Alina's Adventures

Love letter #121: The poetic life of the egg tooth.

Three eggs discovered at a rest area in Kentucky.

The last few lines from Gail Mazur's poem, "Evening", come to mind. The lines in which the elderly woman insists that she wants the blue eggs more than the promise of the bird tucked within them.

If it weren't for the specialized aptitude of the egg tooth, the baby bird might never emerge from the egg. The baby would remain a possibility rather than a probability. 

The egg tooth fascinates me. Lodged in my neural networks, waiting to morph into the perfect metaphor, I hold it back like a pawn piece on a chess board, knowing the perfect exchange will appear to those with the patience to see it. 

Chicks with wings that don't work, those baby birds, ensconced in the protective covering of the portable womb known more commonly as "egg". Since the beak and the claws of the chick are not fully developed and cannot penetrate the egg shell at the time when the chick is ready to emerge, the egg tooth plays it brief, dazzling role. 

Found only in emerging chicks, the egg tooth's purpose is brief and to the point; it serves only to assist the baby bird in breaking through the hard shell in the process known as "pipping".

For a chick, the cost of growing within the egg-womb is a decreased ability to absorb enough oxygen through the pores of its eggshell. Compelled by its natural wisdom, the oxygen-thirsty chick uses its egg tooth to peck a hole in the air sac located at the flat end of the egg. This sac provides a few hours worth of air, during which the chick breaks through the eggshell to the outside. 

Far from being a singular miracle, the egg tooth works in concert with a special muscle on the back of the chick's neck. This pipping muscle provides chicks with the strength to force the egg tooth through the inner membrane of the eggshell.

The chick hatches, leaving its shell behind. Soon it learns to open its mouth expectantly. Finally, a few days after hatching, the egg tooth falls off, its purpose exhausted. 

C.D. Wright admires the egg tooth in "Obscurity and Selfhood", a poem published in 1949. I like the poem so much that I can't bear to parse it, to surgically remove pieces and pretend any life can be left in the dissected corpse. So here it is, in it's entirety, in honor of the marvelous egg tooth.

OBSCURITY AND SELFHOOD

by C. D. Wright

Not far
from a college.
Nevertheless.
A man
living by himself

kept his fighting cocks in plain sight. Each had its own tether and
miniature shed and dish with embossed sobriquet. Their domestication
reserved for battle before the table. Gallus gallus domesticus. A young
male, a cockerel, my husband’s patronymic before the adoption. Some hens
are disposed to poach another’s egg. Once there were teeth. Given certain
conditions they could come back. If not a full set. Even now a breathing hole
has to be pipped for the offspring to break out. This is done with an egg tooth.
Not a true tooth. Love among the chickens involves a circle dance. He is
a wonderful dancer. It goes straight to her brain. Before and after they prefer
to wash off in dust. Ashes will work if no dust. If they aren’t forced into shedding
one another’s blood, they can live until their heart gives out.
The cock
the man
could not
resist
loving.
He withdrew
from
the ring.
Yet
relinquished.
To settle
an unforgiven
debt.

My question is this:
Would you describe yourself
as a wanderer, a friend of the court, amicus curiae, falsely construed as a snitch, a blue yodeler,
   an apostate, a lost cause, a bird in the house, a biter, a common blogger, a contender, a purse
   snatcher, a false witness, a palterer, a silkie, a backyarder, channeler
for malevolent spirits, girt in the loins, figure on a shard of black pottery, moderately active, a fog
   machine, a visionary miserabilist, a chook or a cuckold, a roundhead, a little seditious, a slow-wave
   sleeper, a dead mule, a gongorist, honey on the comb, half goat half god, a white throwback, crossed
   with a mongrel, a genesis, a retired fighting
cock,
a doll
named
Memphis.

"Dream of the Huntress", a poem by Robin Robertson.

It is always the same:

she is standing over me

 

in the forest clearing,

a dab of blood on her cheek

 

from a rabbit or a deer.

I am aware of nothing

 

but my mutinous flesh,

and the traps of desire

 

sent to test it—

her bare arms, bare

 

shoulders, her loosened hair,

the hard, high breasts,

 

and under a belt

of knives and fish-lures,

 

her undressed wound.

Every night the same:

 

the slashed fetlock,

the buckling under;

 

I wake in her body

broken, like a gun.

What happened at Toddler Theatre in Dublin.

There they are- the King, Gnome, Prophet, and Eldest, sitting in the pews of the Abbey Theatre of Dublin, Ohio.

The whole thing was my idea, of course. We went to watch a show billed "Toddler Theatre". The name evoked images of costumed creatures singing and dancing, a play especially crafted for toddlers, an introduction to the fascinating world of theatre, a world well-loved by myself and the King. 

