Waste (a Crisis) Not, Want Not

In between babysitting Micah a couple of weeks ago and suspending our ADLs this week because of the flu, Secret Aging Man and I kept fairly busy. Early last week we traveled to Lower Alabama to dig up thirty blueberry bush suckers. We (SAM, actually) dug a trench and replanted them along one edge of our property in northwest Florida. I soaked them in a bucket of water overnight before planting to mitigate some of the shock they must have received. The guy who sold them to us said he has managed to make a tidy sum of money in the past month (selling them to suckers?). He estimates he has sold 3200 of them at 2 bucks a pop. If these suckers end up thriving here, that guy may have some future competition in the local blueberry bush market. He called them rabbit-eye bushes. If he's correct, these specimens of Vaccinium virgatum should be quite prolific and productive for us here in the Deep South.


The steady rain we've been experiencing the last couple of days should help these youngsters get established in their new home. Before he planted them, Secret Aging Man checked with our neighbor about planting them quite near the property line. Since they can grow quite large, we didn't want a crisis cropping up in the future over possible encroachment issues. You know what some people say about good fences. On the one hand, they "make good neighbors." On the other hand, though, "something there is that doesn't love a wall." Some people don't like obstacles in their way and find creative ways of overcoming them. Take a "crisis," for example. Now there's a word that keeps cropping up everywhere you look and listen. It's the kind of word that makes you sit up and take notice and maybe even get a little (very?) nervous if you're so inclined. You look for direction, help, comfort, and some kind of solution to this crisis so you can get on with your life. Where have I heard this word before? From the pen of Thomas Paine, I think.

"These are the times that try men's souls. . .'Tis surprising to see how rapidly
a panic will sometimes run through a country. All nations and ages have been
subject to them: Britain has trembled like an ague at the report of a French
fleet of flat-bottomed boats; and in the fourteenth [actually, the fifteenth;
jeez, Paine!] century the whole English army, after ravaging the kingdom of
France, was driven back like men petrified with fear; and this brave exploit was
performed by a few broken forces collected and headed by a woman, Joan of Arc.
Would that heaven might inspire some Jersey maid to spirit up her countrymen,
and save her fair fellow sufferers from ravage and ravishment!" (from Thomas
Paine's pamphlet, "The Crisis," No. 1)

Joan, old girl, where are you when we need you? We could use some spiriting up right about now, from what we hear every day about the current crises (plural!) threatening our very existence as a nation. Don't worry too much. I don't. I'm encouraged to hear that nothing gets wasted in Washington, not even a crisis. After all is said and done, "it's an opportunity to do things that you think you could not do before." Attaboy, Rahm! Carpe diem!

The Deep South is not only full of blueberry bushes but also plenty of history. We found one of the meccas for Civil War buffs practically next door to us in Lower Alabama. Fort Gaines on Dauphin Island, south of Mobile, can hold your attention for a few hours as you explore what another crisis did to this country. At least in that crisis, people knew exactly who the enemy was and what all the fuss and fighting were about.

Something there is in me that likes a ship's anchor. This particular one belonged to the Hartford, a Union ship commanded by a man who defied the odds against him and tempted fate. "Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead!" You can almost hear old man Farragut's voice echoing throughout the place.

A fortification this elaborate and large, built to withstand attacks that might come from enemies domestic and foreign, required the use of many bricks. The bricks were fashioned using slave labor, but the skilled masons who constructed the buildings probably hailed from surrounding communities like Mobile. If conditions on the island were not ideal--and they probably weren't if you consider its primitive state at the time--you can bet those craftsmen did not complain. They built to impress the officials who had hired them. They anticipated more work coming their way from those Confederates and wanted to do a good job. You can tell that they did.

We didn't spend all of our time on the island pondering fortresses and history lessons. Still, we found some relics from the past sprucing up the place. I'm not sure, but it looks like these pieces of wood have been here for a long time. Mobile Bay must have changed over the years to encroach on the habitat of what I believe are the remnants of a bald cypress tree. As you can see in the video below, some things never change, like the tools and tasks of a blacksmith. This guy was busy during our entire visit to the fort. He looked like he was enjoying himself, engaging with the audience even while hard at work. I wanted to know but was too shy to ask in front of all those other people standing around. Does it pay more than minimum wage, and where do we sign up?

Mus Maximus Mus(t) Exit(us)

It is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition. There was once a man who, not being able to find any other fault with coal, complained that there were too many prehistoric toads in it.


