Landscape Looting, Sweat Equity, and a New Way of Living

One day not long ago, a pair of walkers packed up all of their worldly belongings and set off to find their fame and fortune in Tallahassee. They thought that their modest home and garden near Pensacola would be in good hands with an experienced property manager watching over them. He promised that the tenants he had found would take care of and cherish this landscape the walkers considered was truly sweat equity.

Would it be okay if the tenants were to add a few plants of their own? They love to garden, you say? Well, then, what's a few more plants?

Oh! We see (courtesy of a concerned neighbor and friend). They've moved--among many things--mature, fruit-bearing trees during a drought to make room for their "few more plants." And they promise to change it back to the way it was if they decide they don't like it here. Nice thought! It would require way more than "seven maids with seven mops" (see below) to accomplish that feat.

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear...

(excerpt from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass, 1871)

The same weekend that the pair of walkers were packing up all of their worldly belongings to seek their fame and fortune in Tallahassee, their pride and joy (Son and Daughter) were graduating together from Pensacola State College. No bitter tears shed here.

By the time all that pomp and circumstance was said and done, though, there weren't many dry eyes in the place.

 Brother and sister graduating at the same time. One more step, completed together.

SAM has taken to the new way of living on a lake like...well, a fish takes to water! The landscape here suits him just fine.

This walker, for as long as she's allowed, will follow the eldest Oyster's example and stay put for a while. And this latest "oyster-bed" will not be disturbed. Even if she could afford "seven maids with seven mops," no sand sweeping (landscape looting) is necessary or desired.

Ugly is as Ugly Does--Yellow-Necked Caterpillars Turn Beauty on Its Head

Ugly is as ugly does. Now where have I heard that expression before? Not many days after I encouraged those citrus-loving orange dogs to visit and feed freely in my garden, these strange creatures--yellow-necked caterpillars--reared their yellow-collared heads on our blueberry bushes. Oh, dear! What have I done to deserve this kind of attention? I wouldn't say these youngsters are as ugly as the orange dogs. They look rather dapper actually, as if they're dressed to impress. Those are pin-striped suits covered with a hair shirt worn outwards: "Trust me! I can do penance and look good at the same time." Okay, so maybe that interpretation is a little far out. I lay the credit for awakening my curiosity as to why we attach such abstract ideas as beauty or ugliness to things not human at blogger/writer/artist Sarah Laurence's feet. She directed me to a recent article in the New York Times that takes a stab in the dark at explaining our tendency to anthropomorphize. I do agree that I have some "aesthetic prejudices" toward some things in nature, but I don't agree with the article's overall premise that evolution brought me to this point. What would be the point of evolving so far as to see complex human characteristics in something as simple as a lowly caterpillar, if it is indeed "lowly"? There has to be more to it. Literature, perhaps? Reading too much into things? Or maybe just reading too much. If it's a sin, then I am unrepentant. Take Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, for example. Or maybe you shouldn't. It asks a lot soul-searching questions, and they come from the most unlikely of characters like the hookah-smoking Caterpillar: "'Who are you?'" And "So you think you're changed, do you?" he asks Alice. If you would ask me, I'd say, why yes. I'm not the same person I was in 1960, yesterday, or even 5 minutes ago, in a manner of speaking. And this cute caterpillar won't be as adorable when it grows up. It will look completely different, a plain Jane moth--handmaiden moth. Remember the ugly orange dog? If it survives to become what it's meant to be, it will be nothing short of beautiful, a giant swallowtail butterfly. And there goes that idea of aesthetic prejudice up in smoke. Another blogger, Britta, who is new to me but not to blogging, has recently experienced some prejudice regarding age and beauty, and she has found a creative way to vent her frustration. Hey, if you still got 'em, flaunt 'em. I like her style.

What I don't like is this caterpillar's style. It brings friends to join in the feast. Lots of them. I'll be honest with you. When I spotted these furry critters, of course I had to run and get my camera, tell SAM so he could see for himself, and then quickly find out what they are. Thank goodness for great websites! I wanted to know what kind of damage they could inflict and if it would be fatal to the blueberry bushes. These are still young shrubs and don't have a lot of foliage to spare just yet. I could not get over how many of those pin-striped caterpillars there were! SAM must have picked off at least three dozen of them. Yes, I couldn't stand to see the bushes I've tended so carefully be destroyed. We put the critters on the brush pile in the farthest corner of the backyard. Out of sight, out of mind. Let them fend for themselves, away from the heart of the garden(er). Okay, so I'm a little over-protective when it comes to something I've spent a lot of time on. These bushes have a long way to go before they're finally ready to bear a good crop of berries. Especially now. 

As you can see, they have been robbed--or have they?

