From the category archives:

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Herptile Rehousing Administration

by fred on June 18, 2013

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I know for a fact that this is the kind of thing that gives far too many people the creeps, and so I understand and accept my eccentricity in this regard. Looking up to see the five foot long black rat snake sunning himself on top of the barn door made me grin where most would have shuddered or gone to fetch the rifle.

He was there the next day as well, not surprisingly, since this south facing wall and a horizontal repose some 10 feet off the ground was a great, protected place near the barn loft and its associated small edible creatures. Take some sun, snack a little, then go explore.

I suppose he was exploring yesterday when Ann opened the gate to the chicken yard and spotted him lounging in the upper story of the hen house, hens out ranging free at the time. I’m not exactly sure how I heard her holler, except that when Mother Hen hollers for fear of her chicks, the volume is sufficient to muster the Army of One, even over the loud murmur of the creek.

Said army made contingencies last year for just this kind of battle. Although this was a smaller snake than Jumbo who attempted last year to swallow an almost-grown hen, because this somewhat smaller specimen was deep inside the coop with several roost bars and such to wrap himself around, I decided for the first time ever to use something other than my bare hands for the extraction.

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At the end of last summer, after my third or fourth run-in with Jumbo with an egg in his mouth, I decided he needed a road trip. Then he wisely disappeared for the season. But because of this, yesterday I was fore-armed with my handy-dandy snake noose, made from a piece of flexible pipe and a bit of nylon rope as pictured.

And that is when the dance commenced–me, the snake, and the prancing wife, round and round, first movement performed in the chicken yard. The suspect was at first calm and cooperative, then less so, coiling, tail rattling, and finally made a run for it, resisting arrest, smart enough to avoid the loop at the end of the rope. But not for long.

Snake is now in “hand” and several pounds of him dangle from the noose. Ann refused to hold the pillow case fetched for containment. Capture-apparatus plus writhing snake is passed awkwardly to leaping assistant. I open the sack, pull snake’s back end from the roost bar he has since managed to grab firmly onto, and slide the yellow pillowcase up over the length of the body like a sock until contained. Whew!

Back at the house, she ran to get my car keys for the Reptile Road Trip, during which time the inmate became an outmate. Seems there was a hole in the corner of the pillowcase. Noose is redeployed, more running, more excited near-hysterical exhortations as if this was a Gaboon Viper and I was a swooning school girl, and finally, the poor wild creature was contained in a blue pillowcase with ruffles.

She drove. I executed the live release a mile from the house. I’m not saying which direction, given the strict prohibitions of the Herptile Rehousing Administration. Suffice it to say there are empty barns nearby, and mice just as tasty as in our barn loft. But not serving chicken wings.

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Garden Notes Mid June ’13

by fred on June 14, 2013

barnGarden480At last, after two plantings of saved heirloom seeds stillborn in the cold soil, a third generation is birthed and growing. Goose Beans have been the staple of our stable of legumes, Tendercrop or some such bush bean making up the balance.

So the thought that I might fail to raise bean one this year has been plaguing my sense of gardening self-worth. Consequently, the mere emergence of those big fat cotyledons above the soil this morning–now finally warm enough this late spring to support life–has given me inordinate hope for harvest, yet.

Sugar Snap vines tied up against the cattle panels with greenbox-found baling twine, have survived the winds that accompany every-other-day storms, and the flowers now sport 1 inch flat fruits. In another week, if we don’t get hail, we’ll eat the rounded pods until we’re sick of them, and take bowl’s full, and some Annie’s dressing, to pot lucks that flourish this time of year in Floyd.

Mortgage Lifter tomatoes are already showing blight, while the first-time for me Celebrity are stout and clear of tell-tale spots, and hopefully will survive and offer seeds to save for next year. Amish Paste and Romas are coming along, and there are even a few frail yellow flowers showing.

I am back to the Gummy Bear “solution” for dealing with moles and voles, the latter more of a problem this year, and I’ve already lost 4 peppers and a tomato to their indiscriminate subterranean tunneling. They do NOT get the red ones.

