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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.

Grainy, but not Old

Thirty years ago, when I began going to Battery Heights to hike, 35mm film cameras were used by, I would guess, the majority (>50%) of the adult population. Even as that trend changed towards digital cameras, I continued to use my old Canon camera. This grainy picture, of a tree and the slope beyond to a tree line and a sinister cannon, is the last picture I took with that camera which carried me through three decades.

My first camera had been a Kodak Brownie camera (Starflash). I used that camera for 15 years, dutifully carrying my film to a photo counter to have it developed. In a week or so I could go and pick up the pictures and see the results of my last two months of photography.

Those pictures that I deemed worth keeping, I am glad to say the majority of them, I placed in a photograph album using little gummed corners which held the pictures in place. How many years, if not decades, has it been since I licked the dry gum of a corner and placed it, with three of its brothers to hold my picture securely on the page. Now nearly 70 years later I can look back at pictures of my friends and family and relive those moments with them. I can see pictures of the dogs of my youth with whom I ran fields and roamed swamps. I hope to be reunited with all of them at the end of my days on Earth.

I bought my Canon while my ship was marooned in Japan. It replaced my Brownie which no longer functioned after I had wrapped it in plastic to try my hand at underwater photography. The bag leaked. All but one picture on the roll was destroyed by the salt water.

I liked those cameras from which, when I heard a resounding click of the mechanical shutter, I knew I had captured the image I saw through my view finder. There was no automatic system to adjust the color or to focus on a distant unimportant object when what I wanted was to capture the seeded-head of a tall stem of field grass that stood before me. I was suspicious of the capability of the digital cameras to take the pictures I wanted. I wanted mechanics, not electronics. I wanted to be responsible for the quality of the picture. But I ran into the problem of where to buy film, and then where to get my film developed.

One day when I came back from an outing to the battlefield, I picked up my daughter’s old digital camera. She had a new one, and I decided to try using the new technology. So, I put down my trusted camera.

I put my Canon in the trunk of my car. I had carried that camera on many miles of muddy roads and frozen trails, taking countless wonderful pictures. It sat in my car, hidden, for 15 years, through the heat of summer and the bone chilling storms of winter, until I realized that its time had come, again.

Now I feel a new age has dawned for my photography. I can buy the film I want. I can mail the film to be developed in a photo lab with clean chemicals and who respects my time as a photographer, even if my pictures make no sense to them, or are grainy, or out of focus because I thought that was a snake I heard moving through the grass, or the light wasn’t just right but the content was.

I sent the old roll of film off to see if the new mail-in lab was any good. And now I have this grainy photograph of a tree and a cannon before me. When I look at it, I know where I was, and I know I was glad to be there. I am pleased. It’s a simple snapshot, worn by the effect of heat and cold on its chemical content, but I was there, I heard the click, I wound the film, I replaced the cap. It was the complete experience.

These days I am not going out on hikes. However, I will start using my trusty Canon around the back yard, pursuing flowers and their insects. And I will take up my old lenses, and my old eye-piece. I will dust off my old wood tripod on which I mounted a wooden device, from a friend’s sketch that enabled me to track the stars. I am again ready to capture the world around me on film.

And I know that Battery Heights, and the tree, the creek and the bridge, and the woods with deer and owls, and the stars beyond, are waiting out there for my return.

Fire Swifts

I am fortunate. There is a stand of tall, old trees that I can see from my backyard. This year, I often go outside early in the morning to enjoy a cup of coffee and look out towards these trees. There are three in particular that stand out. On the left is an American Ash, to the middle-right there is a Tulip Poplar, and on the right, just beside the Poplar, is a Sycamore. They grow in a creek bed that runs through this small wood.

The creek meanders through its small valley. Over the years and centuries the stream has cut a bed for itself that is approximately 10 feet below the overall terrain and less than a tenth of a mile wide. Maybe at one time it was a cow pasture.

But now, since the valley is low and the stream pushes through it during rainy seasons, it has never been developed. However, because of the stream and its valley, there is a green belt of trees that snakes though my small town and out into the county. This green-way is a nature preserve. It harbors deer and foxes and other sub-urban wildlife. And it is a haven for birds that are not generally seen this far from the tree covered mountains to our West. And in the upper reaches of the trees, under the broad leaves of the Sycamore and the Polar, and beneath the delicate leaves of the Ash, there are thousands of broods of flying insects. But, the only ones that I can see are the Fireflies that flash in the evenings.

