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Tea Break

Several years ago my son and his wife gave me a new camp stove for Christmas. The one I had was getting old. I had used it for a good number of years, including camping on the smaller islands of the southern Outer Banks of North Carolina. It attached to the top of a small propane bottle, which also had to be packed out. Its design was lacking and I had to devise a small wind screen that attached to the sides of the burner. My water pots had a hard time coming to a boil if there was a breeze up.

I would drive down after work and launch my kayak at the ferry landing and paddle out to the island in my ancient canvas Fold-Boat. When I reached the island, I would haul the boat up and then hike two to three miles to a good camping spot.

Those miles could be long. The hike across the island was over the dunes and through soft sand, followed by a mile or more on hard packed sand. Reducing the weight of my backpack was always on my mind. Even on these short distances a light pack was a better pack. I was also carrying two days of water as there was no potable water on the island.

It was always best to carry lighter supplies. A light camp stove was a dream.

I would cook my supper on my stove and then wash up at the tide-line. I used the sand to scour everything. I also rinsed it all with boiling water.

As the sun went down, I’d boil water for a cup of coffee. But I was never satisfied with the flavor of the instant coffee I carried. It might have been easy to pack in, but its flavor left a lot to be desired. Eventually I changed over to a dark tea.

After sunset I’d lounge at the base of a sand dune and look out over the Atlantic from a deserted beach. I was usually on the island by myself.

Years later I no longer packed out for a two-night camp on the beach like I had before. There were camping trips to campgrounds in the mountains. I would reminisce about those nights on the beach, and talk about my old camp stove.

A surprise at Christmas was welcome. It was my new white gas camp stove. It reopened possibilities, and I wanted to try it out. It was a sunny day in mid-Winter when I set out for the open fields of the Virginia Piedmont. I packed my new stove and my water kettle.

Other items had changed as well. I no longer carried my water in my World War II Marine surplus canteen. Those were heavy on the hips and did not fit well with the modern packs with waist belts. I now used slim, stainless steel water bottles that fit into the sides of my backpack.

With my gear packed for a day hike, I drove out to the trailhead. After a good hour on the trail, I stopped and set up my new stove at a place where I had a bit of a view of the countryside and a view up and down the trail.

The new stove worked easily, and it had its own integral wind screen. Soon I was pouring hot tea into my cup and settling down on one of the larger rocks to enjoy the afternoon sky.

It was pleasant, and although I missed the ocean and its crashing waves, a trail through the trees with a view out onto the pastures and fields in the valley below is very nice.

I watched an American Kestrel hover and dive to catch a grasshopper. And I let my eyes close as I enjoyed the flavor of my tea as the sun set and an evening chill began to creep up the mountain.

South Works

I took this picture in the early 1970s when I worked for a friend of mine as a Cargo Surveyor in the ports around Chicago, Illinois.

It was long days and hard work. But I was able to be outside most of the time. If I was not outside, on the deck of a ship, climbing up or down the 90-foot ladders that led to and from the ship’s holds, or walking the huge outdoor storage lots confirming off-loading of the giant rolls of steel, I might be inside a steel manufacturing facility, or a cheese importer in one of the Chicago suburbs, or in a warehouse full of imported items. It didn’t matter if it was hard work; it was fun and fascinating work. The ships on which we oversaw the unloading were from nations around the world.

We were up early and on the ships watching the longshoremen and the huge cranes unloading the rolls of sheet steel, bundles of steel beams, or railroad wheels, or 40-foot containers filled with wine or cheese or beef hides or any number of amazing products that were being imported into the Chicago from around the world. These good would be transported for sale in the Chicago area or to other locations in the Midwest.

We worked while the Great Lakes were open for shipping. We worked in the heat of summer and the frigid days of early winter with ice on the decks and snow in the air. The only weather that we did not work in was the rain. When it rained the owners would close the massive steel covers over the ship’s holds so the cargo would not get wet. Steel rusts. Cardboard falls apart. Food stuffs spoil. All of this had to be taken into account as we oversaw the work and inspected the cargoes, usually working for the owners of the shipping line.

The Great Lakes are open for international ocean cargo shipping as long as the locks along the Saint Lawrence River Seaway are ice free. The locks are the portal for ocean going shipping on the Great Lakes. The locks were scheduled to close before they iced up. That was the day by which all ships that had other places to go, had to be off the Great Lakes. For example in 2019 the Locks and the Great Lakes were opened to ocean traffic on March 29, 2019. The season was closed on December 31, 2019, and ships could no longer transit out of the Great Lakes.

