Controlling What We Can

Earlier in the week we had an earthquake which was felt by many, a rarity in these parts.  It measured 3.8 on the Richter.  I felt it roll through, lasting about three seconds.  The house creaked, though the epicenter was 100 miles away.  The tremor was reported in communities around Chicago, some 150 miles distant.  It occurred within the Wabash Valley Fault System found in SW Indiana and SE Illinois.  Geologists have documented activity at the site stretching back 20,000 years, some events being as strong as 7.5 magnitude or greater.  

To the southwest of the Wabash Valley lies the New Madrid Fault, the one responsible for a massive earthquake in the early 1800’s.  Its damage spread over 130,000 square miles and its impact felt over nearly 3 million miles. The quake caused areas to be permanently uplifted while others sank. Reelfoot lake, a beautiful, cypress flecked shallow wetland in northwest Tennessee, was created by the earthquake and the Mississippi River flowed backwards for days to fill it.  Eyewitness accounts describe sounds of distant thunder, “but more hoarse and vibrating… (and periodic) saturation of the atmosphere with sulphurous vapor, causing total darkness.”  The quake hit in mid December, and aftershocks, some stronger than the initial quake, went on for nearly two months.  Geysers of sand and water shot tens of feet into the sky from opened fissures, lakes became dry land and dry land became lakes.  For weeks “the earth was in continual agitation, visibly waving as a gentle sea.”

Unlike other natural events, earthquakes are hard to predict.  We can see, with radar, an approaching hurricane, and have some level of confidence when a tornado might spawn.  Advance notice usually accompanies wildfires and we are forewarned of an impending volcano.  But earthquakes are different, and to date the best science can offer only probabilities, say “a ten percent chance over the next 50 years.”

History holds one exception to this fact and it involves the great Shawnee chief, Tecumseh.  Prior to the New Madrid quake, he was traveling widely, gathering support for a Native American confederacy to resist the expansion of white settlers that had moved onto Native American territory. He told the tribes he would stomp his foot and send a tremor across the land as a signal to initiate an allied attack against the whites.  To the tribes unwilling to join, he warned of a tremor that would shake their teepees to the ground.  The New Madrid quake followed soon thereafter, and with it came the question: Did Tecumseh predict the event, or cause it?

The great state of California, where minor earthquakes are nearly as common as progressive ideas, there has been a lot of attention given to earthquake preparedness, and the effort is reflected in such things as building codes, evacuation routes, and emergency response planning.  In the Midwest, geologists and insurance companies are aware of the threat and first responders entertain what if scenarios, but there appears a lesser concern among Midwesterners at large, perhaps because we don’t feel the tremors that routinely occur, though there are many.  We tend to think the greater risk lies out west while the probability is relatively high under our feet and the potential impacts greater due to regional geology.  From a geologic and historic perspective, a Midwest major event is probable sometime in the next 50 years.

If it was within our ability to prevent earthquakes, would we do it?  Our population densities and infrastructure development virtually assures apocalyptic conditions when the next big one hits.  There are things we can control and things we cannot.  Hurricanes, twisters, droughts, floods, heat waves, and wildfires are our most familiar natural disasters.  If we could make changes in our society and use existing technologies to reduce the frequency and intensity of these, would we?  

There were heavy rains and flooding down south yesterday, and more precipitation to come.  The west is drying up, with megadrought declarations over large portions.   Megadroughts have endings but scientists say this one may not, but instead mark the beginning of permanent aridification of the west.  Reservoirs have reached historic lows.  Water supply to millions is threatened. It’s hot.  Really hot.  Blackouts are forecasted as electricity demand soars, and wildfire season, which has steadily lengthened and worsened over the years, is predicted to be extreme.

Natural disasters happen.  We expect them to be explosive and dramatic but not all are.  Mass extinctions, a critical loss of biodiversity, sea level rise, permanent desertification of entire regions, a continuing loss of topsoil, might have insidious origins but are now blatant and dire. They are occurring not naturally, but unnaturally, due to our influence on the planet.

