Watching American Idol

Phoebe and a (real) silk camellia, Asheville Botanic Gardens, May 2005

Another night devoted to a grinding band rehearsal, 7:30 to 10:30, working out arrangements and harmonies for our gig coming up Saturday. Phoebe was bumming because we wouldn't be able to watch American Idol together. Strangely enough, I was, too. I mean, I know it's better to actually sing with a real band, no matter how obscure, than sit like a dolt watching people who are hoping someday to sing with a real band, but still...
I fell into watching American Idol innocently enough. Phoebe, nine, had heard enough about it at school that she decided she wanted to watch it. She pulled my arm and begged me to sit down with her. I couldn’t resist her, as much as I wanted to. It was midway through last season; Bo and Vonzell and Carrie were in full warble. We rooted for Bo and Vonzell, but we liked them all, really. They could sing rings around anybody else we knew.
As the competition wore on, Phoebe began to look forward to Tuesday and Wednesday nights, and so did I. The show was ridiculous, silly and overly dramatic, but watching the contestants’ personalities and professionalism emerge from the glitzy dross was actually interesting.
Another season has started. This time, Phoebe corralled the whole family into watching the preliminary auditions. Two excruciating hours later, I was wondering just what we’d seen. Each contestant had the same frightened but eager look you see on a pound puppy’s face—when he hopes against hope that you’ll open his awful cage and take him home. They were so young—sixteen, seventeen, twenty years old. They were so sweet. A few of them had IT—breathtaking talent, even starpower. But most of them were not ready for prime time. That’s not a crime, unless you’re auditioning for American Idol.
The famously ruthless juror and show creator Simon Cowell made a fine point of crushing the hopes of those not-quite-readies. One slender, ectomorphic young man with a delicate, quavery voice was advised to shave and become a female impersonator. Another impossibly sweet, pink-cheeked boy, obviously sheltered from reality until this precise moment, sang in a high, operatic falsetto. Simon told him he sounded like someone’s old auntie.
We squirmed and howled on the couch, in an ecstasy of agony for the contestants. We hollered invectives at Simon. It was a Demolition Derby for human souls, and we couldn’t tear ourselves away. In another age, we might have crowded into an arena to watch bear-baiting, or dog fights, or lions released on a prisoner.
“Mommy, would you let me audition for American Idol if I wanted to and was old enough?” Phoebe asked.
“If you were good enough, honey, sure.”
I bite my lip as I say it. I’m not going to tell her she can’t do anything she wants to. But I’m hoping that she won’t be good enough. Some things, it’s better just to watch, cuddled in between the people who love you.

Nature Fix for a Dumb Monday

I always think I'm going to get so darn much done on Mondays, but usually I wind up multitasking so frantically that I get little bits of a bunch of things accomplished. Emails fly madly, the phone rings; I rush around like a gerbil. Today I figured I'd better check my rapidly filling engagements calendar before I double-book something. I'd had a creepy little feeling for a week or so that there was something funny about April 20. It's like having a strange feeling that you've forgotten something, and then there's that moment when you realize you've left the casserole on the roof of the car--and you're already hurtling down I-95 at 70 mph. So I braced myself, and confirmed that I had indeed booked myself for a talk in Washington D.C. and an art opening in Albany (where I have a painting to show) on the same day. D'oh! Casserole's all over the pavement.
After sending some lame emails and phone messages around, I finally decided that the thing to do would be to fulfill my commitment in D.C. and (very reluctantly) miss the opening, because, while it would be terrific to see my friends there, nobody was actually counting on my being at the opening. Then I'd drive straight from Washington to Albany to see my artist friends who would be gathering there for the weekend. It'll be punishing, but not punishment enough for being such a knucklehead.
Had to clear my head. Felt the woods calling. That's the only thing that fixes me when stuff like this happens. I stick my nose in Baker's shoulder blades, take a deep snort of his sweet dog smell, and head out with him. He's my jester. He's absolutely serious about taking Scooby back around the Loop another time. I'm not encouraging it, one bit. If he wants to do it, fine, but I don't think Scoob has another Loop in him, do you?
The pair of redtails that always scolds me when I near the overlook was together, and circling low today. That's a real spring sign. The woods was softly lit with high, diffuse sun, that's hinting of changes in the weather very soon. But for today, it was lovely again, in the upper 50's, and I was out in just a long-sleeved denim shirt and vest. It's been a long time since we've had a January this mild. I went from turmoil to bliss faster than you can say "Speeear!"
Chet and I paused briefly on a rock over the shining stream, and I wished I had a picture of us there, so you'd feel you were on the hike with us. Then I remembered the trick of holding the camera up and shooting oneself, which works a lot better when you have long arms. But I got a nice image that could be captioned, "Happiness is a Warm Puppy."
We hiked hard, doing three major climbs, and it felt wonderful. On the way back up through our old orchard, I heard the commanding roll of a pileated woopecker drumming--from very close by. I froze and figured out where it was coming from--a dead ash with a hollow bole. Creeping forward, I pre-focused on the most likely part of the trunk, and took a picture that actually includes the bird, though I hadn't yet found it. Do you see him?

Against all odds, he hitched around into view, and I got him in the act of drumming. This close, it sounded just like a machine gun!The trees I've seen them drumming on are mostly quite dead, and they resonate like a guitar top. This one even has a sound hole!

And then, he posed for a moment before flying off. He never seemed alarmed at my presence. What a gift. Zick, all better.

Cowbell Sunday

Phoebe, Liam and I started the day with brunch at the historic Blennerhassett Hotel in Parkersburg, WV. Such a gorgeous place, nice food, but we were really there for the music--Bill's Sunday gig playing jazz with his uncle Bruce DeMoll and drummer Chet Backus (not to be confused with Chet Baker, dog). The kids adore going there, and the staff couldn't be nicer to them. One of my firm beliefs is that kids truly appreciate nice restaurants; that they need never set foot in a McDonald's or Chuck E. Cheez, and that if the kids are properly brainwashed, their parents never need to, either. Phoebe is famous in her class for once bringing a sack lunch to a McDonaldLand birthday party, and for shrinking back from the Happy Meal she was given on a class field trip. Success!
The light was killer beautiful, and we devoured the shifting cloud shadows on the drive to Parkersburg. Here's a view along the county road to our house. I never tire of seeing the light playing on this little pond--the one where I released Fergus, the bird-eating bullfrog, as a matter of fact! Yes, those trees are in bud. Everything is budding. Crazy weather, but I'll take it.

