Easter goose

Before the days turned cold again, I sat here, looking off beyond the dock, to the little tuft of tall field grasses growing just where the pond water splits—half coming from behind the old oak woods, half draining our usually puddled lot of young Sugar Maples.
To a mound, where, every spring, a goose would sit on a nest of eggs, her head low, barely seen. While her mate swam in the shallow water, back and forth, beside her.

Canada Goose pair

By Easter, there’d be goslings, fluffy, yellow, and small—the perfect complement to egg hunts in the lush grass and baskets filled for little girls. From across the water, she’d bring them, six or eight swimming in a row, to feed on the tender green grass of the dam, her mate following closely behind.
But, each spring we’d watch, as this little family grew, day by day, with each crossing, smaller by one. Until, none remained but the mated pair, to move on and return the next year.

I always wondered about them, their defenseless young in a world that feeds upon the most innocent.
The unknown dangers they’d fought against—and lost.
Yet, each year, began again.


I watched, several springs later, the nest, more suddenly emptied than ever before.
As if they’d been taken all at once—the whole family, in the course of just one afternoon.
Shells broken and scattered.
Both goose and gander, gone.

From the thick, snarled grass of the field, far skirting the edge of the pond, she stepped out onto the paved surface of our little country lane.
Behind her, six or eight, walking in a row, to feed on the tender grass--
and never touch the water of the pond.

beside the dock, from below,
rising to surface of pond

click to enlarge!

Common Snapping Turtle, Chelydra serpentina

Dolls and Easter Dresses

"Please pass the bug spray."

Some things are learned by reading about them.
Others, by doing.
Of the lessons I’ve learned, the greatest, by far, have come from a combination of the two.

The tank on the table is my latest learning adventure.
Ten gallons of the finest vernal pool habitat—amber water-- a “tea” of sorts--and all that lives within, carefully carried in buckets from the shaded, oak-rimmed Wood Pool out back to its prominent location… a place at the kitchen table.

From my seat, as light streams in from the surrounding windows, every meal is an opportunity to watch what happens here.
Illuminating the watery depths--to discover, what lies beyond any book.

Daily water changes to prevent wastes from accumulating and a bubbler in one corner to add oxygen have given the hatchlings of the first spring migrants, Wood frogs and Jefferson salamanders, a protected space in which to grow. Dozens of tadpoles fouled the water quickly—their lives as eating machines, much like the frass-producing caterpillars of late summer. After 3 weeks, their plump copper-flecked bodies consuming green growth faster than I could carry it, they’ve been reunited with the thousands of other grazing sisters and brothers—in the Wood Pool.

Smiling faces of the Jeffersons remain. Their leonine forms lurk in the shadows, hungrily ambushing anything smaller than themselves, with a sudden gulp of a wide, toothless grin. Carnivores.
And, like baby birds, they eat and grow, and eat some more.

In a stroke of brilliance, the fine, salamander-tending hostess that I have become, scooped from the pool, a basin of delectable treats before retiring for the night. And gently tipped them into the tank for their midnight snack.

The water teems with the smallest life. And many of them I easily recognize or have learned to identify from pictures in my ever-growing collection of field guides.
I can spot a mosquito wiggler at a glance.
What I hadn’t yet figured out, was what the active, black, somersaulting characters were--and I’d eagerly captured many.

I now know that mosquitoes’ pupae are the “tumblers” I placed in the tank.
I also know that they hatch from these pupae relatively quickly.
As in…overnight.

For, by the next morning, they had disappeared from the tank.

The salamanders looked hungry.
So did the mosquitoes waiting for breakfast.

Jefferson Salamander larvae
20 days old

Fred

We share our property with a good number of rat snakes.
Exactly what is a good number? Enough that we no longer make finding one a reason for finding someone else to share it with.
We’ve grown accustomed to finding eggs in the compost pile, hatchlings covering the lawn around the belly of our old hollow sycamore, and an occasional adult crossing the yard.
They’re welcome neighbors in this rural area. Outbuildings and bags of grain mean a steady supply of mice. We’d be up to our ears in the little whiskered critters, were it not for the snakes’ help.