--from Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson, excerpt from Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar--



I might as well face it. The Year of the Rat is over, and the Year of the Ox is being ushered in and welcomed all over the world. The photo of the rat in the first frame is not my own. I am sure there are rats living somewhere nearby, but I have never seen one yet to be able to take its picture. It would probably escape that fate anyway because I would probably drop the camera and run, not walk, as far away as possible, screaming all the way. Calendars serve many useful purposes: measuring the passage of time, serving as a record of history, reminding us of things we need to accomplish, and making us aware of certain obligations like birthdays and anniversaries. I find it interesting that the Chinese have been keeping track of time far longer than any Western civilization has and have been allowing the lunar cycle to determine the method of time-keeping. Time may be considered not in linear terms but in cyclic ones instead. The course of human history could therefore be seen as contours on an isopach map of the world's history, if such a map only existed. Of course, if it did, you would probably see quite a few eraser marks and blank spots as each new generation tries to adjust the contours of its self-concept onto evidence of previous sedimentary layers. Pictures from a recent visit to the Tallahassee Museum of History and Natural Science may just prove my point, whatever it is. I should warn you that I was born in a Year of the Rat, but rest easy. My cycle is nearing the completion of its circuit. January 26, 2009, on the calendar finds the Ox taking over. If you don't like what this new year has in store, there is no need to worry. It too is only part of a cycle, just like the seasons, climate change, and anything else governed by nature.

I had no idea Florida was once home to a "princess." Those Napoleons were quite the characters for changing the world and their personal fortunes along the way.

The museum property borders a lake and swamp. Bald cypress trees dominate the landscape, bearing all of the accoutrements necessary for survival in a watery environment. I still have not found a definitive explanation for the appearance of knees on some trees and none on others.

Panthers once flourished in Florida, but we know what progress can do for certain species of mammals. Of course, progress appears to follow a cyclic pattern of its own.

One day, these panthers might once more roam freely in Florida instead of being confined to cages at a museum.

Wolves and panthers are outstanding symbols of the cunning required for survival of the fittest.

You can also find the grandest symbol of them all at this American museum in the Deep South. I would probably never be able to capture one on camera sitting this still in the wild, if I were even fortunate enough to see one. The way it kept staring at me staring at it, I began to wonder if it thought it was seeing some kind of prey. Maybe a rat?

Water to Wine

....We cannot make bargains for blisses,


Nor catch them like fishes in nets;


And sometimes the thing our life misses


Helps more than the thing which it gets.


For good lieth not in pursuing,


Nor gaining of great nor of small,


But just in the doing, and doing


As we would be done by, is all....

(from "Nobility" by Alice Cary, 1820-1871)

A Sunday morning walk at Rend Lake gave me a little taste of the beach again, although the salt was not in it.

The waves which appear to be rolling in from some tidal motion are merely the result of a boat which passed by a few minutes before this picture was taken.


By far my favorite amenity of all the recreational facilities at Rend Lake, the bike trail offers miles of paved surface for bicyclists as well as for us slower moving bipeds.

There are always curiosities to be discovered along the trail, some etched in place for all time (or until someone fills them in), like these tracks left in wet concrete by one of the many deer populating the area,



or left behind at the side of the trail, most likely by a large tractor disking up a nearby field. At first we thought that an animal or pack of animals had attacked the fawn, but a predator would not have left the carcass out in the open, neatly deposited next to the trail, and certainly would not have torn the head and front legs off the body. We noted some tractor tire tracks and a bloody trail leading up to where the body was found and surmised that the fawn was too frightened to run away from the tractor and got caught underneath where the blades did their deadly work. Yesterday evening when we walked by this same spot, the body was gone and so was any blood stain from the concrete surface of the trail.





This vine has always been a familiar sight in southern Illinois forests but is now becoming popular in a more domesticated version.



The wild version of the grapevine threatens the health of many mature trees like this one. The vines grow up the tree, using it for support but can end up weakening it by girdling the tree, damaging its bark, and essentially choking or starving it to death.



On a healthier note, we found some Hibiscus moscheutos growing near the disked field at the edge of the trail.


Some sort of beetles were enjoying a sip of dew on the flower.



This plant belongs to the family of mallows in the order Malvaceae. The mallows have been used extensively in the past for their healing and softening properties.







After lunch we drove a bit farther south on I-57 and then a little east on I-24 to visit Ferne Clyffe once again. We had walked about four miles in the morning so we decided to just take a leisurely stroll around the lake instead of tackling the trails in the cliffs surrounding it. Here I found another swamp-loving plant, marsh milkweed, or Asclepias incarnata. The Latin name suggests the legendary healer appearing in the flesh.




The monarch butterflies seem to think this plant is something special. I can tell you the smell was heavenly.


The lake from this vantage point, halfway around it, looks like silver.


Bald cypress trees adorn this side of the lake, seen from about three-quarters of the way around it. I did see a few knees sticking up close to the water but was afraid to get close enough for a photo. We could see tracks left there by snakes.


I think this columnar, flower-bearing stem belongs to a fine specimen of Lamb's ear or Stachys. The leaves are soft and silvery and supposedly distasteful to deer.




Not too many miles from Ferne Clyffe, Bella Terra Winery lives up to its name which means "beautiful land."

The vines here, a domesticated version of the ones we saw at Rend Lake, appear to be well-tended and healthy. They dominate the landscape which appeared to be pasture at one time. The cattle and horses seem to have done their work exceedingly well, spreading fertilizer for the new kid on the block, wine grapes.

I'm not sure what this particular variety is called, but my husband grabbed a small cluster as we were walking to the car and pronounced them to be quite sweet and tasty.



After leaving Bella Terra, we saw a sign for another winery close by, a fairly new one by the looks of it.

