Butterflies

The little caterpillars we collected a couple of weeks ago made chrysalises after a few days nibbling aster greens in our jar, and then, a week or so later, they emerged as butterflies, the first four last Friday, two more Saturday, another Monday and the last one this morning.

We found out last year that they are Harris's checkerspots (and re-confirmed with a look at the field guide this year).

Since we released the first batch, we've seen quite a few fluttering about the place, especially near the field where we found the caterpillars.

Whenever he sees one, Z says, "There's one of our butterflies."

"Even though they're not monarchs," he added, "they were still pretty fun."

I agree, but I still hope we see some monarchs this year.

Lady's Slippers

It's important to go to the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens in June, because Lady's Slippers.

More grow there than anywhere I've ever seen. Even along the parking lots (let's not think about how many were in the places the parking lots now are, okay?). And even more along the coast trail. But first, the Children's Garden.

I am madly in love with the book house. If I could do my house all over again...

Z loves the drying house.

Which right now is filled with little fairy houses. Maybe we could do this in our playhouse (but how do they keep out the bugs?)

The boys even spent a few, fleeting minutes cooking in the play kitchen.

Which also happens to be my dream writing studio (I think I take this picture every time we go, as if I could make it mine by taking enough pictures of it!).

I busied myself taking pictures of bees

and dragonflies

while they caught frogs and polliwogs. I think if I didn't have an agenda (lady's slippers and rhododendrons and a hike on the trails), they could spend an entire day at the frog pond. Next time, perhaps.

But this time, there were rhododendrons to see.

And lady's slippers.

(I crouched in a nest of biting ants while I was trying to draw this one).

The boys built fairy houses

and climbed through the giant pinecone

and "meditated" (I'm not quite sure the designers had this in mind for the reflecting pool in the meditation garden).

Then we hiked the longest trail in record time, the boys running ahead the whole way, like puppies, leaving arrows scratched in the pine needle duff so I'd know which way they went. Which I think means they're officially Big Kids, because they didn't whine or complain or require lollipops to bribe them along the trail.

E found some feathers

Along the way, we saw a number of flowers like this plant, perhaps some kind of lily? I should probably look it up in Newcomb's guide, or at least ask C what it is.

and, of course, more lady's slippers.

Fiber Frolic

I've been feeling kind of cranky lately, due to a lack of time to do any of the things I want to do, so this weekend, I staged a protest. I said "no" to baseball--instead of sitting in the sun to watch M's double-header of rescheduled rained-out games, took E and Z (after their practice) to the Fiber Frolic.

Where we ate falafel and French fries.

Patted sheep.

And lambs.

Collected fresh bunny fuzz.

Watched collies herd ducks.

I've been to the Frolic now almost every year it's been around, the most memorable being when E and Z were about two weeks old and my mom and I each carried one of them in a front pack, and it was about a bajillion degrees and a bajillion percent humidity. Now they're old enough, I can just park them at the sheep dog demo and go look at all the delicious fiber by myself, which is a much less sweaty way to enjoy the frolic than with a newborn glued to your chest.

I actually bought one of these dreamy hand-woven dish towels (shh, don't tell my husband how much it cost).

I kept my money in my purse, though, when it came to yarn. I still have that skein of angora I bought last year, not yet made into anything, not to mention a whole lotta yarn from Ireland (and elsewhere) that needs my attention.

Oh, yeah, and ice cream.

Z really liked this knitted square bunting on the way out, especially the rainbow one. So bright and cheery.

We made it to the last half of M's second game, just in time to see M hit a grand slam (and, later, catch a fly ball in center field), as the team made a come-back and won its first of the season.

Book Review: A Million Tiny Things

A few weeks ago, I found myself in the hair care aisle of our local grocery store, looking for gel. The next day, M was to take part in a speech contest at school and his language arts teacher had told him that he needed to use some kind of product to keep his long, wavy, and in-his-face hair under control.

I usually buy my hair care products (shampoo and conditioner) through the coop I belong to, or at the natural foods store, so I was unfamiliar with the grocery store's hair care aisle, which is arranged by brand, rather by function. The earthy, tea-tree scented brand I use is not sold there, so this method of arrangement, suited to fans of Paul Mitchell or Finesse did not help me out, when all I wanted to do was compare different brands of gel. I started out in the bottom left-hand corner of the shelving unit, where the products were packaged in shapes and colors that led me to believe they contained more "natural" ingredients than the others. But as soon as I saw the price tags--more than twenty bucks for a tube of gel!--I quickly moved on to the more conventional-looking section of the shelves. I am all for paying more for quality, organic, and chemical-free products. And I also would prefer not exposing my kid to any more phthaltates and parabens and god-knows-what-all than necessary. But twenty bucks for something my kid would use once? No thanks. I then looked in the travel section for a mini-tube, but no luck. Finally, ten minutes after I started looking, I settled on a huge tube of gel labeled "98% naturally derived," whatever the hell that means, and whatever the hell the other 2% contains, and which only cost three dollars. By then I was thoroughly disgusted with Hannaford's, the entire hair product industry, and M's language arts teacher.