Last week, this hatchling suddenly appeared by the back door in the time it took me to walk down and back from the mailbox.


We introduced ourselves, neighbors—apparently he’s just moved in (from the compost pile--to the garage). We exchanged greetings--I relocated him to the rock garden. The stone wall will be a nice place to nestle into for cool fall days.


In a few years he’ll look just like Fred—long, dark, and handsome.


When we first moved here fifteen years ago, from a cooler, northern climate, finding a huge black rat snake on the front lawn was a big deal. And, I, nature-loving, hands-on, perpetual parent that I was, loved making every encounter with wildlife an opportunity for a science lesson.
That was my intention, one evening, years ago, when I met Fred. He was magnificent—a sleek, black beauty about 6 feet long.
Rat snakes make great pets because they tame easily (in a few minutes) and handle well—those strong, wave-like constrictions climb your arms as if they were branches—lace your fingers like a shoe.
But, that evening the girls weren’t home—maybe at a scout meeting or softball practice until dusk. And I needed a way to contain Fred until they could see him later—such a specimen he was. I grabbed a cast off terrarium from the garage shelf, complete with a wire mesh lid—from a time they’d had hamsters, years before—and tucked Fred inside.
He’d be safe on the kitchen table while I relaxed in the family room. The girls would be home soon.

Fred became more than a neighbor that evening. When I returned to the kitchen to greet the girls as they returned home, the top was off the terrarium, and Fred was nowhere in sight.
Did he slip inside a cabinet and into the wall behind, or through the gap separating the old and new portions of our house? However he managed it, he’s moved in. He's family.
In cool weather, we hear him cruising behind the upstairs bathroom wall, and on warm, sunny afternoons he hangs out from the eaves, right beside the west-facing gutter.

Yep. We’ve got our mouse problem under control. But I say a prayer every time dinner guests linger there, looking out our west-facing window.

Fred

We share our property with a good number of rat snakes.
Exactly what is a good number? Enough that we no longer make finding one a reason for finding someone else to share it with.
We’ve grown accustomed to finding eggs in the compost pile, hatchlings covering the lawn around the belly of our old hollow sycamore, and an occasional adult crossing the yard.
They’re welcome neighbors in this rural area. Outbuildings and bags of grain mean a steady supply of mice. We’d be up to our ears in the little whiskered critters, were it not for the snakes’ help.
Last week, this hatchling suddenly appeared by the back door in the time it took me to walk down and back from the mailbox. We introduced ourselves, neighbors—apparently he’s just moved in (from the compost pile--to the garage). We exchanged greetings--I relocated him to the rock garden. The stone wall will be a nice place to snuggle into for cool fall days.
In a few years he’ll look just like Fred—long, dark, and handsome.

When we first moved here, from a cooler, northern climate, finding a huge black rat snake on the front lawn was a big deal. And, I, nature-loving, hands-on, perpetual parent that I was, loved making every encounter with wildlife an opportunity for a science lesson.
That was my intention, one afternoon, years ago, when I met Fred. He was magnificent—a sleek, black beauty about 6 feet long.
Rat snakes make great pets because they tame easily (in a few minutes) and handle well—those strong, wave-like constrictions climb your arms as if they were branches—lace your fingers like a shoe.
But, the girls weren’t home just then—maybe at a scout meeting or softball practice for the evening. And I needed a way to contain Fred until they could see him later—such a specimen he was. I grabbed a cast off terrarium from the garage shelf, complete with a wire mesh lid—from a time we’d had hamsters, years before—and tucked Fred inside.
He’d be safe on the kitchen table while I watched TV in the family room. The girls would be home soon.

Fred became more a member of the family, than a neighbor that evening. When I returned to the kitchen to greet the girls as they returned home, the top was off the terrarium, and he was nowhere in sight.
Did he slip inside a cabinet and into the wall behind, or through the gap separating the old and new portions of our house? However he managed it, he’s moved in. In cool weather, we hear him cruising behind the bathroom wall, and on warm afternoons he hangs out from the eaves, right beside the west-facing gutter.
Yep. We’ve got our mouse problem under control. But I say a prayer every time dinner guests spend time, looking out our west-facing window.

