Badger Week

Ecosystems are like stages filled with actors playing their roles. The plants act as energy converters so the sun can feed the crew. Herbivores graze their way through the show while passing their energy on to carnivores and omnivores. Scavengers make sure the stage is cleaned up in the event a crew member goes down. Decomposers stealthily take care of the final remains so everything is ready for the next act.

And, as any successful playwright knows, a good show needs a villain. Enter the apex predator. Love them, hate them, fear them or admire them, they are certainly difficult to ignore. Having survived another round of Shark Week it is evident that predators hold our fascination. Almost thirty years ago, Shark Week television shows were rolled out as the antidote for misinformation concerning sharks. Now, the craze includes everything from Jaws marathons to docufiction shows, science be damned.

I think it is time for a prairie predator week. Enter the American Badger (Taxidea taxus). It is a squatty little character but, boy howdy, is it fearless. It has huge foreclaws and a muscular body. It is related to the powerful wolverine (always good to have a bad boy in the family tree) and feeds upon all the prairie has to offer. It has no problem digging into other animals' burrows looking for tasty snacks and it enjoys a wide variety of food on its buffet such as birds, mice, prairie dogs, bees, skunks and lizards. They will also nibble on an occasional plant or two when need be.

There are flashier prairie predators such as the wily coyote and the venomous rattlesnake. But, it is the badger that has the real star power. Badgers have been known to assist coyotes in their hunting escapades and badgers are considered one of the primary predators of rattlesnakes. Top billing goes to the badger.

I am not sure I ever personally saw a badger during my years on the farm. I do have memories of tromping around in the hay field and remembering a warning given by my father to "never tangle with a badger." None of us were ever mauled by one so apparently we heeded his advice. I do remember seeing a badger hole or two and giving them wide berth. In reality, I should have given thanks for each badger hole I saw because they were helping cleanse the field of my nemesis, mice. I was convinced that small vermin could scamper up my legs and under my shirt at any given time. My fear was born of a warning given by my mother. My parents were a wealth of useful information.

It is probably a given there will never be a widely embraced Badger Week. Sharks are sexier and have their own soundtrack. Badgers look like grizzled rugs moving across the grasslands. Sharks have massive jaws that are rimmed with conveyor belt rows of teeth. Badgers have a single row of teeth and aren't attracted to flailing swimmers.

But, if the networks ever have a change of heart and decide to feature the star of the prairie, I am booking a front row seat. Any animal that can take on a rattlesnake is worth watching in my book.

Church in the Vale

Vacations are memories stitched together by moments in time. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a family that valued time away from the day-to-day minutia of general life. We never took exotic trips and many times the trips were just a few days, but the goal was always the same, experience a place as a family. We would take pictures (no selfies back then), collect souvenirs, eat picnic lunches and learn how to get along in new environments. My parents were saints when I think about it now, but my mother says she only remembers fun times.

My husband and I recently had the good fortune of vacationing with our daughter and son-in-law in one of our favorite places, the Black Hills. The weather was very warm and uncharacteristically humid due to recent rains in the area. But our cabin veranda was blessed with shade and soothing breezes. We spent many hours in conversation punctuated by a meal or two, or three or more. We also took field trips out and about in the Hills. 

As with all field trips, some events are planned and other events are totally serendipitous. One trip was a drive to a former mining town (pop. 21) that is still a destination for many due to its iconic watering hole and beautiful location. After we reached the little burg, we took a break in the parking lot of a nearby country chapel. My daughter tugged gently on the front door out of curiosity. Not surprisingly, it was locked so we wandered around the property to stretch our legs. 

Within minutes, a small blue car pulled up and an elderly lady (probably my age) rolled down her window and asked if we wanted to go inside the church. We were a little stunned by her timing but did not want to her to think we were casing the joint for some big break-in, so we agreed to her generous offer. She unlocked the front door for us and we entered the little brown chapel. The musty smell of air encapsulated without air conditioning greeted us. The church would have been just another country chapel if it hadn't been for the zeal of our tour guide and her husband, sporting a trusty water bottle fastened to his side in a holster. 

