Of Frog And Pond

I had to spring-clean the little patio pond today.  Normally I aim for a sunny day after the ice has melted but before the frogs come loudly back to life.  But because of this apocalyptic weather, frog-song erupted on the patio two nights ago, about the same time the peepers started yelling in the big pond way down in the woods.  Our pair of pond frogs have clearly been doing more than singing, since this morning there was a substantial mass of frog eggs floating on the water.

At last year's spring cleaning, there were a number of frog cadavers to dispose of (my frog funerals consist of flipping the rubbery bodies over the fence into the chicken yard, for the hens to feast on).  I didn't want this year's tadpoles to hatch in water polluted by their relatives' remains.  Before things went any farther, I figured I should partially drain the pond, get the worst of the muck and the winter's frog casualties out of the bottom, fertilize the water lilies, and refill the pond with clean, cold well water for the tadpoles to grow in. 

When we built the pond, we made sure that one end of it was 3 1/2 feet deep.  This is supposed to be below the frost line, and to ensure that hibernating critters don't get killed by the encroaching ice.  After  last year's tragic spring, I learned that even if there is water below the ice, unless gases have a way to escape, frogs and salamanders and fish will suffocate.  The only way to prevent this is to keep an opening in the ice by electrical means, and since we don't (yet) have an outlet on the back wall of the house, despite the mild winter, the pond was solidly frozen for months.

I was expecting quite a frog holocaust today.  There had been dozens of frogs in the pond last summer.  In the fall, before the pond iced over, three or four of them had died, floated to the surface, and been skimmed off and fed to the hens.  Today, however, when my spouse-installed siphon started to lower the water level, a lot of dead leaves surfaced, and quite a few dead caterpillars, but not a single dead frog.

The two live frogs, alarmed by the receding waters, clung to the lily pots, their eyes popping with alarm.  I had previously scooped the mass of spawn into a bucket and put it out of harm's way in the shade.  As I skimmed the year's detritus, I brought up one very lively tadpole and three salamanders (two of whom were in flagrante).  When the water level got quite low I also saw, swimming in the murky depths...a fish!

I have documented in these pages my sad attempts to introduce fish into the pond.  For two summers I have decanted, first, shubunkin (the Japanese gold fish that look like koi), and then, when these perished, plain gold "feeder" fish into the pond.  Every single one--or so I thought--floated up or disappeared, victims of my pond's unsatisfactory ecology.  And yet today here was a fish, not gold but mud-colored, and definitely alive.  Had it dropped from the sky?  Had it emerged by spontaneous generation from the bottom muck?  Was it one of the originals that had somehow survived?  Was it a mirage spawned by my fevered brain?

When the pond was about a third empty, I started pouring in clean water from the hose, and decanted the frog spawn into it.  Both the mass of eggs and their parents disappeared into the depths.  As the pond filled and I installed the solar-powered fountain and bubbler, then poured in the barley straw pellets and the rotten-egg-scented solution intended to keep the water from turning into a fetid jelly, there was no sign of life on the surface.  I wondered if I by insisting on this belated cleaning I had murdered my pond pets.

But as soon as the sun went down somebody on the patio started playing the amphibian castanets with gusto again, and I feel reassured.  If we don't get a blizzard in the next few days, the frogs, the salamanders,  that ghostly fish and I will probably be o.k.

Bulletin From The Well

Ever since I got back from the trip down South to see my mother, I've been at the bottom of a CFS well.  Whenever I try to scramble up its slippery walls, the CFS gods shove me down again.  They are angry at me for traveling, for attempting to maneuver my limp mother to a more comfortable position in her bed, for resuming my regular routines after coming back.  I may have to stay quietly in the well a while, until the gods forget about me.

Meanwhile, inspired by Bridget's post, http://south-city-musings.blogspot.com/2010/11/some-good-news.html, I have made a list of good things around and in me:

1.  We're in the grip of a raging nor'easter, and the house is being pelted with sleet, snow, and freezing rain.  I am inside.

2.  Bisou is cuddled up next to me, on the fleece afghan that is now hers because a) she loves it so much, and b) she has chewed a corner of it.