But Gnome and Prophet were neither amused nor intrigued by the interactive toddler dancing and music. They watched with all the curiosity of spectators.

"You two look like intellectual snobs," I parrotted in my best Katherine Hepburn voice. 

Performer Marlene Metz played children’s music on her guitar and sang like a happy mermaid.

Marlene was joined onstage by Ladybug Girl, one of Prophet's favorite characters. I thought this might bring the snobs from their seats.

Prophet quickly informed me, however, that "the Ladybug Girl was not a real one", merely a "pretend version" paid to trick gullible toddlers.

Would you believe it if I told you that the ladies didn't budge from their seats for a second? It was the Eldest who saved the day. Because if anyone in that theatre was singing every single song and clapping right along, inserting his own cheers and "hoorays", it was our 10-year-old boy, the same boy who begged to go down and shake hands with Ladybug Girl, the only child above the age of six on the premises. 

If it weren't for the Eldest, our excursion would have been a bust. Instead, it was an excuse for maniacal laughter when we jumped back in the spaceship and started back towards Bunicu's place. At the first stoplight, the Eldest announced, "Boy, that sure was FUN!". Then he added, "We should do that again sometime," as Prophet and Gnome glared ominously in his direction.

An afternoon with an eastern tent caterpillar.

The days of bugs and fuzzy wuzzy worms are upon us. As I sit in the garden, seeking out small weeds, staking tiny tomato sprouts, some of which might yet be tender for the wider world of Alabama dirt, the kids build houses and hotels for various insects and bugs.

Hard to say how many times I paused and looked up because a little person brought me a bug.

Eastern tent caterpillar (Malacosoma americanum)

This proud friend was discovered by M. N., who held it in her palms, the tone of her voice dropping to a whisper to describe it. It is an eastern tent caterpillar, a devourer of oak and maple leaves, a furry crawler on its way to becoming a type of snout moth.

"It is called a tent caterpillar because the larvae build a tent up in the crooks of particular trees," I try to explain. The Eldest knows all the details. He picks up where I left off.

The Eldest describes the large castle he has fashioned for a cockroach who made the mistake of showing his face in the garage. He gazes at M.N.'s caterpillar longingly.

The adult moth of the eastern tent caterpillar emerges from the caterpillar-spun cocoon about 3 weeks later. The moth is reddish-brown with two pale stripes running diagonally across each fore-wing. 

Gnome wants to know when we will see the moth. I tell her that she might meet it flapping against her bedroom window one night. Because moths are butterflies that prefer to play in the dark- butterflies that don't like the light. 

"Okay mommy," Gnome smiles, nods, chews on a leaf. Our eyes meet for a brief, beautiful moment. Her expression unfurls into something light an expansive.

"You know what, mommy?" she asks.

"I know what you tell me."

"Maybe I can meet the moth on the outside of my window......"

"Hmmmm.... maybe so, Gnome."

"Because I AM a moth, too! I am a butterfly that likes to play at night!"

"So am I," I confess to this little kindred spirit standing before me barefoot, chewing on what I can only hope is a violet leaf. And so we are.

Encounters with a turkey oak tree.

Turkey oak tree (Quercus cerris)

The King found a turkey oak tree nut on the sidewalk in Dublin. Ironically, the turkey oak is native to the land of my birth and other parts of southeastern Europe as well as Asia Minor. The genus is characterized by shoot buds surrounded by soft bristles, bristle-tipped leaf lobes, and acorns with hairy cups that usually mature in 18 months.

Kissing the dogwood flowers goodbye.

Spring winds brought down the last of the white flowering dogwood blooms this week. It didn't take long for the girls to notice the wild and beautiful shower of white petals basting the front lawn. It didn't take long for them to find a reason to revel in it.

Prophet droped her watering can and raced to catch "snowflakes" tumbling from the dogwood. Gnome scooped up handfuls and scattered the petals over her "pony's secret path". Far be it from me to point out that a path strewn with flower petals won't stay secret for long.

Wherever you are, I hope you are finding time to race across the grass and catch a face-full of falling flower petals.

"Possession", a poem by Barbara Kingsolver.

The things I wish for are:
A color. A forest.
The devil and ice in my mouth.
Everything
that can’t be owned.
A leopard, a life, a kiss.
You
Never let me down.
To know that you have wanted me too
is as good as the deed
of trust.

Exploring Dublin, Ohio for a week.

Stopping to collect dandelions at a truck stop other than the one we keep hunting.

Every couple of years, we pack the family into the spaceship and jet off to Dublin, Ohio for a week-long visit with my dad, Pam, and Grandma Vicki. Every year, it seems that the King spends the entire trip checking maps and reconfiguring old memories to try and locate the truck stop where he asked me to marry him.

