Finding Our Bearings

Kentucky frontiersman Daniel Boone allegedly said he had never been lost but was once bewildered for three days. It’s hard to separate truth from fiction with pioneer icons, but no one would deny that Daniel could find his way around.  His forays were long, sometimes covering hundreds of miles across territory poorly mapped. Once, while he was away for a couple years, his wife took him for dead and gave birth to a daughter fathered by Daniel’s brother. But I’m getting off point. 

Birds are great navigators, even better than Daniel. Their migrations are well documented and some are incredible feats. The arctic tern takes the prize for the longest migration in the animal kingdom: 31000 miles round trip from its Arctic breeding grounds to wintering areas in the Antarctic. Closer to home, many midwestern songbirds winter along the Gulf of Mexico or destinations farther south. They manage the distance remarkably but are experiencing significant losses from the effects of climate change and land use practices. 

Insects like monarch butterflies and some of the dragonflies handle similar distances and can require several generations to complete the task. Each new cohort is born with an internal map and the wherewithal to read it. Grey whales travel 12000 miles from the Baja to Alaska and Russia. Sea lions navigate from California to Alaska twice a year— once to have young and mate, once again to molt. 

But distance is one thing, precision another. A honey bee flies up to three miles to forage then returns to a hive entrance that may be mere inches from an adjoining hive. A rabbit in the middle of a grass field knows precisely where to find its nest. The ant on the rotting log, the butterfly on the monarda, the albatross gliding across open ocean— all know exactly where they are and where they’re going.  Their sense of place and direction is sharp and innate. 

Humans share the sense, supposedly, and when I think about Daniel Boone, early explorers, or indigenous peoples, I know it must be true.  But put me in an unfamiliar big box store and I’m pretty helpless to point north, or take me on a cloudy day hike off trail and I’ll try to walk circles while arguing with my compass. 

It’s a sense not equally shared, and many westward immigrants would have never made their destination without gifted navigators at the lead. Science tells us our directional capabilities are generated in brain cells known as head direction neurons. Evolution doesn’t encourage nonessential traits and our map apps are not exercising our neurons. Take away our cell phones and we may think we’re more lost than ever, but our ability to find our way still exists for now.  

There is no shortage of metaphors for being lost— lost in thought, in the maze, in the crowd, in the weeds, in the fog— and no shortage of evidence that our country is in dire need of finding its bearings at the moment. 

The people of 1930’s Germany were not happy with the inflation in their country so they elected a man who promised to fix it. He completely dismantled their government in fifty three days and became a dictator. It’s likely that Germans, like most people, saw government as necessary but preferred it stay at arm’s length.  Their country needed improvement and they'd put a man in charge so now they could focus on paying bills, pursuing ambitions, and living their lives. By the time they were fully aware of what was taking place it was too late to speak out. 

German history is a lesson for those whose minds are not lost, who can navigate a barrage of disinformation while staying the course, who can experience  bewilderment but never lose direction or hope.  We’re living in a time that can’t be wasted in complacency or ignorance. We have an innate sense of choosing the right direction. We need to use it. 

 

Plant Talk

I’m in a rut with our national security and institutions and democracy under siege. I take some consolation from political commentator Robert Reich who writes that what we're going through might “awaken Americans to the truth about what… we must do to get back on track toward social justice, democracy, and widespread prosperity.” But I need a distraction, so I surf the web looking for a rabbit hole and stumble across a piece on communication among plants. I go down the hole. 

Mycelium, the vegetative part of fungi, appears as a mass of branching, thread-like filaments winding through the soil. When we head to the woods in search of morels we’re actually looking for the fruiting bodies of morel mycelium— the vast majority of the fungi is below ground, breaking down organic matter and linking plants by attaching to their roots. These connections allow plants to share nutrients and communicate by way of chemical messaging while providing the fungi with necessary carbohydrates. It’s a win-win. 

If an acorn sprouts in a fencerow and the young seedling finds itself under a thick growth of brambles starved for sunlight, the mother oak detects the struggle and uses mycelium to send sugars and nutrients to her offspring, fueling its growth until it can gather sunlight on its own. There are similar  responses when plants are attacked by pests or disease or are physically damaged.  News spreads quickly through the network and the whole community may pitch in, even unrelated plants.  

Fungi thrive in woodlands but live in soils everywhere— in our potted plants, yards and gardens, pastures and croplands. Their function in helping plants communicate is bolstered by soil microbes which are likewise capable of transferring nutrients and messages.  Both fungi and microbes are often damaged or destroyed by pesticides and poor land use.