Bill played real purty, and it was so nice to listen, sip tea, and go through set lists looking for forgotten tunes for our band rehearsal this afternoon. We got home just in time to greet the rest of the band and settle in to rehearse. It was a marathon of running through tunes new and tunes forgotten, more than three hours of hard work. We dusted off some dandies, worked up some new cover tunes, and introduced three new originals, courtesy Bill and Andy. By the end of this, our second rehearsal, I finally felt my voice coming back, feeling reliable again. Baker kept his station on my lap. His coat is so smooth and sleek he feels like a polished ebony carving--a warm one.
He got hold of an old drumstick that I was using to beat on a cowbell. I got a fever, and the only cure for it is MORE COWBELL. Bill demands that I play cowbell (which makes sense, I guess, because everyone else's hands are busy with instruments), but then he laughs at me when I do it. Which doesn't seem fair.

Suet's the Big Deal?

8 cardinals, a junco, and a bluebird--just a small part of the morning crowd.

Somebody told the cardinals, who told the bluebirds that there was really good stuff on our front porch. I think it was the juncos who spilled the beans. Today started out dark and dreary, but the front porch was hoppin'!
Every winter is different. Last winter we had eight bluebirds and no more than five cardinals who developed a taste for suet dough. This winter I have trouble counting all the cardinals. It's spectacular. They all listen and watch for the door to pop open at about 8 AM, and practically run into me in their haste to gobble this delectable stuff.Here,the song sparrow who's trying out his songs under the bedrom window every morning is joining the fun.

I multiply the recipe (1 cup peanut butter, 1 cup lard, 2 cups quick oats, 2 cups yellow cornmeal, 1 cup flour) times six every time I make it. So it takes a 40-oz. jar of peanut butter, plus an additional cup, about a third of a large bucket of lard, 12 cups of oats. I always wonder if people look at me buying two large buckets of lard every time I go to the store and scratch their heads. It makes a jarring contrast to the arugala and sprouts, that's for sure. Roger Peterson used to go in the Old Lyme CT A&P and buy a half-dozen bags of Cheetos. He'd throw them in the water off the Old Saybrook causeway, hoping to lure black-headed gulls in close enough to photograph. Same thing. He said he got weird looks, too.

The kids both like to help me measure and add the dry ingredients, but everybody disappears when it's time to stir it all together. It takes a lot of strength to mix it as it's setting up, and we've broken a couple of wooden spoons trying. I've got my drill down and can get the big batch done in under an hour now. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to make so much, but then I look out the window and realize that it's not much effort for the beauty it brings to our doorstep.

Snuffle of the Penguins

These are king penguins, but hey, I was lucky to have a Zick painting of any penguin!

We spent the evening on the couch with the kids, watching March of the Penguins. Like its predecessor, Winged Migration, parts of it bugged me. I wanted badly to know how an emperor penguin stores food to feed a chick for two months while its mate is away, stuffing itself on fish, squid and crustaceans. Does it manufacture the food, from fat stores? Well, apparently, the male penguin, who has fasted for 5-6 months, is able to keep the chick alive for up to two weeks after hatching on a curdlike substance he secretes in his esophagus, like pigeon milk. But then the picture gets muddy. When the female comes back from her march across the ice, having been gone for the entire 8-week incubation period, she's got a bellyful of fish and other sea life. Does she somehow preserve an enormous crawful of food for two months, doling it out bit by bit while the father penguin's out fishing? I have a hard time understanding how this would be possible, but must find out. The National Zoo's website had the best information I found, but I still don't get how a penguin can keep fish and squid good in its stomach for a couple of months, if it's feeding its chick by regurgitation. It has to be digesting it, and then producing the food, like a pigeon does. Arrgh. Need to know.

Beyond my typical just-gotta-know attitude, which pretty much ruined Winged Migration for me, I was taken by surprise by this film; it snuck up on me and I had to go get my own personal box of Kleenex. The penguins' struggle just seemed insurmountable. The likelihood of one mate's getting killed, which would force the mate who stayed home to leave the chick to starve, was crushing. That the male emperor penguin memorizes his newly-hatched chick's voice, and then finds that chick two months later by voice, killed me. And the baby penguins pushed every maternal button I possess. They are cute on the rocks, those things. I'm continually amazed that the concept and execution of cute crosses so many phyla. Wonder if a penguin would think a human infant or Boston terrier puppy was cute?
Here's a little gentoo for you. That's all the penguins I've got, for now.

The dark-phase giant petrel that made an unannounced cameo to kill penguin chicks (nobody needs to know what kind of bird this is, I guess, just that it's a very bad bird) was a special thrill for Bill and me and a terror for the kids. Phoebe and Liam had their heads under the covers more than once during the movie. No wonder; as the penguins huddled together under vicious drifts of blowing snow, their mother was blubbering quietly away, covered in a drift of used Kleenex.

Bringing Scooby Home

Baby Chet with New Scooby

I'm getting kind of sentimental about the end of our game, Moving Scooby-Doo. Scooby-Doo started out as a yard toy, one that Chet liked so much he punctured. Here's a picture when both Chet and Scooby were new. When we started on a walk one day, Chet brought Scooby along, for a surprising distance along our trail. When he finally lost interest and left the ball lying along the trail, the idea for the game was born. This hike takes 45 minutes if we hustle quickly. I thought it would be a good challenge to see if Chetty could move the ball in stages until he got it all the way around the Loop. And, on the 25th, it seems we're within striking distance of our goal. One more walk will do it.
The worst part was getting the ball past where a bunch of semi-tame dogs roam. If they hear us creeping down the nearby trail, they open up a salvo of barking, and once a couple of them came out to meet us. Moving Scooby is a noisy game--I cheer Chet on to longer and longer carries--and it was hard to encourage him in whispers. But we did it. Chet seemed to understand that we needed to get it up and out of the stream valley and away from the dogs, and he carried it up an enormous slope in only two relays.
Liam came on the penultimate hike, inspiring Chet to new records for long-distance carries. He'd run ahead, then wait and call.
By now, Scoob was pretty careworn, and was in real danger of being destroyed before he got home. Whumpa whumpa whumpa! Chet would shake him from side to side, ripping a big hole in him and occasionally getting the whole thing over his head.
Our last hike was the 26th of January, when Chet finally succeeded in bringing Scooby home. He was as excited as we were, alternately posing, head high, and shaking the tar out of Scoob.
Seeing the house gave him wings, and he dashed to the finish line.
You'd think, having carried this thing almost two miles over hill and dale, that he'd be tired of it, but he played for the next half-hour, parading the ragged scrap around the yard and showing it to everyone.
There's probably nothing a Boston terrier won't do for a little praise.

