Old-Fashioned Spring

We’re having a real old-fashioned spring this year. The kind that starts slowly, high winds whistling in a hint of warmer temperatures, then, just as you are soaking up the sun’s rays, a new wind blows the chill back and temperatures rarely climb to 70o. It’s the kind of spring when the blossoms unfold a little each day unveiling ever-changing color, beginning with the yellow daffodils and forsythia, the purples and pinks of hyacinth and cherry blossoms, followed by the varied colors of tulips, while the trees over-arch with chartreuse blossoms. Now that they have filled out in deep greens, we enjoy shades of violet and purple of the wisteria and lilacs and irises.

It’s the kind of spring when you need a spring coat. When I was young, spring was like this. Just before Easter, our mother took my sister and me shopping for new clothes and, when we grew too fast, a new spring coat to wear to church.  We got to employ that coat throughout April and much of May, then again in the fall.  Seasons behaved themselves in those days. Summer was hot, winter cold and spring and fall took time to transition.

This year I've discovered that I don’t have a spring coat for church because I haven’t needed one for years. I wear an informal jacket as I wonder if I should buy a light coat, or if future springs will revert to the pattern they've taken for many years till now—jumping from a windy March to a hot, don’t-need-a-coat, April. There had not been a single day, or night, below freezing in April for the five years prior to this one.

I've welcomed and enjoyed the slow transition this year. I relished the past autumn too, the trees clothed in brilliant color well into November. It was a joy to be outside. As is this spring. I’ll gladly invest in a transition coat if it will guarantee another old-fashioned fall, followed by another sweetly slow spring. But I fear I’ll be tempting fate, as well as Mother Nature. 

Nature’s Call for Simpler Times

When it snowed again yesterday morning I decided to walk the mile to the library for our weekly Write Group support meeting. I figured walking would be better than driving on new fallen snow and I’d also avoid pulling into a poorly plowed space to park.

Our beautifully landscaped terrace

This was about our fifth snowfall (but who’s counting?) since the new year. We’ve had other snowy winters, but in every one that I remember, except the winter of ’92-93, the snow melted between snow falls. This year it hasn’t and there is no place to put the snow. Consequently snow barriers a yard thick and equally high line all of our curbs reducing most streets to one and a half lanes. When there are cars parked, they protrude into the middle of the street; opposing traffic must take turns slaloming down the block. 

View from the bridge

My walk includes an old cement 

bridge over the railroad and a 

section of the Second River—

there enclosed within “the Glen”

—always picturesque, especially
 in the snow, and Glenfield Park. 
At the time I went out there was 
no traffic on those streets. Nature forced humanity to revert to simpler ways. I saw only two other walkers. We waved to each other as we walked in the street facing traffic, like on a rural road, because you could get to the semi-shoveled walkways only by scrambling over yard-high mounds at the corners.

Passing some beautiful Victorian homes, I was certain the scene would have looked little different when they were newly built. I imagined and wished for a horse-drawn sleigh to drive out from one of them. In Time and Again, a book by Jack Finney that I’ve several times reread, the protagonist goes back to an earlier time by imagining himself in that time just after a snow fall.  But unfortunately, that was not to happen during my walk; a motorized Parcel Post Truck coming down Woodland Ave. quickly destroyed the illusion of times past.

I trudged on, occasionally on sidewalks, but moving back to the street whenever homeowners had neglected their shoveling, passing newer homes and apartment houses that could never take me back in time. 

Musing on a Snow Day

Water is such an incredible substance. When it evaporates it creates interesting cloud formations. In its solid state, instead of condensing, like so many other compounds, it expands, allowing it to cover the surface of a lake while letting fish and other water creatures survive below. 

And then there’s snow. It’s like whipped water—fluffy, soft, malleable, beautiful and quiet.

Today’s snow has forced a holiday on me and many others. Sadly, most adults forge ahead with their plans while grumbling about the weather. They ignore Mother Nature’s advice, “Step back, reflect, enjoy!”

The view from our window

Kids know better. They get out in the stuff—building, tunneling, sliding, getting happily soaking wet.

