In The Throes of Indian Summer

Here in the northeast we are experiencing that rare weather pattern better known as “Indian summer.” There are many definitions of what constitutes true Indian summer, but what isn’t in dispute is that it is lovely and warm, comes in October or November, lasts for at least a few days, and follows a hard, or killing frost. Some variations say that it must precede the first snow, with temperatures of at least 70 degrees Fahrenheit, but I never depend on such stringent criteria to define my Indian summer. If the sun is out and the late autumn days are balmy and still, or stirred only by a slight breeze from the southwest, it is Indian summer for me.

This year, it came after the first snow, which happened a few weeks ago on a cold and miserable Sunday. That was a nasty day of big, wet flakes mixed with sleet and a cold rain. It coated the grass in slush, but dissipated by the following morning. It unfortunately coincided with me having to drive into the city an hour away to pick up seven arrivals from the corporate headquarters on the west coast who were flying in to Logan airport…bad timing, to be sure. At least I earned time-and-a-half wages for my efforts and was able to take a company car.

That day was like a distant memory this past Sunday, as the frost melted off the grass by mid-morning, and we reveled in the hazy warmth of a low sun and a warm, sweet breeze that stirred the mostly bare trees. Even now, a few days later, though the sun is weaker, it is still weirdly mild outside and I love it.

But it got me to thinking: where does the term “Indian summer” come from? I did a little research and found that its true origins may be lost in time. But there are some things we do know. In most parts of the northern hemisphere, there is a name for the warm weather that follows the hard frost. In Bulgaria, for example, it is known as the “Gypsy summer” or sometimes, “Gypsy Christmas” presumably because it makes outdoor living more bearable for those wandering folk. In Germany it’s known as the “Web summer”, because a certain type of spider weaves webs on the grass and Hungarians know it as the “Crone’s summer”, which refers to the medieval association with Halloween and witchcraft.

The oldest written reference to the term Indian summer was apparently in a letter written by a Frenchman, St. John de Crevecouer, in 1778. He describes, “…an interval of calm and warmth which is called the Indian Summer; its characteristics are a tranquil atmosphere and general smokiness”, referring to the common occurrence of haze in the warm meadows. But where do Indians fit it to the picture? Although no one seems to know for certain, it is suspected that many native peoples here in the United States had a habit of setting fire to the grasslands during this time of year. The smoke mingled with the haze, allowing them to be better able to sneak up on their prey when hunting. Other sources contend that northern tribes saw the warmth of the dry winds as a gift from the gods of the southwest desert; a reprisal of summer, just before the winter.

On Sunday, Mac and I took Rigby down to the shore with the thought of walking her up and down the sand, but it was so nice on the beach, we set up chairs near the surf and read for a few hours. It was like medicine for the soul.

I hate to see this beautiful weather leave, because I know it is likely our last reprieve before winter’s icy grip enfolds us. But for today, it is wonderful.

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Orb Spider's Web

We have a little friend spinning her web near our garage now. I looked her up and found out that she is an Orb spider. It's fascinating to watch her work, deftly weaving this beautiful web of hers.

The tall, feathery, green plume is one of the cosmos I planted from seeds that grew taller than me, but never bloomed. I fertilized, and Mac watered faithfully, to no avail. I never got even one flower out of the darned thing.

That's Mac checking out the evening's spinning session.

This is one busy arachnid. She's an accomplished hunter, smart enough to set up right under the garage light where there is no shortage of small flies, moths and beetles that visit and fall victim to her trap.

How amazing that such a small and seemingly insignificant creature can create something so complex and sublime, a thing of beauty that serves such a practical function. Nature never ceases to amaze me. The more I contemplate the natural world, the more awestruck and humbled I am by all it holds.

Catbird Heaven

Summer has come to our corner of New England. We are lucky enough to have full access to almost one acre of green lawn, which Mac maintains. This yard is ringed with trees and bushes, many of which, we have planted ourselves, over the twenty nine years we've resided here. It is a haven for song birds, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, wild turkeys and even the occasional deer and coyote.

I call the yard; "Catbird Heaven", because we have several Gray Catbirds that live in the bushes at the margins of the yard. On a sunny day, the air is filled with the sounds of their mewing, whistling and chattering. The musical, sing-song calls, that they intersperse with harsh, raspy, squeaking phrases can be heard all summer long in the little green world just outside our door.

