Wildlife Welcome!

                “Where are you? Come and look at this!” My husband called me to the kitchen window yesterday afternoon. He pointed at the yard. “Look, he’s sitting up like a dog.”

                The baby groundhog had returned.  Not such a baby any more, he looked very independent, and quite cute. In his begging pose, it was easier to think of him as a prairie dog than the groundhog I knew him to be.

                Two weeks ago he had pushed away rocks coating the driveway to dig under the garden fence. He devastated the garden, devouring all the lettuce greens, kale and Swiss chard, eating each soy and bush bean and one pepper plant down to their stalks. He even ate the echinacea and dill, leaving only the tomato and recently emerging zucchini plants. We plugged up one hole after another. He had made three. Then my husband laid a metal ladder in the driveway, up against the garden fence and I set the Havahart trap nearby. I figured the groundhog was young enough that he might not be suspicious and would walk directly into the baited trap. He didn’t, but at least we stopped him. Or was it that there was nothing left to eat?  We later saw “Junior” and his mother in the backyard, several days in a row, happily grazing on clover. Then the rains came.

                Neither Mom nor Junior showed up for over a week. I didn’t know if we just weren’t in the yard or passing by the window while they were out there, or if they were avoiding the paucity of our garden. But one thing I was sure of—if they made their home under the black walnut stump at the far end of the yard, they were under water. The entire back half of our yard was soggy. When the grass became less wet and I explored toward the back, I could still see water sitting inside the entrance hole under the stump.  I placed some pulled-up weeds across the opening; if some-critter entered or exited I would know.

                Now that Junior had reappeared, and with our lettuce and kale making a comeback, I had to do something to protect our crops. During the day, still thinking Junior was a neophyte, I baited the trap with broccoli and kale, placed it outside the garden fence and covered it with branches.  But our young groundhog was not buying. I decided to put the trap out by the stump at night.

                At ten fifteen last night I grabbed a flashlight and opened the back door—and jumped back.  Three kitten-sized black and white balls of fur scattered as a larger, striped animal ran off to the right. I slammed the door shut before they decided to act on their fear.  The trap would not be set this night.

                “It’s your sign,” said my husband. “You invited them.”

                He was referring to the sign that proclaimed our backyard to be a certified wildlife habitat. It had been certified five years ago, but I only hung the sign on the back door last month. Obviously, our wildlife can read.

                This morning I checked the stump. The weeds had been moved. Someone had settled in under the stump. But who?  From past experience I knew that groundhogs wake up late. We’ve never trapped one before ten A.M. It was only 6:30 so I put the trap in front of the hole. But by one P.M. the trap was still empty. I removed it. Skunks come out at night. The last think I want to find in the trap is a family of skunks.

                So whose garden is it? The battle continues. 

Groundhog Woes—The Saga Continues

“Cozy Burrow Available

Beautiful neighborhood amid lush vegetable gardens.

The perfect home for your growing family.

Ready to move in – you need only dig your own tunnels.

50 Gordonhurst Ave.”

I’m convinced that ad is circulating within the local groundhog population. Why else would I find yet another groundhog happily grazing under our pear tree only weeks after we evicted another pair? I had felt badly about sending them away. They were a charming couple. I know they were enjoying the new spring grass of our backyard and I’m certain they intended to raise a family there. But we told them, “The backyard is open to you, but not our house.”

We are not mean landlords. Our backyard is a certified wildlife habitat. There’s a big black walnut stump by the back fence under which other groundhogs and even raccoons have enjoyed residing. As long as they stay out of my vegetable garden they are welcome there. I’ve seen them happily munching clover leaves and the partially eaten pears that the squirrels throw down from the tree.

But our house is not a wildlife habitat. They are absolutely not welcome to settle in under the sunroom. We’ve stuffed rocks in their tunnels and placed boards over the foot-wide area of earth that runs next to the house along the driveway, and pegged down chicken wire over where my beautiful irises and a peony should be growing, had the previous tenants had not dug them up. As a last resort, we threw several ounces of mothballs into the crawl space before screening in the small access opening. That was a big mistake!  Who would have imagined that the entire house would reek of camphor? Only the sunroom is atop the crawl space. But each morning when we awaken we notice the smell. Every time we re-enter the house we say, “Mothballs, yuck!”

