Saying Farewell to My Best Friend . . .

In the spring of 2003, my daughter adopted a pound puppy that was billed as a "mixed breed: sharpei/keeshond," but we decided it was more likely that she was a chow mix, instead. Whatever her pedigree, she was a beautiful, fluffy, and bouncy little girl. But she came with issues. . . she had been returned to the pound by her first adoptive family, she had a bit of a wild and very much of an independent streak, and she didn't like tall, dark, strange men.


Within a few months, Joey (named after a character from one of my daughter's favorite TV shows) had been picked up by the neck and shaken by a large rottweiler, developed a biting response to being touched on the back of the neck, and come to live with me. A couple years later, when my daughter and her family moved to another city, Joey stayed with me.


She'd been K-9 trained and had a large yard in which to run around and hold dominion over everything that moved. She made friends with the pit bulls who lived next door, making a game of barking at them through the fence every time she saw them, and she loved nothing better than when they would jump the fence and run around the oaks a few times with her before they made their break around the end of the fence line where it dropped into the water. She didn't like getting wet and wouldn't go with them.


But her problems with strangers continued, and she developed a habit of barking wildly and shaking the chain link fence with her teeth when any dog walked by in the street. (I've seen that habit in other chows, so I wonder if that part of her aggressive behavior tends to be a fault in the breed, rather than a fault in the dog.)


She didn't trust her vet (the first day she met him, he walked in the doors behind her, dressed in black motorcycle leathers and helmet) but loved the staff in his office. So, she was always well taken care of and welcome to board with them when I traveled. And she eventually began to let him touch her without having to muzzle her.

As she grew older, calcium deposits developed in her hips and shoulder, and the touch of a hand to a joint could cause her pain. The habit of shaking the chain link fence and the metal bars on her crate cracked her teeth. And her fear of strangers increased to the point where she began to respond aggressively to any approach by a stranger, outside of the house. When I recently moved to a new city, she refused to accept a new vet or any of his staff members. She became so fearful of strange people and dogs that she was involved in three fights (She was in a harness and on a leash and they were not! Shame on you if you let your dog run off leash!) and last weekend made an aggressive charge on a boy we encountered while walking in the woods. (She was, again, in harness and on leash, so there was no harm done, but she gave all of us a good scare!)

And so, she has gone to the rainbow bridge, where all her pain and fears are relieved. I spent most of Monday catering to her every whim, and then I sat down to write this apology to her for all the mistakes we made with her over the years that led us to this sad end to her life. Joey, my girl, I will miss you! Thank you for being my devoted companion for all these years.

(Update: this morning, Joey greeted Dr. Zern and his staff at the Chuluota Veterinary Hospital as if they were old friends. I thank all of them for the help and support they gave me over the years, especially this morning--it's Tuesday afternoon as I add this note.)

It's time to heal!

I've been thinking about the various reactions we've seen in the past few days to the death of Osama Bin Laden. Ranging from emotionally charged "Hooyahs!" to patriotically charged chants of "USA! USA!" to morally charged admonitions of "take no pleasure in any man's death" to worrisome cries of "the hydra has more than one head," I've heard it all.

One thing binds all of these reactions together: they represent the collective exhale of a world that has been holding its collective breath for nearly ten years.

Then, this morning, I heard one small voice, at the bottom of a very long string of Facebook comments, say, " How profound it would have been if our nation took to the streets with candles and prayed/meditated/remembered those we lost, walked in peace for those in other countries who lost loved ones because of OBLaden's actions."

People, it is not too late to do so. Let this be your task, if you really believe this is what we should do: gather your family, your friends, your congregation, your community, your town, your city together and make that moment happen. Lead us in prayers and meditations, that the death of this man should give us pause to reflect on ourselves and to declare our love of peace and goodness and truth. I call on all our religious, political, and intellectual leaders to do so!

It's time to take a cleansing breath!

The brief but spectacular life of a Southern Magnolia blossom

I've been waiting a year for the magnolia in my new front yard to blossom, so with three large buds developing on the lower branches, I figured I was in for a magnificent show. Every morning, I took my tea on the porch swing, waiting for the magic to happen. Last night, after a day of shopping, I came home to find one of the buds had opened, turned brown, and withered away, all in one day . . . when I wasn't even looking. Not fair! (Not to mention astonishing) . . . these blooms are enormous, I've admired them on other people's trees for years, and never before had I noticed howly quickly they open and fade away.

So, this morning, determined to catch the blossoms in action, as the second bud looked ready to open, I took up position in the front windows, camera ready, and waited:

Photo #1 taken at 8 a.m.

The first petals (tepals, as they are called) began to peel back around 8 a.m. Notice how they pull back, cup like, from the center, all of them opening at once, as if falling away from the center. What follows is a series of photos taken from one-half to one hour apart, from 8 a.m. to shortly after 1 p.m.


Photo #2 taken at 8:30 a.m. 