Since we moved to an apartment in October, I have not missed having a yard. Until today. I miss my neighbors’ children who, on a day like today, would ring my doorbell and invite me to help them build a snow fort or make a sculpture of their favorite cartoon character.

There is snow on our terrace. Maybe I’ll go build a snow Sponge Bob.

House Hunting for the Birds

                Found among the trash and treasures when we took over the summer lake house in early spring, was a simple birdhouse with a small round opening. It was easy to miss at first exploration, hidden as it was beneath the work bench.  It was covered with dust and its bottom lay apart on the floor.  I washed it off, fitted the bottom in place, and decided to brighten it up with a coat of paint before welcoming a feathered family.  It was late in the day and we were not staying, so I parked the birdhouse on a cement ledge that held a pillar of the deck in place, making a mental note to bring paint next time we came.

                We returned after two weeks, following a spell of wind and rain. I found the birdhouse on the ground at the foot of the pillar. Its bottom and top had come apart in its fall. With a sigh, I picked up the pieces, and was astonished to find a small, broken nest within the house. Though there were no eggshells, still I felt sad that I had not fastened the house to the pillar. Either the wind, or my neighbor’s orange cat, Morris, must have brought it down and shattered the hopes of a bird couple.

                I nailed the roof back on, refitted the bottom and put the nest material back in the box.  Since somebird was already interested in the home, I decided not to paint it, but considered tying the box to the same pillar.  The ledge of the pillar was only a yard above the ground—low enough to attract Morris, perhaps for a second time.  So instead, I secured it with wire to a hook on the bottom of the overhanging deck.

                Then I joined my husband by the shore. After a

swim I spotted a swallow gracefully swooping over the lake.  He was a cute, sparrow-sized bird with iridescent blue and black on its back, a black beak and a white breast.  He landed on a branch of the straggly tree rooted at the water’s edge. Looking back at our house, I saw his mate sitting on the pillar’s ledge where the birdhouse had been. She sat with head bowed, wings hanging limply at her sides. The male tree swallow, for that’s what he was—swooped over to her, chirping, but she remained the picture of dejection.  He returned to the tree and called to her again. Still she did not move.

                “Look!” I said to my husband, “She wants the box and her nest. But it wasn’t safe there.”

                “Tell that to her,” he said.

                The male flew toward the house again. This time he passed the birdhouse. He flew by it again and again. Then, landing on the perch, he tilted his head to look inside.

                He called to his mate. I was certain he was saying, “Look, sweetie, here’s our home. Come up here and take a look.”

                Sweetie did not budge.

                The tiny male flew back to the tree and made repeated sweeps toward the birdhouse, calling excitedly all the while, “Sweetie! It’s our house! It’s up here. We can build another nest.”

                Sweetie turned to look at him. She shrugged her wings but made no move to leave off her mourning.

                “I hope she changes her mind,” I told my husband. “They’re so pretty. I’d love to see them raise a family here.”

                The male continued his swoops and chirpings. I admired his grace and the iridescent flash of his feathers. But the female would not change her mind. With what I interpreted as a last sigh, she lifted off the ledge and flew past us toward the other end of the lake. The male followed. They did not return to our house that summer though I did occasionally see the male’s graceful acrobatics over the lake.

                I left the birdhouse fastened to the bottom of the deck. I hope next spring somebird will take possession of it. Perhaps I should attach a sign, “For lease—cozy, convenient and safe from cats. Ready to move in.” 

Weather Swings

I remember the last verse of a song about climate that I heard as a child. It was sung to the tune of “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”

                “But we poor unfortunates live in a clime

                That calls for at least three full suits at a time-

                A thick one, a thin one for days cold and hot,

                And a medium weight for the days that are not.”

The song is true for the north east. In the summer we wear the lightest possible clothing, in winter, the warmest.  And, at least when I was young, you wore a light jacket or raincoat for spring and fall. There were some transition days— Indian Summer and “Pilgrim Winter”—when the weather, heading toward the new season, took a few days off to remind us of the previous.  Once into winter, you could safely store away your summer clothes. And after taking your light clothes out, you pretty much stuck to them. Seasonal change was predictably gradual.

