Christmas Waits for No One in a Garden

...Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. I begin to consider, what do we all remember best upon the branches of the Christmas Tree of our own young Christmas days, by which we climbed to real life...
--from Charles Dickens' essay "A Christmas Tree," 1850--

Who better to question the various meanings and memories of Christmas than Charles Dickens? I think he surely laid the foundation for the way many of us celebrate the holiday today or at least expressed it better than anyone else. Elaborately decorated trees laden with glass baubles and homespun merriment, gifts covered with paper and ribbons tempting youngsters to sneak a peek, and calorie-studded feasts shared with loved ones and friends manage to hold their own even in these days of economic effeteness. Real life takes a back seat, if only for a day or two, when Christmas comes around. With a new job in Tallahassee driving us on to new and different experiences, SAM and I slowed the real-life pace last weekend on our visit to Alfred B. Maclay Gardens State Park. It's one of those places I'm sure that we will revisit now and again.

...Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me. All lamps are wonderful; all rings are talismans. Common flower-pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top...

--from Dickens' essay, as above--

SAM gathers strength from weekend visits and so do I, seeing him in better spirits against such a massive backdrop. I wonder how many storms this live oak has weathered over the years to achieve this stature?

Yes, on every object that I recognize among those upper branches of my Christmas Tree, I see this fairy light! When I wake in bed, at daybreak, on the cold, dark, winter mornings, the white snow dimly beheld, outside, through the frost on the window-pane, I hear Dinarzade. "Sister, sister, if you are yet awake, I pray you finish the history of the Young King of the Black Islands." Scheherazade replies, "If my lord the Sultan will suffer me to live another day, sister, I will not only finish that, but tell you a more wonderful story yet." Then, the gracious Sultan goes out, giving no orders for the execution, and we all three breathe again.

--from Dickens' essay as above--

I wondered as we walked the brick pathways through the gardens: where did these variously crafted bricks come from, and why did they all end up in this garden? One search led me to a Tallahassee blog and a helpful lady who apparently likes to walk here too. There is a story behind every block laid down on these paths, and I'm glad someone thought it worthwhile to preserve them for visitors in need of a respite from real life.

One path leads to a secret garden enclosed by leafy walls. It's beautiful even at this time of year, planted with succulents and frost-tolerant flowers. At this time of year, before the peak of camellia and azalea season, you don't pay extra to visit the Maclay estate. Six dollars admits a car-ful of people to the park and includes admission to the gardens as well as access to picnic areas and miles-long trails through the woods. What a wonderful gift!

Like silvery Christmas tinsel in the sunlight, Spanish moss covers just about every tree in sight. You see much more of it here in Tallahassee than in the Pensacola area. The air plants apparently take a long time to recover from hurricane damage, which is obviously not as much of a limiting factor in this landlocked state capital. Of course, the ambient air quality could be a determining factor in its growth habit, as some researchers have suggested. Paper mills and chemical factories in the Pensacola area could be contributing to the epiphyte's relative scarcity there. If Tallahassee's air quality suffers at all, it's probably from an overabundance of hot air, as its main industry is politics. The resounding echoes of real life--The Waits, if you will--warning us to note the change in time--or changing times--seem to fade away into Camellia Christmas beauty in this garden.

But hark! The Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep! What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set forth on the Christmas tree? Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field; some travellers, with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in a manger; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men; a solemn figure, with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow, on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking through the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walking on the water to a ship; again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude; again, with a child upon his knee, and other children round; again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a Cross, watched by armed soldiers, a thick darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard, 'Forgive them, for they know not what they do...'

--from Dickens' essay as above--

Nature Notes--A Winter's Tale About Moe and Joe

What? Have I twice said well? When was 't before?
I prithee, tell me. Cram 's with praise and make 's
As fat as tame things. One good deed dying
Tongueless
Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.
Our praises are our wages...
--from William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale, Act I, Scene 2--


Before I begin my story about Moe and Joe, I'll treat you with a sursum-corda look at my pink Gerbera daisies and one of our two baby pink grapefruit trees. They do tend to brighten up an otherwise fading-into-winter landscape here in Northwest Florida. Secret Aging Man picked our one grapefruit since this picture was taken a few days before the last full moon, and let me tell you, it was juicy but lip-puckering tart. If I were the kind of person who always says "I told you so," I would have reminded him that we had a discussion about the optimal time for picking the fruit. I'm learning to bite my tongue, though, about certain things. Most situations in life just aren't worth picking a fight, even if it does boost the old ego or enhance the mojo to take someone else down a notch or two. Secret Aging Man has endured enough ego deflation or mojo meltdown being unemployed this past year to last him a lifetime. It's still true, for better or worse, that a man's notion of self-worth is married to his ability to provide for his family. Thankfully, SAM's persistent, yearlong job search has paid off, and he's "moving forward"--have we had enough of that term yet?--with his career. Now I can tell Moe and Joe's story...

