Nature Notes--'Into the Silent Land'

Song of the Silent Land

Into the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.

Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither,

Into the Silent Land?

From where I sit, Friday night football sounds more subdued, though the fireworks that always precede a home game might fool you a bit. The Patriots are playing at home tonight, and the marching band has whipped the crowd into a fervor. Fans might need a little warmth tonight. It's supposed to dip down into the upper 40s or lower 50s, Fahrenheit. At this time of year in Northwest Florida, jackets and sweaters surface and then disappear as the temperature fluctuates throughout the day.

Last Sunday, SAM, Daughter, and I committed a few "sins." We skipped church--SAM was recovering from some form of the flu and didn't want to spread the "joy," we burned several gallons of fossil fuel to visit Fort Pickens, and we--well, I did, actually--spent an inordinate amount of time gazing at the Creation. A large turtle gave us quite a show as we crossed a foot-bridge on the path leading from Battery Worth to the main fort. I think it's a snapping turtle, Chelydra serpentina, but I'm no expert on turtles. I have decided it is quite old since it has algae growing on its body. Anything that moves slowly here is liable to grow something green.

At one of the batteries we visited--Worth or Langdon, I can't remember which one--I noticed this bit of art work peering out of a dark yet green corner.

Daughter doesn't like this picture. Do you think I care? She's packing tonight to visit Mr. T for a few days in the Lone Star State.

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning visions

Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand,

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted,

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great Departed,

Into the Silent Land!

--a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow--

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Please visit Ramblingwoods.com to see what other people have found in nature to post about this week. I just did, and it seems that Michelle and I may have found something quite similar!

Like a Rock on a Stick--Get the Habit of Seeing in the Dark

I still remember elements of a disagreement over words with one or both of my brothers when I was about seven years old. They are five and seven years older than me. The argument began like this: "Don't just sit there like a rock on a stick! Get going!" I was urging our dog Ranger to leave his spot in the garden where he was sunning himself and crushing my precious pumpkin plant. I had started it from seed and brought it home from my second-grade class to plant in the backyard. One or both of them overheard me and snickered, "Rock on a stick? Hahaha! Don't you mean bump on a log?" My view of the world was taking shape when well-meaning people at home in America sang songs that asked questions about where the flowers had gone. That war in Vietnam stole a piece of my childhood that can never be replaced. A rock on a stick seemed appropriate to a seven-year-old child who was trying, though not always succeeding, to maintain some stability when Daddy went away. The only contacts I (we) had with him for a year were the sound of his voice on reel-to-reel tapes and letters sent back and forth through the snail mail. I figure that my brothers must have been missing him too.

We (SAM and I) returned to our old stomping grounds in the Midwest a couple of weeks ago on a mission: family to visit and business opportunities to explore. After a few days of family time and some business meetings, we headed east on Highway 146 through Southern Illinois on our way to Greenville, Kentucky. Of course, we had to stop for a while and visit our favorite cave. I've been mulling over that visit and its significance at this particular time in my life and at this point in history when various world views are coming out of hiding and being dragged into the light of the sun. Plato attempted to explain the importance of needing to know one's place in the world in his Cave Allegory.

Our POTUS, God bless him, is facing some thorny situations right now, and I don't envy his responsibilities one bit. Sure, he has an agenda--who doesn't?--but I believe his heart is in the right place. I imagine that it beats a little faster every time he hears about another casualty, a Daddy or--this time--Mommy, who won't be coming home to that family left behind to wait and worry.

We spent several hours at Cave-in-Rock, exploring not only the trails in the park and the famous cave but also some mighty fine food at Kaylor's Cafe. The Sunday buffet includes fried chicken and catfish, along with freshly prepared salads and vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy, hush puppies, yeast rolls, and a variety of rich desserts. You can order from the menu, but the buffet is worth every penny. SAM agreed with me that it rivals one of his mom's Sunday dinners, and she had a reputation for putting on quite a spread, back in the day.

After dinner, a leisurely walk along the bluffs overlooking the Ohio River helps the food settle and reveals some spectacular views of the water and the neighboring state--actually Commonwealth--of Kentucky. Before we departed on the ferry across the river, SAM got to talking to a local man who was casting his net along the bank for shad--bait fish, in case you were wondering. Turns out the man knew SAM's dad, back in the day, when they would fish from atop one of the Ohio River lock-and-dams. The man was also a Navy vet who had served a tour of duty at Pensacola NAS. Small world, isn't it?

Cave-in-Rock is a friendly--if sleepy--little town. I just hope the handwriting on the wall concerning the pending climate legislation doesn't render it completely catatonic. Its future depends on that traffic you saw in the first photo, the one with the barge carrying coal downriver.