The empty nest

There is a nest, perched on the outcropping of the bare bulb mounted on the rafter in the barn.
When I found it weeks ago, it looked very much as it does now—unseen eggs waiting inside --the promise of life.
Helpless and bare, they arrived one-by-one, four dependents, the charge of two doting parents.
Almost perceptibly, changing and growing. Hinting at who they were to become.
Soon, four faces peering over the rim. Eager eyes bright, with eager feathered wings.
This quiet, safe place becoming their past; the sky, their future.
The nest sits empty now—a reminder of that promise.
Their lives in the skies, a joy to behold.
Still, a tear.

My rural, southern education, part 3

"If you hold a cat by the tail you learn things you cannot learn any other way."
~Mark Twain

Please begin this story by reading part 1.

Afraid that my traveling companion would soon appear beneath my feet from under the seat, the drive home took on a new urgency.
The term “from soup to nuts” took on a new meaning.
And, I just wanted to get home.

Despite her seemingly indestructible nature, the turtle had, in fact, received a fatal blow. I had resolved to release her if I discovered she was able, but her injuries were far beyond that. It seemed best to end this quickly. And I did.

Determined to make the best of this messy situation, and still seeking the gourmet dinner I'd been dreaming of, I did see this through to its conclusion. The recipe for Turtle Soup follows, as do my lessons learned in the process.

Lessons learned:
There are leeches on the skin of snapping turtles.
If you handle snapping turtles for prolonged periods, as might be necessary for preparing soup, there will be leeches on you.
Leeches are difficult to remove.
A creature that has spent years living in the bottom of a pond, smells like the bottom of a pond.
If you cook this creature, your entire kitchen will smell like the bottom of a pond.
After spending hours preparing soup from a snapping, leech-covered, foul-smelling prehistoric reptile, you will have absolutely no desire to eat Turtle Soup.

Turtle Soup au Sherry
10 ounces (2-1/2 sticks) unsalted butter
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 pound turtle meat, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 cup minced celery (4 stalks)
2 medium leeks, minced
1-1/2 teaspoons garlic, minced
3 bay leaves
1 teaspoon oregano
1/2 teaspoon thyme
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1-1/2 cups tomato purée
1 quart beef stock
NOTE: If turtle bones are available, add them to the beef bones when making the stock for this dish
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste, as needed
1/2 cup lemon juice
5 hard-boiled eggs, finely chopped
1 tablespoon minced parsley
6 teaspoons dry sherry

Melt 8 ounces (2 sticks) butter in a heavy saucepan. Add the flour and cook, stirring frequently, over medium heat until the roux is light brown. Set aside.
In a 5-quart saucepan, melt the remaining butter and add turtle meat. Cook over high heat until the meat is brown. Add celery, onions, garlic and seasonings, and cook until the vegetables are transparent.
Add tomato purée, lower heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the stock and simmer for 30 minutes. Add the roux and cook over low heat, stirring, until the soup is smooth and thickened. Correct seasoning with salt and pepper to taste. Add lemon juice, eggs and parsley.
Remove from heat and serve. At the table, add 1 teaspoon sherry to each soup plate.

I never ate my Turtle Soup that day, or any other.
I've decided the snappers deserve their place in my pond--and we'll leave it at that!

My rural, southern education, part 2

Please begin this story by reading part 1.


Now, to clarify, I’m not in the habit of collecting roadkill, although I’m convinced I could easily feed a family of four quite well on the carcasses I pass every day on our winding back roads. But this snapping turtle was different—a fresh kill, still resembling the large turtle she was, but obviously no longer having a future in anyone’s pond.
I pulled off at the first opportunity to turn around. Keeping her location pinpointed across the highway, I looped back around and quickly pulled onto the shoulder where she lay. After all, such a prized turtle would be attractive to so many, I was sure. I had to act fast.
The traffic whizzing by, I grabbed her by the tail and slid her motionless remains into the only covering I could find—my Walmart bag, its contents dumped onto the back seat. I hoisted the heavy bundle into the car, setting it carefully on the floor, just behind my seat, and sped off—feeling very proud of my scavenging abilities and dreaming of turtle soup.

