Natural Selection

From my peaceful Sleeping Porch aerie, the dogs and I look out over the back yard. As you can see, if we want to, we can watch the comings and goings of the students and staff of Nebraska Wesleyan University. It can be quite entertaining (especially on those Sundays when the Anachronists are meeting).

I’ve been more irritated than entertained by the antics of the neighborhood squirrels. Not satisfied with the mother lode of acorns the mighty oak trees drop on the front yard each year, those danged tree rats have been systematically peeling the bark from the Buckeye tree in the back yard. That tree was given as a seedling to my Mom when my Dad died. When we moved Mom here to Nebraska from Colorado, we dug up the Buckeye and brought it with us - it was struggling to survive in the dry, sandy Colorado soil. As soon as its roots hit that good, black Nebraska dirt, the Buckeye flourished.

It was probably two Winters ago that I first saw strips of bark in the yard, looked up and noticed that the squirrels had peeled most of the bark off of several small limbs. When Spring came, I held my breath, hoping the Buckeye would recover. The tree did all right that year. But this year, the squirrels are at it again - and the damage is even worse. Many of the larger branches are completely bare, and once the cambium is gone clear around the branch, there’s no recovery.



There’s no way to keep the tree rats from the tree. In fact, one of the branches they’ve peeled bare has been used as a squirrel highway between the Buckeye and the big white pine for years and years.



A query on the internet brought me some really interesting information and even suggestions on how to deal with “skwerls.” Everything from cayenne pepper to firing up a crock pot is discussed (I’m presuming one is to render the little varmints lifeless before putting them into the crockpot, but I’m not sure if you’re supposed to add the cayenne after they’re in the crockpot or before).

At any rate, after a great deal of thought, I’ve decided to treat my little squirrel problem as an study of Natural Selection. If the tree dies, well, then, it dies. Dad died, after all, and ten years later, Mom followed suit. “To everything there is a season,” right?

Plus, then I don’t have to try to figure out a way to outsmart the danged skwerls.

What does it matter?

I’ve been listening to Mozart for the past month, because I read somewhere that Mozart increases brain activity and creativity. I’m afraid a solid month of Mozart may have burned my brain to ashes. Yesterday, I wanted to listen to something different, so I grabbed a handful of CDs from the entertainment center and brought them to work.

Among those in the handful were two Dan Fogelberg CDs, “The Wild Places” and “River of Souls.” Dan Fogelberg’s music will forever resonate in my soul. I can’t remember when I first started buying his albums, but it was back in the vinyl days - and then I bought them all over again when CDs made the scene. Dan died of prostate cancer on December 16, 2007, so listening to his music is bittersweet for me. I decided to go on-line and read a little more about him and stumbled across a blog written by one of the guys he grew up with, in Peoria, Illinois. It was interesting, reading about Dan’s rise to fame. The stories weren’t all that different from any other successful musician - being in the right place at the right time, the parties, the fame, the fortune, the heartbreak. But Dan spoke to me (and many others, I’m sure) through his lyrics.

Anyway, after I’d listened to those albums and read more about Dan on the internet, I found myself asking those hard questions I always seem to end up asking myself. What mark am I going to leave on this world? Do I even matter? Why am I even here? Those with children have already left their legacy. My husband is a well-known artist. What do I have to show for myself? I’m over 50 years old and what do I have to show for it? I no longer have the energy and pluck of youth to sustain a headlong rush to fame or claw my way into a new profession. And so I headed down my well-worn path to the Pit of Despair.

Teetering on the brink of that pit, a little voice in my head said, “Lisa, if there is even one person in this world that you have touched, you matter.”

I don’t know exactly where that little voice came from, but it stopped my headlong rush into self-deprecation and depression.

When you think about that little statement, it’s true for everyone. Everyone matters. Everything you do matters - from the phone call to check up on a friend, to smiling at someone on the street. From the harsh words you exchange with someone, to the later exchange of hugs. Everything matters. We’re all connected.

