Stop the Car!

Do you see what I see? While out birding in Orange County, NY, today I was stunned to find a zebra in the same field as a herd of donkeys and mules. His camouflage is not working so well in a field of field flowers and NY autumn grasses.

Gravestone angels

I was walking through the old section of Warwick Cemetery when I across this stone. What a frowny face. I wonder if the carver knew the man. Look at the wig, jowls and tie. He looks decidedly unhappy about his fate.


This curly-haired angel on the other hand looks positively rapturous. Or, at least she is smiling.

The same carver did this one and this angel looks worried to me, as if he were not sure of his fate. I wonder if the family had any say in the type of angel that got carved-whether they were smiling or not. I do like these better than the winged skulls though.

Warwick Garden Tour

For me, one of the highlights of June is the Warwick Valley Countryside Garden Tour. I have been going for years and in fact many of the plants in my garden; I first discovered growing in someone else's, during one of the tours. The route is self-guided and at your own pace. When I bought my ticket ($15) I was given a yellow flower sticker to wear and a tour booklet with information on each garden and explicit directions from one house to the next. At each turn along the way, there are yellow flower arrows clearly pointing the way.

This year there were 8 houses on the tour. Starting with the lovely garden in the picture, I wandered through a front yard transformed into a putting course, a wood nymph's playground outside of the community of Amity, 4 petite gardens on one block, including a white garden (the first one I had ever seen) and I ended in Greenwood Lake, NY at the most incredible lakeside property I have ever been on. Gardening in a microclimate is tough, whether on top of a mountain or lakeside. They have done an amazing job; around each curve there were surprises.

I did not find anything new that I HAD to run out and buy, but I did get lots of ideas on how to deal with the rocks. AND a yen to have my garden on one of the tours, maybe even next year.

Red Admiral Migration

While I was birding along one of my favorite powercuts yesterday, I noticed a Red Admiral butterfly. I stopped to admire it then moseyed down the path. Not too far along, I noticed another Red Admiral, then another. It slowly dawned on me that I was seeing them everywhere. I vaguely remembered that there was a butterfly, other than the Monarch, that migrated. Curious, I looked it up and sure enough not only do they migrate but there is a Vanessa migration project. They are looking for 3 things: what species, when you saw it and where. If you see them, report it.

I love citizen science.

Butterflies are Starting to Appear

While I was birding Central Park with friends, I spotted this gorgeous glowing sunset of a butterfly. I looked in the Butterflies of North America book and think it is a Hackberry Emperor.

Coyote

I topped the hill at Brady Farm and slowed down as I always do to take in the view of the valley. It is one of my favorite places; I am a flatlander after all and I do not get big sky often. As I crawled past the fields of Black Angus, barns stuffed with round bales and the white farm house with its enormous kitchen garden; I saw movement in a field. I pulled up and stopped to see a coyote lounging with just its head poking above the waving grass.

I have not heard or seen a coyote in 9 years, since I moved to the mountain. I used to have them when I lived on the farm. They would bring me straight up out of bed in the wee hours of the night with their eerie howling and yipping. Instead of their constant presence, I now have the eerie silence of the deep woods with only the occasional owl hoot to keep me company in the dead of night. I sort of miss them.

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

In-Your-Face-Fern

I am not great at IDing all types of native ferns, (I had the Fern Finder booklet, but can't find it, Grrr) but some of them just scream their names. This is an Interrrupted Fern. You can see the brown fertile leaflets that interrupt the green sterile ones. The fronds were 2-3 feet high. This is a large in your-face-fern that grows along roadsides.

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

Beehives to Bell-bottoms

This is the 3rd year that friends and I have gone to Bodles Opera House in Chester, NY for New Year's Eve. They offer dinner and a show for $60. Some years have been better than others, and this year was a hoot. The theme was From Beehives to Bellbottoms. There was a great group of would-be Shirelles (Hotflash) with gigantic Marge Simpson beehives singing the oldies and telling off-color jokes. We all laughed and sang along.

Then...came an announcement that... "Elvis was in the Building." My goodness, I had never seen a live Elvis impersonator. I'm not sure what I expected. But I thought he certainly looked like Elvis, and maybe it's the sideburns and the outfit, but, Damm. He sang, played guitar and stalked the crowd crooning to the ladies causing much merriment. But that could have been the alcohol.


