Savoring Season's Cusp

Sometimes I find myself straddling a fence both literally and figuratively.  With my left leg on one side of barbed wire and my right on the other while I maintain control of that top strand, I pause to look both ways and consider which is best.  What am I leaving and where am I going? The cusp of summer and fall generate similar thoughts. 

As  a kid, I loved long summer days that meant playing Marco Polo and diving to exhaustion at the local pool, followed by evening games of tag and hide and seek.  Even after streetlights flickered on, sounds of kids hollering, “You’re it!” echoed throughout our sheltered cul-de-sac. While mowing required sweat, it also meant immersion in the scent of fresh cut grass.  After the shearing, it meant a barefoot massage as we walked over the carpet of stubbly lawn.  So much sensory delight only made me love summer more.

As an adult, summer remained my favorite season for years.  I relished long days out of doors, only now I hoed, planted, weeded, or harvested ripe vegetables.  Depending on the month, it meant picking cherries, chokecherries, apricots, pears, plums, grapes, or apples and then playing kitchen alchemist to turn them into jelly jewels.  It permitted watching fireflies dance across the yard and hearing  little ones giggle as they tried to capture them.  It was enjoying late night amphibian and insect orchestral productions. 

Time passed, and I changed. As a result, instead of dreading autumn, I  now anticipate it.  Through the years, I’ve learned  each equinox intensifies those numbered days.  At the beginning of summer, it seems I have forever to accomplish goals.  When day and night are equal, I appreciate each moment in my garden and yard because I know a single frost will soon end the growing season. 

Nature’s music sounds different as birds and insects prepare for southern journeys.  No longer do I hear mothers coaching young ones out of the nest.  Locust tunes are slow and lazy if they occur at all.  Toad and frog mating calls  cease while silent fireflies that performed to the other creatures’ refrains are buried larvae awaiting resurrection.

I visit our hilltop garden several times a day to see how the butternuts are curing and how this last tomato crop is finishing.  I loved reading about how Laura Ingalls Wilder’s family stored provisions for winter, so putting away golden squash  and carrots to eat in the coming months connects me to her pioneer stories.  Green tomatoes make great fried treats and relishes.  If there are enough big ones, I box them to mature so we have garden goodies well into December.

Each day, I walk through our pasture enjoying the blooms of Maximilian sunflowers, golden rod, and snow on the mountain.  Tawny buffalo and purple-red big blue stem grasses complement yellow blooms, creating an arrangement that competes with any early summer floral display.

While I relish summer’s warmth and seeming wealth of time, autumn has become my golden hoard.  I look forward to going through my closet and drawers to  exchange thin cotton clothing for bulkier sweaters and flannel pajamas.  This ritual along with my farewells to the garden and migrating feathered friends makes me feel like a snake shedding its summer skin. 

This folded edge between seasons is a gift.  As these days of sunlight and warmth overlap coming darkness and quiet, I give thanks for the blessings of each.

Ellis Bugs Invasion

Like death and taxes, I count on box elder beetles invading every year.  These nuisances creep into every crack and crevice of our house, silently multiplying until nowhere is sacred.  I have even had them fall off a showerhead while I shampooed my hair.

Unfortunately, I don’t know much about these creatures other than that they show up like a bad penny every fall. They squeeze through airtight windows, out of electrical sockets, and under door jambs like Mongol hordes.  What lures them, I don’t know.

 I’d be curious to discover if they, like salmon and geese, migrate to their birth places to reproduce.  But how will I ever know?  They all look alike. 

I don’t think they have a very long life span, thank goodness. Guessing from the carcasses I sweep frequently, they can’t survive much longer than the common house fly--which is not very long.

The good news about these insidious pests is they don’t bite or sting--humans at least.  The next good thing about them is that they don’t appear to mind when children play with them.

Oddly enough, these tiny beetles fascinate many youngsters.  Our little blondes thought it tickled as the bugs crawled on  their arms and legs.  One boy I knew liked to eat them until he discovered how upset his momma got when she caught him dining on little orange and black insects.

Now that my girls are grown, they see these creepy crawlies the same way I do--as royal pains. In fact, time has erased their recollections of when box elder bugs intrigued them instead of disgusting them. Of course, these black and orange beetles were never as interesting as lightning bugs...but... they were slower.  That meant that toddlers and pre-kindergartners could capture scores of them to pack into little bug houses. 

The benefit of being able to catch the slow moving critters means it keeps tikes busy and out of serious trouble as long they understand they shouldn’t devour them.  The disadvantage is that small children bond quickly with anything they capture and perceive as a pet.  This means you might end up with more box elder bugs than you normally would find in your house, and they’d each be named.

The neighbor girls liked these bugs as much as my girls did, so all four young ladies spent a great deal of time catching and discussing them.  Imagine my surprise when I overheard my friend’s 3-year-old  asking my 2-year-old  if we had Ellis bugs too.

Ellis bugs!!! What???

After thinking about it, the explanation was quite logical. The little girl’s big brother played football for the Ellis Railroaders, a team that wore black and orange uniforms.  His little sis assumed that since the insects were orange and black they must be for Ellis--hence the name Ellis bugs. 

Since then, I never see one of those annoyances without thinking, the Ellis bugs are here. Somehow it makes them a bit more welcome.