A statue slumbering on the front porch of Bunicu's abode.

Every year, the truck stop eludes us and the memories grow a little fuzzier. In a way, it's like the Holy Grail of our relationship- this elusive, mysterious location where the King proposed holy things and I surprised myself by doing what I vowed I would never, ever do, namely, marry a male of the homo sapiens sapiens variety.

We arrived safely in Dublin with none of the usual spaceship troubles. Bunicu and Pam were overjoyed to see us. Apparently, they had forgotten how much non-stop, noisy fun occurred during our previous visit. I figured it wouldn't take long for them to remember.

Prophet and Gnome find some friends on the front lawn.

I was taken by surprise to find snow in the forecast for our first few days. Alas, I had packed light coats and cardigans- but nothing anywhere near a winter coat. After spending the full course of an hour complaining about the cold weather and reverting to less mature version of my teenage self, it finally struck me that whining was ultimately the most boring activity of all. All the nearby thrift stores were be hosting end-of-season sales for winter coats, so we made off with $10 and winter wear to last us through the next day's snow.

Undeterred by their mother's self-pity festival, the kids found ways to amuse themselves almost immediately. Much to the surprise of Doru and Pam, the kids decided that the silver lawn art was made for riding. Their superior horsemanship skills stunned my dad into admiring silence.

Even the town of Dublin, Ohio boasts its share of cowboys. 

All the exciting activity on the front yard of a Dublin historic home inspired us to set out on the first stroll of many. The cold weather kept us moving and exploring. 

We noticed several homes in which people kept bees.

"What is that white tree with flowers that looks like a fountain, mom?" inquired the ever-curious Eldest. When it doubt, resolve to figure it out. I made a note to snap a picture and save it for identification.

The beautiful weeping cherry tree opens its white blossoms in April.

Our gallivanting landed us at Monterey Park, where the Eldest organized acorn boat races down the small creek whose baptized name slips my memory. 

Prophet's acorn was marked with a yellow dandelion flower, which she promptly rescued after a brief shipwreck. I love how this photo captured the presence of her reflection as well as her shadow, one super-imposed upon the other.

My dad's fancy-pants wine cellar.

After strolling for several miles, the little people got tired. So we ventured back, where the dudes played so many rounds of Dominion that the girls found themselves inventing songs with "dominionate" used as a verb in a lyric.

Our encounter with a black salamander friend.

Black salamander (Aneides flavipunctatus)

During an insect hunt earlier this week, we discovered an amphibian. Prophet suggested we look in the old woodpile for insects, and so I wandered over to the pile and pulled up the moist, slimy, spring-sodden tarp which normally covers the wood.

That's when we first spotted our black salamander friend- though we didn't identify him as a black salamander yet. Instead, we referred to him in the manner selected by Gnome as "black worm with legs". It was a makeshift name which served its brief purpose.

It was Mary who made the final identification. "Isn't that a salamander?" she asked.

Indeed, the Black salamander (or speckled black salamander) is a species of salamander in the Plethodontidae family endemic to these United States. Its preferred natural habitatsinclude temperate forests and temperate grassland. 

Sighting a black salamander is a more of a fortunate encounter than an event which can be planned or expected. This is because suburban sprawl threatens the natural habitat of this wild-dwelling cousin of the newt.

It's also because the salamander spends eleven-and-a-half months of the year underground, emerging only for a brief period after the first big spring rains to make a little love and contribute a jelly-like mass of eggs, its reliable homage to spring and the cycles of life.

A lovely salamander printable handout (Karen Johlas-Szalkowski)

Spotted salamander coloring page (Lee Hansen)

Salamander life cycle (Dave Huth)

Tiger salamander life cycle coloring page (Wikipedia)

"Salamander shrinkage linked to climate change" (Nature)
An interesting article about how amphibians are being affected by climate change

Another article about "salamander shrinkage" (Salon)

Meditations on the uses of anger- and the uselessness of despair.

Still, you cannot believe in uprisings without believing in some possibility of social change, and you cannot believe in positive change without believing that some things are morally preferable to others.

So writes Episcopal priest Garret Keizer in The Enigma of Anger. I console myself with his words as often as I hold his words (somewhat angrily) against others. 

Speaking to my dad or to my in-laws about current events and history only reminds me that the presence of facts does not diminish the prevalence of fictions. We tell ourselves stories based on a compendium of characters and then refuse to accept that any story apart from the one we tell ourselves can matter. 

