Deep, Strange-Scented Shade of the Great Dark

I was outside just now, giving the last of the breadloaf to the birds (oh, who do I kid? to the squirrels, really), when my next-door neighbor B. approached me to give me a most-serious warning: she'd seen "several" snakes in her yard and she wanted us to know to look out for them. Upon inquiry, I learned that they were native black rat snakes. The largest in Virginia, a bit imposing certainly, but still harmless. B. proceeded to tell me of how she kills them when she finds them.

I was reminded of a passage from Lisa Courturier's essay, "The Hopes of Snakes":

That the unease over the snake was disproportionate to the actual danger of the creature was not relevant. The concern seemed to be: Who does this snake think it is, venturing out of the trees to travel in the open grasses where stood people just now realizing the snake by their feet was not a child’s toy but an actual live serpent?...our awareness and direct experience of serpents is so limited that what we believe about them functions as a sort of anti-knowledge. In the absence of contact, the snake’s life forms in the human mind as a nightmare of slithering, of fangs, of constriction, of venom, of being swallowed slowly, and in full.

For B., for many people, clearly the very idea of a snake has become much more frightening than the snake itself. So much so that it becomes impossible to consider anything other than that idea, anything that might be closer to truth. Last fall, I opened the attached shed out back to discover a fairly large black rat snake coiled up inside. I guessed that it was seeking shelter from the torrential rains we'd had. I was startled to see it, surprised - especially considering the shed is off the second-floor balcony - but not scared really. And the next day when the rains had cleared, when I took Z. out to see it, it was gone. Last week, we found a tiny dead snake in the road and we all looked at it for a long time.

The snake in the road

The snake in the road, close-up

I explained to B. this morning that as long as I see them in places they're meant to be - our yards, for example, or even in the shed - I generally just leave them. She gave me a very puzzled look. I realize now on reflection that implicit in her warning was reproach: our yard is the only one in the complex without a small lawn, without grass, the only one that the weekly landscapers know to just leave alone. It is, to her and probably to all the other neighbors, disorderly, unkempt, untamed, with various tall plants and groundcovers and trees. B. claims that she has seen snakes climbing the unruly chocolate vine crawling up the trellis out back too (which would explain the snake in the shed).

Yes, ours is a too-wild place that invites wild snakes.

In Which Patience is Rewarded

Perhaps it is our higher elevation. Perhaps it is just that they were languidly enjoying the warmer climates and didn't want to leave. Perhaps the journey just took longer than usual. But although they were a full month behind others in the area, this afternoon I looked out at the feeder I've been diligently refilling in vain for weeks, and there they were: no fewer than three male ruby-throated hummingbirds. In Pittsburgh, when I would stand at the bus stop at the end of my block each April and see the giant magnolia tree finally in full-pink bloom, or finally see the mated pair of red-tails rebuilding the nest in the ancient oak along the parkway, I'd trust that winter was truly over.

Here my faith is placed in, to borrow a lovely phrase from a current student (thanks BG!), the "smallest of the tiny."

A Return, Long Anticipated

Earlier, standing in the kitchen looking at the birds outside on the feeders, I got to wondering where our ruby-throated hummingbirds might be, right now. Tomorrow is the equinox, after all. Then I remembered that there are much-more-obsessive-than-I people out there who are tracking their migration. And I checked the map and discovered that some were sighted, right in our area, this very day! I am boiling sugar water and have pulled the feeders out of storage. They will go up first thing tomorrow. J says that he *thought* he saw one earlier this morning. But they truly herald the real return of spring!

Unwelcome Guests

I was sitting at the kitchen table early yesterday morning working on a frustrating essay revision for an upcoming publication (though, perhaps not - if these revisions are not *accepted,* I'm pulling the piece) when I heard The Sound. Unmistakable. Too familiar. The clicking, whirring sound of a recently awakened, stupidly flying, crashing-into-everything stinkbug. It's a sound that drove me from my last house and is one I decidedly do NOT welcome in this one. And sure enough, I looked up and there it was, clumsily circling the ceiling fan. But it landed on the wall, and I unabashedly scooped it into a tissue and flushed it. The Preschooler has been lately trying to figure out the subtle nuances of the concept of *hate* and I told her the other day, "Mummy doesn't hate anyone." Then I paused and thought, and added, "No, that's not true. Mummy hates stink bugs." The Toddler found one on the couch this morning. It became something of a joke among my students this semester, my utter loathing for these horrible, awful creatures. We kept finding them in our classrooms even into December and I am sure I came across as irrational in my reaction and finding them.

