The Shagbark Speaks

Timing

2012-02-15T11:06:00.000-08:00

It's time for the black birch trees to drop their seeds.

Timing is everything.

Having your timing belt go on the 1990 Ford Escort in rush hour at the intersection of George Street and Livingston Avenue in New Brunswick, that's bad timing.

Bringing the Ford Ranger pickup in the the shop for another several hundred dollar repair (the one previous having just been a few weeks prior), that's bad timing.

Trying to remember if you replaced the timing belt on the 1995 Ford Ranger pickup sometime in the past 60,000 miles, that's bad record keeping.

Getting Out of the House with a Toddler - Stuck at Home for Two Weeks

2012-02-14T07:17:00.000-08:00

My son, Director of the Puddle Commission.

With alternating sore tonsils, a hacking cough upon laying down, double (double, since all four of mother and child's eyes were red and gooey) pink eye, and then back to alternating sore tonsils, mother and child have been stuck at home since our trip to St. Michael's Farm Preserve.

Garden

Our great outings were to the compost pile, the backyard and puddles on the driveway.

Otherwise, we were cooped up.

My son amused himself by picking up bits of debris on the carpet and escaping the Momma-monster by running between my legs.

We have better things planned for this week.

Fox and Meadow Vole

2012-02-13T17:04:00.000-08:00

I followed fox tracks into the meadow and noticed an excavated burrow.

And blood.

In the center of the burrow was a debarked multiflora rose branch. A last meal.

The fox had her meal and headed south.

She found another burrow but no prey.

She kept moving.

Big Sky

2012-02-11T17:20:00.000-08:00

Clouds through the forest canopy, Sourland Mountain, February 17, 2011

Light catches white oak bark just before noon.

That Rock Formation on the New Jersey Turnpike, April 20, 2011

If you've been to NYC from points south, you've passed this.

Hiking along talus slope, Catskills, June 18, 2011

Gas station on the way to the tall grass prairie, June 13, 2010

View of Lake Michigan from Mount Baldy, Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, June 13, 2010

Echinacea in bloom, Dorothy Carnes Park, Jefferson County, Wisconsin, June 16, 2010

Snag, Dorothy Carnes Park, Jefferson County, Wisconsin, June 16, 2010

www.nature.org/indiana, Kankakee Sands, Indiana, June 18, 2010

Traffic, Kankakee Sands, Indiana, June 18, 2010

Corn and Storm, Route 80, the Midwest, June 18, 2010

Pink eye

2012-02-06T10:59:00.000-08:00

Doll's eyes (Actaea pachypoda) in fruit. My eyes look more like the pink pedicel than the white fruit with the black blossom end of this native woodland plant.

I developed pink eye sometime over Thursday evening. I rested Friday, as much as a mother can rest with a baby. Two loads of laundry, dishes, kept the fire going, and so on. My husband took my son food shopping so I could rest.

"I'm so busy taking care of everyone, who will take care of me? I've been cooped up for a week." I said. Be honest, Momma. I didn't say anything. I wailed with tears streaking my cheeks.

I'm the running the circus poorly this week. My lately (ten days running) needy, clingy, nursy, pants-tugging, cranky, constipated baby by day turns into a frequently waking baby by night. With me, a trying to get too much done Momma by day and a lay my head down to rest but instead feeling a tickling which becomes a wracking cough with diaphragm-bursting sneezes and a painfully sore throat by night who wakes with eyelashes glued together.

During my son's nap times I've been pulling weeds from the cold frame (cilantro, collards, and chard, all thinning out but still supplying a small serving every other day. Recently discovered aphids may change all that.) and splitting knotty, 18" diameter hunks of sugar maple and black cherry with wedges and a 4 pound hammer. Crazy, yes, but they've been cluttering up the yard for a few years and burn so hot in the wood stove.

When my son awakes, I think, "Momma doesn't know how to rest."

"Take it easy," my Mom says over the phone, "You know you need to go to the doctor for that."

"I know, I've had pink eye as an adult, Mom!" I'm my own mother's cranky baby by day.

***

In college, I met a girl who ran away from depression. "I was depressed, so depressed. I started running. I just ran until I was no longer depressed," she told me.

I split away with the 4 pound hammer until I'm no longer depressed. I walk around the stump, giving a whack at every quarter turn so the wedge remains straight. Clink, clink, metal hammer against metal wedge. Clank, the wedge is in, the wood is splitting. I listen to the slow crack of fire-orange black cherry wood. It's like listening to a boat rend apart upon the waves.

I wonder if my husband can hear the sound from his post in the garden. His wife is splitting sugar maple, also called rock maple, also called hard maple. His wife is splitting impossible to split wood, and she has pink eye. She says she'd like to live off the land, and she's working at it. She's not buying candlemaking kits at Whole Foods, she's splitting rock maple.

The wedge is stuck, so I roll the stump on its side and hammer another wedge into the widening split. I hammer away until the tension in my body is replaced by a numb vibration caused by metal against metal. It's a strange feeling but better than crying in the messy kitchen.

Chinese Lunar New Year 2012, New York City

2012-02-01T11:58:00.000-08:00

Dragon Dance and member of the press

The websites said the parade would start at 11:30AM. "We can stay until Beren's nap time," I told my husband.

When we arrived at 11:35AM, crowds had gathered on the sidewalks. I looked with relief at the Chinese grannies with strollers lined up behind the crowd-control gates. We weren't the only ones with a stroller. Even the locals had strollers.

At about 11:45, I asked the woman to my right, "When does the parade start?"

"Eleven-thirty. Should be any minute," she replied.

Ten minutes later she shouted to a cop walking the parade route, "Hey, when's the parade starting?"

"One."

My husband took our son for a tour of the local puddles. "Disgusting," Jared called them. We passed Beren back and forth, pointing at children tossing BangSnaps and shooting cardboard tubes that ejected confetti and occasionally twin parachuters.

At about 1PM, my husband leaned over the gates and said, "I see the lion dancers coming. They're on Canal Street."

Simultaneously, Beren began to loudly express the need to nap. He stiffened in my arms, arched his back and wailed. I lifted him up so his outstretched legs wouldn't knock off someone's spectacles.

"Uh oh," Jared and I agreed.

Dance troupe of young women

I sat on the curb, and Jared wrapped a hunter green fleece blanket from Gander Mountain around us. I nursed Beren and watched his eyes drift open and closed.

View from the curb

Wise woman say, it is important that you have a peaceful environment to nurse in. It will contribute to your success. If you cannot have that environment around you, create that environment between you and your baby. This I repeated as I sang our nighttime lullabies.

The New York Chinese Freemason's Athletic Club Lion Dance

"He'll never sleep through this," Jared said and I agreed. The parade was led by police officers who were followed by a lion dance group with thunderous musicians. The cymbals crashed and the drum hurt my chest. It was fantastic, exactly the reason I convinced my city-born husband to pay over $15 in tolls and return to his motherland. Beren slept for forty-five minutes with my hand pressed over his exposed ear.

Corporate floats boomed with dance music, Happy New Year, Verizon!

Seven Habits of People Living

2012-01-31T10:33:00.000-08:00

Welcome.

1. Make the entry way of your home beautiful and practical. A candid picture of your family, hanging dried herbs of many colors and aromas, the walls a warm tone, and a boot brush.

2. Go outside every day, multiple times a day, at inconvenient times, and during thunderstorms. Reasons to stay inside are: a salesman is at the door or you are under quarantine. Strong reasons to go outside are: your head hurts, your heart hurts, or it seems gloomy outside. Outside is always brighter than inside. I'm repeatedly surprised by this fact.

I hoped my son and I would 'get out of the house today.'

We made it to the car. I carried lighter layers for the warm afternoon, a diaper bag, a thermos of oatmeal, a water bottle, a sack containing egg cartons and bread for the neighbor.

I realized I forgot my hat (I later found it in the car) in the house. Back inside. Found a hat. Back outside. Tried to put Beren in the carseat. No go.

My son, after enduring a long trip to NYC's Chinatown for the Lunar New Year on Sunday, has not been excited about car trips. We played around inside the car, pushing buttons, and climbing around. I decided to wait until he seemed to be relaxed, which never happened. I tried to put him in the seat again. No go. Tried nursing him. Moderate interest. Car was more interesting. Played more. Peeked in diaper. Soiled.

Back inside. Cranky diaper change. Back outside. I tried to put him in the seat again. No go.

I surrendered. I did Eight Brocades of Qigong while my son played in the driveway. He stomped in puddles. We tossed stones. We meandered. We sat in the wetlands garden and ate salt free corn chips and banana. We wandered through the yard and sat in the woods until my son crawled into my lap, nursed and dozed off. The sun was warm.

I'm sure my son will remember this day fondly as The Day My Crazy Parents Insisted It Was Brighter Outside.

3. Seek the proper tool that is a mere dozen steps away rather than the one in your hands. It is better to use a box cutter than a $60 pair of Felco clippers to cut a package from UPS open. It is better to dirty another cooking utensil than lose yet another too-short dessert fork in the batter.

Wire cutters, $12 plus tax well spent.

4. Take a break. I come from stubborn stock. I've seen enough home improvement projects go awry. Enough said.

Take time to do the small things.

5. Realize not everything gets done in one day. How I wish it did - from drawing polygon shapes around invasive species on my preserves in ArcGIS to housework (See 1. "boot brush") to establishing the family's ten year plan.

When seeking work in Philadelphia years ago, I answered #5 to one of those interview questions: "What did you learn from your previous job?" the three women interviewing me asked. Desperate for work and surrounded by over-worked non-profit employees in a cinder block building, I answered, "My last job was very busy, high stress. I realized not everything gets done in a day. Somethings just don't get done. There's always tomorrow."

I suppose I was there for free therapy, not a job. I was not called back.

Accountability and Modern Piece Work. Jorge Vasquez probably works fairly hard and very quickly. If his bags are crooked because he naps on the job, the whole factory knows. There's always ten thousand more bags tomorrow.

6. Say 'no' when it really counts. Fortunately, 'no' can be said in thousands of creative ways. They range from: "Are you f***ing crazy?" to "I'll think about it." to "Let's work with these suggestions and incorporate these additional ideas." to "I didn't hear you."

7. Know when enough is enough. Lunchtime.

Fire

2012-01-30T18:23:00.000-08:00

At the end of July, we had a small party. The young son of one of our guests noted our wood stove. I said he may not touch it, but perhaps with an adult's assistance.

"No, you never may touch it!" the boy's father exclaimed.

I was startled by the father's emphatic response. My own son was slung on my hip, and just beginning to pull himself to standing and would soon be crawling.

***

"Don't let him see me open the stove!" I shooed my husband and son from the kitchen one late summer day.

***

Since our son walked early, we delved into "No!" and "Hot!" early. Before any of us were ready.

When using the oven, I gated my son into the room adjacent, so we could see each other. I barricaded the stove with dining room chairs, when the oven was off. Just so he would get the idea. I hoped. My husband hated the chair barrier. I had to agree, it appeared we had been ransacked. Toys, kitchen utensils, towels, hiking brochures, telephone books, all the things within my son's reach were scattered about the kitchen and dining room. A up-ended couple wooden chairs made the scene far too chaotic.

"What else could I do?" I asked my husband. "I have to be able to get something done!"

Our house is small, each room a railroad to the next, making gates around the wood stove and kitchen range impossible, or at least very unpleasant.

No! No touch! Hot!

"Be consistent," my whole care provider said. "Put something up so you create a safe distance. Give him a drawer with things he can play with. He'll live at your feet in the kitchen. It's the way you'll get something done."

It was miserable. So many repetitions of 'no'. My son would burst into tears at my fearsome exclamations of NO. Tears of frustration, aggravation gathered in the corners of my eyes. How will I get anything done?

***

Before my son became mobile, the 'wood stove room' was the center of our home. We call our living room the 'wood stove room'. The name gives a sense for how important wood heat is to us, for creating really comfortable warmth, for saving money, for simplifying (in winter, we heat only two rooms of our six room house), for security (our power goes out frequently - no power, no well, no heat, no electric kitchen range).

As a young child, we had no fireplace, but we went camping often. Camping meant camp fires. I was allowed to light and tend the fires. I don't recall any discipline around the issue, but I do recall loving the responsibility, the smoky aroma in my hair... Around age seven or eight, we moved to a house that had a fireplace. I was allowed to build and light fires. We had long matches. "Light from the back forward," was the only advice I remember my father offering.

My son became mobile right about the time heating season began. While we couldn't gate off the wood stove itself, we could entirely gate off the wood stove room.

***

My husband gathered my son, as I began to open the oven. "Let's go and play over here, Beren. I'll take him out so he doesn't see you opening the oven."

"Oh, stay, it's ok for him to see me open the oven," I said. My inconsistencies must make my husband grey.

I had realized two things:

1.) Buying and erecting baby gates is easier than communicating to a baby. Communicating to a baby was more important and longer lasting than baby gates.

2.) Fire is essential to human existence. I didn't want to take fire away from my son. Colonial kids with open hearths made it, right?

***

We spent one hectic evening in the wood stove room with a makeshift barrier of an end table, a stool, and several 30 gallon tree pots filled with kindling. Like the barrier of up-ended chairs, it was not attractive -not even close to the ecru homes featured on the packaging for baby gates.

Beren threw kindling around the room.

"Ahh, ahh. MMm, MMM," he pointed to the wood stove.

Hot! my husband and I took turns exclaiming. After an hour or less, we retreated to the adjacent room, our bedroom, which is also contains a desk, crib, and toy box. It's not easy living in two rooms.

***

Each time Beren points at the wood stove from behind the gate, an adult exclaims Hot! Even so, he joins us in the wood stove room. When I build a fire, he hands me pieces of wood that he pulls from the end table. It's a random selection - a bow drill set and a figure four trap made in Tom Brown's Tracker School, cedar blocks, and a miniature replica of the statue of Jesus that stands above Rio de Janeiro.

***

Today, months into wood season, Beren pointed at a portable heater in my whole care provider's office. "MMM," he said and began to approach the nifty object with vents and buttons and knobs.

"Hot. No." I said, sanely but firmly, I might add.

He stopped. Pondered. And moved on.

"Good," my doctor said.

I'll admit, I felt very, very proud of my family.

Getting Out of the House with a Toddler - St. Michael's Farm Preserve, Hopewell, NJ

2012-01-25T11:44:00.000-08:00

St. Michael's Farm Preserve, Hopewell, NJ

January 25, 2012

At my husband's suggestion, I am "getting out of the house more often." Two weeks ago he offered this advice. It was prefaced by the following, "You may not want to hear this, but, you know, take it how you may, but I think you may want to get out of the house more often."

I was filled with, well, what would you be filled with? I could tell he was readying to tell me something he thought I may not want to hear. We've known each other for a while and our home teems with a genetic predisposition to stubbornness. Oddly, I wanted to hear his advice, so I relaxed myself and was surprisingly open to his suggestion.

"Write a list. Think of places you'd like to visit. That's what I'd do. That's what I do when Beren and I are alone." I nodded my head. I never made a list.

