The darkest night of a dark year

     It comes as no surprise that 2020 has been a dark and difficult year. A global pandemic and its economic fallout, a public extra-judicial execution leading to weeks of protests, gangs of armed thugs storming statehouses and threatening officials, the ugliest US election of my lifetime capped off with weeks of legal and extra-legal maneuvering by a vicious lame-duck president and threats of martial law. This year also brought the deaths of six former colleagues, three of them near my age, a former student, and two church friends. The day before Halloween, a friend died of Covid, and the list of those who have tested positive grows longer by the day. A few days ago, the son of an old friend finally succumbed to the progressive neurological illness that had been weakening him for decades. 2020 has brought a litany of losses.

    This year's winter solstice coincides with the great conjunction, the planetary lineup that has been called the Christmas Star. Many of us had hoped to head outdoors to see it, as we here in the Mid-Ohio Valley climb the Turtle Mound every year to view the solstice sunset as the Hopewell did. Unfortunately, today brought lowering clouds, rain, and what for a while sounded like ice pellets, so no stars or sunset have been visible. Today has indeed been a day of darkness, and tonight will be the longest night of the year.

    But the period of light begins growing longer tomorrow, even though our area is likely to be too cloudy for that astronomical fact to be evident. The various weather channels at least predict sun for Wednesday, with rain and snow expected to follow. And this is just December, so we can expect several more months of winter. 

Winter, of course, brings some gifts. The juncos are here, and there have been a couple of pine siskins at the feeder in the walled patio. Chickadees are omnipresent, and this downy is a regular visitor to the suet feeder.

    The major gift for all of us is the rollout of a vaccine for the novel coronavirus. People in the next county over are beginning to receive it, although our local hospital cannot manage the temperature control needed for the Pfizer and will have to wait for the less-fussy vaccine. As an under-seventy retiree, I will not be in the early groups to be vaccinated and will be spending the winter literally at home. That, too, is a gift. With no yard work to do for the next few months, I may finally sort through the last few boxes belonging to various deceased relatives, not to mention the last boxes of files and oddments brought from my campus office four years ago. The file cabinet purge and reorganization may finally be finished (just in time for another year's worth of records to need purging, no doubt). 

    Winter also brings time to just be, if we will let ourselves. That may be my next project.

Nothing can compare

 to the sweetness of October, according to a favorite song by the fabulous Kitty Donohoe. And it is absolutely true that few things stir the spirit more than October light in the temperate regions of North America. Here it is shining in the trees at a Toledo Metropark.

The Meadow Trail, Swan Creek Metropark, Toledo, Ohio

Reflections on water are also a favorite sight

River Trail at East Muskingum Park, Marietta, Ohio

as is light on human-created objects. 

Putnam Street Bridge, Marietta, Ohio

And sometimes, October just goes crazy.

Toledo Botanical Garden

But for me the sweetness of October is always a little bittersweet. Those beautiful colors and that magical light will not last, and here in Ohio, we can generally expect some extended periods of gray skies. Since my spouse has occasionally accused me of photosynthesizing, gray skies are not my favorite thing. And the life that has kept us company these last months will be less. The hummingbirds and monarchs have migrated, most of the flowers have quit blooming, and a number of insects are nearing the end of their lives. Today, despite the dampness and chill, two bumblebees were very slowly working a patch of wingstem, gathering late pollen to take back to the nest. If they live long enough, they will use the pollen to make the honey that feeds the queen, the only member of their colony who will survive the year.

Do they know that they are nearing the end? Insect cognition is not in my area of expertise. Whatever the state of whatever mind bumblebees may have, they keep going until the frost finishes them off or they die of old age. To go out doing what one does is not necessarily a bad thing.

October is sweet, and it is fleeting, and its golden light is only temporary. Enjoy this fine time while it lasts.

Finch Field

 It has been a really long time since I visited this blog. Pandemic brain is a real thing.