I’m not good at discerning the precise place where patriotism turns into idolatry. My personal manner of reconciling myself with the mass-murdering apparatus known as the nation-state is an ascetic one. I refuse to add the saccharine of patriotism to the bitter drink, lest it lull me into revisionism.

The drink stays bitter so I’m not tempted to lie about it. 

So why is this drinker of bitter-draughts, the girl who declines to make the drink taste sweet, the idealist? How can we explain the fact that she is the one who believes in hope- believes in the value of protest and picket, finds comfort and fellowship in speaking truth to power- while those who sip from the sweetened tea recline and declare, “That’s just the way the world is….”

“Ever since Eve tasted the fruit,” they declare.

“Eat, drink, and be merry,” they reassure, “for tomorrow we die”.

Or, my personal favorite, “Humans sin and only Jesus is perfect”.

Hallelujah. Amen. Someone pass me that gun so I can take a shot at that hoodie-wearing scoundrel who’s looking for trouble. 

For all my sadness at the human condition, I understand that the American Revolution was not (as some armchair theologians might claim) an act of God but an act of human beings. I understand that human beings are capable of great things and awful things. I cannot understand attempts to mitigate or downplay the difference. 

"The feeling I dread most is not fear but despair: the dim, oppressive sense that the more things change, the more they stay the same," writes Barbara Kingsolver in the first essay of the captivating book of essays aptly titled, Small Wonder. It's a book to which I return often.

The persistence of evil and cruelty is not a sound reason for denying the way in which evil changes shape and form over time. In fact, the extent of this change is usually the reason we fail to acknowledge the most recent form of evil colluding in our daily lives. 

The Boy Scouts now "allow" gay members to scout, but the institution still refuses to permit gay "troop leaders". So a gay father can't lead his scout's troop.

Behind this decision lies the sort of shameful thinking we rarely confront. In this case, the rule is maintained by the unspeakable fear that a gay man is the victim of his own "disturbed" sexuality- a sexuality from which young boys must be protected, one that must never be allowed in a position of leadership. Imagine if single mothers were not allowed to leader Girl Scout troops for fear that their divorces or lack of marriage would "contaminate" young girls. Imagine if skin color determined one's access to leadership positions.

Don't tiptoe around "No"- say it. Set it in stone.

Black Americans are no longer slaves. Things do change. But those Americans who wanted to keep their slaves resorted to the same excuse that "things stay the same"- that change is ultimately impossible, that humans can't help but oppress one another and then validate such oppression by calling it "natural".

What if it is despair- that feeling that nothing you do can make a difference- that keeps us from doing the right thing? Rabid, irrational fear might explain bombing innocent civilians, but it is despair which keeps from acknowledging the horror of what we have done and facing it with courage and humility.

Watching a luna moth emerge and dry its wings.

It was the Eldest who first spotted the bright green friend crouched in a corner of the castle exterior.

"A friendly dragon," we determined. 

Moving closer to establish the requisite rapport, we realized that our friendly dragon was actually a luna moth recently emerged from its pupa and testing its wings in real-time. Luna moths only live for a brief period of time, during which they must first spend a day allowing their fragile, splendid wings to dry.

Things began to happen very quickly- with the same intensity of being in labor, tiny movements leading to fantastic physical changes.

I called Prophet, Gnome, and Little B. to join us.

We watched the moth's fragile wings tremble with each gust of fragrant spring wind.

We studied the perfect symmetry of the lines on its back. Then discussed the shapes we could find in its thorax and abdomen.

Suddenly, the luna moth shuddered and curled into itself. When it curled back out again, two slender appendages with golden endings emerged and remained dangling.

Gnome opens the gate carefully so as not to disturb our moth friend.

When the luna moth tumbled down from its high spot on the wall, we watched with bated breath as it climbed up the side of the wooden fence to rest at the top of the gate. Then we relocated to watch the events from the other side of the fence. 

The Eldest admired the luna moth's "featherlike" antlers, which appeared to be made of perfect, super-sensitive combs.

"I can't believe it is so perfect.... and delicate," he concluded, as he stood, transfixed, by the tiny details witnessed up close, the ones we never bother to seek unless forced before us by a circumstance.

And so we sat, and watched- the little ones resorting to dirt and stones when the waiting felt too laborious. We made up poems and rhymes, which quickly turned to songs and riddles.

Four hours and several bowls of pineapple later, our luna moth friend felt ready to fly. I won't tell you which one of us cried when it finally heaved its amazing wings and fluttered away. The whole watching and waiting was intensely beautiful and awe-inspiring. I learned more about from this brief learning experience than I have learned from any textbook or media about the sublime life of the luna moth. Profoundly grateful for what Barbara Kingsolver calls the "small things". 