Now, in early June, tiny, white, wild roses are sprawling over the raspberry bushes and small evergreen trees at the edges of the yard. Bittersweet vines wrap around poplars, as they climb toward the sun and Virginia creeper crawls over the field grass. Tiny, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, the smallest birds in these parts, except for the Ruby-throated hummingbird, ply the grass for insects. Male Cardinals and Robins battle for turf rights. American Goldfinches soar and dip on their flight paths over the yard, from the bird bath to the top of a maple tree. A pair of Garter snakes bask in the early morning sunlight near the barn doorstep, before starting off on their daily hunt. Chipmunks scurry from rock to garden, trying to avoid the gaze of my dog Rigby, as she surveys the landscape.

It's just another day in paradise...just a sunny Tuesday here in Catbird Heaven.

The Bear Whisperer

For more than a decade, a California man spent much of his time living amongst the great bears of Southeast Alaska, in Katmai National Park. He became a celebrity of sorts, appearing on talk shows and as the subject of a Discovery Channel film. The book; Death in the Grizzly Maze, by Mike Lapinski, tells the story of this controversial man, and his untimely end.

Timothy Treadwell, dedicated his life to grizzly bears. Understanding and protecting them became his passion, and he spent twelve summers camped in the middle of their territory, tempting fate, and angering scientists and park rangers. He became a celebrity wildlife expert, despite the fact that he had no training as an outdoorsman, or education in biology. He wanted nothing else, but to be in the company of grizzlies, and he set out to become the “Bear Whisperer.”

Timothy was a blond, affable, surfer type. Hailing from Malibu, where he had worked as a bartender and a waiter, Tim was a self-described alcoholic and former drug abuser. He reportedly suffered from depression and possibly bi-polar disorder. He was also, by many accounts, a sweet, sensitive man, who experienced a life-changing turn-around, as a result of his time alone in the wilderness with the great bears of Alaska.

Each summer he set up camp in the heart of bear country, enduring the cold and the rain, living on sandwiches, while the mosquitoes feasted on him. He sat alone for hours, in the cold drizzle, surrounded by the enormous animals, making films that would both impress and enrage the wildlife community.

Early on in his ill-fated quest, Timothy developed a dangerously naïve attitude toward the bears, deciding that if humans radiated love to the bears, the bears would welcome our presence. He seemed determined to view the animals as friendly, anthropomorphic creatures, and he gave them names like “Mr. Chocolate”, “Downy” and “Cupcake”. Despite several close calls, he continued to push the envelope by regularly getting within arms’ reach of the powerful animals. He refused to carry bear spray, believing that it was an insult and a betrayal of trust to go among the bears armed in any way. Bear spray is an extra potent form of pepper spray, designed to discharge at high velocity and in a wide swath, capable of turning away a charging bear. Meeting with a faceful of this spray would also have the effect of discouraging the animal from approaching humans in the future, but Tim would have none of it. His belief and his message seemed to be that bears weren’t wild and potentially dangerous animals, but fun loving, friendly creatures. Timothy seemed unable to temper his love of bears with the healthy fear and respect required to remain safe in the wilderness.

Biologists and wilderness guides came to think of him as an eccentric, if not crazy, person and were outraged by his reckless behavior near the bears. Park officials repeatedly warned him not to get so close to the bears, and he promised to heed their warnings, but never did. What frustrates and confounds so many to this day, is why the Park rangers failed to take steps to ban Tim from the park, when it was obvious from his films that he was blatantly breaking all the rules set forth for behavior in bear territory. If they had, it may have saved his life.

On October 5th, 2003, Tim and his girlfriend, Amie Huguenard, were attacked and killed by a pair of grizzly bears in Katmai National Park. The following day, park rangers who were investigating had to kill the animals. Ironically, the man who had dedicated his life to protecting grizzlies, was not only killed by them, but also caused the deaths of the bears that had attacked him...a tragedy all around and one that could have easily been prevented.

The debate continues. Tim obviously loved bears and had the best of intentions. His films and his public persona served to educate the public about these magnificent animals. But while his fans see him as a hero and a wildlife protector, whose presence in the Grizzly Maze prevented poaching, some experts believe that his presence in the bears’ midst was simple harassment and a source of stress to the animals.