It can easily be imagined that the closing weeks of the season were busy weeks as no shipping company would want their cargo vessel trapped in the Great Lakes for three months while the locks are closed.

On this morning I had arrived just at sunrise. The ship we were unloading was docked near the mouth of the Calumet River. The Calumet River stretches from Lake Michigan down into the industrial areas south of Chicago. The entire length of the river was wharves and turning basins, for the ships to tie up, unload, and maneuver back out to Lake Michigan. To the west the Calumet River joins the Des Plaines River via the Cal-Sag (Calumet-Saganashkee Channel) Canal, which carried barges from the Mississippi into this same maze of wharves in the industrial area.

I could not be further from the forests surrounding Chicago than standing on the deck of that ship on the Calumet River. When I turned to the North and looked to the other bank of the river, I could see the decrepit US Steel South Works. Its furnaces and mills were shut down, but the steel assets still stood against the rising sun of that morning.

It was odd, this behemoth of American industry shut down due to foreign competition from more modern facilities in Asia and in Europe, and the products of those foreign mills traveled to their buyers by landing on the wharves and docks along the Calumet River, and by first passing the US Steel South Works, the ancient and ruined guardian of the Lake shore.

The wind was blowing from the North. As it blew across the old South Works, it picked up dust and particles of steel. I could see the flecks of metal catching a glint of the morning sun as they floated in the air around me while I stood watching the cargo being unloaded on that cold winter morning.

Boats and Clouds

Several decades ago I had an opportunity to go to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). I saw places that I had not seen before, and I talked to people about all types of things. I was even asked if I had any Blue Jeans to sell. It was funny. The guy who asked me that was an American who at that time was working for the CIA. Now I think he is in jail.

We were there for three weeks and started in Moscow and the area around it. I was profoundly moved by the World War II memorials. The USSR lost more than 20 million people, some died in internal struggles, others died fighting the Nazis.

As part of the trip we also traveled out to Odessa in the Ukraine and then north to Lithuania. Both were part of the USSR at that time. Lithuania became an independent republic in 1990, heralding the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Ukraine followed and became independent in 1991.

Lithuania is a truly beautiful place. We stayed in the city of Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. The country’s northern climate supports vast forest of conifers and hardwoods. These forests include Larch, Spruce, Birch, and Aspen. The geography supports many stream and lakes, many of which flow north towards the Baltic Sea. It was Fall when we were there, so it was too cold for swimming. And even in summer, I can say from experience, the Baltic Sea is cold on the best of days.

One day we traveled out from Vilnius and visited the Lake area near the historic town of Trakai. The lake shores were ablaze with late Fall color. The Latitude of Trakai (54^o37’N) is approximately the same as the south end of Hudson Bay in Canada. We wrapped up against the Fall chill and walked out into the forest that lined the lake shore. The paths were narrow and wound back into the forest.

On the lake I had hoped we might see an over-wintering Red-necked Grebe (Podiceps grisegena). If there were any wintering birds, we did not see.

The isolation and depth of the forest assured me that in their season they are full of the songs of Lithuania’s native birds. And I was sure that the lakes teamed with ducks on their migration to the far North, or perhaps to this very spot.

There was a lake house. And there were row boats. Being fond of rowing in any season, I asked if there was time to go out onto the lake for a bit of a row. Our host apologized and said we would need to stick to our schedule. I am certain he was sorry that we did not have time. Sticking to the schedule during the times of the Soviet regime was important. I accepted it and apologized to our hosts to relieve him of the burden of not being able to allow such a small excursion.

A heavily traded commodity of the region from pre-Roman and into modern times is Amber, the fossilized resin/sap of ancient conifer trees. Amber is an organic near-gem quality stone. It has a rare warmth of color and can be polished to brilliance. Some Amber, when polished, and if clear, may be seen to contain an ancient beetle or ant. The Amber of the Baltic region is from the Eocene epoch and was deposited about 40 million years ago. Any bugs found in Baltic Amber would not have been the gadfly of the dinosaurs. Deposits of that type were laid down over 66 million years ago and are not found in the Baltic region.

