More Sweet WV Moments

 Hard to put into words how good it felt to be among friends (all of us freshly vaccinated and tested) for a week in West Virginia again!  Amy, Keith, and Kim. Oh my gosh was it great to see them after such a long hiatus! Our time was too short, and there was too much going on for the long yaks I craved, but we ascertained that we are all still alive and thrilled to be together.

And then there was Jim and Paul...parking lot hijinks. Such fun to be in the field with these fabulous naturalists!

Had a deliriously wonderful day at Babcock State Park, co-leading with Jody, here in joyful lead. 

 I love being out with other weedpickers, as Bill used to call those of us who walk looking down, squatting frequently to exclaim about tiny wildflowers. This is Bellis perennis, an introduced daisy from Europe that I love without reserve.

Jody helped us with violets. This is Sweet White Violet Viola blanda. The red stem is the tipoff.

Babcock was showing rather well on this May morning! Ah, West Virginia, when you shine, you really shine!

The historic gristmill would be enough, without the songs of Swainson's warblers ringing from the great rhododendron surrounding it!

Birding this wildly scenic place with other naturalists: heaven.

Sugar Creek is always one of my favorite trips featured by the New River Birding and Nature Festival. We're never sure what we'll find, but it's usually really good. 

On this beautiful day, way down at the bottom of the mountain, a surprise awaited. There was a Swainson's warbler, quest bird of the festival par excellence, just showing off. For casual bird lovers, the Swainson's warbler is a rare and local specialty of the New River Gorge of West Virginia. It needs impenetrable thickets of great rhododendron, and it's easy to hear, but famously hard to see, in that dark and tangled milieu. Lots of people come to the Gorge to see their life Swainson's warbler. Sometimes they come home only having heard it. It can be an undertaking to catch even a glimpse. Bill used to say his syncopated, emphatic whistled song says, "Screw you! Screw the world!"

That interpretation, of course, born of the frustration of staring into rhododendron tangles for hours, hoping for a glimpse of the author of that disembodied voice.

 Have you ever seen a Swainson's warbler on a powerline?

Us neither. A moment of cognitive dissonance, to see this famous skulker of the rhodies perch on a wire. 

Nobody was playing a recording. This bird just did not care.  Or maybe he associated groups of birders with recorded songs, and was just heading us off at the pass? 

Birds can surprise us...maybe he's been exposed to enough birders to know we carry singing Swainson's warblers in our big pockets. It always pays to think outside the envelope with birds, because they LIVE outside the envelope.

I never thought I'd shoot a SWWA in flight! Such a big, strong, hearty bird, so different from any other warbler we have; a skulker in great rhododendron thickets, a syncopated singer, rarely seen.

Except for today

 

with the tiny leaves of a hornbeam hanging like squirrel ears all around him. 

I don't expect to ever have such a session with a Swainson's warbler again. We take what we get, gratefully. 

It was a charged and magical day. I wrote in an earlier post about the homemaking cerulean warbler who knocked us out with her aqua blue crown and persistent plant fiber pulling as she gathered nesting material on a roadbank. Here she is wearing her cat's whiskers!

We were birding slowly along the same roadside when a red truck rolled slowly up. The driver stopped to tell us about a potential hazard along the road and his little red and white dog stuck her head and then most of her body out the window, wanting to join the conversation. One gentleman in our group was drawn like a magnet to her gentle overture, and, though I wanted to pile on and pet her too,  I thought it best that I capture this sweet moment between them. And I marveled at dogs, and humans, and the instant and dear bond they are able to forge with one another. What a sweet, sweet moment. 

Yes, I sent this photo to Jeff. :) Too sweet!

Hello! You are a nice man, I can smell that. You have dogs at home, yes you do. I would like to touch you, and have you touch me, because I am a dog.

Dogs: Is it any wonder we love them so? Open hearted, gracious creatures they are.

Lower Salem Love Letter

In the little hamlet of Lower Salem, just a few miles from our home, is an elementary school, high on a hill overlooking PawPaw Creek and a small dairy farm.

My kids attended Lower Salem Elementary, and I will be forever grateful for the wonderful teachers who graced their lives in this one-class-per-grade rural gradeschool.

Science Club, after school, organized by Mrs. Hendrix.  I helped sometimes. Binoculars and scope courtesy us.

It is the kind of school where a boy can show up in Crocs and a cape, every day, and get away with it through fifth grade. Because to his teachers and classmates, he is a superhero, even if we aren't so sure what his superpowers are yet.

And this lovely teacher, Mrs. Hendrix, saw what was so special about Liam and nurtured that. I know he is who he is today because she cared so much and believed in him, and gave him wings (and let him wear a cape).

