Unwelcome Tenants

        

            They’re back! Three weeks ago we discovered, in spite of what seemed a successful eviction in the fall, that a groundhog had over-wintered under our sunroom. There were five(!) new holes dug into the patches of grass along the side and back of the house, abutting the sunroom.

            “He’s got to go!” my husband declared. He rooted around in the garage for 40 minutes and dragged out four long planks and a few shorter ones. Soon he had constructed a long platform that he planted over the narrow area along the side of the house.

            “But the hosta is under there!” I protested. “It will push up the planks.”

            “Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. “Meanwhile, it will stop him.”

            He placed a series of bricks along the shorter area in back of the house.

           

            Last week, on two separate days, I saw two groundhogs—one large, and one quite young. In each case, when they saw me, they ran under my neighbor’s Jacuzzi.

            “At least they’ve left us,” my husband said.

            I wish!

            Yesterday there was a freshly dug hole right through the emerging iris foliage and under the bricks. It’s small—seems we have a new, young tenant.

            It’s time to serve another eviction notice! 

A Day for the Birds

            Wednesday was a day for the birds. It was a beautifully warm day—too warm for the first week of March. Certainly the month did not come in like a lion. As we drove out to Sussex, everywhere red hawks swooped low over the roads. They are so graceful. Whenever I see a hawk I find myself singing the line from Oklahoma—“Ev'ry night my honey lamb and I, Sit alone and talk and watch a hawk makin' lazy circles in the sky.”

            At the lake we were greeted, serenaded by bird song. Everywhere there were tweets and warbles, chirps and trills. I sat at the edge of the dock, just enjoying the symphony. The hawks were showing off here too. Suddenly there were seven of them all making large, slow counterclockwise circles over our end of the lake. I don’t think hawks eat fish. Were they simply enjoying the thrill of riding the wind? My husband and I watched in fascination. They defined similar, but non-intersecting circles at different heights. What flight controller had planned their paths?

            

           One hawk came low enough to brush the bare branches of a nearby tree. Then he angled his right wing and, continuing his circle, caught an updraft. How I wished I could soar with him.

Spring Signs

            There was ice on the bird bath this morning. And a frosty breeze met my face as I biked. But the crocuses are out and daffodil buds are beginning to show.

           

            Another sign that spring will soon be here is The Groundhog. I say “The Groundhog” because we all suspect it is the same one we chased out from the crawl space under our sunroom last October. We blocked up all the holes he had dug and thought he must have found another home. However, it seems some groundhog has overwintered under the sunroom because we found five entrance or exit holes along the back and side of the house.

            So my husband got creative. He found some long, old boards in the garage which he fashioned into a platform the length of the side of the house. He laid the platform over the foot-wide sward of dirt alongside the house where four of the holes were. We blocked the hole in the back of the house with stones. There is no way this groundhog can get under the sunroom now. I’m certain he’ll remain nearby. He so enjoys my garden greens.

            I have warned my husband that the hosta he has covered up with his platform is a determined plant. There are openings in the platform, but I still think the hosta will push it up. We’ll soon see as we watch spring take over the yard.

January Lake

The lake is beautiful on a somewhat-warm Tuesday—a glistening coat of ice making its surface totally placid.  Ice begins about three inches out from the liquid shoreline. I sit at the end of the dock and place a foot on the surface. It feels thick, but I don’t stand up. Being in ice-water up to my thighs is not on my to-do list today.

We walk around the lake—we haven’t been here since before Christmas. Forsythia branches are covered with buds—a promise of spring. Now only the pachysandra and pines sport a deep green. Grass is yellow-tinted and dotted with tan. Red hawks seem to be flying lower than usual. I’m surprised. Isn’t it easier to spot prey now that the oaks and sycamores have dropped their leaves?

Two mallard ducks swim in a tiny, iceless pool where the shore bells out slightly. At the shallow south end of the lake, where water lilies crowded last summer, the two resident swans swim.  A neighbor tells us that they had seven cygnets last summer but he thinks most were grabbed by snapping turtles. Graceful as ever, the parent couple seems perfectly content in the frigid water. I hope to see this year’s nestlings in the summer.

Blame it on Global Warming

            Blame it on global warming—the volatile changes in temperature. Saturday was sunny and warm. It was the tenth anniversary/protest of prisoners brought to Guantanamo Prison and detained without trial. I was able to wear a sleeveless orange jump suit (representing the prison garb) over just a cotton, long-sleeved T for our Montclair vigil—and I was comfortably warm. Sunday morning was warm enough for just a raincoat over a light sweater. But by the afternoon, the wind picked up, the clouds rolled in, and I put on my winter coat, earmuffs and gloves to take a walk in the local park.  Ditto for this morning.

            I can use my orange cat as a bellwether. Days when she lies on the radiator moping, or watches the birds from the window, are days when I need to bundle up. It’s either too cold, too windy, wet, or all three. Otherwise, her favorite pastime is to sit in a patch of sunlight in the backyard.

            After that strange October snowstorm, everyone feared we were in for a tough winter. Now—not that I’m hoping for snow—I’m surprised that we’ve gotten to January 9^th without seeing the white stuff. And mustard greens, kale, and beets are still growing in my garden. There’s lettuce too, under a plastic dome. Definitely unusual!  But we haven’t even reached mid-winter. Who can guess how the weather might turn?