I did however call my parents on Tuesday and went to visit them. I had a hard time getting Beren to nap, so my mom and I went to Target to buy a carseat. Beren fell asleep before we arrived. I sat in the car. My mom returned with an immense box that we shoved into my car. Beren continued to sleep. We drove over to the Phillipsburg mall, agreeing for the thousandth time that the mall was a bit sad and empty of stores and shoppers. Rain poured down, making it more grim.

"Do you want to go in?"

"No, not really," my mom replied. We talked for about thirty minutes until our feet became cold.

"Sure you don't want to go in?"

"No, I'm fine." I pointed the car towards home. Beren sleeping still.

The following day I met an acquaintance at the Boro Bean in Hopewell. We walked through town and the park. For the first time ever, Beren turned to the stroller and indicated he preferred to ride.

***

This week, I am starting something new. It may happen this week only, but I think it is a good idea: each week my toddler and I will take a walk together. I will bring my camera, diapers, oatmeal, and my curious son. My son will bring himself. Through the tales of our adventures, I'll let you know what we find, how successful the trip was, if we will return, and if I recommend the place to other solo parents with a Curious Toddler.

As I said, I never made a list of places to go. Today was off to a rough beginning, scattered. I managed to get us out of the house and wildly considered my options. The site had to meet the following requirements: easy walk, close to home, stroller-able and toddler-walkable, interesting to Mom with Camera.

We arrived at the Carter Road parking lot for D&R Greenway's St. Michael's Farm Preserve. No trails were apparent and a muddy farm field surrounded the lot. I noticed a person sized gap in the fence and headed across the mucky field, my very heavy toddler tucked under my left arm and my right pushing the stroller.

I used a puddle in the parking lot to remove the shaley soil from my shoes and the stroller wheels.

We arrived at an old farm road that I knew we could walk, and I noticed two problems: the very fascinating road with all its 'brrrm brrrms' was very close and the land around the old farm road was flat and easily navigable.

After orienting my son away from the road repeatedly, he began to pull the leaves off of mugwort and watched them blow away. Shortly, he took off through the field. As the thread that attaches him to me lengthens, his adventuresome nature blossoms, and his balance improves, he no longer hews to easy trails. My mom has confirmed this, telling me that he takes right off into multiflora rose patches, dragging her along.

Headed off-trail.

One reason why I advocate for metal fencing for deer exclosures - they are easier to maintain, no need to do fence embroidery.

Another walker approached us as we examined a deer exclosure around a stream bank restoration. My son inched towards me at a rate equal to the walker's approach. By the time she was within greeting distance, Beren was exactly between me and the stroller.

I recall once being at the market and hearing a parent say "Danger Stranger" to their child. I felt uncomfortable and wondered if there was another way to tell your child "Trust me, trust yourself, be aware." I also wondered if it was me, the parent, that was uncomfortable, scared, imagining the terrible.

Once my son rounded a corner at a cluttered store and I felt my heart in my throat as he disappeared. I have a little, short while before explaining Danger Stranger and am thankful to observe my son's animal instinct.

A gnarly, viney hedgerow.

By the time we passed the barns and went down the hill (pictured above), Beren had been in and out of the stroller, up and down from my arms, and nursed numerous times. An enticing creek-crossing was ahead, but it was not ours to ford today.

Beren stomped on a torn apart trash bag while I wrinkled my nose, exclaimed, "Yucky!" and assisted in his stomping efforts. He wrinkled his nose and stomped again. (This is my method for expressing, "Don't touch that." It seems to work.) Beren became interested in a clump of multiflora rose surrounding a red cedar. He tripped on a stump and fell.

Snacktime.

I buckled Beren into the stroller and opened our thermos of oatmeal. He was the happiest since well left the mugwort patch a half hour previous. After eating, we turned away from the creek reluctantly. Beren looked back at me and began to complain.

We flopped onto the wet gravel and I nursed him. He was again happy, briefly.

Back in the stroller, he began complaining again, I began singing to calm us both.

The route I should have taken from the parking lot. The mucky edge of the field planted in white clover, travelled by hikers more in the know than I.

Lots of dogs out, off-leash, some poop trailside. As you may know my son and I have already had one run-in with trailside droppings. Notice the white hair in the heel pad impression.

A beautiful hedgerow sugar maple.

Beren was intrigued by some piles of rubble. The time we reached this one, he was hunched in his stroller, ready for a nap.

Back at the parking lot, Beren was even keeled and enjoying the crunchy terrain.

The edge of the car is exactly at toddler height. Lots of baby-friendly debris to explore.

The best part of Getting Out of the House was playing in the car with a Commerce Bank pen and a hair pick. We read Brown Bear, Brown Bear three times with glee, me unwittingly following our new routine of story time before sleeping. Beren went with resistance into the carseat. I nursed him while he was buckled - thanks to the moms at my local La Leche League meeting, I have learned I am not alone in extreme auto nursing.

I played our game: Momma runs around the car and taps on the windows making silly faces until she gets in the driver's seat. I looked at Beren, "Should we continue our adventure?" Droopy eyes replied, "No."

***

A week after receiving the advice, while lying in bed with the lights off, I said to my husband, "You know how you said I need to get out of the house more often?"

"Yes."

"I really wanted to hear your advice. I didn't want to be defensive."

"Yes. I didn't know how you'd take it."

"Yeah, well, it was good advice. I also like being at home. I like baking bread, I like doing laundry, I like holding the house together, I like dumping out the compost and collecting things from the garden."

"What you do is really important. Baking, laundry, feeding the birds, holding the house together. Thanks for waiting to tell me these things. Thanks for not being defensive."

My job, Mother of an Active Baby

2012-01-24T11:49:00.000-08:00

While my husband washes dishes, my son climbs out of the wok. I just missed photographing buddha in a pot. I wonder what I'm teaching him sometimes as Beren tosses an onion out of the refrigerator. Will he do this again and again, will he toss the milk and eggs as a ten year old. All things, good and not so good, end. More quickly than I expect. His fascination with the refrigerator has ebbed. We can open it without needing to slam it shut so Beren can't get in. Fewer arms, child and parent alike, get eaten by the wildly closing fridge door these days.

I sometimes hear from from friends or acquaintances, "I read your blog, don't worry it gets easier."

I marvel at that. My job, Mother of an Active Baby, sometimes feels monumental, impossible, exhausting. That's what I usually write about. Funny things, tough times, surprises, failures. I write but a few lines on how I observe my son still himself as he gazes skyward and follows a turkey vulture with his eyes. Just a passing sentence on how he picks at the clothespins ripping them apart until one gets stuck on his pointer finger, ow, ow, ow, MOMMA, HELP! Just a note how how he cracked his head on a toy cymbal during family time last night, sat in my lap, mouth wide open, no sound coming out his cry was so deep, until he ran halfway across the room away from me, turned back and collapsed again in my lap, woeful. Oh wait, I was writing about the easy stuff, the wonderful stuff.

It's all pretty good.

Jared carries Beren in his snow suit. He loves it. By that pronoun, I mean both boys in the photo. Beren and I tussle, but nothing like Papa and son. Parenting together doesn't just double my ability as a mother, it multiplies it. My wooly cap is tipped to all single parents.

Spring and summer clothes on their way up to the attic. January 24, 2012

Perhaps I should just leave them downstairs, as spring is closer than autumn at this time.

My job, Mother of an Active Baby, is easy sometimes. Just begin a project and leave it precariously unfinished. A kettle on the stove, a sack of clothes atop a ladder, the usual. Inspiration falls upon me, baby's asleep, leave the work, it will be there. Let my fingers tap this out instead. I'd rather the sack drop to the ground than forget these words. There are hundreds of reasons not to do something. Only one reason to do something - yourself. Do something for yourself, I say, to who? Myself.

Hurrah for today!

My son does something for himself every day. Every day is monumental. First snow, first turkey vulture, first tumble off a chair, first bite of a cookie, first time he drags his pull toy across the floor while walking backwards.

Today he witnesses dust-snow for the first time.

***

Changing the sheets as the sun streams in the window, I toss the blanket onto the bed. Dust flurries scatter and roll through the air. Beren waves his arms wildly. He runs through the cloud of dust, made of unmentionable things that make adults cringe, spray Endust on a rag, and hope that adult visitors don't notice. No sudden movements in the sunshine next time a guest is in the house.

I pick up the blanket and toss it down again. "Snow! Snow!" I shout.

Beren waves and runs in the sunshine and dust-snow. As the dust slows, Beren slows. The blanket crashes to the bed again, I watch the dust-snow, like smoke curling or the furious contents of a snow globe.

Crash, crash, down comes the blanket. Snow! Snow!

Blind Man's Bluff

2012-01-23T13:51:00.000-08:00

A favorite: walking through the curtain, a baby's blind man's bluff, in which my son listened to his parents' crooning, "Where's Beren? Where is he? I don't see him." He responded by gleefully crashing through curtain into the room. As he reached the end of the curtain, his laughing face was revealed. He went back and forth, from lit room to darkened room, avoiding toys, crumpled blankets, and other pitfalls. He walked directly into the bedroom, but trips into the dining room were different. He calculated that walking straight would cause him to run into the front door before the curtain ended. He never had to hit the front door to learn that. He simply made an arc to his right, passing expertly through the dining room chairs and his high chair.

My son has learned the art of the pause. Last night I watched him present the book I Am A Bunny to a visiting friend. She offered to read to him, and he climbed into her lap. He leans against the wall or bed, feeling something is behind him. He embraces large plush toys, pillows, soft blankets. Now that he has proven he can walk, he can also stop.

Meanwhile, movement has reached new levels. Truly new levels - he can climb the dining room chairs, the outside of his crib, from the bed he can climb onto the window sill by holding onto the window sash (we try to discourage this, but Jared and I had to witness and then photograph and then videotape. So, he's done this at least four times. At least.).

Solid Foods and the (or least my) Nursing Baby

2012-01-18T11:36:00.000-08:00

I popped a bit of Asian pear into my 13 and a half month old son's mouth. I followed up with a sliver of home-baked challah, which he took from my hand and fed to me.

"The best thing that ever happened to us was the baby food mill breaking," I said to my husband.

"Oh that plastic thing?" he asked.

"Yeah," I grimaced thinking of how the contraption spurt liquified squash into my face last time I used it.

***

After boiling vegetables, my husband (who I placed in charge of solids) ground yet another bland pulp which our son refused. He refused carrots, peas, squash, avocado.

The following day, the mill sat on the kitchen counter covered in dehydrated carrot bits, impossible to clean. "We should try to wash this right after using it," I said. My husband agreed.

We used it about six times before it became unusable -- the rubber gasket no longer fit into the slot, causing hot, sloppy food to leak on the counter. We could not remove the metal grinder plate either.

"Thank you for your many minutes of fine service," my husband quipped as I tossed it into the trash a month later.

The more expensive metal food mill from Bed, Bath & Beyond worked better. I cooked up a batch of frozen peas and put them in the mill. A turned the gear and watched the interior of each pea separate from its thin pea shell. I waited for the peas to appear on the plate below. Nothing happened. Looking under the mill, I found the peas' soft interiors clinging to the metal. I scraped the mush into a bowl and had about a teaspoon worth of precious pea blap.

My son refused it.

I scrubbed the six dishes I had made (plate, bowl, baby spoon, mill base, grinder plate, mill gear), which had yielded a teaspoon of pea blap and a baby who simply wanted to nurse. I was glad to oblige, as nursing yields zero dishes and a happy baby and momma.

I experimented with applesauce in the mill, but the mill separated the skin from the pulp, as promised, but I like apple skins in my applesauce. I dumped the contents in to the food processor, and made applesauce. I then scrubbed the mill base, grinder plate, mill gear, processor lid, housing, blade, and wiped the processor base. I packed up the sauce along with diapers and dropped my son off at my in-laws.

"He really didn't like the applesauce," my mother-in-law said when we returned.

From a first-time parent's perspective, a parent who is sleep deprived, a parent who is hoping solids might improve a six (then seven, then eight, then nine, then ten, then eleven) month old baby's sleep habits... it was all very frustrating.

"Not sleeping? Try solids," was common advice. My son did not like solids until he was about eleven months old, or so. At twelve months, I began to become concerned that I might need a second job when he hits the teen years. I've heard this from many nursing mothers. At one year, the appetite takes off.

Before that, Beren practiced the martial skill of parrying when we stuck a spoon in his face. A parry is a block that deflects a blow or strike with a weapon or empty hand. He was quite gentle but quick and certain. He now opens his mouth like a bird when hungry and wags his head "no" or turns away when full or uninterested.

Recently, Edible Jersey featured an article on homemade baby foods. Jared and I had discussed mass producing and freezing baby food, but we found it wasn't necessary. We never got around to it either. We began to eat better for it, adding more fruits and vegetables to our meals. We excluded common food allergens, and began to add them once he turned one. In went onions, garlic, citrus. We ate Thai coconut milk-based curries, chicken, apples and almond butter, fish soups. Hot pepper, lightly cooked eggs, and some dairy remain on the side.

Feeding baby who wants to eat is a joy. We eat together. We eat the same foods. We eat from the same plate. Before he became a good chewer, I chewed difficult foods for him. Eating slower, so we, well, usually my husband, still the solid foods leader, feeds Beren. I am still a bit of a speed eater. Momma never knows when she will be called to defend the cubs. She needs to be well fed.

A star in the sky

2012-01-18T10:44:00.000-08:00

Night sky, January 23, 2010

Last night, my son pointed out a star in the sky. He also pointed out an airplane's lights.

In the winter forest

2012-01-15T11:12:00.000-08:00

A woodland rhizome, either Solomon's plume (Smilacina racemosa) or Solomon's seal (Polygonatum sp.).

Duff and snow cover protects woodland plants' seeds and roots from super-heating in direct winter sunlight. I'm sure you've noticed the sun is very warming, even on the coldest days. At sunset, temperatures decline quickly, so a plant may experience temperature shifts of 10, 20 or 30 degrees in just one day. Friday's winds rapidly dried up the roads and sidewalks - it is no different in the forest. Again, snow cover protects, this time from desiccation.

Many forests I've visited in NJ lack a duff layer because of invasive earthworms - most earthworms are not native to the Northeastern forest. The above forest lacks a duff layer, as well. We've had a rather warm winter, no snow, just rain. Our forest is without a down jacket.

A tulip tree, the main trunk was tipped over and resprouted

2012-01-12T16:27:00.000-08:00

Dodder on goldenrod

Rosette rose disease manifesting on multiflora rose

When the winter blues descend

2012-01-11T11:32:00.000-08:00

Maybe you feel a bit tired. A deep forest settlement. A bulging wall (not shown) finally gave way last year.

When the winter blues descend, it might be a 49 degree partly sunny day that starts off well. Maybe it's that the house is quiet but for your napping child's stuffy nose. Maybe it's that the house is a little, or a lot messy. Maybe it's that you spent the morning with friends, acquaintances and their children, noisy banging, sharing stories, and then you eat lunch alone. Maybe it's that you nearly landed your certified pre-owned vehicle in a ditch while watching your child drift to sleep. Maybe it's that the weekend is truly over. Maybe it's that it is oddly warm and it never felt like the holidays, even thought the holidays can be an up and down time anyway, so who cares? Spring will come.