Nobody Can Cuss like a Titmouse

I do a bit of songbird rehabilitation, and have done it all my life. When I was a kid, I had no idea one had to have state and federal permits to handle wild birds. I just cleaned up what the neighbor's seventeen cats wrought, replacing baby birds in nests, trying to set broken wings, raising those who had been orphaned. I learned a lot from my father, who was raised on a farm and knew so much about how to nurture creatures. We came up with a formula, fed through an ear syringe, that raised a nice, fat mourning dove when I was in high school, because Dad knew that pigeons feed their young by regurgitation, and we went from there.
Now, I have all the pieces of paper that make such pursuits legal, and while I don't seek out busted birds, they come to me through a variety of channels. Either I find them or people know someone who knows that I might be able to help. I got a call on Sunday, January 15, about a titmouse that couldn't fly. The couple who found it suspected a window strike, but the limp wing and the fact that many of its upper tail coverts were missing led me to suspect that a cat was responsible for the injury. Later, they mentioned that they have two free-roaming cats, but that the cats didn't kill birds. They were the nicest folks, so I let that statement go, and allowed as how a sharp-shinned or Cooper's hawk might have done the deed. One thing I know--a window doesn't grab birds from behind. And a hawk isn't likely to leave its prey on the porch and then ask to come inside. Free-roaming cats. Agggh. Sorry, but evidence suggests that even the fat, innocent-looking ones kill birds.
So this titmouse was bright and active but reduced to scuttling around on the floor of his cage, his left wing hanging. I wet him down thoroughly and examined him, finding massive bruising above the left scapula, but no obvious breaks or bruising in the wings. And almost went deaf as he cussed me up and down. In a wing exam, I manipulate the wing bones and listen for crepitation--the sound of broken bones rubbing on each other. With this patient, there was no way I was going to hear it, he was so vocal! His wings checked out fine. If the scapula or shoulder wasn't broken, he might just be all right. And if the gods willed it, he'd be releasable. You can't mess too much with the delicate bones, muscles and nerves in songbirds' wings and get a functional wing out of it. I decided to keep him confined to a small cage, keep him as quiet as possible, and see what about 1,500 mealworms and a couple of weeks' rest would do for the injury.
There comes a moment in a bird's rehabilitation arc when you walk in and you KNOW he's ready to go. This titmouse was ricocheting off the bars of the cage, more every day, and I saw him stretch both wings up over his back. The droop had disappeared; he was eating us out of house and home, and he was hitting the sides of the cage so hard as he flew around that I knew it was time to release him before he damaged himself. You need to release them when they're sufficiently healed, but before they lose their wild edge. This picture shows both wings engaged as he shoots up from the floor of the cage.


So he got his flight test in my 10 x 10' aviary this morning, and passed it. He clung to the screen, wanting out!

I wanted to release him in the front yard where he could see all the feeders, and the other titmice coming to them. I wasn't about to send him back where he was first injured, for obvious reasons. I figured it's better he start a new life on a cat-free sanctuary than hang out in his old haunts and risk getting nailed again.
So Bill snapped a couple of release day photos--I had to be having a bad hair day AND wearing my Sesame Street fashions, didn't I?
Man, could he cuss! Oh, I am such a glamourpuss.Trying to let the world's worst haircut grow out enough to be fixed. This shot should take care of any potential stalkers.

We took the titmouse out in the yard. He flew all the way across the yard, with a slight twist of the left wing, but he flew high and well, certainly well enough for a nonmigratory bird who moves from tree to tree in the forest. He rested awhile in the forsythia, where several juncos came to keep him company, then flew to the Russian prune hedge. I went out to try to get a picture of him fluffing, wiping his bill, and preening, and he flew right over my head, back toward the feeders (a distance of perhaps 50 yards), paused a moment in a little birch, then landed on the peanut feeder!
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it. What a guy. Has it all figured out within ten minutes of release. People should get on with their lives as handily. All the feeder birds spooked, and he rocketed into the woods with three or four other titmice. Not all rehab stories end so well. Now I'll be peering at every titmouse I see, wondering if it's him. O happy, happy day! Making the world a nicer place, one titmouse at a time.