Alive and Walking in Florida: Finding Some Humor and Beauty Amidst the Crude Crisis

Just so you know, I'm still alive and kicking--well, at least walking--in Florida, though not always in my favorite spot near Pensacola, one of the communities affected by the Crude Crisis. Yes, if you can believe it, that is a moniker adopted by one of the local network affiliates to describe the BP oil slick. We have moved, sort of, to Tallahassee, where the plume of lawyers/lawmakers could rival that one, or more, drifting about in the Gulf of Mexico. I guess that explains my absence from blogging--the move, I mean. It takes me a while to get my bearings in a new place, and every time I move a few more of them get knocked loose.

The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished, and it more than once happened, when the time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it--he would only refer to his Naval Code, and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which none of them had ever been able to understand--so it generally ended in its being fastened on, anyhow, across the rudder. The helmsman used to stand by with tears in his eyes: he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 of the Code, "No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm," had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words "and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one." So remonstrance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards... (from Lewis Carroll's The Hunting of the Snark, 1876)

All jokes aside--I hope he sees the joke--The Man at the Helm, aka SAM, aka The Doughy-Butt Bureaucrat, is doing the best he can to keep bearings, body, and soul--family--together, but circumstances being what they are, the grups have left home, and the yups have stayed behind to take care of things, garden-wise and otherwise. Home is only three hours away--two hours west and four hours east if you consider the time change--so I'll be back regularly to monitor the progress of this Monarda "Jacob Cline." I got several divisions for free--well, in exchange for some volunteer weeding--and I'm pleased so far with their progress in the front flower bed. They're supposed to be resistant to mildew, a common problem with bee balm, but they don't smell quite as fragrant as the varieties I've encountered before. Maybe that's why the bees haven't shown up for a sip. What the flowers lack in aroma, the foliage more than makes up for. Earl Grey would be thrilled to squeeze a few leaves for that famous bergamot essence.

The caterpillars were hard at work squeezing leaves--plundering and pinching my parsley--when I left so I added a few more plants for their Papilio pleasure. I hope they're pleased.

I can't seem to get enough daylilies to fill my flower beds at home. They seem to grow just as well in northwest Florida as they did for me in Illinois, Missouri, and Kentucky. Our home in Florida, near Pensacola,  is far enough away from the coastline (thanks for asking, Clementine Moonflower!) that salt tolerance is not an issue. Daylily blooms are about as fleeting as a little boy's jokes, and I know that the Man at the Helm will see the humor in them. The last time we had a visit from Micah to our home near Pensacola, he entertained us with his newly acquired sense of humor. We celebrated his third birthday in May, and I believe he may be on his way to celebrated comedian status before very long.

Bit o' Humor #1:  We are all relaxing in the living room after supper, talking about this and that, and one impatient little boy wants to be heard. He covers his ears and with a serious expression exclaims: "Ears, people, ears!" What? Ears? His mom explains that his preschool teacher has a kinder, gentler way of saying "Shut up!" Good for her!

Bit o' Humor #2:  Son is trying to help Micah into his car seat in the family van so they can go home, but Micah has other priorities. He wants to stuff something into his back pack and secure it for the bumpy ride home (they live on an unpaved road). Son: "Micah, come on now; get in your car seat." Micah: Mumbles something inaudible, and then with a dramatic flair, "Wait a minute, babe!" Babe? From the mouth of, well, a babe? Yes. He not only parrots what mom and dad say but also their expressive endearments for each other.

Bit o' Humor #3:  After Son has installed Micah in said car seat, he finds a nickel on the floor and presents it to Micah as a prize for complying with parental guidance. Micah's response, complete with arms spread as wide as little ones can possibly be? "I want BIG money, daddy! BIG!"

I have to admit that the local (Pensacola, FL/Mobile, AL) forecasts are much more colorful and engaging than the ones in Tallahassee. All that we get there is the weather. And that "big money"? Well, let's just say that the lawyers have found a way to keep it coming their way for a very long time to come. You might say it's a "Barrister's Dream" come true, if the "pig"--Big Oil, BP, capitalism?--is allowed to live for a little while longer.

Fit the Sixth.

The Barrister's Dream

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;

They pursued it with forks and hope;

They threatened its life with a railway-share;

They charmed it with smiles and soap.

But the Barrister, weary of proving in vain

That the Beaver's lace-making was wrong,

Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain

That his fancy had dwelt on so long.

He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court,

Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye,

Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig

On the charge of deserting its sty.

The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw,

That the sty was deserted when found:

And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law

In a soft under-current of sound.

The indictment had never been clearly expressed,

And it seemed that the Snark had begun,

And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed

What the pig was supposed to have done.

The Jury had each formed a different view

(Long before the indictment was read),

And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew

One word that the others had said.

"You must know--" said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed

"Fudge!

That statute is obsolete quite!

Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends

On an ancient manorial right.

"In the matter of Treason the pig would appear

To have aided, but scarcely abetted:

While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear,

If you grant the plea 'never indebted.'

