Actually did not think I’d have more bat news this soon. But in a reply to a message I’d left in the morning with the national white-nose syndrome coordinator based in Hadley, MA, by afternoon I’d received a great comprehensive reply from a wildlife biologist at the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation. …
bats in the belfry and a kitchen fly through
I had a batly visit a few evenings ago. The dogs had been fed and were out; for a few brief moments all was calm on the home front. …
Autumn Smoke
That was her full name, tiny ball of six-or seven-week old, gray-apricot, half-Persian kitten, christened by my mother one late September afternoon in 1995. …
sweet sour cherries of July
independence day
A rough-edged week, even more than usual, and that’s saying something. Short-houred, as well. More work than hours in the day, more hats than I have heads to put them on. Edges of sorrow, stress; edges of grace….
oh turtle
This is turtle crossing time.
Late yesterday afternoon, southbound on rt. 7 between Stockbridge and Great Barrington. …
June STRAWBERRIES
Need I say more…
Five kilos about to connect with some sugar and strong-brewed Harney Lapsang Suochong to evolve into a divine preserve. That first smoky note on the palate may bring to mind–dare I say it–bacon!!!!
turtle, part trois!
There is something about the word turtle that calls out for French numbers.
My fellow turtle watchers had updated me that the eggs were laid in a sort of shallow nest of mud then buried, and we certainly didn’t want to disturb. Good instinct, as it turns out the embryo attaches to the shell and turning it can kill the tiny turtle inside.
This morning I was back over that way, stopped near the rescue site and on close inspection saw an egg–we are assuming there are others buried but just one is visible. Within two feet of the road. Smaller than a chicken egg, sort of elongated ping pong ball, and more translucent than the photo indicates. It had a luminescent quality, like if I peered closely enough might see a little creature inside. Don’t know if it worked its way up to the surface or had help.
If you look closely at the second photo, center bottom you can see the little egg and the general nest area. The pond is maybe 20 feet further.
Though we are rightly concerned about disturbing them, it seems that the eggs should be covered to protect from predators; they take nearly three months to hatch. So will go throw some grass over the little guy.
To be continued…
the grace of Mary Gauthier
Heard a great Terry Gross interview with Mary Gauthier, singer, songwriter, formerly chef and restaurateur, born and raised in Louisiana.
Gauthier describes her experience after being arrested for drunk driving the opening night of her restaurant in Boston as one of grace:…
summer 2014, first full day
Oh perfection. Someone today asked, why can’t the weather always be this perfect? In my head, I said, because then we’d live in San Diego. And then it would be so, well, you know.
Snips and tidbits this first weekend of summer brought memories of bygone summers. Atlantic beaches, Cape Breton to the Carolinas. Family. Sweet boyfriends. Songs of summer. Cars of summer. Roadtrips of summer. Long days. Short, soft nights. And, you know.
Drinks of summer. There was Kool Aid. Seven Up. Slushies. Mateus! Harp and Heineken, Bass and Bluenose. Strawberry daiquiris, the summer of Cornell marine bio on Appledore Island, with weekends in Portsmouth, NH. A bartender there gave us his secret for the best daiquiri: splash of cream.
The summer I graduated college was a bikini and wine coolers on the Outer Banks. White wine with ginger ale, ugh! What were we thinking? So great.
In the South, Coca Cola is just fine as a morning pick me up, and when you live in that heat and humidity you understand why. Sweet tea, yup. It all starts to make sense.
The first summer of graduate school in Princeton, the density of fireflies brought me back to the Virginia of my early childhood. It was like the night was just, popping with light. Magical.
Here in the Hudson Valley the season may be shorter, but all the sweeter. This year more than ever. To savor.
Summertime, and the livin’ is just, easy. But wouldn’t want it year round. ‘Cause then we wouldn’t notice, really. Don’t you think?