Earlier in the week we had an earthquake which was felt by many, a rarity in these parts.  It was a minor tremor, a tickle, and most who felt it were thrilled by the experience.   Had it been twice the size it would have wreaked havoc.  It was small, but perhaps enough to jar our memory holes, enough to open our eyes to the unnatural disasters we are bringing on ourselves.

Hot With Honeybees

It doesn’t take many days of 90 degree heat and high humidity to suck the enthusiasm from a man.  The simplest of chores are exaggerated and excuses are found to postpone anything that doesn’t come with shade and a mild breeze.  On days where the air fairly sizzles and is thick to breathe, all activity is slowed, patience is thinned, and the heat is blamed for every misfortune and inconvenience.

It was on such a morning I decided to check the bees.  In my senior year in college I took a beekeeping class as an elective and have tried to keep an active hive or two since.  A few years ago we lost thousands of bees on a single day from suspected pesticide poisoning and the colonies never recovered, so we were thrilled to capture a couple wild swarms this spring.  It had been about three weeks since the first swarm was hived and was time for inspection.  

There are simple pleasures in beekeeping: the sweet smell of the colony, the low hum of contented bees, observing their behaviors, admiring their industry.  Such a phenomenal insect.  The examination begins with a light puff of smoke at the entrance to disrupt the communication of the sentries on duty.  I do it out of habit, but this morning I questioned the necessity, the bees appearing so utterly calm.  Working from the top of the hive, a second puff of smoke was directed under the inner cover, driving down and confusing any bees that were gathered on top of the frames.  I recently read when bees detect smoke they gorge with honey, an adaptation that assures they will be stocked with nourishment in the event the colony is forced to evacuate during a wildfire.  It's just one more fascinating behavioral tidbit. The honeybee has many. 

The swarm was initially small, occupying less than four frames, but on this day I was pleased to find more than a full frame solid with capped brood.  In a few days the size of the colony would double. The queen is a strong one.  She is the heartbeat of the nest, the only member not expendable.  If she fails so does the colony, unless she is quickly replaced.  She was born of an egg identical to those that gave rise to the  workers but she was fed a higher protein diet, a royal jelly, so became a queen.  Early in her life she took one or more mating flights, connected with one or more drones, and was fertilized for life.  She is an egg laying machine, and can choose between fertile and infertile eggs.  A fertile egg becomes a worker bee or another queen, depending on what and how much the developing larva is fed.  An unfertilized egg develops into a drone, which means he has no father, but he does have a grandfather who bred the queen.  The drones serve no real purpose but to mate with a new queen.  If the queen is from another colony, he contributes mightily to genetic diversity, essential to overall bee well being.  

The drones live as kings, but not very good ones.  They neither forage nor defend (they lack the ability to sting), and are waited on hand and foot by willing workers who provide every need and comfort.  In the rare instance a drone is given an opportunity to mate and is successful, he will die, his sole purpose fulfilled.  If there are too many drones heading into winter, the workers thin them out.  In honeybee society, men are only five percent of the population and largely useless, while the women are the warriors and rulers and defenders.  And these responsibilities they satisfy while simultaneously being attentive nannies and impeccable housekeepers.  Perhaps their behaviors were the inspiration for early matriarchal societies among humans. Perhaps the world would be a better place if we had all followed suit.

Imagine a nest, full of eggs and developing young, housing potentially tens of thousands of mature bees and a single queen.  Imagine the highly organized residents, perfectly skilled in their individual roles, communicating intricate details and satisfying incredible objectives with precision, all in total darkness.  Now imagine an alien intruder, dismantling the nest, bathing it with sunlight, removing eggs and brood and possibly the queen herself.  What wild animal tolerates this?

With the exception of the drones, all residents are equipped with venom and an effective way to deliver it. They could have driven me away but chose not. Rather, they went about their work humming contentedly and I felt welcomed, wanted to stay, but knew their tolerance was limited.  Satisfied that all was welI, I buttoned up the hive.