Yet in spite of our inconvenienced living with the odor, that new groundhog attempted to dig its way under the back stairs in hopes of becoming our new tenant. It was the rocks we stuffed there that stopped his tunneling, not the smell. When I surprised him by opening the back door while he was munching grass, he ran behind the garage into our neighbor’s yard and under their Jacuzzi.  So they might have to deal with him now. I won’t suggest mothballs.

Today I put on my grubbiest painting clothes and removed the screen covering the crawl space “window.”  I crawled in and picked up every last mothball. They will go out with the garbage tonight. We’ve opened windows and burned incense. Now if only I knew how to advertise “No Vacancy” to the groundhog grapevine. 

Groundhog Day

                I love Groundhogs’ Day. I enjoy the silliness of otherwise sensible people seemingly taking the prediction of a large rodent seriously.  And, although I’m not fond of small rodents, I actually find groundhogs cute. When a groundhog sits up on his haunches, front paws pulled up like a begging pup, I just melt. True, I have yet to discover their positive contribution to the environment. Unlike their smaller cousin, the squirrel, who eats the products of plants—nuts and fruits—and who actually sows seeds, the groundhog eats the plants themselves, before they mature enough to bear fruit, and never re-plants. Very destructive.

                 This Groundhogs Day Punxsutawney Phil predicted an early spring. A groundhog repeatedly visited our backyard last fall, and I believed he overwintered at the far end of our yard, under the stump of the black walnut tree that fell down during the microburst of 2006. I looked out our back window wondering what opinion our groundhog held.

                But I saw no sign of our woodchuck that first week of February. A snowstorm on February 8^th left a white cover over all. Somewhere, shortly after it snowed, footprints appeared across the lawn, terminating by the stump. Ah ha! Chucky was awake!

                It was only when all the snow finally exposed the grass—two and a half weeks later—that I noticed a new hole near the house, where a peony plant should grow. It was just under our sunroom window. We had believed our “basement apartment” to be empty. Until  now. Had Chucky moved to the warmer quarters of the crawl space under the sunroom? Or was this a relative who had hibernated in that comfortable den?  

                “Either way,” said my husband, Adel, “he’s got to go. He can have all of the outdoors but not our house.”

                In the fall we had evicted a groundhog from that very burrow. Adel had then constructed a network of slats to cover the narrow strip of soil between the house and the driveway. Our previous tenant had riddled the area with entries and exits.  Adel pushed rocks into the new hole.  But the next day, a new hole appeared; this one, close to the walkway, removed some iris plants.

                “There’s no dirt around the hole,” said my husband. “He’s digging from inside. How’d he get in?”

                I Googled groundhogs and learned that they dig two to five pathways to their dens. They might have as much as 45 feet of tunnels that may be five feet below the surface. Could Chucky have tunneled from the far end of our property?

                Determined not to let a groundhog get the better of us, Adel began covering the square of soil by the sunroom with planks and rocks.

                “The irises and what’s left of the peony won’t be able to grow,” I protested.

                So he constructed a frame the size of the plot, stretched wire mesh over it, planted it over the dirt and rocks and weighed it down with bricks.

                “Now he’ll never get in!” declared Adel.

                But the next morning there was a new hole on the other side of the entrance steps to the sunroom in another small plot of soil.

                “That does it!” said Adel. “We’ll borrow the trap!”

                We procured a Have-A-Heart trap from our neighbors, bated it with broccoli and cabbage and, after dark positioned it by the hole, blocking it on the sides. After a full day the trap remained empty.

                Facing the driveway, there’s a small window opening from the crawl space. Once wooden bars kept intruders out. Several years of tenants had chewed and broken them, prompting my husband to staple a screen over the frame. Now we noticed that one corner of the screen had been pushed free. Our groundhog had escaped again.

                Adel added a dozen staples to the screen and we plotted to wait until evening to set the trap again.  But in the early afternoon, I looked out our kitchen window to see a groundhog calmly grazing on the lawn. I went out the front door, tiptoed down the driveway and entered the lawn from behind the groundhog. He saw me and made a beeline for the hole. I set the trap in place and framed it with bricks. Three hours later I had a prisoner. I found Chucky (or perhaps Woodchick?) to be adorable and feisty.  When I touched the handle of the trap he lunged at me, showing two prominent front teeth.

                “I don’t blame you,” I said. “But we’ll relocate you to a lovely wild area.”