In my visit to this region of frost and magical lakes I received a set of cuff links made from Amber.

The Amber of my cufflinks is clouded from the minerals and tiny air bubbles trapped in the flowing tree sap. The face of the polished Amber shows streamers of milky white. It is a cloud of ancient air and minerals trapped in a scene of golden earth tones. The outside surface of the Amber, the “rind”, is just as fascinating with its deep browns and reds from reactions of the ancient resin to the overburden soils that held the raw Amber. The rind is also deeply pitted from its burial for millions of years.

To touch Amber is to touch earth, sky, and water.

The pictures were taken by me or other members of our group and are under our personal Copyright.

Walking in the Water

When my children were younger, we went out West.

We were on a two-week holiday, and there were sights we wanted to see. We flew into Albuquerque, New Mexico and then drove in a rented car to see cliff houses at Mesa Verde, the Grand Canyon, the Virgin River, the Very Large Array, Santa Fe, and the Four Corners area. We had a full list of places we wanted to see.

When driving between our various destination, we would stop beside the road for lunch. There are often picnic shelters in scenic rest areas on the highways. We would also pull off the road at a convenient spot and make sandwiches of fresh tomatoes and bright orange cheddar cheese. They were easy to make and always delicious.

In the first week of our trip one of our destinations was Zion National Park in Utah. We wanted to hike the Virgin River. The drive into Zion National Park is magnificent. The natural rock formations and the engineering and construction of the road join to make a stunning drive down to the canyon floor. But the best was to greet us at the bottom of the canyon. We had arrived at our destination, the trail head for The Narrows of the Virgin River.

The Virgin River flows through a deep natural gorge that the River has carved out of the native sandstone over the millennia. The trail that leads up through the Narrows is the Virgin River itself. Make no mistake the footing on the large and small stones on the River’s floor is always changing, and it is slippery and challenging. When you start your hike through the waters, you are going up stream. You are hiking against the River’s flow.

Please note that the National Park Service has sets safety limits for protection of the visitors, whether seasoned hikers or children. You need to check in at the Ranger Station to confirm that the River is safe for hiking and to get advice on the distance you will want to go. We did not want to hike the ten miles (round trip) up the River to Big Spring and back. We wanted to spend about an hour in the River. The Park Rangers were able to give us good advice on how far up the River we should go.

We stepped into the River. We could feel the current gently pushing against our ankles as we started our trip upstream. We smiled at the exhilaration. Later we would be laughing out loud at the joy of moving through the current as we continued on our upstream challenge.

And I will say, the challenge is worth it. To walk ankle deep and knee deep and up-to-waist deep against the current – struggling to set your feet firmly on the rocks you cannot see under the rushing water – and to suddenly plunge into a deeper pool – it is truly exhilarating. Even a hike of 300 to 400 yards up the River is memorable. To stand with your companions holding onto them and your walking staff for stability – and looking up out of the nearly quarter mile deep gorge – and seeing the clouds overhead is wonderful. You do not see them move; you feel that you are rotating under the still, white clouds painted onto a pure blue sky high above.

As we moved upstream one of us would suddenly disappear into the water after slipping on a rock, or stepping into a hole. Then we would rise up laughing to the relief of our companions who were shocked at our disappearance as if it were miraculous, followed by an equally miraculous reappearance, laughing, as we burst up from the flowing stream.

On the way back we talked about flash floods and the impossibility of escape in our situation. This is the reason that you must know the weather happening miles up the River. Up there a sudden rain-storm can dump tons of water into the stream and change a fun and challenging hike into a thundering, roiling disaster.

The flow urged us along on our way back to the trailhead. The rocks were just as slippery, but we were use to finding our footing. Soon we were back at the trail head, and in the car, soaking wet, and laughing uproariously at our adventure.

Remember:

The River doesn’t care.
The River can be dangerous.
Check conditions with the Rangers.
Know the weather.
Know the capabilities of the people you are hiking with.
Laugh.

In researching this article I read that the River is currently contaminated with a toxic cyanobacteria. Make sure you read up on the conditions in the River before you go. It might be an amazing drive, but if you can’t hike the River it might be a long trip to disappointment. https://www.nps.gov/zion/planyourvisit/toxic-cyanobacteria-bloom-in-the-virgin-river-and-the-streams-of-zion-national-park.htm

Visit the NPS site about hiking the Virgin River before you go. There is information there that will make your hike more enjoyable – and may save your life. https://www.nps.gov/zion/planyourvisit/thenarrows.htm

Shooting the ISS

I would go out to Manassas on cold winter mornings and watch the International Space Station (ISS) pass overhead. For me it was also a chance to go out and enjoy the crisp winter breezes and the sounds of the fields and forests on those cold winter mornings.