For me, this is the quintessential photo, that summons the place up in memory. I'm brought right back to when they were little and we entrusted them completely to this place, these people.

Liam, at the time this photo was taken, was in kindergarten, and having some issues with germs. He didn't want to touch the bench. Or anything. So he's got his little mitts all curled up and he's scowling, while Phoebe is being Perfectly Fine Despite All That. You can hear me tell a story about germs and those adorable kids at this link to NPR.  Do listen, if the player works for you; the written transcript loses a lot in translation.  But come back! You have to see more of our little village.

 Lower Salem also has a barber shop that is open sometimes. Fridays, 3-7, and Saturdays, 9-1pm. The little pole sign turns then.

We peeked in the window.

On the bulletin board, there's an ad for stump removal. The pink sign advertises Gracie's Grooming Salon, and the white one on the right says 

WANTED

PLACES TO TRAP BEAVER.

They would probably notice if I snuck in there on a Friday or Saturday and tore that sign down, so I won't. But I would sure like to. 

Nobody was home when we were snooping, but we thought there had been a cat around.

Yes, we're sure. We could see some cats on the hill across the road. But we knew better than to chase them.

In Lower Salem is a post office.  It's the brick building on the right. We'd never been inside it until the Whipple Post Office closed. Small rural post offices all over Ohio are closing, closing, closing, and we are much poorer for it, for they might be the only social gathering places in some rural areas. There is value to that that goes well beyond convenience.

I depend heavily on my local post office and postal carriers for much of my livelihood, which involves sending books, notecards, puzzles, art prints, CD's and plant parts (to name just a few things) to people far and near. These people send me money, and then I turn around and send their money to dentists and Bowdoin College.  

If I want to send something by any non-governmental carrier, I have to drive 18 miles to drop it off. This quickly becomes a problem. So I was crushed when, after having been cut to a four-hour office, the landlord refused to renew the lease on the tiny brown shed that was the Whipple Post Office, and it was suddenly no more.  It was a dark, dark day in Whipple when that happened. There's nothing in the building now.  Whaa?

What to do? I turned my eyes toward Lower Salem, only about 8 miles away.  That's it, white roofs gleaming through the sycamores along PawPaw Creek.

I loved having an excuse to go back. Since the kids have grown up, I haven't gotten over there much. Turkey vultures stayed there almost all winter this year, roosting in the trees on the high bluffs behind the village. I took that as a good omen, turkey vultures being (one of) my spirit guides.

If I took the right route, I could visit Nostrils and the Minidonks on the way!

Nostrils is the cutest horsie in the land, especially when she's got a fresh haircut.

  The minidonks are very, very sweet.  It's nice to see them on the long way to the post office. Velvety muzzles make everything better.

This photo was taken in early April from the front stoop of the little white Methodist church on the hill. The post office/bank complex is the brick buildling to the left, and I think the beautiful Gothic brick is the old school, now a community hall. The elementary school is just out of the picture to the right. But that's most of Lower Salem in this photo.

I will be honest. I was a bit trepidacious

 about bringing my business to a new post office. Because I inevitably wind up asking more of postal employees than your average bear.  What I mail can be big, bulky, and sometimes heavy. I knew that the success, or at least the pleasant execution, of my next big mailings--and I had a feeling they were going to be really big--depended upon whom I found behind the counter.

On my first visit, I took a deep breath, opened the door and let little Chet Baker take the lead. I figured I might as well just be me and let the chips fall where they may. And me = Zick + Chet Baker. We're a package deal. If the person behind the counter liked dogs even a little bit, everything would be fine. I hoped they liked dogs.

He trotted briskly into the foyer, stood up and tried to see over the counter. 

And what he saw was Miss Cynni. Who let out a squeal of delight and dove for her treat drawer.

It turns out that Miss Cynni is the kind of person who likes dogs. Probably more than anyone I know. 

Everything was going to be fine.

Bulldog vs. Terrier: The Perfect Mix

As Baby Birds comes to its fruition, I'm happy to say that I'm well along on a book about Chet Baker. It doesn't yet have a home in a publishing house, but that's not a big concern to me right now. What I want, and what I've accomplished, is to have a bunch of chapters written and its voice firmly established when Baby Birds hits, so you can tell exactly what it will be and what it won't be. And we'll take it from there. The time to shop a new manuscript is when your new book hits. With your help, I'm looking forward to Baby Birds hitting hard!

The Chetbook is not going to be another "Your dog is actually a wolf and here's why" book. Lord knows that's been done, and done, and done again. It's not going to be all sciencey.  Well, it will have the amount of science that my everyday life does, which is a good dash, the sriracha sauce that spices every pursuit. 