                Chucky was not consoled. He repeatedly examined each corner of the trap hoping for an opening that wasn’t there. We had plans to visit our summer house in Sussex the next day, so bringing our groundhog there was an obvious solution. We moved the trap to the garage. Expecting freezing temperatures over night, we covered it with a tarp.  

                The next morning I offered our captive more food, but breakfast was not the first item on his agenda. First he re-examined every inch of the cage. Only when he had despaired of escape did he sit down to a meal.

                When Adel went to get the trap, he found another groundhog standing by the hole, looking disconsolately at the captive.

                “Oh, no! We’re splitting up a family!” I said.

                But there was only one trap. One groundhog would have to go to Sussex and the mate would have to wait. My research had informed me that groundhogs mate in March. It was March 1^st. We’d definitely cut their honeymoon short. Maybe they hadn’t started a family yet. Maybe the “woodchick” was slightly pregnant. With a gestation period of 31 to 32 days, we were somewhat confident that we wouldn’t be leaving infants unattended.  After all, these two had only awakened from hibernation in the last few weeks.

                We delivered groundhog number one to a lovely wooded area near a stream which flowed into a meadow. He or she scampered off to explore. Back home, we again bated the trap and placed it by the hole after dark. By 10:00 AM the trap was still empty; groundhogs are not early risers. But when we looked at 10:30, there was a new, dejected occupant. This one was much more docile, causing us to speculate that the first may well have been a pregnant female.  We took it for a ride to a not-nearly-as-far wild area so Chucky could find a new home.

                I wish them both well while feeling guilty for being a home wreaker. Landlords are sometimes required to make perturbing decisions.

Putting the Garden to Bed

I am a perennial optimist; I always hope next year’s garden will surpass this year’s. But hope alone won’t make it happen. So, when mornings sport a coat of frost and all but the hardiest crops have died, it’s time to put the garden to bed. I layer on my grungiest clothes and go play in the dirt.

Black twiggy stalks are all that’s left of the string bean plants that produced such abundance in the summer. The pepper stalks look identical. The only way I know what they had produced is by their location in the garden. I pull them all up and shake off the dirt.  Pull up those hardy, opportunistic weeds too. “Out with you,” I tell them. If they stay, they’re apt to reproduce and then I’ll be greeted by a harvest of weeds in the spring.

The kale is still doing well, as is some of the lettuce, so I’m careful to work around them. A plastic dome goes over a patch of lettuce.  We’ll be able to harvest it for a few more weeks.  

Then it’s time to dig. To my happy surprise, I find my composter filled with beautiful black compost. I layer it under the top foot of soil, and try to transfer soil from one corner of a plot to another. I’m not sure why it works but garden wisdom tells us to mix it up.

Then I cover the garden plots with straw. It’s supposed to keep down the weeds and, when it degrades, adds to the nutrients in the soil. The work in the autumn chill tires me out. With a warm cup of cocoa in hand, I look out at the beds neatly topped with straw comforters. We are ready for winter. 

Hurricane Sandy Made me Grateful

The real victims of Hurricane Sandy—those who lost loved ones and/or homes, those who remain in shelters—remain in my prayers. Though we were certainly inconvenienced by “Super Storm Sandy,” and though, while experiencing 11 days without power we felt we were living in Colonial times or the Twilight Zone, I’ve found a number of things Sandy reminded me to be grateful for:

       1.       The opportunity to give our refrigerator and freezer a total cleaning

2.       The opportunity to clear stacks of kindling wood from our garage and to finally get rid of the logs from the tree we lost in the Microburst of October 2006

3.       My Girl Scout training that enabled me to consistently build a start-with-one-match fire in our fireplace

4.       The money saved by not using electricity and heating  for 11 days

5.       The money saved on gas for the car—who could take a long trip when gas station lines stretched half a mile?

6.       More time with my husband since he couldn’t watch the Tennis Channel

7.       The free time to patch cracks and paint the upstairs hallway

8.       More time—during the day at least—to read

9.       Missing all the political commercials and robo-calls

10.   The Montclair Library, that provided warmth and Wi-Fi 24 hours a day

11.   Terra Tea Shop that consistently served hot, delicious soups and warm drinks, even delivering them to my “work station” in the library auditorium.

12.   Montclair and all the houses of worship and organizations that opened their doors to support those who were in the dark and cold

13.   More evidence for those who consistently deny climate change, hopefully leading them to rethink their position.

14.   The generosity of neighbors near—those across the street who extended a power line when their electricity came back—and far –the people who drove from their southern states to help NJ neighbors, political differences notwithstanding.

