Gifted (SWF)

There’s a new charge under my care—a tender, sweet thing, with just eight small, heart-shaped leaves. In a small, brown pot, the 6-inch stem reaches out, beyond a ring of words wrapping dark earth beneath it—
the story of a life, saved.


Those who know of it, know its promise—the beauty that will someday surely come.
Grown from good stock, sturdy and strong.
Of a time and place when hands worked the land, and roots ran deep.
This little lilac remembers.


For this is not just any little lilac, this is one of Julie’s Heirlooms.
Dug from the parent plant last spring, and nurtured through the months of summer, it waits now for me to settle it here, beside the old brick house on the hill.
I hope I will care for it well, ease the earth to accept it, safely shelter it from harm.
For Julie cares well for everything in her life--plants, pets, ...people.

None so gifted have I ever known.
Truly gifted am I to know her.



Through the clothesline, I can see the small pot nestled with the flowers at the edge of the walk, as sheets and daffodils duck and bob, flapping in an April breeze.
It seems they must be sharing secrets, or telling tales of long ago.
I'll bet they're talking dirt.


Julie Zickefoose is a widely published natural history writer and artist, naturalist and NPR commentator, who lives with her husband, two kids, crochety macaw and Boston terrier on an 80-acre nature sanctuary in the Appalachian foothills of southeast Ohio.
In the time between writing and illustrating her own books, Julie brings the natural world to many readers with a daily web log.
Her gift of sharing warm and fluid narratives endears her to all who know her work.

See more Skywatch here.

Sweet Dreams

An old house in the country.
And land all around.
A sanctuary for all who dwell here.

Those were our dreams for the 1835 farm.
And, though the original land had been cleared decades earlier when it stood proudly as a 100-acre tract, the pastures on these remaining fifteen had long grown wild. Creek beds, once again, filled with sycamores and hickories. While the old oak marking the far property line spawned a stand of new, young trees beyond the pond.

The elderly owners had wished for it wildness, and touched very little in their fifteen-year stay.
Untouched land reclaims even stone houses.
And the damage from neglect shown as rot and decay.
Shoring up the old house consumed much of our first years’ efforts.

Looking to the land, we began by removing fences. Creating a connected space, through which wildlife could easily move. From the pond to the oak woods, from the woods to the field—many tracks ran about on the soon well-worn paths. Regrowth had begun to restore the once-farmed land.

Julie and Chet Baker

Last week, another dream.
Julie Zickefoose, who literally wrote the book on creating safe places to both attract and sustain birds and butterflies, "The Bird-Friendly Backyard : Natural Gardening for Birds," walked the property with us. Her years of experience on her own land, just four hours east, and wealth of knowledge far beyond birds alone, were a privilege to tap into, even though, on this afternoon, the skies revealed very few, if any, birds to watch.


Bullfrogs? Who knew the hundreds lurking in the shallow water edging the pond might be a problem for songbirds? Doesn’t everyone have this many?
And suggestions for creating a nest site for turtles—the many curled white shells, evidence of a predator’s attention.



That evening after dinner, we relaxed around the table by the fire—catching up with Kathi and Susan, fellow bloggers and travelers along the dark country roads leading to the old farm.
Charming a small Black Rat snake found earlier, sunning on the lawn.
Enjoying the company of Chet Baker, Julie’s Boston Terrier, loved by all who meet him and a celebrity in his own right.

Chet Baker

I spent the following afternoon with Baker, while Julie led walks and programs at a nearby middle school. On one of the last gloriously fine days of autumn we fell asleep, stretched out in the back field, warmed by sunshine.

Missing Mether

Time to walk.
And time to talk.
I marvel at this generous woman who makes herself so accessible to so many. And whose passion for the natural world spreads wildly--lingering in those she touches long after she has gone.

Sweet Dreams, Chet Baker

Lost Light

Teasel
Morning Light

Evening light has all but left us.
I step out from work, now, into darkness, ever more thankful for the morning’s glow.
My time.

To catch a sun creeping across the field of teasel.
Tones of brown set ablaze, mist rising.
Caught on the edge of the high barn roof.
Then tripping, face-first, upon the old brick house,
beyond the gravel drive.

First Light on Barn

Autumn Sun

From this spot at dusk, we hear an owl,
from the depths of the blackened woods, calling.
His voice, a new cry in the night.
An invitation into his world.

In the dark, this year, I will go there.
My small light, where there is none.

After years of hearing Barred Owls in our woods, we now hear a new call. The hissing screech, that could be either a Barn Owl or juvenile Great Horned Owl. What better way to appreciate the darkness of fall and winter evenings, than to become better acquainted with our owls.

See more Skywatch here.

Skeletons in the Closet

The things we keep buried.
Out of sight, out of mind--until, at a low point, they peek out at us.
And remind us of the past.

October pond

Potential.