There’s talk above ground as well, by way of airborne compounds which alert plants of potential threats.  It’s a real thing, caught on film. That sweet smell of new mown grass alerts other grass plants of impending danger. They respond by moving sugars and other compounds to their roots to speed up recovery after being sliced.  Equally impressive, some plants can hear the buzzing of a nearby bee and will increase the sugars in its nectar in response. These are all things to haunt us when we’re next pulling weeds or digging potatoes or mowing grass. They are also things that offer a powerful teaching about community, cooperation, and the hidden networks sustaining life; things that stand in stark contrast to the disjointed and often divisive nature of human society. 

There are people who claim they can literally hear plants speaking, though there isn’t the science to back them up.  But neither does science explain this: In the Amazon lives a primitive tribe known for developing a powerful hallucinogenic brew using two unrelated plants. In a land of 80,000 different vascular plants, how did the tribesmen discover which two to use?  According to Harvard anthropologist Wade Davis, it’s a stretch to say it was solely trial and error.  The tribe explains matter of factly that the plants talk to them. And when asked how they establish plant taxonomy, they say that on nights of the full moon, plants sing in different keys. It falls short of a full explanation, but opens the door to more questions about plants and our ability to listen and understand. 

I leave the rabbit hole with a thought, that in spite of all we know, we don’t know jack. Maybe one day we’ll learn that plants are conscious, or that consciousness exists in the very fabric of the universe and pervades everything.  Leading physicists and philosophers are batting that question around right now. It’s heavy stuff, life altering, and compared to the drone of daily news, genuinely refreshing. 

Groundhog Day Reflections

Groundhog Day dawned with a cloud cover that hovered overhead like a suspended gray comforter.  It lingered the entire day so there was never a shadow cast by a groundhog or anything else.  Accordingly, rather than an early spring, we can expect six more weeks of winter, which puts us about mid-March. Sounds spot on. 

For those who have had enough of winter, Feb 2nd is a consolation.  Groundhog Day marks the midpoint between the shortest day of the year and the spring solstice.  The days are getting longer, the northern hemisphere is warming and there are changes afoot.  Great horned owls are incubating eggs, cardinals are singing  at daybreak with a growing enthusiasm, roots of maple are primed to pump sweet sap to its outermost limbs. On the frozen marsh stands a lone wood duck, a drake, eyeing a nest box mounted on a pole nearby.  He knows.

Our days might be gray and drab but an orchestra is tuning up for a grand annual performance with a repertoire refined over millions of years.  Every component plays a critical role and is blended in perfect harmony. Anything absent or off key rattles the entire ensemble. 

As we await the opening curtain we are lambasted with news that rattles our world: our well established institutions, our privacy and personal information, our national security, has all been compromised. Our constitution and democracy and form of government is being upended. It’s big news, and some of the damage already done cannot be undone. 

We were in Indy today and pulled into a fast food joint for lunch. It was a chain restaurant, one of those we detest for serving food-like products discovered in food science laboratories and brought to market via destructive agricultural practices, but their jalapeno burger is to die for.  The young man at the drive up window wore a huge smile and looked me square in the eye, thanked me and called me “brother.” Maybe I caught him at just the right moment and circumstances beyond his employment were responsible for his bubbly happiness, but I think not. And it just so happened I was at the window with a head full of national news and was bathing in discontent when this kid’s exuberance caught me off guard.  I pulled away but was ready to take a lap and order more poison food just so I could talk to the guy again.  

I thought about him on the way home while listening to a podcast about another young man, a 31-year-old rancher in the Texas panhandle.  He’d lost his herd of more than 700 cattle in the Smokehouse Creek fire late last year.  He’d adopted the latest regenerative ag practices and was making great strides in converting 4000 overgrazed, long abused acres into productive native grass pastureland. He was doing everything right. The fire had taken away almost everything he had and left him with the overwhelming tasks of rebuilding miles of fencing, cleaning up hundreds of charred carcasses, and navigating a nightmare of insurance logistics. He took it on while still taking time to support his local community and lending a hand to neighbors, some who were worse off than him.  His spirit remained intact, his determination unscathed. 

These two guys live in different worlds. There’s no comparing the challenges of running a ranch to manning a drive-up window, but I see in both an enthusiasm and optimism for life which cynicism has taken from my own. In their separate ways they demonstrate a resolve to find something good in every day and pass it on, and their actions are contagious. 