Maybe you feel like old ideas are wearing thin.

Moldy, dried out, and bug-eaten.

Hungry.

Sluggish.

Brittle.

Chewin' on Bones

2012-01-10T11:40:00.001-08:00

How mice and others get their calcium

Winter landscapes

2012-01-10T11:40:00.000-08:00

Red oak & American beech with buttressing roots.

Red oak tip up with soil profile visible.

The Sourlands don't appear to have the twelve foot deep soils of the prairie.

Roots run across the top of the diabase boulder filled soil. Trees are tossed easily here, especially after the extreme weather of the past two summers - two years ago extremely dry, killing many feeder roots and causing early dormancy for herbs and aborted fruit for many trees and shrubs; and this year past, very wet, soaking the soils so deeply that tree foliage yellowed and fruits rotted. Tree toppled in inundated soils, having who-knows how much less root mass than pre-drought.

And, with that, my son is awake and happily chatting away in his crib.

Playpen is a Playard is a No Go

2012-01-03T17:59:00.000-08:00

Don't box me in.

"We always had our babies in the playpen. That's just the way it was," said my Mom.

My son loudly rejects confinement of all types. My son bangs on the front door to go outside. My son does not prefer bulky jackets, rear-facing seats, long diaper changes, etc. He hated his playpen, a hand-me-down hot pink, teal and purple Graco Pack n Play. He could go a few minutes or less. My husband and I called it the wack n play.

Playpens are now called 'playards', which is 1.) not a word. The autocorrect function in Blogger repeatedly changes placard to placard to placard. See what I mean? And, 2.) the term placard, playard, d*mn it, is inaccurate. A yard is a yard, and a pen is a pen.

On a recent trip to my parents' house, we set up the pen in my old bedroom. As usual, my son was teething and was difficult to put to sleep. I finally settled him and while stooping over the pen, he slipped. I had him by a leg and the back of his neck. He woke up. As I soothed him back to sleep, my husband packed up the pen and laid blankets on the floor. My son slept well.

The following day, we stopped along the road to collect firewood left by the power line company. My husband threatened to leave the pen beside the road. My Polish ancestry of stuff savers loomed. I threw the pen back in the car. "What if we need it?" I thought. I could feel my husband's disapproval.

My mother has also recounted times when my brother became mobile. "You know, the house would suddenly be silent, and he'd be upstairs! He loved climbing the steps."

"But he was always in the playpen, Mom?" She didn't answer. So I asked again.

"Well, yes. That's just the way it was."

I talked about playpens with my aunt. She seemed to agree with my mother, but didn't elaborate. I was probably taking a lot of air time talking about my own child...

Really? Did babies of thirty years ago tolerate playpens? Allegedly, I was ok in the pen. "You would play and play," said my mother.

Our whole care provider once quipped to me, "Now baby is one third you, one third Jared, and one third baby." So whose playpen genes did my son inherit?

2011-12-28T16:33:00.000-08:00

My son, agile, curious and flexible, examines bark while in a baby carrier.

Yesterday I was asked if my life changed much since the birth of my son.

"What percent of life has changed? Ninety percent? Ten percent? A difficult question, perhaps not phrased in the best manner," the inquirer admitted.

I stumbled. "Well, I'm used to being a mother. Ummm, so perhaps when he was just a month old, everything was completely different. Now, I don't know, fifty percent? I'm better with children now, I understand them more. I'm more curious about them."

As I write, my son brings book after book to my husband to read. His feet pound across the office carpeted floor as my husband requests another book. He bangs on the drawer.

Last year we rolled him up in blankets and walked down the lane. This year he pushes his stroller down the hill, I cringe as I watch him race down hill far faster than his legs can go.

Last year he voice creaked and sputtered. His hands scratched at his face. This year he points and says, "MMMmmm," emphatically. He reaches for a my husband's hand to assist his climbing.

One hundred percent. I see everything with my son in mind. He would like this. He would dislike that. As a recent date with my husband wound down, we stopped in a bookstore. I drifted towards the children's toys. I unsubtly stared into a stroller containing a newborn baby. The child was beautiful and my smile was radiant at such beauty. The child's mother chatted on a cellphone while the grandfather beamed, appreciating my delight for his grandchild. One hundred percent.

About that toxic fruit

2011-12-23T19:59:00.000-08:00

When I took the NJDEP Basic Pesticide Applicator Training Class, we were told the story of a pesticide applicator who left an unmarked bottle of pesticide at a client's home. That bottle was a juice bottle, a bottle similar to the bottles the client's child drank from. The pesticide was colorless and odorless. The contents of the bottle appeared to be water and were found and put in the refrigerator. The child drank from the bottle and...

Regardless of the story's truth, I was sufficiently frightened and my memory banks were seared. Having since smelled Garlon 4, Garlon 3A, Pathfinder, Accord, RoundUp, and CideKick, I could not imagine any herbicide not being absolutely malodorous. Bottom line: New Jersey has a regulation that says food containers cannot be used to store pesticides and all pesticides must be labelled. Don't mess up and kill a client's kid.

My mother babysits my son while I work. One of those days I work from home, so we are able to catch up at lunchtime. She's very used to all manner of gross and odd items scattered through my home.

"So, what's that?" she asks, pointing to a moldy simmer pot of balsam fir needles in tannic waters. "I was going to wash that out last week, and I thought, 'I better not.'"

"Yeah," I sigh. It looked pretty bad. "Oh, I'm dying some yarn. I wanted to mention that. It's on the stove."

"I was going to ask you about that toxic fruit."

Privet fruit simmered with a skein of yarn and left to sit for 3 days.

I unlid the cast iron kettle, and pull a blue skein of yarn out. "It's privet berries. Don't know if it will be blue when I rinse it."

I'm embarrassed about what a wreck my house usually is, but my mother is very gracious and hardly criticizes though her own home is pristine even when it is deemed "filthy."

That particular day she was going to to drive to Philadelphia to pick up my brother. My son was napping. "Don't worry about the dishes, just head out."

"You always leave me a mountain of dishes," she says looking at the sink.

"Don't worry about it. I'm going to get back to work." I slip back into my home office - a folding table in the back room - and hear my mother turn on the faucet. Moments later, it seems, I hear the front door open and her footsteps on the porch.

I wave goodbye, and look at the sink. Dishes are done, except the toxic ones.

Of course we were warned.

2011-12-13T10:05:00.000-08:00

Walking.

Of course we were warned.

"You're not prepared for all the dangers of the world."

After a frightening fever in mid-September, my son emerged walking. Just nine and a half months old, he rose up from crawling, using all those things that had just been things above him. Chairs toppled, vacuum knocked over. Things not worthy of use for escape, were tugged on and released from their perch - blankets draped over the crib made him an infuriating make-shift ghost costume, he hung wailing from sliding seat cushions like Wiley E. Coyote from the Grand Canyon's edge, sliding drawers zinged open and repelled a surprised baby backward. I came to deeply appreciate the trash-picked dresser whose drawers are so stiff that one must bang them shut, slowly wearing down the dresser's innards and sending a dose of sawdust onto shirts and underwear at each opening.

Bruises, bumps, scratches.

My son glances up at me, smiles. Look at me. Yes, indeed, I'm looking at you - that's my other great occupation. My first occupation is looking after you.

Three and a half months later, he's climbing up the side of the bed and hanging from the covers like a furious koala bear. His foot does not reach the top of the bed, so his goal, to reach the top of the bed is thwarted. He's annoyed. For now. Next growth spurt, he's up.

Aha, I mean several hours later, he's up. He began the bed climbing project a couple weeks ago. As of this afternoon, he couldn't make it. As of this evening, he's up. Sure, it is dangerous, but primarily it is fantastic.

***

Of course we were warned.

"Babies put all kinds of things in their mouths."

Beren has not put too many awful things in his mouth. He always goes for metal or long objects for teething. Teething toys were ignored. Metal brackets on the baby gate - fine. Great Grandma's aluminum garlic press. Not good. Aluminum garlic press gets taken away and is piled on top of the scads of items precariously perched on the limited number of surfaces beyond my son's reach.

"How about this?" I ask and hand him a red, rubbery, water filled teething ring from the refrigerator. He looks at me, takes the ring, and drops it. We look at each other. "I wish he'd take the ring," I think. I try again. He looks at me, takes the ring, and drops it. I look at the ring. Honestly, I'd do the same if someone handed me a red, rubbery, water filled teething ring from the refrigerator. In fact, I might not even accept the ring. At least my son is polite.

Realizing, his mother has not met his needs, he opens a kitchen drawer, which holds his stash of parent-approved utensils. He reaches for the Oxo spatula, a shower gift from my in-laws, and jams the handle into his mouth. Unlike the red, rubbery, water filled teething ring from the refrigerator, which may have endured extensive testing (doubt it - what is that water anyway?) and adheres to US Consumer Safety Product Safety Commission (check the link for a very nerve-wracking slideshow, a la Yahoo! News) regulations the Oxo spatula did not undergo child safety testing and has no safety features other than a very high melting point. Thus, the spatula works well - it reaches his molars.

I found an interesting pdf document - the US Consumer Product Safety Commission Engineering Test Manual for Rattles. On August 21, 1978 a safety regulation for rattles was developed - I made it through my babyhood which occurred before this regulation. My son has a rattle that probably did undergo this testing. The rattle is plush and the handle floppy. The bell is uninteresting sounding. Occasionally Beren bites into the handle. To me, it appears he is annoyed at the rattle. In his infancy, he latched onto the rattle's nose feature, which is the color and shape of a small nipple.

Bored with Oxo spatulas and floppy rattles, he ambles to oak desk, opens the drawer, and begins to gnaw on it.

***

On the trail at Lord Stirling Park, before my son could walk, he liked to be carried belly down.

Of course we were warned.

"Kids pick up all kinds of things."

The flu at the doctor's office, your bad cursing habit, discarded gum on the sidewalk...

We frequent the woods more than the doctor's office and city sidewalks, and well, that cursing habit is another story... So, we haven't gotten the flu or chewed anyone else's gum.

Observing how much my son enjoyed walking on trail boardwalks at the Cook Natural Area, I decided to take him to the pond where our landlord placed several boardwalks over wet areas. We walked across the planks several times - great fun.

After not observing my son very closely for a couple moments, I noticed him showing me something. "I've found something to show you," he says gesturally, stretching a hand towards me.

"Oh, what do you have? What are you showing to Momma?" Typically, he is fond of sticks, rocks, leaves.

My son had, however, picked up something else.

"Let go of the poop." I say loudly, my eyes wide. I step towards him, and grab his wrist. "Let go of the poop." He hangs on to the dry scat, presumably fox.

I begin to shake his wrist, "Let go of the poop. Let go of the poop. Let go of the poop!"

The poop flies out of his hand. I wonder what dried fox poop might have in it besides persimmon seeds and mouse pelvises. We begin the walk back to the house. I try to hustle him along, but he's happy to meander. I settle for making sure his hand doesn't go into his mouth before we wash hands.

Pandora radio

2011-12-12T16:51:00.000-08:00

Playing the ukeule.

"Why is the music so bad?" wails the singer of Culturcide.

Tired of the music in iTunes, we try to find something new.

NPR broadcasts bad news and hardly much music, but American Routes. Since having a child, I've given up listening to the show regularly. The din of 3 live humans (my family) added to 2 piped in ones (interviewee and Nick Spitzer), plus clips of music (the interviewee's) and slice of life recording bits (interviewee clopping down the steps to his basement recording studio in New Orleans, interviewee laughing at his favorite diner, interviewee greeting his neighbor) becomes nerve-bending.

Pandora radio - just like Pandora's box who knows what evil will emerge. We tried "The Gossip" Radio, which devolved after just a half an hour into music the sounded like farts in pleather pants. The Pandora write up for one band reminds me of the term "electroclash". Never in my life would I think of the term "electroclash" unbidden. The thought of electroclash was tossed into the same fiery pit as my lease for an overpriced Long Island City, Queens apartment.

On previous evenings we tried other artists, which also devolved into electroclash pleather fart sessions. Mind you, I'm using electroclash to include all bad music of this era - drippy male vocals over drippy strumming, male falsettos over drippy strumming and keyboards, breathy female vocals over pleather fart keyboards, drum machine music, and other musics made by individuals between 18 and 45 years of age.

Keyboards blinking away, drum machine doinking on, female vocalist in rapture.

"What is this sh*t?" I asked Jared.

As if possessed, he begins to sing along, "Irritate irritating ting ting. Irritating IRRITATING IRRITATING IRRITATING. ting ting. IRRITATING IRRITATING IRRITATING. ting ting."

"I think it's Peaches," he says.

And, with that my son needs my attention more than electroclash does.

Curiousity

2011-12-11T11:07:00.001-08:00

My son Beren sits on the kitchen floor. Cabinet drawers areopen, and spatulas, potato mashers and hand mixers are strewn about. He'sworking on pulling our old electric blender base from a low drawer, by wrappinghimself in the electric cord and pulling with all of his 12 month old might.Causing Papa some modest alarm (mental note, tell Momma to watch Beren extraclosely when cords are nearby...).

He's fueled entirely by curiousity. He knows not theconcepts mine, yours, property line, nor the costs of different items. What isthis, he wonders? How does it move? Can I pick it up and manipulate it? Does itmake noise or smush or smash?

We take walks outside and he is engrossed for hours. Sticksand gravel in infinite supply, topography to test balance and strength (up tothe walnut trees, down to the swampy meadow, visit the hackberry, repeat).Puddles in the dirt driveway, multiplying and diversifying with every storm,worth a visit every time.

The way he picks at the lichens on boulders or crinkles thedry oak leaves transcends the concept of "toys". Here is a youngcreature exploring his world, honing the subtleties of his senses, trying hisstrengths and getting wet, bruised, and covered in dirt and moss in theprocess.

In one of my favorite photos of him, he is crawling on anAdirondacks trail, plastered in mud and tiny winged yellow birch seeds from hispants legs up to his chest. He's one of the wild life, dispersing seeds as hewallows, crawls, and digs around.

Inside the house is different. After a few days ofinvestigation, most of the "baby toys" he has are more-or-lessignored. Which means that days cooped up inside can get frustrating and boring,as he tries to climb the drawer handles to get at the interesting items on topof the rolltop desk, or open the top drawers in the kitchen (knives, Felco clippers,glass measuring cups, etc.)

I cringe (a little) thinking ahead to a time when all thisunrelenting curiousity about objects is superimposed on a greater acquaintancewith the marketplace, and the word "mine". Partially, the concern isfinancial. But more so, it hurts to think of all that intense, sensualcuriousity being transformed into consumerism.