Overhead there is a silent rustle of an owl’s wing. Beyond me in the field I hear the deer snorting, NH-SNPHFF, as a deer clears its nostrils to get my scent. I can just hear the accompanying stomp of its foot. The deer are close at hand.

I stand quietly to listen for other sounds of the woods. To the west in the largest stand of hardwoods I hear a Great Horned Owl calling. A resonant, deep bass call, it is a chilling sound. It echoes through all of Creation. that surrounds me.

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I look up.

I suck in a breath of cold air as I see the piercing points of the stars and planets far above. I have chosen a moonless night because the darkness will be deeper, and the stars and planets will stand out with greater clarity.

I orient myself. There is the Big Bear/Dipper (Ursa Major), and it shows me the way to Polaris, the North (Pole) Star, at the tip of the tail of the Little Bear.

Whenever I see Polaris, I always ask myself, Why does the little bear have such a long tail?

I look at my watch. I have twenty minutes before the ISS passes overhead in its orbit. It will reflect light from the still-hidden sun and shine as bright as any star in the night sky.

Before I set up my camera I lean back against my car and look up. I can pick out a few constellations and primary stars. I see a smaller satellite pass overhead. The satellite is a moving point of light among many stationary points of light (the stars and planets).

I want to eliminate any extra movement of my camera as that will blur the stars and gives them “tails”. However for satellite photography, including the ISS, I want the photo of the object to show a tail/trail so you can pick it out on a print where the stars are points of light. The satellite will show a tail/trail of light because of its movement across the sky.

I set up my tripod with my camera mounted on my home-made Azimuth Tracker. The Tracker moves the camera in relationship to the axis of the Earth so the stars will remain as points of light. The satellite will have a tail/trail in the photograph.

And I am ready.

I have been out for about 30 minutes. The time for the shuttle’s arrival and procession across the dark sky is near. I watch the southwest quadrant for my fast-moving target. As it appears, I depress the plunger on my locking extension cable to open the camera’s shutter (I am using film).

I count the seconds as I turn the crank to move the Azimuth Tracker and my Camera. Within three minutes I am done.

The wind has picked up, and the eastern sky is beginning to show a little light.

As the light grows in the east, I pack my camera and other gear into the trunk of my car. And then I lean against the car to again look up into the still dark sky. I see another small satellite swim through the darkness. An early bird is disturbed by my presence. It flies out of the Walnut tree and into the darken sky.

I know that is a hint that I should leave for the start of my day. I climb into my car and head into work.

After the film is developed and prints made, each picture carries in it the coldness of the early morning, the feel of the wind, and the sounds of the open field.

My picture at the top of the article shows the trail of the ISS. And the stars have short tails from the not-perfect alignment of my Azimuth Tracker. And the tail/trail of the ISS shows giggles form the wind.

To see the ISS use the NASA tool may be found at: https://spotthestation.nasa.gov/

Diving at Subic Bay

The USS Leonard F. Mason, DD-852, had left the line off the coast of VietNam, and we had brought her to Subic Bay for some repair and some recreation.

People often asked, “What do you do on the ship all day?”

We worked. We worked hard. There were watches to stand. There were repairs to be made to the ship and its equipment. There was underway refueling and resupply. And occasionally there was inflight refueling of a helicopter flying out on a rescue mission. There were orders to be fulfilled and support of our troops fighting for the freedom of people in southeast Asia and around the world.

Look at VietNam now. Through our efforts we helped ensure a better future for the people not only of the south but for all of VietNam. Do you question this? Look at the country now. It is prosperous, both North and South. And the people enjoy a level of economy and freedom that they never dreamed of under totalitarian regimes. But this came at a tragic cost including the death of 58,318 Soldiers, Airmen, Marines, and Sailors/Coast Gaard.