It's not going to go on and on about training, but it will, I hope, give you a picture of how one person molded a near-perfect companion from a little blob of black putty. 

Mostly what it will be is me, telling you who this dog is, what he does and what he means to me, every day. There is adventure, reflection, reverie and the helpless laughter that Boston terriers so expertly draw from their people. The Bacon keeps giving me stories, another huge one last night, right after this video was shot. I'm saving that one for the book. I put a lot of good stuff on the blog, but I can't write the way I can in a book; I can't delve as deep. The Chetbook seems like one without an end, because his story is changing and deepening as we go. It's my story, too. Eleven years is a long time to love someone this much. I hope we have a good handful more. 

Enjoy the video of Baker being hisself. Enough bulldog in him to give up the chase and come along, and enough terrier to run ahead.

Blogging: Year Ten

I was minding my own bidness this morning, answering a few emails, when my friend Wheatley emailed to congratulate me on my tenth blogaversary.  Well, that was a pure surprise to me because I wasn't even close to remembering that. The only other person I know who's been blogging consistently for ten years is Floridacracker. He's got me beat in posts and longevity, but not by a lot. Every once in awhile he has to marry off a daughter and gets a little distracted, but he keeps popping up like a rubber duckie, giving us a glimpse of the real Florida. When he does, it doesn't feel so lonely out here. And there's Murr, turning out the good stuff from Portland, perfectly twirled, jimmies on top, like some kind of brilliant delicious ice cream machine.

I don't mean to omit anyone. Have to tip my hat to Birdchick, who got me into this in the first place, asking me to guest-blog in December 2005. To which I replied, "What's a blog?"  There are a lot of good bloggers out there, some great ones, too, but most of them seem to have moved on to other media, other stuff, to life itself, not describing life. I'm all for that, in theory. I just can't seem to do it. I would have been a great shepherd, or lighthouse keeper. Put me in a pretty place, give me something to do (clean the salt spray off the lens, birth a lamb or trim a hoof) and man, I'll hang in there for you. A decade. Huh. Well, you have to stay somewhere, and here's mighty fine.

In December, 2005, Phoebe was 9. Liam was 6. They were little kids. Chet was 1, a wasp-waisted pup. I was 47. I didn't own a cell phone or a telephoto lens. I shot everything with a tiny Olympus point-and-shoot that went KCHZIRRRRRR! when you turned it on and KaCLOP when you took a photo. Good grief. I'd love to be 47 now, and know what I know now. You can keep the Olympus.

 But we aren't given to know anything, really; we can't know that ten years later we'll still be faithfully keeping this thing, this weB LOG, having learned all the ins and outs of what to say and what not to say; when to rant (never); when to reveal our deepest, most vulnerable side (never); what to write about. Only the good stuff, thanks; there's enough sadness and bad news out there to paint the globe matte black ten times over.

And keeping it to the good stuff  turns out to be easy for me. Every day, I see and photograph things that I'm still, ten years later, dying to share with you. Holes in the landscape, sky eyes, mirrors on infinity.

What does dawn look like from inside the cornfield? Well, let's climb that hill and see. Who'd ever know that just behind this incredible scene, one of my favorites from this year, a highway project has eaten an entire woodland, all the trillium and Jacob's ladder, the box turtles and foxes and turkeys, gone. 

In this picture, there's only the good.

Blogging fills a hole in me somehow. I'm a compulsive sharer. I'm reminded of that on the now rare and much-treasured times when I can climb the tower with Bill or ride, hike, or run around with my kids. And it's all, "Look at the light!" or "OMG the Three Graces today!" or "Wait 'til you see this sassafras in winter!" "Turkeys!" "Redtail!" "Come down to the greenhouse, there's a flower you MUST see!"

Today, Creole Lady threw out one last blossom for Phoebe to see before going to sleep for a few weeks. 

She's tired, having bloomed hard for a month now, and the fickle solstice sun has failed her. 

This blossom, right at the top of the plant, hung head down, and I found sweet nectar spilling out, and no bee or hummingbird to take it. 

Well, I'll share it here. That way, it won't go completely to waste. We have witnessed it.

I'm grateful for you, the readers, who've stuck with me and want to catch the nectar, see all that great, sweet stuff that would otherwise (horrors!) go unshared. The southeast corner of Ohio, I'd wager, is not a place many would yearn to visit, yet you and I know that its treasure is everywhere, just for the noticing. I love this place with a passion that surprises even me. 