"The fact of Desertion I will not dispute:

But its guilt, as I trust, is removed

(So far as relates to the costs of this suit)

By the Alibi which has been proved.

"My poor client's fate now depends on your votes."

Here the speaker sat down in his place,

And directed the Judge to refer to his notes

And briefly to sum up the case.

But the Judge said he never had summed up before;

So the Snark undertook it instead,

And summed it so well that it came to far more

Than the Witnesses ever had said!

When the verdict was called for, the Jury declined,

As the word was so puzzling to spell;

But they ventured to hope that the Snark wouldn't mind

Undertaking that duty as well.

So the Snark found the verdict, although, as it owned,

It was spent with the toils of the day:

When it said the word "GUILTY!" the Jury all groaned,

And some of them fainted away.

Then the Snark pronounced sentence, the Judge being quite

Too nervous to utter a word:

When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night,

And the fall of a pin might be heard.

"Transportation for life" was the sentence it gave,

"And then to be fined forty pound."

The Jury all cheered, though the Judge said he feared

That the phrase was not legally sound.

But their wild exultation was suddenly checked

When the jailer informed them, with tears,

Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect,

As the pig had been dead for some years.

The Judge left the Court, looking deeply disgusted:

But the Snark, though a little aghast,

As the lawyer to whom the defence was intrusted,

Went bellowing on to the last.

Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed

To grow every moment more clear:

Till he woke to the knell of a furious bell,

Which the Bellman rang close at his ear.

NN/SOTS: Break Free Through the Looking Glass

"The piece I'm going to repeat," he went on without noticing her remark, "was written entirely for your amusement."

Alice felt that in that case she really ought to listen to it; so she sat down, and said "Thank you" rather sadly,

"In winter, when the fields are white,

I sing this song for your delight--

only I don't sing it," he added, as an explanation.

"I see you don't," said Alice.

"If you can see whether I'm singing or not, you've sharper eyes than most," Humpty Dumpty remarked severely. Alice was silent.

"In spring, when woods are getting green,

I'll try and tell you what I mean..."

(from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll, Chapter VI, Humpty Dumpty, 1871)

I know that many of you are still digging out of the ice and snow. If you manage to break free, make sure to visit Northwest Florida this Saturday, March 6, so you can participate in the annual Forestry Conclave and Lumberjack Festival in Milton on the Pensacola Junior College campus. It truly is one of those participatory festivals, even if the only thing you can do is tap your foot to the bluegrass music, cheer on some of the lumberjacks in the various competitions, or smile and say hello to one of the volunteers making it all happen. Yours truly will be (wo)manning one of the booths for part of the afternoon. I'll let you guess which one it is. Hints: It's a natural extension of something I love to do, and try as I might, I'll never be a master at it.

The two photos on this post--don't you just love a brevity break?--were taken while hiking the Bear Creek Trail and Ravine Trail on the Bear Creek Tract--part of the Lake Talquin State Forest--near Tallahassee last weekend. It's a fascinating place with many habitats and woodland features to explore. SAM and I liked it so well that we visited it on Saturday and Sunday. I took this second picture on Saturday which was cloudy and cold. On Sunday, as you can see from the first photo, the sun broke free of the clouds and at least gave us the impression that warmer days are ahead. That tree, named musclewood for obvious reasons (although this site calls it "hornbeam"), gave me the impression that I need to start lifting some weights again. 

Please visit Ramblingwoods.com for another Nature Notes/Signs of the Season post and make a point of visiting the various bloggers who have participated this week and added a link.

Juniper Creek Trail--A Chuck-Norris-Yet-Curious-George Kind of Place

I don't advocate eating wild mushrooms, but finding some with eerily familiar shapes on Juniper Creek Trail last week sent my imagination soaring to new heights. The first one you see here looks a lot like a meringue, don't you think? It's only missing those glistening drops that form as the meringue cools after baking.

***********************************************

"To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said

'I've a sceptre in hand, I've a crown on my head.

Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be,

Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!'"



Daughter and SAM spotted this one before I did. It could be a veritable feast in the eyes of a survivalist slowly running out of provisions after weeks in the forest. A chicken for every pot, you say? Who needs meat when there's so much soul-food to find along the trail? As Steinbeck's Lennie would say, you could "live off the fatta the lan' " right here.

And hundreds of voices joined in the chorus:--

"Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,

And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:

Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea--

And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!"

Angling for the right to be noticed, this wild Blazing Star, Liatris tenuifolia--a member of the Aster family--grows abundantly along the sunnier meadow portions of the trail, not far from where it begins at the tiny parking area. At this time of year, be sure to douse yourself with insect repellant. Once you leave the more open meadow environment and enter the close woods, the flora begins to change, and the fauna with an appetite for human blood will start to annoy you. Actually, there is no "off" season in Florida for those pesky things. You've got to really love the heat--and bugs--to stay in this kitchen. Of course, there are silver linings to every cloud of mosquitoes. Once in a while, you'll find a delicate wildflower like the Climbing Butterfly-Pea, Centrosema virginianum, to take your mind off your troubles.

