Cold and COVID

Today we got our first shot of COVID vaccine and welcomed the opportunity.  My buddy, Charles, says he’ll wait awhile, it’s too early.  His hesitancy is reinforced or perhaps rooted in the counsel of his older sister, a lifelong nurse who believes the vaccine has not had enough time to be proven, its potential side effects yet unrecognized.  I try to explain that it can only work if we all participate, but my words are for naught.  He can ward off sickness with his mind, he says, and has 69 years of experience to back him up.  Such facts are not to be tampered with.

It’s ten degrees this morning, twenty in town.  Our house is in a hole, a natural frost pocket where cold settles on clear and calm winter nights.  I once ran a test and found a ten degree difference between the house and the county road up the hill.  It’s oddly satisfying being in the hole.  There is something purifying in deep cold and we welcome it, but only for short spurts.  If it lingers too long it seeps through walls and across the floor so our feet get cold and pipes freeze and the appeal is lost.  But for now it’s good, and the long term forecast says more is coming. The cross country ski trails we broke a couple days ago will be slick and fast today, so my stiff, overworked triceps need to get over it.  Exuberance awaits.

We went to grad school in the snow belt of Lake Superior where the attitude towards winter was markedly different than anything we’d experienced.  There, winter would arrive and it snowed frequently and substantially, perhaps 300 inches before the season called it quits, and life would go on through the thick of it.  There were no mad dashes to the grocery, no rush to stock up on bread and milk.  The stores would be open, the roads reasonably cleared, school would be in session.  There was a level of calm expectation and preparedness as the season arrived, where outside the snow belt there was uncertainty and apprehension.  Maybe those living further south only think they dislike snow when in fact it’s the lack of predictability and reliability that’s the problem.  Not knowing if winter will be snowy and cold makes planning more difficult and less certain.

The vaccination process was smooth and efficient.  Lee and I had appointments ten minutes apart, showed up early, and were out the door before our appointment times expired.  We’ll go back in a month to complete the process, then we wait and see if the world complies.  Finding a remedy to the virus is like every other problem— each has a solution. We needed a vaccine and developed two in record time. Then we needed to get it administered, which got off to a dismally rocky start so there are now COVID mutations and hybrids and the finish line might be moving backwards.  The virus struggles to mutate when it lacks hosts, so we need total participation. Does this not make sense, Charles?

I’m not a good skier but I get through the process so long as the turns are on fairly level ground. Today the blazed ski trail did not disappoint.  The glide was good, the kick secure.  I stopped midway and took my pulse just by being still and listening to my heartbeat.  By the end of the second lap I could feel sweat rolling down my arms.  The sun was bright, the snow covered in diamonds. There was no sound but the squeak of poles pivoting in icy snow and the swish of skis moving through a world of white. Exuberance.

Learning

In the fourth grade, Sr Mary Augusta asked her students if any of us had non-Catholic parents.  Looking out at the raised hands she said, “Oh, pray for them.” Thereafter, I looked at those classmates with special concern, imagining their turmoil in knowing one or both of their parents were destined for a different kind of eternity, and not a good one.  During that same year Vatican II determined that christians outside the catholic faith were also eligible for salvation. I don’t recall Sr Augustus updating the rules to her class.  Maybe she did, or maybe she needed time to accept the new doctrine for herself.  Decades later a friend would share his conclusion that it was not necessary to be catholic to have access to heaven, but it sure helped.  Such was the speed of accepting change.

Deep rooted beliefs are not replaced on a whim, the lessons learned early in life not easily abandoned.  We are products of our upbringing.  We aren't hatched from eggs laid by wayward mothers, the kind of beginning reserved for turtles or insects or some of the snakes.  We’re more like wolf pups, born into society and taught the ways of survival. We absorb our surroundings, the cultures and teachings embraced by those before us. 

Attitudes and prejudices have steered history from the start (thank you, Heather Cox Richardson). The 1776 proclamation that all men are created equal was written by and applied to white males. It excluded women, slaves, native and Mexican Americans, by popular assumption and perceived fact. Slaves, as everyone knew, were less than fully human, three fifths at best. The indigenous could be handled with treaties that were as solid as sieves.  Women were pigeonholed, treated as secondary citizens, denied basic rights.