Today I am not thinking of the beauty of this small valley nor of the denizens that are concealed inside its narrow borders. Today I am thinking of a feathered visitor that arrives each year in the late Spring and early Summer while passing to the North., and again as it passes through in the Fall as it makes its way South. It is the Chimney Swift (Chaetura pelagica). These delicate birds soar through the air above me as they pass close to the tops of the trees to catch flying insects. The Chimney Swift is a common bird of North America, East of the Rockies. Some will build their nests locally, assuming they find a suitable location. Others are passing through on their way North to the limits of their range on the Canadian side of the Great Lakes of North America.

While they are here what a show they put on! From my backyard I have only a small patch of sky in which to look up, but in the mornings when I am sitting having a cup of coffee, I can see these birds sail through the air, the sun shining on their dark wings and reflecting as the birds twist and turn showing an alternating brightness on the underside and then the sooty dark upper-wing and body. It is as if their wings were hammered steel, winking flame of fire. These aerial acrobatics amaze me as the birds suddenly turn to snatch a flying insect from the air. Several sites I read state that a pair of breeding adult Swifts feeding a brood of chicks will consume upwards of 6,000 flying insect a day.

In the Fall the Swifts turn their thoughts to warmer climes and head South. In The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame’s masterpiece, Rat challenges the swallows on why they do not stay in England as the year turns away from summer. The birds reply, “Ah, Yes, the call of the South, the South. … Its songs, its hues, its radiant air.”

It is the same with the Chimney Swift. As Summer ends the birds leave the Great Lakes. They leave the Blue Ridge Mountains. They leave the Georgia shore. But where did they go? For many years no one knew where the Chimney Swifts went.

In 1943, this changed. A scientist studying the indigenous people of the forests at the headwaters of the Amazon River in Peru spotted a curious necklace on one of the people. He asked to examine it and was able to purchase it. The necklace was made of the tiny metal bands that are placed on the legs of birds to track their migration. He returned the bands to the United States Fish and Wildlife Service (FWS) of the Department of the Interior. The FWS confirmed the bands had been placed on Chimney Swifts in several locations, five States (primarily Tennessee) and a Canadian province. The birds had been killed for food in Peru, and the small metal tags were strung into a necklace.

The FWS put out a press release in November 1944 that announced “The solution [has been discovered] of a centuries-old riddle of bird migration — the location of the winter home of the Chimney Swift .”

When I recently learned this I marveled at the thousands of miles these birds, which I watched over my morning coffee, had crossed. I know that they soon they will hear “the call of the South”, and they again will take their ancestral route to find “ the songs, the hues, and the radiant air” of far Southern climes.

A site of the Tennessee Wildlife Resource Agency about the Chimney Swifts. https://www.tn.gov/twra/wildlife/birds/chimney-swift.html#:~:text=The%20wintering%20range%20of%20the%20Chimney%20Swift%20was,stations%20in%20Chattanooga%2C%20Knoxville%2C%20Nashville%2C%20Clarksville%2C%20and%20Memphis.

Other sites regarding the Chimney Swift and their range and habitat include; http://www.prestonmnchamber.com/play/attractions/chimney-swift/ and http://www.chimneyswifts.org/

The FWS 1944 Press Release may be found at, https://www.fws.gov/news/Historic/NewsReleases/1944/19441112.pdf

HOLLY FLOWERS

My neighbor has a row of holly trees along the sidewalk in front of this house. He maintains them well, They are not over trimmed, and that particular part of my walk has a pleasant wilderness-feel to it. The ground beneath the trees is thick with a flowering ground cover. The hollies and the undergrowth give comfort and cover to many birds and a variety of wildlife.

I see the birds flying in and out. Sometimes to rest. Other times I imagine to nest, sometimes to nest. A red Cardinal, and the charcoal and orange Eastern Towhee, sit at the tops and make their song resonant throughout the neighborhood.