I wonder, if life had dropped me in a city, I would be able to love it like this. I kind of doubt it. I worry sometimes that I'm turning into a recluse, because my favorite times seem to happen when I'm alone, and then I go out for a run and some (more) solitude and wind up yakking for 45 minutes with some person or other I've gotten to know on my dirt-road routes, and breathe a sigh of relief. Nope.  Reclusive, maybe, but not a recluse. Whew. And they seem happy to see me. So, apparently, not a weirdo, either. Always good to check now and then.

You help with all that. You're out there reading, and you're out on the dirt roads with me, too, appreciating these landscapes, these trees, these skies, the animals I've come to love.

Beauty.

Hannah.

Nostrils. My girls.

Buddy. Ohh, Buddy. So much there I can hardly get my arms around it.

The Animal I Love Most. Who is just a little older than this blog. Amazing. All of it, amazing.

Having found a porkchop bone somewhere, and going to find a place to bury it. Got a stick in the bargain.

After the bone burial. December 23, 2015. And of course, I had to wash his face and rinse his eyes out. Twice today. He was in a thing-burying mood. Bill calls him Frost Warning, for his white eyebrows. And just this week, I think, Chet's eyelashes went white. His winky has always been white, glory be! And we love him more than you could imagine, with all his quirks and oddities and that wonderful energy and silliness, still shining so brightly.

Though I almost never read back through it, I'm thankful to have this record of a life lived in the hills and hollers. I sense that, should it survive and remain accessible (always a question with online information), my kids will go back to it to remember how things were and how they looked, what we were doing. Maybe they'll show it to their kids. It's a book, a real-time history such as no scrapbook could ever match. I catch Liam mining the archives all the time, looking up his birthday posts. For that, I'm thankful. It gives me a catch in my throat to see him looking up his own history. And I've used it when I'm at a loss for a subject for those ever-approaching column deadlines, and I know that there are books and books written here that I'll never have time to assemble.

Creature of the moment. It's tremendously difficult for me to write about anything but what's happening now, what I'm feeling and thinking now. For that, blogging is the perfect outlet. I know that some get impatient with me for not spinning travelogues of my insanely cool trips to Central America and South Africa, but the truth is I can't do it while I'm traveling, and when I get back with ten kazillion great photos, all the things that are happening in my little Ohio home, right now, always seduce me into that long embrace with the land right under my feet, now, with the clouds floating over my head, now, with the deer walking lightly into the clearing, now. I think I know him...and I look back in my blogposts, and yes, yes, that's him! Ellen's child! And what cotinga or monkey or eland could be more wonderful than that?

I did 64 blogposts upon returning from the trip of a lifetime to Guyana, and I still wonder how the hell I pulled that off. I want so badly to do it for South Africa. Please know I'm trying to get to it. It's all too wonderful, too big, and oh look at that cloudscape! Hanging out clothes at Christmas time. It's all too beautiful.

I'm grateful to still be here, and endlessly grateful that everything on me still works well and (usually) doesn't hurt. That I can still cover 7 miles in a morning, and Chet, 11 years strong, is still out in front of me, his finely turned legs ticking along like oiled clockwork. I never tire of watching him trot. I know it won't always be so, and it makes me hang on all the more fiercely to him, to the land, the people and the creatures that I love.

I got lost, as I often do during the holidays, when the mercantile world rings and clashes, shrills and jangles and tells us over and over and over that everything's MERRY and BRIGHT, that we'd better not pout, we'd better not fight, and asks us over and over and over if we're ready? Are we ready? Is everything bought and wrapped, cooked and prepared? Hark how the bells All seem to say Throw cares away! Ding-dong Ding-dong that is their song! Gaily they ring while people sing Songs of good cheer Christmas is HERE!! 

Again. Louder. Again. Even louder. And again.

Enough. Too much.

 And a friend said, "Why don't you just go find a warm place and sit, and see what the Universe brings you?"

photo by Shila Wilson

I replied, "Sitting has never worked for me. I have to put some distance between me and what's bugging me. Otherwise, my mind looks for obstacles, flattens itself against them."

But I knew he was right; that getting out was the answer. It's my go-to. And I had my wonderful kids both home to turn to, and I told them to suit up for a December day in the mid-60's. We were going to go put a few miles on our chassis, find a good piece of sky.

And I did find a warm place, and I sat down to see what the Universe might bring. And the sun popped out and the cloudy sky cleared.  I heard a whooshing noise, and two beautiful healthy smart funny big lanky UFO's hurtled down from the stratosphere and landed, right in front of me. FLOOP! Blessings.  And I was ready.

I got the shot.

                           Here's to ten years of good times. I promise to keep them coming.

December 24, 2015                                                                             Post # 2047