I have a few hundred pounds of decomposed donkey poo to distribute in unplanted places, along with the rest of last year’s black compost I am putting around new plantings of zucchini, straight neck squash and cucumbers. I don’t know how much nutrition it provides to the young plants, but the dark compost does set the young greenery  strikingly against the ubiquitous gray-green grass-clipping mulch that is anywhere the soil shows through.

Rains have been almost too regular, but the creeks are running bold and boisterous, especially for this time of year. I am pulling creek water into a 35 gallon plastic can to use for spot watering, which includes the 1:20 personal nitrogenous supplement I’ve written about before.

I’m looking now for praying mantis egg cases to tie onto the fence around the garden perimeter. Seems to me they used to be easier to find, but I’m remembering when, as a teacher, I gave extra credit for certain nature-discoveries, the egg cases being one. And if the student could not be convinced to use them in this manner, I’d gladly carry them home for this. Except the one I forgot about in my office until I opened the door one morning to find a hundred tiny prayers climbing all over my office desk at the community college.

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Garden Shed

by fred on June 13, 2013

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As usual, it was a kick to experience our everyday world through the eyes of the young.

The most ordinary daily experience–finding a snake skin in the garden, for instance–becomes the thrill and horror of a new day in the country for our grand daughters.

Here, the older sends the younger into mock-panic, even though the original resident had left the building, and the skin is no more a snake than a fingernail is a person.

But what a strange way to do things, don’t you think? To molt an epidermis all at once (we slough and shed epidermal cells constantly) so that you leave husks of your former self hanging about they office, gym or family room–now that could be the subject of much conversation.

And would we be inclined to save little Johnny’s skins as he grows up–a kind of integument of memory to scrap-book our lives? But I digress.

Here’s one of our locals undergoing the process at this very moment. I just checked the wood pile. This gray rat snake is staying put, since he (it) is not able to see very well just now, the conjunctiva of the eye is also cloudy and about to be exchanged for a new one.

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So I had this moment of terrible imagination: can you see it–a family of today’s supersized Americans who all shed their intact skins at the same time–and leave skin-tents draped from any convenient itching post at the local mall. The horror!

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Small Wonders: Life Intersects Insects

by fred on June 12, 2013

Dragonfly Ambassador

I’m guessing it had landed on my back some time before I walked in from cutting the grass. Or maybe it snagged the insect in its mouth just as I opened the door, and it flew into the house accidentally.

Or maybe, the dragonfly beating at the window over my desk had intentionally seized the opportunity for us to meet and chat for a good long while yesterday afternoon. I guess I’ll never know for sure.

I grasped it as I would a bird from a mist net, to protect the wings, and carried it out the front door to release it back into its world. But it chose to stay in mine, and would not leave right away until we had gotten to know each other a bit.

I hope it was not impolite, but I watched it devour an unknown insect, extruding the fuselage of some flying food I could not quite identify, then sucking it back into its mouth again, each time a bit less left, sometimes a leg or antenna spat out like chicken bones. It used its middle pair of legs with no small degree of dexterity to turn and control the morsel, while front and rear legs kept it on the temporary bar stool of my extended index finger.

So welcome to Fred’s petting zoo. These in-the-flesh (and chitin) encounters with the intricacies of living kind other than my own always reorient me to the small marvels buzzing around and within us all our otherwise-oblivious lives.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, life perches in our hand in all its veined and articulated detail. Sometimes, we are not too busy to be good hosts.

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And Then There Were None

by fred on June 11, 2013

Pasture Play 2The emptiness and silence this morning is oppressive and deafening after having been immersed in other presence longer these past two weeks than at any time for decades.

For all of June, until my mother left yesterday, I’ve been something other than Fred First, Lone Wolf Freelance Treehugger (70%), husband (5%) and bum (25%).

With mom and my daughter and her daughters and husband, I wore so many other hats there for a while, and am hatless suddenly, and a bit lost for what to do with myself. Those times have already drifted off downstream.