Mike Lapinski’s book is an excellent and balanced accounting of the tragic story.

photo by Phil Scofield

The Sentinel Bee

I took a break this afternoon, between walking Rigby and painting the living room to sit outside behind the garage for a spell. It was ninety degrees and sunny, with a cool, dry breeze. Beautiful, really. As they say so often up here in these parts, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" So true. I think it could be a hundred and I wouldn't mind it too much as long as the humidity was low. The sheets and blankets I hung on the line were dry almost as soon as I finished hanging them, and they snapped in the breeze, startling my little dog Rigby.

I was sitting in the shade with Rigby, just noticing how green and lush things are getting out there. We have a hedge of forsythia separating us from our neighbors to the west, and right now it is a riot of shocking, brilliant yellow. It's so bright, it almost hurts the eyes. The grass really needs cutting now, and I watched a male cardinal fluttering about in it. His bright red color was so striking against the new grass. Everywhere, the ubiquitous robins were hopping around, or singing loudly from the trees. I've heard that the first settlers named them after European birds with similar plumage, but that our American Robins are really thrushes, and would be more accurately called "black-capped thrush", or "orange breasted thrush". At this time of year, they are by far the most commonly seen bird on suburban lawns in these parts.

A robin suddenly started up an alarm call as I sat there, and I could see him calling from a low branch a few yards away. At first, I thought I was the reason for his distress, until I saw the big hawk rise up and flap away over the treetops. I haven't been able to identify him yet, but he is lightly colored underneath and is pretty large. I've never been able to get a good look at him, except from beneath.

Mac and I have both noticed that there is a big bumble bee that apparently lives underneath the eaves of the barn, behind the gutter. There's probably a bunch of them living in there, but we most often see this one huge, solitary guard hovering around the edge of the roof. It's as big as my thumb, it seems much bigger than other bumble bees I have seen, and the rear end of his body is shiny and leathery looking. It has a habit of zooming down and investigating anything going on in the yard. I don't know much about bumble bees, their habits, or how they live. I've seen them flying up out of holes in the ground, and I'd assumed they always lived underground, but this guy(or girl, maybe), seems very intent on guarding this spot under the eaves. Maybe it's a different kind of bee altogether. Today, the big bee sentinel suddenly appeared in front of my face. It hovered a few inches away from me and I had the distinct impression it was "reading" me...deciding whether I, or Rigby, might be a threat. I looked into those big black eyes and stayed still for a moment. It studied me for a few seconds, then dropped down for a look at Rigby. I was glad that Rigby didn't snap at it - she generally tries to eat any insect she comes across. It hung in the air for a moment longer, sizing us up, then buzzed off toward the barn, apparently satisfied that we weren't any cause for concern. I intend to do some research and find out more about them, because this big bumble has peaked my curiosity.

A Stunning "Secret"

In 1975, I read a book that truly changed my world view forever. At the time, I was struggling with trying out a vegetarian lifestyle, not for health reasons, mind you, but because of a love for animals, in fact, a love of all living creatures. I had been raised on meat and potatoes. If beef wasn't on the menu for dinner, then it must be chicken. I was not enjoying my new diet.

My then boyfriend,(now husband) Mac, was an ethical vegetarian at that time and had been, for about ten years, refusing to consume anything; "that had ever been alive." By that, he specifically meant anything that walks, swims or flies. Anything else was fair game. Plants were not considered in his theory of alive things. Good thing, too, because at five feet, ten inches tall, he weighed in at only about one hundred and thirty pounds.

One day I took a stroll uptown and was browsing through the racks at my local library when I came upon "The Secret Life Of Plants" by Peter Tompkins and Christopher Bird. My thinking about what constitutes "life" and consciousness was about to be challenged in a major way.

The premise of the book was fascinating. What if plants possess a sort of consciousness, and can perceive their environment? What if they have an actual awareness of their surroundings, and of us? At first, it seemed too far-out to even consider, but then, I read the case that the authors had put forth, including experiments in which the leaves of various plants were attached to polygraph (lie detector) machines and registered reactions to water, a lighted match, music, and even human thoughts. The effect of the book on me was that I now have to consider that plants may be just as "alive" as animals, somehow aware, possibly capable of some kind of feeling, however different from our concept of such things as those feelings might be.