When poet Wendell Berry is overwhelmed with "despair for the world," he goes to lie down next to a marsh, or at least a pond, if his classic poem "The Peace of Wild Things" is to be taken literally (which poetry generally is not). I love both marshes and ponds, but lying down next to one in the middle of the night would not be a good idea for me. For no other reason, there is the little matter of getting up again, not an activity to be taken for granted by someone who has arthritis most places she has bone. Fortunately, the "grace of the world" can be experienced in a variety of places. One of my favorite spots is what I call Finch Field, just beyond Susan's Meadow on the Meadow Loop Trail at Wildwood Metropark.

The field may not be immediately aesthetically arresting, but it is on my top ten list of happy places. For several months every year, it is Goldfinch Paradise, and today did not disappoint. Today, this particular thistle was in motion from the at-least-three female finches having at its seed. I opted not to get close enough to photograph the girls, my little point-and-shoot not having sufficient capacity to get a good shot without disturbing them, but they were there for several minutes going about their business. Then, as is the way of goldfinches, they took off, leaving me free to examine the plant and ask, "Why this thistle, in a field full of them?"

No answer emerged, as to my human eye, this plant looked just like dozens of others nearby. But it was The One today.

Not only for the finches, but also for what seemed to be some very busy bumblebees.

Weedy and annoying as thistle can be, is any cultivated flower more beautiful than a thistle bloom bud?

Another highlight of Finch Field is the grasses. Indian grass comes into its own in September. This clump also got its share of goldfinch attention. You must imagine a little golden bird riding one of these five-foot blades to the ground, nibbling all the way.

And the sight of the tree I have named the Prairie Sentinel always lifts my spirits. This white oak on the edge of a mixed second-growth woodland is older than I and, barring human intervention, is likely to be here for at least a couple of centuries after all of us currently inhabiting the planet are gone.

Surrounded by so much life, pandemics, elections, and the deaths of much-loved leaders fade away.

Another reason to Leave the Leaf Litter

We all know by now that leaf litter is important for overwintering pollinators and other insects. (Right? We do all know that, don't we?) Those "dead" leaves are often home to lepidoptera eggs, which give us next season's butterflies and moths. Our human penchant for tidy lawns is almost certainly one reason why we see fewer colorful insects today than some of us remember from our childhoods.

Leaf litter hides seeds, dried berries, worms, and insects, serving as a buffet for the birds that eat such things. There is a reason some species are known as "thrashers."

And we know that leaf litter is natural mulch, reducing the need for water and cutting down on the gardener's work. Best of all (at least for those of a thrifty--not to say cheap-bent), it is free, letting us spend our money on more plants rather than on shredded hardwood. 

But today, walking at a favorite park, I was reminded of another Very Important Reason to Leave the Leaves: they provide shelter and protection from predators for small creatures. Admiring the baby sassafras and fading mayapples at this overlook,

I kept hearing rustling sounds and seeing tiny eruptions of leaves. Suspecting that wildlife was present but unable to see any (because of all that leaf litter), I hung around until finally being rewarded with the sight of the creature I thought was most likely responsible: a large and handsome chipmunk, who did not hold still long enough for a photograph. (Plants are so much more cooperative in that respect.)

This favorite park is home to some quite beautiful predators, including the Cooper's hawk sighted a few hundred feet away in a sunny area, but leaving the leaves for cover gives the little guys a chance. And when there are lots of them, that is good for the predators as well, not to mention good for those of us who delight in watching the critters.

A little laziness is a good thing.

Radical Trust

This is not my usual topic; I am generally more comfortable with plants than people, our species often driving me to despair. Certainly, this has been one of those weeks. Someone sworn to protect the community kills an unarmed man, justified protests against this horror turn violent, attempts to control the violence beget more violence. Not humanity's finest hour.

By now, many of us have probably heard of Genesee County, Michigan, Sheriff Chris Swanson's peaceful walk with a group of protestors. Flint is a city in which too many people have no reason to trust public officials, given the toxic drinking water still coming from too many taps. And yet a situation that could have been disastrous--wasn't. Hundreds of protesters had been marching for some time when they arrived at police headquarters. They had to know about the violence that has erupted around the country. In the capital city of my own state, a city council member, a county commissioner, and a no-longer-young US Congresswoman were pepper-sprayed by police. In New York, a police SUV drove into a crowd. In Detroit, a young man was killed in protest-related violence. In Flint Township, the marchers found armed police in riot gear. The protesters sat to demonstrate their peaceful intentions. The sheriff asked them what they wanted. Eventually, "walk with us" was the response. He took off his protective helmet, laid down his baton, and the police and the protesters became a group of people who walked together in a show of grief and determination to prevent more killings.





