Maybe Not As Bad As It Seems

 I have a routine of enjoying a good amber ale in late afternoon.  On summer-like days I’ll sometimes take it on the deck overlooking the pond, where there is always activity in the form of a wayward muskrat with a mouthful of succulent iris, or a squabble among geese, or swallows dipping in low on iridescent wings to snatch insects at the water’s surface.  My wife and old dog join me, and at some point in the activity I typically generate a deep and satisfying belch which I blow in the dog’s face.  The dog recognizes this as a personal and powerful bonding mechanism and seems to enjoy it immensely.  My wife, not so much.

In the garden is a conundrum, first experienced a year ago in the sweet corn patch.  The seeds were planted as always but germination was very sporadic, with long sections showing nothing.  I decided to replant the voids and found a mole tunnel occupying the space where corn had been planted, so I filled in the tunnels and dropped in new seed.  A couple days later the tunnels were back and the seed was gone.  There was a third failed attempt, so ultimately the seed was started in flats, the freshly emerged corn transplanted to the garden, and in the end we had a successful crop. This year the corn was planted and the space between rows immediately mulched with a thick layer of grass clippings for weed control.  In about three days I again noticed mole tunnels running down the center of almost all the rows, and where the mole had been, not a seed could be found.  

The mystery is this:  Moles are insect eaters.  I have to date found no documentation of their seeking out a kernel of corn for food.  Instead, the references say, there is a vole traveling the mole tunnel and devouring the seed.  With 600 corn seeds planted in flats as backup, today I will experiment using a turpentine dampened cloth to spread some stink on the seed surface before replanting the patch.  I suppose the answer is immaterial because the objective is to raise a crop of corn, and vermin, in one form or another, is making it difficult. But I highly suspect that moles, regardless of their known food preferences, are the culprits.  Why else would they make parallel tunnels two feet apart?

In other news, I was out collecting garden mulch the other day and happened upon a patch of wildflowers which, prior to this year, had gone unnoticed.  They covered the ground with a violet mist and occupied an area at least as large as our kitchen table.  I had no clue what they were, so in fading daylight Lee and I went to the spot for closer inspection and to collect a specimen.  Turns out they are a member of the waterleaf family and known as Miami Mist, which is a reasonable common name because their delicate and heavily fringed petals indeed have a misty appearance.  They are also known as Scorpianweed, which is a name having no logical sense.  They occupy rich woodlands throughout much of the Midwest, east, and south.  I am not at all sure how they found their way to this property but am happy enough they did.

The heat has come on strong in this latter half of May.  We have resumed our daily swims in the pond, which for me is synonymous with nightly leg cramps. But somehow an hour of flailing about in water, gasping for air as my pulse triples, feels like a good thing. The garden, with the exception of sweet corn, is literally exploding.  We had fresh picked strawberries last night alongside generous portions of an asparagus, rice, and cheese casserole, infused with chopped green onions and garlic sauteed in butter and wine, smothered in a thick chicken broth and cream sauce, and topped with cheesy bread crumbs baked to a crisp.  

It’s a great time to have a working mouth and functioning gut.  It’s a glorious time to stumble upon a heretofore unknown wildflower illuminating an area of woodland, to ponder garden vermin and challenge conventional wisdom on the food habits of moles, to watch a little green heron, frozen to a log, poised to pluck an unsuspecting minnow.  In a world that is barraged with threats mostly of our own doing, there is real contentment to be found on a pondside deck following an invigorating swim, a chilled ale in hand, a good wife, and an old dog looking for an intimate bonding opportunity.  Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.