Galloping Pig

Galloping Pig, graphite, 5×6″

Pigs escaped from Florida farms from the time the Spanish first settled the “land of flowers”. Fugitive swine took refuge in the swamps and upland oak forests where they grubbed for roots and grew hairy and fat.

I’ve never had a face to face with a wild pig but have heard them rumbling through patches of palmetto and scrub. The oldsters have advised me to climb a tree if one heads my way in a determined manner.

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Stormy Weather

Tornado Watch December 20

Our local TV station aired “The Wizard of Oz” every April in the 1960s. We’d watch in dread and fascination as Dorothy fled the oncoming twister, and shrunk down when the Wicked Witch cackled as she flew by Dorothy’s window on a broom stick.

The movie meant a lot to us: springtime in Ohio coincided with tornado season. A siren blared if a storm threatened to spin or had already begun spinning, and we’d head to the basement with flashlights and a transistor radio to huddle and wait.

Sometimes the storm brewed gradually and swept through at its leisure. Other times, the sky darkened suddenly, the rain fell hard in sheets, and day turned to a deep gloom. Udder-shaped clouds in rows of dirty yellow trailed behind a deadly storm in 1971.

I discovered that no tornado season exists in Florida. The local stations never play “Wizard of Oz”, and no sirens to warn us to find a safe retreat. And basements are rare in Florida. The weathercasters advise us to shelter in windowless interior rooms on ground floors.

We’re under a watch today, December 20th, as a band of storms sweeps in from the Gulf of Mexico. A cold front is colliding with warm, hot air streaming north from the Caribbean. The rain has been falling steadily since last night, and bursts of heavy downpours occasionally overwhelm my gutters. I’ve yet to hear the “big train” sound I heard in 1971 when a twister passed through 70 yards from my parents’ home. The trees wave occasionally, but the branches do not bend sideways and violently whip.

The rain will peter out tomorrow, and temperatures will dip down into the 40s and 50s. Sun will filter through the green leaves on the trees in our yard. Images of twisters, flying monkeys, green-faced witches and ruby slippers will be replaced in a few days by Florida memories of little kids in shorts and t-shirts opening presents. I’ll see Alan riding his new bike in the driveway, and Annie sitting on the front porch playing with a doll.

I just might click my heels together and say, “There’s no place like home.”

Tree Beavers

We bought our house partially for the trees.  Other lots in the neighborhood were denuded patches of grass, easy to manage but sterile looking.  We liked the shade and the snug feeling of living in a mini forest.  After a few years, we realized that trees in Florida jump out of the ground and grow seven feet in a year.  Too much of a good thing. We began to cut down trees growing close to the house, but missed a few along the way.

We had a lightning damaged laurel oak removed a few years ago, but another grew along the east fence by the back yard shed.  It dropped branches down on the shed and pushed its thick trunk up against the power line.  Three laurel cherries grew nearby and entangled the line in their foliage.  A camphor, one half on our side, the other in the rental yard next door, stretched its branches over the east side of our house. We decided last year, right after we weathered Hurricane Irma, to remove looming threats wherever we could.

Seven men from Kevin’s Tree Service came yesterday and did the job in three hours.  Drizzly rain fell intermittently, and the workers wasted no time.  They brought a flatbed trailer for heavy branches and trunks, a bobcat front loader, a chipper, a bucket lift, a crane, rakes, a leaf blower and a several chain saws.  They cut, hoisted, sawed, raked and chipped like busy beavers.  A man wearing spiked boots let the crane lift him to the top of the laurel oak.  He attached a loop to sections of the trunk and sawed beneath to let the crane lift the tree out part by part.  The heavy trunk came last, and I hunkered down when the crane operator swung a twelve foot length over our roof.  He managed to swivel it from the back yard, around the magnolia in the front, and down to the bottom of our driveway.  Men chained sawed it into smaller sections, and the Bobcat scooped them up.

The crew finished just before heavy rains started to fall at midday.  They cleared the yard, loaded equipment, and left soon after I signed papers and wrote a check.  It all happened so fast.

Now we have more light shining down on our back yard.  The power line hangs free and clear.  We’re still surrounded by our mini forest, but it’s a bit thinner and not so close to the house.

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Lots of jobs remain to do inside and outside our house, but I’m relieved that this one’s crossed off the list two days before hurricane season starts.  Yesterday’s rain was a parting gift from Tropical Storm Alberto.

