Waiting on a Blizzard

It’s nine degrees this morning.  Snow is falling in tiny, delicate flakes, so the entire landscape is viewed through a fine linen curtain.  It is round one of a predicted one-two punch.  This afternoon we’re to see the heavy stuff, up to two inches an hour, with gusty winds from the north.  Whiteouts and deep drifts are promised. A blizzard warning has been issued for the first time in years.

For folks outside Indiana, those downwind of the Great Lakes, those of the northern prairies, the northeast, the high mountains, such news might be met with a casual raised eyebrow.  But here in the heartland it is serious business, and everyone is consumed with hopeful anticipation, fear, or dread.

It’s a big storm, a real beauty, taking in all of Texas and streaming northeast clear to Vermont, lighting up weather maps with warnings over its entirety.  Meteorologists are orgasmic.  Climatologists see another extreme event brought on by a warming planet.  

Along the river this morning the geese are huddled in groups on the edge ice, bills tucked under wings, snow gathering on their backs, waiting.  There is feverish activity at the bird feeders.  It seems every breathing thing is on high alert, preparing, knowing.  In the coming days many wild species will be walking a thin line between finding shelter and securing food.  In the UP of Michigan, whitetail deer seek relative comfort from deep snow and cold winds in cedar lowlands, where they will sometimes starve with food being just a few yards away.  Warmth of any kind, it seems, trumps hunger when energy reserves are exhausted.

The news people say it’s an unprecedented storm, blasting records across its path.  Snow covers beaches in south Texas and is piling up on palm trees, covering shrubs in full flower.  “Unprecedented” is used a lot to describe weather these days as we see a planet shifting to a new era.  The jet stream and the polar vortex are behaving outside their norms.  Perhaps the gods of snow, Uller (Norse), or NEGAFOO (Inuit), are having their say.  It took only a portion of the global population, those of us supporting massive industry and waste, to pull off the inconceivable and alter a climate that has been millions of  years in the making, but we did it, and the real consequences of our actions are coming to light.

We skied today into a stiff north wind, our eyes narrowed by snow, our groomed trail covered with fresh powder.  The thermometer rested at 11°, and in the first mile we felt the sting of cold through our clothes. But then everything changed and we were warm, blissfully warm, and our skis floated effortlessly.

Such delightful experiences don’t happen in hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires, or floods.  These events, while impressively powerful, leave a path of destruction, lack aesthetic appeal, and are not fun to play in.  But snow, with its lofty whiteness, its muffling quiet, its ability to bring squeals of delight from kids of all ages, stands apart.  A blizzard is just a hurried effort to transform grey landscapes to sparkling white, to put smiles on young faces.

Some of us might get snowed in, our roadways impassible.  Some will lose power, homes will grow cold, pipes will freeze.  There will be inconveniences.  But on a list of extreme weather events, none will be more gorgeous.

Of Mouse and Man

We live in an old farmhouse where resident mice are a fact of life.  Generally, they are deer mice, a species typically associated with woodlands and scrublands. As mice go, they are good looking, with sleek brown and white fur and black, beady eyes. They are at home in our home, having ready access through the crumbling mortar of a field stone foundation.  They run jubilantly to the interior, seeking out the deepest recesses, feasting and basking in relative warmth and comfort.

They are an invaluable part of the web of life, providing a necessary and abundant food source for a host of predators from snakes to raptors to coyotes.  Even within the confines of our house the mice are certain to occasionally fall prey to the fox snakes inhabiting our crawl space.  Sometimes the mice push me beyond my tolerance so I join the ranks of predator and declare war, engaging my weapon of choice: the Victor mousetrap. Open seasons vary in length and frequency, depending on the relative abundance and destructiveness of mice, and the law of diminishing returns applies, so in every proclaimed season I remain engaged until efforts no longer yield acceptable results. 