Our guide shared with us the history of the church which had its beginnings in the bar down the road. Volunteer ladies of the church would clean up the beer bottles and mess of Saturday night's revelry and prepare the bar for Sunday morning's worship. When the congregation garnered sufficient funds, a chapel was built and the pride in their progress continued to glow. Our guide pointed out the pews that replaced the original folding chairs, the new cement installed for the side entryway, the stained glass artwork decorating one of the windows and the brand new hymnals just purchased. She ended her history lesson by stating, "And every Sunday, we sing the song about the little brown church in the vale." As we prepared to leave, she gave us a parting gift, a paper place mat from their recent anniversary celebration. We thanked her and her husband for their time and made our way back to our vehicle, waving one last time to our new friends. 

Our original field trip itinerary did not include a stop at a chapel but it was certainly one of our highlights of the day, thanks to a very passionate woman, her husband and a little church in the vale.

Trending

News shows often share a feature called "What's Trending." I do not live on the cutting edge of anything so I am mildly interested in the latest and greatest. I did, however, take note of a particular announcement this week. The first one being Best Buy's decision to no longer carry music CDs. No surprise given our obsession with all things digital. The follow-up decision was the kicker. Best Buy will continue to stock vinyl records. What? The technology that was shunned and disgraced out of existence is now popping up on the radar as "cool" or should I say, "lit"? Here's a news flash. Vinyl is old technology. My parents used vinyl so we are talking really old.

One of my mom's beloved pieces of furniture was the console stereo. Mom instituted a sacred quiet time after our noon meal. The littlest ones napped, the middlings read a book or pretended to nap and my dad stretched out on the living room floor for one of his quick power naps. To set the tone, Mom put a vinyl record on the stereo and we drifted off with George Beverly Shea singing "How Great Thou Art" or a gospel quartet harmonizing their way through "The Old Rugged Cross." Christmas time was always exciting because Dad picked up the latest Christmas compilation album from my uncle who owned the local TV and appliance store. One of my favorite albums had a partridge in a pear tree on the cover. No surprise I learned all the verses to the "Twelve Days of Christmas" that year.

One of our first purchases as newlyweds was a stereo system that was far more expensive than we could afford. At the time, it seemed logical that musical equipment would have the highest priority on our list of needs (yes, we were idiots). In defense of ourselves, we continue to enjoy memories of the vinyl albums we played and replayed on that system.

As time moved forward, we jumped on the CD music wagon with the rest of the world due to the convenience and ease of using CDs. No more jumpy needles on a turntable. No more fear of scratching vulnerable vinyl records. No more bulky album covers. No more wonky 8-track players or curled up tapes in a cassette player. We were keeping up with the times and that should be enough.

When the wave of digital music arrived, my husband and I let it splash on by. I can pull up a song on Spotify if I have to or put together a playlist from Amazon Prime music under duress, but using digital music is like speaking another language for us.

And that brings us back to vinyl. We can speak that language very well. We know the joy of an artistically designed album cover. We understand the commitment it takes to purchase a compilation of songs that are not just comprised of our favorites. We know the fun of falling in love with a new song. We know the care and feeding it takes to keep vinyl in good shape.

And we know, vinyl never died. God Bless America.

(P.S. If you are interested in "why real things matter", read the book Revenge of Analog by David Sax.)

Soul Care

Soul care is a term as old as Plato and Socrates. Despite its longevity in our vernacular, the term has only recently popped up on my radar as worthy of further exploration. If you are a theologian or philosopher, my apologies as I am not going to wrestle with the nuances of the meaning of soul care. I am, however, going to share my application of the term, no deep thinking allowed.

I have declared this summer my Soul Care Summer. After a difficult school year filled with challenging students and a personal battle with chronic pain, I am in need of respite. Call me selfish or pagan, it matters not as I push forward with rest.

Here are a few ways I am underachieving this summer.

1) Meditate: My skeptical self usually classifies meditation as a voodoo, sprinkle dust business.That being said, I am currently following a program that encourages quieting the mind and relaxing with intent. I do not chant anything and I confess I think about the physics of air pressure as I breathe. I think I am safe from selling out to the nameste crowd but I am finding some of the techniques helpful.

2)  Set limits: I am still on my Facebook and Instagram cut back and I can honestly say I am refreshed with the renewal of experiencing life in real time. If I ask someone if they have been traveling lately, it is because I sincerely want to know and not because I saw a dozen or more dazzling posts on FB and I long to relive it again. I want to hear first hand the good and the challenging aspects of the lives of others. Not surprisingly, there is an expectation that I should know about life happenings because I have a FB account. Forgive me when I ask about your well being and I ask you to fill in a few blanks. That is what shared cups of coffee are all about.

