Rain and other woes

           It rained for an entire week. Well, to be accurate, it wasn’t the continuous Noah-time-to-enter-the-arc type of rain. But a week ago Saturday afternoon we had a rattle-the-windows thunder storm and there’s been at least one like it each of the next six days. Twice I hung out my wash, enticed by a burst of sunshine, only to run out and snatch damp clothes off the line during a sudden downpour.

            And forget the garden! The tomatoes refuse to turn red. They are holding out for full sun. Borers have found my zucchini plant. Though it is still trumpeting male flowers, its fruiting days are over. We don’t even have lettuce to pick. The young groundhog took care of that—as well as the broccoli, cabbage and kale plants. He even ate the last promising zucchini.

            I knew a groundhog lived at the far end of our yard. Assumed—I can’t say why—it was a male. But one day I opened our back door and my eye caught a rustle of leaves in the vegetable garden. A small groundhog wiggled through a hole he must have gnawed in my plastic fencing. Young groundhog—the large resident is probably his mom. Now I have double trouble.

            My neighbor has begun to complain, “The groundhog that lives in your backyard is eating my vegetables.” She has volunteered to trap it. I haven’t told her that it is a THEM. I said, “You can put a trap back there, but do not kill the groundhog. Just take it far away.” I think either option is illegal. Seems the stealing of our produce should also be against the law, but our groundhogs make their living by stealing what others raise. Between those critters and the squirrels it’s been a poor year for harvesting. How did our fore bearers ever live off the land?

Water Lilies

The water lilies are in bloom again.  I’ve always loved them though I rarely had opportunity to see them. When we lived in Lower Manhattan and visited the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens I always dawdled around the lily ponds—tried to absorb their form and beauty. Now I’m happy to see them in the lake, though I have to paddle the kayak to the shallow, south end to find them. As a child, I had learned that the flower of my birth month – July – is a water lily so I guess I’ve always felt they should be a special flower for me.  But since the local water lilies seem to bloom in August, not July, either our locale or the deciders of things significant to young girls and lovers, such as birthstones and flowers, are a bit off.  

            I often wish it were more convenient to paint the water lilies, as Monet did from a bridge. Though I’m not sure he thought it convenient, going from one canvas to another as the sun moved. But the area where they thrive in great floating clusters is marshy. No way can I approach them on foot.  I toy with the idea of sitting in a canoe and painting. There’s hardly a current at this end of the lake, still there is drift and an anchor would probably get tangled in the lily stems. Last thing I want to do is capture water lilies in that way.  I try to slow the kayak to an almost standstill to photograph them. Even that is difficult. I hope the photos turn out. I’ll have to paint from them.

           

Fog and Little Duck Feet

We awaken Friday morning to find that the landscape has disappeared. Thick fog obscures not only the opposite mountain, but the entire lake. Nothing can be seen beyond the rail of the deck. But the railing itself is amazing. Beautifully formed spider webs appeared between many of the rungs—courtesy of the tiny droplets of water that coat everything. Certainly the webs were not all woven overnight. Only now, all gleam out their presence.

           

            I see other changes once the fog burns off. I can count on less then ten fingers the remaining dragonflies. But the butterfly bushes have flowered and yellow and black swallowtails and monarchs frequent them. And the ducks have claimed the lake. Ten female mallards travel together. A single mom glides by with a duckling at her side, reminding me of a motorcycle and side car.  Six larger ducklings paddle in a row. Toward evening two male mallards show up—boys’ night out I guess.

            Best of all, the Jewel Weed wildflowers have begun to bloom. They’ve called back the hummingbirds. At first I think I see a huge insect darting by. It changes direction rapidly—like  a UFO, or so I’ve heard. Suddenly it hovers, feeding from the slipper-like blossom. Before I can grab my camera, it’s off again. One day I’ll be prepared and get a picture.

Squirrel Farmers

            The nearest oak tree is 50 yards away, in the park where my block dead ends. So why did I find and pull nine infant oaks from by Montclair back lawn? Actually, I know the answer—it’s the squirrels. Leave it up to them and they’d create another oak forest here. Apparently it is not enough for them to accept the hospitality of my pussy willow—from which they clip the blossoms, nor the pear tree—that’s another story.

            The pear tree is a real bone of contention for me this year. Last year a squirrel helped himself to one as yet not ripe pear each day. He took a bite, laughed at us from the treetop, and threw the rest of the pear to the ground. I hated the waste and, though I didn't appreciate his mocking attitude, I didn’t mind too much—there were plenty of pears. The tree was so prolific that we still had pears to eat, give away and make jam. This year, he must have brought his family because they have denuded our tree. I see only three still-unripe pears left on slender, low-hanging branches. Kind of them to leave some for us.

            I know they have their eyes on my sunflowers too. Two years ago I was able to save the seeds to feed the Cardinals in the winter. Last year the seeds disappeared before I could harvest. Can’t blame only squirrels for that. I bet the birds had a beak in it too.

            A few years ago squirrels attempted to chew their way into our attic. Luckily we heard their gnawing in time to call the Squirrel Hunter to chase them away and block up their tunnels.

