There are a lot of things that are terrible about 2020, and if I try to think about all of them at once, or even to pick an important one to write about, my head will explode. So today I am picking the least important one: Mosquitoes.
Mosquitoes have always loved me. I’m just one of those people. If the mosquitoes realize that I am around, they go for me.
Did you know that mosquitoes are flies? They are. They’re in the order Diptera, along with house flies, fruit flies, hoverflies, and [shudder] botflies. Somewhere along the evolutionary timeline, mosquitoes elongated their mouthparts for the purpose of being jerks.
You know how mosquitoes make you itch? They slobber into you. That’s also how they give you diseases. They’re the worst.
I wrote this October 1, 2018. I was thinking about getting older and how that meant getting stronger or more concentrated or something; and of course life imitating art as it does, this particular coffee shop morning conversation happened at the same time. I was also thinking about the Kavanaugh hearings and the extraordinary anger they provoked, especially in women.
And now, almost two years later, I’m still getting older and still impressed by the depth of women’s anger. But mostly I ammore than ever aware of the need for strength and concentrated will, not only to help myself to keep goingbut also to help everybody around me who needs help and one way or another, everybody does. The big difference between two years ago and now is that the atmosphere is in every way already on fire.
One morning in my usual small coffee shop with the usual people, a young woman walks in, long straight hair of varying colors, flannel shirt, ill-advised leggings, you know the look. An old guy at the table of regulars – the regulars tend to have been living in the neighborhood for generations – says to the young woman, “How ya doin’, hon. You look tired.” Hon flips back her hair and says, “I am. I don’t want to go to work.” The old regular looks up at her and says, “But ya gotta. Ya gotta go to work.” “I don’t want to,” says Hon. A woman, back-combed maroon/pink hair and heavy on the eye liner, sitting next to the old regular and coeval with him, says “I know, hon. But it don’t get easier.” The old regular agrees, “No, it don’t.” “It gets harder,” says the older woman. Hon looks disbelieving. I, not sitting with the regulars but coeval with them, can’t keep my mouth shut: “You’ve gotta be strong,” I yell across the room, “you’ve gotta build your strength up.” The older woman nods her head at Hon, says, “You’re gonna need your strength.”
The quietest place in America is fern-swaddled, lichen-draped, moss-blanketed. It is past the splintered tree, through the tilted spruce, beyond a damp pocket of bog, its precise location marked by a tiny cairn of polished riverstone. Its floor is a dappled jumble of deadfall and blowdown, nurse logs melting back into the earth even as they nourish salal and the orange half-moons of shelf fungi. Its walls are fir and spruce, their arms heavy, pulled earthward by sleeves of needles that strain the sunlight like a colander. Its roof is blue sky interrupted only by the parabolic swoop of a gray jay; absent other sound, you can hear the starched crisp flap of its wings.
The quietest place in America is quiet — conspicuously quiet, palpably quiet, soft and heavy as a sweater. When, last month, Elise and I made our pilgrimage to the spot — dubbed One Square Inch of Silence by its designator, the acoustic ecologist Gordon Hempton — we found nature itself holding its breath. No birds sung; no squirrels chattered their staccato alarm call (though when one descended from her tree, we could detect the rasp of her claws on bark). We heard the gentle susurrus of wind, the dopplered drone of a passing bee. Synthetic noises — the buzz of a zipper, the snap of a backpack buckle — were discordant and ear-achingly loud. The overhead passage of an airplane, after twenty minutes of blessed hush, felt like an unspeakable violation, the distant roar of its engines as bombastic and menacing as “Flight of the Valkyries” blaring from the helicopters in Apocalypse Now.
The quietest place in America is in Olympic National Park, 3.2 miles up the Hoh River Valley and another quarter-mile or so off the trail. Here is what Hempton, a guy who really knows how to listen, wrote about the place in his memoir:
Silence is a sound, many, many sounds. I’ve heard more than I can count. Silence is the moonlit song of the coyote signing the air, and the answer of its mate. It is the falling whisper of snow that will later melt with an astonishing reggae rhythm so crisp that you will want to dance to it. It is the sound of pollinating winged insects vibrating soft tunes as they defensively dart in and out of the pine boughs to escape the breeze, a mix of insect hum and pine sigh that will stick with you all day. Silence is the passing flock of chestnut-backed chickadees and red-breasted nuthatches, chirping and fluttering, reminding you of your own curiosity.
During the pandemic, the commodity of quiet grew briefly less scarce. “We heard birds,” marveled the mayor of a less raucous Paris; happy humpback whales may have produced fewer stress hormones in Glacier Bay. Now the din of the world is largely returned, and quiet has been relegated again to its One Square Inch. Visit it, if you can.
If 2020 has been good for anything except Purell sales, it’s been good for backyard observations. I’m fortunate to have two backyards–one in the woods, one in the ‘burbs–which gives me double the opportunity to get to know interesting critters. I’m populating this post with an array of creatures I’ve met (chased? trapped?) while hiding out from the world. (For more, see my previous Distractions posts!) My cellphone photography is not top notch, but it will have to suffice. Nature, thank you for giving me a delightful hands-on education this summer.
I did not recognize this dragonfly, but the eyes and that long body make me think that’s what it is. Baskettail, maybe? Or something else? I saw it alive the day before and talked to it a bit. And then, the next day, dead. My fault? Or just Nature Tooth and Claw (or in this case, probably, overzealous dog)?
Hoppy “The Legs” Katydid. Apparently they are named for the noises they make, which someone somewhere decided sound like “katy did, katy didn’t.” I’m not sure I concur, but nobody asked me.
A common orb weaving garden spider (Argiope aurentia). She was massive and gorgeous. I mean, check her out! And totally harmless…unless you are her prey, of course.