"The heart of a woman" by W.B. Yeats- and the way it rubs me wrong.

Lingering in the bed a little too long this morning reading poetry. Joined by two lovely sprites to take the edge off a poem by Yeats, the kind of poem that requires me to close the book and revisit my assumptions.

THE HEART OF A WOMAN

O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.

O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.

O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.

A child's body keeps us sometimes from acknowledging the budding heart within. It is easier for me to treat her like a "little girl" than to acknowledge the seed of the woman in her smile. 

When she pulls close to me and rubs my elbow- the way she self-soothes since her fond relationship with my breasts ended- I never forget to ask her what's wrong. Being her source of comfort makes it easy to know when to ask the pointed questions. 

She rubs a little harder and faster; the sensation moves from a tickle to a scouring. Her lips tug her cheeks toward the pillow. "Mommy....." she begins carefully. 

"Yes?" 

Her eyes hide behind the unusual sentiment of not knowing quite how to parse a question that might be obvious if our lives were not limited by the minutes and hours of the day. 

"Are you still gonna be my best friend on the next day- too?"

Unsure of my words, I reach for something solid- the twine necklaces we made together, strung from seed beads and then tied around our necks, our "best friendship necklaces". I take her little fingers and run them over the beads around my neck.

"I'll be your best friend for as long as you let me," I reply, knowing full well the day will come when this honor will be bestowed upon someone else. Gnome smiles. It is enough. Our necklaces, and "mommy's arm", the same arm she claimed as a future bridegroom when Little B. and Prophet demanded who she "wanted to marry". 

I want to tell Gnome that her "soft heart" is the strongest heart of all- the sort of heart that doesn't fear the weight of love, or find reasons to avoid empathy. I want to warn her that romantic love is limited by the available leisure time; and that love of every kind is usually defeated by the expectation of profit or return. I want her to know that love requires courage- and that true love does not oppress or create victims. But the words are too heavy for these few minutes we share in the bed. 

"I wish I could have a little bead just like that freckle above your lip...."

"Why, mommy?"

"Because then... I would put it on my necklace and touch it whenever I wondered what you were doing or playing."

She smiles and rolls over to greet her sister. I wonder this once, again, how to give them a love that does not valorize self-abnegation. The conversation between sisters continues.

Ode to a lovely grave.

A grave at the Dublin Cemetery in Ohio.

She died four years after they married jack-squat in the midst of her childhood.

She took two of their children with her, their lives left as mere tribute to the way in which a virus ravishes the proud, American landscape. 

He honored her with a statue in a graveyard that can only be discovered by driving down a dirt road and looking for a private place to pee after hours in the car.

I don't like crying when crouching to pee, but it seems he wanted it that way.

And he seems like the kind of man who got what he wanted.

Heeding the summons of spring.

We returned from our weeklong trip to Ohio to discover spring in full bloom all over the backyard. So I dug into the wild matters at hand. Obviously, the bags have yet to be unpacked and the fridge is still rather empty...

Yet, somehow, the important things- the ones that matter most in the grand scheme of things- got done. For example, the garden soil has been tilled and a few tomatoes were transplanted. All that indoor nonsense can wait for the next spring rain.

We admired the sinews of the soil under rocks and broken clay pots. The Eldest chortled with glee at every single earthworm uncovered.

The uncanny extent to which all the kids were repulsed by the white grub led to wonder whether the word "grub" itself is somehow disgusting. Or whether it suggests (all too readily, perhaps) the possibility of a crispy grub snack. 

The Eldest consults his notes concerning the personal needs of his various seeds.

We decided to make garden paths using recycled tornado-tumbled trees turned into wood chips by the Friends of Hurricane Creek's Creekkeeper. As you can see, the fun is only half-finished.

It makes so much sense to use local wood for our gardening needs rather than pour money into Home Depot to purchase mulch and woodchips covered in non-native biota that will probably disrupt local ecologies and food webs.

Prophet washes her hands under the rain barrel spout.

Studying aquatic macroinvertebrates to learn about Hurricane Creek's health.

Yesterday's annual Hurricane Creek clean-up featured a wonderful learning opportunity for creekophiles young and old. Thanks to the University of Alabama Natural History Museum, the girls and I were able to learn how to determine stream health by surveying aquatic macroinvertebrates. 

Our benthic "macro" friends.

Gnome expresses her opinions about how macros might taste.

Recent rains left the water unusally high- where the creek normally displayed riffles, we discovered mostly roars. Amanda showed us how to collect the water from the stream and use the macro key to identify the critters.

Peering through the portable microscope to view identify local macro life is like opening your eyes to a whole new world. I was so enchanted by what I saw that I couldn't resist running back up the hill to share it with older and wiser members of our group.