Autumn Sounds Different

Autumn sounds different on our rocky hilltop.  As the temperatures drop and days grow shorter, life is considerably altered from what it was just six weeks ago.  We have new guests at the bird feeder while other frequent diners have migrated South.  It’s quieter with fewer bird songs and insect orchestral contributions.  Autumn has introduced more than frosty mornings and golden leaves to our countryside.
Long before summer songs ceased, I watched feathered summer friends gearing up for long migrations.  Some are true global citizens that fly to Central and South America for the winter while others shoot for warmer climates in southern Texas and New Mexico. 

Recently, robins rendezvoused in the backyard and under the cedars to feast in preparation for their journeys. They scoured the lawn like miniature vacuums seeking slow moving and inattentive insects.  Bass booming nighthawks, by the hundreds, swarmed an alfalfa patch below the house for at least a week, devouring bugs in order to fuel their journeys.  Abrasive, screeching blue jays stormed our feeder in groups of 15, driving off smaller birds and even saucy squirrels who don’t give up their sunflower seeds without a fight. For a while, it was noisier than usual with all these gatherings until one morning when I awakened to a changed tune in the yard.  Where there had been cacophony, silence controlled. Repetitive mockingbirds and shirring wrens had vanished along with robins and jays.

The same thing happened outside my classroom in town. Swallows darted in frantic activity as they tried to fatten late-fledging young for fall travels.  For a few busy days, it seemed like Denver International Airport outside my window with all the comings and goings.  I glanced to see what was going on, and I noted the fully-feathered young perched at the edge of their daubed home, flapping strengthening wings.  The next day, peace ruled. When I stole a peek, the nest was empty. 

Also in Ellis, the 70 or so turkey vultures that roost throughout the summer on the water tower or atop local grain elevators left stained perches behind.   These birds that rode thermals like they were amusement park rides had taken more direct routes out of town.  Only  rare die-hards show up to feast on road-kill opossums and skunks. 

            During an October excursion to the Quivira National Wildlife refuge, I spied Swainson’s hawks and turkey vultures kettling in groups of 60 or more as they prepared for their exodus.  On the same afternoon, I saw thousands of migrating pelicans creating a moving blanket that reflected sunlight off their white feathers. The sounds from the sky that day reminded me of being at Disneyland and listening to visitors from every continent talking all at once. 

            These days, nuthatches, woodpeckers, and juncos challenge obese squirrels for a spot at the feeder.  Every now and then a chickadee lands to snack.    Despite my new visitors, days are quieter.  I like to think of my summer songsters brightening some Minnesota snowbird’s morning as he sits on his Port Aransas patio sipping coffee while he listens to some of my favorite musicians.

           

           

  

Yucca: Native Superstore and Miracle

Native to the Great Plains, Yucca, or soapweed, grows from Mexico to Canada. Often used as an ornamental plant in xeriscapes, this spiky vegetation punctuates pastures, hillsides, and blowouts. Because western Kansans see yucca so frequently, they don’t think much about to this plant that functioned as a superstore to many Indian tribes.

The nickname soapweed describes one of its main uses. Lakota and Blackfeet used the suds producing roots to create a hair rinse that killed vermin and prevented hair loss. Kiowa Indians claimed a yucca solution cured various skin ailments. Southwestern tribes also used yucca as a hair and body wash as well as for other purposes. Some Navajo weavers still prefer to launder wool fibers in it.

Not only are yucca roots good for cleansing the outside of the body but brewed properly, a tea made from them also works as a laxative to cleanse innards. However, consumers do need to use moderation when drinking such teas because of their cathartic properties. They will really clean a body out.  According to both the Navajo and the Lakota, components of this plant brewed a specific way and sipped by laboring mothers eases childbirth.  That’s a bonus in any culture.

While the roots offer numerous benefits, other parts of the yucca are edible when prepared properly. Early blossoms are a nice addition to a salad. They are nutritious and pretty to look at. Kiowa Indians roasted and ate the pre-bloom, emerging stems, which look like a gigantic stalk of asparagus. One rib of this would provide the day’s vegetable dietary requirement. Many Southwestern tribes still use banana yucca fruits in their cooking today. 

In addition to yucca medicinal, hygiene, and dietary purposes, native people used its fibers to weave sandals, ropes, cordage, nets, and other necessities. Some individuals interwove turkey feathers into the fibers to create warm blankets. At numerous sites, archeologists have documented paintbrushes and hair combs made of the sword-like leaves. Bound yucca spines created drills utilized to start fires. Weavers boiled parts of the plant to create different dyes. Multi-functional, this plant improved life for many early residents of the Great Plains and the Southwest.

Ornamental and practical, yucca plants have another interesting characteristic. Unlike many plants that depend on windblown or indiscriminate insect pollination, yucca species depend on the yucca moth to reproduce.  Moths visit the white blossoms at night to collect pollen and then fly to other blooms to lay eggs and deposit this reproductive dust onto the blossom’s pistil. Since thelarvae eat only yucca pod seeds, these moths and the yucca are mutually dependent for survival. In regions of the world where yucca moths do not exist, the plants cannot reproduce without intervention.

What looks like a rosette made of spiky swords surrounding a tall stalk filled with creamy blossoms each spring is actually a superstore of products. In addition, this plant and its tiny pollinator remind humans of nature’s fragile balance.  This common vegetation’s existence is a miracle.