The Hundred Year Storm

I woke again this morning, the distant drone of our neighbor's generator a reminder that opening my eyes to look across the dim room for the clock's red, lighted digits would not be necessary.
The power is still out.
And so Day 3 begins.

I had intended to follow yesterday's post with still more of the sights of Olympic.
But the limited access to both electricity and internet has made sorting and organizing the close to 2000 photos next to impossible.

Sunday's flight home touched down just as the remnants of Hurricane Ike swept through Ohio, leaving the southwestern corner of the state trembling in its aftermath and much of central Ohio in the dark.
I really don't know the extent of the damage, nor the statistics that I'm sure must be broadcast nationally, by now. Without television, we listen only briefly to radio broadcasts listing closings and ever-changing emergency levels. But the governor's in town, and crews have been called in from Texas, Louisiana and the Carolinas for assistance.

We are, as yet, powerless.
Which means the backpacks full of hiking socks, t-shirts, and fleeces wait, patiently for the laundry to begin. Food stores have begun to reopen, as areas reconnect to the grid. But traffic out and about is a snarl--traffic lights out of service and gas stations dark and empty.
We diddle around with what can be done without electric--which, sadly, is not much in the way of cleanup. Fortunately, our house is unharmed. The only structural damage, the loss of the chimney on the garage (a summer kitchen), the tall block stack blown forcefully down and crumbled across the backyard.

Old Oak, May 2007

The 200-year old oak still stands-- my next concern after house, barn and outbuildings. But the small log bench we placed beneath her has been buried under the twisted bough from above. Nearly 2 feet in diameter, sturdy, strong and long, it was torn off by what must have been a fierce wind. I can only imagine the sound of its crushing fall.

Old Oak, September 2008

Days are filled with the ring of chainsaws.
Red cones mark downed wires on almost every roadway.
Food pantries have been opened--with bread and peanut butter, water and ice.

Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.

We recharge cell phones and laptops in the few coffeeshops across town, hunkered down in a corner, with everyone else seeking a connection with the rest of the world.
I haven't been able to visit others' blogs or comment in this short visit, but hope to be back in business very soon!
More news here.

Third Strike

Our vegetable garden has suffered this year.

Weeding was replaced by wedding.
And soon, other home projects that demand we make progress in the few short summer months each year were underway. While already, the repairs made 15 years ago upon our arrival have been undone—others, yet unstarted, wait.
But, as much as the greedy old house steals time, we would not have it any other way.
“Building character,” we call it, and hammer away at our dream.

Rebuilding porches and repair to brick

Repointing around old shutter dog

At the edge of the woods, a small oak tree I walk past each day has suffered, too.
First, nearly consumed by a hoard of Datana caterpillars—arching into their defensive postures with the slightest nudge of the branch.

Datana sp.
before and after

Then, nibbled and trimmed by the bagworm, days later, his house decorated by the few remaining scraps he could find.

Bagworm feeding on oak
Thyridopteryx sp.

Today, what may be the final blow. Still too small to be seen well, but flattened against the bare narrow stems where others have chewed, still more have arrived to feed.




With each assault, I worry that this young specimen that dared step forward into the field may not survive. The others tower behind him, seemingly unaffected.
A sacrifice, perhaps?

A large unruly plant has sprouted from my compost pile and set forth across the lawn.
We mow around it.
Its leafy greenness hides my gardening sins.
And bears the only tomatoes we may see this year.

When Nature takes her own

White snow, his blanket,
he rests on the forest floor.
Oaks stand watch above.

Dressed in the richness
of these woods—red, orange, brown.
Lord of air, fallen.

Little feet scurry
to see what strangeness lies here.
Still, they touch him not.

I found the body of a Red-shouldered Hawk, perfect in every way, preserved by the snow in the woods.
He appears to have broken his neck.
I wrapped him well and will carry him to CNC.

He will be admired by many,
but remembered by me.

Please click to enlarge.

A visit to the oak tree

Sunset from beneath Old Oak

I measure each season by its sounds.
The barred owls calling on a frozen, late winter's night--the hardest is behind us, ...soon spring.
The first few, brave, hardy peepers of an early evening--heralds of the warming days and thawing earth.
The birdsong on a fresh, crisp morning--waking us to the frenzy of new life,...so much ahead.
The sharp rasp of a tree frog on a humid afternoon--the woods are thick with leaves and air, heavy.
The cicadas ringing high in the branches above--the peak of summer swelter is here.
Tonight the katydids sing--this is the final act of summer.

I always associate the sounds of the katydids with the last evenings of summer. It was their singing I'd hear, sitting on the porch swing, talking with my girls, recapping our summer's adventures as they prepared to start the next school year.
Summer was our "family time"--and I hated to see it pass as quickly as it always did.

Theirs is the song of a summer's end.

She stands

The old oak stands at the back of our property.



Our deed from 1843 describes this piece of land in "poles", measured from the trees that mark its boundaries, hickories, ash, elm --and oak. Much of the land that had most likely been cleared for farming has regrown. The old oak, now growing amidst a forest of younger oaks, fanning out to the smallest, tender trees.

She is now more than 14 feet in circumference. An almost 2-century-old Pin Oak. Her massive arms, larger than many of the trees around her. She stands --straight, strong and tall.

She has seen many changes in this land. A house has been built, and a barn for a small dairy. The pasture lines have been drawn and redrawn--rusty remnants still tangling in the undergrowth. The hundred acres, divided. The residents, now names on markers in the nearby cemetery.
And still, she stands.


We've put a bench beneath her arms--a place to sit and think.
A place to feel small.
A place to feel safe.
A place to feel her strength.

Yesterday, I found a feather beneath the old oak. A feather from the barred owl.


Some day, to sit beneath this tree...an owl above...

Refreshing

I'm learning--learning to grab the camera, even if I don't "have" anything to take a picture of. Nothing planned, nothing posed, nothing performing. Just the pond, surface like glass, reflecting the evening sun--just being perfection.



This spring seems greener than usual. Lush, bright, clean, green. This arm of the water is our snapper's favorite dining spot--a quiet table in the corner. The sandpipers cruise this shoreline, too. And turtles stack up to sun.



Wow. What more is there to say? It's so easy to escape the concerns of the day--just hang them here on this tree, breezes carrying them away.



Sun setting, the mighty oak standing watch.

Dendrochronology (or "How old is that tree?")

Thank goodness for gloomy days that let you stay inside and think.
There is an old oak tree that stands at the back of our property. A huge, broad, still fairly healthy, old tree. When we first moved here and scouted out all the "cool" features, we found it and stood as a family, hand in hand, barely reaching around the trunk. The girls were much smaller then, so that's not an accurate measure of its size, but quite a specimen it is!
This year, my goal is to determine its age. I've taken the critical measurement--circumference at 4 1/2 feet above ground. But, that's only the beginning.
We plan to clear a path to it this year. It will be our thinking tree--a place to go and sit beneath its massive arms. But, for now, I sit and think and read about big trees.
http://www.americanforests.org/resources/bigtrees/