I recall speaking those words to my family, again and again, as we walked the property of what would become our "new" southern Ohio home.

Not new, in most respects.
Except, perhaps, the heavy coat of blue paint that literally held the place together. Applied in loving desperation by the older couple no longer able to care for it, in hopes of catching the eye of a new owner--a new caretaker for the 1835 brick farmhouse on 15 rural acres of woods, field and pond.

May pond

The lure of an evolving adventure, the continuation of an already rich history, upon land rolling wild and free...the package had us spellbound.
We moved in, in the summer of ‘92.

While repairs to the old house began, so did our attention to the pond—a leaky, shallow Y-shaped basin formed at the convergence of 2 seasonal creeks crossing the back of the property.
With mud deep enough to bury all sorts of sins.

By the summer of our second year, the August heat warmed the shallow water so greatly, we looked out one day, to find all the fish we’d dreamed of catching on a lazy afternoon—floating, dead at the surface.
The attractive picture we’d remembered from our walk there that first spring, had become the stench that hung on a warm summer breeze.

The fix?
Sculpt a new dam beyond the old, able to contain a greater depth.
A sanctuary from the warming waters of the shallows.
A place where, even in dry months, the water would be cool and able to sustain the lives within.
With a notch carved between the two—their passage to the deep.

old dam with passage to deep water

The rains of spring fill her to the brim.
We look out over long reaching arms, stretching back the edge of the oaks, dotted with wood ducks and the noses of snappers. Fish rise and pluck damselflies from the surface. And a heron steps slowly near the grassy rim and flies up and off.

March pond

Only when the summer wanes and the rains elude us, do we catch a glimpse of the pond of years ago.

Old land is good at keeping secrets.

October pond revealing old dam

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.

Rain

It’s hard to imagine, after last summer’s drought, that a rainy spring could be anything but wonderful. So many suffered in the dryness. And with spring growth, a season’s loss can be repaired.
But even for me, amphibian-loving, frog-watcher that I’ve become—this rain is too much.

Last week I arrived home from work to find a tree had swallowed my front yard. It had disappeared under the boughs of a locust.
A Leaning Locust, native to the Ozarks and southern Appalachians, one of many, persistently sprouting from every corner of my yard.
Eyeing small buildings on which they may, someday, fall.

It never seemed so large--standing by the porch, as it had for years. But, sprawled out, face down across the lawn like a waiter catching his toe on the carpet—he’s wiped out everything in his path. Cherry tree… lilac bush…
The porch is unharmed.
The softened ground, a mound—one taut root, its lifeline.

There he lay, as it continued to rain.
Until, finally, a dry day for cleanup.


And more rain.

I put on my spotted boots and trudge across the pasture, days overdue for mowing. The grass is, in places, almost knee deep.
The tractor, in the barn, still sleepy from winter’s dampness, refuses to tackle the green, wet mess.


Tractor pneumonia.
A coughing, glassy-eyed machine—we cover it and let it rest. Maybe it will get better.

I’m headed to the Wood pool, to bring a bucket of fresh water back to my tank.
The path at the edge is flooded.
The cool, rising water within has found a way out.


In the small clear streams flowing past my toes, Wood frog tadpoles scramble, frantically, upstream. Swept in the current from the surface of their quiet pool--into these leafy hollows, from which there will be no return.
Trapped beyond the edges of their home, they’re doomed.

Soon, it will be time to return the growing salamanders from the tank to the Wood pool, also—to become wild, again. And free.

I feed them a snack before heading upstairs to bed.


A small foot touches my finger and crawls into my hand.
Safe, for now.


The rains pound against the tin roof.

Last September, we were 12 inches below average in rainfall.
This spring, we are over 6 inches above average.

For the journey of my Jefferson Salamanders,
now 42 days old,
please click here.




Thanks to Mrs. Nesbit for hosting ABC Wednesday!

Focus

Our old garage isn't much to look at.


In fact, some might say it's an eyesore.


Though broken and needy in many ways--I look past it.


There always seems to be something else that catches my eye.

A Sidewalk Going Nowhere, conclusion

(This story will make more sense, if you start here.)

It has been quiet for several days now.
A preliminary investigation of the premises has revealed the following:

Last weekend a small attic space was emptied of doll beds, spirograph wheels, beanbag chairs and all those must-have items that reside there for whatever small children at some time may come into our lives--and a panel removed connecting house to porch ceiling. From here, perhaps to get a glimpse of the stealthy creature or a tell-tale remnant of his passing.
Armed with flashlights and stooping low in the dark, unfinished space, we poked out our heads--prepared to meet anything from rats to raccoons, (or woodchucks, flying squirrels, gray squirrels, skunks, deer mice, bats,...) and found... nothing.

Carefully crawling from one joist to the next, every crack of daylight was evident, but none large enough to admit more than a wasp. The space behind the tall, 2-story wall, firmly sealed--no signs of forced entry. The intruder must have been let in through another point.