It might be interesting to mention at this point, that turtles predate dinosaurs. In the 215 million years they’ve been on earth, they’ve even survived a nuclear winter. I wish I’d known these impressive statistics before we drove home together that day.

I didn’t give a second thought to the rustling behind me as I happily drove along—windows down, enjoying the spring day. It wasn’t until I stopped and idled quietly at the traffic light that I realized I wasn’t alone. The snapping turtle, still encased in the shopping bag, was walking around in the back seat.

(to be continued, go to part 3)

My rural, southern education, part 1

I came across Momma in the grass behind the barn.

If I had to describe this place, the description would not be complete without mention of our snapping turtles. And every time I see one, up close and personal, I’m instantly reminded of an early adventure in our southern Ohio home, years ago. It was the beginning of my education.

Of course we immediately recognized their presence in the pond. What we didn’t recognize, until having a local excavating contractor come for an estimate of some repairs to our dam, was their potential as a food source. And apparently, we were quite envied to have such a fine “crop” paddling around in the muck!
Snapping Turtle Soup—I’d heard of it, but never had tried it. (And never really wanted to, until everyone’s interest in our turtles made me think I might be missing out on a great treat!)
We had offers to come trap them,
offers to come shoot them,
offers to come fish for them—
I began to realize we were sitting on a veritable gold mine! And, I began to be concerned that the word would get out…we had snappers!
I’m not what you would call a hunter-type. For the most part, I’m very content to shop for my dinner, unless, for instance, I cross paths with a wonderful something-edible. Something edible that I don’t have to kill, myself.
The fates were smiling on me that day in May, fifteen years ago. Returning from a shopping spree at Walmart, girls in school, the day to myself and my errands, I was first on the scene of a snapping turtle’s misfortunate meeting with a semi.
How much more perfect could this be? Fresh turtle, on my way home, the afternoon wide open—we’d have soup for dinner!

(to be continued, go to part 2)

The greatest gift

The day was supposed to be sunny and cool.
Our half-finished project of cleaning out the grape vines seemed to be the perfect match for the day. Badly neglected over the years, the concord vines had been overgrown by every opportunistic, snarling, thorny plant imaginable—and wrestling with them was both tiring and dangerous. The leather gloves, heavy jeans, and long sleeves, made this quite a production. Thankfully, the bulk of the work had been accomplished in early spring. Now the cleanup was needed.
Piles of blackberry brambles and wild rose lay all around, tangled into the now knee-deep grass. Woody vines which had been slumbering peacefully, now sent forth reaching, wrapping tendrils. Tony headed out for battle, pitchfork in hand.
I, equally dressed for some serious branch wrangling, headed into the wooded area just beyond the grapes. The pines that had been planted on this hill years before, are now almost 30 feet tall. In the midst of southwestern Ohio, this area most reminds me of my northeastern home. A hot summer day's heat makes it smell of the north woods. A deep, soft pine needle cushion makes it a quiet spot—a place to seek refuge from the sun, beneath the dense pine branches.
By noon, our cool day had warmed to hot. Steamy and sweating beneath heavy clothes, I abandoned my task of clearing a trail and rested in the woods.
An object, partially buried in needles, caught my eye--probably another one of many cast-off pieces of trash, thrown away, out of view, to litter the woods. It resembled the mouth of a sneaker, white-rimmed, oval, and a few inches across.
When I picked it up, I discovered it was a box-turtle shell, bleached white bone, the edges uncovered of their scales, but otherwise a perfect, oval bowl.

Box turtles have a special place in my heart. On the roads, whenever I safely can, I stop the car and cross them, or whisk them to safety to our property, if I have the time. Too often, though, in the time it takes me to turn around and go back for them, they’ve been hit. Perhaps it’s the memory of my dad’s stopping to cross them, or the summers spent as a little girl growing up at a biological station. For as a child, I was given the appreciation and understanding of the world and our place in it.