            I’m onto their plot. We’ve provided them a safe haven with fruit. Now they are planting nut trees—well, acorns, anyway.  They intend to take over my yard and probably my house. But they will find that we will not easily give them up. And they will have to learn to share with the groundhog, raccoons and birds.     

Changes -+Ten Geese a Honking

The lake changes dramatically from day to day—sometimes from moment to moment. On Tuesday there were real waves—stirred up, as usual, by a wind from the southwest. Then came a driving rain and thunderstorm. The next morning, though high clouds still travelled from west to east, the water’s surface moved in tiny rivulets originating in the northeast.

            And the lake population has changed. Now there are many fewer dragon and damselflies. I had read that the flying stage of their lives was short—as little as two months and weather dependent. And of course, birds have probably feasted on them while fish enjoy their larvae stage. 

I watch one large dragonfly ride the wind. His double set of wings is a blur as he flies 12 feet upwind. Then, like the tiny helicopter he resembles (rather, they resemble him) he changes direction, rising suddenly and flying back less frantically on the wind. He repeats the upwind trek and downwind float many times over the next 15 minutes. I imagine he is enjoying it. Am I projecting my own feeling onto him? You bet! If I had lived in the water, dodging the mouths of hungry fish for about four years to finally earn my wings I would soar on the wind every chance I got!

This morning we were awakened by a gaggle of geese—ten of them—on our neighbor’s lawn. I suspect they were just stopping by. I haven’t seen geese here since I made friends with one some days ago. Then nine female Mallard Ducks caucused in the lake. I’m expecting to see eight maids a milking or at least seven swans a swimming.

Model Goose

                I want to learn to paint water. I’ve painted trees and flowers but they are very static except perhaps when there’s a gust of wind. But the lake is a very different story. Sometimes it is perfectly still, mirroring the mountain, trees, docks and shrubs. Then suddenly there’ll be ripples that break into waves. I can see light crosshatch the lake surface—but how do I paint the reflections under the waves with light playing over them?

                I decide to start small—some weeds at the edge of the lake.  The sun plays peek-a-boo behind a large cloud making it all the more challenging. Since I’m using watercolors, I have to paint from light to dark. I cover the lake surface with a wash of silver then start on the lightest green—defining the weeds. I’m hoping a dragonfly will land on them—they often do—but not today.

                I’m busy concentrating on the leaves when I realize that I’m being watched. A Canadian Goose is sitting in the water only a foot from shore. She’s showing me her profile—giving me a one-eyed stare.

                I try to keep my movements slow—dip the brush into water then paint, carry it to the paper, gently touch the surface—expecting the goose to leave any moment. But she doesn’t.

                I don’t have any food here,” I say quietly. “But if you stay, I’ll paint you.”

                The goose shows me her other side. It’s equally attractive. I switch colors. Black neck, brown, tan, even dark red make a scalloped pattern on her back, amber at the base of her breast. The goose starts to turn away.

                “Please don’t go yet,” I call. “I haven’t quite gotten your beautiful neck.”

                She glances back at me but turns away.

                I don’t speak goose. When I was eleven, I had two white ducks for pets—just from spring to fall then my parents released them to join others in a pond.  But I learned to quack well enough to call a duck from across a lake. So now I give a couple of low quacks. My goose turns back,  takes her position and poses for me again. I finish her portrait and even her reflection.

                “Thank you,” I say.

                The goose drifts past me and waddles up on shore a few yards away.

                “Well, hello,” I say. “Sorry. I still have no food.”

                She soon returns to the water and sails out of view. I have yet to paint in the water.

Heat Wave

In the lake is the only place to be today. Anywhere else is just too hot. Floating around, looking back toward land, I find that Nature has set up a light show. As ripples roll toward the shoreline, the crest of each is reflected onto a tall tree standing where land meets water. Curving lines of light continually cascade down the trunk, making it look like an upended movie marquee. I wonder if the first person to animate the lights of Time Square got the idea from just such a natural occurrence.

That tree affords the only shade on the nearby shore so I leave the water to sit behind it and attempt—again—to paint the water. I’m getting a bit better at it, seeing three colors—pale amber, slate blue, and a deeper blue-green-gray—and the crisscross pattern of the waves. I begin to block out the weeds on the shore but I have to drop my brush and slap my ankles—repeatedly. Seems I’ve either disturbed some tiny, biting insects or arrived just in time for their lunch. They refuse to stop so I retreat to the dock. No more painting that view for me today!

I rub my ankles. They still itch from a previous attack four days prior in Montclair. I had begun to water a corner of my garden when I felt a piercing stab in my right ankle. As I jumped back there were two stabs on the left. I looked down to see a swarm of tiny yellowjacket wasps. The water must have jolted their unseen nest. I ran for the house. Armed with a can of insect spray my husband made certain they wouldn’t attack again. I truly prefer to respect all nature and hate having to kill, but in the past I’ve had allergic reactions to such attacks. Besides, they had declared themselves my enemy.

I wish insects did not find my ankles so attractive.