Critters

I've been shooting all sorts of critters this summer....with Boom-boom my Canon....not boom-boom a gun.  It's a habit I picked up ears ago when Isaac was small and collecting the various insects, amphibians, and reptiles he could find in the yard was his favorite thing.  We'd take a picture, marvel a bit, look up the species, and put it back.  As I am lacking time to come up with a reflective or humorous post and as this past week has been a sucktastic one I am sharing the local fauna now in attempts to make myself think of more cheerful or peaceful things.  First up, the chipmunks.  As a kid I spent a lot of time in the mountains with my grandparents and feeding the chippies by hand was a favorite past time.  Since Mr. Lime and Isaac chase them off I was pleased to be able to sit in the yard peacefully with them one afternoon as they scampered around looking for seeds.


You talkin' to ME?  This little one cracked me up when I downloaded the picture off  my camera.

While I was in Maryland I was able to enjoy the goldfinches.  We get them at our feeder occasionally but I was able to get much closer to these and since I wasn't contending with the shade from our feeder their colors came out more brilliantly.  Here's Mrs. Finch.
















Mr. Finch.  You can certainly see how much more brilliant his plumage is.  Again, as a kid in the mountains, I was reminded of my grandfather. We kids could feed the chippies by hand but only my grandfather could draw the wild birds to his upturned palms as he sat in zen-like repose on the back porch.  I always thought he and the birds had a special relationship.  My aunt confirmed that with this story.

Back at home we found some other little friends.  This frog  has made a home in a hole in one of our fence posts. His drowsy look and his hiding space just sort of make me giggle.










Not far away from the fence post, Mr. Lime built a bird bath out of an old claw-footed tub.  About the time we found the fence post neighbor we found this little one had taken up residence in the birdbath.  He just seems a bit more outgoing and I can imagine him calling the other frog enticing him to come play while the other one moans about wanting a nap.

Finally, I nearly stepped on this little red eft one day on my way out to the car.  When I noticed him I had to go back in for my camera.  I can remember scooping them up and carrying crowds of them...um, herds...er, wriggles....whatever the collective noun for a salamander is...in my shirt by folding up the front hem and using it like a pocket.

Happy memories of years past and peaceful times this summer...aahh, that's better. 

Boom-bahs at The Lucky Dot

You may be looking at that title and wondering if I have completely lost my mind.  Time for a story from the mountains.  I had forgotten about it but was reminded when the family gathered to reminisce over my aunt.

One weekend at the mountains it was announced we'd be going to The Lucky Dot to see the boom-bahs.  Now understand The Lucky Dot was one of those places I'd never been invited as a kid.  I knew the grown ups went there and had a rollicking good time.  I'd heard the snickers and seen the knowing smiles and gotten a sense that there was some forbidden joy to be found at The Lucky Dot.  It was a backwoods sort of bar and restaurant.  There were absolutely no airs put on at The Lucky Dot.  It was a place much beloved by the locals, whether that was due to the quality of the fare, the friendliness of the service, or simply because it was all that was available I do not know.

In any event I was finally being invited to go there with the big people....and we were going to see the boom-bahs.  However, I had no idea what a boom-bah was.  Being the curious kid I was, I asked.  The various adults drew a breath in shock and responded with an incredulous, "You don't know what a boom-bah is?"  I had to admit I didn't but now I was even more curious.  The grown ups murmured amongst themselves about how much to tell me.  I stood there anxiously hoping they'd clue me in because now I was just sure a boom-bah just be some sort of amazing thing.

I inquired again.  The adults spoke in serious tones about how one must be of a certain age and maturity to experience a boom-bah.  I assured them I could handle it if only they'd clue me in.  They said I'd just have to go along with them and wait patiently for the boom-bahs to come out.  My imagination was running wild with thoughts of what this exotic thing could possibly be.  I thought it must be very sophisticated or possibly risque since the adults around me we so reluctant to go into detail (Ok, so in my head I had it built up to be some weird cross between a burlesque striptease and some wild tribal initiation like you might see documented in National Geographic. Vast amounts of alcohol and tobacco were likely to be involved as well.  And cussing.  We'd be covering all the taboos this night.).  That was the only reasonable explanation my young mind could conceive.