Robins (and Warblers) in the Rain

The other day, as Liam and I came out of the public library (always a must when we're in town), we heard the celestial caroling of robins--a huge flock that was feeding in an American holly across the street. Two gifts. First, we're far enough south here in southeast Ohio to even have American hollies. We're the same latitude as D.C., though our winters are colder and snowier, and our summers not quite as hot and humid. But hollies thrive in sheltered places in town, and there are some perfectly magnificent specimens like this fruiting female. Second gift: January robins. Robins singing and choking down holly fruit.
They let me get pretty close with my tiny 10x zoom. I guess that's the third gift. Oh, it was sweet to hear robin song in mid-January, even as the rain pelted down.
Today, with both kids finally back in school for the day, I'm drawing warblers again for the New York Breeding Bird Atlas. I'm thrilled to be taking part, as the atlas coordinators and steering committee have lined up some terrific artists to illustrate this update of an already monumental work. Old friends like Mike DiGiorgio and John Baumlin, and artists I haven't met but already admire: Alan Messer, Dale Dyer, Sue Adair, Cindy Page and John Wiessinger are all contributing black-and-white illustrations. My dear friends Jim Coe and Barry Van Dusen are painting some color landscapes--surely a first for a breeding bird atlas!
Here's a finished drawing, a female northern parula pulling Cladonia lichen (or reindeer moss) for her hanging nest. On to the worm-eating warbler. I have it taking a fecal sac from the nest. There are all kinds of ways to confirm breeding birds, and seeing an adult bird with a fecal sac is one of the best. It's ironclad evidence of breeding, as one must hope they only take out their own kids' diapers.
Worm-eating warbler taking fecal sac from nest
We've got worm-eating warblers on our southeast-facing slopes. I've only found one nest, back in Connecticut. I watched it from a distance, and the young fledged successfully. The day they left, I crawled up the slope to it, and while examining an infertile egg inside the nest, I noticed that the entire nest seemed to be moving. There was a thick gray mat of bloodthirsty bird mites. Egad. Imagine sitting in THAT for two weeks. They swarmed up my arm and itched like crazy. I really dig drawing nestlings and fledglings. Thanks to lots of experience in rehab, raising baby birds, I feel close to them, and I like making believable drawings of them. (See the worm-eating warbler nestling with stern up, having just delivered the goods?) Too many times, I see artwork of adult birds at the nest, in which the adults are beautifully rendered, but the nestlings are almost like afterthoughts. They're birds, too, and paying close attention to their (admittedly somewhat blobby) anatomy, behavior, and expressions results in a better piece of art.
Brewster's warbler and hybrid fledgling in black raspberry
Here's another drawing, a Brewster's warbler feeding a fledgling. This is a hybrid between blue-winged and golden-winged warblers. Blue-winged warblers are thought to be wreaking the same kind of genetic swamping on golden-wingeds that mallards have on black ducks. Blue-wingeds are more general in their habitat preferences than the fen-loving golden-wingeds, and they're likely to be better competitors, so we're seeing more birds of hybrid parentage and fewer pure golden-wings. We've had a persistently singing Brewster's on our place two years ago. In Connecticut in the '80's, I found a rare Lawrence's (another hybrid of the two pure species) feeding fledglings with a female blue-winged. How I wish I took pictures then! But it's a pleasure to be drawing them now. With its lineup of artists, New York's breeding bird atlas is going to be a heck of a beautiful book. It's a thrill to be part of it.
Lawrence's warbler on apple

Phoebe's Bee

Yesterday morning, while Bill was waiting at the end of our driveway for the bus to pick Phoebe up, she told him that all her friends were asking her when she was going to get a PlayStation. "You can tell them it'll happen on the Twelfth of Never," Bill answered. He pointed out to Phoebe that she reads real books, draws, hikes in the woods, plays basketball, and was about to compete in a spelling bee--all pursuits that might be endangered or negated by such a purchase. NEVAHHH!
The spelling bee was last night. The list of words Phoebe and I had been drilling all week was barely scratched. Nobody had to spell polarimetric, waterloo, knightess, bioturbation, or sniggle.
It was clear to me that the kids all knew how to spell the words. What got in their way was nerves. And it was equally clear that many parents had a lot more invested in this than might be expected. The teachers and school principal were doing their best to be fair to the kids, giving them a break here and there, to loud comments from some of the parents. "Do you people even know what you're doing up there?" one father snorted. There were two lengthy disputes, which had to be settled by playing the tape recording of the word just spelled. I was amazed. It was just an elementary school spelling bee! You'd think that each child eliminated from a round were going to be thrown directly into a rattlesnake pit. Most contestants left the stage crying. Yiiikes.
Of course, I loved the whole event, for mostly the wrong reasons. There was drama, there were uncomfortable silences, there were murderous glances, there were charged particles flying around. Yessss! Real human drama is so hard to come by. Most of us color in the lines like good pupils. These parents were baaaad!
Despite forgetting the c in punctual, Phoebe eventually won the fourth grade division. Whoopee! She got a pencil, a ribbon, and an unbelievably homely trophy (show me a beautiful elementary school trophy, I dare you!) But she loves it, and that's the point.
. She got a little boost to her self-confidence, and I learned to cackle--no--sniggle-- silently. Liam was less than amused. "Fee, can I have your trophy?" he pleaded.
When she demurred, he plopped down in a chair, saying, "I hate fourth graders. They get all the trophies, and all the pizza parties, and kindergartners get garbage."

We left in a hurry for the 7 p.m. spelling bee, leaving our dinner plates on the table. Phoebe was too nervous to finish her turkey burger and lima beans. While we were gone, somebody else was coloring out of the lines. Any guesses who??

Death,Owls, Water,Life

It POURED all last night, well over an inch of much-needed rain. I knew the stream would be spectacular today, and I could hardly wait to get out to see. Shila came out for a climb, fresh off a craniosacral teaching session in Cleveland, unable to resist the call of the cataracts we knew would be spilling over the rocks that were dry only yesterday. We weren't disappointed. We could hear the rush of water--such a spring sound--as we slipped and slid down the muddy slopes toward the streambed.
Chet was beside himself, so stimulated by the sight, sound and smell of the running water he could only run circles around it, dashing across the stream, wading in, pawing at the white rapids. He paused only to pose for me, and Shila caught the moment!
photo by Shila Wilson
It was like a wonderland for me and Shila, and we crept and stumbled along the slopes, which were slicker 'n snot after all the rain, taking pictures every few feet. The landscape was utterly transformed, and so were we--rapt within this surround-sound movie starring the swollen creek, Chet, and us. Our senses were sharp, and we found some beautiful owl bones, which I decided were the right size and heft to be barred owl bones. Preparing specimens comes in handy years later!

Further examination revealed that this bird had probably been killed by an avian predator, because the bones were not chewed as they would have been had a raccoon been the killer. They lay beneath a large hollow tree which could very well have held a barred owl nest. Perhaps a fledgling or sitting hen met its death at the talons of a great-horned owl, a species which only in the last four years has occupied our land. There's not much else that will kill a barred owl. And there's practically nothing other than a human that will kill a great-horned. In this photo, you can see its intact keel at the top, and two large talon bones to on the left, just above the Christmas fern, as well as long wing and leg bones.