3) Make Music: My piano has remained rather silent of late. Changes in life circumstances resulted in less demand for my volunteer services and less desire to rifle through my cache of music. A few weeks ago, I pulled out my stack of prelude/postlude music and started playing my way through memory lane. A quick call to the piano tuner improved my experience and needless to say, my soul is singing with the feel of black and white keys beneath my fingers once again. Beware, neighbors.

4) Give: This may seem antithetical to soul care but soul care is not only about taking in. It is also about the nurturing that happens when we exercise our giving muscles. The giving that takes care of us involves the opportunity to use our personal gifts for others. I like to cook and bake. Sharing a batch of cookies with someone gives me great joy and nourishes my spirit.

I am still cleaning my house (sort of), doing the laundry, showing up for appointments and schlepping in bags of groceries. That's life. But, life should also include a little kindness to the soul.

Cheers.

Power of Small

It goes without saying that grandness gets credit for being powerful. The mighty oak tree rises sixty feet above the diminutive 20-foot crab apple tree. The 80-foot long Blue Whale dwarfs the 18-inch Atlantic Herring. The stocky American Bison, weighing a solid ton, hoofs its way around the 2-pound prairie dog. The 7-foot wingspan of the Bald Eagle soars past the Chipping Sparrow with its dainty 8-inch wingspan.

Not surprisingly, nature does not always favor the most photogenic species. Enter one wee little insect, Agrilus planipennis, commonly known as Emerald Ash Borer. It is less than a third of an inch long, about the size of one grain of rice. It has been living a happy arthropod life in Asia for many years, coexisting peacefully with the native trees. And then a few adventurous Borers hitched a ride on a freight ship headed to the Great Lakes near Michigan about thirty years ago. Upon leaving the ship, the Borers discovered a tasty new food source, Green Ash trees. Yum, yum. Good for the Borers. Mega-bad for North American ash trees. One by one ash trees are losing their lives as the larvae of the Borer tunnel into the trees, cutting off the tree's food and water source when the xylem and phloem of the trees are severed. Not a pretty death.

The voracious and resilient nature of the Borer has resulted in a steady march of the bugs from east to west in North America. And here is where it gets personal. Our city just had its first Borer sighting and the battle cry has been sounded. If you have an ash tree on your property, you are responsible for removing the tree(s) or treating them. Kah-ching. Kah-ching. And, of course, we have two beautiful ash trees shading the front of our home. My readers may recall we also have a birch tree that, unbeknownst to us when we planted it, is in need of iron treatments every year. More kah-ching, kah-ching. We do not buy lottery tickets for a reason.

My husband and I are too old to think we can replace our ash trees and hope to enjoy the shade and bird harboring benefits our current trees provide. Therefore, we will become BFFs with our local arborist as we watch him inject anti-borer-juice into our ash trees and iron supplements into our birch tree. I am glad we have the option to save our trees. I am not glad about the hit to our bank account.

Meanwhile, our city is ready for war against the little beasts. Meetings are being held. Brochures are being distributed. Arborists are touting their services. Homeowners are making life and death decisions. There is no winning this fight. We can only hope to mitigate the damage and cross our fingers that the Borers move on after their ten-year cycle wraps up.

Clearly, the littlest of creatures can wield great influence. No large teeth or sharp talons required.

Timeline

Cookbooks are like snapshots on a timeline. My cookbook collection gives me the chance to peer into my past and experience my culinary trek through time. Some cookbooks are in pristine condition due to infrequent use and some are falling apart due to the ravages of repeated use and sticky fingers. My cookbooks are not organized in any particular order but if I had to classify them into categories, it would look like this:

1) Standards--My classic Betty Crocker cookbook was my first "real" cookbook (not sure of the copyright date due to lost pages). Someone wisely gave it to me as a bridal shower gift and I can safely say I used it more than any other gift I received. It had everything from dips to cakes to "variety meats" to cooking tips. I loved paging through it for recipe ideas and it was a trusted friend for many years. I have since upgraded my standard cookbooks, but if I ever need to cook tripe or glazed beef tongue, I know where to go.

