features that are unique to each species.
Plants grow from the roots up, with the first cells originating beneath the soil, and it is almost magical the way they just seem to know to grow downward while the aerial parts of a plant know to grow upward. When a seed germinates, it simultaneously sends out both a fledgling rootlet and a pair of false leaves known as cotyledons. The root orients itself in the soil to seek out as much as moisture and as many nutrients as possible, while above the soil, the cotyledons eventually give way to the true leaves whose job it will be, with the sun's help, to manufacture food that the entire plant will need. Both parts of the new plant work in unison to support it toward the eventual goal of flower, fruit and seed production.
As I sat today looking at one of the tomato plants I have in a pot on the porch, I tried to imagine what is going on inside it. Is the process of cell development and enlargement actually visible, or does it happen in such infinitesimal degrees that it cannot be observed, and like so much else in nature, we simply have to believe that it's happening? For with each passing day, the plant's leaves are a bit higher against the railing and soon, they will surpass it entirely, at which point I'll have to tie it a little higher along the vine so it doesn't topple over. And then, without warning, I'll look one day and there will be the characteristic yellow blossoms indicating the spots where tiny green tomatoes will eventually appear, much to my eternal delight.
A plant grows in much the same way as do other living organisms-by cell production and enlargement. As new cells are formed, they fill with water drawn up into the plant through the roots. As they swell, they push the cells above them higher, causing the stem to elongate and grow. Some cells store water and others starches, and it is water that gives a plant its ability to stand upright and not keel over, a characteristic known in botanical circles as turgor or turgidity, which is the pressure the engorged cells exert on each other and on the stem walls. That's why a wilting plant seems to magically right itself once it's been given a drink, as the water floods the cells deep within the stem.
From the tiniest moss plant to the gigantic California redwoods, all plants follow this pattern of growth and development, each according to its own genetic code. Here, in these humble woods, I am reminded of that fact each time I look outside at my tomato plant and at the trees beyond, that never cease to amaze me in their variety, their tenacity and their eternal capacity to look ever upward.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876
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