Wild and Wet time at Willowdale!

Tired of the wet weather we’re having this summer? The occupants of Willowdale’s marshes certainly aren’t. Many are taking advantage of the surplus housing brought on by the rising waters. The marsh pops, splashes, and chirps with activity. The waters creep over the edges of the street, reclaiming territory that man stole years before. It’s fun to spy on the frogs as they bask among the water lilies and tag along as water snakes patrol the shallow reaches of the marsh stalking topaz-blue dragonflies. I’m rather fond of the dragonflies though. I like to think I can thank them for the lack of mosquitoes.

One monster blackberry, some sunshine and a berry delicious July 4th holiday weekend!

To find fresh, delicious fruit, why not head to a pick-your-own farm? O.K., it wasn’t my idea, it was my son’s. He wanted to travel to Russell’s Orchard in Ipswich to party this past holiday weekend. Cheap, fun and scenic- it’s like a mini vacation, and what better way to spend time with family? We stopped in at the barn to fortify ourselves with an oatmeal cookie and a cider pop before hiking out to search for the perfect berry. Our berry hunt yielded a wonderful walk through the orchard plus fresh raspberries, strawberries and one monster stone blackberry. No, we couldn't keep the blackberry.

Mending Walls - Mending Ourselves.

“Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,”

Robert Frost - Mending Wall

It’s easy to agree with Frost that fences made of stone are only for walling things in or walling them out. Whether it’s to segregate the lawn from the flower beds, or keeping the world out of our private life, walls today are all about dividing and separating. But the ancient walls of New England are different. Like rainbows, they seem to have no ends, marking the boundaries of elfin realms and the long-forgotten kingdoms of Yankee farmers. Sleepy with lichen and moss, they meander through forests and behind homes with the all the mystery of Mayan ruins and crop circles.

At a hundred years of age, the wall that separates my son’s school from the park is fairly young. It’s unfortunately, as Frost pointed out-

“Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.”

Yes, many stones had escaped the grip of their brethren and have tumbled onto the grass, but you can’t repair a wall of this age. You repair cars. You repair bad credit. Old walls, like broken hearts and home spun clothes, are mended. The stone masons pick carefully from the stones strewn out under the maple trees. They fit them together, bits of jagged edged puzzle pieces, held in place with cement. When they are done, the stones will once again be used as a bench, a spot to bounce a ball, a balance beam, a home for mice and moss.

This is the irony of old walls. They bring people together rather than separate them. We don’t mend them because we need to divide land. We do it because the wall is a connection to our pasts and to our community. Frost didn’t realize that his wall was making him a good neighbor. After all, if it weren’t for the wall, he and his neighbor wouldn’t have spent any time together working on a common goal.
The walls that sleep in our woods no longer mark property lines, but they are part of our common heritage and history. A legacy that we all can share.


Interested in stonewall preservation? Go to- www.stonewall.uconn.edu


Also, checkout Matthew Wheelock’s Wall, an excellent illustrated children’s book by Frances Ward Weller and illustrated by Ted Lewin (the above picture is from it).

The tide was in a mischievious mood. Two fishermen were caught out on Red Rock and hundreds of jellies washed ashore along lynn-Nahant beach today. No brown algea though. I wonder what brought them this way? Oh, the fishermen? They declined any help from the fire dept. and chose to wait the tide out. Maybe the fishing is better at hightide? A ring-bill gull with a different fashion sense was also loitering around. He was tagged by the DRC at Wachusett Reservoir. For more about the program, go to http://www.mass.gov/dcr/waterSupply/watershed/study/index.htm#pic2.

Curious George - The True Story

Is it only me who finds the classic children’s book series, Curious George, disturbing?
Those familiar with the PBS TV show, or the publisher written books they’re based on, may not be familiar with the way George and the nameless man-in-the-yellow-hat meet in Margret and H.A. Rey’s 1941 version. In the original story, George the monkey is a happy little primate living a care-free life in a tropical jungle paradise. The Man in the Yellow Hat appears to make a living by capturing wild animals and selling them to zoos. Before you can say ‘King Kong’, George is netted, boxed, and shipped off to the big city. George does manage to escape from his zoo cage and track down the Man With the Yellow Hat. Yellow Hat makes the fateful decision to let the furry little mischief maker live with him. George quickly adjusts to the concrete jungle he now calls home and spends the rest of the series with his yellow-hatted, adoptive father - giving testimony to the resilience of primates and a text book case of Stockholm Syndrome.
For his part, Yellow Hat does seem to look upon George as a son, not a pet. But his parenting skills are so poor it’s a wonder that both the SPCA and Social Services across the nation haven’t put these books on their banned list. Each story has Yellow Hat leaving George, an over-active monkey with the brain of a five-year old, in places where he couldn’t help but get into trouble. Yellow Hat even seems to goad the simian on by always telling him ‘not to be too curious’ before leaving him alone in chocolate factories, libraries, ice cream and pizza shops, hospitals, and yes, even a zoo. He then acts surprised to find that George has managed to get into trouble. This guy is the prototype for ever clueless father that now over-populates kids TV shows and movies.
Another word of warning- These tales are not for germ-a-phobics. I can’t tell you how many stories involve George man-handling (and man-footing) food meant for retail sales. Apparently there’s no Board of Public Health in the city were George resides.
I’m probably being to harsh. Once you get past the animal exploitation, the reckless parenting techniques, and the health code violations, these really aren’t bad books at all. Just don’t read them before ordering a pizza.

Seasonal Friends.

The Brants and the Buffleheads are gone. I haven’t seen any Ring-Billed Gulls or Black Ducks in a while either. The only other formally dressed regular on the beach is a Great Black-Winged Gull, holding court amidst the young Herring Gulls. The spot under the sea wall were the ducks and gulls had spent the winter isn’t quite empty though. A pair of Black Guillemots, The white splashes on their wings bright on their black plumes, has toured further south than usual. Maybe it’s the unseasonably cool weather. They look content enough passing the time on the waves. Closer to the surf, another uncommon pair seems less sure of were they are. The Gadwalls keep a wary eye on me, unsure if I’m an object best to be feared or ignored.
The Swallows that arrived this week are more brazen. Flying with stunt pilot precision, they zoom by, hugging the ground and walls, taunting the children to try and catch them. They do manage to startle the bright yellow flowers that rise above the wild roses. As the blooms hop and flutter to new stalks, I realize, with embarrassment and delight, that they’re really a flock of Goldfinches.
There are no hellos or goodbyes for these sojourners. For them, migration seems no more dramatic than running to the store for some milk. They don’t doubt they’ll be back. They don’t doubt we’ll be here to be surprised by their return.

The Artistic Side of Seaweed

Being at the seashore sometimes feels like a personal invite to an art gallery opening. There’s so much to see, and the scenes, both macro and micro, are always changing. Even seaweed and sand have color and flow that bestow on them beauty and personality.