Just think of it: I never met Dan Fogelberg, yet he touched me on a fundamental level with his music.

Just think of who you could be influencing even now, with just a smile.

Listening to the Ice Freeze

I’ve walked the shores of quite a few lakes on quite a few winter days, but in all my many years of hiking, I have before never experienced the awesome sound of ice freezing. To be sure, "listening to ice freezing" sounds a whole lot like "watching paint dry," but nothing could be further from the truth.

This happened back in December, on a cold Saturday. When we got out of the car at Branched Oak, the temperature was a balmy 21 degrees, with very little wind. It was nowhere near as cold as it had recently been. Still, it hadn’t been cold enough long enough for the die-hard ice fishermen to be able to trust the strength of the new ice, so we were all alone at the reservoir. As soon as I’d finished locking up the car, I was baffled by a persistent noise.

Now, I've been at the lake in all kinds of conditions, and I've heard everything from thousands of snow geese to ice boats, but this noise was different. I’ve tried to find words to describe it, but the closest mental image I can give you of the sound is to – well, imagine a big upset stomach.

Tim ignored the sound, but JoLee paid attention, and so did Star. It gave us an unsettled feeling; a bit like a warning to be heeded. I was relieved when I figured out that it was the lake that was groaning. It burbled. It whispered, restlessly, and occasionally made sharp cracking noises, like a shot fired. And the oddest part of all of it is that all of these noises echoed, not only from under the ice, but all around us.

When we stood on Lieber’s Point, a finger of land that extends out into the lake, it was as if we had been swallowed, and that the lake was getting ready to regurgitate us. I felt small and insignificant. I can’t even begin to imagine the sound of the ice moving in the Arctic at thawing time.

Although eventually Star and JoLee lost interest in it, I continued to marvel at the noise as we continued our walk. It proved to me once again that, no matter how many experiences I may have throughout my lifetime, there are still new experiences out there for me.

Maybe even right next door.

Port Aransas - January, 2011

I’m sure there are many great places to stay in Port Aransas, but we stayed at A Laughing Horse Lodge, which consists of a collection of small brick cottages that were built in the 50s. Each cottage is different - we stayed in the Charlie Horse, also known as “Number 9.” The decor of the Charlie Horse is bright and cheery. Colorful striped curtains hang at the windows and bright patterned cushions and pillows are scattered on the beds and built-in platform couch in the living room. Screen doors are at the front and back doors, so we had the solid doors open most of the time, inviting in the spicy, ocean-scented breeze. Ceiling fans move the air in the cottage, but each bedroom and the main living area all have window air conditioners, for those times when having the doors open and the ceiling fans going isn’t comfortable enough. The floors in the main areas are clean and hard surfaced, painted a cornflower blue, just perfect for those with dogs. Each bedroom was carpeted, but we’d brought a couple of dog beds to scatter around in the living area. The Charlie Horse is a two-bedroom, one bath, with a kitchen and dining/living room, and has all the conveniences - television, fridge, microwave, coffeepot - that you would have in your own home. It was truly a home away from home.

We arrived after dark, and waiting for us were dog bowls, dog towels, and identification tags for each dog, in the event one of them might run off on the beach or slip through an open door. It truly is a dog-friendly place. An information sheet outlining dog-friendly restaurants, warning about the effects of dogs drinking ocean water and listing the phone numbers of local veterinarians was part of our information packet.




I could see the beach from the driveway - it is that close.




On New Year's Eve, we decided to have a steak and lobster dinner. I love the way lobster tails look before they're cooked.




Pam made her famous macaroni and cheese (Grandma's recipe), Harry grilled the steaks, and I broiled the lobster tails. The lobster tails actually tasted better than this photo looks. Ugh - the lobster looks like melted marshmallows. I imagine that's why I usually put paprika on them when I cook them.




And here, after a bottle of wine shared with Pam, is "Lobster Man."