As I walk past, I may hear a rustle in the undergrowth and be surprised by a chipmunk as it darts out on some important errand. Or in the early morning if I look out my window, I may see a fox using this as a path where he can remain covered while watching the neighborhood – or perhaps looking for that self-important chipmunk.

The hollies themselves enclose a small dogwood that is trying to grow up and out from beneath their branches. The dogwood looks healthy and is trying to push its way up. It had numerous white blossoms this Spring which is a good sign for its future. It will be interesting to see how it continues in its relationship with its covering neighbors.

The showy dogwood flowers have had their time and are now gone. Lying quietly behind what had been the showy branches is a small green-hued flower of the American Holly.

I get in close to see it the tiny blossoms. The buds and the blossoms lie in a profusion at the tips of the branches. They are well guarded by the holy’s spike-tipped leaves. In their time the blossoms will fade, and its petals drop, and then it will fruit in the Fall and Winter into the deep crimson berries of the American Holly.

These trees have always held an attraction for me. And a certain amount of fear. There are many hollies, and all have the shiny leaves with spiny points. Some may be soft and flexible. Some are as hard and stiff as a sheet of steel with long sharp needle-like thorns That when a leaf falls to the ground and dries out they are a terror to a barefoot boy in rural North Carolina.

I have many memories of that rural yard. There was a peach tree that gave few peaches and those it did produce attracted multitudes of wasps. And up the dirt road to the highway were the old pear trees which presented glorious, hard, sweet pears. But those fruits if allowed to lie on the ground became a magnet to yellow-jackets and bees of all kinds. And what child, not me or my brother or my cousins, could resist the chance of finding a recently fallen pear lying in the golden autumn afternoon, would not risk the buzz and perhaps sting of the insects searching for that sweet, sticky nectar, and make a dash to grasp the prize and to come out with the fruit and perhaps a much respected wound from the enemy, to seek comfort while sharing bites of their hard won prize.

Now, years later, I hazard a closer inspection of the holly flowers. There simplicity is stark. Their grouping is like that of a family staying close to each other for comfort – and fun. Even in their tight grouping I cannot detect a scent. And the threat of even the softer thorns of this variety does not allow me to get too close.

As we approach Summer and look towards Autumn, these flowers may fade, but they will remain, as do the pears, and the thorns, and the laughter of years long gone. And all this is brought back to me by a group of tiny, little flowers.

On the Patio

These days, as all of us either choose not to do – or perhaps we cannot do, I no longer go out to hike some federal lands. I haven’t been out there for nearly two months. It was a long drive, but it was a drive that I enjoyed.

But right now it’s a drive that I really don’t need to take. Plus, I can walk in my neighborhood.

I can also go out onto my patio. Many of us have a deck or a balcony or a small patio which enables us to have a place to step out-of-doors.

I can escape. In years past I have done this from an apartment that had no balcony. I would pull a chair up to a window and look out at what I could see. I would put myself out beyond what I could see in front of me. I would imagine standing on a distant shore or a far away mountain top. Sometimes I would close my eyes to do this. Other times I would sit there with my eyes wide open and plan my trip down the stairs, out onto the street, and then out onto the open highway to take me to this place in my mind.

But yesterday I sat on my patio.

It was a sunny afternoon. The sun was high in the sky, and hot. I have set up a support for a beach umbrella so I can sit in its shade. Periodically I got up and walked around the greenery that we had placed in the center of the patio. A tree had stood there when we first moved in. Unfortunately, the tree was old and passed away, and we had to have it cut down. But we preserved the place and use it for flower pots and greenery.

When the Hostas bloom and the tall spikes of close-packed flowers emerge, the spot is alive with bees. And chipmunks run out onto the patio from under the cover of the broad leaves to look at me and then dash back into the shade of the leaves. They live under the rotted stump.

But yesterday it was quiet. I relaxed in the shade of my old umbrella and thought of far off places that I remember from easier times. Yes, it is an escape. And it’s a good one. It helps me look forward to a better future. A future where I can get out and go places that I have been before and to other places I haven’t been. I can look out over vistas where bear and elk roam. I can see a sea shore where the sand is hot and the waves carry the tide in and then allow it to retreat.

I look up at my umbrella. I remember backpacking it onto the beach where we would camp and wait for the sun to set and the stars to come out. The umbrella reminds me of that place. I can smell the ocean. I can hear the bubble of our pot on the small camp stove as I prepared some rice or some chicken or some other simple meal.