This is the kind of mind-fuck decision tree Kenna Lee experiences daily and describes so well in her book, A Million Tiny Things. From choosing between a safe and reliable vehicle versus one with a lower carbon footprint to trying to decide on a snack to take to book club (local cheese or organic cheese or affordable cheese? Crackers in a plastic bag or local bread in a paper bag with a plastic window or not-so-local bread in an all-paper bag?), Kenna is daily tormented by a syndrome I know all too well--well-informed futility, or, knowing way too damned much about the impact of our daily choices on the world, but unable (due to time, budget, job, and/or family) to do a whole hell of a lot about it.

Kenna and I took an online writing class together, many years ago, and she sent me an advance copy of her book at about the same time I started graduate school. I reluctantly set it aside after reading the first few chapters, to focus on my required reading, but earlier this spring, I noticed it sitting neglected on my shelf and picked it up again, plowing through it in a weekend. Despite her constant anxiety about the future of both the planet and her children, Kenna is able to tell her stories with good humor (I love her code names for people and corporations). She has a great sense of self-awareness, and knows when she goes over the top, but is still sometimes unable to stop herself. I appreciate Kenna's honesty, and I felt a kinship with someone who thinks like I do (although I think I'm more adept at stuffing the ugly truths in the deep recesses of my mind--and no, I'm not proud of this). I also appreciate the notes--very fragile notes, for sure, and not at all overblown or false--of hopefulness: those million tiny pink baby socks hanging on the line.

M did not end up using the hair gel for his speech and I took it back to the grocery store the next day, where I stood in line at the customer service desk for ten minutes, behind a woman buying a bunch of balloons. As the clerk inflated each one, all I could think about was the helium shortage. Sometimes I think I'm no fun at all. But I think Kenna would understand. I wish I had read A Million Tiny Things a lot sooner, but I'm glad I finally did.

Nature Journaling: Dead Warbler

C found this dead magnolia warbler on our deck last week...probably having flown into our window (what can you do about this? Stickers and sun-catchers don't seem to work).


It sat on my desk for a few days, until I got a chance to sketch it (I like to think it makes me feel a little better, if it gives its life for knowledge, but I don't really believe that). It makes you wonder how all those 19th century naturalists could kill all the birds and other animals they loved so much just so that they could draw them or have them in their own personal collections (and yes, I do see the irony of doing the same thing with plants, and insects which I will have to collect for class as well).

Afterward, I placed its body in this hollow stump, as a final resting place. We used to have a little dead birch near our woods trail, with a lot of shelf fungi growing out of it, on one of which I would place dead birds (and snakes) when we found them, but the tree fell down last year. When I went to check last night, it was gone. Something out there made a meal of it, which is what this whole circle-of-life thing is about, right?

Recreating a Walk

Because I wrote this essay last year, I remembered that it was at lilac time that we found the checkerspot caterpillars. And because we didn't find a single monarch caterpillar last summer, I knew I for sure wanted to at least raise some checkerspot butterflies. So I set out to recreate the same walk, with Z and M in tow (E was not in the mood).

We saw no turtles at the pond, but instead saw many gray tree frogs, fat little lumps sunning on the rocks. 

One decided Z made a good tree, temporarily.

In the woods, we found the same magenta honeysuckle, as bright and startling as when I didn't expect it (we also found a lot more poison ivy).

And in the field, bees (this one is kind of normal-sized, but most of the bumblebees I've seen this year are as big as kittens. Have you noticed this?).

And, gratefully, caterpillars. Lots and lots of caterpillars.

We brought a bunch home to keep in our butterfly jar. Z and I went across the street to collect lilacs. My poor secret lilac bush has gotten so shaded by the encroaching woods, that it's down to making just a few clusters of flowers (at the same time my own bushes are finally putting out more than a couple). 

Spring Wildflowers

Flowers worry me. As soon as they appear, I fear that they will soon be gone (they will!).

I have issues with impermanence (especially the spring/summer/youth/childhood variety).

I need to learn to appreciate the moment (whatever it holds).

I'll be taking a "master naturalist" class over the next year, starting in a couple of weeks, and I decided to get a jump on collecting a few specimens of these tiny woodland flowers that will be gone all too soon. I grew up with a very strong "take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints" ethic, so it was hard for me to dig wildflowers up by their roots! I made sure to take them from a place where they're plentiful, so that there will continue to be flowers in that spot next June.

For now, I've just pressed them into the pages of an extraneous phone book. Later I suspect I will have to key them out (I know they are star flower, violet, and Canada Mayflower, but I don't know what species of violet, and I have not looked up their Latin names) and preserve them somehow. Dried, mounted flowers won't equal eternal spring, but I hope learning more about the natural world will help me slow down and notice/appreciate each season as it comes.