The dogs had a great time, too. In between hiking down to the beach and up and down the shore, they rested up.















I love Nature's beauty.






Harry and I went to the only bar on the beach - it's been "grandfathered in" and is falling down, bit by bit. Sitting on the deck was like taking your life in your own hands - whenever anyone walked by, you could feel the whole thing sway. I enjoyed my first "Dogfish Brown Ale."










The second day we were there, there was a "blow." Sergei is demonstrating how it works. The wind was no worse than it normally is in Nebraska - but a heck of a lot warmer.




I found the seaweed on the beach fascinating. I can't decide if these little bladders are what helps the seaweed keep afloat, or if they are tiny jellyfish.




This one definitely appeared to be a jellyfish to me. The bladder was as long as my forearm.




Harry and I took a walk on the dunes. He's a lot more interested in the ships than the naturally occurring flora and fauna.







Star loved the beach. I would have loved to let she and JoLee off-leash to play, but signs everywhere said all dogs had to be on-leash.



Up away from the surf, in the dunes, the vegetation makes a mighty effort to reclaim land.



Only in a seaside town would one see blow-up Santas in ships and by palm trees.









On the way home, JoLee was so tired he slept, draped over Star. She was so tired, she didn't even care.

Fear Mongers and Fearmongering

I have to say, these days, everywhere you look, you will run smack-dab into my pet peeve: fearmongering. According to Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus.com, the word “fearmongering” doesn’t exist, so I suppose that means that I’ve made it up. This is the way I would define it: “Monger” is defined to mean a “dealer, hawker, merchant, peddler, or trader” and these days we all know what fear is all about, so when you put those together, a “fearmonger” would be someone who peddles fear.

No matter where you go in the United States (I can’t speak for foreign countries), you are barraged by fearmongering. The daily newspaper headlines are filled with dire warnings regarding the economy, wars, terrorism, crime rates, and for heaven’s sake, bed bugs.

Television shows and the accompanying commercials all tell you to fear growing old, getting fat, having a heart attack, having bad breath, not shaving close enough, or having mesothelioma or some other horrific, uncurable disease; that you might fall and not be able to get up, you might be losing your hair, that your teeth might be a bit yellow, and that the only sex you are likely to have will probably happen in separate bathtubs. And don’t even get me started on the drug advertising. I have absolutely no idea why someone would want to take a prescription drug for a skin condition when a side effect of that drug might be cancer. What, because you are afraid someone won’t like you because you have scaly skin? Go figure.

Movies are the same way. Last night, Harry and I watched a movie he requested from NetFlix - “From Paris, With Love.” John Travolta and John Rhys-Meyers starred in this convoluted story, and the movie was a roller-coaster of violence and mayhem, leaving one convinced that every person in one’s life could possibly be a spy or terrorist hell-bent on revenge. Now, that’s entertainment!

Maybe I should have been born a dog, a creature of the here and now, rather than a human being who should think deep, ponderous, scary thoughts of how bleak the future is. I suppose there are good reasons to be informed about the state of the world, and I have been told on more than one occasion that it isn’t good to hide one’s head in the sand and just plain ignore the workings of the government, politics and world news. I admit it: I dutifully vote whenever there is an election, but that’s about it. I avoid news programs (except for the weather) and I never read the newspaper (except for the comics). I promise you, when I find a news source that will accurately and plainly inform me, without bias or attempting to browbeat me into submissive, cowering fear, I will gladly broaden my horizons.

Until then, depending on the weather, you might find me in the garden, coaxing tiny green shoots of life from the ground; in the garage, happily making boxes and other things out of wood scraps; in the basement, fitting pieces of brightly colored glass together; or anywhere the dogs are, either playing with them or stroking their soft fur and quietly gazing into the bottomless well of love in their eyes. You might find me sitting on a quiet hillside, watching the sparkle of the sun dancing on a lake, or joyfully running and laughing with the dogs in the brilliant, blinding white snow the day after a big storm. And you also might find me on your doorstep, a pan of warm, fragrant cinnamon rolls in my hands.