Then followed a confused noise of cheering, and Alice thought to herself "Thirty times three makes ninety. I wonder if any one's counting?" In a minute there was silence again, and the same shrill voice sang another verse:--

" 'O Looking-Glass creatures,' quoth Alice, 'draw near!

'Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:

'Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea

Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!' "

You might think the water here is made out of iced tea. It's certainly cold enough, and the tannin that comes from the native oaks gives it a warm gold color, especially on a sunny autumn day. The first inhabitants and then the white settlers who came later found tannin to be quite useful for preserving animal hides and maybe even their own. Mixed with animal fat and some other useful, stinky ingredients, it protected them from stinging, biting insects and too much sun exposure. I wonder what the SPF might have been?

Then came the chorus again:--

"Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,

Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:

Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine--

And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!"


It's kind of sad to think that part of the trail is slowly slipping away, steadily eroding into the river and eventually washing out to sea. On the drive down to the wilderness area, we passed some construction (destruction?) workers cutting trees and removing their stumps from a parcel of land nearby. I hope that whatever they're building is worth the price, and I'm not talking about money. It's hard to say if Florida will ever do a "180" (degree turn) on land consumption. Construction around where we live has almost ground to a halt, which isn't too good for the local economy, but at least the land gets a much-needed shabbath, or rest.

When I zoomed in on the eroded hill, I saw that someone had left his or her mark behind for the whole world to see. I wonder how many years "BJ" will be around for future hikers to find?

"Ninety times nine!" Alice repeated in despair. "Oh, that'll never be done! I'd better go in at once--" and in she went, and there was a dead silence the moment she appeared. Alice glanced nervously along the table, as she walked up the large hall, and noticed that there were about fifty guests, of all kinds: some were animals, some birds, and there were even a few flowers among them. "I'm glad they've come without waiting to be asked," she thought: "I should never have known who were the right people to invite!"

After a long stretch of trail, even iced-tea water starts to look inviting. Not too far past this sand bar where we took off our shoes and waded in, a shelter--built by Boy Scouts--awaits the weary walkers, and there are surprises to be found inside it--no, not the Man in the Yellow Shirt and the girl in the blue shorts.

Curious-George bloggers like to read what other people have to say about this place. What did they see, and what were their impressions of it?

Some thoughtful people are trying to encourage a conversation here.

I hope that Chuck Norris enjoyed our little corner of Florida. I'd like to think that you "Go with God" too, Mr. N--whoever you are--when you walk the trails.

From Mistletoe to Spanish Moss--Epiphytic Love

From mistletoe to Spanish moss,
epiphytes, you know, are philagathos--loving that which is good.

They don't take more than they need in the way of basic nourishment to become established on a host tree such as an oak or maple. Providing additional photosynthetically derived energy for their hosts, they make cozy nesting material for birds, appear to assist avian digestive processes, and are collected as elegant decorating supplies by aesthetic-minded members of the animal kingdom.

In the plant kingdom, epiphytes are neither here nor there, living at the mercy of their hosts. I do believe epiphytes, especially the various types of mistletoe, have been much maligned and don't deserve the bad reputation they may have acquired because of hearsay or old-wives' tales. And who wouldn't love the idea of pineapples growing on trees?


My study of literature sometimes ranges from the sublime (Wordsworth's "Resolution and Independence") to the ridiculous (Lewis Carroll's "The White Knight's Song"). But what is ridiculous about the need to survive in difficult economic times? Carroll somehow understood better than Wordsworth the absolute necessity for laughter in times of great distress. Wordsworth was perhaps laboring under the delusion of his time that "moving forward" and being "optimistic" were keywords for success in any endeavor. And anyway, laughter makes more of an impression than wringing of hands or gnashing of teeth in times like this one. Somehow it eventually draws your attention to the dire needs of others who are less fortunate. You know--the ones you see along the various highways and byways these days, toting small bundles, bearing the weight of the world's diminishing dividends ultimately decreed by greedy "expert" financiers.

The White Knight's Song

I'll tell thee everything I can;

There's little to relate.

I saw an aged, aged man,

A-sitting on a gate.

"Who are you, aged man?" I said.

"And how is it you live?"

And his answer trickled through my head

Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies

That sleep among the wheat;

I make them into mutton-pies,

And sell them in the street.

I sell them unto men," he said,

"Who sail on stormy seas;

And that's the way I get my bread--

A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan

To dye one's whiskers green,

And always use so large a fan

That they could not be seen.

So, having no reply to give

To what the old man said,

I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"

And thumped him on the head....