 

 

It’s Getting Kind of Weird

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Last week I watched the news and followed the ongoing disaster in Texas.  I didn’t really know what it felt like to be there, but I’ve been through several hurricanes since I moved to Orlando in 1991.  Last year a major storm ran up the length of the east coast and sent tropical storm force winds our way.  A tree branch fell on our power line.  I removed it while the wind still gusted in the 50s as the line bent down several feet and looked ready to break.  I didn’t want my wife to suffer through several powerless days.

Now I’m waking up early to look at the latest forecasts for Irma.  Yesterday the spaghetti models tracked the hurricane to the northwest edge of Cuba.  After that the paths diverged, but a lot of them sent the storm straight up the peninsula.  My stomach flipped.  We’re probably going to get hit.  My daughter and her husband live in Miami, and they’re in the target zone too.

This morning I checked again and saw no improvement.  I knew that drifts and shifts can still occur in Irma’s path, but my sense of dread deepened.  I flipped to other sites and turned on the local news, but nothing gave me any real reassurance.  I gave up when I heard a garbage truck lumbering around a curve in our neighborhood.  I had been lazy the night before–the kitchen bin was still full.

I hauled a can to the curb and saw butterflies flitting around flowering bushes in our front yard.  Two grasshoppers mated in the driveway.  Nature seemed intent on going about its business regardless of impending doom.

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I decided to do the same.  I washed dishes, got breakfast and read from Terry Pratchett’s, Hogfather.  Then I went outside and raked magnolia seed pods and twigs off the front lawn.  In back I picked up dead branches fallen near the east fence.  I climbed on the roof and pull more branches off the roof.  I came inside, took a shower, and got lunch ready.  All fairly normal activities for a Tuesday morning.

My daughter called at noon, and we cancelled her upcoming visit.  She told me about her hurricane preparations in Miami, and we wished each other good luck.  I passed the phone to my wife and went about my business.  Time to run errands and get ready to teach a class tonight.  Such an average day.

Publix was a mixed bag.  A man in the parking lot gave me his empty cart and said, “Better take it, man.  There’s none left in the store.”  The aisles were crowded, and I grew impatient when shoppers parked their carts, stood next to them in the middle, and blocked traffic while they contemplated the selection of can goods left on the shelves. Some were so intent on studying their lists that near collisions were a constant threat.  Two woman slowly pushed their carts side by side in the main aisle leading to the cash registers.  They engaged in a leisurely conversation as I silently walked behind them, but one finally stopped and stood aside to let me by.  She said sarcastically, “There, now you can pass me.”  And when I did with some difficulty (her cart still partially blocked my way) she called after me, “Have a nice day!”  A Publix worker stood with her arms crossed in front of the egg shelves.  She surveyed the crowds of customers weaving from aisle to aisle with a look of grim disdain.  I gingerly picked a carton off the shelf behind her as I wasn’t sure if she was there to guard them.  Another employee came up and said, “There was this lady who filled her cart with water, and then another one next to her got the bright idea and started to do the same…”

The weatherman in the latest forecast hopes that a cold front will arrive in time to push Irma off the east coast.  His expression looks a bit desperate, and I take no comfort.

But for now my kitchen garden is blooming, the butterflies are darting around the blue porter weed in the backyard, the bee balm attracts bees near my front porch, and the grasshoppers are mating.  Judy is listening to an audio book, and I’m writing this post.  A relatively ordinary day.

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But it’s getting kind of weird.

Nature in Action: Heavy, Man. Heavy.

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Backyard in the rain.

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Penta and Coreopsis

My wife Judy sits in our back yard garden every day when it’s not raining (the Florida drought has turned into afternoon monsoons) and watches nature in action.  She’s reported on the activities of caterpillars and butterflies.

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Zebra Long Wing (near the top)

One type of butterfly likes to lay its eggs on a passion flower vine growing up and through a beauty berry bush.  Geckos and other lizards love to eat the eggs when they in turn are not being pursued by black racer snakes.  Red shouldered hawks soar overhead in search of careless snakes sunning a bit too long in the open after a heavy meal.

Caterpillars hatch from the remaining eggs and begin to eat the leaves on the vine.  A parasitic wasp, if it manages to locate a caterpillar in the tangle of vegetation, injects its eggs inside.  The wasp larva hatch and eat their way out of the caterpillar.  Ants come along and take chunks out of caterpillars.  The vine secretes a sugary substance when attacked, and the ants are drawn to its tormentors.

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Zebra Long Wing caterpillars.

The desperate action continues after a caterpillar survives long enough to fatten and turn into a chrysalis.  A female proto-butterfly gives off a pheromone that attracts males before they emerge from their cocoons.  Male butterflies land on the chrysalises, flap their wings impatiently, and wait for the lady to make her debut.  I’m not sure if they allow the females to stretch their wings before the “romance” begins.

