LIzard's Little House

We spend a lot of time waiting at the bus stop, which is the end of our driveway. One October day I was idly picking at the place on our enormous pin oak where a chicken-of-the-woods grew out of it two years ago. The huge orange fungus left a big scar on the tree.

I removed a piece of bark just to see what might be behind it. And out tumbled a cold-slowed lizard! For a Science Chimp, it was like hitting a whole row of apples on a slot machine.

It was a juvenile northern fence lizard, Sceloporus undulatus. Probably a female, judging from the pattern of wavy lines running down her back.

In the 19 years we've lived here, I could count the lizard sightings on my fingers and toes. Each summer, we see one or two northern fence lizards, usually right by this tree or scuttling along in the gravel near our garage. The only other lizard spotted here was an enormous male broad-headed skink (!) who turned up in a rotted sill of the garage. It looked like a fat golden kielbasa with a bright orange head. Too big to hold in one hand. Like nothing I'd ever seen before or since. I almost collapsed with excitement. And, but for one juvenile skink (a lovely little thing with orange and black stripes and a blue tail) that's been it for lizards.

 

Adult male broad-headed skink, Eumeces laticeps. Photo by "Herper" from fieldherpforum.com. 

I garnered the following from the Web: Broad-headed skinks are often observed hunting insects high in trees. (Well, not by me.) A broad-headed skink was observed shaking a wasp nest to dislodge the pupae to eat, impervious to their stings. Hoo. I'd love to see that. It was a magnificent beast. We're near its northern range limit (southeast PA). 

My dear friend Mary makes the most delightful images of her eastern fence lizards. She even has photos of males, with their brilliant electric-blue throats and chests.

                                                                       
Highly territorial, they do lizard push-ups to display this warning coloration to any interlopers. Go see! Adult males are brown with that hard-to-see electric blue underside; females are gray with wavy lines down their backs.                                  

     Here's Lizard Voyeur Mary's photo of a couple of extra happy eastern fence lizards. Thanks, Mare! Male above--see how much less patterned he is? Unfortunately you can't see his shocking blue underside. I have yet to see that and am really hoping to someday soon.

Back to my dilemma. I felt terrible, of course, about ruining the lizard's little home. So I wedged the bark back into place, replaced the bewildered inhabitant, and raced home for some glue. I had to rebuild it.

 

photo by Phoebe Linnea Thompson

Elmer's Ultimate High Performance Glue ought to do the trick. It's the kind that expands to fill notches. Ugly but effective. Hope I'm not getting Lizzie too high with the fumes.

I put a branch up against it to hold it while the glue set.

There followed a long cold spell during which I would occasionally dig down through the debris with my pinky to see the top of her head. Good. Still where she wanted to be.

And then came a glorious warm morning and there she was, sunning on the porch of her little glued-up house. Awww.

A couple of months later, the glue is still holding, but she has moved on. Probably moved on up in the same tree, a little higher-rent place, not so...gluey.

 

Thanks to Mary from Mary's View for allowing the use of her image. As if she had a choice; she was probably deploying her vibrating mascara wand as I wrote this.

Macaw Gone Bad

I am moved to post about my 21-year-old chestnut-fronted macaw, Charlie, tonight, because I got a little glimpse into his parroty mind today. For six months or more, Charlie has absolutely refused to go into his big cage, which has always been his refuge and safe place. He's sat stolidly on his perch stand outside the cage, even sleeping there. I had to move his pellet dish to the perch stand, and I began serving him his hot breakfast and fresh fruit inside the cage just to get him to go in long enough to eat it. Studying him, I finally decided that his reticence had to do with the big braided rope Booda perch high inside the cage. He refused to go anywhere near it, and he acted like he was on hot coals when he was in the cage, rushing through his meal and retreating to the perch stand.

Charlie likes to chew those rope perches, which is fine, good for his beak. What' s not fine is when he chews clear through them and they dump him to the floor of the cage. He really, really hates that moment, when Daffy Duck saws through the limb he's sitting on. Whomp! Unbeknownst to me, he'd chewed almost through the back of this perch, and he knew it was about to give way. So he stopped going in the cage, perhaps thinking, as parrots do, that the perch had a life of its own and might just let fly at any moment.

This morning, I decided to replace the perch on general and hygienic principles, since it was serviceable but looking awfully ratty. In replacing it I discovered the chewed place. Ah. And as I took it out of the cage, Charlie rushed it, flapping his wings and screaming savagely as he bit it. Take that, you perch monster!! AWK!! AWK!! Stab!

I put the nice new Booda perch in his cage and left for town. And when I came back there he was in his old spot, all huddled down, happy as a clam on the new perch.

I could almost feel him thinking, "Took ya awhile, Dummy!" I truly felt like a moron. Poor Chuckles. He has probably been sending me pictures of a new perch for six months, and I was too thick to pick up on it. It's so good to see him roosting in comfort high in his cage again.