And isn't this a process that has happened to all of us? I'mbored, I'll go shopping. There are people, behind the scenes, who havededicated their lives to creating items that appeal to as many of thelong-evolved curiousities, proclivities, and desires of human beings aspossible, all wrapped into one. Sleek, shiny, easy, interactive... with sugaron top. Utility... but only enough to help the desiring person to justifybuying what is often a direct appeal to a swirl of senses, needs, and thedesire for self-transformation.

I'm hoping that the natural world remains available andinteresting to Beren, as an antidote to the enchanting world of the consumerobject. Natural medicine against the thrall of plastics, virtual realities, andthe broken promises of the newest and most fashionable.

Bees

2011-12-10T15:41:00.001-08:00

A nest from a native bee nesting block. I built from a hunk of tulip tree, using plans from The Xerces Society.

We usually eject or welcome insects into our home, excluding ants and stink bugs. This bumblebee made it inside, but couldn't get out while we were away.

Honeybees can be pesky gang. As the weather warms, before the window screens go in, they like to come inside.

Birds of Winter

2011-12-06T11:59:00.001-08:00

Blackbirds, primarily grackles, take flight, December 4

Each year I look forward to the grackle wave. Tens of thousands of birds use the opening around our home to forage. When the flock is at a distance, the birds sounds like a waterfall. So black and featureless, they appear like paper cut outs in the sky. From the porch, my husband and I watched the birds fly over.

Jared wondered if our son was awake, so he too could see the birds. No, asleep. And there we let him sleep, one year and two days old, teething and croupy.

Along the trail at Cook Natural Area in Kingston, December 5

My husband gasped and said, "Look!" I thought, "Snake."

To my husband's frustration, when he exclaims, "Look!", "Look out!", "Duck!", or "Slow down!", I usually say, "Huh?" I think a touch of fight or flight comes on. Instead of seeing more clearly, my eyes blur and I get ready to... stand still. Of course, 'fight or flight' doesn't take animals like woodcocks and grouses into consideration--animals that do best by moving slowly or not at all.

Life in a Diabase Boulder Field

2011-11-30T08:57:00.001-08:00

Crack in diabase boulder near the headwaters of Rock Brook. The crack follows a harder band of rock--less eroded than the rock surrounding--running through the boulder.

"Make no mistake," my kung fu teacher says, waving his hand, "soft is powerful. Hard is not always more powerful. Soft is more powerful than hard." Sifu demonstrates the first form of Ngo Cho Kun, sam chien, with incredible power and tension. "The young ones do like this."

Again he demonstrates sam chien, this time alternating powerful strikes and relaxed parries and counters. "When you become older, more experienced, you do like this."

He demonstrates sam chien one final time with no force. He begins to add other strikes and blocks. "Like the white crane. When you become senior tis is how you maintain your power. This is very powerful."

Woodpecker holes follow the edge of the tree's scar tissue. I wonder if the scar itself is too hard, too dense for ants to drill into. Did they find the place where soft meets hard?

"Look for the weak point. Do not punch your opponent in the chest. If he is very strong, he will not feel anything."

"Use this," he makes a phoenix fist, "to the temple. Very painful. He will get dizzy and fall down. Or, to here," he points to where his jaw meets his face. "You cannot body-build this."

Trees can be difficult to identify by bark alone. Individuals may appear very different based upon age, habitat, and even the side of the tree one is facing.

Tupelo tree, opposites sides of the same tree. Bark tends to slough off the southern or sky-facing (if leaning) side. Exposed to the sun and thus more drastic fluctuations in daytime and nighttime winter temperatures, ice thaws and refreezes, causing the bark to fall off.

"Do not let him know what you are doing. You must be quick. He will want to hug [grab] you," he puts his hands around a student's neck. "Like this. What do you do?" The student blocks out with both hands, presses down, and pushes. "That's correct!" he exclaims.

Black birch tree tip up. Black birch seeds germinate on bare ground. This tree's roots were flattened on the bottom from the diabase boulder it grew upon. I began to think boulder fields are similar to plants grown in pots -- sometimes there is not a lot of room for roots.

"if you are not rooted, he will knock you down. It is very easy."

Turkey vulture cruises overhead, far above the widow-makers that we walk beneath.

A diabase boulder cracked by the pressure of tree roots--that boulder-field/potted plant situation again. This must have taken awhile. Native Americans used diabase--hard but could be fashioned to a sharp edge.

A classmate and I practice attack, defense, and counter moves. We're polite to each other. I'm the only woman in the class. "Move! You have to move when you attack. No, like this." Sifu, a slight man, takes monstrous steps across the floor. He gently but firmly places his outer blades of his hands on my shoulder joints. He suddenly snaps his hands forward and strides. I step back quickly, following his movement, lest I trip over my feet.

"Add power at the last moment. Very powerful." He says, "You push. Then you throw away. Like a rubber band."

Cranefly orchis. A nice surprise.

Winter Walk

2011-11-27T11:59:00.001-08:00

Wood-nettle (Laportea canadensis) in a depression along Rock Brook.

Though the daytime temperatures have been reminders of early autumn, peak color was blown away overnight by heavy rains. We have a late-November landscape and September thermometer reading.

Pileated woodpecker holes on an ash.

Apical dominance of an American beech.

Witch hazel.

The work of winter resident birds - woodpeckers or nuthatches?

all images Sourlands, November 27, 2011

My muddy windflower

2011-11-22T19:48:00.000-08:00

Muddy windflower, always head for that puddle.

Sassafras hedgerow

2011-11-17T08:09:00.000-08:00

I never crop my images, or so I say.

What is excluded from the frame? What is included in the frame? Why was the photographer made these choices? Who is the photographer?

These are the questions we asked again and again during critiques and slide shows of well-known photographers at the university.

Sometimes in the photo there was an indigenous person (a person closer to ancestral culture or very much Other than ourselves, the university students) carrying an object (Coke can), wearing striking clothing (Yankees t-shirt), or in a terrible place (environmental wasteland such as a city, barren land, woeful cropfield). The person displayed various degrees of dignity.

"It's ironic that..." a classmate might begin when asked to comment on the image.

"What the photographer does not reveal, is the..." another would continue.

Above, I've decided to crop out the invasive Callery pear seedling that was in the foreground of this photo. Bright red and out of place against an autumn sky and sassafras hedgerow. I just couldn't stand it.

After the storm

2011-11-15T11:40:00.000-08:00

Staying oriented in the forest was difficult. Old trails were obscured.

Perfect site for turtle basking and spotted salamander egg laying. The leaning white oak finally fell.

A table for squirrels and their hickory nuts, opossum path, and owl haunt.

And then the next storm came...

2011-11-15T11:24:00.000-08:00

Mother and child vagabond in the public square by the Princeton Public Library. Here, we stop for lunch--a Rainbow Wrap from Whole Earth Center's booth at the Princeton Farmer's Market. We found our appointed seat. During the blackout my son and I walked into Princeton a half dozen times to pass the time.

We left Saturday (10/29) morning for kung fu class and dropped our son off at my in-laws' house. We packed pretty well, thinking we might stay out after class.

As we practiced, the rain shifted to snow.

Back at my in-law's the world appeared ready for snow shoes, not trick or treating. We called our house, and already, the power was out. No answering machine - no power.

Snow fell, branches fell. Our son was ill, my husband was ill. We stayed with my in laws until our power came back on Thursday night.

Rain Barrels, Barrels and Barrels

2011-11-15T11:22:00.000-08:00

We're still working on the house - our house always grows mold in August. This year was the worst. According to preliminary data from Rutgers an average of 17.22 inches of rain fell in August. Our 'new normal' for August is only 4.21 inches. The house was disgusting - my throat closed, my chest tightened, and I coughed every time I was inside. My son, too, became ill. We felt better outside and away, but getting out and away while 17.22 inches of rain fell was difficult.

Mold grew on the

walls

furniture

playpen

windows

clothes

dressers

musical instruments

kitchen drawers

kitchen implements

soap

on the isopropyl alcohol bottle!

My vintage light clothes became spotted rusty colored ('foxed' is the used book term), photo mattes warped and mildewy, anything black was spotted whitish-grey... I'm still opening boxes and leaving things in the sun.

2011-10-25T08:52:00.000-07:00

Asters, pollinated, chewed, and in seed.

Crab spider on goldenrod.

Dew on New England aster.

Sassafras.

Sneezeweed.

Gerardia about to bloom.

I have read that the first 3 months of life are like the fourth trimester. My son hardly left my arms, or my husband's arms, during this time unless he was on the changing table. He was on the changing table about 24 times a day. We had 2 dozen size small pre fold diapers, so it was easy to calculate. Nothing else was easy to calculate because nothing else had an abacus as the diapers did.

"How often does he nurse?" someone might ask. I had no idea. I still have no idea though my short term memory is returning as my son allows longer blocks of sleep.

Blocks of 3 hours, mind you. I often hear, "Oh, my daughter slept through the night at 2 months." I think those who are willing to share are those who share success stories. Or, horror stories, of course. "My son did not sleep through the night until he was 3 and a half years old," related the gentleman behind the desk just after my husband and I signed away thousands of dollars on a used car. "We thought we were great parents, giving everyone advice. Then my son came along," he shook his head.

Weeks later I was back at the dealership signing away an additional $44.50 in DMV fees, and the the gentleman behind the desk repeated his story in the exact same words with the exact same emphasis on "3 and a half years old."

White Wood Asters and Ants

2011-10-21T16:34:00.000-07:00

White wood aster with nectar seeking ants. Mountain Farm section of Teetertown Ravine.

Cryptic Moth

2011-10-21T16:22:00.000-07:00

To be a cryptic moth, papery and beautiful, covered in the dust of life, waiting for darkness and primrose. To perch on cold, hard stone of millions of years, ephemeral, a life of millions of seconds only, with the gift of flight rather than longevity.

This year, last year

2011-10-19T17:43:00.000-07:00

Flowering Dogwood, brown leaves by July 2010

Last year, the drought was deep and parching, dusty leaves wilting, wilting, finally falling.

Spicebush lost leaves, whole stems. Flowering dogwood dropped leaves mutely tinged with scarlet, some chlorophyll returned to the tree, the rest browned out and squandered.

By July, hickory seedlings browned out on the shale barrens at St. Michaels.

Multiflora rose and barberry yellowed by late summer. Goldenrods flowered for an instant, then went to seed. Black cohosh knew in advance, didn't even try to flower.

From May until late September, hardly a drop fell on our side of the mountain. The only plants that looked good were the oaks, deep-rooted, thrifty, ponderous.

Last year's effects linger. Some plants responded with incredible seed production this year-- hornbeams, flowering dogwood. Spicebush is still reeling from last year, working on stem production, fruiting very scanty.

This year, we're somewhere near twenty inches of rain over the average. We'll see what that means... next year.

Goodbye to another car

2011-10-19T12:34:00.000-07:00

Sunset at Dayton Toyota, late September 2011.

Our old vehicle in right foreground, new in center, other people's tired cars awaiting service in background.

One of my grade school teachers liked to quote Ben Franklin. "When the founding fathers were drafting the Constitution," my teacher explained, "Benjamin Franklin would point at the carving on the chair he sat on and say, 'Gentlemen, I am glad to see that this is a rising sun and not a setting sun.'"

Was it the Constitution drafting? Maybe it was the Declaration. Was Ben sitting in the seat or was George? Or, was it a wall hanging of a sun. I must admit, I can't recall. That's not the point, so why mention a tattered memory of two decades ago? To reveal my poor memory? My odd memory? My lack of memorization of American history? None of the above.

It's to note that the sun is in fact setting in this image. And that unlike the rising United States of America in the mid-1770s, the sun has set upon yet another car. Goodbye, minivan. We'll miss your aroma of wet dog and land steward sweat, the faint traces of violet herbicide dye upon your interior, and the ruddy glow of the ABS, check engine, TRAK OFF, and VSC lights that glinted in my eye each time I started you up. I hope your trip to the auction was dignified. I hope your body has gone on to the great compactor in the sky. Farewell.

Ruderal ground

2011-10-19T11:51:00.000-07:00

Abandoned farm field. Foxtail grass, common mullein, sweet everlasting, and Chinese lespedeza were the common species.

The plants said, Somebody was here. This was used land - the untilled edges were dominated by Chinese lespedeza and the remainder of the fields were primarily foxtail grass.

The forest at the edge of the fields were empty of an understory and herb layer. Two exceptions: 1.) Wreath goldenrod and white wood aster clung to the most precipitous shale bluffs over the brook. There, these herbs were safe from the deer.

2.) Where the land sloped gently to the brook, scraggly multiflora rose, Japanese barberry, and Morrow's honeysuckle made up the understory, and Japanese stilt grass, Japanese honeysuckle, and white snakeroot the herb layer. Interesting that not only the invasive species but also white snakeroot, a native herb, was found only on the disturbed ground. One could see the path that pasture animals had been allowed to take to drink of the brook's waters and wallow in the shade.

Ten months

2011-10-13T11:32:00.000-07:00

And, I am self-conscious as the seniors watch our class and greet each other and watch our class. I wave to the seniors I have befriended.

"Oh, where's your son?" one calls across the room. Often, my husband and I bring my son to class. The seniors enjoy my son who in turn, enjoys them. "Oh, you know, she came to class until just before she had her baby, and then she came right back," I overhear one say to another. I blush, smile, and bow my head.

Returning to class after having my son was not easy - I was tired to my core. My teacher explained, "You have given all your chi to your baby. Now, you need to recover back. Rest one month, maybe two, then do chi kung to recover back." The Maya believe, my health care practitioner explained, a mother needs as long as her pregnancy to recover, and the mother of a newborn boy needs one extra month. "Ten months," she said.

I watched my classmates spin and kick across the floor. My son wailed, hungry and wet. I padded out of the class again and again. I returned to the classroom. Class over.

Months went by. Class over. I missed the camaraderie, sweating, and learning. Class over.

Then, just a couple weeks ago, as my mother in law watched my son, I entered our classroom. I began stretching. I touched the palms of my hands to the floor easily. I had not done this for many months. My son was nearly 10 months old.

2011-10-10T16:06:00.000-07:00

Some evenings I have free time - to do what, I'm not sure. Since Saturday, I've been aching from somersaulting into a scissor kick leaping to my feet grabbing pulling double chopping blocking chopping tornado kicking twice and ending with a right hook.

"You are still young. I am 60. Look at how I roll. I can still do. You are young. You can still do," lectures my teacher, addressing our class as we take our turns spinning across the increasing dusty crash mats.

My classmates are 10 to 25 years young than I am. This is one of the occasions when looking young does not help me. I've reminded my teacher of my age twice. He says, "Ah, how old? Ah, ok." Making excuses in a martial arts class is never dignified. The best I can do is raise my eyebrows and then go for it. So, I rolled across crash mats for 45 minutes on Saturday.

"Good, but too slow. Add speed," my teacher repeats each time I turn towards him and head to the back of the line.

"Hmm. Your tornado kick is not good. Add some speed," he adds every third time I take a turn.

Our class is small - four of us. Breaks in between our turns are brief. I watch my classmates. The senior citizens in tai chi class immediately after our kung fu class begin to arrive. We keep rolling as the seniors watch.