To the hundreds of thousands of young men and women who answered their nation’s call and went to serve on foreign shores, Thank You. You might have been scared. You might have been wounded. You might have returned to an ungrateful nation. And I am certain that you had friends who left their young lives behind. But you SERVED. You did not hide behind a Doctor’s note. You did not hide from the mail. You stepped forward and served. THANK YOU.

When the ship left the gunline for a return to port for replenishment and repairs, the ship’s crew also had a chance for liberty and relaxation.

There were many things to do off base at Subic Bay. One thing that many of us we enjoyed was the beauty of this part of the Philippine Islands. In particular there was an island that was used by the SEALs for training that was also open during the day for the use of its beaches. It is now called (on Google Earth) Grande Island. I am sure it had another name back then. And there was no resort hotel as there is today.

We hiked across to the south side of the island, facing out to the wide Pacific, there was a small beach of rocks, and clear water, and a deep hole or two that was marvelous for snorkeling.

The water was crystal clear and alive with fish. Periodically we would have the hair stand up on the back of our necks when we would see a Black-tipped Reef Shark watching us. And maybe there would be two of them.

We watched out for each other. It is always good to be cautious.

There were deep holes for diving. And for as long as we could hold our breath, we could have some good bottom time at around 30 feet, marveling at the fish which fed in the corals.

As we came up out of this blue-zone, the colors of the corals and fish became more vibrant. The sea water muted the colors, as it absorbed much of the sunlight. However, while restricting colors in the red, orange, and yellow wavelengths, sea water allowed the passage of blue light.

From above the water these holes might look like they are lined with blue-black rock. It is only when you are in the water, that you can clearly see the coral formations with its varying colors and shades. Only then can you see the multitudes of marine life feeding and minding their own business until they become lunch for another species of marine life that is only doing its business. When you look down into the corals as you float on the surface and peer through your face mask, the web of life of this tiny spot on a Pacific shore becomes visible. And you cannot leave unchanged.

On our hike back to the boat landing we talked about what we had seen. We talked about home and friends. We talked about when we might get home. And sometimes we might have to push off the jacks who had too much beer or too much war. And then we returned to the grey, steel hull that was our temporary home, for another watch.

Later, and much later, we remember the fish, and the sharks, and the sea-child’s teddy we saw on the side of the deep hole on the shores of the Pacific.

A good article on the absorption of light by seawater may be found in the Woods Hole magazine oceanus, at https://www.whoi.edu/oceanus/feature/shedding-light-on-light-in-the-ocean/

The photograph is the Black tipped Reef Shark was found on a Wikipedia article titled “Blacktip Reef Shark”, with a credit to https://www.whatsthatfish.com/image/view/6882. Note the blue coloration of the deeper corals beneath the shark, which is in dappled by the sunlight close to the surface.

Stone in the Woods

Which is it? A Stone? Or a Rock?

Was this photograph a picture of a stone, or was it a rock? I thought back to where I had seen this particular item of curiosity with distinct stratification (the lines of varying colored layers). I had been in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia hiking one of the many the grand trails .

These trails are wonderful in all seasons. They wander up beyond the railroad tracks and the old mill, up into the ridges and valleys of these foothills. There are old stone structures deep in the woods to marvel at, and there are streams that in Summer are great for cooling one’s feet off. In Winter the trails are generally passable. But the streams are more often than not frozen over but not to support a hiker’s weight.

There are other ruins up in these hills, and graves of the men and women who pioneered this area. It is one of my favorite places to wander, especially in the Fall as the leaves are changing. The trails wander and seem to take me different places than they had before. And if its a cool day and I’m not too tired I might push for the summit which is not that high, but it sure is steep on my side. The other side? Well, that is a solid rock face and straight down.

So is this a picture of a Stone or a Rock? For me, a stone is something that I can pick up easily and fling over the water to make a splash. A Rock, for me is a different matter. There is no flinging a Rock. UMPHH! You pick it up and carry it someplace. Then you put it down. UMPHH!!!

In the space under the back porch of my house, there is a Rock that I uncovered while clearing an area to store my wheelbarrows. After I had uncovered something three feet in length and a foot in depth and realized there was no end or bottom in sight, I left it and worked around it. That is a ROCK. But I have moved Rocks before. While a boy scout, we moved a massive Rock to create a fire platform for our council campfires. That rock was as big as most of us, and probably weighed more than any three of us. That was a long, hot day. The platform looked really good when it was done. And the fires were brighter and our ceremonies better, because of our work.