The cave where Phoebe and Liam played with icicles only a week ago was roaring with water, which sprayed down off its ceiling, hitting the pool beneath with a great spatter. We continued along the creek and then cackled and slipped up the steep slope toward the Loop.
Passing through tall sumacs, we heard the clear, bell-like whistled tone of a hermit thrush, and saw it land in a treetop, saw the call issue from its bill, watched it raise and slowly lower its rusty tail. Oh, beautiful bird. Towhees zrrrreeeped from the black raspberry tangle. These are two species who don't stay with us every winter, but we're blessed with their presence this year. Even the female towhees have stayed, something I've never seen happen.

Halfway down the Chute path, we caught up with poor old Scooby-Doo, and Chet, for once, was delighted to carry him a record-setting distance, across the stream and up a steep wooded slope onto our land!
It's a piece of cake to get Scoob home from here...if we can keep Chet from completely destroying the ball before we get it home. He stopped briefly to nose at the foot of a tree, where there was a great splatter of fresh owl whitewash, and a disorganized owl pellet
The dark brown curved piece is a thoracic shield from a crayfish; the long "bones" are its leg exoskeletons. Squirrel hair is from another meal. It takes owls several days to work up a pellet, and they may contain remnants of several meals. Must feel good to get this out of your craw! Kagggh!

so fresh that the slime shone, and even still ran down the tree!
Owl slime--bleccch! But it's a beautiful thing if you look at it as fresh evidence!

We must have flushed the bird without knowing it. I was delighted to find the pellet composed entirely of crayfish exoskeletons, legs, antennae, lightly bound with gray squirrel hair: barred owl. So we found a late barred owl, and balanced it with a live one. There was a symmetry to that, that we found quite pleasing. While we meddlesome kids were solving this latest mystery, Chet was gutting Scooby-Doo. Caught at it, he apologized as only a googly-eyed Boston terrier can.

I am so sorry that I ripped this. It got hung up in my teeth when I was shaking it. And now I cannot stop ripping it.

Lots more happened today, but it's late again, and I need to wind down. Blogging is almost as much fun as hiking, but it keeps me up too durn late. More anon.

Band Practice

It's time to pay the piper (or, in my case, learn how to use my pipes again). The Swinging Orangutangs, our five-piece rock band, has a gig Feb. 4 in downtown Marietta. Uh-oh, we're soo rusty. So we came together in our specially soundproofed music room downstairs to practice for about three hours this afternoon. Liam had cousin Gus over, and Phoebe had neighbor McKenzie over, and they all ran around outside playing Zongies (a variant of Zombies, a Scooby-Doo inspired roar-and-pursuit game.) Chet was odd man out, so he joined us for practice, although he couldn't understand why it had to be so loud. He plastered his ears against his skull and took refuge in my chair, but he seemed to enjoy being part of the scene. He certainly enjoyed schmoozing with charming Vincenzo Mele, our bass player,
I will control you with irresistible beams from my eyes

and lovable Uncle Steve McCarthy, our drummer.
hello Uncle Steve I love you so much and by the way are you planning to finish all that pork?

Both Bill and his brother Andy were in rare form tonight, and both had written new songs for the occasion, something that impresses me no end. It looks like both songs will be added to the repertoire, too (which doesn't always pan out). I was really proud of the boys.
It was a little unsettling to realize just how out-of-shape we are, musically. At one point Bill, our lead guitarist, held up his left hand and yelled at it, "WORK WITH ME, HERE!" which cracked us all up. We were attempting to revive "Reelin' in the Years" and Bill's hand was balking. The Swinging Orangutangs played hard for more than six years--we did at least a gig a month and often two or three. (That's playing hard for people with full-time jobs and kids!) We were probably busiest when Phoebe was an infant, and that was murder. When Liam came along I told everyone I was going to bow out for awhile. We took about six months' break and then started playing hard again. When our fab-fave-never-will-be-topped bar, The Crow Bar, closed down, we lost heart and folded for two years. We had a wonderful group of people who turned out to see us every time, and that kept us learning new songs so we wouldn't bore anyone. One of the proudest achievements of my life was alphabetizing our gnarly dog-eared lyrics in a folding accordion file, so that when somebody wants to play "Don't Fear the Reaper" or "Well Alright" or "Time After Time" or "Smoky Joe's Cafe," well, I just turn to Sections D, W, T, or S and magically produce the lyrics and sometimes even the chords. At this point we've got pretty much everything memorized, but when you've been away from it for awhile, it helps to have that lyric sheet taped to the mic stand. Now we're hoping our gang will still turn out to support us. They're the dancin'est people in town.

After practice we demolished a nice pork shoulder slow-cooked with sweet potatoes and apples, with a sauce of apple juice, orange juice, honey, and brown sugar. Yummy! Chet of course went into cruise mode, wheedling his way onto laps in hopes of finding scraps on plates. He makes you think he wants you to hold him. We all know what he's really after, no matter how demure he acts.Hi darlin' pork pork pork pork pork can I climb on your lap pork pork pork pork pork aren't I sweet? pork pork pork

So there will be a couple more practices before we're ready for an outing.
Every time I think we are getting too old for this stuff I get a mental image of The Rolling Stones and I don't feel so bad.

A Long Walk in the Beeches

Forties, partly cloudy, sun in the late afternoon, I'm gone. Bill and I spent the morning getting our Christmas card list together, trying to make Appleworks fit them onto ancient Avery labels, and folding letters. At this point it's too late to be a New Year's card, either, but it's the thought that counts. Every few years, we like to announce to our friends and family how un-together we are with an impossibly late mass mailing. I truly admire those who get their cards out before Christmas. I especially appreciate those with high information content and photomontages of the family. We're straining to reciprocate.
It is stultifying work, though, and wind roaring through beech tops is about the only antidote. I like steep slopes for their exercise potential, and for the way the vivid blue sky cuts through along their tops. The steeper the slope, the deeper the blue.