3.  There is food in the fridge and freezer for a healthy dinner tonight. 

4.  Nothing hurts. 

5.  My kindly spouse will stop at the bookstore on his way back from town and pick up two books for me.  If you have a phobia of being stuck in airports without a book, you can understand mine of being bookless during a CFS relapse.  The books are Joanna Trollope's The Other Family and Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger, both of them sure to be well written while not overly taxing the brain (I lose about 30% of my mental capacity during a CFS relapse).

6.  The frustration and despair of the last few days have evaporated, and now I'm floating in a kind of Buddhist bath, having let go of desires, detached from outcomes, and anchored myself in the present which, taken moment by moment, is not all that bad. 

Big Wind

A strange kind of autumn has arrived.  The wind blew for 24 hours, the first rain in weeks drenched the gardens, and now the ground is covered with twigs and branches and many, many leaves--green leaves wrenched untimely from their homes, leaves that will not turn red or orange or gold in October.  It's long-sleeve weather, sock-and-boot weather, put-away-the-fans weather.

The little dog is Bisou, but I have no idea who the long-haired woman is

Can't Help Writing About The Weather

All things are relative, and one of the most relative things I know is the weather. Or rather, the perception of weather, specifically, the perception of temperature.

In the middle of a heat wave, with the thermometer in the 90s, a drop to the high 80s brings blessed relief. Likewise, less than a month ago, many of us Vermonters and flatlanders alike were out crunching around in our frozen gardens looking for signs of spring, sans gloves, hat or even coat, with the temperature in the 20s.

But then there was a string of days when the daytime temperature rose above freezing, though the nights were still frosty--maple syrup-making weather. These were followed by a week or so when the hens' water dish was--miracle of miracles--still liquid in the morning (this brought the syrup-making season to a close).

Then yesterday the wind blew all day. I couldn't concentrate on anything. I wanted to be outside working in the sun, but the wind was too strong. I wanted to do some work inside, but I couldn't concentrate on anything. I felt chilled and out of sorts. I assumed it was the wind.

At night, I tried to read in bed, but couldn't get comfortable. I got up and put on a fleece turtleneck over my pajamas. That was not enough, so I added a pair of warm socks (I never wear socks to bed). Finally I turned off the light and tunneled under the duvet and fell asleep thinking of those medieval illustrations of people lying in bed wearing weird turbans and caps.

This morning it was 16 outside...and 55 in the house. The furnace was down! My husband made a fire in the wood stove and a call to the repairman. I put on lots of clothes and did chores. Not a single chickadee was singing. While pooper scooping the frozen yard, my gloved fingers lost all sensation. When I got back inside, the repairman had been and repaired.

The house temperature is up to 59 now, but I'm still cold.

Vermont Scorcher

No, that's not an oxymoron. We're dying here. It's 89 F.

Remember, all things are relative. We've had an amazingly cool summer so far, with temperatures barely reaching the 80s, so this heat wave comes as a shock. Also, we don't have air conditioning. Some people around here do, but a lot of us consider air-conditioning in Vermont an abdication. After all, why do we live here, if not because we're tough, and in touch with Nature, and not afraid of the weather.

All the same, as my fingers stick to the keys, I remember with nostalgia the rumble and the frigid blasts of our Maryland air conditioner. It went on in May and stayed on through mid-September. I crawled indoors in spring and pretty much stayed there until fall, venturing out for evening walks as I held my breath against the “code orange” air. It was a kind of reverse hibernation, and I hated it. That's why we came to Vermont.

Since weather-related discomfort is a fact of life on earth, it makes sense to pick the kind of discomfort you're most comfortable with. Me, I'm more comfortable with cold. I can always put on an extra sweater, long underwear, even a hat if things get really bad. And after five minutes of tromping through snow, I'm no longer shivering.

In hot weather, though, there are only so many layers I can peel off. Any kind of physical exertion makes things worse instead of better, and the heat makes me incapable of mental exertion as well. Inexplicably, some people love this. They smile as sweat and swelter. They look healthy and relaxed, like something from a Gauguin painting. They are the ones who screamed with horror when we told them we were moving to Vermont. “Are you crazy?” they said, “do you know how cold it gets?”

These hot days, I spend a lot of time in our bed, which is conveniently positioned under a large ceiling fan. I can nap there, and read, have a little lunch, write on my laptop. Note that these are all activities that require almost no movement. After the sun goes down, I take Wolfie out for some exercise. This is the moment he thinks he's been waiting for, but after he's retrieved a few balls, he's panting and slowing down and glad to come inside. Scratching my mosquito bites, I retreat to my oasis under the fan.