But last year and this one, all bets are off. I stored away my light jacket right after Thanksgiving. I took it out a week and a half ago and again yesterday, when, just for one day each, the temperature soared toward the 60s. Then the thermometer dropped again.  This morning it was 2^o!

Mother Nature is very angry and she’s letting us know.  I wish, if she’s mad at decision makers who refuse to abandon fossil fuels for renewables, that she’d make some accommodation for homeless humans as well as birds and animals living out doors.  But we are all in this together for what appears to be a long haul.

I hope it’s not too late to appease Mom.

Fog and Mushrooms

               The radio says “clear skis.” But I look out at a soft gray fuzziness blanketing the lake and foliage of the opposite shore. A Slightly lighter gray highlights where the sky meets the treetops. Though we are told that temperatures will rise to the mid-seventies, there is no way I’ll be swimming in a lake that is now giving up its warmth to the air.

                Yesterday we spent an hour following an entertaining mycologist around a small path in the Frelinghuysen Arboretum. The mushroom walk—a highlight of the Fungi Fest—began amusingly  because our area of New Jersey has had so little rain lately that, naturally, there are few mushrooms growing. So mushrooms of various genera and species had been carefully placed along a small, looping path, with accompanying signs to identify them.

Amanita - Poisonous!

                I’ve always been a mushroom fancier. I do like to eat them, but I also enjoy their very different looks in the wild and the way they seemingly pop up in unexpected places over night. In my 20s, I collected mushrooms when I hiked, identified them with a guide book I still own, dried them and placed them into cute jars, usually on a bed of moss and soil. I labeled them on the bottom of the jar with a sketch to identify each mushroom within. I called this art “Forest Floors” and attempted to sell them—without much success.

                I learned a lot at the mushroom walk. If I were to make “Forest Floors” now, I’d be more careful of the mushroom’s surroundings. Now I know that some mushrooms only grow on wood and that many have a symbiotic relationship with trees, giving antibiotic protection to the trees while helping themselves to the trees’ sugars. And species specialize by tree type.

                Many of the people on the tour with us were members of the NJ Mycological Association, MNMA, and regularly go on mushroom forays. They all oohed when looking at the hen-of-the-woods colony placed next to an oak. Apparently it makes a welcome feast and there is no mistaking it. I think we had some growing next to a tree stump in our backyard. Maybe it will return next year.

                Looking out now, there is no lake, no opposite shore. Fog has enveloped and softened everything. Perhaps there’ll be rain – and mushrooms.

Water Fowl Convention

Someduck must have called for a convention in the cove end of Kittatinny Lake for Labor Day weekend, because all the water fowl of the lake seem to be congregating down this end.

 Usually we see a group of six to nine mallard ducks. They like to sun on the dock across from us, come up on land at our neighbor’s beach.  Other ducks frequent places further down the lake. I haven’t seen more than a dozen together all summer. 

 

The swan couple lives at the shallow south end, by the dense patches of water lilies.  They rarely sail up to the cove, although two summers ago, one of the pair regularly came up to beg for handouts of bread.  Neighbors at the south end tell me that the swans lay eggs each summer and attempt to raise their cygnets to adulthood. Apparently predators often deplete their brood. I suppose those that survive then relocate to their own lake, because we have only one couple in residence.

This weekend is different. The swans and 23 mallard ducks—only females and young adults, no mature males—are all hanging out in the cove. No bird produced a barbeque grill nor did any uncover a bowl of potato salad, so I can’t imagine what brought them all down here.  We offered crackers to the swans but they were not interested. Obviously they had somehow gotten plenty to eat at this party.

Could it be the current?  There is usually a mild current from south to north.  This weekend a steady wind has blown across the lake from the south making the current stronger than usual. But there have been stronger currents –days when I’ve tried to canoe out of the cove and have been continually turned back –and the birds have not been there.  

No. I’m convinced that somefowl has called an end of summer party in the cove. And we get to enjoy the gracious condescension of a swan visit.