15.   The opportunity to appreciate what I have, and, as we begin National Homeless Awareness Week,  to better understand the plight of our homeless neighbors who must always seek places of warmth, light and the next warm meal.

 

Early Snow - Nov. 7th

my backyard this morning

               The snow is truly lovely to look at. And sun on snow makes everything look brighter. That’s particularly important to me today, since it’s day 11 that we are without power after Sandy’s roar-through.

                In the 21 years we’ve lived in Montclair, we may have used the gas heater, installed in the basement room, on five or six occasions. But during this power outage, we’ve run it while we’ve been home. It’s managed to bring the heat in the dining room up from 52^o this morning to 58 ^o now. Still cold, but with the outside temperature at 40 something, much more tolerable.  The fireplace in the living room gives us light, some heat, and comfort in the evening.

                I have developed great admiration for both the indigenous Native Americans of the area and the early settlers. I can’t imagine anticipating an entire winter in a poorly-insulated shelter, where the only heat is from wood I’d either chopped or gathered, and the only evening light from candles, previously made, and moonlight. However did they survive?

                This is the second year in a row when we’ve had an unseasonably early snow storm. Prior to last year, I’d almost have bet my bank account that it would not snow before Thanksgiving in this area. I remember how unusual it was that I actually went skiing the weekend following Thanksgiving one November in the late 1960s.

                Yet early as it is, we are not talking an insignificant flurry; yesterday’s snow dropped three packing-perfect inches, the kind of snow that just begs you to build with it. Normally, I’d respond. But today, knowing there was no chance to warm up afterwards, I had to merely take its picture and hope I’ll get another chance to sculpt snow this winter—when I have heat in my home.

Sandy!

Oct 29^th 5:00 PM

                Mother Nature reminded us that humans are not running the world, that we are, after all, just another species of animal living off her bounty.  Today she’s telling us in no uncertain terms that she is in charge.

                The fiercest hurricane I've experienced is raging outside as I write. I watch branches of a tall oak—twice as tall as my neighbors’ house—wave over their roof like a giant hand about to rip it off. I pray that the tree holds strong in its roots and leaves our friends’ in safety. They were kind enough to give us C batteries a little while ago se we could use a battery-operated radio to hear occasional news. We lost power two hours ago and with it, our heat that triggers from the electrically-controlled thermostat.

                The radio says the worst is yet to come. At least the rain is not heavy. If the ground becomes saturated, our basement will likely flood, since the sump pump, of course, runs on electricity.

                I find myself thinking of all those Jane Austin books I’ve read, wondering how they managed with no electricity. Maybe it was easier. You shoveled coal into the burner to keep the place warm and made sure you had enough candles and/or kerosene for the cold months. How many candles must they have burned to light up the evening balls they attended—or even to play piano by? I try to read by the light of five candles, backed with an aluminum tray for reflected light. It’s daunting.

               

Oct. 31^st—Halloween

                We can finally drive off our block. The power line was down at the corner was removed. Being at a dead end, we were cut off.  We drive carefully through town. We encounter no school buses or crossing guards. Schools must be closed for a third day. I wonder how people were informed. Most people’s cell phones have run down by now. The YMCA has power! And heat! The warm pool is wonderful, ditto the shower and sauna. But we return to a 59 degree home.
                The radio says not to expect power until Monday. Burrrr.  My daughter tries to call on our cell phone—we recharged at the Y, but I hear only every other word. Seems some transmitting towers are down. She doesn’t have power in Newark either. No surprise, Sandy knocked out the power station on Raymond Boulevard, not so far from her place, I couldn't hear if she has heat. I hope they get Newark back on line soon.

Nov. 1^st  1:00 PM

                No trick-or-treaters last night. All was dark and cold on our block. Seems the Governor postponed All Hallows Eve until Monday. And school has been cancelled all week. Unprecedented!

                We drove to the library—it stayed open late to accommodate those out of power—and discovered that most of the town was either walking about downtown or there.  Returned home to build a fire in our fireplace. It added a little warmth and much comfort.

                Thank goodness it hasn't rained since Sandy—and our basement hasn't flooded. So many people in New Jersey have been flooded out. Whereas, though incredibly inconvenient—and cold—this lost week is tolerable. And, thanks to our wonderful Montclair library, I’m able to use my computer.