Soon it will be time to go to sleep, and tomorrow we'll be one day closer to the first frost.

Company Weather

It rains, then the sun comes out. Then it rains, then the sun comes out. Then it rains....

This is NOT acceptable. My descendants, including Violette and Remy, are coming for a week, and I need SUN, and gentle breezes, and low humidity, and temperatures in the 70s. Otherwise, it won't be idyllic, and I WANT it to be idyllic, magnificent, and unforgettable.

Gentle Rain From Heaven

After a string of bright, chilly, windy days, the rain has come to stay for a while, and we gardeners are celebrating.

Not for the obvious reason, however. Sure, we're glad for the perennials just coming into bloom, and for the broccoli and tomato transplants whose baby roots need all the help they can get, and for the water table on which our wells—and everything else—depend.

But the real reason that we gardeners are rejoicing is that it's too wet to work outside. So we're tossing our dirt-encrusted jeans in the laundry, scrubbing the dirt from under our nails, and reacquainting ourselves with the inside of our houses. Reacquainting ourselves with friends as well.

Having applied 30 bags of mulch (weighing about 40 pounds each) to the flower beds in front of the house yesterday, I spent this morning returning e-mails, talking with one friend on the phone, going to lunch with another. We are all as grateful for this spate of rainy days in gardening season as we are for a thaw in January.

Which leads me to conclude, once more, that frequent changes in routine are a very good thing. For me, the lengthening, then shortening days; the peepers giving way to crickets; the planting and the harvesting followed by the shutting down of the outdoors, followed by the season of the wood stove—these are the things that keep the tedium of life at bay.

A place where it's always sunny; where you can go swimming in February and plant tomatoes in March; where the same birds sing and the same flowers bloom year round; the kind of place, in short, where most people would like to live, would do me in.

Give me, instead, a place where I have to look out the window and listen to a ten-minute dissertation by the VPR weatherman before I can figure out what clothes to wear, what kind of boots to put on my feet, and what shape my life will take (frenzied physical activity outdoors? Indoor reflection and philosophizing?) for the next twelve hours.

The natives around here like to say, "if you don't like the weather, just wait five minutes.” Me, I almost always like the weather, and I'm almost always glad that it keeps changing.

September 6, 2008 “A Day For Darning Socks”

Tropical Depression

“The tropics,” our Vermont Public Radio weather man announces, “are active.” Which means they're breeding hurricanes and tropical depressions like the late-summer woods breed ticks.

And it doesn't matter if these depressions are as far as the Bermuda Triangle or the Sargasso Sea, every time one of them forms, I get depressed as well. Whereas the day before the sight of ripe tomatoes in the garden sent me into ecstasies of sauce-making, now, with a tropical depression hovering, nothing much seems worth the trouble. What is the use of tomatoes, after all? All life--specifically, garden, dogs, chickens, even husband--is vanity. Death awaits us all. In a mere 24 hours the active tropics have transformed me from fervent Epicurean to medieval theologian.

I look out the window, and all Nature echoes my despair. Vegetables and flowers droop under the downpour, trees drip. The dogs drowse. The birds are silent. The hens and their husband are the only ones out, hunting for God-knows-what creature that is out in this weather. They are soaked through, though, and look despondent.

But is Nature really in despair or have I fallen prey yet again to the pathetic fallacy? Just because a plant droops, is it necessarily depressed? Under those drooping leaves and branches, networks of roots are quietly absorbing the rain and its nutrients.

My mother used to say that a day like this--low barometric pressure, high humidity, driving rain--is perfect for darning socks. I can see her now, sitting by a window on the straight-backed chair she favored, needle and thread in one hand, a sock (with a wooden darning egg underneath it) in the other, mending what was torn, being thrifty, making us all feel tended.

Darning socks is not the most challenging or creative of tasks. The mender sits, head bent over her task, not unlike a drooping tree branch huddled in the rain. But who knows what is churning underneath, being reborn, energized, by the gloomy-seeming day?

I'm too impatient to darn socks, in any weather. But I'm trying to learn, when tropical or other depressions head my way, to droop gracefully, and take comfort in the thought that there is good work going on beneath the surface.