After reading the book, I gave up my vegetarian aspirations. My husband Mac started eating meat again shortly thereafter as well. If plants too were possibly sentient beings, or at least in some way conscious, how could I continue to eat them while eschewing animal flesh? How could I make the judgement that a bird or cow or fish was somehow more alive and thus, more important than a lettuce? And yet, we all have to eat something.

In the end, I decided that my approach would be to try to honor, respect and appreciate all living things to the best of my ability, and to eat from all food groups. I avoid the unnecessary killing of insects and "weeds" alike. It seems to me that "life" may be subjective, and the understanding of what constitutes "being" could possibly vary widely across the vast span of species found in creation.

I have also realized that I could not blame a carnivorous predator for eating me either, if I were ever to find myself in that situation.

Dandy Little Lions

I’ve never been quite clear on what makes a plant a “weed.” Take the lowly dandelion, for example. It has a bright, pretty, yellow flower, When it goes to seed, it turns into a whimsical puffball, that when blown, sends dozens of tiny parachutes off on the breeze, the stuff of fairy tales. In my estimation, a boring expanse of plain, green lawn is enlivened by a sprinkling of the sunny, up-turned, yellow faces of dandelions. The leaves of the dandelion are edible and make a nice addition to a salad, and the flowers may be used as a garnish, or can be made into wine. In fact, all parts of this ubiquitous plant are edible and also have medicinal purposes.


So who decided that this useful little plant was a scourge to be eradicated? What is so terrible about it? I cannot imagine looking out on an expanse of green grass dotted with sunny yellow blooms and feeling an overwhelming urge to poison them at the nearest opportunity, but hey - that’s just crazy old me. We don’t appreciate all the wonderful things plants can do. There are probably plants being wiped out right now in some vanishing rainforest that hold the key to a cure for cancer or some other terrible disease. I think it says a lot about us humans and our damaged relationship with the natural world. We would all benefit by getting back to our roots, literally.


The worst thing I can imagine is spraying poison around your lawn or garden...think of the all the living creatures that will be affected. Birds, bees, butterflies, small animals and possibly children will be exposed to these toxic chemicals. Please don’t do it! You can reduce the possibility of dandelions taking root on your lawn by mowing high and leaving the clippings behind as mulch. Seeding any bare spots in the fall will also help. Pulling dandelions isn’t very effective, as the taproot generally breaks and the plant can regenerate from a small piece of it. If the thought of having yellow flowers on your lawn really angers or depresses you, you can try using vinegar as a natural alternative to chemical herbicides. Myself, I’d rather just enjoy them. A flower is a flower to me.
photo by David Beaulieu

Owl Miss You

Here is a drawing I made of an owl.
We had a little owl in the woods at the back of our yard. At different times of the year, late at night or in the very early morning while it was still dark, we heard his quavering tremelo. Sometimes my sister and her husband heard him too. Their home, a quarter mile away was apparently in his territory too. Lately though, we had not heard from him.
Two mornings ago, Mac came in from walking Rigby around the barn and reported that there was a bird party in progress out in the woods in back of the barn.
When dawn broke that day, the temperature was hovering around 5 degrees farhenheit. Since Mac is a carpenter and his current job is strictly outdoors, it would not be a working day due to the bitter cold. As he waited for Rigby to take care of her business in a snowbank, his attention was drawn by two, big Blue Jays, a pair of cardinals and a legion of slate-colored juncos all fluttering around one particular tree. We puzzled over what could be stirring them up. There didn't appear to be any food or seed around, and he had not seen any predators lurking.
We forgot about the birds as we became absorbed in the tasks of the day.
Later that evening Mac and Rigby were again near the spot and the dog started pulling on her leash, desperately trying to get over near that same tree. Although it was now gathering gloom in the woods, Mac thought he could see a small dark shape in the snow at the base of the tree that looked out of place. He would take a closer look in the morning when it was light.
The next morning as I was making my eggs and pouring coffee, Rigby burst into the kitchen with Mac close behind her.
"It's an owl...there's no sign of injury, but he is dead", Mac told me. "He's just lying there at the base of the tree. Almost looks like he's sleeping. That must be what all the birds were fussing over."
Later I walked out to have a look. We never saw him while he was alive, but there he was. A screech owl, I think. He was small and precious and he did look almost as if he was asleep. All his pretty grey feathers were intact, little ear tufts trembling in the cold breeze. I feel sad in my heart that he's no longer alive and I wonder why he died. Surely, being a northern bird the cold weather wouldn't have bothered him too much, at least I wouldn't think so. The other birds may have been harassing him, but there wasn't any blood - no sign that they had hurt him. Maybe he was old by owl standards and it was just his time. We will miss hearing his voice. All things must pass.