And so our country was founded on beliefs and assumptions that were at times blatantly false and often unfair. Succeeding generations watched and listened and fell into cultural norms and prejudices that, clearly enough today, remain entrenched in our psyches.  Norms reinforced with time are tough to change.  The mindset that drove the industrial revolution, the exploitation of resources and labor, the profit driven, consequences-be-damned mentality that now threatens the earth’s ability to provide ecological services is embedded at a subconscious level, and remains influential to no small degree.  Many of us may now recognize the threat, but solutions requiring behavioral or lifestyle changes will have to wait.  Surely, we say, a technological remedy is near at hand and life will go on as before, only better.  

A FB friend recently posted a quote from Walt Whitman: “Re-examine all that you have been told… dismiss that which insults your soul.”  It’s not an easy mantra to embrace.  Moving along with the herd is where most of us find comfort.  We stick with what we believe is righteously proven, following cues from those before us. Besides, personal reflection and reviewing long held beliefs and standards requires effort, and it’s easier and more sensible to go with the flow and not make waves.

I’m an old white guy so am part of the generation who now occupy many top positions in government and sit on corporate boards carrying lifelong prejudices and outdated notions. Too many of us have never known anything else, and we’ve resisted the self examination that might bring our faults to light. What worked for dad and grandad works just fine for us, thank you.

Not everyone is so afflicted. Many youth today carry a huge promise. I see it in our sons, who claimed their right to independent thought at an early age and have continually opened my eyes to the error in my ways.  I won’t give them all the credit but will always appreciate their influence. And I’ll pass some credit to my wife, who has always been ready to take a stand against the status quo, especially when environmental concerns are involved.  With all this enlightenment comes recognition of the enormity of the task at hand.  We won’t save the world by planting a few trees, composting food waste and recycling water bottles.  The root of our problems run much deeper and require attitudinal and systemic change.  The newer generations, with novel thoughts toward home ownership and family and money, with eyes opened to impending cataclysmic environmental events brought on by their predecessors, are moving the baseline.  The majority recognize what lies before them and are scrambling to save their futures. 

We make mistakes. Our institutions make mistakes. It’s what happens and it’s unavoidable. But repeated mistakes that damage the earth’s ecological well being have put us in a new ballgame, and if solutions require systemic and attitudinal change, all the better.  Not easy, but better.  And mandatory.

There’s an old white man in the White House who seems to get it, and with a pen full of ink is following up on promises, spreading hope.  The majority of American voters put him there, so maybe this self examination thing is catching on.  Mary Augusta had the luxury of time to digest and contemplate the impact of Vatican II.  A few old white men and a world of youth see time running out.

Winter, Truths and Untruths

It’s winter in Indiana and it looks like it.  The 10 day forecast shows the possibility for snow but mostly promises cloudy days with highs just above freezing and lows just below. To sum it up: sloppy by day, firm by night, sunlight a rarity.  The pandemic continues to influence our routines so there is abundant time at home, limited social contacts, and economic strain remains a grim reality for millions.  Our nation’s Capitol was recently swarmed by an angry mob and there are rumors and warnings that similar rebellions are yet to come.

Today is bread day, a routine carried out three times a week for a local shop.  Each effort yields six loaves.  I have a routine on bread mornings: start a pot of coffee, build a fire in the wood stove, add tepid water to a three gallon bucket holding a blend of flours and yeast. If I’m on schedule, dawn is breaking and a few birds have arrived at the feeder as I begin kneading.  If the birds are aware of recent events in DC they show no indication.  Their focus is on finding food.  Surviving.  It’s what most of us are doing while rebels try to shake things up.

Disagreements within the bird kingdom are kept local and limited to brief skirmishes.  They have no courts to settle disputes.  Questions that arise regarding territorial boundaries or squabbles over feeding privileges are resolved quickly without broader consensus.  Birds don’t watch the news or spend hours on social media trying to sort facts from endless claims. They stay focused on the business at hand and assure disruptions are short lived and of minimum consequence.  This they do as they play out a crucial role in the circle of life, providing ecological services that help keep us alive.  This they do as their numbers worldwide plummet as a result of our activities.