Can you see the friend we spotted in the lower right hand quadrant of the view? Identification is half the fun- everyone has their own opinions and underlying reasons. Amanda thought the macro friend resembled a type of beetle larvae. Jim erred on the side of the fly fisherman's ideal- "I think it looks like a caddisfly larvae," he said.

My heart skipped a beat.

Stanley Park, Jr. surveys the macro scene.

Sharing the snapshot of stream life with Stanley Park Jr., the son of the late Stanley Park who left this land with the Trust for Public Land for the purpose of a public nature reserve, was more wonderful than I can verbalize. Something timeless permeated the scene.

The late Stanley Park, Sr., in a photo shared by his daughter, Mary Angelynn Fisher.

I imagined his father's spirit watching the microscope move from the hands of tiny children to the aging hands of his son on the banks of the beloved creek.

Fred Fisher, son-in-law of Stanley Senior, tries to determine which macro we might be seeing.

Standing there together, surrounded by the blooms of native azaleas, the voice of the Hurricane Creekkeeper mingling the play sounds of the kids, softened by the rushing of the water over the rocks, only a run-on sentence can convey the way in which our actions and awe felt like a tribute to the late Stanley Park, Sr.

I am so grateful to have met Fred, Maryangelynn, and Stanley Junior (not to mention all the other friends of Hurricane Creek who teach me so much about our local treasure)- so honored to hear these stories along the banks of a southern stream, stories which deserve to be told and retold as the future of highways and pavement strangles the delightful whispers of our natural world.

To learn more about the local history of Hurricane Creek, visit the Friends of Hurricane Creek's website and take some time to explore the memories.

The flowering pink dogwoods.

The pink flowering dogwood casts the first shadow on the see on the bedroom floor.

Spring, that season of surprises, draws me from the bed faster than a double-shot of espresso.

"Wake up and smell the flowers," the world outside my window sings. So I rise with none of the usual grumblings.

Beholden to buttercup blooms.

Ranunculus bulbosus

The buttercups are blooming! We snapped a few photographs before laying down in the grass next to them to watch and just commune with our plant friends. Gnome whispered a few words I couldn't understand as the Eldest looked for insects or other creatures with an interest in buttercups.

Members of the Ranunculus family, buttercups boast dicot flowers with three or more simple pistils, often with hooked tips. We identified our buttercups as Ranunculus bulbosus by its stems that are hairy at the base and sometimes hairy above, forming a basal rosette of three-parted leaves. The middle lobe is on a stalk, the two lateral lobes are attached at the base on the petiole. The basal and lower stem leaves are on long hairy petioles. 

The specific name bulbosus refers to the bulb-like swelling at the base of the stem, roundish and white, flattened a little both at the top and bottom, somewhat resembling a small turnip - hence one of the popular names for this plant: St. Anthony's Turnip. It is however, not a true bulb, only 'bulb-like.'

"What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet..." Shakespeare's love for flowers included the well-known rose, but also ventured into the wilderness of the buttercup. This is the 'Cuckow buds of yellow hue' of Shakespeare. Other names for the buttercup include "Frogs-foot" (from the form of its leaves) and "Goldcup" (from the shape and colour of its flowers). 

The Bulbous Buttercup has some superficial resemblance to the Upright Crowfoot and the Creeping Crowfoot, but is distinguished not only by its bulb and by the fact that it never throws out runners, but by the fact that its sepals are turned back in the fully expanded blossom, so as to touch the stem that supports the flower.

The stems are furrowed slightly, not merely round, as in Ranunculus acris. The upper leaves are composed of long, narrow segments, the lower ones broadened out into very distinct masses.

We learned a lot from Thomas J. Elpel's detailed descriptions of buttercup varieties and identifiers:

The predominant property in the plants of the Buttercup family is an acrid protoanemonin glycoside oil. Most of the species are listed as poisonous, but most are safe to taste. The buttercup taste is biting and acrid, stronger in some plants than others. Taste it and spit it out.

The acrid properties of the buttercups are unstable and are destroyed by drying or cooking, so the very mild buttercups are edible as salad greens or pot herbs. But be careful not to over do even these, as the residual acrid properties may cause a mild inflammation of the kidneys or liver. Mucilaginous plants can be ingested to counter-effect the acrid buttercups.

Medicinally, the acrid nature of the plants makes them great for stimulating poultices, similar to a "mustard plaster". These poultices can be used on bruises, aches or arthritis to stimulate healing activity inside, but be careful, because the poultices can cause blistering if left in place too long. The poultice can even stimulate activity in cases of mild paralysis. The acrid quality is also beneficial for getting rid of lice. Goldenseal (Hydrastis) is a popular medicinal herb from this family.