And so it was a couple weeks ago when I opened a pantry door in the basement and found a shelf fairly littered with mouse turds and the shredded package remains of more than a pound of pasta.  I deployed a line of Victors and over a period of several days the perpetrators, or at least the bulk of them, were brought to justice. The pasta was replaced and peace restored.

Then more recently I opened a desk drawer and found a quantity of uneaten niger seed piled on a notepad.  I set a Victor, baited with a dab of peanut butter and topped with niger.  It went untouched.  A couple days later a similar pile appeared on my desktop so the trap was relocated, but again ignored.  It occurred to me I was trying to attract a mouse at a cache site, a place where food was being stored for later consumption, and this mouse was not in feeding mode.   This was a new experience which, to date, has not been resolved, and the mouse remains at large.  

On our back porch is a granary of sorts containing a consistent inventory of black oil sunflower, niger, and cracked corn used to replenish bird feeders.  A virtual mouse smorgasbord. Often, when my mouse tolerance is tripped, it is there I lay the Victors, usually with favorable results.  

During this glorious and persistent winter we are cross country skiing on a daily basis.  I keep my ski boots on a rug in the office, a full 30 feet from the granary. Overnight, one of my boots was filled with a strong half cup of sunflower seed.

A study found that a deer mouse can carry about 10 grains of wheat at a time in its cheek pouches.  I would estimate a single black oil sunflower seed to be two to three times the size of a grain of wheat, so it follows that a mouse might carry four or five sunflower seeds at a time.  Through a little investigation (the type reserved for mouse researchers and those delightfully retired with abundant time on their hands) I learned there are approximately 600 sunflower seeds in a half cup, so the mouse in question could have made 150 round trips from the granary to the boot.  At 60 feet per completed trip, the total distance covered would exceed 1.7 miles.  If we give the mouse three seconds to load up, plus ten seconds round trip travel time, the half cup cache would be filled in a little over half an hour.  All of this, while impressive and interesting, does nothing to address the issue of sunflower seeds in my boot and a mouse still on the run. 

I am reminded of a time back in the day when I was a working biologist and had a client who was having a love affair with bluebirds. He had installed several nest boxes, one of which had been claimed by a house sparrow.  I had recently written an article about the aggressive nature of this exotic sparrow and how it often outcompeted bluebirds for nest sites.  My client, a retired military man with a square jaw and the demeanor of a drill sergeant, had embraced a singleness of purpose and was hell bent on terminating the sparrow.  When I met him he was dressed in full camo which appeared freshly ironed, and was describing a blind he’d built close to the birdhouse occupied by the enemy.  On multiple mornings he had taken up position in the predawn, waited patiently, but failed to meet the objective.  He relayed his experience speaking through clenched teeth.  I am unsure of the final outcome.

So it is with us and the wild species with whom we share the planet.  We establish tolerances, define limits on acceptable behaviors, implement control measures when necessary.  And sometimes we’re bamboozled, made fools by animals we consider far less intelligent.  Bravo to them.

Woodlot Woes

There’s a parcel of land between us and town that was recently sold and now has activity involving excavators and bulldozers. A woodlot occupying an acre or two came under attack and is no more.

I try to consider the motivation for such action.  Maybe the new owner felt a need to make his mark, provide evidence that the land was in new hands and is being improved.  Maybe he feels pressured to maximize profit after investing big bucks in good, tillable land.  I know nothing of him.  I’m sure he and I have things in common, things that would become obvious over some good craft beer, but I have a hunch we might differ in our attitudes towards land use.

Before wreaking havoc on the woodlot he probably considered existing timber value, but thought little of the probability of morel mushrooms or spring wildflowers.  There was probably a relatively thorough survey of mature tree species, but less than a casual glance at the understory.  There was unlikely an inventory of resident birds, an evaluation of habitat, or a value assigned to existing or potential sequestered carbon.  

