Category Archives: nature

On snow (especially when their is none and the grass is still green)

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So if I can’t get any real snow living in central Texas, I can always write about snow whenever I want to. Snow is beautiful to look at, but terrible if you have to travel, go to work, or keep the sidewalk clean. My relationship with snow has been a long one, but lately that relationship has been from afar, jealously watching snow fall across the country, but never here. Even my annual trips to Minnesota for the Christmas holidays have been bereft, generally, of snow. It snowed a little last year, but this year’s snow totals are zero up to now. Snow is strange: aesthetically, it is very pleasing to watch it fall and cover up everything in its path with a clean white blanket that shrouds the countryside in a frozen swirl of fluffy ice. Heavily falling snow is mezmorizing, but it leaves me feeling grounded. Winter needs snow to cover things up for a few months. Snow gives me a cozy feeling that blank, bare, brown ground does not. Driving in the white stuff is certainly a challenge, if not dangerous, especially if the wind is blowing. Yet I love to be inside on a snowy day, watch the white flakes transform the landscape, and let Mother Nature have her wintry way for a couple of days. Getting a snow day off from school was always a joyous gift from heaven. Yet here I sit in Texas. Green grass, warm temperatures, and no snow on Thanksgiving eve. It just doesn’t seem right, now, does it?

On snow (especially when their is none and the grass is still green)

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So if I can’t get any real snow living in central Texas, I can always write about snow whenever I want to. Snow is beautiful to look at, but terrible if you have to travel, go to work, or keep the sidewalk clean. My relationship with snow has been a long one, but lately that relationship has been from afar, jealously watching snow fall across the country, but never here. Even my annual trips to Minnesota for the Christmas holidays have been bereft, generally, of snow. It snowed a little last year, but this year’s snow totals are zero up to now. Snow is strange: aesthetically, it is very pleasing to watch it fall and cover up everything in its path with a clean white blanket that shrouds the countryside in a frozen swirl of fluffy ice. Heavily falling snow is mezmorizing, but it leaves me feeling grounded. Winter needs snow to cover things up for a few months. Snow gives me a cozy feeling that blank, bare, brown ground does not. Driving in the white stuff is certainly a challenge, if not dangerous, especially if the wind is blowing. Yet I love to be inside on a snowy day, watch the white flakes transform the landscape, and let Mother Nature have her wintry way for a couple of days. Getting a snow day off from school was always a joyous gift from heaven. Yet here I sit in Texas. Green grass, warm temperatures, and no snow on Thanksgiving eve. It just doesn’t seem right, now, does it?

On bears

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I have never given them much thought really. Growing up in the land of sky blue waters, I was always rather fond of the Hamm’s bear. As a very small child I couldn’t tell the difference between Yogi Berra and Yogi Bear, and thought it weird that their was a cartoon about a Yankee catcher–how could that be funny or interesting? Polar bears were another matter entirely because I understand about the cold and about camouflage. I ran into a black bear on the shores of Lake Superior one sunny afternoon in April. I couldn’t tell who was more terrified, me or the bear, as I quickly and blindly ran in the other direction. Now I work on a campus with its own bears–tame, not wild, but they are still bears. They live in a nice habitat constructed just for them, and they have relatively stress-free lives when compared to wild bears, I mean. When I am in the north woods, I am careful to never leave food out or put garbage anywhere that might attract these four-footed omnivores. Bears are big and fast, can climb any tree, and if taunted, can open doors. Though they are large predators, I still think humans are more deadly, and for the most part, bears are not happy in the presence of people unless either food or baby bears are in question. Never underestimate a bear. A person in a sleeping bag out in the woods is a sort of live panini with a juicy filling. Unfortunately, hungry bears will eat anything, don’t have much of a flight response in the presence of people, and have begun to associate urban centers with food–garbage to be precise. I think perhaps that this is one relationship, however, that both bears and humans can do without. Maybe we should keep our cartoon bears to ourselves, and let the real thing run wild.