I’m an uncomplicated beekeeper.  They are not my livelihood and I fall well short of knowing all there is to know about them, but I’m aware of some of their many threats (our reckless use of insecticides and loss of habitat being chief among them) and make reasonable efforts to keep them well.  When I catch a wild swarm, I’ll offer them solid accommodation with adequate space and protection from rodents.  I’ll try to be sure they have enough food to survive the winter and provide additional food if necessary.  If their queen is failing I might introduce a new one, unless they beat me to it.  I’d like to think their chances with me might be a little better than if I had not intervened when they swarmed.

There are at least three ways to deal with a stifling hot day:  One is to do nothing and complain, magnifying the discomfort.  Another is to take a good swim in the pond followed by a few laps on a paddle board just as an unexpected and most pleasant breeze drifts in from the north (which actually just happened).  A third is to take the cover off the hive of a recently captured wild swarm of honeybees and let their sweetness lull you into their fascinating and mesmerizing world.  You’ll be oblivious to the heat and won’t want to leave.  It may well be the best option of all.

Brood X

It’s the year of the cicada.  Brood X. The one that comes around only every 17 years and covers the bulk of the eastern US.  It’s a huge event, recognized, anticipated and celebrated over centuries.  Following 17 years of living underground and sipping nutrients from the roots of plants, the insects burrow up to the surface en masse, climb a few feet above ground, mature to adults, and focus on the business of reproduction.  They occur in numbers that overwhelm their predators and assure successful breeding.  In areas of high concentrations, the males’ singing can reach 90 decibels or more, equivalent to a chainsaw or jackhammer and drowning out normal conversation. After mating, the female will lay a few hundred eggs which hatch, fall from trees, and burrow into the ground to begin another 17 year cycle. Forget the eco safari!  There is a rare and significant environmental event happening right here.

Indiana is considered the epicenter of Brood X but for whatever reason our county is a dead zone.  We heard a Purdue owned woodland was rich with activity and had reason to travel to Lafayette so decided to check it out.  As we approached the site, even within a mile, all was quiet, but suddenly we were in them, and the drone of millions of male cicadas took center stage. 

Big cicada eruptions are a smorgasbord for a host of birds and mammals.  Perhaps no other single event feeds so many predators over such a large geographic area.  And they don’t get just a single good meal, but are “satiated” throughout the weeks-long extravaganza.

Every day, about a third of the earth’s human population eats insects as part of their daily diet.  For many, it is their chief or only source of protein, which in insects can be several times higher than in traditional meats, such as chicken.  As the hype around Brood X was growing, I heard and read several reports from seasoned chefs touting the culinary appeal of cicadas, suggesting recipes that were sure to please.  We had to try them.

I cannot recall, over nearly seven decades, ever intentionally eating a mature insect.  I assumed the legs might be a bit bristly and the wings tough, so I pulled them off my first candidate and popped the body in my mouth.  Tender, juicy, not a lot of flavor, but nothing at all offensive.  I had a couple more and prepared one for Lee, who agreed with my flavor and texture valuation but was haunted by guilt for ending a creature’s 17 year wait to procreate.  She was much more absorbed with the ecological wonder at hand.  

It was well past noon and we had not yet had lunch so I foraged on.  With experience I learned their legs were totally tender and a non issue but the wings were indeed tough and cellophane-like and no amount of chewing would change that.  It became a simple matter, then, to hold onto the wings and bite off the rest.  I noticed, over the course of eating 20 or so, that a portion of them had a stronger and more appealing flavor, hard to describe.  I had read they most closely resemble shellfish, and this might be true but I’ve never eaten a raw crawdad or uncooked shrimp, so could not judge.  I also noticed I was no longer hungry, so shifted my efforts to collecting some for later.

My old college buddy, John, lives in the Cincinnati area and in a recent phone conversation mentioned that Brood X was on fine display on his property.  I texted him, mentioned what I was up to, and he immediately went outside to partake in the grand buffet.  His conclusions were similar to mine, with the added observation that females were without question more flavorful.  I had not been so attentive.

