On this day in the dusk,
a golden nine bark bush
harbors the call
of the lacewing.
Diminutive sentient being,
a first sign of fall -
a change signaler.
Calling for hours without pause.
Throbbing heart-like.
Comforting, assuring,
quiet, muffled,
yet penetrating.
More felt than anything.
Soft, persistent, yet measured.
Mysterious.
Slowed by cool evening air,
the four, clear, green,
transparent, veined wings
rub methodically.
Being curious, always curious -
I pause to count the pulsing calls -
12 calls every 15 seconds.
A slow,
ancient song
is given birth.
NOTES:
For a mid-August, these were uncommonly cold nights.
Temperatures in the evening hovered around the high
40's to mid 50's. Freezing temperature slows the general
activity of insects. (For example, somewhere below 50
usually brings a halt to flying.) In warm weather, the
lacewing's song pulsed around 120 cycles per minute.
Green Lacewing (Chrysoperia). The larvae are general
predators of aphids, mealy bugs, thrips, mites, whitefly,
and many other insects. The Green Lacewing has
beautifully transparent wings and rather lazy, floppy
flight. Adult males and females both sing - sometimes
alone, sometimes in duet. The have large yellow-coppery
eyes and very long antennae.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Thank You Public Radio . . .
This past week, we headed to Subway for our favorite lunch order - seafood, piled high with so many veggies that they fall out all the edges as you sink your teeth into this delicacy.
Clem went in to order, while I sat in the car listening to classical Public Radio, windows rolled down to let a lovely summer day float through the car.
I sat there absorbed in the music. It was a rousing rendition of Saint Saens' Danse Macabre (in English, its name translates to "Dance of Death"). This composition is a tone poem - in which its composer used the music to depict visual images of ghouls dancing away.
Horrors - but not about the music! My reverie and enjoyment became interpreted by a very public quarrel between a couple. The man was doing most of the shouting and using the s-word and the f-word liberally.
And double horrors - their car was parked next to the driver's side of my car. The only way I could roll the window up was to get out of the car - and I definitely did not want to encounter this verbally abusive man in any manner.
What to do?! I did not want to have my air polluted by his vile language (not that I don't use the s-word occasionally). Meanwhile, Danse Macabre played on - oblivious to what was happening to me. And then the little light bulb in my head lit up!
Gradually, I turned up the volume. The closer they got to my car - and the louder their dispute - the more I turned up the volume. Until the orchestra was all I could hear. Meanwhile, Clem could hear the whole thing from across the parking lot. He knew exactly what his dear wife was up to.
Eventually, the couple got into their car and drove away, a five-year old, blond-haired little girl trying to be invisible in the back seat. Just then, the piece came to its ending quiet measures - the dance was over and the ghouls retreated to wherever ghouls go when they are not dancing. The timing could not have been more impeccable.
I sat in the car laughing and laughing. I have no idea if these two feuding people ever caught on to what I was doing or whether they were so immersed that they did not notice other heads turn toward them as they shredded each other into pieces. I know I will never hear this familiar piece of music again, without remembering my unusual use of it to spare me from all those f-words and s-words. Hopefully, I will not hear it in a public concert, for I will have to work very hard to squelch my laughter - the kind of concert that if you cough, six people turn around and glare at you.
Thank you Public Radio. I shall have to give you an extra donation this year for providing service beyond the call of duty.
Clem went in to order, while I sat in the car listening to classical Public Radio, windows rolled down to let a lovely summer day float through the car.
I sat there absorbed in the music. It was a rousing rendition of Saint Saens' Danse Macabre (in English, its name translates to "Dance of Death"). This composition is a tone poem - in which its composer used the music to depict visual images of ghouls dancing away.
Horrors - but not about the music! My reverie and enjoyment became interpreted by a very public quarrel between a couple. The man was doing most of the shouting and using the s-word and the f-word liberally.
And double horrors - their car was parked next to the driver's side of my car. The only way I could roll the window up was to get out of the car - and I definitely did not want to encounter this verbally abusive man in any manner.
What to do?! I did not want to have my air polluted by his vile language (not that I don't use the s-word occasionally). Meanwhile, Danse Macabre played on - oblivious to what was happening to me. And then the little light bulb in my head lit up!
Gradually, I turned up the volume. The closer they got to my car - and the louder their dispute - the more I turned up the volume. Until the orchestra was all I could hear. Meanwhile, Clem could hear the whole thing from across the parking lot. He knew exactly what his dear wife was up to.
Eventually, the couple got into their car and drove away, a five-year old, blond-haired little girl trying to be invisible in the back seat. Just then, the piece came to its ending quiet measures - the dance was over and the ghouls retreated to wherever ghouls go when they are not dancing. The timing could not have been more impeccable.