Someone in charge of building the little riverfront park must have been thinking of warmer climes. We all know that pelicans don't live in Illinois. Or do they?

Everyone must take a ferry ride here at least once--you really have no choice if you're traveling east to Kentucky. The trip across the river gives you a chance to appreciate the slow rhythm of life on the water while you wait for the barges and other business of life to pass by. No one seems to be in a hurry here. People smile at each other and wave hello and goodbye to each other and even to strangers. They seem to realize that life is too short to be "strangers" with their neighbors, familiar or not.

Before we traveled to visit the cave and before we boarded that ferry to Kentucky, while SAM was meeting with someone who might become an important part of our future, I took some time to reflect on some other business of life.

A veterans' cemetery like the one at Bloomfield in Missouri tugs at your heart, especially if you have a loved one resting there.

"Wherefore each of you, when his turn comes, must go down to the general underground abode and get the habit of seeing in the dark. When you have acquired the habit, you will see ten thousand times better than the inhabitants of the den, and you will know what the several images are, and what they represent, because you have seen the beautiful and just and good in their truth. And thus our State, which is also yours, will be a reality, and not a dream only, and will be administered in a spirit unlike that of other States, in which men fight with one another about shadows only and are distracted in the struggle for power, which in their eyes is a great good. Whereas the truth is that the State in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best and most quietly governed, and the State in which they are most eager, the worst." --Socrates in Plato's Republic, Book VII, concerning the Allegory of the Cave--

Juniper Creek Trail--A Chuck-Norris-Yet-Curious-George Kind of Place

I don't advocate eating wild mushrooms, but finding some with eerily familiar shapes on Juniper Creek Trail last week sent my imagination soaring to new heights. The first one you see here looks a lot like a meringue, don't you think? It's only missing those glistening drops that form as the meringue cools after baking.

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"To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said

'I've a sceptre in hand, I've a crown on my head.

Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be,

Come and dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!'"



Daughter and SAM spotted this one before I did. It could be a veritable feast in the eyes of a survivalist slowly running out of provisions after weeks in the forest. A chicken for every pot, you say? Who needs meat when there's so much soul-food to find along the trail? As Steinbeck's Lennie would say, you could "live off the fatta the lan' " right here.

And hundreds of voices joined in the chorus:--

"Then fill up the glasses as quick as you can,

And sprinkle the table with buttons and bran:

Put cats in the coffee, and mice in the tea--

And welcome Queen Alice with thirty-times-three!"

Angling for the right to be noticed, this wild Blazing Star, Liatris tenuifolia--a member of the Aster family--grows abundantly along the sunnier meadow portions of the trail, not far from where it begins at the tiny parking area. At this time of year, be sure to douse yourself with insect repellant. Once you leave the more open meadow environment and enter the close woods, the flora begins to change, and the fauna with an appetite for human blood will start to annoy you. Actually, there is no "off" season in Florida for those pesky things. You've got to really love the heat--and bugs--to stay in this kitchen. Of course, there are silver linings to every cloud of mosquitoes. Once in a while, you'll find a delicate wildflower like the Climbing Butterfly-Pea, Centrosema virginianum, to take your mind off your troubles.

Then followed a confused noise of cheering, and Alice thought to herself "Thirty times three makes ninety. I wonder if any one's counting?" In a minute there was silence again, and the same shrill voice sang another verse:--

" 'O Looking-Glass creatures,' quoth Alice, 'draw near!

'Tis an honour to see me, a favour to hear:

'Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea

Along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me!' "

You might think the water here is made out of iced tea. It's certainly cold enough, and the tannin that comes from the native oaks gives it a warm gold color, especially on a sunny autumn day. The first inhabitants and then the white settlers who came later found tannin to be quite useful for preserving animal hides and maybe even their own. Mixed with animal fat and some other useful, stinky ingredients, it protected them from stinging, biting insects and too much sun exposure. I wonder what the SPF might have been?

Then came the chorus again:--

"Then fill up the glasses with treacle and ink,

Or anything else that is pleasant to drink:

Mix sand with the cider, and wool with the wine--

And welcome Queen Alice with ninety-times-nine!"


It's kind of sad to think that part of the trail is slowly slipping away, steadily eroding into the river and eventually washing out to sea. On the drive down to the wilderness area, we passed some construction (destruction?) workers cutting trees and removing their stumps from a parcel of land nearby. I hope that whatever they're building is worth the price, and I'm not talking about money. It's hard to say if Florida will ever do a "180" (degree turn) on land consumption. Construction around where we live has almost ground to a halt, which isn't too good for the local economy, but at least the land gets a much-needed shabbath, or rest.

