Snow Day!

The dawn is becoming day.
As I lay still in a warm bed before rising, the plow’s heavy blade announces its approach from far up the road--the first sound of life.
Blue cast outside my window.
Then, silence... all around.
Snow day!

A fine layer of ice has glazed the surface of what fell in the nighttime hours.
Little drops of iciness snick and tick against each pane of glass.
I am happy to be inside, waiting for the world to wake.



There is something special about receiving an unexpected day off.
No chores already fill the time.
No errands can be run.
It will be a day to experience a little more of the outdoors than I usually am able.
It is a gift I wait anxiously to open.

This is just how I felt as a child!

“If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children,
I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder
so indestructible that it would last throughout life.”
~Rachel Carson

From the Black Lagoon...

There is a vernal pool beyond the field, over in the woods.
Where the morning sun filters through young maple trees, and old oaks have laid their leaves for a bed.



From the depths of this tiny, fragile world, thousands of lives will emerge.



It is a quiet place now.
The snow cover has just lifted, the silver ice melts—dimples of soft rain fill the basin to its rim.

The black water is clear and still.

Vernal pools, woodland ponds that hold water for only several months and have no fish, are important habitat for hundreds of species.
Because of destruction of woodlands and drainage of many areas, they are rapidly disappearing.
The Ohio Vernal Pool Partnership, OVPP, was founded in 2005 by The Nature Conservancy and The Ohio Environmental Council.
The monitoring program is intended to “encourage community-based conservation of vernal pools in Ohio through education, partnerships, science, and (re)discovery of our natural world.”

Over the next weeks, I will watch the lives that are transformed here.
Call it silly, but I can't wait!

The GBBC--more than just a number

There’s a little chickadee I look for every morning—identifiable by his bright white tail.
And, although he’s just one of a million others of his kind, he’s the one I’m able to recognize as he flits through our woods to visit the feeders.
He’s the one I miss, when he’s not here.


I wonder about the billions and trillions (?) of living things categorized into neat groups we casually call “bugs” or “frogs” or “birds.” And the many people who never think of them as being more distinct than that—never learn to recognize each for their differences.
Never seeing more than the group.
A frog is simply a frog.
Nothing more.

It’s easier to walk past, not knowing their name.
And not care.

The Great Backyard Bird Count, GBBC, is next weekend. And though it is promoted as “citizen science,” a way for regular people to contribute to research efforts, it’s more than that.
It’s an exercise in seeing beyond the group.
Taking apart the word, “bird,” and being specific about each we see.
Giving each a name.

For with a name, comes significance.
And with understanding, comes care.

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.

Ice gallery

The woods beyond our field are a frequent destination for my walks.
And, beyond them, stand the pines--where what had once been a Christmas tree farm, has now matured into a dense pine wood, with trees 30 feet tall. The few sunlit areas remaining between them are home to a nice tangle of multiflora rose, nature's barbed wire.
Unless I'm dressed for battle, I prefer to walk around these woods--
Last week, I walked through.


The red carpet of needles plunges deeply where a backhoe's steel fingers have left its bite, scooping a young tree years ago. Partially filled in with needles and cones, and now the winter's runoff, these large, round basins display unusual ice art.


The stiffness of an occasional leathery oak leaf, gives form to the pockets of air trapped within. Light and shadow play beneath the surface.


Back in the oak woods, the ice is thin and brittle, each surface in the many layers reflecting silvery leaves. Magnifying their details.



All is still in this frozen gallery.
I will return and admire the next display.
This is our vernal pool.

The first cheerful voice

It was a warm and rainy night.
I woke to a morning that smelled of springtime and life. And, although it was overcast and dim, I threw on a light jacket and headed across the yard to the field.
From across the pasture I heard a faint cry and turned toward the hilltop.
Quiet.

Then, again, his voice.
A spring peeper, the first cheerful voice of ten thousand.

I squatted beside him in the grass and waited for him to sing again. The shrill cry so piercing and fresh.
The warm rain waking him.
His voice, the sound of spring.

With soggy feet and dampened pants, I hopped into a warm shower and got ready for work.
I, too, had some news to proclaim, the first cheerful voice of ten thousand.

In a few weeks their call from this field will be deafening.
There already were several joining him by the time I returned home from work this evening.
On this first, warm morning, it was just him.
And me.

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