The Hotflash girls dashed off to change while we listened to a comedian from the Catskills, then came back on stage dressed as the Beatles to regale us with classic Beatles tune of the times. One more wardrobe change and they were back in hippie attire to transport us to Woodstock. Midnight came and went with a champagne toast and Auld Lang Syne. Everyone sang along and I think had a great time. At least, I know I did. There is nothing like live music. If you get a change check out some local venues in '09.

Wordless Wednesday

Staycation with Friends

Once in a while I have out-of-state guests come to the mountain. It is always a highlight when you live far from everybody and everything. I love having people in my house. (Hmmm, maybe I am a frustrated innkeeper.) This week I have friends here from Minnesota. I have known Cindy for close to 10 years.

In an effort to entertain them, I have planned their time to the hilt.

We have eaten home-cooked Indian food; have been shopping in cute boutiques; lunching at outdoor restaurants in quaint river towns;

saw the Manhattan skyline from the speedboat the Beast and even took in a Broadway show.


I have dragged Cindy to visit other friends and made her schlep across the bridge from Lambertville, NJ to New Hope, PA in the almost pouring rain. (Thank you Peter for driving us back to our car.) The only place we have not been is to the shore and that is simply too far and crowded in August.

While Cindy and I have had time to talk about life, love and the pursuit of happiness; her daughter has been able to re-connect with friends she has not seen in two years. It has been wonderful and exhausting for everyone.

How are you spending your staycation?

Skywatch

We sped down the river toward the Statue of Liberty, with music pounding and river water spraying the passengers on the outside of the speedboat and drenching those sitting in the back. We had judiciously decided to split up and sit midship on the aisle. (We were going to a show that night and did not want to be drenched all day.) The front of the boat bounced and rocked against the wakes of the other river traffic. We waved at the people on sailboats, Circle Line tour boats and ferries. Everyone was laughing, singing and pointing out the buildings of one of the most famous skylines in the world. It was a hoot. As we approached the Statue of Liberty the captain slowed the boat to talk about the statue's history; stopping in front so we could take pictures. It is a beautiful statue that we, or rather, I take for granted. If you get to the City, go out on the Beast. It is totally fun.

Homework Assignment

Have I told you that I am taking a writing class at the Hudson Valley Writers' Center? This week’s assignment was to take a bit character, someone ancillary to the plot, and write the story from his perspective. In order for this to work, I felt I needed to choose a story that everyone would know. I love O. Henry, so I chose Ransom of Red Chief. Tell me what you think.

Abe slowly drew his hand down his luxurious gray beard in a manner that he imagined made him look ponderously thoughtful. It was an affectation that annoyed the hell out of his wife Martha. “Mother, you ‘bout done in there? C’mon out here and sit a spell. I got news from town.” With her back to him, she rolled her eyes; she was dog-tired and he could be long-winded. She had been putting up beans and standing over a boiling canner for hours had left her limp as a wet noodle. His voice grew louder as he tried to entice her out of the kitchen. His eyes twinkled with glee. He threw out his line with the gem of a lure, “’s’bout that old skin-flint Dorset over in Summit.” After 47 years of living with her, he knew the right bait to use, and just how to set the hook. “His son’s gone missin’--been lost or stolen.”

Martha, unable to withstand a juicy bit of gossip appeared at the screen door wiping her hands on her apron; she let the door slap behind her as she came out on the porch. The duet of tree frogs and crickets pulsed in the hot spring evening. A tiny breeze cooled the beads of sweat on her brow. She eased her old bones into the front porch rocker. “Abe, you know I can’t abide that man. He’s awful pious passin’ the plate on Sunday, but on Monday he’ll take the farm away faster’n greased lightenin’.” She shook her head, huffing through her nose. Folding her hands in her lap, she pushed against the wooden floorboards with her black lace-up shoes setting the chair in motion. But unused to sitting with idle hands, she got back up to fetch a mess of beans to shell for the next day’s canning. Sitting back down, she gently tipped back and forth in the gloaming; her hands going through the familiar motion of splitting the pod with her thumbnail and pushing the beans into a bowl. “Well, do tell then,” she said. “What’s happen'd t'at little hellion?” Now that he had her attention, he reached into the front pocket of his bib overalls for his pipe and tobacco pouch. He zipped open the creased brown leather and began to stuff the bowl of his pipe, packing it tight with his index finger. Scraping a match against the underside of the rocking chair he puffed out the sweet-smelling smoke.

“Well,” he started, “ After I finish’t plowin’ and turned out Sal, I went t' town to pick up some chick'n feed.” Martha nodded. “Yep,” she said “I know. And you fergot to get the scratch.” “Yep, you’re right. Well, I’ll send Linc down to get it tamorra.” Abe pushed on, “Whilst I was at the feed store, I fell to talkin’ with ol’ Sam Sanders. He done tole me that the Dorset boy is missin' - lost or stolen”.