Windy Hill Winery might be a little short on class but has its own charms.

We found a quiet place to sit on the covered front porch and watch dozens of hummingbirds feeding on sugar water. I actually found this spot more relaxing than the other winery which hosted a DJ with his karaoke machine. It was kind of funny, though, watching the performers there stumble up to the microphone, full wine glasses in hand. Their first attempts sounded fairly good, but they sounded more and more off-key as they consumed bottle after bottle of the tasty stuff. I think they were probably more accustomed to drinking large quantities of beer. The wine goes down pretty smooth, but it can sure sneak up on you.

These hummers were a bit shy when we first sat down but got used to us and the camera after just a few minutes. I guess their appetite overruled their fear.


My beloved puts up with a lot of...well, you know, "fertilizer" from me. He never lets the wine or me sneak up on him.

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;

Weep, and you weep alone.

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

Sigh, it is lost on the air.

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all.

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

Fast, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a long and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisles of pain.

--Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 1855-1919--

A Wetland on Its Knees

"I readily believe that there are more invisible than visible Natures in the universe. But who will explain for us the family of these beings, and the ranks and relations and distinguishing features and functions of each? What do they do? What places do they inhabit? The human mind has always sought the knowledge of these things but never attained it. Meanwhile I do not deny that it is helpful sometimes to contemplate in the mind, as on a tablet, the image of a greater and better world, lest the intellect, habituated to the petty things of daily life, narrow itself and sink wholly into trivial thoughts. But at the same time we must be watchful for the truth and keep a sense of proportion, so that we may distinguish the certain from the uncertain, day from night."
(Epigraph to "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Adapted by Samuel Taylor Coleridge from Thomas Burnet's Archaeologiae Philosophicae (1692).

A visit to the Cache River yesterday with hubby left some deep impressions on me. I was struck not only by the beauty of the place (a swamp?) but also by its fragile existence, its importance in keeping the environment healthy, and its unfathomable mysteries.

Though this national treasure was in danger of disappearing forever, various government entities and nature enthusiasts have worked together to purchase farmland and let it return to its natural state. The Cache River was once a meandering waterway that provided a home for countless species of plants and animals and acted as a natural sponge, sopping up flood water in the floodplain of the Ohio River. When people began to settle in this area, they found the soil rich with promise for crops and forage for their livestock. The huge oaks and cypress trees which once covered much of the area were chopped down and hauled away for building towns and cities near and far. To make it easier for the wood to be shipped down the Ohio River, a channel was cut from the Cache to the Ohio. Draining the swamp seemed like a sensible idea to the farmers and lumber companies, and "progress" was the mantra of the day.

We took to the trails at Heron Pond to view the swamp firsthand but not before stopping at the impressive Wetlands Center for a little background information. The park ranger in charge of the operation showed us a short film about the area's history and plans for the future. After the film, I asked her something that I've been curious about for quite some time: What purpose do cypress knees serve, other than calling to mind those mythical creatures known as gnomes? She responded that "no one really knows for sure" and that various theories have been devised but none have been proven conclusive. One theory is that the knees provide stability in the trees' somewhat unstable watery environment. Another theory is that they allow the trees' underwater roots to access more oxygen. A little investigation by me online turned up an interesting but still inconclusive article by Christopher H. Briand, "Cypress Knees: An Enduring Enigma." Briand admits that "after nearly 200 years of speculation and research, the function or functions of the knees of cypresses remain unclear. Darwin referred to the origin of the flowering plants as an 'abominable mystery'; it appears that the function of cypress knees is another. The truth may be that cypress knees evolved in response to past environmental pressures that no longer exist, in which case their function may be lost in the depth of time."

In other words, the discovery of their purpose is still around the bend, submerged in the curious mind of some unknown child. It's just waiting to be picked up and put to good use for solving some problem like cancer or maybe providing some insight into the real causes of global climate change.

As hubby and I strolled along the trail to Heron Pond, we encountered a young couple with an energetic child in tow. We observed him hacking away mercilessly at the trunk of a small tree growing next to the trail. His father was recording the "cute" behavior on a DVR and laughing as the tyke imitated the actions of a lumberjack from the past or maybe those of a modern firefighter in California cutting a fireline (something he had obviously seen in a movie or on an evening news broadcast). I held my tongue until we were out of earshot and then railed loudly to hubby against the lax attitudes of parents today. Instead of recording his son's antics, that young father should have been gently dissuading him and using the moment to teach him a valuable lesson about taking care of nature. Don't get me wrong. I applaud the parents' attempt to immerse the youngster in the midst of an environment in peril. I think this kind of parental effort is sorely lacking today. Most parents would rather recline in air-conditioned comfort while their youngsters sit enthralled in front of the movie screen, getting their life-lessons from Hollywood. Still, I wish that young father had told his son that striking the tree bark could damage the tree's "skin" and perhaps make it sick and unable to grow big and tall like the trees all around it. If parents today don't act as a bridge to the next generation, leading them to love the world they live in, our world is indeed "doomed to destruction," as the media are so fond of insisting.