I wonder which turtle left their shell for me to find, for it is magnificent. Such beauty in such a humble creature, its translucent scutes –an amber and black stained-glass window. If others could only see them as I do….
To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, an eternity in an hour.
~William Blake

His spirit has captured my heart

It had been such a beautiful day.
The sunshine and warm temperatures had given us the perfect opportunity to walk some trails at the nature center, then gather at the house for a bit, relaxing on the patio out back--my little hummingbird zipping back and forth to the feeder, then past my ear as I sat chatting. Yes, everything was perfect.
I had meant to buy a second feeder for him that morning, one we could hang on the porch upstairs. But the pretty day had distracted me. I’d try to pick one up this week.
Later that afternoon, back inside the kitchen, my attention turned toward the meals for the next day. Should we grill out? Did we have charcoal….buns…
The sound of impact was unmistakable. I immediately looked to the window in horror. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d sensed his darting flight—now nothing. Scrambling out the back door, I scanned the ground beneath the glass. Tail fanned, a motionless little green jewel, my hummingbird lay on the patio.

Birds hit our windows several times each year—instances we’re aware of. And every time, the routine is the same. Pick it up gently, put it in a shoebox, place the box in the laundry room, close the door, wait—dark, warm and quiet. And almost every time it works. But he was so tiny and had hit the glass at top speed.
I picked him up gingerly, the little daredevil so helpless in my hand, and set him in the box, closing the lid before his last ounce of life could escape. On my finger, a bright red spot—the tiniest red feather.

The brave little world traveler lay still on his side in a shoebox.

Almost certain of what I would find, about half an hour later, I decided to check the box. As soon as I heard the scratching of tiny toes, I knew. He was ready. Out into the yard we walked, before lifting the lid. He sat very quietly for a minute, adjusting to the bright sunshine. Then, like starting an engine…tested his wings and began to slowly rise, lifting straight out of the box like a little helicopter, and rested on a branch directly above.

It is beauty that captures your attention; personality which captures your heart. ~Anonymous

Sometimes captured in memory is best

Last night was a night for owls.
When the weather is warm, before the humidity sets in and takes your breath away, we sleep with the bedroom door open--screening out the bugs, letting in the night sounds. It's never perfectly still, even in the very early spring. Before the peepers start their chorus, we have the sounds of the owls.
We've always known the barred owls in our ravine--heard their questioning calls and hilarious monkey chatter--but, not until last spring, did I actually see one. A visit one morning, as I was sitting at the computer, there she was on the branch just outside the window looking at me. Tears ran down my cheeks. We sat staring at eachother, neither of us moving for several minutes--then she was gone.
She and her mate stayed hidden for the remainder of the year, but their calls reminded us of their presence. Nighttime was very settling--lying in bed, owls calling softly outside.
Last fall, as I was driving to work, I passed a strange lump on the road, not far from the house. Far too big for a cat, more the size of a raccoon, but very mottled. Assuming I'd discover a strange mammal-type roadkill, I stopped and got out to check. My owl! How could she have been so careless... a car ...early that morning.
I hoped it really wasn't her. Maybe it was someone else's owl. But it had become quiet at night now. And even as the chilly winter nights kept us inside, I strained to hear what I hoped would be a sign that she was still there. Finally, in the spring, a call. But each time, only one--never an answer.
I wondered how long we'd be owl-less. The once comforting calls each night were now very disturbing. And each time I heard one, I wished, like the calling owl, for an answer.
In mid-March, I walked through our pine woods, eyes on the ground, trying to avoid the little streams of runoff from the adjacent field. I hadn't walked there in a couple of years and it surprised me how quickly the trees had grown tall and dense--the perfect spot for an owl. She had thought so, too, for, when I looked up, there she sat--a few feet in front of me, on a sturdy branch.
I don't have her picture, but I don't need one. In fact, I think that would spoil the magic for me. I can see her perfectly, every time I hear the owl call...and hear her answer.