In half an hour, most of the tepals have pulled away from the center and the stamens are already beginning to fall away from the cone-like receptacle in the center (which you can't see, yet). The cup-like shape of the tepals catches and holds these stamens for awhile.


Photo #3 taken at 9:20

By 9:20, a honey bee and a few "love bugs" have discovered the flower and are visiting the center. As you can see, a pile of stamens still lies in one of the tepals; these were eventually dispersed by the wind. (The honey bee has probably been busy in the back yard nectaring in the Simpson Stoppers and is already carrying a good-sized load of pollen in the sacs on her legs.) She makes a quick stop to check out the stamen pile, then moves to the center receptacle.

Photo #4 taken at 9:20 a.m.

With all but three of the tepals pulled back, the center receptacle is revealed--a curious combination of numerous spirally arranged stamens at the base of a conelike receptacle bearing numerous spirally arranged carpels.

Photo #5 taken at 9:59 a.m.

By 10:00, most of the loose stamens have fallen off and blown away, revealing a red base to the cone-like structure; the darker yellow "curly" carpels cover the top of the cone. The honeybee has gone about her business elsewhere, but the love bugs still show a lot of interest in the flower.

Photo #6 taken at 10:55 a.m.

By 11:00 a.m., all but two of the tepals have pulled away from the receptacle and all the loose stamens at the bottom are gone. What remains are the curly carpels attached to a red cone-like base. The gorgeous white tepals are beginning to soften, even at this early stage, and darken in color.

Photo #7 taken at noon.

By noon the flower is fully open. The colors have deepened and the structure of the receptacle is evident. Gorgeous, isn't it? The full width of the flower is at least 12" . . . spectacular.

But it begins to fade almost immediately.

Photo #8 taken at 1:10 p.m.

By 1:00 the colors are beginning to fade; yellow and red are turning to brown and the tepals begin to droop.

Photo #9 taken at 7:40 p.m.

By 7:40, as the sun begins to set, the flower has lost its vibrancy and everything is drooping and fading to brown. By morning, there will be no white left in the tepals or the carpals. Apparently, the cone-like receptacle will remain until seeds develop (thanks to the hard work of the bee and the love bugs!)

Now, if someone could explain why that all happens so quickly? I've read that this is a very basic and actually quite primitive flower; did the first flowers have to move along quickly in order to survive? Is this an environmental defense of some sort? Why would the dna want things to be so simple and so fast? If you know, please leave a comment.

Spring has Sprung

When I first came to Florida, I must admit, I mourned for the loss of the "seasons" as I knew them from more northern climates. Nearly 40 years later, I have come to love the subtle blush of spring as it hits Central Florida. A recent walk in Turkey Creek highlighted some of my favorite spring things down here:

Trees are busting out with new leaves and inflorescence. Who knew that the turkey oak (what a name, eh?) could be so spectacular in the spring? Little teeny tiny golden leaves, lengthy trails of inflorescence (is that where it gets its name?) make this a splendiferous part of the spring-time "wakeup."

Unlike deciduous trees in the north, many hardwoods in Central Florida hold onto their leaves until late winter/early spring, when they drop their leaves, quickly blossom, and start their new leaf growth all within a very few weeks.

Along with the incredible green "leaf out" come the first wildflowers of the year. Among the earliest to blossom is the "sky-blue lupine," which bursts out in spreading clusters of blue flowers and powdery gray-blue catkin. This is a little different from northern lupine, which tends to grow in very tall and dense stands across an entire field; down here, the plant tends to be shorter and more compact. But that may just be a result of its appearing in a more sandy, drier climate. 

But the best part of spring, for me,is the return of the dragon and damselflies. Last Friday, in the upland pine scrub part of the Turkey Creek Sanctuary, I found a first of the season Regal Darner, one of the most beautiful and uncommon darners in our region.

Happy spring, everyone! Hope to see you out there!

A Child's-eye View: Turkey Creek Sanctuary

I've walked through Turkey Creek Sanctuary with my grandson before, and we've ooo'd and ahhh'd over lizards and turtles and fish, but I'd never actually seen what he sees, until I handed him the camera and let him lead the way. Wooo, hooo; what a wonderful experience that was . . . (these photos were all taken by Caden, with the exception of the shots of him walking down the path.)

With my old Olympus E-410 (with a good 40-150 zoom lens) in his hands, Caden and I headed into the Turkey Creek Sanctuary for an afternoon of nature photography. This was his first experience with a DSLR all to himself, and it was our first photographic outing together. He quickly left me behind and headed down the path, as a man on a mission.

First stop: the butterfly garden. A few fumbled shots, a fuzzy photo, a quick lesson on focus and mechanical issues, and we were on our way.



As we walked toward the entrance to the preserve, we saw what we thought was a gopher tortoise statue on the edge of the garden, but it moved as we approached. Caden carefully focused his camera and grabbed the next shot:

Well done, little man!
 
For the next two hours, I looked at the sanctuary through the eyes of a seven year old, following him along as he scoped the brush and the woods on either side; what an experience that was! Every one in a while I heard him voice an abrupt little "Hm," and we would stop, while he framed and focused his shot.
 