Back home, I put the bag of about 30 cicadas in the freezer and after a time, following the guidance of a chef heard on NPR, tossed their wingless bodies into boiling saltwater for a minute or so, then into a skillet of melted butter for a quick sauté, and seasoned with salt and pepper.  They were quite delectable.

When insects are fed a kilogram of forage they will yield 12 times more protein than beef fed the same amount.  Insects are also naturally rich in essential micronutrients, like iron and zinc.  They can be raised on food scraps and animal manure, require far less land and water than domestic livestock, and emit far fewer greenhouse gases.  The list of edible insects numbers 1900 and growing.  The world is poised with the reality of feeding billions more people in the near future.  You know where I’m going here. 

Entomophagy is the practice of eating insects, and it was common in Ancient Greece and Rome.  John the Baptist found all the nourishment he needed in locusts and honey.  But at some point during the spread of agriculture through Europe the focus shifted to domesticated livestock and in the process we developed a yuck factor towards eating insects, and for no good reason.  How is it we’re so ready to eat a lobster or shrimp but not a cicada? Considering the environmental threats facing the planet, the historic record, the nutritional benefits inherent to insects, and the dietary routines of some two billion people, it may be time for the rest of us to get in the game.

Enjoy Brood X while they’re here.  And don’t forget the napkins.

June

There is a delight to be had on fresh June mornings, when spring has melded to summer and the earth is moist and a hardened green claims the landscape.  The memories of daffodils and lilacs are filed away for another year and suddenly there are six squirrels where there were two and the refrigerator is packed with fresh strawberries.  The business of production is solidly engaged.  

There was a bit of rain yesterday and overnight a heavy fog set in so the far side of the pond was under a veil and the distinction between sky and earth was lost.  Then, in a matter of minutes the sun burned through and the air was clear as polished glass and the earth took a massive breath.  Only in June does it happen just this way.

There was a blemish put on the morning when the old dog happened upon a mature fox snake and I heard the snap of jaws and knew it was not good.  The snake was alive but seemed incapable of moving, even when prodded.  There appeared, a few inches from its head, a protrusion under the skin such as a displaced vertebra might make. 

We appreciate snakes, especially those able to take on bigger prey such as chipmunks which favor our crawl space and house walls, or voles, which delight in chewing developing potato tubers.  A three foot fox snake would have been an exciting event had it ended differently.  Over 13 years of admonishing the dog over snake killing I have yet to completely break her.  Maybe my efforts have not been forceful enough, or maybe her genetic makeup will never allow her to be fully broken.  Regardless, the morning’s deed was done and for a couple hours I regretted the recently purchased dog food and years of veterinary bills.  The snake was no more. It would have been so much easier to dispatch a chipmunk.

While mushroom hunting this spring I came across a garter snake with the front half of a toad hanging from its mouth.   As the snake worked methodically and painstakingly slow to swallow its prey, the toad looked on, appearing composed and content as a toad does, showing no struggle or apparent alarm, no indication of discomfort.  The toad was simply living and breathing until it lived and breathed no more, and seemed accepting of this certain outcome.  The snake, likewise, showed no urgency to kill its prey but was focused on the job of swallowing.  For a reptile with no teeth this requires unhinging its jaws and stretching skin and muscle to accommodate a meal that might be several times the diameter of the snake itself.  It’s a process, slow and deliberate, and fascinating.

It’s interesting how some animals indicate discomfort while others not so much.  A fish might be in the throws of horror but we would not know looking at its eyes.  But what is its experience when removed from water and all the suffocating realities of gravity are put upon it?  Maybe if fish could convey feelings through cries of anguish we would be less likely to beam at the camera while holding a prized catch by its lip.  

There are ongoing studies indicating that alarm is spread rapidly through plant communities when any of them experience wounding or are threatened by insect or disease. Maybe we don’t fully appreciate the consequences in mowing grass or snipping a rose or pulling a carrot.