Later, I would carry our plates and the pot to the edge of the surf and scour them out with sand. The leftover bits of food washed away to be eaten by the sea birds and the tiny crabs Then back to my chair to sit down and look out at an unbelievable field of bright stars.

I would just sit and imagine.

JS+I

Bear in the Meadow

I saw a photograph that I want to describe to you. The setting is an American alpine meadow surrounded by tall conifers. The view is to the west. A forest of the conifers rings the far side of the meadow. There is a high but thick cloud cover wrapped around the sheer granite walls of the peaks. The morning sun is just now burning off the cloud cover and in places the cliffs are reflecting the sun’s glory. In the meadow not far from the observer is a brown bear, head lifted, looking towards the morning sun.

It is a beautiful picture. It shows the grandeur of the Yosemite valley. It leads me to believe in the grandeur of this park and of all National Parks. The bear in his meadow, in his home, moves me. Yet, the picture of the bear makes me somewhat scared. But being scared is not a bad thing. It makes you cautious, so you are able to make better decisions.

When the hair rises on the back of my neck, I know it is time to consider my position, assess the situation, and take appropriate action for my safety and that of the people who may be with me.

In the photograph the bear looks far away, but it is probably less than 50 yards from me. I believe that he, or she, could cover the distance quickly. Bears are known to be able to charge at speeds above 20 miles per hour, and up to 30 miles per hour. This bear could cover these 50 yards in less than 6 seconds!

So I don’t mind being scared as it makes me aware of where I am and ready to react when I go into bear country.

I have seen grizzlies and other bears at were minding their business, and I let them alone and minded my own business, which was my safety. I kept a safe distance, well beyond 100 yards. That is a minimum safety distance with bears. To quote from the Glacier National Park website;

“Approaching, viewing, or engaging in any activity within 100 yards (91.4 meters) of bears or wolves, …. is prohibited. … Never intentionally get close to a bear. Individual bears have their own personal space requirements, which vary depending on their mood. Each will react differently and its behavior cannot be predicted. All bears are dangerous and should be respected equally.”

Whenever I talk about bears, I must talk safety. Keep away. Enough said.

This brief article is about the bear’s place in the meadow and my place with him.

I must say that I have never been to Yosemite. However, one of these days I hope to get there.

About the bear, in the photograph I can tell from the bear’s alert stance that he is listening and sniffing the air. Something has caught his attention in this, his territory. This is his place. He lives here. And he has, although I don’t know what he would call it, a sense of place about it. He knows the routines of the other animals, where there is food, when the snow will soon fall. He knows his way in this meadow. He likely feels safe here and has what we might consider a level of comfort in this place. And he is jealous of this place and will guard it. For this meadow, the bear has a sense of place.

But I don’t live there. I have never been there. But I have heard stories and exciting tales of camping and hiking in Yosemite. And I have seen pictures and photographs of the place. I want to go there. I also have a sense of place for the park that includes this meadow and includes this bear.

In my mind’s eye, I see the valley below the granite walls. And I as a visitor in the bear’s home, have to respect the bear and his “belongings” and know that he will guard them jealously and violently if he feels it is necessary.

But when I imagine myself in this meadow, I have a feeling of wonder, a feeling of contentment. I feel as if I belong to this place, but not that this place belongs to me.

I feel the contentment of being in the right place. I feel a shared comfort with the mountains, and the woods, and the grasses, and the bear. I feel the desire to stand out at night and see the stars, and then see the sun come up and splay its light across the peaks.

And I will be cautious, as I am in the company of the Bear.

The Glacier Park information on bears ay be found at; https://www.nps.gov/glac/planyourvisit/bears.htm

The picture is based on a photograph at the NPS Yosemite website, El Capitan in Early Morning.Described as “Morning sunlight on eastern wall of El Capitan, Yosemite Valley, with Merced River in foreground. [RL001244].” The photograph may be found at; https://www.nps.gov/media/photo/gallery-item.htm?pg=110576&id=B1794C5D-155D-4519-3E4385AA40753AF0&gid=B17BC4E5-155D-4519-3EC6B73FCE2806A8 .