The Eldest collected his own buttercup to press. Now we have a lovely spring montage in the making- a reminder of the flowers in a few months, when summer's heat will have driven them away.

Project Budburst in our backyard.

I've been having a hard time finding a reason to be inside over the past few days. Spring is blowing my mind. Perhaps I thought my fascination would grow less as I "matured" and grew older.... Actually, I find myself draw it to even more every year- a source of reliable wonder and marvel to sit back and observe.

Purple violets (Viola odorata)

Violets always remind me of the Herbal Kids Club at Rachel's place- because the kids ate violets like mad after that. Always the grin and the explanation- "we need more Vitamin C". We know these particular violet friends are edible because their leaves are shaped like hearts.

White violets (Viola odorata)

The "odorata" comes from the sweet smell or taste of the flowers and leaves.

Chickweed (Stellaria media)

Amy helped me recognize this last weekend when she picked up a stash by her feet, and now I can't help seeing it everywhere. Our chickweed herb friend is quite eager to make an impression- it flowers and sets seed at the same time.

It is a favorite of herbalists. The fresh leaves can be used as a poultice for inflammation. Chickweed is an excellent source of many B vitamins and various minerals. It is used to treat bronchitis, pleurisy, coughs, colds, and as a blood builder. Its astringent properties can be used on the skin after it is brewed as a tea. Its leaves also make a tasty addition to salads, very popular in Japan.

To make chickweed infusion, pour 1 cup of boiling water over 1/4 cup of chickweed. Cover and let steep, off the heat, for 15 to 20 minutes. Strain out the herb and drink the tea hot.

The importance of this tiny plant is easy to overlook unless you examine its role in local food webs. The larvae of the North American moths pale-banded dart (Agnorisma badinodis) or dusky cutworm (Agrotis venerabilis) or North American butterfly dainty sulphur (Nathalis iole) all feed on chickweed. Wildman Steve Brill has a great page devoted to different species of chickweed.

You can contribute to the Project Budburst citizen science project by adding the budding and flowering dates for your backyard wildlife. I loved sitting down with Max and reviewing our nature journal entries together, looking for dates and particular species. After we added our data, we looked at the state and national maps to see when violets were blooming in other parts of the country. Such a wonderful way to nourish a conscious appreciation of spring's stunning annual show.

21st Annual Friends of Hurricane Creek community creek clean-up this Saturday.

You can play a part in keeping a local natural resource clean- and enjoy the beautiful spring weather and budding blossoms along the banks of Tuscaloosa's Hurricane Creek. This Saturday, folks who plan to canoe and walk through the park will meet at the Highway 216 Bridge entrance to Hurricane Creek Park. Activities and learning crafts for kids will be available. 

Then, at 1:30 pm, the festivities at Watson's Bend will commence with the bridge dedication followed by a potluck meal and good times with neighbors. If you'd like to bring a dish to the potluck, just add your name and dish to the Facebook page (where you can find what others are bringing as well). 

If you need help getting around, this map should tell you where to go at what time. 

There will be a ticket raffle fundraiser for various wonderful prizes as well as a mulch fundraiser. You can purchase your bags of mulch from FOHC representatives at any time during the day. If you drop by and we haven't met, please take a minute to introduce yourself to me- I love meeting new people, especially those who have a soft spot for preserving the wonder of the natural world.

The dances behind us.

The salt water stretches backward like spilled ink. 

My sister always straightened her legs out over the rough, wooden planks of the dock, feet dangling alongside mine. We moved gingerly, careful not to stir up the wood into giving us splinters. 

Under the star-heavy beach sky, it was the back-lighting of the picture windows that kept us riveted, eyes on the stage where the sensual shadows of our parents, Doru and Lydia, kept dancing. All those glasses of wine never posed a threat to the integrity of the tango between them. They knew the steps as if someone had sewn them into their soles. 

We’d marvel over the way his hand curved under her supple back, dropping her almost to the hardwood floor, before saving her, the gallant flourish, maybe the magnet drawing the dance tighter. For the two little girls on the dock, the music was limited to the pulse of waves lapping the shore and the heaving, grunting of boats against the ropes binding them to the schedules of their domesticated human owners.

We learned something visceral about love from this montage. Like this: The way a man loves a woman requires him to let her fall just gently enough to make room for the exhiliration of his catching her. 

But Lydia, our brilliant, fiesty, restless mother, sought more from life than the security of standing still. Doru, our handsome, well-disciplined, and charismatic father, loved best the moments when the cause and its corresponding castle were clearly marked. His knighthood depended on clear instructions and boundaries. A dance must be one which has been marked and scuffed on these floors before them. And they were the best dancers we’d ever seen- no one held a candle to their magic when they picked up where the last dance left off.