Happy Warm New Year!

            What an incredible day it is for January 1st! Temperature in the high forties and yesterday was even warmer.  After that insane snowstorm in October, everyone was certain we had to hunker down and be ready for the worst winter ever.  Yes, I know winter is only 32 days old.  And it may yet show itself to be a chilling horror. But so far, it’s come in like a lamb.

            Lettuce, kale, pak choi, carrots and beets are still growing in my garden—along with copious weeds. So, with the surface soil melted enough to cultivate, I spent two hours yesterday and one today pulling out all the uninvited greens.  I figure, if I get them out now, there’s more chance there’ll be fewer of them when it’s time for spring planting.

            I’m not the only one taking advantage of the mild temperatures. Many people were walking and jogging in the park. Neighbors across the street were trimming bushes and raking away leaves.

            “It’s spring!” the man called to me.

            While I know it can’t be spring, humans aren’t the only ones confused. The snow drops have blossomed—a bit ahead of schedule, and I saw a cherry tree blooming in Manhattan yesterday.  

            But, though I love our Mother Nature, I don’t think we can trust her to not throw us another curve before the spring equinox.  After all, she is asserting her independence from the changes humans have wrought on her domain.

October Snow—Oh NO!

October Snow—Oh NO!      November 2nd

            “Welcome to Little House on the Prairie,” I greeted my son when he came home.           

“No it’s worse,” he said. “They had either a smaller room to heat or fireplaces in each room.”

It was Tuesday—the fourth day after the snowstorm—day five without electricity and heat.

The power had gone off at 4:30 pm on October 29^th. We had been warned on radio and TV by weather gurus and public utility reps that an early snowstorm could bring down trees with the extra weight landing on the colorful–not yet fallen leaves.

            Sure, a snowstorm, I thought. How bad can it be? The ground’s still warm; it won’t stick. Predicting doom and gloom helps the ratings.

            But I was wrong—they were right.

            So, during a lull in the storm, while I was shoveling the wet, heavy snow, we lost power. As the dull daylight got even dimmer, I lit candles—half a dozen on the dining room table framed by an aluminum tray for reflection, two in wall sconces, two over the mantle, several over the kitchen sink, and one in the bathroom. To say I’m fond of candles is, of course, an understatement.

            “It’ll get cold in here when the temperature drops outside,” my husband warned.

            “Why?” I asked. “Isn’t the pilot light on the gas burner still lit?”

            “Yes. But the mechanism that tells it to turn on is electric.”

            “Oh.”

 So we sent our son to the garage to retrieve wood for the fireplace. Luckily we had scarcely used the half cord my brother-in-law had gifted us several years ago, having lit fires only for our annual Christmas Caroling party and on Christmas Day itself.

My husband declared he’d make dinner by memory—and by 3-candlelight.

During dinner the lights across the street went back on. No problems for them; they’d have light, heat, phone service, computers and TVs. I washed dishes by candlelight, grateful that we at least had hot water. I knew in other parts of the state, no electricity means water can not be pumped.

The next few days, when I awoke, the temperature was 51^o. I felt like a pioneer—at least, I thought a great deal about those who had settled in New Jersey before there was central heating and electricity. When I worked in the school system we took our 2^nd graders to visit the Lenni Lenape area of Waterloo Village each fall.  In winter the Lenape community lived in long houses—sleeping, bundled in furs, on bunk-like platforms within the perimeter of the lodge. We were told it became quite warm with the central fire and all the people there.

Seeing the long house each year, all I could think of was how cold it must have been to trudge out into the snow whenever nature called. I found myself wondering the same thing when my husband and I visited Clifton’s historic Hamilton House a few weeks ago. Out houses must have been frigid in winter.

This morning, trying to heat up some bread on top of our thank-goodness-not-electric stove, I was reminded of that historic Hamilton House. Living then and there, I’d have had to add wood and stir up the fire in the huge kitchen fireplace and pump water by hand to make my morning tea. Today I only needed a match to light the stove. However, Hamilton House had one device I could have used—the iron platform that held two slices o bread upright. You placed it on the floor in front of the open fire and, when one side was browned, you pushed a knob on it with your toe so the other side of the bread faced the fire. You stirred the bread by toe—a toe-stir. Today I was quite unable to brown my toast evenly on the gas stove.

My son had worked on his computer last night until the battery ran out. Of course the Internet was down. So today he had left early to spend the day at Starbucks and with a power-ful friend.  The PSE&G spokesperson said—via battery-powered radio—that some customers would not have electricity until Wednesday or Thursday. I gathered more wood from the garage.

At one historic house I had learned that the 2^nd most common cause of death among colonial women—after childbirth—was death by fire, when their long woolen dresses caught a spark from their walk-in fireplaces. I also thought of the stories of Lincoln reading by firelight. Well, I can’t do that, not even with my half-dozen candles.  But Lincoln’s eyes at the time were younger than mine now.

So I sit, wrapped in a blanket, watching the dancing flames, while my husband, in another blanket sits nearby on the couch. We have become so dependent on conveniences that there is little else to do once the sun goes down but go to bed.