I watched our dog chase a raccoon up a pole and out of reach.  After a short time the dog feigned defeat.  She lowered her head, took three steps out of sight, waited briefly, then returned with fangs bared just as the raccoon reached the ground.  Perhaps if the dog and raccoon shared a language there would have been civil discussion; the raccoon reasoning from atop the pole, the dog deliberating from below. Maybe it would lead to a treaty wherein the raccoon would have free reign over a plot of land outside the dog’s patrolled territory and the dog would agree knowing the treaty would be short lived, because that’s just the kind of dog she is.  It’s how we dishonored agreements with native Americans; it’s what our leaders do today as they say one thing and do another. Deception and lies complicate and disrupt progress. Distrust fuels conspiracy. 

The bucket of dough sits on the floor near the wood stove.  The yeast is tending to business, feeding on carbohydrates, generating carbon dioxide, alcohol, and heat. They collectively determine whether the outcome is a lofty, aromatic loaf or a flat, tasteless cracker.  Provided the right environment the yeast will respond flawlessly, carrying out a timeless and invaluable service of decomposition.  I lift the lid to check progress. The dough is rising nicely, the yeast byproducts sweeten the air.

Somewhere shortly after the start of the Industrial Age we began to ignore an unwritten treaty between ourselves and our planet. It stated that in exchange for ideal living conditions we would recognize and respect an endless stream of necessary ecological services provided at no cost.  We gave the treaty a sideward glance then set to work converting abundant natural resources to capital.  We worked hard, used our ingenuity, developed technologies, built wealth, improved our standard of living, and demonstrated greed and ignorance in the process. We were innocent enough in the beginning but the consequences of our actions have long been recognized yet ignored.  We have allowed our numbers to multiply to the breaking point, depleted resources and buried key components of the treaty under our waste.

It’s past dawn now, the day is underway.  In Washington, a few who have stood silently behind a curtain of lies are speaking out.  The virus runs rampant and is mutating as the first wave of vaccines struggles to get administered. It’s cloudy, sloppy by day, firm by night.  The birds and yeast are oblivious, steadfast to their objectives.  The earth adjusts to our presence.

A Trip West

 On a clear day in late November we hooked the popup to the Chevy and pulled out of the drive to “head down the road a piece,” as dad would say.  We would return some six weeks later, after doubling our expected time away and logging more than 5700 miles.

Such an excursion has a short list of requirements: a functioning vehicle, gasoline, a capable driver, time.  We had a couple destinations and a general route in mind but no real schedule, so where we landed on a given night and precisely how we would get there was up for grabs.  Not so different, I suspect, than the travel planning done by a migrating bird.  

Because we were traveling during an escalating pandemic, we took precautions.  We carried all of our food, wore disposable gloves at gas stations, and avoided public restrooms, the latter resulting in improvisations and discretions that at times impressed us both.  In the end we felt as safe as if we were holed up at home.

We traveled west, through once great plains and prairies, across the Rockies, the salt flats of Utah, the arid landscapes of Nevada, not taking a substantial rest until we reached the Sierras. There we dawdled a few days and took hikes among towering pines and firs and cedars, walked the shores of mountain lakes, logged new bird sightings, watched coyotes walk with attitudes through neighborhoods in the middle of the day.  Later, we moved on and set up at the edge of the continent, on a headland within earshot of crashing surf, where great whales migrate and scoters and marbled godwits gather to feed, and kelp skeletons litter the beaches.

What a trip!  Breathtaking scenery, geologic wonders, wildlife, all combined and threatened to overload our senses.  With it came reflections on land use, engineering marvels, monumental achievements for the sake of travel. Rivers spanned with masterful bridges, mountains moved or tunneled through, prairie potholes drained, all accomplished with energy inherent in ancient fuels, the same fuels that allowed communities to spring up with conveniences near at hand— water from taps, heat from furnaces, food from groceries.  The same fuels that moved the Chevy down the road, quietly and smoothly, generating surplus heat that kept the cab toasty warm; climbing mountain passes, crossing expanses of what were to early settlers endless prairies or vast, parched and inhospitable lands.  Cradled in lush upholstery, we covered distances that required months for our predecessors.   Effortlessly we cruised, propelled by fuels that today threaten our very civilization. 