While trying to determine whether my classification of Big = Rock, Small = Stone was correct, I first turned to my narrow Vest Pocket Webster Dictionary by World Publishing Company. I had bought it the early 1960s when my high school English teacher, Mr. Miles McNiff, told us that we should buy one and keep it as a ready reference in our desks. I used it, as I assume my classmates did, to confirm spelling of words I wanted to use in my essays.

Now of course this function is pretty much taken care of by our computers which highlight in red these words with which it disagrees. But I keep the small dictionary around even though its usefulness may have been taken over by the computer. I will say for this and many other items of good guidance, Thank you Mr. McNiff.

In this dictionary I found definitions for the two words, Stone and Rock. Stone is defined solid non-metallic mineral matter. Rock on the other hand is a mass or pieces of stone. Hmm, says I, (apologies to RLS), since the definition of rock includes the words “pieces of stone” as if broken or chipped away, then Stone must be more massive.

But I will disagree and stay with my understanding. A Stone might be big, or much smaller, such as a stone in my shoe. But a Rock for me is generally bigger.

Here, in the hills, I had photographed a Stone. It was barely bigger than an Oak leaf recently fallen. I saw as it lay upon a cold hill side, reflecting the filtered light from above in its beautiful, lined quartz.

I wanted to ask the Stone what had happened in each of those lines, the narrowest of which was likely thousands of years in the making. Or perhaps it was a single flooding event. But over the eons that stone was laid down and then under the pressure of many million more years, it became Rock.

Then later it was up thrust in some gigantic earth-quaking event, perhaps the lifting of the mountains to my West. And as the layers of strata became once more exposed to light, and heat, and cold, and snow and rain, and the pressure of roots and of freezing and thawing, eventually this squared Stone fell off its perch.

Crack.

It came to lay at this point surrounded by moss and ferns and fallen sticks and leaves.

Even Stones have tales to tell. But who can understand them? We can only guess.

Summer Flutter-By

(corrected version – originally published 18 July, 2020)

‘Tis summer, and June is passed.

But still, “What is so rare as a day in June?.”

This June, when each day was long, hot, humid, and rainless, there was magic all around you.

If are near a park or if there are gardens in your neighborhood, you are likely to see the white Rovers, along with black, and orange, and sulfur Rovers. These tiny Rovers chasing some unseen song on the wind, will settle for a brief moment on a plant that is bathed in sunshine, and then they are off with a wandering and seemingly unsteady pace. It is as if they follow the Sun. They will stop for a moment, on a flower or on the ground, and bask in the sun. It appears that they are just resting and enjoying the Sun and the flowers that happened to be there for their repose.

These are the butterflies of Spring and Summer. They come to flowers seeking their nectar. And they seem to love the Sun. They should be called Sun-Wings. Why “butter-fly”.

This question reminds me of an old children’s joke from the 1950’s. Why did the little boy throw the butter out the window? Because he wanted to see “butter fly”.

The internet has varying opinions on where the word came from in English. It does not seem the word was derived from another language, but rather from old English, given on many sites as “buterfleoge”.

The UK Wildcats in the Department of Horticulture have a good site about butterflies. It has a great deal of information about butterflies, but not why they are associated with a specific milk product.

This makes me think of the Internet, which I used to find these bits of information. It was supposedly conceived at the Pennsylvania State University (Nittany Lions), in their storied and excellent ice cream parlor which is associated with their dairy farm and livestock programs. So perhaps there is truth to the legend of butterflies are lost soles who like milk? Yes, I said it like the soles of a pair of shoes, which if butterflies wore they would need three pairs. I wonder if a Beau Brummel of the lepidopterist type wears three pairs of the same shoe or does he vary the pairs.

What the Kentucky Wildcats site tells me is that in Greek butterflies and moths are known as “Lepidoptera”, which is used as their scientific classification. Lepidoptera means “scaly wings” in Greek. So as long as this is my article, I will take a swing (or a flutter) at the derivation of the word, and say that perhaps the person who first said, “That is a Butterfly,” knew well that the Greek word meant “scaly wing” and was looking for an opposite, and what is more smooth to the touch than butter.

But enough of the words and derivations and wandering through forests of blue trees with polka-dot leaves wondering why a butterfly is not called a formenhangeeen. Because it’s not.