(His door is always open, so it's not really a confining cage; it's just a safe place for him to hang out).

Speaking of Charlie, I got a cellaphone bill awhile ago that was huge. Just huge. Ack! And discovered that I'd not paid last month's bill. I hadn't paid it because it had gone missing. Now where could that bill have gone?

I have no idea, JZ.


So Charlie. What is that confetti all around you?

Beats me, Mommy. What confetti?

THAT confetti, Charlie Macaw.

 Oh THAT. That's my newest installation. It's called Missed Month. It's about forgetfulness and sloth and living in squalor. It's my statement about the human condition. Do you like it?

Love it, Chuck. I'm taking the late fee out of your allowance. Think roasted peanuts will fit in the envelope?

Sycamores, Limosins and Eastern Wahoo

Sycamore bark, with its camo-patterns of gray, green, ghost white and cocoa brown, enchants me. I'd love to wear a dress of sycamore bark, if I wouldn't be mistaken for a deer hunter.

We planted a sycamore in our side yard, watched it grow to pyrimidal young prince, only to have its top break out in a dreadful fall windstorm in September '10. I know it will recover, but it's upsetting to see our proud giant beheaded. I'm looking forward to seeing it send up a new leader, to see it grow up with a kink in its trunk.

Today Bill removed the last of its broken branches, making the aspect less upsetting. Now, to wait. A man once told my dad he wasn't going to plant fruit trees because it takes too long for them to bear. My dad replied, "Might as well plant them. You're waiting anyway."

Dad's been popping up in my thoughts a lot lately. The wisdom he gave me, I pass on to my children. He never knew them, but he informs their thoughts. And so he lives on.

A nurseryman in Yellow Springs told me that sycamores are very good at compartmentalizing injuries. I liked that term, compartmentalizing. It means sending out lusty ridges and laval flows of scar tissue around the wound, going on, after a brief pause, with their tree-ey lives. Here's to scar tissue. Scar tissue keeps us moving forward, growing upward. We compartmentalize the injury, pad it with a healing ridge, and pick ourselves up to move on. It can take years, but we wrestle our minds around and most of us manage to do it. And so do the trees. Scars give us character, empathy, tolerance, grace, and a certain beauty.

Some Limosin cattle were peeking shyly out at us from behind their hay rack. The sun lit their ear fringes, giving them an enchanting rim of light. I love Limosins almost like I love Jerseys.

 

Soon we would come upon a little stand of one of my favorite fall plants--the eastern wahoo, Euonymus atropurpureus. Native Americans used it medicinally--it has compounds that work like Digitalis, a heart regulator that comes from foxgloves. They also used its super-straight tough stems as arrow shafts. I love its stripey green bark, and especially its fall fruit. Not to eat, just to admire.

I really like getting land and sky in my botanical photos. The Canon G-11 is really good at that. The photos have an almost surreal quality, as you make out details of trees hundreds of yards away even as you're getting a closeup of the plant in question. Of course, to accomplish this, you often have to drop to your knees. That's OK. I do a lot of that anyway in the course of my Science Chimping.

The fruits have a wonderful spongy pink capsule that bursts open and shows the red pericarp to great advantage. I'm guessing they're trying to attract birds as dispersal agents with all this color. I imagine waxwings, hovering. Mmmmm. Bluebirds, too.

Winged Wahoo is a common yard shrub; this is its wild, native Southeastern cousin. Another name for it is Burning Bush. Later its leaves will burst into orange flame. Altogether a lovely plant, and a welcome reminder of my Virginia childhood.

It's warm enough on this early winter day to make Chet Baker pant. He runs circles around me as I walk, always staying in earshot and racing back at my call, as a good dog will.

The grass is too inviting, so he stops to graze awhile. This is his grass-eating face, with his muzzlepuffs all pulled up and out of the way. He's being a Holstein for a moment. The world's smallest Holstein, with grass. Without milk.

I walk a little farther and find a Little Yellow butterfly, Eurema lisa. I'd found it in Virginia, but never before seen it in Ohio. This year I've seen two--one in my yard, and one here on Dean's Fork. They're irregular vagrants, coming up from the south in the fall. Much more common near the coast than inland--I'm lucky to see them here at all. I love butterflying in part for that element of uncertainty. Turns out it was a big year for Little Yellows in Ohio and elsewhere. I learned that on Facebook, from Kenn Kaufman. Facebook can be good.

That dull brownish spot on the rear margin of its hindwing, its tiny size, and its furiously rapid low flight render it instantly identifiable, if not photographable! Count this a pretty good shot of a Little Yellow.

I give a little whoop of joy and walk on.

Thanks for everything, you good old road. Long may you run.