2) Brand Names--Recipes sell products and there is nothing better than a cookbook devoted to a brand or ingredient to encourage experimental cooking. Case in point, the Jello cookbook. My readers know  I have a love/hate (mostly hate) relationship with the jiggly goo. Alas, my Jello cookbook did not stay in my collection nor did my Philadelphia Cream Cheese cookbook. My Pillsbury Bake-Off cookbook, however, has literally been used to death. Most of its 511 pages are pulled away from the binding so I carefully extract the page I need when it is time for Chocolate Chip Pecan Pie or Cinnamon Coffee Cake Loaf. Baked goods always make me smile.

3) Travel--Gift shops are tourist gold mines. I have little use for chotskies and doo-dahs, but I love books. Browsing and perusing is such fun and occasionally, I purchase a place specific cookbook. My Naniboujou Lodge cookbook always takes to me back to beautiful Lake Superior. It is filled with historical information and the stories of those who are still committed to preserving a slice of history.The lodge's dining hall is adorned with stunning art designs and their bread pudding was the impetus for purchasing the cookbook.  A different body of water inspired another cookbook acquisition for me, namely, the Atlantic Ocean. My knowledge of beach life could fit on a thumbtack, but I love seafood. The cookbook, Beach Cuisine, written by a home economics teacher from that area is now one of my favorites. Recipes like St. Helena Shrimp Scampi and Stumpy Point Stuffed Summer Squash remind me of a place far from my landlocked home.


4) Ladies-next-door--These are the day to day workhorse cookbooks produced by church groups and civic organizations with titles such as "Heavenly Dishes" and "Community Favorites." My first such cookbook was published by the supporters of the high school I attended. A rush of fond memories wraps me up like a warm blanket every time I read the names of the ladies who submitted their favorite recipes for the cookbook. Many of the ladies have since gone on to their eternal home but their legacy lives on through their commitment to providing good food and loving homes. This is evident in one of the recipes in the cookbook called Dried Beef and Cream Cheese Wraps: Take pieces of dried beef and spread with softened cream cheese. Then wrap around a green onion. Men love them.

Perhaps cookbooks are falling out of favor due to the overwhelming abundance of recipes available on the internet today. But I am grateful for my stained-up, loose-paged, dog-eared collection of cookbooks. They are my scrapbooks of joy.

Obsessed

With my social media fast still raging on, I find myself preoccupied with other forms of entertainment. My latest obsession involves bird web cams.  Yes, I know, web cams can technically be classified as a type of social media, but I assure you, the birds are not tweeting (excuse the pun) or instagraming the life they want us to see. They are just being birds, ruffled feathers and all. They eat. They poop. They squeak and they squawk. And they lay eggs with the hope of at least one chick surviving. It is gritty life and death drama moving in slow motion.

My favorite bird cam is located in Missoula, Montana. It features a pair of ospreys named Louis and Iris. I have followed this cam off and on for a few years so I feel they are my friends (no request required). Iris already lost one mate, Stanley. Ospreys are monogamous so we know Stanley met his demise one winter during their migration southward. Fortunately, Louis took over and he is an excellent provider, which is a good thing as Iris just laid her third egg.

Louis and Iris bicker like any married pair. Whenever Louis attempts to bring large sticks to their nest Iris becomes very opinionated about their placement in her nest and Louis usually is not the winner. Iris also prefers to be the one to incubate their eggs, but she occasionally gives Louis a chance to hunker down gently on their orbs of parenthood. Compromise is the glue of most relationships.

What Louis does best is fish. An osprey's diet consists mainly of live fish. There is a river near their nest so Louis is often gone fishing for Iris. It is an interesting sight to see Louis fly into the nest with a squirming fish. Iris likes to bite off the head of the fish first, going for the tasty bits right away, I guess. She gobbles up her meal and either takes a short break from egg duty or gets right back to her nesting.

I am getting very attached to my osprey friends. Too attached, perhaps. From my years of growing up on a farm, I know the cruel blows life in the natural world can wield. Last year, all three of Iris and Louis's offspring died of starvation. The river nearby rose to flood levels and made it all but impossible for safe fishing for the bird pair. This year, the river is again rising and the same fate could be ahead. And that is why I find authentic bird cams so fascinating. No one is attempting to paint a pretty picture for the viewers. I am not subjected to perfect lives and exotic vacations. Instead, the camera posts the triumph of a well caught fish as well as the potential for heartbreaking tragedy.

I am rooting my avian friends, no matter how this year's chick raising chapter ends. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy watching them carry out their daily duties. One stick and one fish at a time.

Not a bad motto for life.