So off we went to The Lucky Dot.  We sat at our table.  My eyes darted around the room searching for something exciting. I saw nothing unusual.  I asked when the boom-bahs would come out.  "Soon," they said.  We ordered food. I continued to stay on high alert.  I asked how I would recognize a boom-bah.  Again, in somber tones I was told I would just KNOW.  At the end of the meal I was nearly crawling out of my skin in anticipation of being initiated into some great adult mystery.  I couldn't stand it another second.  "Where are the boom-bahs??!!!"

My grandparents, my mother, and my aunt burst out laughing and pointed to the corner of the room.  Imagine my reaction when I saw this.  Yes, THAT is a boom-bah...a tambourine, cymbals, bells, and all manner of other noisemakers mounted on a pogo stick (the one in the picture is a relatively sedate and unadorned example).

I was utterly deflated.  I very nearly cussed.  I will say it's hard not to smile when one is played though.  And now for your viewing  and listening pleasure...the closest thing I could find in my exhaustive 5 minute search of the interwebz.  It's actually a stumpf fiddle.  For a boom-bah, make sure it has cymbals on top and a few bells dangling for a nice loud crashing effect whenever it's bounced.

When I was Young in the Mountains with Apologies to Cynthia Rylant

*For rather a while I have been kicking around the idea of this post which shares a title with a childen's book by Miss Rylant. My kids first read her book in 3rd grade as a warm up to a writing project in which they each shared about the sound, sights, tastes, and memories of their own young lives in the mountains. This weekend we scattered Aunt Bee's ashes at her place in the mountains and I was reminded what a refuge and place of peace it was for me as a child. 



When I was young in the mountains I walked along the paths as my grandfather told us stories of the first people to live here.

Now that I am older in the mountains I hike the trails thinking about how many generations came before me, how many may follow, and what those coming after me will or won't find.













When I was young in the mountains we took walks in berry season just to fill our caps with sweet, ripe fruit.

Now that I am older in the mountains the taste of fresh berries brings sweet memories to mind.












When I was young in the mountains I felt very big to be allowed to take the row boat out on the lake by myself.

Now that I am older in the mountains I feel very small when I stand at the water's edge in the shadow of the mountain.













When I was young in the mountains sometimes I was afraid of getting lost in the forest.

Now that I am older in the mountains I steal way among the trees hoping no one will find me for a while.













When I was young in the mountains we laughed and sang, "Hear the lively song of the frogs in yonder pond" after an afternoon of catching frogs, toads, and salamanders.

Now that I am older in the mountains I listen to the chorus of spring peepers early in the spring and the thrum of bullfrogs in the summer. I smile knowing these songs were sung long before I ever came to the mountains and will echo long after I have gone.




When I was young in the mountains I found the shady glen on a hot summer day. The ground was covered in moss and ferns which muffled my steps. The water cooled my toes while I listened to the brook burble over the rocks as I teetered on their tops.

Now that I am older in the mountains the ferns beckon with their curled fronds, "Come here, for just a few moments. Come be refreshed."




When I was young in the mountains the great boulders stood like silent, ancient guards in the forest watching over me as I ran along the paths others had cut.

Now that I am older in the mountains the boulders whisper to me of their long forced march at the urging of the glaciers. They sigh in their settled positions after so much restless wandering in the wilderness.

I sigh, knowing one day a rough stone marker will stand over me when I am hidden in the embrace of the mountain while berries grow, the water flows, and the frogs call to each other. And grandfathers, who were not yet imagined when I was an old woman, will lead their own grandchildren along the paths.

Da Count-A Little Birdie Told Me

Monday is my Aunt B's 87th birthday. Aunt B never had any of her own children but she is the favorite aunt in the family. She may be 87 but she is still going strong. For her 80th birthday the family took up a collection to send her parasailing because that's what she wanted to do more than anything else. She loved it.



My favorite memories of Aunt B are of the times "in the mountains" when I'd go up with my grandparents (the place I recently wrote about). She still has the property adjoining what used to be theirs. She still drives up there to go visit her favorite place and all her animal friends.