So this grumpy old man is feeling a bit inspired. There are people, a majority, many of them young with heads squarely attached, holding onto a belief that a happy and prosperous life is still possible in the greatest democracy on earth; that freedom is not yet lost and justice can still prevail; that we can do what it takes to keep the orchestra of spring finely tuned and blowing our socks off with its annual performance. 

It can all be true if we insist. 

Winter

It's January and La Niña has taken shape and is funneling arctic air into the midwest. Minus 6 this morning, with a pesky wind that gnaws on exposed skin. Shortly after daybreak a clipper system brought unexpected snow, heavy at times. We stepped into cross country skis and slid our way into the north field, and in short order our hearts were pumping and we were gliding through a wonderland, warm and content as if in our right minds.

Comfort in a frigid environment is a satisfying accomplishment. The indigenous scout on the winter prairie knew it well; draped in buffalo robes, astride his horse, a full ration of pemmican glowing in his belly. It’s ancient knowledge that there is no such thing as inclimate weather, only inadequate clothing.

On these days the wood stove seduces all within reach of its intoxicating warmth with a hundred reasons to stay inside.  “You really need to finish that book today,” it says, or “Where’s that thousand piece jigsaw puzzle of the Milky Way?” The greatest source of penetrating, radiant heat is also an addictive drug that threatens to lull away the hours of a perfect winter day. Even the dog is not immune. 

Radiant heat is also felt at the kitchen range where winter entrees provide the fortitude that warm blooded mammals require. Hearty soups and stews, cheesy casseroles, slow cooked delicacies high in fat, fresh baked breads, are all on the menu. Some things are best when the mercury struggles to reach zero. 

But winter comes with a dual nature and can test our patience.  It’s the season of icy walkways and frozen pipes, cold fingers and runny noses; when aging car batteries get contrary and heat bills run high; when working in an unheated shop invites a grumpy attitude. Winter cold is not all pleasant but neither is it permanent. Spring in all its glory is best appreciated when properly earned.

The other day I went out to cut firewood. It was a gray day, dead calm, and the air was filled with a light snow that wasn’t so much falling as it was floating, suspended mid-air like dandelion fluff.  It was beautiful and peaceful but there was enough snow to slick roadways and inconvenience a million people going about their daily routines. 

And  some cursed the winter and blamed it on the democrats because democrats can do nothing right. And the republican supreme leader tweeted that winter was an illusion based on sham science and he could fix it like it’s never been fixed before and signed an executive order for everyone to turn up their thermostats while he dismantled the National Weather Service and admonished wind turbines and encouraged Exxon to drill, baby, drill.  And republican minions followed suit so as to stay in His Majesty’s favor and eventually the lie became a truth and homes everywhere felt like saunas and people were wearing shorts and flip flops and tank tops.  And then the heat bills came. 

And that is how politics leads a winter story astray. 

A Sit Down With Ouiser

Ouiser the shelter dog has been with us for nearly six months. Her age, as guessed by our vet, is about one year. She’s gradually letting go of puppyhood and will look me in the eyes with a mature and thoughtful intelligence. When she remains attentive long enough, I tell her what’s on my mind. 

It’s mid-November. The leaves have fallen, the days are shorter, the bucks are rutty. It’s dry, bone dry, and mild. The dog takes it in with great enthusiasm, tucking tail and tearing through fallen leaves like a whirlwind, carrying limbs around as if each were a hard won trophy.  Her chief concerns are the whereabouts of squirrels, the location of her chew toy, and anything that might be in her food bowl. 

It’s virtually certain that this year’s world temperatures will exceed 1.5° C above pre industrial levels, a threshold established by the Paris climate accord.  I assume the dog doesn’t know or understand what this means, so I explain the difference between climate and weather. “Weather is what we get every day, and climate is based on 30 years of weather averages,” I say. “No single weather event can be attributed to climate change, but as the climate shifts we get more extreme weather— flooding, destructive hurricanes, droughts, severe storms.”  I saw her eyes shift from mine to a squirrel darting up the silver maple. 

“As the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere grows beyond what civilized man has ever experienced there comes a raft of environmental consequences. Sea levels rise, biodiversity crashes, regions become uninhabitable, mass migrations ensue.”  She raised a paw, offering a shake. 

