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.

Ethel Gloves in Training

A very nice gift arrived via the UPS man yesterday afternoon. It had been awaited with much anticipation. Mr. Brown Thumb surprised me a couple of weeks ago with an announcement in one of his posts. He let me know in my comment section that he had something special waiting for me on his blog. A link to one of the Spring Fling sponsors, Ethel Gloves, provided a hint. Wow. I hadn't even entered a contest. The last time I won something was about 20 years ago at a school carnival fundraiser. It was a cake in a cake walk, and I had to buy a ticket to participate. Mr. Brown Thumb's prize sure has that other one beat. And it didn't cost me a thing. He said he wanted to share his bounty of gloves from the sponsor with me and some other bloggers because we had encouraged him in some way. Mr. Brown Thumb had no way of knowing what was going on in my life, but his gift came just in the nick of time. My other gloves had worn out, dry-rotted, and my state of mind recently has been a bit shakier than usual. Maybe it's starting to dry-rot too.


It's funny how things have worked out for me since I started the blog a little over a year ago. Some of the things I had planned for my life did not happen the way they were supposed to. Wah! Okay, enough of that nonsense. Some things did happen that were unexpected but wonderfully so, like the gift from MBT and another one from a special lady in Tennessee. Tina from In the Garden gave me one of her handmade garden markers when we met in New Harmony, Indiana, last autumn. We shared a special afternoon together with our husbands and her son. I'm not sure which gifts I treasure more--the items you see here or the encouragement, friendship, and support they signify.

Since I want these gloves to feel right at home, I took them for a little excursion around the garden. I thought I would ease them in by letting them get a feel for the kind of work they'll be doing soon enough.

These gloves do look like they're capable of withstanding some tough tasks, but the length might not suffice when rose trimming time comes. Most of my roses are the shrub variety, like Knockouts, and here in Florida they require a good haircut at least twice a year. I gave them all a crew-cut back in December when we were home for what we thought was going to be just a visit. June will probably be time for the next round of haircuts by W2W, the local rose barber. And there will surely be bloodletting, only the blood will be this barber's instead of the clients'. Marnie of Lilacs and Roses has a funny post about rose trimming time. She is all too familiar with the havoc those thorns can cause.

The gloves will have plenty of quality time pulling weeds in the flower bed on the east side. They'll also be deadheading these Gerbera daisies every few days. I'm collecting the seeds and hoping to spread them about in various beds when the weather cools off in the fall.

Our baby grapefruit trees probably won't require much glove time. I just thought I'd show off the blossoms which will be finished in a few more days.

Now it's time to get serious with the gloves. It will soon be time to add a new layer of pine straw to the berry patch, and I really hate getting that sticky resin all over my hands. Gloves, I hope you're up to the task.

I love tomatoes, but for some reason I do not like that green plant juice that gets all over my hands when I'm picking the fruit. It stinks and makes my skin itch. These pretty gloves will not stay this clean for much longer. The tag says they're machine washable. I hope so because after a few weeks in the garden they will need it.

There is nothing better than freshly cut broccoli; unless, of course, you don't care for cruciferous vegetables. I seem to remember a recent President had a problem with broccoli, among other things.

The gloves didn't seem to mind taking a tour of the garden and getting oriented to the kinds of tasks they'll soon be assuming. They look so nice right now, I almost don't want to get them dirty. But they look like they're made of sturdy stuff.

"Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."

--from Puddn'head Wilson's Calendar in Mark Twain's Puddn'head Wilson, 1894--

Morning's Due

"Cyriack, this three years day these eyes, though clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light their seeing have forgot,
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, t' have lost them overplied
In liberty's defense, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side,
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,
Content, though blind, had I no better guide."
--Sonnet 22, John Milton, 1655--


Cyriack, according to one of the treasures on my bookshelf, The Annotated Milton, worked for John Milton as an "amanuensis," a recorder of the poet's thoughts. Dedicating himself as Milton's personal scribe, he stood in various roles as student, friend, and confidante. He chose to be privy to the genius's inner turmoil regarding progressive blindness, personal errors of judgment, deaths of two wives, social and political injustice, and impoverishment. Cyriack Skinner witnessed firsthand an incredible outpouring of expression. A poet's spiritual re-birth and subsequent growth generated an Artesian well of expression, and Cyriack must have worked long hours to write it all down, by hand. And I doubt if he made much money for all of that effort.


I have been waiting weeks for some sign of growth in one area of the garden. Can you guess what this plant is and what it will produce? A hint: James Joyce's writing was influenced by a profound lack of it at one time in his homeland.

Perfection has never entered my garden, and I don't intend for it to start now. I intend for that touch of eclectic chaos I enjoy in my literary studies to inform my work outside.

This morning before Daughter left for class, she popped back inside and told me I needed to take a look at something. She said it would look good on my blog. The fog outside had gradually subsided and left behind it a dew-drop strand of pearls on the still-dormant Japanese maple. A spider had abandoned its handiwork for catching food, and the tattered web now provides a framework for something new and wonderful.

Gerbera daisies are something new and wonderful in the bed facing east. As you can see, they get chewed on by something (I wish I knew what critter is responsible!) and still manage to glow with color and bloom with abandon.