Pulling the popup, the Chevy averages no better than 14 mpg, so in driving 5700 miles we burn over 400 gallons of gasoline and release more than 8100 pounds of CO2.  For the sake of the planet we could have stayed home, perhaps should have.  But we did not.  We instead had a phenomenal trip, spent quality time with our sons (both live in CA), visited spectacular parks, traveled roadways and saw country new to us.  

This wasn’t our first trip to the west coast, but one the Chevy and popup have made several times.  With each trip there is the promise of new places and adventures, and a refocusing on challenges of the day.  We can pick a topic from the nation’s headlines— the pandemic, racial or economic inequality, political divisiveness, corruption, corporate control— and know that nothing we face is new to history.  But dramatic declines in populations of songbirds and insects, a sudden increase in extinction rates, dying oceans, melting glaciers and permafrost are all relatively new.  We are headed for global temperatures never experienced in human history.  All other headlines should pale in comparison.

I recently read a post from Canadian Marc Doll saying we should savor 2020 as one of the last good years, that the illusion we are somehow disconnected from our environment, that our actions do not have consequences to every living thing, and that all living things are not inexorably connected has come to its logical end.  We can’t consume our way out of this.  A return to normal isn’t an option.

We are back home, having been spared any of hundreds of potential mechanical failures, an accident, or COVID.  The news is spewing many of the same concerns as were being reported before we left, as were being reported a century ago. People are moving to coastal cities and the desert Southwest, not questioning whether these places will continue to be livable.  Weather patterns and events are viewed as the new normal, as if we’ve reached a plateau, a stopping point.  We haven’t. 

We’re home, and the birds have found the feeders. We saw a group of 25 turkeys preparing for roost, watched several bald eagles fly over the north field, and yesterday more than 200 sandhill cranes were singing wildly as they winged and circled and generally made their way southward over the house.  It’s all good, I want to say, and indeed some of it is.  

Someday, I’ll write something without letting the greatest ecological threat to mankind weave its way in.  Maybe I’ll write about a trip we took and stay focused only on the extraordinary, life enriching adventure it was, ignoring any alarming realities on the periphery. Maybe I’ll get home and turn up the thermostat and go online and buy some stuff and just squeal like a jubilant pig.  Maybe. But I doubt it.

No News Today

I’ll not listen to the news this morning.  Instead, I’ll pull up Jay Ungar with his smooth fiddle rendering some Asheton Farewell and Margaret’s Waltz.  There's a soft rain falling on a cool and gray dawn, an October day that feels like November.  There is fresh hot coffee, dough rising, an oven warming.  In 500 degree heat the bread will split and its insides will spew out and make a ragged loaf with a blackened crust and chewy crumb.  Within an hour the entire house will smell of artisan bread seasoned with garlic, onion and sesame. 

A fire in the wood stove sounds nice and will feel even better.  The first fire of the season is a celebration of a grand event, another ancient cycle of reproduction completed, the threshold for days filled with rest and dormancy.

I saw a photograph this week of a heavy snow falling on a town softened by street lamps.  It looked to be one of those three inch an hour events, where within moments of beginning there is a muffling of sound and the air has a smell and taste of snow.  It comes with a relentless urge to bundle up and walk to no place in particular.  And whatever angst we have towards difficult travel and clearing walkways and adjusting planned activities is set aside for a moment of quiet appreciation, for unsurpassed peace and beauty in a landscape transformed, blanketed in white, insulated and put to sleep. The photograph makes me wish we lived in a Great Lakes snow belt where such events are more assured. 

Recently we watched a David Attenborough documentary entitled “A Life On Our Planet”.  In it, Attenborough reflects on some of the incredible experiences from his 93 years of observing the natural world, highlighting the changes wrought on this planet by humans.  True to the Attenborough reputation, the film is exceptional.  He points to wild diversity as the key to our continued existence and offers solutions to address an ecological crisis currently underway.