Check Engine light

2011-09-20T11:31:00.000-07:00

While my son napped one day this June, I collected elderflowers for him, for some future fever.

Check engine light on, check engine light off, a failed DMV inspection, a trip to the dealership with a baby, poor sleep, another trip to the dealership, meeting with car salesman, poor sleep. Mold from that rainy August is creeping in every corner, on the nightstand, in the closet. Heater's broken, too. When will this baby sleep well? When will this family sleep well? Still teething? Not eating enough?

Then, the crackle in the throat. Then, the choking while nursing. Still fine during the day, but the nights... Then, upset, crying during the day, fifteen minute naps, raging with tears at night, writhing. Herbal steams, saline drops, mucus suckin' bulb, teas, homeopathic remedies.

He seems a little warm. Overdressed? He seems warm still. Fever goes up to 102 degrees.

A fever of 101 is ok, just the immune system working I repeat, but 102. The immune system is like a muscle, it must be used to be robust, but 102. He's so hot! His cheeks are red, he's miserable. Jared brews elderflower tea. Two teaspoons and 15 minutes, fever's down a degree.

I know Children's Tylenol works, and I'd be surprised and anxious if it didn't, much like a check engine light turning back on. When herbal remedies work, I am pleased. Surprised. Like receiving a handwritten letter in the mail from a friend - deepening relationship across distance.

Digging

2011-09-15T07:37:00.000-07:00

Jared's digging/shoveling implements

March 20, 2011

Jared digging/shoveling a garden path
January 15, 2010

Rachel hates digging/shoveling. Here she is raking.

December 29, 2008

Jared digging/shoveling

December 29, 2008

Jared breaks from digging/shoveling
December 29, 2008

Jared digging/shoveling at the compost facility
December 30, 2008

Months ago, when our son began teething, I felt cut free from all that was important to me, at least those things unrelated to caring for a teething baby. Exhausted, I would lie in bed sleepless. "This is some time for me, but I really need to sleep," I thought.

I wrote a list entitled "What is Important to Me." Then I wrote another list, "Chores I Am Responsible For." Actually, I just wrote the title and didn't note any chores. I asked my husband to do the same. The former list was meant to remind us what we enjoy doing besides helping our son (and us) get some sleep. The latter list was a trap.

Every couple I know argues about two things: chores (you aren't doing do you know how much I do around here when was the last time you) and (your sh*tty) driving. I will have to address (your sh*tty) driving at some other time. That topic would take a while to discuss.

"What is Important to Me" was a nice list to write, and a pleasant one to share with each other. Sitting on the couch, we quietly read each others lists. We discussed, supporting each line - hiking, baking, photography, traveling... and remarking on how are lists were similar, but actually different.

Since I never wrote "Chores I Am Responsible For", I don't know how it felt for Jared to write his. I hadn't expected my trap, I mean, "Chores I Am Responsible For" list, to make me feel as it did. I read Jared's "Chores I Am Responsible For". My stomach began to tighten, then my chest tightened, tears rolled from the corners of my eyes.

Line 5 read "DIGGING" and line 11 read "SHOVELING". (Jared writes in ALL CAPS).

"'Digging?' 'Shoveling?' aren't those the same things?" I giggled.

"DIGGING and SHOVELING. Oh!" A deep, deep laugh rolled from my stomach upward. Jared began to laugh, too. Of course, we were tired (teething baby) and trying to suppress loud laughter (teething baby was napping), and we muffled our giddy snorts.

Jared's final entry on the "Chores I Am Responsible For" list was "VOICE OF REASON". Like (your sh*tty) driving, that's a topic worth further treatment.

Lead by Morons

2011-09-08T16:19:00.000-07:00

Kingwood Township - a rural but mercurial place. I'm not sure where the lead factory is. Perhaps along that strip of Route 12 that the township insists must be made uglier each year with cheap warehouses (tax rateables).

Not too long ago, I used a film camera exclusively. I savored making beautiful contact sheets and flipped through them regularly - for inspiration, to become depressed. You know, artist types, so mercurial (passionate, disillusioned, self-important), so icy (artistic block), so watery (tears, collapsing ego). One minute my life's work is an impressive - 569 rolls of film plus dozens not yet processed from the end of my film years - all fitting into four very heavy, overstuffed film binders. Then there's boxes and boxes of prints.

Wait a minute, just 569 rolls. How many is that per year? Maybe not enough, doesn't sound like much, just four binders? What if the house burns down anyway? Photographs in boxes? Not hanging in the white cubes (prestigious art galleries) I learned to deconstruct via post-modern theory at the university? Nope, just mouldering away in a Graco stroller box, a Hilti Tools box, a DockerKhakis box, Kodak and Ilford boxes, BookAZine boxes, etc.

From here the internal conversation goes from morose deprecation to fightin' piss and vinegar to eyebrows furrowed with pride and composure and back down to earth. Mercurial artists.

I now use a computer program to organize my digital photographs. I don't memorize my contact sheets, where in the stack I could find particular images: the first and second trips to Detroit, the punk rock roadtrip to California, the YMCA playground series...

I 'keyword' my images, giving them more or less helpful context that I can readily (as readily as one can on an eight year old computer) call up by searching for keywords like "autumn", "road", "Helenium autumnale", "caterpillar", and "kitchen". It's rather time consuming, and I think I spend less "quality time" with my photographs.

I did, however, spend about 14 seconds of quality time with the above image. What to keyword this one, I wondered. "Kingwood"? "Communist community"? "Idiots"? or how about just "People"? Will I remember this important cultural statement was documented on August 14, 2011? How will I find it? I settled on "sign".

A 'mixed bag'

2011-08-20T18:12:00.001-07:00

...the D&R Canal State Park's plant communities.

The phone company wuz here.
I can't imagine, but really, who else could give a boot camp hair cut to the trees?

Groundnut (Apios americana)
Incredible flowers. How is it that flowers and women look so similar?

Climbing Boneset (Mikania scandens) flowers and foliage. A very successful plant along the canal's banks.

A pea species - no time to identify to species. I was lucky enough to get a focused photograph as I was carrying my son in the Baby Bjorn carrier. He was wiggly on this walk. His legs are long, and he enjoys 'stepping' on my thighs as I move forward. If I was training for an athletic event, one other than motherhood, I'd be pleased.

Multiflora rose, prolific, but being pruned back slowly by rose rosette disease. Great, make way for those wild peas.

Knapweed and skipper

Porcelainberry

A real pain the in a** kind of plant. Ah, invasive vines.

Alternative energy

2011-08-16T06:26:00.000-07:00

Slash pile and solar panels, Ewing Township

I wonder...when we cut trees and cover vast areas with lawn to make way for solar panels; when we cut endless access roads through deserts and grasslands and erect windmills; when we place yet more windmills in the ocean along migratory bird routes...where, imagine, imagine, on one autumn night thousands of birds with names like scarlet tanager, redstart, and veery might course by. Plumages of gold, red, and ebony.

Yes, but aren't we saving trees ultimately? Declaring independence from foreign oil? Aren't those deserts uninhabitable? void? barren? Aren't they becoming productive?

I won't argue on behalf of tiny flowers and lizards that thread their way through deserts, nor the trees that house caterpillars and birds, nor the seas that we humans gaze across, looking deep, deep, out across the horizon, seemingly pure, unsullied, perhaps the only place that seems so these days...listening, listening, beyond the shouts of children running on hot sand and parents yelling, YOU forgot the cooler, ice cream trucks, the #3 Billboard hit of summer 2011... listening, listening out beyond where swimmers dare and lifeguard whistles blow:

whump, whump, not the diving of dolphins, whump, whump, not the tails of whales, whump, whump, not the darting of sharks, whump, whump, not the wings of loons, whump, whump, not the propeller of an airplane dragging a message--$2 beers at Crabby Crab Shack--across the glittering sky, whump, whump, miles long mindmills chopping the air bringing us, whump, whump, internet access, whump, whump, iPhone charger, whump, whump, 40% post-consumer copier paper, whump, whump, windmills chopping the air, whump, whump, 30,000 life guard whistles Made in China, whump, whump, pizzeria napkins floating on the wind like ibis feathers, whump, whump, another mile of windmills where a man used to gaze out beyond and imagine a quiet and lonely life, whump, whump, 30,000 waxed cups for Italian ice, whump, whump, round and round go the windmills.

imagine, imagine, whump, whump, a shovel turning turf under to make way for wildflowers, whump, whump, bare feet in a mud puddle, whump, whump, rotten tomatoes hitting the weedy garden bed, whump, whump, picking dandelions.

2011-08-14T16:57:00.000-07:00

A club moss. I took this photograph at the 2009 Reunion held in Thompson, Pennsylvania.

So many thoughts, so many thoughts...

Twice a year my father's brothers and their families (my aunts, my cousins, and now as times goes on, cousin's spouses and partners), spend time together. In winter, it's just an afternoon and dinner around Christmastime, and in the summer, a weekend or occasionally a week -- The Mackow Family Reunion, we call it. "The Reunion" for short.

Once Jared and I drove from Michigan to Virginia to attend. In the weeks previous, Jared had a terrible ear infection from swimming in a public lake (I had contracted Montezuma's revenge from the same lake. I know it was that lake.). With no health insurance I had called around for the cheapest doctor's appointment (a first appointment, the 6 minute one where they get to know their new patient, is expensive). Knowing we had no insurance, the doctor cobbled together some free antibiotic samples, totaling a week's worth of pills. The infection dragged on, and finally, it came time to head to The Reunion.

Our truck had no air conditioning. So, we drove with the windows up because the wind bothered Jared's ear. We tumbled out of the pickup truck into my uncle's driveway a half day later, filthy, sweaty, the truck cab rank with our body odor. Hugs went around, as well as loving exclamations such as: "You guys need a shower!" Jared explained, and my uncle, a doctor, produced an ear scope from his sleeve, peered into Jared's ear, remarked how the Michigan doctor was not too smart to give pills, and wrote a prescription for ear drops.

There's something about family, there's a little notch left just for you. No one else fills it. Conversations pick up, doesn't matter that it's been 6 months. You can leave your infant son in someone's care and drift into the house, catch up with someone, grab a drink. I suppose I'm lucky, having been to other people's family gatherings.

Now that my kin are all in their distant homes, I feel the rainy day. My husband, son and I usually have an energetic household, but today was slow. We spent the afternoon together. We watched our son crawl around the house, pulling himself up, and sitting down. We sang silly songs and ate dinner (my son ate Aunt C's fruit salad, I made a tomato soup from E's & L's extra tomato harvest. No doubt, the rest of my extended family ate the leftover corn and is flossing now).

My brother and mother are traveling far today, bringing my brother to his very, very distant home. Before he left, we spent a while sitting on the porch talking, while my son slept in my brother's arms. It's a rainy day.

Reforestation Thoughts

2011-08-09T18:17:00.000-07:00

Old growth loblolly pine at Congaree NP

A few years ago, we travelled in the South, visiting old cypress swamps and sandy longleaf pine savannas. A few of the swamps were old growth and were thick with the rot and renewal of centuries. I remember one pine with great big fissured plates of bark like stegasaurus skin and a massive trunk. Nearby was a stand of pawpaws in maroon fetid bloom, laurel oaks and horse sugar and redbay and baldcypress and great tangles of unknown flowering vines.

I also remember driving down country roads through miles and miles of timber plantations-- dense, isolating, more-or-less lifeless. Pines growing like corn, row after row, nothing above or below them. The great pulpbasket of America, future toilet paper and plywood and post-it notes occupying the better part of an entire biome.

----

I've been thinking a lot about reforestation lately. I'll be planting about 8 acres worth of reforestation this fall, and am involved in various ways in a few other projects to convert fields to forests. The underlying goals of these are generally "closing gaps" in otherwise contiguous forests. The utility of trees in sequestering carbon has also played into the funding for a few projects.

I wonder about planting trees, sometimes several hundred per acre, into what are essentially "disturbed" habitats - old farm fields, capped dump sites, and the like. When all of those successfully-planted trees reach canopy height in a great dense sward, will we have a forest? Or will we have something that looks, structurally and biotically, a lot more like those pulpwood plantations down south, or the derelict christmas tree plantations one passes on country roads here in the Northeast? I've walked through old "reforestations"- generally coniferous, it's true - red pine, Japanese larch, Norway spruce - even in places as otherwise intact as the great Catskills park. Like the plantations of the South, there's not much doing in the understory.

It seems to me that many of our native forest herbs, and understory trees and shrubs, are dependent on small-scale canopy gaps for recruitment. I figure it takes a tree fifty years or more before it has the girth to create a significant canopy gap such as would recruit spicebush or flowering dogwood or hornbeam- or stoneroot, black cohosh, or wild ginger.

Many of the reforestations I am involved with are being done, partially, to create larger areas of habitat for birds that thrive best in large acreages of contiguous forest. They are "closing gaps" in otherwise largely forested areas.

Yet many of the birds that depend on "contiguous forest" utilize the understory, not immature canopies. There are plenty of biologically depauperate post-agricultural forests around here that bear that out-- even age stands of red maple and ash, with nary an ovenbird or Kentucky warbler or veery in earshot. Why? The understory is lacking.

What about our ancient forest herbs, the rich, rainforest-like layer of broadleaved wildflowers and ferns that run thick and waist-high in the most intact of our local forests? Black cohosh, horsebalm, bloodroot, wild ginger, wood nettle, purple-node Joe Pye Weed, interrupted fern, round-lobed hepatica...

These are the essence of the Eastern forest, and are everywhere declining. They seem generally unable to recruit in second-growth forests. Many (not all) have extremely limited seed dispersal distances, relying primarily on clonal growth in their relatively undisturbed habitats. Some may need evenly moist conditions through the summer to survive as seedlings. These species may have thrived in a Northeast with higher groundwater levels and more frequent precipation; maybe we see merely relics of a former age in the remaining populations. Some of these species need thick organic duff; others need sheltered micro-habitats, nurse logs, the heterogeneous topography of a habitat wild and abundant. Is soil biology an issue?

Will our reforestations recruit these conservative plant species? Can we recreate, from scratch, an honest eastern forest with forest herbs, dense shrubs, and a structurally varied canopy? In a "reforestation", when will the mycorrhizal fungi arrive that network so many of the root interdependencies of the forest?

---

In many ways, I'm doubtful. Our primary tools in doing ecological restoration are often modes of disturbance. Chainsaws, loppers, herbicide, tractors, augers. The system ("forest") we are trying to re-assemble is the most complex and interdependent ecosystem type we have in the Northeast -- and, relatively, the least disturbed -- what they used to call "climax", though that kind of religiously teleological science is thankfully out of vogue now.