“Some impacts are subtle and fly under our radars.  We don’t  necessarily notice fewer birds and insects. As extinction rates grow critically high most of us are in the dark. The arctic melts but it’s not in our face so we don’t dwell on the implications. Some of us accept that things have changed but believe we’ve reached a plateau so it’s okay to continue with our indulgent, consumptive lifestyles. But as long as temperatures are rising there is no plateau, and here we are.”  The dog tries to lick my face, desperate to change the subject. 

Ouiser lives in a world where concerns are simple and limited. She doesn’t plan her meals, schedule her weeks, or consider next year. Before she met us she was abandoned then forcibly sterilized, but holds no contempt or vengeance against those responsible.  She seems to want nothing more than to be alive and live each day with gusto. 

The dog’s been tight lipped since the election. She wasn’t able to vote, unlike a lot of people who could’ve but chose not to; unlike many who voted based on deceitful ads and media. 

It’s hard to know who Ouiser might’ve favored had she been given the chance. She’ll accept behaviors contrary to her nature out of loyalty to us, so maybe she’d be enticed by a campaign using fear and intimidation to rally support. She wouldn’t hesitate to terminate the last breeding pair of squirrels on the planet, so her environmental concerns may align with someone espousing climate change as a hoax.  I don’t want to think the dog leans republican. If she does I’ll still put food in her bowl and recognize her value, but there will forever be a part of her I won’t understand.  

There’s also a possibility she’s a democrat.  A dog who loves regardless of color, heritage, or gender, who has learned there are consequences for breaking the law, who is content with freedoms with limits that benefit her life as a whole, should be on the side of democracy and individual rights  Unless, of course, she fails to think for herself and subscribes to the wrong news networks. 

I’ll never know her politics, but I’ll appreciate her companionship on days otherwise plagued with doom. I’ll let her show me how to enjoy a yard filled with fallen leaves when squirrels are dancing overhead and the smell of an autumn day is nothing short of euphoric. These days, I’ll grab comfort and sanity wherever I can. 

Somehow September

It's somehow September and the tomato plants droop with the weight of ripe deliciousness while the canner rattles away on the stovetop. The pantry is stocked with juice, diced tomatoes, marinara, salsa, and the fruit just keeps coming. 

Somehow, the horseweeds are eight feet tall, sticktights are clinging to our pant legs, and millions of birds with their fledged young are winging south. Rogue red leaves dot the landscape, the potatoes are tucked in the root cellar. Didn't we just plant the garden last week?

A few decades ago my wife and I had the privilege of working with Pete Edisen, a Norwegian fisherman who made a livelihood gill netting herring and lake trout in the cold waters of Lake Superior. His methods were timeless— a wooden skiff, a net, a couple of weathered buoys, and a working knowledge of where to find fish. We helped him tend nets and clean and package the catch on cool September mornings and made memories that are among our best.

In those days time moved at a crawl, but I remember Pete saying we’d spend the first 25 years of life pulling our sled uphill and it'd be downhill thereafter. He didn’t mention the influence of gravity, that each year would pass more quickly than the one before, and how in a half century we‘d be speeding wildly towards an uncertain end catching glimpses of our lives in a rearview mirror.  

The goldenrod, jewelweed, snakeroot, and wingstem are in full bloom. Monarchs are fueling up on zinnias. Crickets are singing non-stop. September is the great in-between, when summer wanes and autumn organizes. At daybreak the pond wears a heavy mist. There’s  an anticipation in the air, a transition afoot, the way water shimmers before the boil, the way silence grips the theater as the opening curtain is drawn.

This morning, for just a moment, the sled slowed and we seized a rare look around. It was mild, calm, cloudless, perfect.  Orange pumpkins lay scattered among dying vines, sweet peppers glowed with warm ripeness, goldfinches fussed over remnant seeds of thistle.  Every odd area that had escaped the mower held asters or chicory or some concoction of weeds and grasses, and nothing about it looked unkempt or short on beauty. 

In this particular September we approach a political transition as a divided populace prepares to vote red or blue. In the quest for commander-in-chief, one candidate runs a campaign of fear and revenge, the other, hope. One is well known for spreading falsehoods while the other favors truth. One has been twice impeached and convicted by a jury for multiple felonies, the other has no criminal record and a history of defending human rights and freedoms. One is a man who openly idolizes dictators and the other a woman who is ready to stand up to the best of them. Somehow, a close race is anticipated.

And so goes the month in-between. In a few weeks the woodlands will be blazing with color and the pumpkins covered with frost and we’ll be back on our sleds screaming through time, come what may.  If we’re lucky we’ll have good health and our candidate will be sworn in and we’ll grab snippets of life until another September suddenly comes.  For those of us who can see the bottom of the run, it’s enough. 

