Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is how politics leads a winter story astray. 

A Sit Down With Ouiser

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow September

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Apology and a Thank You

Date: July, 2024

To: Ken Lacy

From: Joe Scheidler

Re: An Apology and a Thank You

Hi Ken—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our very best to you and Diane.

Joe

 

The Tenacity of Raccoons

It’s a morning in early June and social media is abuzz with college commencement speeches. I sit barefoot on the deck with a good cup of mud just as the sun is clearing the eastern treeline.  A light mist drapes the pond. Fish are jumping. The birds are busy with daily announcements, proclamations, warnings.  A breath of wind carries the sweetness of wild grapes in bloom. It’s nice. 

The raccoons raided the bird feeders overnight, bent the shepherd's hooks to the ground and licked up the hummingbird nectar. The shepherd’s hooks have aluminum cones near the top to ward off climbers but the raccoons shimmy up the poles, poke their noses in the cones and use their weight to bring the whole contraption down.

We have a platform feeder five feet above ground on a wooden post. I wrapped the post with repurposed vinyl making a tube about eight inches diameter and four feet tall. That night we saw raccoons on the platform.  I put out the scout cam and caught the buggers jumping to the top of the tube, so I raised it a foot off the ground. The raccoons climbed the pole inside the tube. I packed the inside with scraps of rusted chicken wire with prickly ends. The raccoons pulled it out. I reduced the vinyl to a six inch diameter. I’m waiting. 

They are thinking, conniving, persistent animals, admirable as they are maddening. They pull out newly planted snapdragons for the sheer joy of it. They wash their grubby paws in the birdbath just to watch the water turn brown. The other evening one was poised at the edge of the yard, watching a family of grazing geese. The gander knows a raccoon will take a gosling given the chance. The goose charged the coon and nipped it in the butt, sending it hightailing for cover. 

At night we hear the coons squealing and squalling amongst themselves— over food or territory or whatever it is they squeal and squall about. They are handsome with their lush fur and ringed tails, but are best known for the black mask worn about the eyes. It’s a befitting trademark shared by common thieves. 

A southern breeze has brushed the mist from the pond but the birdsong goes unchecked. Several dozen species— cardinals, catbirds, thrushes, orioles, finches, wrens. The variety is impressive and their voices mask the fact that bird numbers are decreasing worldwide, some dramatically. From our experience, it was common to see upwards of 20 orioles at once 15 years ago where now there are three. Where there were 20 swallows dipping low over the pond, today there are half that. But their songs remain, carrying the illusion that all is well, or well enough. 

We found a snake under the jon boat last week, a milk snake, and realized it was the first we’d seen in more than a year.  They used to be regulars. A lot of snakes were regulars. These days we see a handful a month if we’re lucky. We could make a list of similar declines: dragonflies, frogs, toads, butterflies, grasshoppers, meadowlarks. The list would be long and legit. If trends continue, regional and widespread extinctions are certain and a cascade of ecosystem disruptions will follow. 

Not everything is declining and not everywhere.  There are pockets of abundance, including some relative newcomers. My grandpa would never have imagined an Indiana with widespread white-tailed deer, resident Canada geese, river otters, wild turkeys, and bald eagles. Animals with broad geographic ranges, those less picky about diet and good at adapting to urban environments, are doing especially well. Think rats, coyotes, feral cats… and raccoons.  

It’s mid morning and the sun has lapped the dew from the cattails and is sprinkling the wild raspberries with sugar. My coffee thermos is empty.  I thought I’d write something light, descriptive, maybe mildly humorous, and for once avoid environmental concerns. But the threat of biodiversity loss wormed in as it does in our everyday lives: insidiously, often without our knowing. When the birds are singing and fish are jumping and I’m enjoying a fine cup of brew on a warm and peaceful morning, how bad can it be?

Another year of graduation ceremonies and another cohort of brilliant, creative minds unleashed on the world. They are a formidable force with grand dreams and expectations. Many are looking at a June sunrise for all it is and is not, and see they have everything to lose. The challenges they face are complex and intertwined and require transformational solutions, but these youngsters have the tenacity of raccoons and are hell-bent on healing the wounds of an ailing planet. Stay out of their way. 