Every time I see a turtle now I think about a guy in Kentucky named Joe Sly--not his real surname--and his anniversary gift to his wife Moe. When I was favored with a glimpse of this box turtle, Terrapene carolina--not sure of the subspecies--several weeks ago as it crossed our back yard, my mind slipped back in time to old Joe and his odd turtle story. Secret Aging Man crossed paths with Joe when they both worked for an environmental consulting company in Paducah. SAM the geologist and Joe Sly the GeoProbe Guy worked as a team looking for subsurface contamination coming from leaking underground storage tanks. Back when state and federal funds for this kind of work just about grew on trees, in the mid 1990s, SAM had no trouble landing a job in Kentucky after selling his own environmental service company. Times were good for most Americans then as the nation's prosperity was kicked into high gear. Even Joe brought home a sizable paycheck for his labor with the GeoProbe, but his east Kentucky frugality never left him. One day while working on an out-of-town project near a lake, Joe spotted a huge snapping turtle in the water. Somehow he managed to wrestle the thing onto dry land without getting bitten and put it into a wide bucket. He took it back to his hotel room that evening and kept it alive in the bathtub for a few days until he could get it home to his wife. As the story goes, when he separated the animal from its shell, he found a gold ring stuck tightly around the proximal end of its tail. Since Joe's wedding anniversary was coming up, he considered himself doubly blessed. He was finally able to give Moe the real gold ring she'd never had as well as able to present her with some of the finest turtle meat ever to grace a table. We never got to meet Moe and hear her side of the story, so this might just be one of those Tall Tales that men at work tell each other to lighten the load.

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For more posts this week about nature and the change of seasons, please visit Ramblingwoods.com.

'For There's a Kind of World Remaining Still'

...Let no man say, the world itself being dead,

'Tis labor lost to have discovered

The world's infirmities, since there is none

Alive to study this dissection;

For there's a kind of world remaining still,

Though she which did inanimate and fill

The world be gone, yet in this last long night,

Her ghost doth walk; that is, a glimmering light,

A faint, weak love of virtue and of good

Reflects from her on them which understood

Her worth; and though she have shut in all day,

The twilight of her memory doth stay;

Which, from the carcass of the old world free,

Creates a new world; and new creatures be

Produced: the matter and the stuff of this,

Her virtue, and the form our practice is;

And though to be thus elemented, arm

These creatures, from home-born intrinsic harm

(For all assumed unto this dignity

So many weedless Paradises be,

Which of themselves produce no venomous sin,

Except some foreign serpent bring it in),

Yet, because outward storms the strongest break,

And strength itself by confidence grows weak,

This new world may be safer, being told

The dangers and diseases of the old:

For with due temper men do then forgo

Or covet things, when they their true worth know...

(from John Donne's "An Anatomy of the World," 1611)
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On our visit to Torreya State Park this past weekend, I must have remarked at least three times to SAM about the stillness of the place. We weren't the only people there, obviously, but when someone walked by, the silence swallowed up the sound of their footsteps and voices in a couple of minutes. Not even a Showy Rattlebox, Crotalaria spectabilis, found along one of the trails could disturb the peace. I figured it must have some sort of protective mechanism, as bright and pretty as it is, and it does. The pea-like pods it produces look tasty, but those toxic alkaloids can do a number on the digestive system. Therefore, it's no longer used as fodder for animals. Even so, herbalists have found a way to treat impetigo and scabies as well as intestinal worms and prevent wound infection using plant extracts. It's also used as a green manure crop and "nurse species" that nourishes the soil during reforestation.



Torreya Park has gained some renown as a botanical paradise, which stems from the diversity of its various habitats and plant species. Needle palms, Rhapidophyllum hystrix, not as prevalent in other areas of the park, must number in the hundreds if not thousands along one particular portion of a trail that begins and ends at the park's historic landmark, The Gregory House.