He'd covered his tracks well, and, although creating quite a commotion behind the tall wall, seemed to have left the immediate area undisturbed--taking nothing.

An outdoor inspection revealed a small gap in the soffit vent behind a gutter to be his point of entry. A canvass of the area turned up no eye-witnesses.

We secured the area, and continued surveillance for several days.
There has been no further indication of his presence.

Fred will continue to monitor the situation for evidence of undercover activity.

Not this year

The buckets stand in a corner of the barn.
The trees stand in the yard.

Any other year at this time, as the sap begins to flow, the preparations for making maple syrup begin.
On a bright, still, mild day, we rinse the cobwebs from the buckets, drill the holes in the Sugar Maples, and hammer in the spouts.
For the next few weeks, the buckets hang.
The sap flows.
And I recall my grandfather’s Vermont farm.

The arch is set up on the gravel drive--of concrete blocks 2 rows high, that support the evaporating pan and a stovepipe chimney. For just one day, we will boil the colorless, sugary liquid, from dawn till dark--everything we’ve collected and carefully stored. The clouds of steam billow from the surface, gradually revealing the prized amber remainder.
The following day, on the stove indoors, the syrup is finished--brought to the proper density and sealed in jars.
It is just enough for one year.

This year we’ve decided to let our trees rest. Although sugaring isn’t harmful to healthy trees, last year’s extreme drought and the unusually high temperatures in this southern region caused the few Sugar Maples remaining on this property to drop their leaves before fall.

The extreme weather, an annoyance to so many, touched every living thing--
burning and choking these sweet trees that have stood with the old house for so many years.
I hope they are strong.

And, as I tentatively watch each day for an indication of what’s in store for the coming months, my prayer is,
“Not this year.”

Last year sugaring

A Sidewalk Going Nowhere, continued

(Story begins here.)



Living in harmony with nature has been the “lifestyle” that shapes our decisions for this property. There’s a ring of manicured land around our house, but beyond that, much grows, untamed.
The pastures have returned to fields of wild flowers--a buffet for butterflies and birds. The ponds wear bright green blankets of growth, hiding frogs whose voices emerge on muggy summer evenings. The mighty oak’s woods stretch forth fingers as small trees. And a barred owl rests in the pines.

The house itself is perched on the top of a hill which drops to a ravine behind. From the back door, a sidewalk going nowhere leads to its edge—a remnant from a time when nature called to people here, a century ago.
Today these woods shelter the animals who walk the creek beds connecting neighboring properties. In the evening, a large opossum scavenges beneath the feeders outside my kitchen window. Many mornings I wake to glimpse a raccoon just slipping back to bed in his hollow tree.
A large hickory stands just a few feet away, dropping showers of nuts on the roof each fall. Gray squirrels carry large sycamore leaves high into her branches, fluffing their nests against winter’s chill.
And the deer rest, barely seen, on the leafy banks.
We are richly rewarded for this closeness.

But, with every season, we battle for the rights to dwell here.
The smallest crack is an invitation to live within the house on the hill.
Fred patrols the spaces on his side of the wall; I do my best on the other—diligently searching for the mouse nest being beautifully decorated with the fringe--each day growing shorter, from my living room rug.

Mice I can deal with.
What’s settled behind my foyer wall, I cannot.


It is chewing with great assertion in this 2-story space—the gnawing magnified by the hollowness of the wall and heard easily throughout the house.
We sit at dinner, tossing worried looks across the table. How does one deal with an enemy unseen, in a space that has no access?

Last week, it was quiet for a few days. Maybe our banging and thumping against the wall had encouraged this bold visitor to move out?

No.

This week, as soon as I turned the key arriving home from work, the chomping had resumed, with added crunching intensity. I imagine the stealthy creature, crowbar in hand, remodeling the space to suit his wishes. In the 2 weeks that we’ve been charmed by its presence, it seems to be moving higher, toward the wall behind the upstairs bathroom.

I rap loudly against the wall beneath him and scream at the invisible gnawing monster in a high-pitched voice, stamping my feet in an effort to rattle him.
Now he’s approaching Fred’s territory, and Fred had better wake up hungry.

I don’t wish to be greeted in the bathroom one night—by its beady little eyes.

House as seen from
Sidewalk going Nowhere

(to be continued here)

Photographic Interlude, A Sidewalk Going Nowhere

The photos that complement A Sidewalk Going Nowhere show the 1835 house, a work in progress.

Fields on the hill, with barn behind and house top far left

House in spring, addition behind

Backdoor, brick being repointed


Chicken coop with pasture in front, summer

Wood trim, front door

Shutter dog and brick front


Old window glass


Fireplace trim and mantel


Fireplace trim and oak floor


Living room doorknob and lock


Bathroom doorknob and lock

Back stone slab steps