The stabilimentum woven by the above spider–a feature of some orb webs, made of non-capture silk–is a bit of a mystery. The current thinking is that the stunning geometry warns birds away from flying into/through the web. Or perhaps the spider is just a showoff. (See also the nicely wrapped snack!)
Exoskeletons from my pond left behind by some kind of dragonfly nymphs as they headed out into the world. These things were all over the dry rocks. Crunchy, needed salt.
This (very zippy and hard to photograph) velvet ant (Dasymutilla occidentalis ) is actually a wingless female parasitoid wasp. Oh Nature! You are such a sly dog.
Needs no introduction. From a friend’s deck. Mother and babies visit nightly, having learned that my friend is a sucker for a furry face and that her bird feeders are “raccoon friendly.” (Please don’t judge.)
These luna months were mating! For days! Sorry the picture is so awful but I couldn’t get to them from the other side. Their wings, when outstretched, were much bigger than my hand. There was just one there the first day…pheromones must have drawn the other. Moth love is neato.
It is me again, trying to learn more about birds. I am trying with my shore birds, I am trying with my old field guides and my new Merlin ID app. And so, when I heard about a class to better identify bird song, I thought I should add one more tool to my feathery toolbox.
The instructor is so enthusiastic, so positive, so sure that anyone can learn bird calls. In many of the lectures, she talks about the birding mistakes and mishaps that she or others have made. I feel related to, I feel welcome. Still, I’m not much further than when I started.
I think my problem began with the robin. The American robin was given as an example of an ambassador bird, a bird that would help you pick out other birds in the thrush family. You could pick any bird you wanted, of course, but since I do know what robins look like, I figured I’d start there.
Call it the red breast phenomenon (or be more accurate and call it the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon)—now I see robins everywhere. They are picking through leaves under the elm tree, tucking themselves into berry bushes, landing on the grass at the park. But they are silent, these robins. I think they’re being quiet just to taunt me.
The only calls that I can recognize are the screechy ones. The ones I already know. The seagull. The crow. The scrub jay. The squeaky wheels of the bird world. OK, maybe I know two more: the morning dove’s coo, and the catch-all call of the mockingbird, which is a recent, pandemic addition to the repertoire. None of these are the charming ambassador birds that I’m supposed to be learning, the ones that will let you into the secrets of the wren family, the sweet, sunny call of the warbler.
I am listening more. The mix of calls I hear sounds like chaos to me, making me think that all of the ambassadors have pulled out of their embassies and left behind a clamor of birds without a country. And then yesterday morning, my husband and I were standing outside when a great blue heron flew overhead. And then, a second one flew by. We whooped and waved at our neighbors down the street, who were pointing upward, too. We’ve never seen one wide-winged heron soar above our street, let alone two. One of them made a creaky call that sounded like a sore-throated dog’s bark. Maybe an ambassador doesn’t have to have a voice like honey. Maybe it just needs to remind you to return to the country of attention.
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Image by Andy Blackledge via Flickr/Creative Commons license
On Saturday, I met up with two friends and made art.
Now, in this era, “met up with” means “on Zoom.” But “made art” means “made art.” And it’s art that wouldn’t have happened without the pandemic.
The two friends are Joanna and Harshita, two of my oldest friends. We’ve known each other since we were 11 and 12 years old, and after getting various degrees in other places, we’re all back and living within a few miles of the houses where we grew up. Over the last few years, while I’ve been discovering my artistic side, Joanna and Harshita have been around for it. Joanna and I meet up sometimes for a bit of plein air drawing, and Harshita and I have taken classes together with a local artist.
In early April, Joanna suggested the three of us get together (on Zoom) and do some art. This was early on, when we thought this isolation was maybe just going to be a few weeks or, when I was feeling pessimistic, until early summer. Joanna works in the museum field and has led a lot of arts and crafts, so she volunteered to find us an activity. Remember back in spring, when everyone was sharing ways to amuse yourself when you’re stuck at home? A museum educator at the National Gallery in London filmed a video with instructions on a collage activity inside her home.
I don’t know about you, but I have been waiting all year to wrap my hands around some tasty, tender tomatoes and arrange them in colorful patterns on my kitchen counter.
That shit is going to look like the embodiment of late summer. I’m dusting off my harvesting baskets and steel bowls, jamming them with juicy, just-off-the-vine tomatoes of every color.
When my guests come over, it’s like, BLAMMO! Check out my overflowing bounty of luscious, juicy tomatoes, assholes. Guess what season it is — fucking harvest season! There’s a feeling of ripeness in the air and my house is full of tender fucking tomatoes.
And you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to throw some multi-colored tomatoes into a roasting pan, and I’m going to drizzle them with some genuine California olive oil and then I’m going to slow-roast them until their scrumptious flavors have bubbled up into a taste explosion.
And when people come over and smell the aroma of roasting tomatoes in my kitchen, they’re going to be like, “Aren’t those tomatoes smelling up your house?” And I’m going to spread another perfected roasted purple Cherokee onto a slice of homemade sourdough and quietly reply, “It’s harvest season, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this tasty bounty or you’re not.”
Roasting purple, yellow, orange and red tomatoes sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. There is no more ideal food than a perfectly roasted tomato, and I am going to roast tomatoes until there are no more tomatoes to roast.
Why? Because it’s not that long stretch when the garden is growing but nothing is ripe, and it’s not spring or winter or the post-frost fall yet. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it’s harvest season, fuckers.
For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a t-shirt, some light overalls and a floppy fucking hat and kneel down in my garden and keep picking this near-endless stream of ripe tomatoes for the next six weeks, or until the first frost. The first skunk that tries to sneak in and steal my ripe tomatoes is going to get his stinky ass bitch-slapped all the way back to the long days of early summer, when the plants are green but so are the tomatoes.