We were fortunate enough to finish up our walk in time for a park ranger guided tour of the house. Our guide, a nice young man named Rob, filled us in on some of the details about the home's original owner, Jason Gregory. Mr. G was a wealthy plantation owner once upon a time in this country when not all people enjoyed the same rights and expectations for happiness. He "employed" quite a few people to tend his crops, build his house, cook and clean for his family, and generally keep things at the plantation running smoothly.

After the War Between the States, Mr. G lost his fortune, and most of his family had perished from some sort of fever--I wasn't listening very closely to the guide to hear what it was. My ears did perk up when he started talking about Mr. G's daughter Atchafalaya, also known as Miss Chaffa. The only surviving child, she continued to live in the home as an adult and eventually died there in 1916. Rob the guide said she's reported to haunt the place. She moves things around, opens doors, and can even be heard playing the piano in the evening. While I was taking pictures of various objects in the home, Rob suggested that I inspect the photos later for anything out of the ordinary. I can't be certain, but there might be a rather elongated face peering out of the top left pane of glass in this bookcase. No one was standing in front of the case at the time, in case you were wondering.

I found Rob's description of the parlor to be enchanting. This room was used for courting, and the strange looking object on the table with the china around it is a courting candle. It could be adjusted by means of that metal spiral for a short or lengthy burn time, determined by how well a suitor was liked or accepted by the parents. The parents remained in the room to keep an eye on the young couple and prevent any shenanigans. I can't imagine that Daughter and the Gold Feller would accept this kind of arrangement.

A motionless sewing machine and cradle occupied one of the upstairs bedrooms. There was some movement in the room, besides the human kind, and it got to be kind of annoying. Millions of those beetles that resemble ladybugs--some kind of Asian beetle that's invaded--flew about and landed on the walls, the windows, the floor, and even on someone's head and down her shirt.

Our grandson has a rocking horse too. Instead of sitting quietly and waiting for him to make it move, though, it can rock at the push of a button and makes horse-like sounds. Not much is left to the imagination these days, not even toys.

The Gregory House as it stands today has an interesting "moving" story behind it. After the end of the Gregory dynasty, several other owners and squatters left it in a state of disrepair. I neglected to mention earlier that the house once stood on the opposite, much-lower-in-elevation side of the Apalachicola River that it overlooks now. Its final owner, the Neal Lumber Company, offered it to the Park Service. In 1935, members of the CCC, Civilian Conservation Corps, disassembled the house, ferried its pieces across the river, and reassembled it at its present location, where it has been gradually restored to its former glory. If Miss Chaffa does frequent the place, she ought to be thrilled that it's being well-taken care of. When I finally kick the bucket, I'd have many homesteads to choose from, just in case I get to revisit them. More than likely, you'd find me outside, walking the grounds, making sure my plants are tended.

All I can say is, woe to the people who neglect or abuse them. Miss Chaffa can see that her home and grounds are in excellent hands. She should be a happy ghost.

Torreya State Park gets its name from a rare tree, Torreya taxifolia, that used to thrive as large specimens here. After extensive harvesting--until the Forestry Service stepped in--and then a devastating fungal disease that attacked the survivors, these interesting trees now exist only as much smaller versions of their once towering ancestors. Maybe that Showy Rattlebox is nursing them back to health.

Oysters to Pearls--Why are Those Sands of Time So Irritating?

The worst of sluggards only ask for a little slumber; they would be indignant if
they were accused of thorough idleness. A little folding of the hands to sleep
is all they crave, and they have a crowd of reasons to show that this indulgence
is a very proper one. Yet by these littles the day ebbs out, and the time for
labour is all gone, and the field is grown over with thorns. It is by little
procrastinations that men ruin their souls. They have no intention to delay for
years--a few months will bring the more convenient season--tomorrow if you will,
they will attend to serious things; but the present hour is so occupied and
altogether unsuitable, that they beg to be excused. Like sands from an
hour-glass, time passes, life is wasted by driblets, and seasons of grace lost
by little slumbers. Oh, to be wise, to catch the flying hour, to use the moments
on the wing! -- Morning and Evening Daily Readings by
Charles H. Spurgeon --

I don't eat oysters, at least not raw ones, but I always find pearls at the beach in Pensacola. When I saw this elasmobranch--a ray of some kind--slowing its pace to a crawl within inches of my feet on the morning of the new moon's appearance, my mind started racing. The old mind took a while to warm up. What was that book I read years ago about a giant manta ray--Manta Diablo--and a pearl? Was it Steinbeck's novella? No. I read that one again. Kino did not battle a ray, though there was some kind of devil dogging his footsteps. Why rack the old brain or follow loose ends online when someone at the library probably knows the answer? Scott O'Dell's The Black Pearl. Yep. That's the one. I'm not too proud to ask. Now if only I could figure out what kind of ray this is!