When I zoomed in on the eroded hill, I saw that someone had left his or her mark behind for the whole world to see. I wonder how many years "BJ" will be around for future hikers to find?

"Ninety times nine!" Alice repeated in despair. "Oh, that'll never be done! I'd better go in at once--" and in she went, and there was a dead silence the moment she appeared. Alice glanced nervously along the table, as she walked up the large hall, and noticed that there were about fifty guests, of all kinds: some were animals, some birds, and there were even a few flowers among them. "I'm glad they've come without waiting to be asked," she thought: "I should never have known who were the right people to invite!"

After a long stretch of trail, even iced-tea water starts to look inviting. Not too far past this sand bar where we took off our shoes and waded in, a shelter--built by Boy Scouts--awaits the weary walkers, and there are surprises to be found inside it--no, not the Man in the Yellow Shirt and the girl in the blue shorts.

Curious-George bloggers like to read what other people have to say about this place. What did they see, and what were their impressions of it?

Some thoughtful people are trying to encourage a conversation here.

I hope that Chuck Norris enjoyed our little corner of Florida. I'd like to think that you "Go with God" too, Mr. N--whoever you are--when you walk the trails.

Nature Notes--Saturday Morning's Mitzvah

Time and experience in the blogosphere have taught me that Viceroy butterflies can easily be distinguished from Monarchs, if you know what to look for. Michelle of Ramblingwoods.com helped me identify a butterfly I found last year in Illinois. She directed me to note the difference in markings and provided a link to an appropriate identification site. You might even say she "mitzvahed" me into the mysteries of butterflies. I'm not trying to be irreverant here. I've been spending the past few weeks delving into some even more profound mysteries while preparing some unusual (eclectic?) studies for a small group that's meeting at our home this month. When someone gives me an assignment (mitzvah?), I tend to devote a lot of time and effort toward completing it, sometimes to the exclusion of other activities like blogging. This past week King David's mischief with Bathsheba commanded my undivided attention.

Nevertheless, I awoke early this morning, determined to gather some images from the garden and post about them. Not even those heavy legs I've posted about before could deter me from my mission. Look at the treasure I found! Tina of In the Garden handed me some orange Cosmos seeds last fall when we met in New Harmony, Indiana, which I dutifully planted this spring about three meters from where these plants sprouted. Since the garden slopes down from here, I'm thinking it must have been ants--or a clumsy gardener with ridges on her soles--that carried the seeds uphill to this germination point.

My early morning walk revealed an immature but determined visitor on one of our two pink grapefruit trees. From the looks of it (at first glance it resembles bird poo), it could either be the caterpillar form of the Viceroy butterfly, which can have more than two generations in the South, or perhaps of some type of Swallowtail (Papilio) species. Its unremitting desire to erect a consumer's temple at the site of my hopes for future citrus may have signed and sealed its death warrant. It won't even be allowed to carry it to the front lines like Uriah the Hittite did.

Even if I hadn't determined its fate, this unusual red bug I found a few days earlier nearby would have dispatched it without a shred of regret.

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Margaret, are you grieving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leaves, like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! as the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you will weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow's springs are the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins' "Spring and Fall (to a young child)," 1880--

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Why did I not remember this song earlier? It was one of my dad's favorites.

Idle Thoughts of a '49er'

Yes, I'm finally
A forty-niner!
But daughter's not a Clementine
She's got a gold feller,
Though he's not yeller,
Air Force chap
And mighty fine...
(Walk2Write's own verse sung to the tune of "Clementine.")


I can't say "nifty, nifty, look who's fifty" just yet. The verse above the first picture is the best I can do for now. No, 09/09/09 is not my 49th birthday. I wouldn't be that lucky. But I did celebrate sometime last week by walking with SAM at Arcadia Mill. We weren't sure if the non-boardwalk part of the trail would be passable with as much rain as we've had lately. Fortunately, we managed to stay reasonably dry, didn't endure too many insect bites, and managed to find some beautiful plants along the way. As far as I can tell from looking at various sites, the berries are the fruit of a Brazilian Peppertree, Schinus terebinthifolius Raddi. If I'm right, it's probably not something the forestry people like to see because it's considered extremely invasive.

The walk last week at the old mill site must have whetted my appetite for even more treasure, and I didn't have long to wait before it was satisfied. My sister, the supreme fabric genius of the family, and my mom ensured that this 49er could celebrate in style.

