Time’s fun when you’re having flies. ~Kermit the Frog
Time flies like the wind; fruit flies like a banana. ~attributed to Groucho Marx
It’s not easy being green unless you also have a dorsal brown stripe and live in a box of ripe Asian pears on the front porch that has become a metropolis of Drosophila (fruit flies). Then you are in frog heaven with breakfast, lunch and dinner within reach of your tongue any time.
And the Drosophila happily move in to the kitchen any time some pears are brought in. The apple cider vinegar killing fields I’ve set up on the kitchen counter are capturing dozens daily, but their robust reproducing (which I carefully studied in undergraduate biology lab) outstrips the effectiveness of my coffee filter funnel death trap lures.
Fruit fly season too shall pass. Time flies and time’s fun when you’re having frogs.
I was sad one day and went for a walk; I sat in a field. A rabbit noticed my condition and came near.
It often does not take more than that to help at times— to just be close to creatures who are so full of knowing so full of love that they don’t chat, they just gaze with their marvelous understanding. ~St. John of the Cross, Love Poems From God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, trans. Daniel Ladinsky, p. 323
It would be good to have an understanding that helps people feel better just by being near.
Knowing that you can be comforting simply by being who you are in that moment.
“Girls are like slugs—they probably serve some purpose, but it’s hard to imagine what.” ― Bill Watterson, in Calvin and Hobbes
Slugs appear out of the ground after a drizzle like seeds that plump and germinate miraculously overnight. The slug crop burgeons, and with it, oozy trails of glistening slug slime.
We live on a hill, which means I need to walk downhill to the barn for chores. On one particular day, the path can include a slug (or three) under each foot. That produces a certain memorable squish factor.
I’ve learned to don my rubber boots and just squash and slide. There will undoubtedly be more slugs to replace the flattened lost, like watching freeze-dried shrinky dinks spontaneously rehydrate.
The trip to the barn for chores becomes a hazardous journey, slipping and sliding on hordes of slugs that have surfaced everywhere like pimples on a teenager’s back. They crawl out from under every leaf and every stray piece of wood to bask in the morning dew, replenishing the moisture lost over weeks of hot sun. Somehow I always suspected there was a secret world of organisms out there, oozing and creeping in the dark of the night, but preferred not to think about them if I didn’t have to. But they would confront me regularly to remind me of their existence and my own.
At dawn, the cat food bowl sometimes contained clues that parties were being thrown at midnight by the back porch, with glistening slime trails in and out of the bowl and in concentric circles all around. When I would grab a handful of green beans in the garden, some of them would be slippery with slug slime and neat little chunks would be missing. The tidiest stealth invasion was a tomato that looked invitingly red and plump from one side, but when picked, was completely cored, hanging in a dangling half shell from the vine with mucus strands still dripping. There was some serious eating going on right under our noses.
Actually the chewing is under the slug noses, all four noses to be precise. With that much sensory input, no wonder a slug knows about the transparent apple peelings lying on the bottom of my tall compost bucket outside the back door. I think they traveled for miles to find this particular stash, climbing up the bucket sides and slithering down into glorious apple orgy. The party lasted until morning when I discovered them still congregating and clinging, gorged and immobile in their satiety on the sides and bottom of the bucket. I had unwittingly provided the means of their intoxication, having now become an accessory to minors in possession.
In my more tolerant older middle years, I now appreciate slugs for what they are. No longer do I run for the salt shaker as I did in my younger, more ruthless days. Instead I find it strangely reassuring that a land locked amorphous invertebrate can survive weeks of summer heat, weeks of no rain and still thrive to replenish its kind. If something so homely and seemingly inconsequential to the world can make it in spite of conditions that conspire to dry it to dust, then maybe I have a chance as well. I too may not be presentable at times, and sometimes leave behind evidence of where I’ve been and the havoc I’ve created. But then someone puts out a sweet meal for me to feast on, allowing me a celebration of life, and spares me when what I deserve is the salt shaker.
It is solace indeed: if the slugs are loved, than so am I.