The flow of time. I was in mom’s guest room just now, and found a printed copy of a little summer story we put in a frame once to give a friend, who had gained a remission from his cancer. And soon thereafter, he died.

They move downstream so quickly.

And so the old normal has flooded back in, and I’m Fred the lawn and garden tender, the blogger, the occasional photographer, dreamer, wordsmith and human servant of the dog of the house. And life goes on.

That visitation, those old once familiar roles–that was good. But so is this.

To everything there is a season. There is a time to laugh, a time to play, a time to be a grampa. And there is a time to get dirty, sweaty, and worn plumb out fighting back the entropy of relentless vegetation.

I now live in the latter season. I gotta go.

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Computer Carrion: My Hard Drive

by fred on June 10, 2013

Black Buzzard

 

Another iPhone wildlife photo op on my forced march to town last week, and appropriate ominous bird of the dead for a morning when I dread what it is I have to do:

Reformat my MacPro hard drive and RESTORE from Time Machine.

The 2008 hard drive has been spinning for much of its lifetime, and it is slowly losing its mind. Time has come for electroshock therapy. I dread it.

So today, after the house is empty of guests for the first time in almost two weeks, I’ll confront the black buzzards of the digital world (sorry, my bird friends, for the slam) and muster the courage to do what needs to be done.

If I disappear from the digital radar (I am not so sure I am even on it on the best of days anymore) then I am in computer purgatory and will hope to be back online shortly. See you on the other side.

Any techy folks out there with words of wisdom for getting Mt Lion purring again, I’m feline the love. Thanks in advance.

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One Place, Understood

by fred on June 7, 2013

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I am pleased to be able to contribute to the fine work of Richard Louv and the Child and Nature Network.

I share my recent and on-going ruminations about the urgent need to reconcile our broken bonds to nature and to place. From that guest post essay,  The Wisdom of One Place: Why We Need to Know Where We Are, I’ve pulled this excerpt:

To restore wholeness to the brokenness we’ve inflicted on the planet’s living systems, we need go no further than that one place just beyond our doors—to sense and know that accessible fragment of the whole of nature that we can see, taste, hear, smell and wrap our heads and hearts around in our own nearby terrain.

As we succeed with that reintegration of human lives with nature, we also will grow to appreciate the places where our stories unfold, to reclaim sense of place—an identity with the where of our lives in all its uniqueness of topography and history and culture. We become placed persons even as we become a renatured people.

From this reintegration with nature and place may evolve eco-empathy: an organic personal-ecological ethic that puts each of us back into the web of right relationships, back not only into local nature but into the intended natural order as stewards with a seven-generation commitment to the well-being of people and planet.

If you want to be a “field guide” for your students, children, grand children or other young people who might follow you outdoors, the Child and Nature Network has many great resources.

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In Green Pastures

by fred on June 7, 2013

Pastoral View Floyd Co VA

Also on Wednesday’s forced-march to town for the makings of s’mores and hot dogs, I stopped the car in the middle of the road (this is something you can do in Floyd County in most places) and snapped this image, and from the same place, the one I’ll post tomorrow. [click pix to enlarge]

Bonus feature: click this audio link and listen to the baaaaaahs. I especially like the deep baritone guy-sheep (I’m guessing) that adds his harsh “get outta here” bleet to the high nasal whining of the little sheeples.

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BioSpeedBump

June 6, 2013

I was not thrilled with the duty of a trip to town to gather supplies for an afternoon picnic up the valley, but the drive to town at least offered several photo-ops. This snapping turtle stared me down as I started up the last hill before the hard top. He impressed me as an ancient [...]

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Battle Buckets

June 4, 2013

Only small homeotherms with hummingbird metabolism could survive repeated dousings of creek water and enjoy it. The picture was taken about 11 yesterday morning. By 2, without being commanded to do so for the sake of their exhausted adult supervisors, the grand daughters put themselves to bed for a long nap,  with  droppings of wet [...]

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