The Butterfly is a simple soul. It follows the bright light and settles where there are no disturbing winds. Perhaps this is why in Russian (бабочка) (pronounced as ba-booch-ka) it is known as a “little soul”.

But in our garden on a warm-but-not-hot day in mid-July, I see a female (two-spots on each wing) Cabbage White (Pieris rapae) wandering, with purpose, through our purple Hostas and yellow Stone Crop Sedum. Down and up and around and then left to right she goes. Not unhurried, but seemingly without a care. And then she lights and unrolling her tube-like tongue she tastes the flower’s nectar and then moves on to investigate another.

And so her Summer goes.

What is so rare as a day in June?

A Sun-Wing in the garden who with each flap of her tiny wings sets up wild hurricanes that blow polka dotted leaves over the garden wall.

And so the Summer goes.

Other Butterflies that frequent the Washington, DC area include; Cloudless Sulphur Butterfly, Baltimore Checkerspot, Black Swallowtail, Cabbage White Butterfly, Canadian Tiger Swallowtail, Clouded Sulphur, Eastern Tiger Swallowtail, and the Monarch Butterfly.

The University of Kentucky site may be found at; https://www.uky.edu/hort/butterflies/all-about-butterflies .

“What is so Rare as a Day in June”, a poem by James Russell Lowell may be found at, https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/what-is-so-rare-as-a-day-in-june/ .

The Lyrics (by Bob Lind) to The Elusive Butterfly of Love (as sung by Dolly Parton) may be found at; https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/dollyparton/elusivebutterfly.html .

Old Tale – Ancient Stories

I have been asking myself, What is the oldest story that I know, that is not written down?

I thought of the story of my grandfather when he killed a wildcat on his property. As far as I know, I am the only one in the family that knows that tale. There is another story of my grandfather that my grandmother told me. She had heard it from his sister about the time when they were children growing up in rural Jones County. As a child my grandfather had a particular and funny way of asking for some Red Eye gravy on his grits, Some ‘dravy’ on my ‘drits’ by ‘Dranny’. His grandmother, “Dranny” had made the grits and the gravy. This was about 120 years ago.

My other grandfather told me stories of being caught in a lightning storm as a young man. And a story of one of his dogs biting him on the face when the dog was excited. He got rid of the dog. And he told me about the power of prayer. And he told me about his father, who rode into battle with his crutches tied to his horse. This was about 150 years ago.

Then back to my mother’s parents. My mother told a story of her mother’s mother’s uncle coming to visit her mother’s family in rural Carteret County. And he came with his pet goose. This was over 200 years ago.

These are the oldest, unwritten stories that I know. They tell me something about; (1) the people in the story, (2) about their lives as well as about my life, and (3) it tells something of value to their lives, and perhaps in ours. I think these three things are what matters for a story to be remembered.

I remember events from my own life that I have not told to my own children or my own grandchildren. Why not? Because the story would not tell them about 1,2, or 3. It would not tell them anything that they should know and will need to remember.

A more recent story comes to mind that meets the criteria. When my children were young, we were waiting to take the bus. As we waited, we saw a caterpillar start to cross the road. I asked my children if the caterpillar had looked both ways for oncoming traffic before starting to cross. My children said they did not think so. We watched the caterpillar until our bus came. As the bus pulled to the curb, it ran over the caterpillar. And that is a story for the ages. It (1) tells about the people, it (2) tells about their life as well as the life of the listener, and it (3) tells something of value (how to be safe). And it has a little entertainment value. And it is memorable. These are (3+).

Why my curiosity over stories in my family?

I recently read a fascinating article by Patrick Dunn in the digital online magazine Sapiens. Mr. Dunn’s article told of a story told within a group/tribe/family of Australian Aborigines about a hunting party tracking a large and dangerous quarry. But the story that is told is about people that have been dead for over 5,000 years. The people are gone. The animal they hunted is likely now extinct.

But the story is told even today as it has the values (1, 2, and 3+). It is a story the family/tribe shares in their oral story-telling tradition.

Other stories of important happenings and everyday events can be carried forward in an oral tradition because they have meaning in the lives of the people and in the lives of the family/tribe.

In today’s modern society we are often separated from our family group. But we can still tell tale of the past. They help us relate to those that came before us, and we can pass-the-knowledge on to future generations.

