Gratefully, Is What Is Best

We arrived home last night, just at dusk, tired, emotional, anxious after a journey that took hours longer than it should have - the usual snaking snarl of D.C. Beltway traffic - stopped at a light along Tyler Avenue, when J. noticed a firefly land on the windshield. We've been eagerly anticipating their seasonal arrival, impatiently, The Girls peering into each evening, hoping and waiting. And so far, we have been left still waiting. Like the hummingbirds, they have been much, much later than in previous years, so much so that I've gotten worried. Last night it was too late for Z & V, so I promised them we'd sit outside tonight. What I didn't tell them was that I looked, while bringing in carloads of stuff, stood outside the house peering into the evening. And I saw a single blink. I did some research today, which revealed that all 2000 species worldwide are declining; some biologists have even whispered the word: endangered.

For good measure, and because I know a kindergartener who will love it, I have signed us up to monitor fireflies in our neighborhood, with the Boston Museum of Science's annual Firefly Watch. Maybe the winter was not quite right and they really are just delayed this year. At least, I hope so. I cannot imagine a world, a childhood, without the magic of fireflies.

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.