Yesterday we took a break from garden clearing and sowing cover crops and hopped in the car for a leaf drive.  The colors are superb this year, by our recollection the best in a decade or more.  We found ourselves in unfamiliar territory, on the rim of the Eel River basin in the next county.  The road snaked through an area forested on both sides and the maples and sassafras were afire with such brilliant reds and glowing oranges they appeared to emit their own light.  And the hickory and walnut and locust, which so often display a mix of faded tones, were blazing yellow.  There were pawpaws in the understory, yet to be influenced by seasonal cues, and their summer green added contrast and variety to a pallet of exceptional color.

I thought about Attenborough and the need for diversity and a rewilding of a portion of the planet, thought about how extensive forests ranged across our state and country and world a mere two centuries ago, and how quickly they would reclaim their former area if given half a chance.  That action would lock into place countless tons of carbon to help stabilize the climate and in the process allow species diversity to flourish.  Attenborough says it’s actually doable, but it will take a change in our diets to include less meat, and grants or other incentives to persuade landowners to transition their acreage to a higher purpose. 

I need a break from endless political noise.  Take me to a quiet place, Jay Ungar, and I’ll sit near the stove with warm bread and a steaming cup. I'll think about seasonal change, a bountiful garden put to rest, a forest ablaze in color, a heavy snowfall.  I'll think about the immensity of time and the forces that have allowed life on earth to evolve and flourish; about Attenborough, his wisdom born of experience, his heartfelt concern for all species, the solutions that are within our grasp.  None of this is news, but it’s all I need today.

Knowing What We Know

It's breezy and cool this morning, and there are changes in the trees lining spring creek. The rich greens of summer are fading to dull yellow. Scattered leaves of walnut, tulip, and river birch have begun to litter the ground.  Here and there are rogue blazes of red, on the sassafras and sumac, on the Virginia creeper climbing the bole of a sycamore.  There is a crunch and smell and feel of fall. The crickets are singing almost incessantly, and squirrels are cutting on hickory and bur oak. Summer is fizzling.

And 2020 is waning.  Its most tumultuous days might still lie in wait for election results or an earthquake or a declaration of war.  We don't know. Certainties are few compared to beliefs and opinions.  We don't know what caused the death of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of songbirds recently in the southwest.  It might have been a lack of food, a weather event, the influence of wildfires, or a combination of all.  But the birds are dead, and their demise will add to the 29 percent decline in the total number of songbirds over the past 50 years.  Twenty nine percent equates to three billion birds, or the loss of 1.5 per second over the past five decades.

Blue jays are fussing at the yard edge with an alarm call not easily ignored.  Perhaps a predator is lurking, a coyote or fox, and the jays have foiled its hopes of a surprise attack.  A cottontail a short distance away pauses mid-bite, its senses on high alert. 

I read a report yesterday describing the certainty of mass migrations of people in the very near future, within our own borders, as areas of the south and west become unlivable from the effects of climate change. Intolerable heat, a lack of water, crop failures and wildfires will gang up to force permanent evacuation.  Where the migrants land will wreak havoc on the infrastructure of municipalities. Ironically, in the years leading to this exodus there has been a great influx of residents to these same areas. Few are taking the news seriously. Yet.

We can be blindly and stubbornly unwilling to listen and accept facts. A cottontail whole heartedly considers the jay’s alarm, while a good portion of us choose to deny obvious warnings. We've seen droughts and floods, fires, heat waves, and each had their end.  “It’ll start getting cooler, you just watch.”

It's the first of October, and aside from an occasional day where a blue sky is painted white with smoke, all seems well in the Midwest.  Fall approaches, grain harvest is underway, early season hunters take to the field, leaf color maps light up.  We awake to crisp, invigorating mornings, feel a spring in our step, remember better years, and are spurred by an attitude of optimism.  We look to the future with expectations born decades ago. We are hell bent for normality, as if we don't know what we know.

Ah September

It’s September and summer is winding down.  Ripened fruits abound, stickseed collects on pant legs and tangles the dog’s hair, overripe tomatoes droop on the vine then plop to the ground.  In odd areas goldenrod, beggar-tick, and ironweed bloom. The Cornell Bird Lab monitors bird migrations in real time through their BirdCast project, and it forecasts 13 million birds in the sky over Indiana tonight.