I have told the story of the goose at family gatherings, for its entertainment, and its meaning in the lives of our forebearers and to the lives of our descendants.

The article mentioned may be found at – https://www.sapiens.org/language/oral-tradition/ .

The online magazine Sapiens may be found at – https://www.sapiens.org/about-us/ .

The artwork is based on a picture of a domestic goose on Wikipedia – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domestic_goose

5Five Hot Miles

I was eleven years old, and we lived in coastal South Carolina. As far as I am concerned there is no place in the world like that part of America’s coast. And at that time, around 1958, the coastal area was still wild and rugged.

What better place for a Boy Scout Camp?

My troop, Troop#253, was from the Marine Corps Base at Parris Island, SC. Our Scout Masters were all drill instructors. And I promise you we were a wild bunch.

I joined the Boy Scout Troop on the base as soon as I turned 11 years old. It was terrific. We were an active troop. We had an old Quonset hut out on “Scout Island” where we met each week. The island was ours for camping and general exploring. We would camp out at least once a month using shelter-halves from the base. And we would sit around the campfire and hear stories about the Marines in World War II and Korea, and true ghost stories. One ghost story that hangs in my mind was “The Gray Mist” about the legend that was shown on the cover of the old Boy Scout Handbook.

Me and Paul, and Carl, and Bill, and Steve, and Pete and other boys whose names escape me now 60 years later, we camped and wandered through the swamps and marshes, keeping a wary eye out for quicksand and some the biggest rattlesnakes you ever saw. This is the truth. I saw a Marine who had killed a rattlesnake standing in the bed of a pick-up truck, holding the tail of the snake above his head using both hands. The snake’s body continued all the way down to the ground where about 10 inches of the snake and his head rested on the pavement. Iron Mike saw it too. The marshes and swamps were still wild and dangerous.

We camped out on Hunting Island State Park twice a year. In my minds eye it was a beautiful place; I hope it still is. It was just sand and sea and maritime forest, dark and foreboding. And the old light house to climb.

Each Summer the Troop would go to Camp Ho-non-wah for a week of camping and camp crafts and swimming and canoeing in the Land of the Rising Sun. For the Tenderfoots, like me, we were kept busy passing the requirements to become a Second Class Scout, including the 5-mile hike.

I had walked distances all my childhood. My brother and I walked a mile and more to our school in Newport, Rhode Island in the teeth of winter blizzards, and yes, up-hill both ways. Later in rural Craven County, North Carolina it was a mile to the school bus, and if my brother and I missed the bus, it was nearly three miles to school (slightly exaggerated). We didn’t miss it much going to school, but baseball or the swings would keep us late, and we would often have to walk home.

The 5-mile hike at Scout Camp was not a hike to get to someplace. It was a hike for a reason. It was a requirement to advance, and I had to have my card signed-off by my Scout Master who led the hike. We left the camp right after lunch. There were a bunch of us on the road that afternoon. The group included four Scouts from my Troop, and probably twenty other Scouts from the different Troops that were at camp that week.

It was July in coastal South Carolina, and it was humid, and it was hot. The road was packed clay, or maybe it was marl (rock rubble from phosphate mining), and it was certainly dusty. All of us carried a canteen, and we were glad that we had something to drink. By the time we reached the turn-around point, we were all nearly done-in.

Our turn-around point was a small country store with a porch and a bit of a porch roof. It was clapboard/lap siding and so weathered that you could not tell if it had ever been painted. But inside it was shaded and compared to outside, cool. And there was a soda bottle trough, one of those coin-operated Slider soda machines. The soda bottles were suspended by their necks on a track. When you found the one you wanted you would slide it up to the end of the track and put your nickel in to unlock the gate.

I did not get one. I looked into the icy cold water in the trough and thought of the soda I would buy after dinner from a similar machine back at camp. It would be a frosty root beer. Cold. And delicious.

My Scout Master blew his whistle, and we started our hike back. Those last miles were long and hot. But soon enough we were back at camp and had time to relax a bit.

I showed my card to my Scout Master, who signed it, and congratulated me.

Then I decided to not wait until after dinner. I bought that cold, cold root beer and enjoyed it sitting in the shade of one of the massive live oak trees, looking out over the broad, brown surface of Bohicket Creek.

I heard a bird in a nearby pine thicket. I looked and saw South Carolina’s amazing Painted Bunting.

It was a good day.