No Explanation

I sat in my window on a sultry summer night, staring at something I could not comprehend, trying to wrap my mind around it. Curiosity quickly turned to abject terror as I watched this strange white fireball do something I would have thought completely out of character for a natural phenomenon. Rolling along in a straight line was one thing, suddenly taking a sharp, ninety degree turn as it did almost seemed to indicate intent...or...intelligence? I was struck by the sudden thought that somehow it was aware of me! Crazy! But I wasn't taking any chances and I did just what any coward would do under the circumstances... I slammed the window shut and locked it. Then I slammed the other window in the room shut and locked that one as well. I pulled both window shades down tightly and sat there hyperventilating for a while. It quickly became sweltering in my little room, but there was no way on God's green Earth that I was opening those windows that night. I remember imagining it outside underneath the window. I pictured myself lifting the shade and seeing it there. I didn't sleep very much that night, or for several nights immediately afterward. I tried to tell my parents about it the next day, but they didn't seem too concerned. I suspect they thought I was "imagining things" and I didn't waste much time trying to convince anyone. I knew what I had seen...I just did not know what it was!
Since then in the many years that have passed, I think about what it might possibly have been. The "willow-the-wisp" answer seemed plausible until I thought about that sudden sharp turn it took into my driveway. Ball lightning was a major contender, but the fact that there was no sound at all, no thunder heard or lightning seen that night at all, seemed to rule that out.
It occurred to me that perhaps it was not a natural thing at all, and I could not rule out extra-terrestrial(or extra-dimensional?)possibilities. In general, I have a very open mind. I definitely believe that there are unseen forces, energies and perhaps, entities that have not been officially documented. It seems to me the greatest arrogance, to dismiss something simply because we have not personally experienced it, and science has not, or cannot prove its existence.
The relatively recent emergence of the incredible world of quantum physics has validated much that we would have previously thought impossible. There is much we still don't know and cannot explain about this universe. I still don't know what it was, but I would love to find out!

Muskrat In The Marsh, Beaver In The Brook

Near where I live, there is a small (and I mean small, like fifteen by twenty feet) retention pond. I have named it “The Ball Swamp”, because it is a repository of balls of every size and description. There is a blue, plastic ball the size of a basketball, a whiffle ball, a yellow and black soccer ball, a big, multi-colored beach ball, a glowing green football and two smallish, red rubber balls, the type that you might throw to a dog to fetch. It is the final resting place of last halloween's rotten pumpkins and assorted pieces of trash as well. The sides are lined with skunk cabbage and fuzzy brown cattails have sprung up in the shallow water. The little marsh sits on the property line between two houses. There is a little man-made swale running into the swampy area, resulting from the builder of the two homes re-routing a natural stream that originally ran through the center of the lots to make them buildable.
The houses are each home to several children and the yards meet at the lowest point which happens to contain the pond, so every ball that rolls to the edge of either yard ends up going down the hill and settling in the muck below. The kids have, no doubt, been instructed never to go near the water, lest they risk falling in and drowning, or at least getting covered in mud. Because of its readily disputable location, I imagine that neither homeowner wants to claim it and thereby admit responsibility for cleaning it up, or at least fishing the balls out. So, year after year, the swamp dries up in the summer, floods in the spring and fall, hosts the periodic hatching of a few frogs and mosquitoes and gathers balls.

Last spring I was walking by this area with Rigby and my husband Mac in tow, and I saw a flash of wet, shiny, brown fur. I focused just in time to see a fat little muskrat navigate down the stream, disappearing into a drain pipe that runs beneath one of the driveways and empties into the Ball Swamp! The little stream runs parallel to the sidewalk less than ten feet from a main road, and one of the yards it runs through is guarded by a trio of scrappy little poodles that walk the fence perimeter most of the day. Despite all this, we have observed the glossy little fellow winding his way down the little stream several times since then. I'm delighted by his presence there and impressed at how life springs eternal and nature thrives in the most unlikely of circumstances.