It’s September and Election Day is less than two months away.  Many are saying the outcome is a toss of the coin.  Most have already made their decision and will not be swayed.  Information that goes contrary to our beliefs is deemed fake and ignored.  Our convictions are strong and have divided a nation and sometimes driven a wedge within families and between friends.  As elections go, it seems uglier than usual. It's nice to have a southbound squadron of gadwalls sit down on the pond for a few days, to see native bees working zinnias.  A few nights ago we were behind the house and saw a great horned owl fly across the face of a full moon.  There are things infinitely more therapeutic and comforting than politics. 

We sold our business eight years ago, and since it was at our home, it marked the end of daily activity around the place. Multiple vehicles in and out were no more. The pea graveled areas used for displaying container plants were now empty. Rotted sawdust, for years used to heal in field dug plants, had disintegrated and left behind rich organic matter with no planned purpose.  Ornamental plants remaining in the field were abandoned. With attitudes that embraced uncommitted time and few visitors, we were happy to put our energies toward things other than routine maintenance.

It’s rather remarkable, now, to look back at the changes, the sometimes subtle but consistent efforts by nature to cover herself, to reclaim all that we once regularly disturbed.  Of particular note are the graveled lanes and lots which are now reduced to two tracks of limestone marking the path of a single vehicle used sporadically.  Mixed, tough-site vegetation like plantain and chicory, yarrow, violets, and annual grasses, has taken root and is claiming the stone.  

Before this rewilding, before the mixed weeds and grasses became established, we would have periodic blowouts in the driveway, ruts and washes gouged during periods of heavy rain, and waterborne stone deposited in our yard and on our walkway like glacial outwash.  The roots of encroaching plants are binding stone to stone and knitting together a more resilient substrate, resistant to wash.  Over time, given continued protection from periodic disturbance, the crushed stone would one day support more substantial plants— brambles, shrubs, trees— and any hint of the lane would be well gone to the casual observer. 

Few things we do are not eventually undone by physical forces.  With the proliferation of plastics in our world we have greatly extended our impact, but they too, eventually break down.  The earth measures time in billions of years and from its perspective our collective activities will be short lived.

In our society there is a pervasive mindset towards land use that is focused on manicured neatness and has us mowing 40 million acres of lawn annually. It invites a huge chemical industry bent on selling lawn management plans with the goal of producing insect free monocultures of turfgrass.  The plan is perceived attractive and satisfying, viewed by many as a responsibility, a sign of good stewardship and decency, while everything about it runs contrary to the variety and community found in natural systems.

Many of us find a home in the woods appealing. Yet, the only thing separating an appealing wooded suburb from it’s sprawling, sterile counterpart built on repurposed cornfields are a few decades of relative neglect.  An interesting study would follow a Midwestern city block with routine mowing minimized for a period of 50 years, and changes in flora and fauna documented.  The study would be a hard sell, both for municipalities, that typically require properties be kept groomed, and by our own lack of appreciation for the adolescent plant communities that are part of the natural transition from open land to forest.  This is an unfortunate truth as early successional stages support a greater assortment of insects and wildlife than either manicured grassland or mature forest.  

Aldo Leopold wrote, “A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community.  It is wrong when it tends otherwise.”  Incredibly, there are more US acres devoted to lawn than corn, and there is three times more irrigated turf than irrigated corn.  Our devotion to mowing and our preference for nonnative landscape plants deprives us of massive environmental wealth.  

Picture an office or industrial complex surrounded by acres of manicured lawn.  Now picture it as a September field with mowing restricted to select open spaces and meandering walking trails.  There are wild sunflowers, raspberry stems painted with glaucus bloom, blue cardinal flowers, ripened sumac. Which is more inviting?  Where will you more likely see songbirds, pollinators, hawks, or cottontails?  Which saves money, curtails pollution, and contributes more to the biotic community?

It's a great country, where we can choose to mow our lawns or mow our driveways, and in spite of our destructive and misguided tendencies, there are persistent ecological forces to heal and restore. It’s a great country, and in wild vegetation and migrating birds and the flowers of September is a hope for renewal.  It’s a great country, and in less than two months we have the privilege of choosing our next leader. Based on past performance only 40 percent of us will bother with indicating a preference. Only half will be satisfied.