An Apology and a Thank You

Date: July, 2024

To: Ken Lacy

From: Joe Scheidler

Re: An Apology and a Thank You

Hi Ken—

If I'm not mistaken, you and Diane live in Charleston, IL.  We had reason to be in that fair city a few weeks ago but failed to look you up, and I’ve regretted it ever since. After 40-odd years a reunion was long past due.  I don’t have a good excuse but there were two things dominating my mind that day: a battery needing a charge and a dog I wasn’t sure I wanted. 

We drive an electric car, and traveling to Charleston meant we would have to pick up a few kw’s along the way. We’d had little experience at public charging stations and I was fretting about it. Turns out there was a DC fast charger at the Cadillac dealer, and while we ate lunch at the deli next door the car’s battery picked up 144 miles.  Easy peasy and a bunch of stewing over nothing. 

I want to mention you were solely responsible for the dog I wasn’t sure I wanted. You’d shared a Facebook post from the Coles County Animal Shelter that caught Lee’s attention. It was a photo of a frightened, rather weird looking mongrel huddled in the corner of a kennel. The image haunted Lee, and by extension, me, so after a few days I agreed to have a look. 

The dog was around six months old and was mostly black with silver highlights on her face.  Her lower legs were brown and tan and she wore white patches on her throat and chest. Her face was bearded like a terrier, her paws webbed like a lab’s. She was bull legged, weighed a mere 25 pounds, and her history was unknown. The shelter staff named her “Agnus” (sic).

We spent time with her in an outside kennel. She was energetic and seemed happy but showed little interest in us.  She had an irritating, yappy-dog voice and overall we were both fairly unimpressed. But we had decided we might be ready for a dog and here we were with the dog we’d come to see. For a few minutes we hesitated, weighing our footloose freedom against the raft of accommodations and responsibilities that define dog ownership. We considered the probability of the dog outliving us. We loaded her in the car. 

Within a few minutes of getting home she shit on the floor. She was filled with unruly energy, bit us incessantly, jumped on everything, chewed anything. For the next two days we seriously questioned our decision and I concluded there was no shame in returning a dog to a shelter, no law requiring us to endure a stressful relationship with a rambunctious canid. Not all is meant to be. 

She’d been spayed the day before we picked her up and was under doctors orders to be restrained. It was a challenge. There were endless distractions: rabbits, groundhogs, squirrels, butterflies, ants, all demanding her swift and aggressive response. There were limbs and logs and spruce cones and no end of things to be picked up and carried with the regality of a show horse. She was an adventurer in a new land, a hard drive starved for data, a whirlwind spinning through our peaceful homestead. By the end of the second day we were bitten and bruised and exhausted. Then around the fourth night she leapt onto our bed and snuggled into the crook of my neck and damn if she didn’t start to grow on me. 

Her name meant nothing to her and we had trouble spitting it out so we changed it to “Ouiser”.  Aside from Shirley MacLain’s character in Steel Magnolias we’d never heard the name, and now it was rolling off our tongues a hundred times a day. It seemed to fit the dog and she accepted it without argument.  

It’s been a month since we brought her home, and while she’s improving by the day she still has much to learn and puppyhood to outgrow.  Yesterday afternoon I was stretched out in the yard struggling to get the deck reattached to our lawnmower. I was in an awkward position, laying on my side, both arms occupied , trying to line up a couple holes to insert a pin. I was straining and frustrated when Ouiser pounced on my head and started licking my face and pulling my beard hair through clinched incisors. She didn’t see it as unacceptable behavior, and I tried to reprimand her but couldn’t quit laughing.  My frustration vanished, the holes aligned, and the pin slid right in. 

And I realized for the past few weeks Lee and I have been distracted from a world dominated by political threats and environmental disasters and endless injustices. Instead, we’ve been preoccupied with an innocent, exuberant pup driven by an inquisitive spirit and bent on discovering every speck of goodness her surroundings hold.  She is good for our sanity, this dog. 

Tomorrow at some point there’s a fair chance I’ll be ready to strangle her, but today she’s golden— an entertaining ball of energy ready to prove her worth and loyalty, looking to us for direction.  And it’s all your doing, Ken. Thank you. 

Again, my apologies. When we’re next in Charleston I’ll be sure to let you know. We’ll be somewhere near the Cadillac dealer with a bearded black dog looking out for us. 

Our very best to you and Diane.

Joe