Sis calls her creation "If Fishes were Stars." It's quite an intricate design using the Stack n' Whack technique. Sis even thought to provide care instructions on the back as a quilt block: "Machine wash only when soiled, mild detergent, gentle cycle, no bleach. Dry flat. Avoid direct sunlight." Guess that means no hanging it outside on the clothesline? So far, I've managed to avoid soiling it because I remove it at night before bedtime. I haven't reached the point where I need adult diapers yet, but Daughter keeps reminding me that it won't be long....

We took the Gold Feller--Mr. T--and Daughter to the National Naval Aviation Museum on Labor Day. He's in the Air Force Reserves--active duty right now--and lived in this area before but had never been to the museum. I think he was pleasantly surprised by the displays, sheer size of it all, and historical significance of the place located in Pensacola NAS, the Cradle of Naval Aviation. He and Daughter have a history of their own. They've been friends for five years, keeping in touch by telephone (Daughter doesn't use e-mail very often). When Mr. T found out that Daughter had split with her latest beau, he wasted no time in getting back to town and making his move. Pity da fool!

He isn't a fool, really. I think he fits right in with the rest of this clan.

I'm happy to say that Mr. T is quite welcome here, and I hope he likes it better than he used to (he hates hot weather). Let's not be in any rush to have Daughter movin' out west, especially way up to Alaska, young Gold Feller!

Chappa-Quid-Pro-Quo--Can Hope Float Where It's Still "Tooth for Tooth?"

Now that we in America--according to the media--have officially reached the end of an era, we should probably give hope a chance to float. Family birthdays tend to fall into that realm of possibility. You wouldn't believe how many there are in my family at this time of year. I hope this cake will suffice for now as my offering of hope.

Aging amalgam fillings--soon to be replaced--require a lot of hope for little pain and much dinero. Every action in life has a consequence, it seems. Too much birthday cake, along with other sweet things, eventually exact a toll. Another toll I'm somewhat concerned about is how much mercury I've consumed over the years as these little miracles of dental ingenuity from the past slowly broke down. It's amazing what we can swallow without giving much thought to it. I suppose we can build up a tolerance for almost anything if it's ingested a little at a time.

For some reason, tolerance seems to be quite the catch-word these days. Grups, though, seem to have the most trouble swallowing the concept whole. They tend to want to chew things slowly and savor the flavor before deciding to completely ingest them or spit them out. It's really not a matter of being un-American or small-minded. It is a sign of experience, survival, and a real hunger for truth--and trust--in an era where those concepts have been as rare as hens' teeth.

A Man may make a Remark--

In itself--a quiet thing

That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark

In dormant nature--lain--

Let us deport--with skill--

Let us discourse--with care--

Powder exists in Charcoal--

Before it exists in Fire.

(a poem by Emily Dickinson, c. 1864)

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"I hope for an America where neither fundamentalist nor humanist will be a dirty word but a fair description of the different ways in which people of good will look at life and into their own souls...." (from Ted Kennedy's speech on Tolerance and Truth)

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Addendum: Just found this article about America's selective memory. I wonder. Could it be the fault of all of those amalgam fillings?

Nature Notes--Si, el Arte en Mi

Each new summer morning in Florida, we, the grups, thrust our heavy legs out of bed and force ourselves to walk while the day is still cool and before the thunderstorms begin to build. We might not spring up as well as we once did, but once the coffee takes effect, inertia has been overcome, and we are almost as good as new again. Motion lotion gets us out of doors and into the early morning light where we find Nature stretching her legs too. We recognize another combatant once more waging war against entropy. The orchard orbweaver, Leucauge venusta, has been busy weaving all night while we slept. She may be tiny now, but she has a voracious appetite for lots of things, maybe even what a bean-eating caterpillar has wrought. Now I see in the photo above why those lovely green beans in my garden went missing and what they have been sacrificed for--el Arte--a long-tailed skipper--Urbanus proteus.


"All Nature's apparent reverses have been but tactical withdrawals. We thought we were beating her back when she was luring us on. What looked to us like hands held up in surrender was really the opening of arms to enfold us for ever...."

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"Every conquest over Nature increases her domain. The stars do not become Nature till we can weigh and measure them: the soul does not become Nature till we can psycho-analyze her. The wresting of powers from Nature is also the surrendering of things to Nature. As long as this process stops short of the final stage we may well hold that the gain outweighs the loss. But as soon as we take the final step of reducing our own species to the level of mere Nature, the whole process is stultified, for this time the being who stood to gain and the being who has been sacrificed are one and the same...." (from C. S. Lewis' The Abolition of Man, 1947)

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Please visit Rambling Woods for this week's Nature Notes and see what other bloggers have been inspired by in nature.