He looked over at Martha to gauge her interest but could not see her face in the gathering dusk. In the pause, Martha mused half to herself, “Lost or stolen, my eye. I betcha he ran off. No doubt that little hooligan wuz throwin’ stones at that poor little cat of Miss Carlisle’s. He knows how much she sets store by it. She probly marched herself t'over there to complain. That boy would get a whoppin’, if he was a son of mine. Old man Dorset is too high ‘n mighty to do it and the mother, poor thang, is too young and frail to handle such a rowdy.” Abe nodded to himself. What she said was true, but how she knew what was going on in Summit, 3 miles away, when she only went to town on Sundays never ceased to amaze him. “Yep, apples don’t fall far from the tree,” he pronounced. They rocked, their chairs creaking in unison.

Abe puffed on his pipe, then continued. “Sam and I went acrost to the post office to see what Bill’d heard. The usuals was there. We wuz all sittin' around chewin' the fat when that young fella came in. Him that rented our buggy. He tipped his hat and asked what the fuss wuz about. I tole him that the leadin' citizen over in Summit, Elder Dorset’s, son had come up missin'. I mentioned it t’him special like, so he’d know to keep an eye out. “What’d he say?” Martha’s disembodied voice queried from next to him. “Nuthin’. He just bought some of that God-awful t’bacca that Bill pretends is so highfalutin’, ast the price of black-eyed peas, posted a letter and left.” “He sent a letter? That’s mighty peculiar.” Who’s it dressed to?” Abe shook his head, “Didn’t see it and Bill twouldn’t say. He did say in a loud voice that the messenger from Summit would pick it up in ‘bout an hour.” “Huh,” Martha grunted. “I still say it’s peculiar. It’s not like that young fella knows anyone here ‘bouts.”

They rocked in silence for a few minutes both lost in thought. “Ya think the boy’s run off?” Abe considered the question. “Mebbe, he is a bit of a pester-pot.” Martha snorted. “Pester-pot. Abraham, you do have a way with words. That child is a terrible, mean-spirited, spiteful hooligan, I don’t care if he is ten. I can’t image what he’ll be like when he grows up.” Abe harrumphed in agreement. “He’s a bad’un, alright." Abe puffed and Martha shelled beans, their quiet sounds blending with the night noises around them. “Town’s folk upset?” Martha prompted, looking for more of the story. “Nah, not from what I seed. Folks seemed glad for the peace and quiet, him being gone an’all. Mark my words; he’ll be back, right as rain. If he’s bin stolen, those bodies that’s done it are in for a licken.” Martha got up, the beans shelled, “Papa, you're probly right, as always. I’m goin’ to bed. You comin’?” “After bit, Mother, after bit.” Abe rocked on, stroking his bead and thinking about how he had been a hellion too, in his youth; having run off more than once. He was sure the Dorset boy was out playing at being an Indian somewhere close by. He’d be back, by hook or by crook.

Wordless Wednesday

Score!

Pine Grosbeak in Sullivan County, NY eating crab apples. And I was afraid we wouldn't find them. Silly me. We also saw dozens of Common Redpolls. While I saw nothing new today, thanks to my travel companion and all the folks who gave the detailed directions I had a great winter birding day.

Apple Pickin’ Time

“Excuse me, How do we tell which apples are which?”

The man glanced our way from the line of cars he was directing.

“Those are Empires and Red Delicious and over there are the Macs.” He waved his hand vaguely at rows of trees. When a car started to follow his pointing finger; he turned back with a wave of his red flag. We all nodded smilingly.

“Thanks.”

We stood indecisively with our empty red bag in hand.
“Did you get it?” we whispered to each other.

“I think the Macs are over there.” We walked across the field through the cars. There were people everywhere lugging bulging red net bags of apple back to their vehicles. We walked further into the rows to the trees that had not been stripped. There were mounds of apples all over the ground under the trees.

We started to pluck apples from the trees. For each one we pulled, as many fell off the tree. We picked up the ones that we caused to fall. No wonder there was so many on the ground.

We wandered from tree to tree and row to row tasting as we went. It soon became clear that we had no idea what we were picking. We argued about varieties, but I think we got Macs, Empires, some Red Delicious and a few Jonagolds.

The visitors from the city took the bushel of apples home. I am holding out for the Crispins, my favorites. They are almost ready for picking. I am such an apple snob.