On bears

Posted on by

I have never given them much thought really. Growing up in the land of sky blue waters, I was always rather fond of the Hamm’s bear. As a very small child I couldn’t tell the difference between Yogi Berra and Yogi Bear, and thought it weird that their was a cartoon about a Yankee catcher–how could that be funny or interesting? Polar bears were another matter entirely because I understand about the cold and about camouflage. I ran into a black bear on the shores of Lake Superior one sunny afternoon in April. I couldn’t tell who was more terrified, me or the bear, as I quickly and blindly ran in the other direction. Now I work on a campus with its own bears–tame, not wild, but they are still bears. They live in a nice habitat constructed just for them, and they have relatively stress-free lives when compared to wild bears, I mean. When I am in the north woods, I am careful to never leave food out or put garbage anywhere that might attract these four-footed omnivores. Bears are big and fast, can climb any tree, and if taunted, can open doors. Though they are large predators, I still think humans are more deadly, and for the most part, bears are not happy in the presence of people unless either food or baby bears are in question. Never underestimate a bear. A person in a sleeping bag out in the woods is a sort of live panini with a juicy filling. Unfortunately, hungry bears will eat anything, don’t have much of a flight response in the presence of people, and have begun to associate urban centers with food–garbage to be precise. I think perhaps that this is one relationship, however, that both bears and humans can do without. Maybe we should keep our cartoon bears to ourselves, and let the real thing run wild.

On shadows

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Are they positive or negative? A very good question, I answered, but I imagine the answer is “neither.” We tend to ignore the self-same shadow that we cast of ourselves, since it is always there. Shadows are, technically, nothing more or less than the absence of light because someone is blocking the light. A shadow is the description of a negative quantity of light. Yet, shadows seem to be so much more, and they often have a sinister edge to them. The word shadow is sometimes used as a synonym for the word ghost, and it is the root-word for “foreshadowing” which seems to have something to do with telling the future. When things stay in the shadows, we might suspect that something is wrong. In all the horror movies I ever watched, the monsters always stayed in the shadows until the last minute when throwing light on the situation seemed like a good idea but wasn’t. Staying in the dark, avoiding the light, lurking in the shadows, are all negative or suspicious types of behavior. If you are a shadowy character, your ethics and morals are in question or doubtful. Cooling off in the shade is probably a different matter where a person seeks the protection of the trees or a building or a wall in order to avoid the heat and light of midday–returning us to that lack of light, that negative quality of shadows. My favorite shadows are those long shadows that we all cast either early in the morning or late in the day. Our shadows stretch out behind us or go on before us, faithful companions that will only leave us as the sun goes down at the end of the day.

On shadows

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Are they positive or negative? A very good question, I answered, but I imagine the answer is “neither.” We tend to ignore the self-same shadow that we cast of ourselves, since it is always there. Shadows are, technically, nothing more or less than the absence of light because someone is blocking the light. A shadow is the description of a negative quantity of light. Yet, shadows seem to be so much more, and they often have a sinister edge to them. The word shadow is sometimes used as a synonym for the word ghost, and it is the root-word for “foreshadowing” which seems to have something to do with telling the future. When things stay in the shadows, we might suspect that something is wrong. In all the horror movies I ever watched, the monsters always stayed in the shadows until the last minute when throwing light on the situation seemed like a good idea but wasn’t. Staying in the dark, avoiding the light, lurking in the shadows, are all negative or suspicious types of behavior. If you are a shadowy character, your ethics and morals are in question or doubtful. Cooling off in the shade is probably a different matter where a person seeks the protection of the trees or a building or a wall in order to avoid the heat and light of midday–returning us to that lack of light, that negative quality of shadows. My favorite shadows are those long shadows that we all cast either early in the morning or late in the day. Our shadows stretch out behind us or go on before us, faithful companions that will only leave us as the sun goes down at the end of the day.