Life Sustaining Life

 

It's May in the Heartland and after feasting on morels we harvest mild, crisp radishes and an assortment of greens— spinach, arugula, romaine lettuce. Spears of asparagus, tender as butter, are tossed in the breakfast skillet with chopped green onions and a scramble of eggs. And on the side is a bowl of fresh picked strawberries that might be the sweetest the world has known.

The birds have returned and nesting is in full swing. Several groups of goslings now patrol the yard. There have been mixups, so one family of nine includes the young of three different ages. They move around through the day— from yard to pond to creek to somewhere unbeknownst to yard again— covering hundreds of yards in the process.

A couple weeks ago one of the nine turned up lame with a leg dislocated at the hip. It couldn't stand. The bird would wave its stubby wings, push off with one good leg and land on its belly with the bad leg dragging behind. And there it would lay, nibbling grass rather contentedly, until it gained the muster for another lurch. 

Initially, the parents and the balance of the brood moved on, but the peeping from the disabled one brought the gander back and the entire regiment came to a halt. The day’s movements would be modified. 

There was a point we considered intervening, perhaps bringing a rehabilitator into the mix. There was also a point when I thought dispatching the bird was justified, but decided otherwise. By late afternoon the gosling showed marginal improvement and had earned a name: Gimp. It could now balance on its good leg for a moment before collapsing. Near dusk the family moved into the pond and waited expectantly. It took awhile, but Gimp eventually lurched its way through the tall sedges at the pond edge and went gliding swiftly across the water in an arrow straight line, propelled by one foot. The family left the water on the opposite shore and Gimp peeped miserably but finally made it out to join its clan for the night’s roost. 

We didn’t expect it to survive.  No doubt the entire family was at greater risk of predation due to their accommodating Gimp. But the following morning all were accounted for, and within a week, daily movements returned to normal. Gimp became quite proficient at standing and hopping on one leg, and could do so without flapping wing stubs for balance. The handicap now seems almost a nonissue. Gimp is off to the races. 

There was a related experience a year ago with a quite different outcome. On that day there came a lot of splashing and vocalizing from the pond as a half grown gosling was being pulled repeatedly underwater. It was suddenly free and attempted to join its family which had left the water and was standing on the bank, highly alert. When the gosling reached the shore its wounds were apparent: a leg had been stripped of skin, and poking through the muscle was a jagged end of fractured bone. The bird hadn’t the wherewithal to haul itself ashore. Its family stood by attentively. They followed the wounded as it worked the shoreline attempting to pull itself out. They offered encouragement with outstretched necks and soft murmerings. But in about a quarter hour they moved on, as if recognizing the magnitude of the injury and the futility of their efforts. 

Under the circumstances it seemed most humane to dispatch the bird, so with rifle in hand I began a slow approach along the far shore. At one point I had a clear shot but then the gosling spooked, and I caught a movement in the dark water directly below where the bird had been. The movement took form, and there was the massive, angular head of a snapping turtle in all its sinister glory. It saw me and made a slow, ghostly retreat to the depths. 

Our suspicions were confirmed. We had identified the culprit and it was following the scent of raw flesh and blood hoping to complete a task. And I was faced with an option: I could step aside and allow a classic predator-prey interaction to come to its natural end, or I could intercede and bring it to rapid conclusion. I chose the latter, and led by some delusional sense of justice removed the carcass from the water, denying the turtle its rightful quarry. 

In May, billions are added and billions more are taken from a complex and dynamic web of life. We claim our favorites, those we want to be winners. Few of us would root for the dung beetle snatched by the bluejay, the leech swallowed by the largemouth bass, the meadow vole that finds its end in the talons of a red tailed hawk.  We give even less consideration to the green onions ripped from the soil and chopped and added to our breakfast scramble.  

There are no rules of engagement, no enforced standards, only an age-old need for energy to be transferred for the sake of balance and productivity. Life sustaining life. The process includes harsh realities, but the results are beautiful.