Given the wooded tract was located on flat, well drained, productive soil, it seems reasonable to think it has never been cleared.  Ravaged by fire: probably, logged: yes, grazed: perhaps, but never mechanically cleared.  Good woodland converted to row crop agriculture is rarely abandoned.  The little woodlot conceivably had existed in one wild form or another for thousands of years.

Recent studies have shown convincing evidence of an amazing communication network in forest soils (and all soils, potentially).  The network is made up of mycelium, the vegetative part of fungus that appears as masses of tiny white filaments.  It’s long been understood that mycelium aids plants in nutrient absorption, but new data indicate it also allows communication between and among plants, and specific nutrients and carbon are shared as a result.  Stress is likewise communicated, so plants warn one another of potential threats and respond with appropriate defense mechanisms. When forests are logged by clearcutting, the functioning mycelium is broken down and the subsequent new generation of plants can be ravaged by disease and insects.  It’s not difficult to imagine the chaos inflicted to a soil network when bulldozers and soil conditioners enter the scene.

It’s just a side note of interest; I doubt a woodland has ever been spared out of respect for its soil mycelium.  But I wonder if the new owner would be at all impacted by our observing fewer birds over the decades as fencerows and woodlots have been cleared and habitats lost.  I wonder if there was a momentary pause to consider that only about 20 percent of Indiana’s original forests remain, that the value of woodlands has been dramatically elevated in light of climate change, or there might be some remnant of spiritual justification in just letting a piece of land be.

Recently our state senate passed a bill that withdrew protections of wetlands.  If the bill passes the house, farmers and developers can drain or fill sodden lowlands without permits in hand and without the burden of mitigating responsibilities.  The value of wetlands is solidly recognized, more so in recent years, and while they once covered 25 percent of Indiana’s land area, only four percent remain. Lawmakers nevertheless determined that private landowners will do the right thing with respect to wetland conservation without mandated guidelines.

There is widespread opposition to government regulation, but few would say we were better off when rivers caught fire, cities were choked with smog and bald eagles were endangered.  It appears we need guardrails to keep from destroying ourselves, or to destroy ourselves more slowly.  Some of us need a government scapegoat so we can save face and not look like a tree hugger or weirdo environmentalist while doing the right thing.  Most of us know, but might be slow to admit, that regulations often save us from ourselves, and in a democracy, policy reflects the preferences of society.  Or should.

Current regulations don’t forbid removal of most woodlots on private lands and ledgers don't include columns for songbirds, carbon storage or spiritual welfare.  There are no guardrails on this one.  For anyone owning woodland, the path is theirs to choose.

February 7

It was cold today.  Subzero overnight, low single digits for highs.  We picked up another shy inch of snow, the light, fluffy stuff that resembles dandelion seed.  When it’s this cold snow squeaks underfoot and offers a degree of traction even on ice.  This morning I paused for a moment on the porch to fill my lungs with cold purified air and felt a rush equivalent to a double espresso.

After a hearty breakfast we skied a couple laps around the north field and a few more on the pond perimeter.  We were dressed minimally but were toasty warm.  There were fresh tracks of otters and muskrats, squirrels and deer.  The creek froze overnight with a layer of crystalline ice.  Cold.

The afternoon was spent baking bread, preparing pizza dough, filling the wood box, feeding the stove.  Outside the sun was bright and a light wind swayed dormant grasses and remnant seed heads of hydrangea.  Birds were heavy at the feeders.  The kitchen was warm, the water pipes unfrozen, the music from the bose sweet.  With daylight fading we stepped into skis again and headed out.  It was cold, delightfully cold.  We made an extra couple laps on the pond as evening set in. We didn’t want to quit.  

The kitchen smells of fresh baked bread.  Seasoned potato wedges are ready for dipping in ketchup laced with fermented peppers.  Home canned green beans are simmering with fresh onion, juicy beef patties are flattened on searing cast iron.  Outside it’s cold, bonafide cold.  I love it so.  All of it.

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.