The courage of those people in Flint brought me to tears. What made Flint different from Minneapolis or New York or Atlanta or Columbus? Maybe it was trust.

The protesters chose nonviolence, trusting that their choice would prevent a violent response from the assembled officers. Sheriff Swanson removed his protective gear, trusting that the people around him meant what they said. They marched together, trusting in the American right to freedom of assembly. And everyone went home safely.

This kind of trust is radical, a word that we often forget comes from the Latin for "having roots." Radical trust is not just the ultimate reliability of crowdsourcing. A radical trust is rooted in character, whether of a person or of a society. This radical trust requires courage, the ancient word for heart.  Those leading the protest marched knowing the risk of violence, but they trusted in their own peaceful intentions. The sheriff knew that removing his protective helmet placed him at risk, but he trusted in the integrity of the marchers. They demonstrated that we do not need to distrust those we perceive as different from us.

Yesterday, Flint demonstrated trust in community and in each other. Dare we trust the rest of the country to do the same?

Why We Garden

Yes, there are the practical reasons--fresh food, and exactly the varieties we want. And the environmental reasons, like providing habitat for pollinators and other local wildlife. 

And I definitely get excited at the year's first butterfly, bumblebee, and hummingbird, and am always happy to see birds darting from plant to plant and providing a soundtrack to my puttering.

But sometimes, like now, the truth is that the pleasure of seeing so much floral exuberance is my main reason for this activity. Iris season is just--so.

It is not possible to pick a favorite, with so many luscious, easy-to-grow lovelies out there, but this outrageous pink, acquired from a local plant sale, is up there on the list.

This pale blue, donated to the same sale by the same plant-collecting friend, is also stunning.

And then there are the other types, like this Siberian iris.

In addition to being drop-dead gorgeous and difficult if not impossible to kill, irises play surprisingly well with others (despite their occasional thuggish tendencies). This heirloom iris blooming in front of Physocarpus "Diablo" is one of my favorite late-spring combinations.

This bicolor blooming near allium "Purple Sensation" and hosta "Guacamole" also makes me happy.

Irises, I recently learned, have been cultivated for literally thousands of years, with the straight species Iris pallida still available today. Mine came from a clump of my mother's, who inherited it when she and my father retired to a cottage built in the 1930's. This ancient bloom smells like grape Kool-Aid (so one must wonder if the people who create processed food copied the fragrance from the flower).

Different weeks bring different extravagances in the garden, but right now, I am celebrating irises.

When the birds won't cooperate

you photograph something else, of course.

May is prime birding season in Ohio, with the neotropical migrants coming through, local birds nesting and gifting us with lots of adorable babies, and goldfinches showing off their ridiculously gorgeous breeding plumage. Yesterday's perambulations of two urban parks (okay, large parks, in the multiple hundred of acres) brought sightings of two species of woodpeckers, lots of finches, blackbirds, bluebirds, indigo buntings, scarlet tanagers, and at least one magnolia warbler. Of course, none of these birds would sit still to be photographed.

A return to the larger of the two parks this morning was a birding bust. The day was gray and misty, and the birds were hanging out in the trees or leaf litter and trying not to be seen, though their calls were everywhere. Still, no park perambulation is ever wasted.

Misty mornings are fine times to view a wet meadow,

and the approach to the Ellen Biddle Shipman-designed formal garden was perhaps even more romantic than usual.

Droplets from last night's rain were still hanging on an old copper beech

and the fallen blossoms of cherries and crabapples were making quite a lovely mess.

A tree of a species I did not recognize (locust, maybe?) was trying to grow leaves right out of its trunk,

and its bark was a world of its own.

Not a bad way to spend an hour or two.