Hay making is late this year because of unpredictable weather for the past six weeks – there just hasn’t been a string of sunny days without rain yet this summer and the last thing that cut hay needs is to be rained on (mold, mildew, leeched out nutrients, doesn’t taste or smell good to humans or animals).
So the string of sunny days has arrived based on the forecast so the hay bales started coming into the barn. We often have a neighborhood crew to help since our children are grown and gone but today it was four intrepid young boys in their pre-teens and early teens who helped Dan get several dozen bales in the barn.
Unfortunately as the hay wagon with boys riding atop the bales went under the big chestnut tree in our barn driveway, the hay brushed against a branch holding a cannonball size hornet nest. That nest released angry bees which felt like cannonballs to the one boy who ended up with five stings. He bravely continued on with his hay duties though, even when I suggested he might consider taking the role of cheerleader instead.
Bringing in the hay is a ritual we all look forward to. It takes a team of friends to do it, you get happily dusty and dirty, and you are well fed afterward.
And the horses are fed well all through the winter.
We don’t think of worms very kindly. They tend to show up where we don’t want or expect them, as if they have no right to be living in vegetables (pea pods), fruits (cherries and apples) or other foods we like to eat. We think they should just stay put in the compost pile where they belong.
Worms definitely have an “ick” factor, especially when they surprise us, and that is hard for any creature to live down.
Yet worms are shy and lowly: when unexpectedly unearthed they dive for cover quickly if exposed to the light. It is helpful to remember the worm in the soil is critical to the health of the earth we stand on: enriching, aerating and fertilizing everything they touch so plants can grow and provide the food we need.
I think we owe worms an apology. And true to their nature, worms are very forgiving, whether they forgive the plow that turns their home upside down, or the bird that pulls them out of the ground for dinner, or the human who uses them on a hook to catch fish.
I have always hoped to be a serious gardener, and over the years have made not-very-serious efforts at it. During college and medical school I owned so many house plants that walking into my room felt like a botanical excursion, then we grew the flowers from seed that we used at our wedding, and before we had children we kept a truly ambitious vegetable garden. Each seed catalog was studied and varieties surveyed, seedlings started in a sun room, each plant nurtured and protected, the harvest preserved with great care, shared and eaten with appreciation.
Then life happened. I’m not sure exactly what intervened but it had something to do with raising children, a demanding job, a full barn of four legged critters, and aging parents. Despite a move to a good size farm with an orchard, large garden spot and plenty of room for flower beds, we couldn’t muster the energy to do what needed to be done to create blooms. Flowers took a back seat in our lives, with only a few predictable bulbs and perennials showing up year after year.
But I’m the granddaughter of a woman who had a large greenhouse full of hanging fuschia baskets that she tended and sold, and the daughter of a woman who left no side of her house or fence line without a border of carefully planned and managed flower gardens. The colorful blooms have always called to me from the florist shops and gardening centers.
Now we have the time and energy to return to the nurturing of the soil, to make things beautiful and productive, to someday feed our grandchildren’s souls and stomachs as I was fed as a child. I’m filled with gratitude for the loveliness I see hanging outside my windows.
I’m simply blooming with happiness at being planted here.
Why do you think birds would be riding the horses our farm? Have they forgotten how to fly? Do their wings and feet get tired so they need to hitch a ride instead?
These are called cowbirds. Not like cowboys and cowgirls but usually they ride the backs of cows, searching for bugs and flies to eat. But since there aren’t any cows on our farm (yet) they ride the horses instead. And the horses like them to eat the flies on their back because flies are itchy and tend to “bug” the horses!
So our horses like giving rides to cowbirds, even if they aren’t called horsebirds!
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have someone along for the ride as you go about your day?
Tonight is super moon night –the full moon combined with the annual closest approach to the earth and it did not disappoint. The orb was orange and optically oversized on the horizon, looking ever so much like a search light trained over the landscape, creating moon shadows and moon worshippers everywhere. The moon was made for hankerings of all kinds and in my case, I’m hankering for a new crop of potatoes. I’ve cooked up the last dug up 7 months ago.