So nature in action seems to be all about eating or being eaten.  This leads to a frantic urge to spread one’s genes to succeeding generations before a bigger, sneakier, meaner creature seizes one in its jaws.  We witnessed desperate sexual ardor on display the other day among the branches of a plumbago plant in our front yard.  We saw a large female grasshopper bearing the weight of two smaller males on her back.  One male was attached to the female and attempted to deposit his seed.  He was distracted, however, by the male on his back.  The male on top had no homosexual intentions, however.  Instead the uppermost hopper frantically flexed his hind legs to try to pry the male beneath him off the female.  He had decided, apparently, that it was his turn.

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Male grasshopper.

Judy’s a plant physiologist and taught botany courses at Rollins College for many years.  She and I were talking about our garden and how the caterpillars were chewing their way through the milkweeds and passion flower vines.  I teased her about GMOs and said that scientists should come up with a genetically modified plant that turns insects into Existentialists.  Instead of chewing, mating and fleeing predators, the bugs would glumly sit around thinking about the ultimate futility of their lives.  “What’s the point?” they’d ask themselves, “of all this useless activity?  Life has no inherent meaning and worth.  Why spread it?”

Never kid a plant physiologist.  Judy told me that plants like the opium poppy and marijuana create protective intoxicants: the production of opium and THC evolved as a means of defense.  An insect predator becomes passive and uninterested in consuming more tissue after ingesting these drugs.  The motionless, tripping bugs attract predators, predators on the look out for a way to harsh a buzz with extreme prejudice.

I had been thinking of nature as the WWII movie, From Here to Eternity:  sex, violence, survival.  Now when I stroll in the garden I hear the opening strains of “A Whiter Shade of Pale” and think about episodes of “The Mod Squad”.  You know, the ones where a love-in on the beach suddenly turns tragic.  Sex, violence, survival and drugs.  And as Peggy Lipton would say, “Heavy, man.  Like, heavy.”

 

 

Seasons and Time

I recently saw a cartoon of a calendar for Florida.  The seasons were Bearable, Hell and Total Hell.  They referred to late fall to early spring, summer and early fall, and August respectively.  My family moved from central Pennsylvania to Orlando in August, 1991.  Hell, total hell.  The highs in PA had been in the mid 80s, while the thermometer down here consistently read 94-96 degrees.  I couldn’t figure out why anyone would voluntarily move to Florida until Thanksgiving came around.  A cold front passed through the night before, and the air was crisp and cool on the day of.  The humidity dropped too, and for the next four months I woke up in the morning dry and comfortable instead of basting in my sweat.

I’ve been here for 25 years and have gotten used to the oddities of the Florida climate such as maple trees shedding leaves in March while simultaneously budding. Trees overloaded with ripe citrus at Christmas and pollen allergies in February no longer surprise me.  Mowing the lawn from March to November no longer strikes me as an unreasonable burden.  But the seasons still don’t feel right.

Northerners grow accustomed to the passage of Time marked out by the metronome of distinct seasons.  Years pass by in an orderly parade.  And each season carries its own emotional tone.  Spring releases weary sufferers from cold and gloom into a carnival of warmth and color.  Summer is a long celebration of sun worship, an extended opportunity for outdoor revels.  Fall starts as a welcome relief from August’s heat, but ends on a down note as the trees shed leaves, the sky turns somber, and the colors of the landscape fade and darken to brown, gray and black.  Nature slowly dies, and once winter truly arrives the long, cold, dark vigil begins. Many sink into deep depressions come February.  The yearly cycle brings change and suffering, but its consistency provides certainty in the form of a familiar ritual  of progression.

In Florida there really isn’t a spring.  Bushes and trees bud and blossom at their own pace year round.  Time slides by almost unmarked by any dramatic changes in the landscape. One intensely hot and bright day drifts into another from March to October.  And time appears to stand still when cool air finally filters down from Canada in November.  Days of blue skies and golden light follow one another in a monotonous procession until the first heat wave creeps up from the Caribbean in March.

I’ve learned to mark the passing of years less by seasons and more by the creaking of my joints and the thickening of my waist.  The fat pouches on the sides of my jaw and wrinkles on my forehead tell me that Florida and its seasons are liars.  My bathroom mirror is my reality check if I choose to look in it.  (I’m starting to hate that bastard.)

And perhaps that’s the attraction that brings retirees from Ontario and the Midwest down here.  It must be a comfort, when the end grows ever near, to live in a world where time slows down and sometimes stops.  The rushing by of a limited supply of years may seem less relentless in a land where things change slightly for better or worse, but nothing really seems to happen.