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. …
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. …
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?
cusp of summer, garden
The wonder and joy, the pure, sheer, never grows old delight of spotting first tiny growths in the garden. Humble patch of heaven, fenced from the marauding Clarence. Through the fence you can see his hindquarters, orange spotted, to the right of the leftmost jalapeño. Further right, blur of hot pink peony.
It’s funny that I always grow jalapeños when I am not a big pepper person. But they are so dang cute, and then I let some get red, and then I have to make hot pepper jelly, southern style, and we eat it at the holidays over chèvre, twinkling red and green bits of summer over snow.
Oh promise of sweetness to come, first little elf-capped yellow pear xo
country living, part 1 in an endless series
No, not like the magazine. Here you will get the straight stuff.
Like, how the propane-driven clothes dryer seemed to be a little weak late this afternoon, and there was an odor– kind of like propane, but not, and how could that be, so I called for appliance repair. Will be here three days hence. OK, just forget about those piles of laundry in the meantime. And have been meaning to get that clothesline up, what’s taking me so long anyways?
A few hours later was about to get some jelly cooking, on the propane-fueled stove of course, jars are sterilizing and it’s all lined up ready to go: the flame would not go above a afluttery low. Huh. Then there’s that dang smell again…now it’s like 7 pm and they have to send someone to check for a leak.
My always super polite guy comes from across the river– not joking here, it is like a 50-minute drive over the Hudson and round about through the hills. Sure enough, done run out of propane. But I’m on auto-deliver!!!!!! Arghhhhhh. Got an emergency 7 gallons in my 50-gallon tank to tide me over.
Dag nab it, no jelly today.
But hey, can cancel that dryer repair.