I sat in the car laughing and laughing. I have no idea if these two feuding people ever caught on to what I was doing or whether they were so immersed that they did not notice other heads turn toward them as they shredded each other into pieces. I know I will never hear this familiar piece of music again, without remembering my unusual use of it to spare me from all those f-words and s-words. Hopefully, I will not hear it in a public concert, for I will have to work very hard to squelch my laughter - the kind of concert that if you cough, six people turn around and glare at you.
Thank you Public Radio. I shall have to give you an extra donation this year for providing service beyond the call of duty.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Wimp Weed Assault!
When our backs were turned away from our garden and doing other things, our garden exploded! Including the weeds.
Now you need to know, we usually do little gardening in August. It is the month to sit back and enjoy the fruits of our April and May labors. But this year, everything garden-wise has been topsy-turvy.
April meant the ground remained still frozen. Pea pods, usually planted on April 1st, would have required an auger to drill holes in order to drop wrinkled seeds into the ground. Of course with such cold soil, even peas would not have germinated.
By the end of May, many perennials still had not come up - leading us to wonder how much loss we suffered due to the harsh winter. And making gardening difficult, due to our hesitation to dig in bare places for fear we might destroy any chances of life for what had been there a year ago.
By mid-June, most everything had pushed its way into the light. It was much like years of gardening in the Northwoods, where the growing season is short and long daylight hours compensated, still giving us lush tomatoes by mid-August.
This June was monsoon-month, when records for amounts of rainfall were broken right and left. The good part of all the deluges was that it broke the drought from last year - in which it was as if someone turned off the rain-spigot on a specific date during the late summer.
After all the weather commotion this summer, our garden plants must have held a meeting and decided to go for broke in July. Stuff grew taller and bigger than it ever had. The hostas were especially spectacular - with some leaves as big or bigger than extra-large dinner plates.
But gardening is not meant to be toiling away every waking hour during the summer that we dreamt about in January. There are other things that need doing in life. We traveled some - and when we returned, it was evident we had some serious work to do. No sitting around this August!
Which brings me to wimp weed. W have no idea what its "official name" is. Nor have other gardeners we have asked. But when we describe the weed, serious gardeners know exactly what we mean. This demon weed rampages through gardens. It is wimp weed's capacity to produce a million seeds on each small plant - and scatter them over the entire garden that makes it a weed with NO friends.
Wimp weed is a nice green, has pretty leaves, and likes to hide out where it thinks it can't be seen. It pulls out very easy (hence our name for it: wimp weed), not like some stubborn weeds that resist - and who believe they have a constitutional right to reside in their chosen places.
So I can say today, we now are relatively wimp-free. That is until the next batch shows up sometime during the week.
Like an Aesop's fable, this story has a moral. Though we might treasure having a wide variety of people in our lives, there are some folks who behave like wimp weed - running rampant over everyone with whom they come into contact. And though it sounds harsh, it is those folks that we must learn to recognize and remove them from our lives, in exchange for mutually loving and giving relationships, so precious and necessary for our well-being.
Now you need to know, we usually do little gardening in August. It is the month to sit back and enjoy the fruits of our April and May labors. But this year, everything garden-wise has been topsy-turvy.
April meant the ground remained still frozen. Pea pods, usually planted on April 1st, would have required an auger to drill holes in order to drop wrinkled seeds into the ground. Of course with such cold soil, even peas would not have germinated.
By the end of May, many perennials still had not come up - leading us to wonder how much loss we suffered due to the harsh winter. And making gardening difficult, due to our hesitation to dig in bare places for fear we might destroy any chances of life for what had been there a year ago.
By mid-June, most everything had pushed its way into the light. It was much like years of gardening in the Northwoods, where the growing season is short and long daylight hours compensated, still giving us lush tomatoes by mid-August.
This June was monsoon-month, when records for amounts of rainfall were broken right and left. The good part of all the deluges was that it broke the drought from last year - in which it was as if someone turned off the rain-spigot on a specific date during the late summer.
After all the weather commotion this summer, our garden plants must have held a meeting and decided to go for broke in July. Stuff grew taller and bigger than it ever had. The hostas were especially spectacular - with some leaves as big or bigger than extra-large dinner plates.
But gardening is not meant to be toiling away every waking hour during the summer that we dreamt about in January. There are other things that need doing in life. We traveled some - and when we returned, it was evident we had some serious work to do. No sitting around this August!