A couple years ago when my uncle died Aunt B started writing little stories as a way of working through her grief. I believe it started when she sent a thank you note to someone who had travelled a great distance to come to the funeral. In it she reminisced about times in the mountains they all had shared. The idea was born and she began recording other simple stories, mostly about the animals she loves so much. She showed her two sisters who were less than encouraging in their response. In fact, they were downright discouraging. Aunt B continued writing but became highly selective about who got to read her stories. Last Thanksgiving I was welcomed into that circle. I was delighted by that. Since that time she has sent me several stories she has first shared with other folks. For my birthday this year she sent me one she said she wrote just for me. That was a very precious gift. A few days ago I found another one in my mailbox, which was also written just for me but she said I may share it.



Most of her stories are very simply written. Some folks like the other aunts could be very critical of the style because it lacks polish or sophistication. But the stories express Aunt B's heart, which I find quite lovely. The latest one was also deeply special because it revealed something about my grandfather I never knew. I knew he had lost part of a foot and had the same leg damaged rather extensively during his service in WW2. I knew that his time in the mountains was something that soothed his scarred spirit. I also have memories of how he could sit in the backyard and coax the songbirds to come eat seed from his very hands. Aunt B's story brought all of that into focus in a new way. Allow me to share her story without edit as well as part of her preface in the letter.



Michelle,

Here is a story for you to share. I had seen this many times. It was amazing how that bird would fly to him when he would walk up to see me. He said he called the bird "Skip." He said he named the bird that because he said when he and the bird were walking he felt like skipping but he had a hard time doing that because of his foot.

Love to all,

BeeBee



Hello, I am a chickadee. I have a story to tell you. I lived in the mountains with a friend I miss. His name was Russell. He would come and stay in the mountain home and then we would visit. Russell would sit on his back porch and have a pan full of sunflower seeds and other kinds of food for me to eat. He would hold the food in his hand and I would sit there and eat the food. One day I flew from his hand and I sat on his hat. He got up and was walking around so I stayed on his hat. From then on when I was flying by I would sit on his hat. We would walk all around to see the neighbors and it made Russell feel happy that the neighbors could see us walking. He would walk and I would ride on his hat. That way my wings did not get tired. We were friends for many years. Then one day he went away and never came back. I looked for him for a long time but never found him again.



Ok, a bit melancholy perhaps but a precious gift to me to have a fuller idea of the peace my grandfather found on the trails with Skip. So today I'm counting a grandfather who shared the places of peace, an aunt who has found peace in writing, and the gift of her sharing it with me. For her birthday I plan to share some of the things I've written about my time in the mountains. I hope mine make her smile the way hers have made me smile.

Weekend to Remember

It was November and Grampop had left the world six weeks earlier. Three weeks after he died I turned 13. He was the man who took me on hikes in the deep woods. He made up Indian names for each one of us, taught us about the animals, told us the local history and legends. He taught me how to fish, shoot a gun, use a bow and arrow, and row a boat. In spite of those more boyish pursuits I was always his "Princess." He was the only one who could call me that because I knew he didn't mean the ball gown and glass slipper type but the buckskin and moccasin type (even though he made sure I had a steady supply of white patent leather go-go boots as I was growing up). He showed me the fun in sitting to watch the deer and bears come forage for food. He showed me how to get a chipmunk to eat from my hand. I watched him feed wild song birds from his hands. He's the only person I ever knew who could manage that. He also had his own repertoire of silly songs he'd sing on the long drive up and back. I was missing him terribly that weekend.

This fun took place in the musty old trailer (and environs) he and Nana had in the mountains for weekend escapes. It wasn't much to look at but that place was a haven for me. Right next door was a somewhat newer trailer my great aunt and uncle owned for similar purposes. Nana and I were making our first escape since Grampop had left us. She told me I was welcome to invite a friend for the first time. I think she may have figured we'd both feel kind of lost with out Grampop and maybe need the distraction.

I asked Patti to come along. I had only known her since we both moved up to 7th grade in September. The girl who had been my best friend since 2nd grade had dropped me rather abruptly once we moved up to the Junior High School. Thirteen is such an awkward age to begin with. I was devastated when Grampop died and stinging from my friend's rejection. Patti seemed as unsure as I felt but she also seemed genuinely nice and we got along well. I was glad when her mom said she could come along to "the mountains."

Nana pretty much trusted us to wander around the whole wide woods by ourselves because I knew where I was going. I took Patti on all our old trails. She couldn't believe how deep into the woods we were allowed to go. I pulled out the BB gun and set up the tin cans (Nana said no to the .22 that weekend). Patti thought we were like Annie Oakley knocking them down. I showed her how to get the chipmunks to take a peanut out of her hand. She decided she'd rather watch them eat from my hand in case they wanted to nip her fingers.