I took it slowly today, walking along the brow of a hill, looking down into the streambed. I sat for a long time on a bluff, and it took me twenty minutes to notice an old scarlet tanager nest saddled on a thin horizontal limb high above. That's something you don't see every day. It's coming apart, but the rootlets and twigs are clearly visible.Every bird has a style of nest placement and this is textbook tanager. (I can't rule out that a robin made it, but from where I sat, I couldn't see any mud or grass). I think it's probably an antipredator strategy to saddle one's nest well out on a thin limb. The mystery to me is how they make it stay securely enough to hold their eggs and nestlings, without using any mud, and without weaving it to the limb.
Baker was in rare form today, galloping up and down the slopes.
He roars back when I whistle, and when I ask him to linger awhile and pose, he does it as if he understands my every whim. Having read photographer William Wegman's comments on his Weimeraner models, and how much they enjoy posing for him, I have little doubt that Baker likes being photographed, and fully understands how to be a good model. I ask him to walk out a log, and he pauses right next to me and strikes a pose. I can almost hear him thinking, "How about if I look up this way, as if I'm seeing something interesting?" We may well be communicating on a psychic level when we're working together.

Pileated woodpeckers were everywhere today, and I found two more big sassafras trees with deep cavities in them. I'm pretty sure they're after carpenter ants. I dissected a dropping today and found tightly packed carpenter ant parts, sumac seeds, and grape skins. They take a great deal of fruit in the winter, but they're willing to work hard for protein. I wonder if there's some seasonal ant rhythm that sends them to the sassafras trees in late January.
I'm figuring out where all the old logging roads are, and slowly covering every bit of the land. It's nice to walk along the remnants of a logging road, and not have to dodge briers.
I will confess I miss my carefully cut trail on the Loop, where I can walk fast with a long, swinging stride, but between Chet's new hobby of cattle chasing and the possibility of attack by feral dogs, walking it with him has not been relaxing lately. I hate putting him on a leash when we're out in the woods, but there are a couple of places where I have to.
So I worked myself up into some gulleys on a part of our land that's frankly kind of a pain in the butt to walk, and paused to look around. A barred owl flopped out of a tree, flew a short distance, landed, then took off again. What a reward! We also found four gray squirrels, worth remarking on because they are pretty scarce in these woods. People hunt them relentlessly. The guy who practically lived on them, who lived alone in a farmhouse at the corner of our road, really put a dent in the local gray and fox squirrel population. He had squirrel tails tied to his old car antenna, and hanging on his porch. He went missing and was found stone dead, still standing up at the kitchen sink, a few years ago. The man who owns the land bulldozed the house. Perfectly good white Ohio farmhouse, gone. They don't make them anymore. I miss it, and the beautiful old pines in front of it. It's a featureless hay field now, but daffodils still come up on the corner where the house stood, remembering Gary, who ate squirrels.

Onward (Zick), Upward (Chet)

It was a gorgeous day. I spent much of it in the car, trying not to think about hiking along the stream in the sun. But I had a blast. Drove over to Athens, Ohio, to record a commentary for NPR. Recording engineer Jeff Liggett always bends over backwards to accomodate my often sudden schedule changes. We've got it down to a science, and the piece was recorded within 20 minutes. Since there were some sound effects, it was a bit challenging for me, but fun as always. Here's Jeff.

One of my favorite things about Jeff is that when Liam accompanies me, as he usually does, Jeff doesn't mind having Liam spin his wooden trains around on the LP turntable. Not much ruffles JL, and he makes Liam feel welcome. It's nice to feel a real affinity with one's local NPR affiliate station, and to know that when you respond to the pledge drives, you're helping pay your friends' salaries.
I asked Jeff to take a picture of me in the studio, knowing that I'd look dumb in headphones, but who doesn't?
photo by Jeff Liggett

Met my friend Cindy the Forester for lunch and we had a nice talk. I took her a plant to love--Abutilon megapotamicum. Nope, no common name. Just fabulous pendant flowers. I'll put it up on the blog when it comes into bloom. Another treasure from Lisa Van Dusen, master gardener. I had to have it when I saw it at her house. Many cuttings later, the fun continues. I took a picture of Cindy crawling under her truck but she deserves better than to have it posted here. I'll substitute a picture of a beautiful oak tree I always look forward to seeing on the way to Athens, along the Appalachian Highway. We'll call it Cindy.
On the drive over and back I saw a total of a dozen turkey vultures, unprecedented in January. We usually don't see many until about the twelfth of March. I imagine they're hanging around because the weather has never gotten really terrible, nor has there been much snow cover to speak of. Lord knows there's roadkill--I saw two fresh deer and a very nice wild turkey gobbler laid out--a regular buzzard Thanksgiving.

The cattle in Boaz, WV, were enjoying the springlike sunshine with a lie-in. Very decorative.
And, for those of you who log on for your dog fix, a jumping game, starring Bill and Chet.
It doesn't matter what Bill grabs to hold out of Chet's reach--it could be a sock, a teddy bear, a child, or a turkey drumstick--Chet takes it as a personal challenge to soar to new heights. The Dog Photographer was on her back below. Yes, we call Bill the Colossus of Whipple, and Chet is the Michael Jordan of Boston terriers. He must have pretty good knees.
And we are very easy and inexpensive to entertain out here in Whipple.
photo by Phoebe Thompson

My Funny Boys

Nobody cracks me up like my husband, Bill. Read his wonderful post, "Afternoon Delight," at his blog, "Bill of the Birds." And don't miss his photo captions!
Here's what happens when you tell your husband there's no way he can leap to the top of a ten-foot hayroll. (Because there's absolutely no way you can, and you can't imagine anyone else could.)
I told Bill that if a mountain lion were chasing me, I couldn't get up on that hayroll. I think it's a weight distribution issue.

This morning, Liam asked me, "Mommy, when will I be old enough to have pope?"
"Pope? What's pope?"
"You know, the big-guy drink." (He had been offered a can of pop at a friend's house, and combined the words Coke and pop. I declined for him. He's never tasted either one.)
"Oh, pope. Umm, I suppose when you're eighteen, and I can't tell you what to do any more."

Needless to say, it's now called pope at our house. But we still don't drink it.
Now go visit Bill of the Birds!

Beautybeetle

This is crazy fun, knowing my science buddies are reading. I just got a message from my friend Dave McShaffrey, biology professor at Marietta College. We're partners in box turtle conservation, and spreading nature appreciation to the world. No text, nothing but these exquisite macro shots of a dogbane beetle! Oh, yeaaah! And I'm sorry, Dave, but as gorgeous as these are, they only begin to capture the depth of color, the highly polished intensity of a dogbane beetle on the hoof. I remember thinking that if you could get that finish on a Corvette, you'd really have something special. So the next time you happen on dogbane in July, look for these little guys, and turn your binoculars around to make them magnifying glasses.
Thanks again to Dave McShaffrey!