Perhaps we should focus ecological restoration more on creating high-quality meadows, savannahs, grasslands. These are highly productive habitat types, on a par with any other. They are also among the most threatened habitat types in the world, right up there with tropical rainforest. They are critical for many species of birds, and for most native pollinators. Although meadows and areas of scrub-shrub are often accused of "fragmenting" forests when they lie in between even the crappiest of second-growth parcels, I'm skeptical of this notion. I suspect that patches of open habitat within a forested matrix probably keep many native pollinators viable adjacent to woods that are so stripped of flowering plants by deer that the woods can no longer support its on suite of pollinating insects.

I'd be so bold as to say that meadows and scrub-shrub are forest, just very young forest, and that the forest fragmentation we hear of in studies is often that created by lawn, factory farm, mall, and parking lot.

I wonder if, by creating good meadows now, we might set the stage for a good forest in the future, whereas if we just plunk a bunch of trees into a field a few years out of corn production or hay, we're locking our planted site into 50 to 100 years or more of depauperate tree plantation.

----

What about a hybrid approach? This is what I'm thinking for some of our reforestation projects:

1. Keep the trees in the planting mix, but leave large gaps between densely treed areas. Into these gaps, plant native shrubs which thrive in full sun (for the early years) but also transition successfully to shaded habitats. Blackhaw, winterberry, arrowwood, highbush blueberry, maleberry, even spicebush... rather than waiting several decades or more for gap dynamics to naturally recruit the beginnings of an understory, it'll already be in place, and thriving, as the canopy closes (hopefully unevenly).

2. Plant trees that will die soon. Gray birches, Virginia pine, sassafras -- these pioneer trees are the land-healers. When they give way, the young forest will be shady and no longer ruderal. These trees will die and in their places will recruit shade-tolerant species -- whether they are the next generation of (mid-successional) trees, or native herbs, or forest shrubs -- rather than mugwort and chinese lespedeza and, if fenced from deer, rather than multiflora rose and autumn olive, too.

3. Plant meadow plants that can transition from sun to part shade. Own the ground with boneset, hollow-stem Joe Pye weed, ironweed, Indian grass, swamp milkweed, etc. These plants serve two purposes -- first, to pre-empt recruitment of invasive plants by filling niches, and second, to mimic natural meadow successions. There is much that we have little control over in the realm of the soil, and I believe that it is these herbs that prepare the agricultural soils for a transition to forest soils -- bacterial to fungal, nutrient-lossy to nutrient conserving. These herbs also support pollinator communities that could make the difference in successful recruitment of mid-successional herbs -- plants like solomon's seals and the like which bridge the gap from thicket to forest.

---

We ecological restorationists are much like healers, with similar responsibilities towards our work, and a similar imperative to "do no harm". Yet our tools are largely borrowed-- from agriculture, from forestry, from landscaping. What sets us apart are the plants -- our healing herbs. We need to observe natural habitats, and unnatural habitats, very closely, and consider how to use the plants in our palette to best effect. If we simplistically interpret forest as "trees", and leave the rest of the forest system to time and chance, my bet is that our future forests will be structurally and biologically impoverished. We risk creating habitats that are more like forestry plantations or monocultural farms than indigenous natural habitats.

Driving by a southern pine plantation

Good friends provide good food

2011-08-09T07:20:00.000-07:00

A clouded sulphur on the top bloom of a blazing star (Liatris spicata) on July 31.

We had visited this site a week before - the flowers were not yet open. We returned a week later and again, they seemed not yet in bloom. Or, maybe we missed them, I wondered. We wandered among the stems. Jared exclaimed, "I think they are opening as we stand here!" We stood in the blazing sun, the blazing stars began to open, and the pollinators arrived.

Spiked blazing star (Liatris spicata) with an approaching northern cloudywing

The northern cloudywing pauses for a moment, and I am able to make this photograph. Both Jared and I use Canon Elph 'point & shoot' cameras, requiring us to stalk close and quiet. No powerful zoom lens...just lots of patience (sometimes), luck (sometimes), and a steady hand (sometimes, and not so easy with the macro lens showing every tremble of the hand and hint of a breeze).

Two skippers. I've been told the skippers are the winter plumaged warblers of the butterfly world. Beautiful and they all look so similar...

Red admiral & wild bergamot (Monarda fistulosa)

Hummingbird clearwing, very patient until the camera was taken out.

Fritillary

Tiger swallowtails

The radiant and threatened northern blazing star (Liatris scariosa) at Kennebunk Plains, Maine

northern blazing star visited by two pollinators

Some books are for the toilet, not for reading in the toilet, but for placing into the toilet

2011-08-01T18:05:00.000-07:00

This skipper nearly jumped off his liatris when he read The American Meadow Garden. "Can you believe this fountain grass b******t? I'm hungry, damn it. Can't eat that crap. Gotta go, some lady is trying to take my picture."

The library - what a great place. I'll pay more taxes to keep the local library going. Where else can you go and return something used, wrinkled, water-stained, scratched besides Bed Bath and Beyond? That's the way many patrons (SIDEBAR: Sorry, I will not use the newly adopted term "customer" to refer to a "library patron." One does not purchase anything from the library. One pay taxes or possibly donates funds to support the library's mission and services. One utilizes the circulating collection, requests assistance from skilled librarians, researches the reference books, investigates Lexus Nexus, or plays Free Cell on the computers.) hmm...back to patrons, what was I saying?

I am an avid library patron. I love browsing the shelves and taking books out, and then immediately returning them when I find I hate the author's attitude. I've recently read several books about babies, and my husband can assure you that I am going f***ing nuts from it. Dear authors: please write a pamphlet instead of a 436 page book and save a tree (or a fir, spruce, maple, aspen, or birch pulpwood plantation). My son needs oxygen to breathe.

Other than the parade of child rearing books, we recently picked up The American Meadow Garden by John Greenlee and Saxon Holt. For the love of god, man, do your research and stop with the whimsy. Chinese silvergrass is not a species of the American meadow. It is a weed that trashes wet and dry meadows and barrens. Goodbye, meadowlark habitat; hello, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon fight scene setting.

Under the section "The Wicked Ones" which discusses problem species, "Rubus", not even "Rubus sp." is noted as a Eurasian plant. Last I checked there were plenty of native Rubus species.

Worse yet, Greenlee captions a photograph of a lupine meadow, "This meadow of lupines is being invaded by Johnson grass (Sorghum halepense). Sometimes weeds can be managed and actually work as groundcover grasses." (p. 235) For those of us who are land stewards or land managers, we smell the glyphosate and begin calculating the best time to treat an invasive species interspersed among the best of our native species.

I'm sure this book is on some landscape architect's plate glass table, on shelves of a fanciful fire escape gardener's bookshelf, and a garden club's reading list...

I paid taxes for this crap? Excuse me, can I speak with the manager? You know, I have been a customer of this library for years, and never, I mean, never have I...

Here's to being rich

2011-07-31T19:37:00.000-07:00

The way the wealthy store their extra bubbly...those well-to-do neighbors of yours who might have recently had their right toe run over by a deer mouse and now perch upon a chair before their 8 year old computer.

"Here's to being rich," my husband exclaimed with zest as we passed the now defunct and then ritzy Lahiere's restaurant on Witherspoon Street in Princeton. We glanced in the window and watched a man in a grey suit toast his companion. His teeth glinted as he smiled. We roared with laughter as we walked beneath the streetlights and retold the joke again and again, each time raising our $1.75 ice cream cones like wine glasses.

2011-07-30T07:55:00.000-07:00

In the hot, droughty summer of 2010 this boneset bloomed for a couple months. I collected some flowers from it to make a tincture in vodka. It did not come back this summer.

Yesterday I used the boneset tincture, feeling feverish then chilled, and achy. Boneset is notoriously foul tasting, only valerian has a reputation equal. I took 6 drops.

"Not so bad," said to Jared. I waited a couple seconds. "MMmmm. MMMmm. AWWrrr. THAT'S AWFUL. OH, YUCK. YUCK."

"What does it taste like?" Jared was intrigued, possibly smiling. I'm not sure. I was preoccupied with the taste in my mouth.

"Acrid. Terrible. Acrid."

"Oh."

"I need crackers, anything."

The boneset began its work quickly. I felt a little better. After answering Jared's question, I stumbled to the kitchen and returned with a bag of Pepperidge Farms pretzel fish. I collapsed back into bed and ate fistfuls until I finished them all.

"Still have the taste?" Jared asked.

"No, it's better."

My son clambered over me, fascinated by the bag which had a blank spot for children to draw on - to draw a thing that made them happy. The side of the bag depicted 'Gilbert' the pretzel fish whose achievements included the '"Stay away form the vacuum" club.' Though my delirium has passed, still none of this makes any sense. I expect that my son will have a lot to explain to me in the years to come, "Oh, Mom."

Another Sleepy Miscellany

2011-07-28T08:44:00.000-07:00

Deerberry in fruit

I probably have 3 and a quarter minutes to write before my son wakes, rolls over, scratches his sheets repeatedly (interesting noise or texture? - the sound was our alarm clock this morning), clambers up onto his bottom, and then up, again, pulls himself to standing so he can welcome noontime. "Arhrr, arhhr, yahha, arrya," he will say.

And what do I say now... hard to think of much besides babies, my son especially. So all consuming he is. I wandered around the house, pulled Japanese stiltgrass from the gardens, finished my book (Imagine that. Thank you, Fixed Bedtime Schedule.), drank a cup of tea, checked on my son about 3 times, folded some laundry, sat of the porch, thought about work, sent an email...

***

Mad Dog Skullcap...

...blooming in our wetlands garden, already. I transplanted about 6 plants we grew out from seeds collected last year. I don't know this plant yet, but it is a powerful nervine. I'm intrigued.

Tough, wiry, sprawling. We'll see.

Meadows of the Pipeline

2011-07-25T13:40:00.000-07:00

Where are all the meadow plants, the lush growths of wildflowers represented in numerous field guides but almost never encountered in the field? I'm beginning to think that finding healthy "open" habitats is much harder even than finding good diverse mature forests.

I was lucky enough to receive in the mail a treatise on "Keystone Grasslands"--Pennsylvania's open habitats--by Roger Latham and James Thorne. They introduce their subject by writing:

Grasslands, meadows, and savannahs... are crucial for biodiversity conservation out of proportion to their small total area, and they declined severely during the twentieth century.

We tend to toss around the term "early successional" as somewhat synonymous with these open habitats. This is true only in degree: many of our open habitats are only temporarily so, recovering to forest from some human disturbance, as in an abandoned farmfield or dump site or roadside.

But what of the conservative meadow flora? The patches of prairie once tucked into our forested landscape? Where do the flowers of the once "mesic-diabase meadows in the Piedmont Triassic lowlands"--Latham's formulation-- now dwell? When might these plants colonize our current landscapes, or do they lurk in the seedbanks under people's driveways or in overgrown forests?

Many of these meadow rarities are also said to reside in "open woods". These are not, as I take it, the thickety woods of early successional growth but rather the deeply interlinked slow habitats of many years' gestation. Open woods-- through barrenness or wetness of soil? Through fire? Boulder-strewn steep slopes?

Generally, the flora of ancient meadow and open wood seem reliant on the endemic disturbances of our continent: drought, damp, fire, geology. These habitats arise seldom if at all from the disturbances of present-day: plow, bulldozer, herbicide, dumping. Where, then, reside the fringed gentian, Indian paintbrush, blazing star, New Jersey tea, rose pink, butterfly milkweed, showy goldenrod?

We took a walk today on the gas pipeline, the largest meadow-like habitat on our diabase Sourlands ridge, albeit the product of saw and dozer and buried petroleum. We wanted to find a stand of Blazing Star I had discovered last year while seed collecting and trying to shake the ghosts of our prairie trip from my mind. Luckily, we found the Liatris spicata in great plenty, looking taller and more slender than probable for a plant so rigidly upright. Drought seems to be delaying flowering somewhat, but we'll return in a week or two to see the purple spikes in dense blazing glory.

Practically at the feet of the Liatris were a number of patches of the diminutive herb Blood Milkwort ("fields, meadows, open woods" says the field guide). These were thriving in an occasionally mowed linear access path, blooming (or just past) at hardly over six inches tall. They were surrounded by short-statured path rush, but also by recently shorn Chinese bush clover and Bidens aristosa.

Polygala sanguinea, the blood milkwort

These latter two plants, both newcomers to our state, have become, together with the ubiquitous and ugly mugwort, scourges of the pipeline meadows. My friend Heidi, an old-timer who lives along the pipeline, claims that the Chinese bush clover arrived just in the last half-decade or so. Now huge swards stretch the girth of the pipeline for hundreds of feet virtually uninterrupted by other plants save the occasional goldenrod or switchgrass.

On Heidi's advice, we head next to North Hill in search of a population of butterfly milkweed which she remembers having seen there some years ago. On arriving, we surmised that it had been swallowed whole by the bush clover.

We did find a patch of pale-leaved sunflower, another denizen of open woods and fields seldom seen. It looked like a circular moon landing of native flora in the thick of the bush clover. How soon before this, too, becomes swallowed and forgotten?

Helianthus strumosus, native sunflower patched speared through with Chinese bush clover

The pipeline is an enigma, some patches weedy and gone too hell, others with a hint of deep meadow ancestry, like our patches of blazing star and perennial sunflower. Ed Laport commented in notes even in the 1970s that that pipeline contained large swaths of dullness punctuated by occasional great finds.

In some places the underlying geology may be a contributing factor to the patches of interesting flora, though between mugwort, Bidens, bush clover, autumn olive, multiflora rose, and Phragmites, there seems to be a too-hardy non-native scourge for all habitat types. Other places are probably better or worse because of their land use history. Was this an over-fertilized cornfield decades ago, or a rocky acidic oak forest? It is in the latter that the Liatris and milkwort now reside.

The pipeline, despite its destructive genesis, and continued potential for mismanagement, is the kind of occasional refuge for our longer-lived, more conservative meadow flora. It is hard to think that it is improving with time-- "If you had seen this then..." Heidi kept repeating when we botanized the pipeline a week ago. Yet, for a time, it is about the closest I've found to those "mesic-diabase meadows" Latham and Thorne mention.

Walking Among Strangers

2011-07-25T10:46:00.000-07:00

Texas Eastern Pipeline - clogged with lespedeza and phrag, some nice stuff remains.

I meet a surprising number of people while walking off trail in Sourlands. My son often serves as a way to introduce ourselves or relieves a bit of suspicion. Most people, unless they are on their way to or from a robbery and happen to have their child, don't have their child along for criminal acts.

I add the caveat because we hear of these kinds of events. News outlets really enjoy stories such as: Outlaw Couple Leaves Two-Year Old in Convenience Store, Kid Couldn't Run Fast Enough, or Kid Talks, Parents Won't Walk.

When pregnant, I had a hall pass to pee anywhere. Perhaps not on the sidewalk in Hopewell Borough, but certainly just steps off a hiking trail, behind a roadside pole-sized red maple, or beneath a deer ravaged spicebush. Face it, ladies, and gentlemen, too, there's no private place left in New Jersey. There's always a hiker, ATV-er, Medivac or military or corporate exec helicopter, group of two dozen road cyclists on the way to Frenchtown, teenage smoker, runner with jogging stroller, stunt airplane on the way to Princeton Airport, dog-walker, or pesky botanist/photographer with a baby just around the corner. Deer having chewed everything to bits and road or trail everywhere, there's no where to hide. Of course, we ladies have a tougher time being discrete.