Which brings me to wimp weed. W have no idea what its "official name" is. Nor have other gardeners we have asked. But when we describe the weed, serious gardeners know exactly what we mean. This demon weed rampages through gardens. It is wimp weed's capacity to produce a million seeds on each small plant - and scatter them over the entire garden that makes it a weed with NO friends.
Wimp weed is a nice green, has pretty leaves, and likes to hide out where it thinks it can't be seen. It pulls out very easy (hence our name for it: wimp weed), not like some stubborn weeds that resist - and who believe they have a constitutional right to reside in their chosen places.
So I can say today, we now are relatively wimp-free. That is until the next batch shows up sometime during the week.
Like an Aesop's fable, this story has a moral. Though we might treasure having a wide variety of people in our lives, there are some folks who behave like wimp weed - running rampant over everyone with whom they come into contact. And though it sounds harsh, it is those folks that we must learn to recognize and remove them from our lives, in exchange for mutually loving and giving relationships, so precious and necessary for our well-being.
Friday, August 8, 2014
No Letty, You Will Not Go To Jail
We were at the top of the world. Alpine tundra stretched out all around us. As always, Rocky Mountain National Park was a place of renewal for us. A balance between spectacular views and the tiny little plants that covered this meadow far above the tree line.
A conversation broke into my reverie. A mother was bending over a little girl, probably five or six years old. In the little girl's hand was a tiny purple flower. Her upset mother said in loud tones, Letty you can't pick the flowers here. You will go to jail! I suspect her loud voice was not just for Letty, but for everyone around the little girl.
Fortunately, Letty's father was the more reasonable parent, intervening in the conversation between Letty and her mother.. No Letty, you will not go to jail. But you shouldn't pick the flowers in this Park. Especially up here so high - the flowers are very fragile and precious. They take a long time to grow. If everyone picked flowers, soon there would not be any left for others to enjoy. The family drifted away, Letty still holding the tiny flower that had captured her attention.
No Letty you will not go to jail. I wonder if her little heart thumped fast in her chest with the threat of jail time. A tiny flower that so transfixed her attention will remain an image in her memory for a very long time.
Small, but life changing events in our lives. Sounds of a police siren you think might be for you, and your relief as the patrol car whizzes by - intent on something else. The faces of hungry children. The splendor of places like this park that I so love. The Western forests decimated by pine blister beetles. The first tulips bulbs to push through still frozen ground in the spring. My daughters just emerging from my womb. The aftermath of a flood or tornado. The sight of ice floes in the North Pacific. My husband's serious face as we pledged our vows to each other.
Memories fixed in our minds - some beautiful, some tragic, and some calling us to change. And now Letty's little hand. I never did see her face. But I will remember for a long time this little girl who had fallen in love with a flower just an inch tall.
A conversation broke into my reverie. A mother was bending over a little girl, probably five or six years old. In the little girl's hand was a tiny purple flower. Her upset mother said in loud tones, Letty you can't pick the flowers here. You will go to jail! I suspect her loud voice was not just for Letty, but for everyone around the little girl.
Fortunately, Letty's father was the more reasonable parent, intervening in the conversation between Letty and her mother.. No Letty, you will not go to jail. But you shouldn't pick the flowers in this Park. Especially up here so high - the flowers are very fragile and precious. They take a long time to grow. If everyone picked flowers, soon there would not be any left for others to enjoy. The family drifted away, Letty still holding the tiny flower that had captured her attention.
No Letty you will not go to jail. I wonder if her little heart thumped fast in her chest with the threat of jail time. A tiny flower that so transfixed her attention will remain an image in her memory for a very long time.
Small, but life changing events in our lives. Sounds of a police siren you think might be for you, and your relief as the patrol car whizzes by - intent on something else. The faces of hungry children. The splendor of places like this park that I so love. The Western forests decimated by pine blister beetles. The first tulips bulbs to push through still frozen ground in the spring. My daughters just emerging from my womb. The aftermath of a flood or tornado. The sight of ice floes in the North Pacific. My husband's serious face as we pledged our vows to each other.
Memories fixed in our minds - some beautiful, some tragic, and some calling us to change. And now Letty's little hand. I never did see her face. But I will remember for a long time this little girl who had fallen in love with a flower just an inch tall.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Why Does Your Town Look Like My Town?
One of the attractions of travel is experiencing how people live in other places. A place's unique sights and sounds give us pause and take us out of the little boxes in which we live from day to day. We all need to be shaken loose from our own little worlds. To see things through other peoples' eyes. Perhaps breaking down some of the we-they barriers between us.
When we were tent-camping, we used to go to grocery stores whenever we emerged from wilderness places and needed to restock our traveling pantry. Grocery stores also were great places to see what the "locals" ate and how they constructed their little boxes in ways that differed from ours.