On a frosty morning

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It happens so seldom in central Texas that a frost is worth noting. As a child in Minnesota, frosty nights were an everyday occurrence from September to May, but in the central Texas usually you can count them on one hand. A frosty night is a sign that time is passing, that the seasons are moving on, that another year is passing. Alone with one’s existential thoughts revolving around the nature of human purpose, a frosty night dashes reason and shreds any hope that one actually controls their own destiny. One is assailed by nostalgia and wistfulness for other times and other people when things seemed simpler. All of that is, of course, an illusion that keeps one from living more fully in the here and the now. One just tends to push all of the bad things into the back of the memory closet and leave them there. Frosty nights were made for warm jackets, maybe a hat, gloves. The problem being, of course, that more than eight months have gone by since I needed any of those things, and now I have no idea where they might be. One gets used to the heat, at least a little bit, and when it’s gone we complain bitterly. I don’t mind the cold, and I also find the cold a nice change from the monotony of the daily heat which is so common here during the year’s middle months. It is November, however, and if there is frost on the grass in the morning, I will be surprised. The heat seems like it will always be with me. On a frosty night you can see a million stars if you dare venture out, your breath condensing in the cold air as if it were so much strange smoke. The clouds are gone for a moment, and the heat of the day is drifting off into space. The stars, in their frosty heights, foreshadow the million tiny glittering ice crystals, ephemera, that will cover the lawn in the morning, shining coldly and brightly as we all go off to work, unable to stop and admire Nature’s handiwork. Grandes estrellas de escarcha vienen con el pez de sombra que abre el camino del alba.–Lorca

On a frosty morning

Posted on by

It happens so seldom in central Texas that a frost is worth noting. As a child in Minnesota, frosty nights were an everyday occurrence from September to May, but in the central Texas usually you can count them on one hand. A frosty night is a sign that time is passing, that the seasons are moving on, that another year is passing. Alone with one’s existential thoughts revolving around the nature of human purpose, a frosty night dashes reason and shreds any hope that one actually controls their own destiny. One is assailed by nostalgia and wistfulness for other times and other people when things seemed simpler. All of that is, of course, an illusion that keeps one from living more fully in the here and the now. One just tends to push all of the bad things into the back of the memory closet and leave them there. Frosty nights were made for warm jackets, maybe a hat, gloves. The problem being, of course, that more than eight months have gone by since I needed any of those things, and now I have no idea where they might be. One gets used to the heat, at least a little bit, and when it’s gone we complain bitterly. I don’t mind the cold, and I also find the cold a nice change from the monotony of the daily heat which is so common here during the year’s middle months. It is November, however, and if there is frost on the grass in the morning, I will be surprised. The heat seems like it will always be with me. On a frosty night you can see a million stars if you dare venture out, your breath condensing in the cold air as if it were so much strange smoke. The clouds are gone for a moment, and the heat of the day is drifting off into space. The stars, in their frosty heights, foreshadow the million tiny glittering ice crystals, ephemera, that will cover the lawn in the morning, shining coldly and brightly as we all go off to work, unable to stop and admire Nature’s handiwork. Grandes estrellas de escarcha vienen con el pez de sombra que abre el camino del alba.–Lorca