If a lichen has a solid substrate, say a rock or a tree trunk, and is provided sunlight, air, and water, it will grow, happy as a clam.  But lichens are among few things that exist without feeding on something living or having lived, and with this ability to form something from nothing, they set off a chain of events that ultimately transforms bare rock to field or forest where an endless variety of life sustains life.  The processes are intricate and include moments of discomfort but are splendidly interwoven and balanced.  There is no waste, and every component plays a role.

All systems are in hyperdrive this month and there is a great churning of nutrients and energy from life to death to life again.  Sometimes unfortunate, sometimes necessary, sometimes with a fight, sometimes with little resistance, always with renewed purpose.  On June mornings it begs noticing.

Fish Tacos

On the menu tonight are fish tacos featuring northern pike from the Michipicoten River, upstream from where the grand tributary comes sliding off the Canadian Shield and empties into Lake Superior.  The package from the freezer is labeled “30 inches”, a perfect size for eating. I have no memory of catching this particular fish— it is just as likely Lee holds the honor— but even in its frozen form it conjures vivid images of a fine country and a fine river and the angry pike that inhabit it. 

I suppose they are not truly angry, but a bony ridge above their eyes gives them something of a furrowed brow, and their behavior typifies one whose patience is long exhausted. They often bump a lure, then strike hard, and if at first the hook doesn’t set they are likely to have another go at it, angry as they are.  Maybe the fish destined for our table was the one that lay hidden beneath a shoreline log and took the spoon within a nanosecond of hitting the water.  Or maybe it was the one perfectly camouflaged in a forest of potamogeton who found the jerk bait irresistible or just too annoying.  It doesn’t matter.  They all hit and fought with great vigor, and are equally appreciated.  

Our dinner plates will hold the very essence of that old voyageur route snaking through the Algoma Wilderness.  On a flour tortilla, in a fillet coated with spiced breading and fried to golden perfection, will lie the river’s black water holes, its shallow flats, its shoreline of cedars and spruce. There will be a smooth sauce of mayo and home canned salsa, our frozen corn brought to fresh picked sweetness with a dab of butter and simmer of heat, a helping of shredded cabbage, a spoonful of diced black olives, a finely chopped green onion, a sprinkle of Parmesan.  

I could go to the market and buy fish. It might taste as good or better than our pike, but it likely would have been harvested by some ocean going vessel equipped with the finest technology, towing a huge net that bounced across the ocean floor, destroying reefs while collecting countless non-targeted species.  And every year the ship travels further and works harder to locate its prey because populations are a fraction of what they once were. Overfishing and the destruction of mangrove shorelines and a general decline in ocean health has taken its toll. 

I know exactly where the pike came from, how it was harvested, how it was handled prior to eating.  I know it came from a sustainable fishery. I know of a quaint northern community that benefits when folks from outside come to spend money and time in wild country, and to catch fish. It’s a win on several fronts.  

It can be reasonably argued that there’s nothing local about fish that are 650 miles away, that no ecological good comes from our road trip, and after tallying up the costs of licenses, gasoline, gear, and assorted expenses, a market fish likely makes more economic sense.  We could fish locally, substituting panfish for pike.  But our trips north are more than the fish we bring back.  Over a couple decades we have made improvements to a simple off grid cabin, found lady’s slipper and calypso orchids in bloom, picked wild blueberries, watched moose and bear, wolves and lynx, attended area fish fries, developed solid friendships.  It’s hard to put a price on such incidentals. 

In the beginning were more innocent days, when true environmental costs were not at the fore, when a run up north was only dictated by arranging free time and justifying the dollars spent. Those days came with an illusion that we were living simply and independently while there, when in fact we were heavily reliant on gasoline, propane, and staples that all needed to be shipped to a remote community which was a half hour drive from our cabin.  In reality, we were more independent and would have made a lesser environmental impact had we stayed home with our garden and solar panels. 

The world has changed, and the travel and routines and conveniences we’ve taken for granted can no longer be assumed without consideration of environmental costs. It's a valuable and necessary change, long overdue, and begins with simple awareness. 