This past summer Mac and I paused on our walk with Rigby, to gaze down over a little concrete bridge along our regular route. A brook that drains the higher ground to the north flows down through this area and meets up with the Charles River near the southern town line. It was a warm June day and the thick brush around the brook hummed sonorously with the buzzing of bees and other insects. Raspberry cane and tangles of bittersweet lined the banks and tiny, white, wild roses scented the air. Below in the water, small fish darted around beneath the dappled surface. We stood watching them for a moment, until my husband spotted something else floating a few yards away. He pointed out a large, fur-covered shape bobbing in the brook, hung up on a tangle of branches and weeds. It was golden brown in color, roughly the size of a watermelon and definitely dead.

Mac recalled recently seeing a big pile of sticks and branches that looked a lot like a dam, spanning the brook further downstream. He wondered if it could possibly have been made by a beaver. Maybe this carcass was a beaver! I didn't think that was possible. Don't beavers live where there aren't many people? Surely they occupy big lakes and rivers in wilderness areas, not little brooks running through thickly populated neighborhoods in suburbia. It had to be a woodchuck that drowned somehow, maybe hit by a car up on the road and staggered down here to die, swept in from the water's edge.

Later in the year as the leaves fell and the cold winds blew, we were again walking along beside the brook and came to the concrete bridge. As we passed over it, I was admiring the gold and red colors of the leaves all around it and I noticed that the landscape had changed; the entire area around the brook had become filled with shallow water. The banks were no longer distinct, and the whole area was flooded. It had been a somewhat wet year, but this was still surprising. Suddenly, my eyes fell on a sapling that appeared to have been cut a few feet from the ground, just off the road. On closer inspection, we saw that it had what looked like teeth marks, rather than hatchet marks, chiseling the trunk to a sharp point where it had toppled over. All around us we found branches that had apparently been chewed to a point in this way. Mac had been right, as bizzare as it seemed, there was apparently a beaver in the brook.

Then last week as we approached the bridge, with everything coated in heavy snow, we saw it. Now that all the vegetation had died back, the surrounding landscape was all shades of gray and white. The trees looked like black sentinels standing knee deep in the frozen water, and the brook was a sterling silver ribbon, barely moving through the ice. There, no more than twenty five yards from the road was a big dome of sticks, branches and small logs, frosted with white. We stood marveling over this and trying to decide if it could possibly be a beaver lodge, or whether someone simply dumped a huge pile of their yard waste in the water, creating that illusion. I glanced across the bridge to the opposite side of the brook and in the far distance, nearly as far away as I could see, a brown shape sat on the ice. As I watched, it appeared to be cleaning it's face and head. I alerted Mac and we quietly started moving across the bridge for a better look. As our feet crunched on the ice, the animal startled and immediately dropped into a hole in the ice and was gone. Too big for a muskrat, and too aquatic for a woodchuck, too far away to be absolutely certain, but we believe it was a beaver. With the steel-jaw leghold traps now illegal, it appears these critters are now on the come back. While this is thrilling to me, I also know that it will cause problems. Altering the landscape of private properties and turning backyards into ponds will not sit well with the occupying army that has claimed this place for humanity. What about the body we saw bloating in the sun on the brook last summer? Why did it die? I wonder about that, and about what will happen next.

Sun and Snow

For a few hours this morning, it was like a different world here in our neighborhood.
We live on one of two main roads in our town. If you drive from one end of our street to the other it will take you straight through, from the adjoining town to our east, straight into the one that borders us on the west. Running parallel on the north side is another main road which is a heavily traveled state route eventually leading into Boston. These two main roads are separated by a matrix of short, quiet little streets with almost no traffic where Rigby and I like to walk. Most of the houses are fairly close together here. There are little Cape style homes with screen-in porch additions and shoebox ranches interspersed with stately Colonials and gently decomposing Victorians.

My husband and I rent the second floor of a very old house, built in the early 1800s. There are many other two or three family homes scattered around the area as well. We have been here for almost thirty years and we raised our two children here. It is the next best thing to owning our own home, as it has an acre of lush backyard of which we have full use. It also has a barn that my husband uses for his workshop and maintains along with the rest of the property. It's surrounded by a narrow margin of woods.

Around us in this part of town are hills and flat stretches, and in places you can walk along the Charles river, or one of its tributaries for a spell.
Yesterday we got two rounds of snow. Together, I would estimate they totaled around 14 or 15 inches of light, sugar powder.