On instinct

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There was a short piece on the main editorial page of the New York Times (Sept 3, 2013) called “Empty Barn-Rafters” that discussed the recent departure of one man’s barn swallows. I have swallows as well which live on my back porch during the spring and early summer. They work tirelessly to build their nest on top of the large round thermometer which hangs just inside the overhang which shades the back porch. After they have built their nest, they proceed to raise a couple of broods of chicks. By the time the second group fledge towards the end of June, they are tired–pooped out, literally. I would know because I’m the guy who cleans up the poop.They spend the rest of summer eating and playing, swooping across the summer sky, defying the laws of physics, hanging in the air, sitting on the power lines, contemplating the world from their high perches. Yet, as the Times writer so apply described, at some point in the late summer, they just up and leave all at once–no stragglers allowed. Of course, we describe swallow behavior, their nest building, the fledging of their young, their migration habits, as instinct, mostly because we understand so little about the actual mechanisms which drive them to be swallows. Ornithologists have their theories and hypothesis about how the birds do what they do, but I prefer to simply think of them as neighbors, not the subjects of my latest study. People have neighbors, and sometimes those neighbors are not the two-legged variety. The swallows that nest on my porch don’t talk to me, but they do keep me company from about mid-March to about the end of August, but then one afternoon they just simply aren’t there–the editorialist got it exactly right. My back porch is now empty. When this happens, as it must each year, I take down the used nest, wash away the mud and eliminate all traces that the birds have been here, but not because I mind their presence, but because the empty nest reminds me that my bird neighbors are off to their winter roosts in Latin America somewhere. I like to imagine that my counterpart in Costa Rica has just noticed that his swallows have returned to winter in his backyard, happy they are back, delighted to see those sleek, dark forms sliding across the sky. I am sure that there is some absolutely logical and sensible reason which explains how the swallows know when to leave. At some point each summer, they get together, discuss a departure day, agree on a date, and then leave all together, leaving my porch and yard a very empty place. Since I travel a great deal, gone for extended periods, I cannot have my own domestic pets, so I allow my swallows a bit of space to nest and live. I know summer is over when their small, sleek forms are just gone. A quiet falls over the place, the pigeons, the grackles, the cardinals, don’t move on, but they don’t really keep me company either–they never get that close. As fall and winter set in during the next few weeks, the waiting begins. About six months from now, they will be back, and on a cool, windy, rainy day in March, a small, sleek, dark figure will flash past my window to let me know that vacation is over, and their work has just begun.

On instinct

Posted on by

There was a short piece on the main editorial page of the New York Times (Sept 3, 2013) called “Empty Barn-Rafters” that discussed the recent departure of one man’s barn swallows. I have swallows as well which live on my back porch during the spring and early summer. They work tirelessly to build their nest on top of the large round thermometer which hangs just inside the overhang which shades the back porch. After they have built their nest, they proceed to raise a couple of broods of chicks. By the time the second group fledge towards the end of June, they are tired–pooped out, literally. I would know because I’m the guy who cleans up the poop.They spend the rest of summer eating and playing, swooping across the summer sky, defying the laws of physics, hanging in the air, sitting on the power lines, contemplating the world from their high perches. Yet, as the Times writer so apply described, at some point in the late summer, they just up and leave all at once–no stragglers allowed. Of course, we describe swallow behavior, their nest building, the fledging of their young, their migration habits, as instinct, mostly because we understand so little about the actual mechanisms which drive them to be swallows. Ornithologists have their theories and hypothesis about how the birds do what they do, but I prefer to simply think of them as neighbors, not the subjects of my latest study. People have neighbors, and sometimes those neighbors are not the two-legged variety. The swallows that nest on my porch don’t talk to me, but they do keep me company from about mid-March to about the end of August, but then one afternoon they just simply aren’t there–the editorialist got it exactly right. My back porch is now empty. When this happens, as it must each year, I take down the used nest, wash away the mud and eliminate all traces that the birds have been here, but not because I mind their presence, but because the empty nest reminds me that my bird neighbors are off to their winter roosts in Latin America somewhere. I like to imagine that my counterpart in Costa Rica has just noticed that his swallows have returned to winter in his backyard, happy they are back, delighted to see those sleek, dark forms sliding across the sky. I am sure that there is some absolutely logical and sensible reason which explains how the swallows know when to leave. At some point each summer, they get together, discuss a departure day, agree on a date, and then leave all together, leaving my porch and yard a very empty place. Since I travel a great deal, gone for extended periods, I cannot have my own domestic pets, so I allow my swallows a bit of space to nest and live. I know summer is over when their small, sleek forms are just gone. A quiet falls over the place, the pigeons, the grackles, the cardinals, don’t move on, but they don’t really keep me company either–they never get that close. As fall and winter set in during the next few weeks, the waiting begins. About six months from now, they will be back, and on a cool, windy, rainy day in March, a small, sleek, dark figure will flash past my window to let me know that vacation is over, and their work has just begun.