Bluebird Morning, Moss Afternoon

Red sky at morning: gorgeous day ahead. I went out at dawn to try to capture the sunrise, having awakened before five, and found our bluebirds just waking up in their cozy roosts in the martin gourds. They stick their heads out and survey the scene for a long time before emerging. Very cute. They sometimes wait until they hear me put the suet dough out to rise from their pine-needle beds. We use pine needles in the roost boxes because, should rain get inside and freeze, the bluebirds' feathers won't freeze to the pine needles as they would to grass. I imagine it's because pinestraw is slick. We had two bluebirds get frozen to grass inside martin gourds, and we had to bring the whole gourd inside to thaw it out in order to free them! (Good thing we heard them scrabbling around in the gourds or they'd have perished in there). When I related the incident to Amish bluebird impresario Andy Troyer, he said that wouldn't happen with pine straw. So now it's pine straw or nothing. You can gather a grocery bag full in no time at all if you find a nice row of white pines shedding needles in the fall.


Liam, Chet and I set out for a mini-hike today. It was warmish, sunny, gloriously clear. Chet was very bad; he rounded up the heifers again, even barking at them as he darted in amongst them, until I had to roll under the barbed wire and go get him. He got the farmer's dogs all barking and the farmer's wife out on the porch hollering at the dogs, and it was not good. I felt like a jerk. Durn dog. You can't punish a dog who comes when you call him (even if it's the fifth time you've called him), so all I could do was leash him and lead him away. This cow fetish of Chet's is getting old. You think he'd give it up if I tied a cow to his collar and made him drag it around for a week? That's how they cured Ol' Yeller of killing chickens.

We spooked the same pileated woodpecker off the same old sassafras--even saw it fly--and I was most intrigued to see how much progress he'd made on his feeding cavity from yesterday. He's got four sub-cavities inside the main hole. He must practically disappear in there when he's working, as deep as the inner cavities are getting. He left calling cards at the bottom, in case you want to know what still-warm pileated poo looks like.
All told, we encountered four different pileated woodpeckers on a one-hour hike. I watched a male excavating an old bigtooth aspen that looks like Swiss cheese. He saw me but decided there was enough timber between us that he'd go on with his work. I was so proud of Liam; when the bird yammered I asked him what made that call. "Piewated woodpecker," he said without hesitation.

The dogbane is dehiscing. I just thought you'd like to know. Neat time of year to spread your seeds around; lots of wind, enough rain. Dogbane is a great butterfly attractant. Fritillaries and skippers love its tiny white flower clusters. It grows in great big clones of hundreds of plants, given enough room, so you can get great butterfly concentrations. We've got an enormous patch of it in our meadow. Nothing much eats it but dogbane beetles, who don't mind its yucky white sap, and they are the most gorgeous green-red-blue ultra-shiny little models you've ever seen. All around, a fabulous, underappreciated plant. Looks like a milkweed but actually in the closely related Apocynaceae.

It was the kind of dreamy, sunny afternoon when a bed of moss looks mighty fine, and Liam dropped thankfully onto one at the top of a steep hill. When I was little, I used to dream of having a house with a real stream running right through it, with real moss for carpet and big rocks for chairs. Frank Lloyd Wright stole my idea. Fallingwater. Pah.
Clearly, my little plan is working. I figure if I take the kids out in the woods every day, pretty soon they'll regard the forest as their living room. So far, so good.

A Baker Haiku

Chet absolutely loves snow. He gets all humpty-backed and wild-eyed.

My friend Cheryl is a Chet Baker fan. She is also a poet, naturalist, and all-around live wire. She wrote a haiku for Chet that seems to sum him up.

Lively terrier
Your life has no shades of gray
All is black and white.

See her web page for more neat poems, pictures, and (I mean this in the nicest way) doggerel!

The Snow Hike

Chet started poking his toenails into my thigh at noon today. He knew that, since both kids were in school, he was due for a good fast hike in the snow. I finally caved in at 1:45, after tomorrow's agenda had been set, after I'd finished one drawing and transferred another. We trotted out the meadow through two inches of brand new snow.
It blew so hard last night that the house shook; I woke up at least five times, hoping the kids would sleep through it. They're both leery of wind, but it never woke them. Amazing, how kids can sleep through storms and thunderclaps right overhead. I slept through a grain elevator blowing up across the street from our grandmother's house when I was Phoebe's age. I noticed that the neighbor's flag looked suddenly tattered this afternoon. All the flags on the ridge are tattered now.

It was in the 20's when we set out, and the realization set in that I'd worn the right boots (Keen Cortina Mids) and exactly the wrong pants for conditions. Keen boots are the best--waterproof and utterly comfortable. Note to self: Calvin Klein stovepipe hiphuggers suhk in snow. They were soon soaked up to mid-thigh, their rolled cuffs collecting great gobbets of wet snow which then obligingly melted and crept up my pants legs. Brrr! I moved as fast as I could to keep from freezing.
But the woods were ravishingly beautiful; the snow made crazy patterns on tree bark
and on the Christmas ferns. They looked like fish skeletons on the forest floor. There was one small peek of bronzy sun all afternoon, and I happened to be in the newly flowing creek bed when it happened. The brook was singing for the first time in months, and there were little waterfalls everywhere, where there had only been dry rock and leaves.
Chet and I spooked a pileated woodpecker at work. I thought Chet had seen a squirrel, but it was a peckerwood! He didn't even have time to clear the chips from the hole he'd just dug in a big sassafras. For you ivory-bill hunters, this is fresh work.
There were wood chips scattered atop the snow, not a flake on them.
We climbed an enormous ridge, and broke out of hawthorn thicket onto a field--the same golden field the kids had run across last weekend. What a different aspect today! The wind whipped at my soaked pantslegs, and Chet and I broke into a dead run for home. We had done a hike that takes three hours with kids, in only an hour and ten minutes. It was great to be able to scramble up the slopes without worrying about who might be falling behind. Good to get the heart pumping hard, like it's supposed to. Amazing that I used to spend days on end without getting my heart going--just idling along in my chair. Once you get hooked on it, sitting around just doesn't cut it anymore.