I digress, teething is affecting our sleep. Last night, I dreamed that I entered our garden and saw nothing but inch high stems where our vegetables had been. A groundhog rushed towards me, teeth bared. I glanced down at a brick by my right foot, calculating our speeds, realizing I would be bitten, imagining how it would feel to be bitten and then kill a groundhog. I awoke. Teeth, teeth, teeth...

We met two fellas out on the pipeline today.

On the first leg of the trip, I was stooping over a little Polygala when we were greeted by a guy with a British accent. He asked us if we had been to any of the meetings about paving the local dirt road.

Polygala sanguinea

"No, we've been busy with the little guy," my husband answered, pointing to the baby.

"Oh yeah, very heated. I was all for the paving, my car getting dirty every time I drove anywhere."

"Mmm," I deadpanned, but I'm certain my eyebrows were raised. The dirt road was one of the reasons we moved here, and the extra dust makes finding my silver minivan in a sea of silver minivans at the grocery store much, much easier.

Indian tobacco (Lobelia inflata)

"Then all these people had such good points about the environment. I said, 'Ahh, keep it.'" He swept the air in front of him with a big hand.

He invited us to walk through his fence and visit his pond. My husband said, "I usually turn around at your fence."

Sweeping the air again and waving us on, "Just go through, everyone else does."

On the second leg:
A hunter on a quad, slowly, slowly approached (baby remained asleep). We waved and all calculated.

Hunter said, "Better watch out for ticks out here. Lots of ticks."

We said, "Yup."

[Just found one despite checking and changing upon coming home].

Hunter thought, "This is my spot who are you how do I tell these people with the baby that this is my spot and don't come back during the season and mess up my shot?" OK, so he let us know about the ticks. We stared at each other. No problem, I'm territorial, too--we're animals after all, and no, I won't mess up his shot.

My husband said, "Have a good season."

Allegheny Monkeyflower (Mimulus ringens)

Meadow's progress

2011-07-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

The meadow is still very green. Thatch. no mowing for 3 seasons, and the steady expansion of calamus is shifting it to more shrubs, and well, calamus.

These photos were taken on July 3, and there has been little change since then. A bit of NY ironweed is blooming, and Joe Pye will follow by this weekend.

2011-07-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

What can be done with a tragic story, passed, shared to lighten one's weighted wings. Sunlight is dappled, nearby, but unreachable.

Miscellany of the week

2011-07-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

Black cohosh this week.

While picking wineberries, my son and I found this cohosh individual with unique foliage.

Nearby the cohosh, ramps were blooming. Their foliage has completely vanished.

Garden harvest: calendula blossoms for an oil infusion, lemon balm for drying, Echinacea purpurea, Queen Anne's lace, & wild bergamot for cut flowers.

Our 'Christmas tree' - a potted red cedar that I'm always threatening with eviction from its pot and into the wild. Wonder who will be hatching from these eggs.

Great spangled fritillary on swamp milkweed.

Pine Barrens vacation

2011-07-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

Cross-leaved milkwort (Polygala cruciata)
Along the roadside, luckily not mowed

A trip to the Pine Barrens has the feel of a vacation destination - hot, biting insects, fierce sun, lots of driving, a teething baby who hasn't slept well (parents neither), rear driver's side door unopenable, and it's absolutely different than the land around our Sourlands home.

My son deserves a tip of the sun bonnet for being a patient child - unfortunately, the noisy-havin' a good time campers at the White's Bog pond woke him up after too short a nap. Our guide also deserves a bow for showing us so many lovely sites.

Here's some of what I saw (when I wasn't Keeping Baby in the Shade, Nursing, or Tired of Passing Baby Over the Seats and Climbing Over the Seats):

Climbing fern (Lygodium palmatum), infertile and fertile leaves

Some roadside sightings:

Cowwheat (Melapyrum lineare)
I've seen this only once before - at the Tannersville Bog in Pennsylvania

Sparkle (Minuartia caroliniana)
Also called Pine Barren sandwort, which describes it's habitat somewhat redundantly. We'll stick with the local color, and call it Sparkle, which describes its character.

Toothed white-topped aster (Seriocarpus asteriodes)
About those common names...

Ipecac spurge (Euphorbia ipeacuanhae)
Wonder if this one makes you throw up...

Trailing milk-pea (Galactia regularis)

Along cranberry bog banks:

Meadow beauty (Rhexia virginica)

Lanced-leaved centuary (Sabatia difformis)
Adjacent to this plant, our guide pointed out the area crushed down by the previous photographer.

Orange milkwort (Polygala lutea)

St. Andrew's cross (Hypericum hypericoides = Ascyrum hypericoides)
Too tired out by my little teether to sort through the scientific names

The Narrows

2011-07-07T08:14:00.000-07:00

Known as the Milford Bluffs or the Narrows, a single lane road traces a portion of the Delaware River and is sandwiched between abandoned railroad tracks and a shale bluff. Interesting natives like prickly pear cactus, columbine, hairy beardtongue, and lyre-leaved rock cress...

Common mullein

mystery mullein-like species, ailanthus, and prickly pear.

bottlebrush grass

lyre-leaved rock cress

hairy beardtongue

Oxygen masks on the adults first

2011-07-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

Goose Lake Prairie pollinator

Airline attendants tell you - oxygen masks go on adults first, then the child next to you. That can be difficult to do. I never understood why parents seemed to do nonsense things until I became a parent.

First reason - lack of sleep.
Second - instinct.
Third - lack of sense.

Months ago I took my son to the Dutch market. His pacifier popped out of his mouth just before we reached the sidewalk. I continued pushing the stroller until I reached the sidewalk. I then stopped, looked about to see if I was blocking anyone's way, and fussed over my child.

No, not at all. What I actually did was: I stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare, looked at my son, and began to fuss over him. Problem solved, baby and mother were happy. Mother realized she had stopped in the middle of the lane and was repentant.

***

Today, I was stung by a bee twice. Got into my sandals, wanted out rather than a crushing blow from a sweaty, gritty Croc strap. My son in my arms, I began to search the house for the homeopathic remedy, Apis. The change dish on the junk table - Ledum and Nux, no. My field backpack - Arnica, no. Medicine cabinet - more Ledum, no. My purse - nothing.

By this time, I was riled up. Several thoughts rushed through my head: my doctor's recommendation to get the adrenalin going by running, where's the Apis?, oxygen masks on the adult first, my husband has my car - I'm stranded, where's the Apis?, this baby is tired, oxygen masks on the adult first, this baby is hungry, oxygen masks on the adult first, I really have to pee.

Oxygen masks on the adults first. Baby goes into the playpen. Mother heeds nature's call and begins calm search for Apis. Baby cries. Remember how an old co-worker told how she was stung - she made into the house, wanted to call 911 but also wanted to sleep and began drifting, drifting, drifting, and then thought of her children, made it to the phone, called, and passed out. Mother searches faster. Apis located. Remember to RUN. Do I feel ok? Dizzy? Puffy? Tingly? Remember to RUN. Baby cries. Remember to RUN.

Mother picks up hungry tired baby and runs. Baby latches on. Mother runs. Baby bounces up and down. Mother looks at baby. Baby begins to laugh and laugh. Mother firmly holds the baby and runs. Baby laughs. Baby's eyes blink sleepily. Mother realizes her jaw is clamped. Baby laughs. Mother laughs. Baby and mother laugh and laugh, run and bounce. Mother takes another Apis. Baby and mother laugh and laugh. Mother pauses and baby nuzzles and drifts to sleep. Mother runs, sweat soaking her clothes on a hot, humid, Jersey summer day.

Oxygen masks on the adults first. Kind of.

Sight

2011-07-05T06:34:00.000-07:00

I sat in the car, and watched my husband amble across the driveway. Our son balanced on his hip. We watched each other, my son glancing back at me. Me under the glaring windshield, reflecting the white oak's canopy and the cedar waxwing nest it holds.

My husband stepped onto the law, where the soil is gravel and hard clay. Under his feet, he crushes path rush's wiry blades and plantain's soft but leather-strong leaves. My son bounces with my husband's footfall.

My eyesight is changing, tiring a little. Things are blurrier, books need to be closer, I've noticed. My son's eyes are the clearest feature as he gets further away. He turns forward, I've disappeared under the glass and his attention is drawn to his father's voice and what is before him.

Minnewaska Walk

2011-06-23T07:56:00.000-07:00

Appalachian sandwort or stitchwort (Minuartia glabra), threatened status in NY and PA, as well as other states. We didn't notice it on the hike out, but on the way back, there it was. There it was again, and again, taking advantage of the trail edges. The shrubs easily overpower it - another plant that needs fire to clear space, but will hang on along trails. A familiar situation in NJ. Hey, watch your step!

On the way back from the Catskills, we often stop at Minnewaska State Park and walk a portion of the Long Trail, which wildfire burned in April 2008... 3,100 acres in total.

Dead wood still standing years after the blaze.

Sheep laurel is not a surprise.

Nor are the sassafras resprouts.

Nor, is the maleberry.

Nor the bracken fern.

Considering the thin, bony soil... but there is always something to learn. Always a surprise.

Whorled loosestrife which shows up in my clay-clod backyard near the drainage ditch? (Plants of PA says "dry, open woods", so I shouldn't be too surprised).

But, witch hazel, of moist, rocky woods?

But, winterberry holly, shrub of Sourlands forested wetlands?

Water is magical in these landscapes - a rill, a trickle, a brook, or bog. The plants find it.

Creatures of the earth of which you are one

2011-06-12T20:04:00.000-07:00

spiraling open

crinkled like a newborn, unfolding from safety and in to the sun

where the creatures of the earth will visit your lately smooth skin

where you will find tiny things of great importance, things I may not notice

where you, yourself will be tiny, then great, tiny again

changeable

and fledgling each minute I watch you

sometimes bristly

cunning

or beautiful

hidden within yourself

A few words for my son as told by the creatures of the earth:

Meadow phlox (Phlox maculata), Fulshaw Craeg
Two-flowered cynthia (Krigia biflora), Sourlands
Hearts a burstin' (Euonymus americanus), Sourlands
Alumroot (Heuchera americana), Sourlands
Snipe fly on violet leaf, Sourlands
Black swallowtail chrysalis, Sourlands
Baltimore checkerspot chrysalis, Sourlands
Tachinid? fly, Minnewaska
Crab spider on red clover, Catkills
Moth near talus slope, Catkills
Polyphemus moth, Catkills

Elderberry in the meadow

2011-06-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

Elderberry in use by the animal kingdom:

for food and launching off into the summer sky

for a treehouse

for medicine

Black swallowtail

2011-06-08T09:24:00.000-07:00

June 7, 10PM: Black swallowtail caterpillar on chickasaw plum prunings.

Looks the same as 6 hours previous.

June 8, 7AM: Black swallowtail chrysalis

I can't fathom this transformation. The chrysalis is attached to the twig by its anal proleg (that term takes a touch of the wonderment away.) and by two short silken strands (can't imagine what they're called).

The End or My Son Is Now Awake and Tired of Playing Solo.

Caterpillars

2011-06-07T13:57:00.000-07:00

June 1, 10:36AM: Baltimore checkerspot caterpillar on cage around turtleheads.

I moved a few withered caterpillars from elsewhere in the meadow to the turtleheads in the wetlands garden. They find their way to non-host plants like sedges and rushes, and I move them back to a host plant, hopefully where there are few caterpillars to compete with. I caged the turtleheads to prevent deer browse on the plant (and the caterpillar) and birds from plucking the spiny creature.

12:06PM: Chrysalis formed.

Belly of the chrysalis.

June 2: Black swallowtail caterpillar on dill from the garden.

I brought all inside and replenished the dill every few days. Immense caterpillar droppings, so I put the caterpillar, vase, and herbs into an attractive Home Depot bucket and placed the assemblage on a table in the dining room (just days after dusting, the cliches - can't have anything nice and clean twice a year, whether it needs it or not come to mind). The caterpillar grew by 50% in just a couple days.

June 7, 4PM: Black swallowtail caterpillar on chickasaw plum prunings.

I added a couple trimmings to the bucket. Just in time. As of last night, the caterpillar began forming its chrysalis.

Meadow's Progress - June 6

2011-06-07T13:55:00.001-07:00

Blooming:
Elderberry

Fading:
Multiflora rose

Done: (blogger, I am not gonna fight you on this stupid underlining I didn't ask for)
Blackberry

Meadow's progress - June 1

2011-06-07T13:46:00.000-07:00

Beginning to flower:
Elderberry

Mid-bloom:
Multiflora rose

Fading:
Blackberry

Done:
Wild geranium
Ragwort

The Gardens

2011-06-07T13:10:00.000-07:00

Our reclaimed wetlands garden. Each year it recruits more species. Last year the blue flag bloomed profusely, this year far less so... last year's drought? increasing competition from sedges and other herbs? Iris occupies hummocks in swamps.

Our perennial border around the vegetable garden - New Jersey tea and red clover flowers with echinacea foliage at the edges of the photograph. A fritillary pollinates the New Jersey tea.

The vegetable garden - chickasaw plum, onions, cilantro in flower, kale in seed, asparagus catching the light. The early morning - dew on the leaves, the sun beginning to rise over the forest's edge, all quiet but for the noisy birds, me alone - I love this leisure time in the garden.

Memorial Day weekend

2011-05-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

Fleabane (Erigeron sp.) pollinator

Yellow stargrass (Hypoxis hirsuta) pollinated (stamens turning dark)

Two-flowered cynthia (Krigia biflora) & pollinator

Lady beetle on blade of grass

Box turtle and walking stick

Little evening primrose (Oenothera perennis) flowers and foliage above. A new plant for me, found at FoHVOS' Skyview Preserve.

Another new plant, same preserve. Spring forget-me-not (Myosotis verna). Flowers closeup (foliage of Vicia sp. to the right), foliage, and raceme.

Gone for a walk...

2011-05-28T18:48:00.000-07:00

Early Summer Wildflowers

I usually figure there's a lull in wildflowers that starts in late May and lasts through to July. I'm sure a lot of this has to do with deer overbrowse, and all of the plants I'm not seeing bloom. Nevertheless, the logic runs like this: in the spring, many of the woodland floor plants receive their greatest amount of sun, before the canopy leafs out. They bloom during or shortly after this period of greatest light availability. This is a truism for spring ephemerals, but presumably also pertains to the next generation of woodlanders: bellwort, showy orchis, violets, violet wood sorrel...

The meadow plants, on the other hand, are in less of a "hurry" and tend to bloom later in the season -- sun availability being fairly constant. Many make their decisions about how many flowers to produce based on the bounty of the current season -- certainly the case for asters and ironweeds and heleniums and the like -- and not the case for hepaticas or bloodroots, woodlanders which bloom (or not) based on the banked root-food of prior seasons.