Or we ate in small cafes and listened to the chatter of people talking about things that make up their lives. Nothing like being in a cafe where ranchers all wore baseball hats advertising products needed to make their ranches work. Now it is Mac and Don's, Subway, Perkins et al.
Local newspapers were a good source of the fabric of how lives were woven together. Even when I couldn't read the language, the photos told me a lot about how life happened in a particular place.
Not anymore. It is as if all the places I travel (and beyond) have been dumped into a huge blender to homogenize life everywhere. Folks eat the same things I can buy in my local supermarket chain - maybe a little more spicy or less spicy, but generally the same food products produced by just a few mega-corporations.
Turn on the TV in a motel or hotel room. Thanks to the "miracle of cable," we all watch the same stuff and hear the same homogenized versions of political issues. Whether it is war in Gaza, Putin's latest audacities, or Washington's paralysis. Doesn't matter whether I am in New Mexico, Maine, or Oregon. Same old, same old news. Local papers are hard to come by - replaced by USA Today. And universal evening programs are even at the same time as they are at home. PBS, the Discovery Channel, or National Geographic anyone?
Walk down the street. People wear the same things they do at home, with only small regional differences. Even when I travel to countries beyond the one in which I live. Thanks to Target, Walmart, or other chains. Do you realize when you buy an article of clothing that you think is unique for you, these chains are dictating how you look - just like all the other folks in the country?
Only languages differ - and with the universality of English, only local accents tell me (sometimes) I am from somewhere else. Even if I watch BBC, where Brits still sound like Brits, the accents that once told me what part of England they might be from are disappearing as folks speak "perfect unaccented English."A treasured memory was when we walked into a restaurant in Germany and were handed a menu in German. Only when I asked the meaning of a word on the menu did the wait-person exclaim Oh, I thought you were German! and rush off for the English version.
No longer do I need to travel away from home to enlarge my worldview - because your town is just like my town. What a loss for us all!
At least the mountains and the seas retain their distinctive characteristics. The horror of the thought of dumping the Rocky Mountains into the blender with the Smokies. Or the Mediterranean with the North Pacific! Wild places still manage to push back against all this cultural assimilation and sameness!
When we were tent-camping, we used to go to grocery stores whenever we emerged from wilderness places and needed to restock our traveling pantry. Grocery stores also were great places to see what the "locals" ate and how they constructed their little boxes in ways that differed from ours.
Or we ate in small cafes and listened to the chatter of people talking about things that make up their lives. Nothing like being in a cafe where ranchers all wore baseball hats advertising products needed to make their ranches work. Now it is Mac and Don's, Subway, Perkins et al.
Local newspapers were a good source of the fabric of how lives were woven together. Even when I couldn't read the language, the photos told me a lot about how life happened in a particular place.
Not anymore. It is as if all the places I travel (and beyond) have been dumped into a huge blender to homogenize life everywhere. Folks eat the same things I can buy in my local supermarket chain - maybe a little more spicy or less spicy, but generally the same food products produced by just a few mega-corporations.
Turn on the TV in a motel or hotel room. Thanks to the "miracle of cable," we all watch the same stuff and hear the same homogenized versions of political issues. Whether it is war in Gaza, Putin's latest audacities, or Washington's paralysis. Doesn't matter whether I am in New Mexico, Maine, or Oregon. Same old, same old news. Local papers are hard to come by - replaced by USA Today. And universal evening programs are even at the same time as they are at home. PBS, the Discovery Channel, or National Geographic anyone?
Walk down the street. People wear the same things they do at home, with only small regional differences. Even when I travel to countries beyond the one in which I live. Thanks to Target, Walmart, or other chains. Do you realize when you buy an article of clothing that you think is unique for you, these chains are dictating how you look - just like all the other folks in the country?
Only languages differ - and with the universality of English, only local accents tell me (sometimes) I am from somewhere else. Even if I watch BBC, where Brits still sound like Brits, the accents that once told me what part of England they might be from are disappearing as folks speak "perfect unaccented English."A treasured memory was when we walked into a restaurant in Germany and were handed a menu in German. Only when I asked the meaning of a word on the menu did the wait-person exclaim Oh, I thought you were German! and rush off for the English version.
No longer do I need to travel away from home to enlarge my worldview - because your town is just like my town. What a loss for us all!
At least the mountains and the seas retain their distinctive characteristics. The horror of the thought of dumping the Rocky Mountains into the blender with the Smokies. Or the Mediterranean with the North Pacific! Wild places still manage to push back against all this cultural assimilation and sameness!
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