A Little Horse Story

Dean's Fork is where I go to forget and remember, to mull and think and talk out loud to myself and feel the world back away.  On this day, a little horse story was unfolding. I always love to talk with this beautiful little Appaloosa mare and her companion, a red roan gelding. But today the mare was alone, and she was letting the world know she was unhappy about it. Her whinnies rang up and down the holler.

 

Excuse me, ma'am, do you know where my friend is? If you see him, could you tell him to come back?

He's been gone for hours. Or at least it seems like that. It's very rude of him.

                                                                         I worry.

Sweetheart, wait here. I will look for him and see if I can send him back to you. Hang on.

So Chet and I walked on up and sure enough, there he was. Having jumped the fence, he was ankle-deep in some very nice grass, and deaf to the pleas of the mare to come back to her.

You are a very bad boy. You hear her calling you, and you don't even nicker back. Naughty, naughty horse.

That's her problem. If she misses me, she should jump the fence and come after me.

I'll head back when I'm ready.

Just then, a truck came along and out jumped my neighbor Kathy, who owns the animals. And I got the story. The red roan gelding is named Rocky, and he's a Virginia Highlander, a very young breed of gaited horses that have a little of everything in them--Arab, Tennessee Walker, Morgan,  and Welsh pony to name just a few! I knew I liked his looks and build. Virginia Highlanders have amazingly smooth gaits and are excellent jumpers, which means it's very hard to keep Rocky in any fence. Luckily there's not much traffic on the Fork.

The Appaloosa's name is Hannah, and she was rescued from an abusive situation. She was being ridden at the tender age of 1 1/2, being very badly treated. It took months for the filly to even let Kathy approach her, so badly was she abused. Kathy's patience and gentleness shine through now--Hannah hurries up to the fence for hugs. Kathy brought out her inner sweetheart. As far as riding goes, Hannah's a work in progress. Kathy may come and work her out in our meadow, with no cars or distractions to spook her. She's welcome here.

Kathy gathered Rocky up and brought him back to Hannah. When we left, he was already eyeing the fence...boys will be boys.

I sure like getting to know my neighbors. Getting myself out on a regular basis is the best way to do that. Running into someone is a natural way to connect. And there are stories everywhere I stop to chat. Thanks for this one, Kathy. These are two of the luckiest horses in Ohio, living on Dean's Fork, in beauty and with love. They punctuate my walks and bring me joy.

Refuge on a Country Road

Messing about with the world's greatest point and shoot: the Canon G-11 (now G-12, but who's counting?)

Above: Low Contrast setting, which opens up the shadows, and below, Normal Setting.

The shadows on the old barns are so deep that Low Contrast works to open them up and show more detail, which I like. Especially if I ever intend to paint these scenes.
 Boy, could I see a watercolor of this scene.  Here's the Normal Contrast setting.

 And here's Low Contrast. See how the detail pops out? It lets me see what's going on in the darkest darks on the bank and barn.  So I can use both shots as reference.

                                                                               


I hold the Canon G-11 an inch or so from the rusted hinge and shoot away, marveling at the razor-sharp detail it captures. From landscapes to macro views of wood and hinges, this little workhorse does it all. And on Automatic setting, it decides when I've gone all macro on it, and adjusts accordingly. It's like there's a little brain in there.

I keep walking and shoot back at the old barn before it disappears. I won't see it bathed in such beauty for another year.

How I wish I could conjure these leaves, this sky, for today, when the clouds hang low and weepy. But we've busied ourselves readying the yard for winter birds who will help keep our spirits up when the cold clamps down. Bill built a brushpile to shelter them from the wind and snow, and we put up three more feeders and scattered corn and seed all over the yard. A little thank-you note showed up--the first fox sparrow of fall, scratching about under the brand-new brushpile!

I'm always impressed by the haunting quality of sepiatone photos. In one push of a button, we rocket back 200 years...
and the best part is when you select an effect, such as sepiatone, from the Canon G-11 menu, it shows you what your photo will look like on the screen before you take it! I think back on the days of film, when such options were in post-processing only, when everything was a crapshoot and an expensive one at that, and can only marvel. I've been set free by the digital age. At least in a photographic sense.

Here we are on Tobacco Road.

with our antique barns and little antique doggeh. For a painter, these photos are very useful--they allow me to see relative values of dark and light without the confusion of hue.

I've photographed this little sign dozens of times, with its buckshot holes and its stenciled letters.

Let's get a closeup of those holes.

So many compositions in one small area of an old tired barn. I find such freedom in composing with a camera; it is so effortless compared to composing with a pencil, which I do all day these days. But I'm whistling down the wire on my new book, counting down the paintings left to do. Imagine having almost 160 works of art to do, and finally being down in the 30's. That feels good. Almost as good as walking slowly up Dean's Fork with your best dog.

Who's your best dog?

                                                                     You, Chet Baker. You.