Few of us spend much time thinking about the beauty of destruction, but Caden considered them all . . . the unusual break in a tree trunk, blown down by hurricane force winds:

 
Or the stark beauty of a dead pine tree towering above our heads into a clear blue sky:

 
We looked at flowers and new growth plants and side paths that led to nowhere, and finally, came to the creek, where there were gators and turtles and fish and we spent nearly an hour as he snapped photo after photo after photo! One of the biggest gators I've ever seen in Turkey Creek:

And a large gathering of turtles and catfish at the canoe launch dock:

Finally, as we left the trail, nearly two hours later, one resident gray squirrel beggar made one last attempt to garner a handout.

We made one last stop in the nature center, where Caden took his last photos of a manatee skeleton and this (stuffed) barred owl on display there:

If you have a grandchild take him or her for a walk with a good camera in their hands! If you don't have your own grandchild, borrow one! Not only do they need to be turned onto the beauty of nature, we need them to love it enought to take care of it, when we are gone . . . and I guarantee, you will have the time of your life!

Clapping on the Downbeat with Celtic Woman

A few weeks ago a former student, now in college, posted an upbeat music video clip on his Facebook page and admonished his readers to "clap on the upbeat, white people!" (Well, he had it a little bit wrong, confusing up/down/off beat, but I'm giving him the benefit of doubt, here.) And that led me to consider why it's so true that some kinds of music invite rhythmic clapping on the downbeat (country and Irish, for example) and other kinds of music invite clapping on the up or "off" beat (jazz and African, for example). For those who don't know, up and down referred, originally, to the direction of the conductor's baton, which always comes down on the first beat of a measure . . .

Last night, I had the pleasure of attending a performance of Celtic Woman, which includes a few numbers in which the performers invite the audience to clap along, and, sure enough, there we were, clapping along (thunderously) on the downbeat! And it was good and right that we should do so.

Just watch an Irish dancer perform: their feet accentuate the downbeat, and to be clapping along with the upbeat would absolutely ruin the urgent, driving nature of the dance . . .

Here's a reel from a previous tour, with the performers dancing and the audience clapping! Slainte!

Of Missiles and Mangroves: Part III (Goin' on a Rail Hunt)

Remember all those practical jokes you heard about as a kid that sent people on "snipe hunts" into the darkening woods at twilight? Well, there really is such a thing as a snipe, and they really are nearly impossible to catch, especially with a camera! They hide in ditches and forage along the edges of tall reeds and grasses and fly up with a burst of speed, if they hear you approaching, before you even know they are there.

Well, the black rail is even more elusive, living deep within tall marshy grasses, preferring to walk or run and rarely taking flight unless you nearly step on one. And they are rare. In fact, these birds are so rarely seen, it is one of very few birds that can be checked off your life list by sound alone. The black rail is the smallest North American rail, measuring about the size of a sparrow.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

On Wednesday, Jan 26, 2011, a group of twenty-four intrepid birders headed into the restricted St. Johns National Wildlife Refuge in hopes of "hearing" a black rail. The group was led by MINWR biologist Mike Legare, who has been conducting research on the area's small population and has been instrumental in protecting the salt marsh area in which they live. We were driven into the marsh on a trailer loaded with hay bales about one hour before sunset.

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
At the appointed hour (apparently, there is a 10-15 minute window during which the rails may be enticed into calling), Legare began playing his tapes. Since this was not mating season and they were not aggressively defending territory, getting a black rail to call meant getting them to express interest in what strangers might be hanging around. We wandered up, down, back and forth along a very wet path, stopping occasionally to listen, very quietly, for a rail to respond. Upon hearing a single, distant response, Mike stepped off the path and into the tall marsh grass; come on, if you like, he said, and off we went into the marsh. We stumbled along in tall, wet, grass, unable to see where we were putting our feet down (it's getting dark at this point, mind you), some people losing their balance and falling, and most of us stepping into pools of shin deep water! Were there snakes there, in that grass? Nobody asked.
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
By the time the sun sank below the horizon, we had heard a response from at least four rails in the area, watched a gray ghost (male northern harrier) hunting along the distant palmetto stands, and filled our boots and shoes with at least an inch of water. (Thanks, Mike, for getting us "cut off" from the path!)
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Back at the trailer as darkness descended, we wrung the water out of our shoes and socks and trailered back to the parking lot with the black rail added to our life lists.
 
This is a field trip you should not miss, if you ever have the opportunity. Legare says that the black rails in this area seem to be declining in numbers, despite constant monitoring and control of their habitat (which includes controlled burns designed to keep taller scrub from invading the area.) Currently, there are fewer than 20 known nesting areas for this bird in Florida and it is listed as endangered or threatened in at least five of the eleven states in which it breeds.
 
Hopefully, the national wildlife service will be able to continue monitoring and protecting habitat for all our endangered, threatened, and declining species, not just the black rail!