This morning Rigby and I ventured out into a sparkling, impossibly white world. The air smelled fresh and wonderful, blue jays were calling and the sun made diamonds appear on front lawns. We made our way across the neighborhood, drinking it all in. Suddenly, a great clot of snow fell from near the top of a huge hemlock tree and a thick, white curtain of snow plummeted to the ground a few feet away from us. It hit the ground with a muffled thud and billowed out like a little mock avalanche to envelope us for a moment in a cold and glittering fog.
Surprise and delight are found in the simplest of things.

Diggin' On Rigby

Rigby is possibly the world's cutest dog. Okay, I'd probably also say that about any one of a thousand dogs, but she's mine. She's a schnauzer-cattle dog mutt, but most people think she's some kind of terrier, or a strange new breed.

I have read that Schnauzers are related to Terriers. I've heard they were bred for the same purpose; hunting and catching small mammals like rats. Rigby has a hard time restraining herself from jumping on the cats and shaking them to smithereens, but she's a good dog and I have told her not to, so she hasn't. She eyes them constantly and when she gets jealous she will run over and push her nose into their sides, warning them off.

Rigby likes everyone and her one big flaw is her determination to jump up and embrace every person she meets. Despite passing obedience class with flying colors, she cannot seem to resist the impulse to do this.

At the end of each day, Rigby signals to the world that her pack has come home by singing loudly; "Arroo rooooooo, Rrroo!".

Rigby knows there are rabbits in the yard and her dearest wish is to find them and catch them. She sniffs out their trails each day, her nose to the ground as she races around in twisting patterns. Sometimes she sees deer in the back woods and warns them with a loud bark not come into the yard, so they wait until she goes inside. The gray and red squirrels chastise her in chattering tones and mock her because she can't climb trees. Rigby bides her time. Someday they might regret it!

Rigby likes to sleep with her people on the big bed, right in the middle. When Rigby wants us to wake up and play with her, she licks our faces until we do. Rigby is loved.

Snow Wonder

Good Sunday morning! Another snowstorm is in full swing. Outside the drifts are growing. We have had such cold temperatures this past week that there was not much melting at all, so the snow banks along the driveway are pretty big.
One good thing is that the temperature has climbed to about 28F this morning, and it feels almost warm by comparison to yesterday and Friday.


I am a beach bum by nature. I love summer weather, and there is nothing more appealing to me than lying on warm sand for hours, listening to the herring gulls cry and the waves slap the shore. So why do I still live here where the outside world that I so love to be in is frozen for so much of the year? Because I know of no other place where you can experience so many kinds of weather, culture and so much diverse beauty as in New England.

Here, after a relatively short drive I can experience the lights of Boston or Providence or New York city. I can ride the ferry to Block Island or the Vineyard. I can be in Kennebunkport, Maine in Dock Square or strolling on the cliff walk in Newport, Rhode Island in less than 2 hours time. I can savor lunch in the North End and dinner in Chinatown if I mosey over to Boston. In my limited traveling, I’ve often thought that I might like to stay at a sunny locale permanently, but I know I would miss this magical corner of Earth where I was born, not to mention my loved ones, most of whom are all around me here.

So now, the flakes are sifting down cloaking the spruce trees in the yard with a pristine, white mantel. The juncos are scrapping with the titmice inside the labyrinths of the forsythia hedge and I am warm and dry. Maybe winter in new England isn’t so bad after all.

In The Dark Heart of Winter

By Fahrenheit standards, the temperature is hovering around zero today. In the first blush of dawn I opened the blinds in a southeast facing window and stared out into the grey and pink tinted sky.

Across the street there is an enormous maple tree. It towers above the two story home next to it, its branches completely bare at this time of year. Something caught my gaze at the very top of this tree. Clinging to a thin twig jutting up from the highest branch was, of all things, a robin! It's the dark heart of the northeast winter, mid January and the coldest day of the winter so far.

I'd have thought all of its kind were basking in an orange grove somewhere down south about now, but there it was, a brown and orange ball of feathers, attached to this precarious perch that is swaying in the icy breeze...amazing.

I am humbled (shamed a bit,really) and inspired by the example of this small creature, weathering adversity in the only way he can, stalwart against the difficult situation he finds himself in and doing his best just to survive. Thus does nature impart another lesson to me.