Beauty, Thy Name is Bougainvillea

It's snowing today, off and on, maybe an inch on the ground. Which makes the bougainvillea "Raspberry Ice," a rare variegated plant, glow from within. Stepping out of a snowstorm into the steamy heat of the Garden Pod, and being greeted by two huge bougainvilleas in full bloom, is enough to get me through any gray winter day.
I have several hidden agendas on this blog. One, of course, is to get cute pictures of my dog all over the place. Another is to celebrate my family. Another, to appreciate the forest and fields I love so much. And another is to show you the plants I can't live without.
Every year, I have a couple of Plants of the Year. Variegation in plants is an acquired taste, I know. When I was in my 20's and 30's, I thought variegated plants looked sick, and I noticed that they didn't grow as vigorously as green plants. I've come to appreciate them so much, though, for the way they light up a border or hanging basket. And for the added horticultural challenge they present. I like coddling my funny tri-colored geraniums, and I don't expect them to grow madly; I like their slow, measured pace. When I saw this bougainvillea, I simply had to have it. But it was $45.00, ouch ouch. I raved about it so much Bill got me a tall one, trained on a trellis, for my birthday. And I subsequently found another for 75% off at another garden center, doubtless because the plant hadn't bothered to bloom at all by August. Snapped it up. And they sat around with nary a flower, but still beautiful, until November, when the close, humid heat of the greenhouse warmed the cockles of their hearts, and they burst into bloom. Just when I needed them most. In summer, the flower bracts (they aren't really petals, but modified leaves) are brilliant, eye-popping magenta. In winter, they're this bewitching coral-salmon, which I actually prefer. There's nothing about this plant I don't adore, except perhaps its inch-long thorns! I'll be taking cuttings this spring, to spread the joy around.
Another variegated plant I've kept for many years is a true miniature geranium called "Grey Sprite." A miniature geranium takes maybe three years to get as big as normal geranium gets in a single season. Its leaves are tiny. Grey Sprite is a free bloomer, with bright warm-pink single flowers, and these beautiful grey-green leaves, edged in pink.Many variegated plants will "sport," or send up a shoot lacking variegation, that's colored like one of their parents. I don't quite know the mechanism of sporting, but conventional wisdom is to cut the sports off the plant, because they invariably grow much faster than the variegated parts, and might sap the energy of the plant. Here's Grey Sprite sending up a rare sport. As you can see, it's quite a bit more vigorous than the parent plant. Even its flowers are larger. I may make a cutting of this, because I think it's pretty, too.
For Ann L. and Barbara, here's "Bolton," a geranium developed in Bolton, Mass. When we were visiting my sister Barbara in Massachusetts last June, Chet broke a sprig off the Bolton geranium that Ann had given her. I took it home and rooted it. And now look at it, seven months later, spilling out of its pot, bent by the weight of its blossoms!
I just adore geraniums. They seem to know no other words than Thank you! Thank you!
And now, for a snowy hike with The Baker.

The Art of Dog Photog

photo by Shila Wilson

Maybe some of my faithful readers (586 since my hit counter was installed Jan. 8 :-0 ) are wondering how to get good photographs of their dogs. I will share a couple of bits of advice.
First, it helps to have a dog who listens to you, and will come to you when called. Occasionally, though, this backfires. It is especially liable to backfire if

a: You have a Boston terrier or
b. liver treats are involved or
c: you are lying on your back or stomach (another favorite vantage point for taking photographs).
In this case, I had a vision of the picture I wanted: Chet Baker, backlit in a miniature forest of Lycopodium clavellatum. I sat down on the forest floor in my good green khakis, leaned back, called Chet to come a little closer, and was climbed upon.
I favor the ground-level vantage point because I still have functioning knees, because it's not all that far to the ground for me anyway, because I enjoy using ZOUT to take stains out of my slacks, and because it gives a monumental look to the humblest doggie. Wanky tilted horizon lines notwithstanding. Understand: I'm not pretending to be a good photographer; I'm just riffing on dogshots. Shooting from ground level produces an image that is much more evocative of a dog's world than a picture taken from five feet over the dog's head. Most dog photos are shot thus: from above. But it's hard to get an idea what the dog really looks like (or what it's thinking, a more elusive thing to capture) when you're shooting from directly overhead. Using flash on Boston terriers almost always produces a Village of the Damned look about the eyes. Blecch. Plus, shooting from ground level amuses the subject. The whole point is to have fun.

Here I will digress for a short treatment of the Novelty Dog Photo. Discerning readers of this blog may have noted that I am collecting photos of Chet Baker on the laps of long-suffering visitors to Indigo Hill. This will continue, and it's just one example of the kind of set-up that can drive your picture-taking.
The truly inspired photo can rarely be planned for. But taking photos constantly means you've got your camera ready to rock when the moment presents itself.So when I realized that the world's largest Boston terrier was grazing right by our mailbox, Chet and I were ready for the shot.

As you might have guessed, I have a library of Chet shots. It is large, and growing exponentially. Now that Bill bought us an external hard drive, the madness cannot be expected to abate. Somewhere out there is the perfect Chet shot. It will be mine, oh yes. It will be mine.
I hope that this non-comprehensive guide to dog photography (keep those Bil-Jac liver treats in your pocket and he'll always be willing to sit and stay!) inspires you to fire away at your own little darlin'. It's good for his ego, and great for your knees.

Phoebe's Brilliant Invention

A few winters ago, when the infestation of Asian multicolored ladybird beetles (stinkin' ladybugs, for short) was so bad that they were getting into our food and flying up our noses and tainting our morning tea, Bill and I constructed a light trap for the stupid things. For those who aren't infested each October with bazillions upon gabillions of ladybugs, these are noxious-smelling beetles that were imported to control alfalfa aphids, released upon this good land, and have since gone on to prosper and multiply in obscene proportions, like many foreign things do when brought to strange places. In the autumn, they are heavily attracted to tall, light-colored structures on ridgetops. Duh.