Nature Notes--'The World is Charged'--a Regal Sunset at Fort Pickens

Just before sunset on All Saints' Day, I found these monarchs, Danaus plexippus, settling in for the evening on a tree at Fort Pickens. They must have been taking a breather while enroute to Mexico. I wonder if they had to recalibrate for the coming calamity.

God's Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1877--

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Please visit Ramblingwoods.com for more Nature Notes posts this week.

Breaking Wind, Anyone? I'd--uh--Rather Not!

Turn on the television today in Northwest Florida, and you are likely to hear reports of "Breaking News, Breaking Weather..." The disaster preparedness people in Florida take their storms seriously, and I'm glad. People living in flood-prone areas can find shelter in various public buildings, but guns and alcohol--according to one of the spokespeople on the news--are not welcome. We have taken our own precautions in preparation for what is now Tropical Storm Ida by putting up storm shutters, securing loose items in the yard, and taking pictures of items that seem to take their cue from the approaching storm. This Camellia sasanqua "Yuletide" has already dropped some blossoms but would be well-advised to cease opening any more buds for at least another day or so.

Yesterday afternoon--no kidding--I found another snapping turtle, Chelydra serpentina, taking a break in the middle of our backyard, on its way to higher ground. It appeared to be traveling away from the retention pond constructed by one of our neighbors. The wind might not be breaking too loudly, but the rain promises to break out in abundance.

Peanut, Daughter's cat, decides to investigate the snapper against my advice. She does whatever the heck she wants anyway, like someone else I know. That trait must be a dominant one in this family.

We had heard a few days ago that some kind of storm was imminent, and Peanut must have been sensitive to either the potential "ethereal blow" or the gathering tension in her humans. She hasn't attempted this feat since she was a young'un.

This morning, before the breaking wind and rain prevented a walk, I decided to chronicle the demise of a house down the road from us. It looks like it needs one of those "No Trust Passing" signs I posted about a while back. When SAM still had his real estate license a couple of years ago he contacted the owner of this property about listing it. The owner said he wanted to wait and see about the market going up some more so he could list it for a hefty sum. The house ain't worth much, but the land sure is prime. He might be out of luck for a while.

He fumbles at your Soul

As Players at the Keys

Before they drop full Music on--

He stuns you by degrees--

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Ethereal Blow

By fainter Hammers--further heard--

Then nearer--Then so slow

Your Breath has time to straighten--

Your Brain --to bubble Cool--

Deals--One--imperial--Thunderbolt--

That scalps your naked Soul--

When Winds take Forests in their Paws--

The Universe--is still--

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a poem by Emily Dickinson, c. 1862

Nature Notes--'Into the Silent Land'

Song of the Silent Land

Into the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.

Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither,

Into the Silent Land?

From where I sit, Friday night football sounds more subdued, though the fireworks that always precede a home game might fool you a bit. The Patriots are playing at home tonight, and the marching band has whipped the crowd into a fervor. Fans might need a little warmth tonight. It's supposed to dip down into the upper 40s or lower 50s, Fahrenheit. At this time of year in Northwest Florida, jackets and sweaters surface and then disappear as the temperature fluctuates throughout the day.

Last Sunday, SAM, Daughter, and I committed a few "sins." We skipped church--SAM was recovering from some form of the flu and didn't want to spread the "joy," we burned several gallons of fossil fuel to visit Fort Pickens, and we--well, I did, actually--spent an inordinate amount of time gazing at the Creation. A large turtle gave us quite a show as we crossed a foot-bridge on the path leading from Battery Worth to the main fort. I think it's a snapping turtle, Chelydra serpentina, but I'm no expert on turtles. I have decided it is quite old since it has algae growing on its body. Anything that moves slowly here is liable to grow something green.

At one of the batteries we visited--Worth or Langdon, I can't remember which one--I noticed this bit of art work peering out of a dark yet green corner.

Daughter doesn't like this picture. Do you think I care? She's packing tonight to visit Mr. T for a few days in the Lone Star State.

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning visions

Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand,

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted,

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great Departed,

Into the Silent Land!

--a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow--

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Please visit Ramblingwoods.com to see what other people have found in nature to post about this week. I just did, and it seems that Michelle and I may have found something quite similar!