Someone really, really, really needs to find a solution to the Stinkbug Problem. Really. But, it doesn't sound like we're making much progress.

Local Culture

Preschooler: Mommy, why do we all have to turn to bones someday?
Me: Well, because nothing on the planet lives forever and ever.
Preschooler: Except plastic.

I've been too busy this semester to post about the recent controversy over what to do about Radford's vulture populations, but it's clear that the mitigation plan imposed a few months ago was effective. And I'm still conflicted about it. The childcare center mentioned in the article is attended by both of The Girls. And really, their huge presence on the playground there had made a huge mess, probably a health hazard. But, despite its apparent success, I'm not sure this was the most humane approach. I miss seeing hundreds of them roosting in the trees in Wildwood Park. They are still here, though. It just takes more mindful attention to see them. I wonder, too, if Buttercup the Vulture is among them; one day a few months back, after years of being in rehabilitation, she saw a flock (is that the right term?) flying overhead and just took off. I like to think so. 

On the Nature of Blog Writing. And Me.

Je n'ai fait celle-ci plus longue que parce que je n'ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte.

I have made this letter longer than usual because I lack the time to make it shorter.

—Blaise Pascal

I have spent the summer and fall guiltily pretending to ignore the dozen or so started, but unpublished, entries here each time I log into Google. And I realize now that the reason the words remain unspoken is because brevity - inherent in the blog medium - is simply not among my repertoire of writerly skills. Never has been. Asked to write a "short-short" story for a fiction workshop a million years ago at Pima Community College in Tucson, I turned in a final piece that was barely contained in six pages. Like French philosopher Pascal, I lack the time - and also the mental processes - to write things short. My brain feels compelled to meditate, at length, wander, meander, until I've said everything I wanted to say. Everything. The idea of writing a piece that is under ten pages is largely inconceivable.

Funny thing is that I am a bit obsessed lately with flash nonfiction and would like to try it. At last summer's Chatham residency, after Lori Jakiela's wonderful reading, I told her: "I'm so jealous. I wish I could write 'funny.'" She replied (as closely as I can remember, anyway), "And I can't write 'pretty.'" A lovely compliment, and although I truly believe one is either funny or not - and can't learn to "write funny" - perhaps I can also learn to write 'short.' Because I also now realize that I must teach myself how to do this. Must learn to contain and condense and distill the ideas and thoughts. Or I just might never write anything ever again. Least until The Girls go off to college.

A New View

The dust, so much dust, of the last six weeks begins to settle and so do I. A new, smaller space, which is challenging. But apart from a Very Little Ant Problem (both in scale and in ant-size), all I can feel is relief at no longer having to share my living space with the mice, stinkbugs, black flies, box elder bugs, and mini-flock of European starlings. Hard to believe that life had become *normal* to us, having all those outside creatures inside, right alongside us. And I am trying to return to a normal Me, the one that conjures up sympathy and empathy for those other creatures, rather than resentment or contempt.

A few days ago, The Girls and I spent a long time observing together a lone carpenter ant which had found a dead-moth "treasure" (as they call everything that is found outdoors, leaves, sticks, acorns, berries). The backdrop of this shared moment was the lovely view of the Blue Ridge Mountains from our patio (seen in the photo). So nice to be able to enjoy the outside space without thinking about all the pests trying to get inside.

The one thing I do miss so far from the other house are the birds. Watching them. Looking them up in the field guide. Writing down all the species that frequented our yard. Particularly our (because after 2 years, we felt that they belonged to us somehow) pair of red-bellied woodpeckers. From the songs, there seems to be a great many more birds here (a great many more trees & fewer houses), yet none of them - beyond the mundane Little Brown Jobs - show any interest in the feeder we've put up. There is one in particular that has intrigued me. I'm terrible with identifying birdsongs - they all sound so much the same to me - but this one was unusual, a bird I'd never seen and one with a constant and distinctive song. We finally got a good look at it yesterday, saw a fledging baby and mother in the foliage outside the kitchen window: a mockingbird. We've noted it on our list and listen each evening for its calls. And to ameliorate my sadness at what we've lost, the Preschooler has drawn me a picture of the woodpeckers, which she says is for "whenever you are missing them."