At any rate, there seems to be a quiet time, as the woodlanders diminish in blooming species but before the heavy-hitters of the meadow commence. This in-between time is punctuated by some great standouts (black cohosh always comes to mind, as does purple milkweed), but the rate of blooming seems surely less to me.

Today I took a short walk seeking out some of the "in-betweeners". Many were plants with fealty to specific niches, perhaps areas of low competition -- there were several interesting species in the mossy, acidic, somewhat droughty open oak woods near the pond. Here I shall begin, with...

Vaccinium stamineum, known as deerberry though it is unclear to me why, its relatives at least (other Vacciniums, Lyonia, etc.) being among the less-favored browse plants in our local flora. Differentiated from blueberries and huckleberries by the open flaring bell-shaped flower. Otherwise looking quite generically heath-y, leaves slightly fuzzy, stems not unlike black huckleberry...

Hypoxis hirsuta, yellow stargrass, I never understood the "hirsuta" until I took this macro photograph and saw the hairs on the leaf-blades. The plant is only about 6" tall, maybe 8", so I guess I never got down there real close before.

Hieracium venosum, this photo and following. Rattlesnake weed, one of Rachel's favorite "underdog" plants along with miterwort and anything pin-headed (like Eleocharis). The foliage is pretty much all basal, so this plant's niche is in extremely dry woods where the barren soils reduce competition. Often found among chestnut oaks, but only in more open woods.

I meandered down towards the skunk cabbage past the end of the pond. I presume the whole pond was once a skunk-cabbage filled low swamp along a stream. I imagine that cinnamon and royal ferns lived there too, maybe some blue-flag iris or marsh marigold too (this was the olden days, after all), or at least some black ash... there's a similar swampy oxbow downstream with the Osmundas and Fraxinus nigra in full regalia still.

I was headed there to check the spring cress for mature seeds (not ready yet), and among the green siliques saw this Stellaria longifolia, which has all kinds of common-name mismash but I think of as a longleaf chickweed - the "native" chickweed.

I cut up through the sliver of old woods that divided pond from fields a century ago, to where the double-trunked linden stands. One trunk fell last winter, but lower branches of that trunk are surviving on a sliver of Xylem still raggedly attached to the stump. So, I got a close-up of this (soon-to-flower?) linden, leafy bracts fully formed.

Many yellow flowers about now... the rattlesnake weed, king devil hawkweed, cinquefoil, the last of golden ragworts... and this Cynthia (Krigia biflora). Ever notice the cool gray-green of their foliage and stems, succulent but want, almost orchid-like? Very pretty, with a dandelion-like flower but in a deeper, more orange hue.

For a few years I just saw this plant as a basal rosette, looking vaguely like a less finely-rendered wild yam root. I think it was my "mystery plant" of 2008 or 2009. Finally I broke down and asked a botanist I had the privilege of working with for a few days. "Carrion flower" he said... Smilax herbacea. An herbaceous, vining greenbriar. I guess the deer nailed it too often and it was a while before I found my own individuals in flower. Of course, this one was blooming beautifully just fifty paces from my front door, that's how it seems to go with plants.

Bird droppings lead to ferns

2011-05-26T07:34:00.001-07:00

At ease and looking like a bird dropping, a moth on a blue flag iris blade

I haven't attempted to identify this moth. The library had only one book on moths - one with some color, but mostly black and white images. The printing plates weren't lined up - blurry. Many moths are blurry like nightjars. Cryptic wings, dusty.

Dusty with the stuff that makes them fly, so said a voice from my childhood. Don't handle them too much, the dust comes off, then they won't be able to fly. Can't recall the owner of that voice.

A caterpillar on a sensitive fern leaf

From just a bit of research, I'll guess it is an early instar of spicebush swallowtail. I've never heard of a caterpillar eating a fern. Ferns...Not much wildlife value, comes a more recent voice. From what I've observed it is true, so let me challenge my assumptions.

In Caterpillars of Eastern North America by David L. Wagner, two entries show under ferns as host plants - pink-shaded fern moth and black arches moth. Pink-shaded looks like this:

Yes, they look like Goldie's woodfern, a spectacular fern that we found in a nearby forested wetlands. It is on New Jersey's List of Endangered Plant Species and Plant Species of Concern.

Pink-shaded's common foodplants are "ferns, such as New York fern." I will be looking more closely at New York fern from June to October (2 generations).

Black arches is a generalist, among a variety of meadow and early successional woody foodplants, it eats bracken. Wagner suggests seeking the caterpillar in moist to wet meadows with abundant goldenrod in the autumn.

Cinnamon fern (Osmunda cinnamomea)

Birds use the fuzz from cinnamon fern to build nests.

American Wildlife & Plants: A Guide to Wildlife Food Habits shows just a few animals eating ferns, especially evergreen ones: ruffed grouse - Rattlesnake, woodfern (no species noted), and Christmas fern leaves; deer and hares - Christmas and others.

To be continued...

Dividing the leeks and the loaves: the wild feeds the hungry crowd

2011-05-24T11:13:00.000-07:00

Typical wild leek habitat in the Sourlands

Smaller than poppy seed, these mites(?) crawled upon the leek leaves.

Wild leek and spring beauty

Finding food that agrees with my stomach is difficult to find.

Tuning into an NPR cooking show, I listened to a caller ask for recipes for pickling wild leeks. "It's ramps season," she breathed into the phone. "Oh yes," chuckled the host.

After discussing "rampinis" (the caller's term for a martini seasoned with pickled wild ramps), the host stopped simpering and became serious, "You know I've heard that ramps are becoming rare in some areas because people are so interested in them."

"Oh no," replied the caller. "There's so many of them. People leave them alone." I suppose she's not a person then, because it seems as though she is harvesting them. Grammar aside, I'm prone to many errors myself, I'm concerned.

If every foodie, gourmand, locavore, Edible Jersey reader, wildcrafter, hiker, and curious bystander sought wild leeks in my area, there would be no wild leeks left. Period.

Yes, period.

And, that's all she wrote...my son just woke up.

Garden

2011-05-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

Working through drizzle and hunger, pressing my bladder's capacity to new limits, we sped through the last of the big planting in the garden - tomatoes, peppers, beans. Grandma was over caring for our son.

In the right foreground, the giant Solomon's seal is thriving - last year it provided enough roots to make tinctures for us, two friends, and a gift for another. This year it has spread even more and we ate a couple stems like asparagus. It was tasty and unlike many wild edibles needed only brief cooking.

Many wild edible books advise boiling greens in many changes of water - not much tastes so good with that much cooking. Sure the tannins are leached out, but I'd prefer fresher spring greens after a long winter of long stored apples and meat and increasing bitter potatoes.

Also pictured on the right is a 5' tall beach plum raised from seed. Incredible blooms this year - and for the first time.

Onion starts from Agway and our greenhouse are doing well, and we're getting nice broccoli-like florets from the purple kale. It's quite lovely with purple-blue-green stems and brilliant yellow flowers. And, so much easier to cultivate than broccoli.

Meadow's progress

2011-05-16T11:16:00.000-07:00

Meadow - 5/15

Meadow - 5/14

Weather changes quickly in spring.

Sing sang sung

2011-05-12T13:14:00.000-07:00

Found American ginseng a few days ago

More walking

2011-05-11T06:07:00.000-07:00

Along the Teetertown Ravine road:

Solomon's plume (Maianthemum racemosum)

Meadow garlic (Allium canadense)

Beetle on early meadow rue.

I'll go with early meadow-rue (Thalictrum dioicum). Moist or rocky woods, ravines, alluvial terraces. Yes, I'd like to make my home on an alluvial terrace.

Diapers are done and sun's out, to the laundry line...

Days of walking and not much sleep

2011-05-10T06:47:00.000-07:00

Woodland sunshine along a rill, Senecio sp.

Diabase boulder field with fun plants like doll's eyes, bladdernut, American chestnut, and paw paw

Mystery Geum species along a wooded rill.

Transect with invasives removed, but no woody recruitment...lots of seeds in this degraded (pastured??, then logged and then clogged with multiflora rose) but diverse section of forest. Too many deer...

Blackhaw in bloom

My son needs break along the trail and we find last year's nests.

Warm sunshine, a good place, and company helps me keep going...

My son, 5 1/2 months, seems to be in the midst of a growth spurt...restless nighttime sleep with many of wake ups, short daytime naps, increased desire to be close and held, and bursts of newborn baby crying jags that make my husband and I nostalgic.

"Ohhhh, the newborn cry," we sigh as though caressing a Valentine from long ago--a soft, velveteen heart glued to a doily, signed in ink by someone whose sharp-edges have been softened by an aged pencil eraser.

Time and distance, time and distance makes all things better.

We rambled, despite poor sleep, far this weekend. "Just a short walk up the High Road to the transect, then right back," we agreed. Jared carried a short but awkward fence to place around Canada lilies that are overbrowsed (never flowering) by deer. I carried our son and an overstuffed backpack.

I've seen one Canada lily flower in the Sourlands since moving here about 6 years ago. We returned the the site many times and never found it again. We've since honed our plant identification skills in general and specifically for deer ravaged nubs, twigs, and dwarfed herbs. I can say that, yes, there are many Canada lilies in rich, moist woodlands near my home. Most have just one or two leaves, so stressed by deer browse.

Those of us who bite our fingernails can relate to the lilies--they try to grow, but then nip, nip...grow, nip, nip...grow, nip, gr, nip, nip...g, nip. Not much left to nip, but a misshapen shadow.

Driven by the misshapen shadows and memory of a single orange bloom in a tangle of multiflora rose, we walked on, photographing, observing. Of course, we rambled the long way home.

Showy orchis

***

Yesterday was much the same, though for the first half of the day we had more company. Here are images from our walk at Cushetunk:

Pennywort, another plant on the New Jersey Natural Heritage list

This moth(?) chased away a swallowtail 3x its size.

Wild geranium, beautiful and so named "wild" rather than "false" geranium, I wonder

Sarsparilla - a tremendous component of the herb layer in portions of the forest. A friend that I know well from the Catskills and rarely from the Sourlands. A treat to see it in bloom.

Perfoliate bellwort is often browsed at home, but we saw more robust colonies in bloom...browsed there, too, unfortunately

Along the powerline right of way we found:

Pinxter bloom azalea in flower. In the shaded edge with pale petals.

In the sun with darker pink petals.

The delicate branching pattern of our azalea.

Jared read that in the 1950s pinxter was the 3rd most common shrub at Cushetunk. Though looking hard, We saw no pinxters blooming in the forest. Under the canopy, the pinxter drops down to ground cover size. In the image above it is dwarfed by lowbush blueberry...in the forest, where forest nesting birds shrubs to raise young...

Too many deer.

The azalea can grow faster than the deer can browse it when receives extra shot of sun. Pinxter can grow 10' tall, maybe more, and in the sun at Cushetunk it was no more the 6.5' tall. More typically it was hip high.

Notice a theme? Good, now eat some wild hunted, Jersey grown white tailed deer.

One morning ten years or more ago

2011-05-08T06:07:00.000-07:00

Meadow, May 7
Calamus and golden ragwort (beginning to bloom) are strong presences. Wild geranium is blooming also. Turtleheads and Joe Pye are up.

One morning ten years or more ago, I could have gotten a call at 8:30 AM:

"Went to the Melody Bar for Monday Pabst Blue Ribbon 50¢ night. I'm not feeling so great...I've been up all night."

or, another call:

"Hey, my car's been impounded by Lew Blum...Yeah, parked it near Tritone. Didn't see the sign, didn't see the driveway...OK, yeah, I think it's prolly in South Philly...dunno, maybe you're right, could be North...thanks, yeah, I'll wait for ya. Appreciate it."

***

I was a single fine arts major - photography, which by many standards is not a fine art, and that's wholly fine by me, possibly preferable. I was an early bird. And I was an older student returning to complete a Bachelor's degree. Because my transcript looked something like a partially finished crossword puzzle, I was looking forward to earning that piece of paper.

My roommate would roll into our dorm room at 8AM, and collapse onto her bed just as I was leaving for class or the studio. We greeted each other and her eyes closed. In a way, our schedules lined up well.

***

At closing time, I walked home from the Melody Bar's eighties dance night, passing the tall walls of the hospital buildings, underneath the enclosed walkways that connect one building to another. I shivered, cold and sweaty, nervous. I wondered each time if I should have spent some of my wages, $12.50 an hour temp work at Dow Jones, for a cab. I never met anyone on the way.

Now the Melody Bar is long gone.

***

Last weekend, we received a call at 8:30AM, "Hey, want to go for a bird walk?"

***

This weekend, 8:30AM, the phone rang, "Hi, got your message. The powerline company cut some ironwood that I can pick up?"

On April 25

2011-05-05T10:54:00.000-07:00

Catching up with photographs from less than 2 weeks ago.

The Osmunda swamp, as we call it. In an old oxbow along the brook, now filled with cinnamon, interrupted, and royal ferns. On higher ground around the oxbow are Christmas and maiden hair ferns, and I bet, a couple others I am forgetting. The skunk cabbage in the background is becoming tattered already.

Old woods meets new. Can you find the former field's edge?

Don't tell anyone this, but the leaves are making the forest tough to navigate. Landmarks are disappearing, even in our severely deer browsed area.

2011-05-03T11:54:00.000-07:00

April 23, 2011

Multiflora rose mowed down! April 27, 2011

That forest canopy closed just like that. Spring beauties are on their last flower or so, and just as well because here come the lawn mowers. Trout lily is long (week or 2?) in seed and the foliage beginning to bleach out. Mayapple is beginning to flower. Long spurred violet, showy orchis... saw a tulip tree flower bud on the forest floor.

All the birds are here...the warblers I can't see or ID by song. An acquaintance recently said, "Birding by ear. When I started there was no such thing. There were so many birds around, wasn't necessary... war stories...I see rare bird sightings posted online and I think, 'That's rare?'."

I don't know when he got his start in birding, but frankly, even if was a while ago, it's less than a generation. Boy, I'm still waiting for that Kentucky warbler that went missing a couple years ago to come back. To quote my spouse, "Come on people, stop f***ing up." In this case, I mean, stop f***ing up the habitat.

I do suspect that last year's Baltimore oriole is back to defend his territory. I recognize his song.

Eastern phoebe is nesting on the house and it is a great joy to watch them hunt.

A bear visited our feeder (empty) a week ago. Jared saw him in the middle of the night, but the time I got up - the bear was gone. I admit to feeling nervous.

As a rule, I am respectfully cautious of large animals. Bears are different. Bears are like people. Just something about them.

Down the road a piece

2011-04-27T11:18:00.000-07:00

My husband admires Atamasco lily along a South Carolina road.

Christmas fern and Dutchman's breeches, a Hunterdon County roadside

Prairie restoration, Highway 12 and Hackbarth Road, Koshkonong Township, Wisconsin

A Catskills valley, Delaware Township

?, New Jersey Turnpike

Assisting vernal pool species cross the road, Sourlands

Cormorant and Route 1, Princeton, New Jersey