Like a Rock on a Stick--Get the Habit of Seeing in the Dark

I still remember elements of a disagreement over words with one or both of my brothers when I was about seven years old. They are five and seven years older than me. The argument began like this: "Don't just sit there like a rock on a stick! Get going!" I was urging our dog Ranger to leave his spot in the garden where he was sunning himself and crushing my precious pumpkin plant. I had started it from seed and brought it home from my second-grade class to plant in the backyard. One or both of them overheard me and snickered, "Rock on a stick? Hahaha! Don't you mean bump on a log?" My view of the world was taking shape when well-meaning people at home in America sang songs that asked questions about where the flowers had gone. That war in Vietnam stole a piece of my childhood that can never be replaced. A rock on a stick seemed appropriate to a seven-year-old child who was trying, though not always succeeding, to maintain some stability when Daddy went away. The only contacts I (we) had with him for a year were the sound of his voice on reel-to-reel tapes and letters sent back and forth through the snail mail. I figure that my brothers must have been missing him too.

We (SAM and I) returned to our old stomping grounds in the Midwest a couple of weeks ago on a mission: family to visit and business opportunities to explore. After a few days of family time and some business meetings, we headed east on Highway 146 through Southern Illinois on our way to Greenville, Kentucky. Of course, we had to stop for a while and visit our favorite cave. I've been mulling over that visit and its significance at this particular time in my life and at this point in history when various world views are coming out of hiding and being dragged into the light of the sun. Plato attempted to explain the importance of needing to know one's place in the world in his Cave Allegory.

Our POTUS, God bless him, is facing some thorny situations right now, and I don't envy his responsibilities one bit. Sure, he has an agenda--who doesn't?--but I believe his heart is in the right place. I imagine that it beats a little faster every time he hears about another casualty, a Daddy or--this time--Mommy, who won't be coming home to that family left behind to wait and worry.

We spent several hours at Cave-in-Rock, exploring not only the trails in the park and the famous cave but also some mighty fine food at Kaylor's Cafe. The Sunday buffet includes fried chicken and catfish, along with freshly prepared salads and vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy, hush puppies, yeast rolls, and a variety of rich desserts. You can order from the menu, but the buffet is worth every penny. SAM agreed with me that it rivals one of his mom's Sunday dinners, and she had a reputation for putting on quite a spread, back in the day.

After dinner, a leisurely walk along the bluffs overlooking the Ohio River helps the food settle and reveals some spectacular views of the water and the neighboring state--actually Commonwealth--of Kentucky. Before we departed on the ferry across the river, SAM got to talking to a local man who was casting his net along the bank for shad--bait fish, in case you were wondering. Turns out the man knew SAM's dad, back in the day, when they would fish from atop one of the Ohio River lock-and-dams. The man was also a Navy vet who had served a tour of duty at Pensacola NAS. Small world, isn't it?

Cave-in-Rock is a friendly--if sleepy--little town. I just hope the handwriting on the wall concerning the pending climate legislation doesn't render it completely catatonic. Its future depends on that traffic you saw in the first photo, the one with the barge carrying coal downriver.

Someone in charge of building the little riverfront park must have been thinking of warmer climes. We all know that pelicans don't live in Illinois. Or do they?

Everyone must take a ferry ride here at least once--you really have no choice if you're traveling east to Kentucky. The trip across the river gives you a chance to appreciate the slow rhythm of life on the water while you wait for the barges and other business of life to pass by. No one seems to be in a hurry here. People smile at each other and wave hello and goodbye to each other and even to strangers. They seem to realize that life is too short to be "strangers" with their neighbors, familiar or not.

Before we traveled to visit the cave and before we boarded that ferry to Kentucky, while SAM was meeting with someone who might become an important part of our future, I took some time to reflect on some other business of life.

A veterans' cemetery like the one at Bloomfield in Missouri tugs at your heart, especially if you have a loved one resting there.

"Wherefore each of you, when his turn comes, must go down to the general underground abode and get the habit of seeing in the dark. When you have acquired the habit, you will see ten thousand times better than the inhabitants of the den, and you will know what the several images are, and what they represent, because you have seen the beautiful and just and good in their truth. And thus our State, which is also yours, will be a reality, and not a dream only, and will be administered in a spirit unlike that of other States, in which men fight with one another about shadows only and are distracted in the struggle for power, which in their eyes is a great good. Whereas the truth is that the State in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best and most quietly governed, and the State in which they are most eager, the worst." --Socrates in Plato's Republic, Book VII, concerning the Allegory of the Cave--