I haven't a clue where the olives for tonight’s tacos were grown, how they were processed, how far they traveled to reach my store’s shelf. I know nothing of the Parmesan cheese.  But the pike came from a reliable source which is under no critical threat, and in the fillet are sweet memories of a wild place where angry fish reside.  All things considered, it may cost too much, or it might be priceless.  

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.

The Best of Precarious Times

 My wife and I are both of German descent, with parents and grandparents directly linked to our ancestral home.  I’ve never made much effort to explore the family tree, to become familiar with individuals or their values, how they earned a living, why they left the motherland.  Maybe if I looked I’d find some explanation for my quirky behaviors.  Sometimes I think I should learn the language as a way of paying homage, or to be ready in the event the ghost of a dead relative appears in a dream and says, “Joe, wir sind eine Familie. Können wir reden?” but I understand nothing so the opportunity is lost. 

Some spiritual teachings claim we have always existed in one form or another and select a period or multiple periods in earth’s history to live our human lives.  We choose, seeing a particular opportunity or purpose. It’s an interesting concept, but what could be the motivation to be born into abject poverty, a life of slavery, plagued by incurable illness?  

If I’d had a choice, I would have joined the family tree as part of an early Germanic tribe and lived in a community of farmers, keeping a wary eye on the Vikings and Romans. Or I would have been on an early boat and among the first settlers moving west across a perceived untouched country, thrilled by the prospect of receiving land given freely by a government that simply claimed that land with little regard for its occupants.

But maybe, as a Marcommani or Ostrogoth or some other Germanic tribesman, I’d find discontentment on the farm, grow tired of beating out a living with primitive tools, perpetuating an existence that had endured for millennia. Maybe, as an early US immigrant, I'd be less interested in the welfare of a seemingly inexhaustible wilderness than on tools and practices that promised an easier and more efficient livelihood. I may have shared the ill conceived notion that native Americans lacked sophistication and were incapable of appreciating the better life we offered.  

I don’t believe I had a choice of ancestors or a time in earth’s history, but simply hit the jackpot.  I appreciate a good metal tool, even more a hydraulic machine that delivers tons of force at the flick of a lever.  I appreciate advances in medicine that cure disease, replace worn bones, allow a rogue virus to be tamed in record time.  I like hooking up our popup camper and driving 6000 miles.  I love the internet, with all the knowledge of the world at my fingertips.  I like cooking with gas, a well stocked grocery, refrigeration, glass jars, endless conveniences.  I don’t like supporting the world’s richest man, but when I order an item from Amazon and get it in two days, I‘m happy. I live in a world where in a matter of hours I can be anywhere in it. 

So much of what we have and take for granted comes at an environmental cost that can not long continue.  A fox that raids the henhouse nightly will one day find it empty. Rats in a New York alley live large until resources run scarce and they turn on each other.  What our ancestors averted for tens of thousands of years we have brought to bear in a couple centuries.  Our concern for the welfare of the planet is not good enough, but if we had it to do over again and without the knowledge of today, would we do anything different?

I like sliding into an electric car charged to full power by sunlight, and growing food using the same simple principles and methods practiced by ancestors.  I like recycled products  and for our future’s sake nothing should be made that cannot be totally recycled.  Cradle to cradle, zero waste. I like the promise of hemp products, everything from clothing to carbon negative construction materials.  I’m thrilled by the almost daily advances in renewable energies, agriculture, and other sciences that meld with natural systems and offer genuine hope for a long and sustainable future.

 

This morning the sun rose on a sparkling spring day following a gentle two inch rain. The crabapples and lilacs are in full bloom, oak leaves are the size of squirrel ears, three broods of goslings are exploring the yard, asparagus spears are in need of picking.  We watched as 13 hooded merganser ducklings leapt from a nest box, urged on by a nervous mother. The entire countryside is literally exploding with life. I took photos and within seconds shared them with the world. Thanks to a string of Germans who kept the lineage alive I am here to see it all, in the best of precarious times.