Then I asked Nana if we could go to the lake and take the row boat out. I had never been allowed to take the row boat without an adult before. Nana shocked me by saying we could go by ourselves. I didn't wait around for her to change her mind. I grabbed Patti by the arm and all but dragged her as we practically ran the mile to the lake. I plopped a life vest around her neck and tied her into it before having her plunk down in the boat as I shoved it out into the water as fast as I could. I got us about halfway out to the little island in the middle of the lake before I noticed the slightly terrified look on Patti's face. I asked her if she was alright. She nodded kind of tentatively but wasn't very convincing. I asked again before she confessed that she was a little frightened because she didn't know how to swim and her mother never let her anywhere near water. I asked her if she wanted to go back because I felt bad for never really asking if she wanted to go in the first place. She thought about it for a minute and asked about the safety of the situation. I read her the safety rating on the life vest, showed her how shallow the water actually was by poking one of the oars down to the mud and still having part of it above water, and made her promise not to stand up in the boat except when and where I told her to. She asked excitedly, "Can we go over to that island and look around?" When I told her that was part of the plan all the time she grinned broadly in great anticipation. We had a ball and after checking out the island she asked me to teach her how to row the boat. She couldn't get over being able to get us from the island back to shore by herself.

We went to bed that night gabbing about all the day's adventures and how she felt so liberated by being able to do so much exploring. As we relaxed I started sharing my broken heart over my grandfather's death other friend's rejection. Patti listened and provided true comfort which left my soul feeling freer. She shared wisdom and truth with me in a clear way no adult had been able or willing to do. She learned from me how to feel stronger and more confident in the physical world. I learned from her how to begin finding comfort and strength in a spiritual world. A lifetime later in the slanting golden light of early November, when I see the trees with only a few brown leaves clinging tenaciously to branches, when I see the early frost on dried stalks of wildflowers and corn, and when I hear the chill wind whisper of impending winter I remember how after one death came a new awareness of life and hope in living it.

Friday 55 & Da Count- Aw Nuts!

FRIDAY 55

At first there is a faint tap tap tapping.

I turn to see who may be there and it stops.

Then several distinct knocks are repeated.

I search for the one wanting entrance.

The pounding begins

and it sounds like we are under siege.

I realize there is no impending invasion.

It's only acorn season.

DA COUNT

I guess counting my first paycheck earning job in 19 years would be the most obvious count. Even if it involves hazing by some real nuts. I am indeed grateful for the opportunity. This week has felt more than a bit nuts at time with all the information I was required to absorb in quick order while I was sick but I made it through.

Diana has been driven nuts by her roommate but I also want to count the contact she has initiated with me. I'm glad she felt like I was offered a safe place to dump and to share some other things with me as well. She also sent me a few pieces of writing asking for my opinion on them. They were not assignments but some things she was writing for her own pleasure. She said I always drove her nuts when I edited her writing assignments but here she is voluntarily asking my opinion.

Da Count-All Creatures Great and Small

We had all sorts of fun at the lake but our friends' kids also had fun in our backyard finding all sorts of critters. The first discovery was woodpeckers. We sighted a big Pileated Woodpecker but missed a shot at it with the camera. He's a wily thing I've only spied 3 times in the 5 and a half years I've lived here. Later we saw a Downy Woodpecker which is much smaller. Our guests enjoyed seeing deer and tree rats squirrels too. We saw evidence of a raccoon getting into the screened in porch when we discovered his footprints in the pollen on the chair rail. Over the years we have often had black bears go through the neighborhood and occasionally they get into the garbage shed.

We found an Eastern American Toad. Generally the routine at House of Lime is catch a critter, take a picture, admire it a bit, then return it where it was found. I tend to think wild things should not be long removed from their natural habitat. The toad spend a few hours in a box and was fed a number of earthworms before being deposited back by the woodpile.

We also found this Ringneck Snake near the woodpile. Looks big doesn't he?

Not so much though. Here he is on the back of my hand. I'm not sure whose skin is scalier...

Here you can see how tiny the snake really is. I have to admit to be tempted to hang on to him a while. I have lobbied for a pet snake for some time. They are non-allergenic, low maintenance, and can still be cuddled. What? Don't give me that weird look. They are.