That’s just the way I roll.

A Hike at Conestoga

I took the furkids for a hike at Conestoga Lake today. As a guilt/return favor, Harry came with us. See, I went to the Husker game with him last night (Nebraska college football, if there is anyone out there who doesn't know who the Huskers are). Anyone who knows me knows that going to a Husker game is just about the last thing I would want to do. I belong out here, not in a crowded stadium, deafened by the noise and jostled on all sides.



It was a beautiful day.



Tim had a great time. I bundled him up in his little coat, because he can't really regulate his body temperature any more.



Star taught JoLee how to wade. Even though it was only around 50 degrees, the sun was warm, and they had a great time exploring.





Everything went great until Tim decided to become his Independent Terrier Self and disappear. We all spent the rest of the hike looking for him, while he, no doubt, stood behind a clump of grass and laughed at us.













Harry finally found Tim, near the car. He'd gotten tired and decided to wait for us there. Harry put him in the car and honked the horn so I would know all was well.





A rat snake was also waiting for us by the car, sunning himself in the grass. He was a good four feet long, and although he was torpid, he could still move. As I took these photos of him, his black tongue darted out at me. He was beautiful.







So, all in all, it was a great hike. Lots of beauty, some excitement, some suspense - I suppose, when I think of it, everything you'd expect in a football game. But for me, this was much better.

The First Day of Winter

I know that, technically, the Winter Solstice is the 21st of December. The first day of Winter, and the shortest day of the year. But for me, Winter really starts when Daylight Savings time ends. On that Sunday, I always wake up at the normal time, even though it would be a perfect day to catch an extra hour of sleep. I’m pretty sure I wake up partially because my inner clock isn’t yet changed, but this year, it was mostly because you cannot change the inner clock of a puppy, and JoLee was up and raring to go.

So, this morning, at 5:45 a.m. I decided to take Star and JoLee for a good long walk, partially to wear JoLee out, and partially to allow Harry to sleep in on the last day of his weekend. I decided to walk to East Campus. Leaving Tim snuggled up to his Dad, in the pre-dawn darkness the three of us set out.

I don’t know what the technical term for the pre-dawn darkness is - in the evening, it’s called twilight - but I think that’s my favorite time of day. That time when the sun is either rising or setting is magical to me. The blue bowl of the sky glows at the horizon, either with the promise of a beautiful day, or the promise of an incredible night.

Most of the walk to East Campus is on the boring side, to be honest. A concrete sidewalk, with mowed grass on either side, and few, if any, trees. About a third of the way to our final destination, the area on the south side of the walkway becomes a small, wild tangle of trees and brush, mostly left to its own devices. As we walked along, JoLee suddenly stopped and sat down, head cocked to one side, listening. I stopped to listen too, and then Star joined us. I could hear deliberate footsteps in the dead leaves, and they seemed to be coming towards us. We stayed and waited, peering through the tangle of undergrowth to see what was on the other side of the fence. Finally, a movement caught my eye, and as we watched, a small opossum clambered up a nearby tree. There was a clump of what appeared to be leaves stuck to its rump, but as I looked more closely, I saw that its tail curled tightly around a cluster of leaves. I've never heard of such a thing, but all I can think is that the possum was adding bedding to its nest. I watched it move slowly and deliberately all the way to its nest. It was watchful, but unafraid. Simply wonderful.

So, now I’m sitting in the back yard in the sunshine. Star is so beautiful. The sun gleams on her coat, and her calm, knowing eyes squint when she looks at me in the warm sunlight. JoLee is gnawing on a piece of firewood nearby and Tim is curled right next to me on a rug. The sound of the wind in the white pine behind me soothes me on a molecular level, and the warmth of the sun soaks in through my eyelids and collects on my navy blue sweatshirt, warming me gently and thoroughly. I am totally content.

And I just wanted to share that with you.