The garden is ready for the spuds, just newly rotatilled with worm-happy compost. The dirt feels fluffy in the hand, and the air is still cool on the face. Between a full moon waning and brisk spring weather, it is time to plant potatoes, eyes up, anxious to sprout through to the surface and reach for the sky and the moon.
I have no idea what the moon has to do with potato planting. I only know that back when people paid close to attention to such things, it mattered when they planted. Maybe the search light moonbeams brought those sprouts out of the ground just a little faster, with due haste and God speed. Maybe the accelerando tidal pull of a close super moon brings
us all a little nearer to the surface: to grow, to flourish, to howl moonward from the safety of the evanescent shadows that vanish, dissolved by the sun, at daybreak.
They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.
Edward Lear–The Owl and the PussyCat
There has been no real snow for us yet this winter down at sea level although the mountains surrounding us have had plentiful snowfall, making for happy skiers and snowboarders. So last night, the clouds did try. The temperature was 32 degrees, the southerly winds brought in moisture and the precipitation fell. Some of it came in snowflakes. Some of it came in raindrops. Most of it came down in tiny little shards of ice that cracked against the windows.
The ground was covered in slush and ice this morning while the skies still were confused about what exactly to exude. As the temperature slowly rose, raindrops reigned.
I have always been inept at walking on slippery surfaces, probably since my first traumatic roller skating fiasco where most of the hour in the rink was spent on my butt, or pulling friends down with me as they tried to keep me upright. I’ve skied once and that was once too much–I barely made it home. I’ve never ice skated–simply walking down the slope to the barn on surfaces like today is adventure enough, Yak Traks and all. I’ll confess. My body hates sliding in any form. My feet betray me, my balance is nonexistent, and my brain panics. Some of us have nervous systems that can’t handle it and we will crash no matter what we do or the defensive postures we assume. If we are going to have snow, at least let it be enough to crunch through up to my knees so that if I lose my balance, I face plant into a nice drift, thank you very much.
So a skiff of snow with ice quite undid me this morning. I managed to finish my chores after sliding gracelessly down to the barn, and defying all the laws of physics, I slid my way back up to the house, if it is possible to slide uphill. And here I sit, looking out at it all, wishing for the mud of spring, something I feel much more at home with.
What do I do with a Saturday like this?
Make soup and hunker down. Pull everything still edible out of the refrigerator and cut, dice, stir and simmer into something wonderful to last several days, in case I’m stranded that long. If I can’t walk outside with confidence, I’ll at least have something inside to show for it.
Eagles return to the same nest year after year–a steadfast marriage of life long partners and domicile that is both touching and practical. Generations of offspring are raised in the same tree, hatched upon the same branches lined with the same dirt and down and moss and foliage, then the soiled lining removed by the parents after the fledglings fly. After being washed clean in the winter rains, the parents return in the spring to replace the soft bedding for the next crop of eggs. It is a cycle of comfort, of familiarity, and of commitment.
Many see an empty nest as sad and forlorn–a symbol of what was and is no longer. Others see it as the gateway to freedom from responsibility and the daily cares of parenting worries. I’m not so sure it is either.
Our children left us to fend for ourselves last August. It was a distinct adjustment, knocking about in this empty nest without the usual crowd of flying feathers, hungry mouths and busy bathrooms. When they recently came home for a few weeks at Christmas, it was a joyful reunion with great conversations, singing and music, wonderful meals and memories. It felt like it always had.
As of today, the nest has emptied again–the house quiet, the refrigerator bare, the bathrooms always available with enough hot water, the calendar suddenly unfilled. The adjustment again.
I will set to work cleaning, and laundering, and putting away what will be pulled out again in four to five months as they flock home briefly once again. I know just how to line the nest, making it welcome and familiar to my family who are off to make their own nests elsewhere. It is important that this home be here for them to land when they need to, to refresh, to relax and to belong and be loved.
There is nothing empty about it. It is lined with comfort, is chock full of memories, and sits ready with unlimited potential for future gatherings.
And most of all, we’re still here, my husband and I. There is absolutely nothing empty about that.
Hankerings 