Here is a Red Spotted Newt. I can remember catching scads of these things in the woods when I was a kid.

I'm not sure which species this one is but it's cute, maybe a Northern Two-lined Salamander.

A lovely lady bullfrog. At least I think it's a girl because her tympanum (the round ear drum near her eye) is smaller than her eye. In males the tympanum is larger than the eye.

I have no idea what species of dragonfly this is. It intrigued me because I never saw a golden one. There were several other varieties flying around but this one was the only one willing to pose.

Isaac has been a critter catcher since he was 2 years old and gently snagging crickets by their hind legs. We've seen all sorts of interesting creatures over the years. Some finds have been rather rarely seen animals and it impressed the naturalists at the local environmental center that Isaac had found them. It was a bit of a bonus to have seen so many different things all in a couple of days.

Slice of Lime-A Quiet Spot

Yesterday was not a good day around here. The last few days have brought more frustrations and unwelcome news. I'll spare all the details. I'm just not in the mood and I'd probably wind up saying some very nasty things. Among all the other crap, yesterday I found out I didn't get the job. I had a lovely little pity party for myself. There was crying and a refusal to be consoled. I bet you're sorry you missed it. I was asked what the next step is and I said there is none because every time I take one forward lately I get knocked back six steps. I loose less ground by refusing to advance. Really, it was my finest hour. Later my cousin called and listened to me cry the blues. After that she told me to rehydrate and take a walk. Those seemed like manageable steps so I took them.

I'm told some folks are ocean people and some are mountain people. Personally, I rather like the parts of the California coast where ocean and mountains met, best of both worlds and all. But I grew up escaping to the low mountains of the East Coast and I still find comfort in them. A forest cut by running water is about perfect to me. The ocean and the plains have their own magic but they don't comfort me when I feel beaten. They make me feel exposed. The forest lets me slip away quietly among the trees to find a quiet spot where I can hide for a bit.

I went to the woods because trees are good listeners too. They don't judge you. Somehow even the ones that tower over you don't make you feel small in a shameful sort of way. They spread out their branches as if to shield you from too hot sun or too heavy rain. They whisper softly. I didn't go planning anything other than to wander a while and sit but there was solace and wisdom there. I thought it would be better to share that than to continue my whining. I pulled out my camera phone to do so, so excuse the poor picture quality.

The quiet spot. Well, ok, the water just drowns out the nearby highway noises. Good enough for me.

I can think. No interruptions. No demands. Just sit and listen and think. Wallow a little if needed. I told you, trees don't judge.

The old hemlocks suggest it's time to stand. Here's a hand. Get up now. Walk among my friends. It's been a while since we had a visitor. We're glad you came.

But I've fallen and I can't get up.

Holler for help if you have to.


Sometimes you'll grow crooked before you grow straight but you do what you must to get the water and light you need to live.


Your support system might look at bit odd to others but if it keeps you standing that's the important part.


It would be nice to have someone to walk with you on the trail but they won't always be either patient enough or energetic enough to go at your pace. Sometimes you have to walk by yourself.

Eventually, you'll have to make some choices.


You can't sit in one spot forever unless you want a moss covered butt.

Vente Vanilla Latte...Hold the Mushrooms

*image from http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/uncyclopedia/images/thumb/3/39/Yogi_Bear.gif/180px-Yogi_Bear.gif

Remember those fungus among us moldy mushrooms I mentioned last week? We now have conclusive evidence that even large, hungry omnivorous animals won't eat them.

We live in black bear country which means we cannot just put our garbage can outside unprotected. That's like setting out a bear buffet and ringing the dinner bell. When the bears are bulking up prior to wintering in their dens or in the Spring when they first emerge ravenously hungry are the two worst times for garbage raids. We have a sort of shed-like thing that fits two large garbage cans (even though we barely even fill one can a week) and can be closed up with latches. It usually is a sufficient deterrent.

Mr. Lime came home after dark last night and found the shed up-ended, the cans tipped over, the bag shredded, and its contents strewn all across the front yard. Mr. Lime also reported the coffee filters and empty bottle which contained French vanilla creamer had suffered a great deal of damage. (The idea of a grumpy bear in bad need of a java fix strikes me as funny.) The moldy mushrooms remained untouched.