Sometimes I wondered what it would feel like to invent a dance with another person- with the boy that would become the man that would marry me. The watching of it might reveal haste and division, confusion about what comes next and all the anxiety of being compelled to find a step of our own and then agree upon it in a world where we’d learned to rely on the steps of those before us.

I married a man who, like me, chose to invent his own steps. We spend the days trying to match our feet to the speed of the melody, always shifting, never certain when a particular sequence is good enough to keep and master.

The three small faces watch us with worried eyes. The mother in me wishes to cover their faces with my palms so they can’t peek- not just yet.

“We’re not ready,” I whisper, the comforting smile, “We’re still learning”. We blush, embarrassed, slightly angry that it’s taking us so long, secretly certain that the other’s clumsiness might be to blame. 

My parents, the impeccable dancers, divorced when my sister and I went to college. Maybe the lack of an audience made their dance less meaningful- no reflections from the picture windows to reveal the light’s glint in our shrunken world. The divorce ended my favorite love story on an unspeakable note. Still, the words won’t settle into something I can absorb and pass along to my kids as family history.

He and I have yet to discover that dance we pledged to invent based on the specific crevices and contours of our passionate hearts. Sometimes the search ends in tears; the little faces look worried again, wishing perhaps that we would just settle on one of those popular dances they see other couples doing on the tv or in their living rooms. The Macarena maybe. Or the Electric Slide. The waltz seems to have served humans well for centuries. 

Sharpened, I wonder the same. 

Who are we- this man and this woman- to need something as special and sacred as a dance all our very own? What makes the seeking- the anger, the frustration, the bruised toes- worth the smudged reflections? Why do we stand where others sit, fall, golf, shop, or take to the therapist’s couch? 

Love is too brittle a word.

We stare at the waves side by side, not touching, touched, apart. We hope that our desire and our dream dance will be worth the uncertainty. His hands know how to hold my body even at the moments when it takes more than love to hold me from running away. 

It’s the hearts that handicap us in formulating the dance. But these same hearts are the ones for whom we promised to imagine the dance.

And so we continue, sometimes shuffling, often slipping, over the revolving floors of our shared life- both creators and creatures of this Eclectic Slide.

Sketchbook prompt: The spanish influenza epidemic of 1918 and musings of Egon Schiele.

Musing Egon Schiele in the sketchbook.

Reading about the influenza deaths this past year, my heart goes out to those who lost family members or friends. Today, I brought the flu virus into my sketchbook thanks to a recent dream of Edith and Egon Schiele, two lovers who perished just days apart in the 1918 spanish flu epidemic. As an artist, Schiele's lines and contours bear no equal. His early death robbed the world of the way he may yet have rendered it. 

Edith died on October 28th. Egon followed her to the grave on October 31st. 

Plan for the evening: To convince the King to play Edith and Egon as a tribute on All Hallow's Eve next year. 

Learning about the sculptures of Constantin Brancusi.

Constantin Brancusi, self-portrait, 1924.

Our introduction to the art of Constantin Brancusi (pronounced "Brun-coosh") began simply enough. I handed Gnome, Prophet, and Little B. a black and white outline of Brancusi's "Bird In Space" and asked them to use their imaginations to reveal the bird in space with a little help from colored pencils.

To use the coloring page, enjoy the free download (which includes a brief activity plan) at Teachers Pay Teachers. We followed up our Brancusi exploration with a brief study of the actual marble scuplture itself and a discussion of Brancusi's life and career.

More resources to study Brancusi with kids:

 "Brancusi, Bird In Space, 1928" (Khan Academy)
Brancusi's golden heads (Paul Kasmin Gallery)
Simplicty is complexity resolved: Brancusi and the Americans (Yatzer)
View of Brancusi's studio circa 1928 (Bruce Silverstein Gallery)

Dinosaurs enter the land of blocks.

The castle overflows with wooden blocks- blocks of every color and size, mismatched, scattered, carefully set up to designate the boundaries of imaginary worlds.

"His name is BUM-pee," says Gnome, in my first introduction to the dinosaur that lives near her village.

"What's it like to know a dinosaur?" I wonder aloud.

Gnome cocks her head to one side and nods, as if agreeing with something I almost said. But not quite.

"BUM-pee, he stay there," she points to a small wooden square, resembling a fence, possibly a small prison. "Dat because he try to mess up my house- and all the house." Judging by her expression, Gnome has never been more certain of anything in her life.

Cleaning up is the hard part. How to clean up when it requires us to destroy a unique and precious world every time? Gnome and her blocks, always a story.