Family Outing-The Chipmunks Genuflect

The family of blue jays nesting in my black spruce tree have fledged.  They had a family gathering/life lessons on my deck.  Blue jays are so loud and a family of blue jays is even louder. The blue jay family in not like my family AT ALL.  I think blue jays have inflated egos. They act like they are kings of the forest. The youngsters look almost like adults but the lines of their colors are not quite as defined.  First the family took turns taking a bath in the bird bath.  They splashed about all the water out of the bath.  Kids need to learn how to clean themselves so bathing in a bird bath is a good lesson.  Next was a lesson on scarfing down left over canary bird seed that I put on the deck railing.  The birds take turns landing on the deck.  Some are more graceful landings than others.  Some seed is eaten but more is kicked off by their feet or brushed off with their heads and spread all over the deck.  Blue jays are not dainty polite feeders like the chickadees who take one seed at a time and fly away. Blue jays trash the dining room and leave food on the floor.  You want to ask, "Were you born in a barn?" but you know they hatched in the black spruce just outside your bedroom window.  One by one the blue jays taste canary food and fly off.  One young blue jay flies from the deck railing and BLAMMO! It slams into the window of the deck door leaving a feathery imprint on the glass.  Watch out for the house buddy.  It recovers itself before falling to the floor of the deck and flies off more successfully.  The entire blue jay family leaves the deck cawing wildly their status as kings of the forest.  One of the parents does an outstanding imitation of a red-shouldered hawk.  If I hadn't seem it calling I would have been sure a red shouldered hawk was right there.  Richard Little couldn't have topped that performance.  Blue jays are so smart, so talented, so full of themselves.  Maybe they are the kings of the forest.

Big! (And I'm Not Exaggerating!)

Last night I monitored my two spots for the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency.  The Secchi Social I went to last weekend in Little Falls upped my motivation to do a good job.  I had a busy day but took time to monitor Coon Creek and the Rum River at the Pleasant Avenue bridge.  As I threw my dollar store bucket over the bridge (which already has a hole in it - what can you expect for a single dollar?) over the bridge over the Rum River the barn swallows left their perches under the bridge and flew up in a huge murmuration.  I watched the swallows fly around in their beautiful flight patterns as, hand over hand, I pulled my bucket up from the water.  As the bucket left the surface of the water I saw two big fish following the bucket. Their tails were towards the dam and their heads were pointed upstream.  Holy cow.   Two big fish.  Big, I say!  They were big fish at least 18 inches long.  Maybe 24 inches long.  It's hard to tell from the bridge deck.  But big.  These were definitely big fish.  What kind of fish?  I know river fish have different body shapes than lake fish. And I am more familiar with lake fish.  But these two fish were too long to be bass or panfish.  The girth on them was too wide to be pike.  Their heads were too narrow to be carp. That leaves walleye.  Two big walleyes were eyeing an orange bucket in case it was edible leaving a citizen scientist on the bridge with widened eyes and saying out loud, "Big Fish!"

The Swans of Fifth Avenue

I had to shake my head as I read The Swans of Fifth Avenue by Melanie Benjamin.  I had read her earlier book, The Aviator's Wife, which was about Anne Morrow Lindberg.  I guess I expected more.  This book was mostly about Babe Paley.  She was born into money and expected to marry into more money.  She was a fashion icon. She had fame and fortune and was a sad, lonely woman who came to lean on the author Truman Capote to share her secrets and unburden her soul.  Truman Capote, being a writer, used her to sell his books.  He used Babe's friendship to further his own career.  He sold her sordid secrets. The people in this story, the rich and the famous who are photographed for magazines and who ignore their own children, they really don't interest me.  So who will Melanie Benjamin's next book be about?  If her pattern continues it will be the wife of some famous obnoxious man.  Melania Trump? 

Last Night On the Gunflint

I can't let go of my Gunflint experience until I tell you about my trip to Gunflint Lodge and Gunflint Lake.  A native Minnesotan, I never knew there was a Gunflint Lodge or a Gunflint Lake.  My host and hostess took me on a safari before heading to Gunflint Lodge.  On our saferi we saw one Eastern cottontail, 4 painted turtles and 0 moose.  At the lodge we gathered around a folk singer with his guitar and his very talented violinist.  With 20 people gathered around on the grass, we listened to his songs about canoeing, camping, and the BWCA.  I can't remember his name but I enjoyed his songs and the way he incorporated the name of every dog in attendance into the songs.  The music was great and the atmosphere was magical but the no-seeums were biting me despite my bug repelling bracelet and despite a Deep Woods Off towelette smeared on every bit of exposed skin.  Those stupid bugs would raise welts on me that were still huge lumps three days later. 

When the concert was over a very friendly woman invited all of us "Birch Lakers" to the lodge for a beer.  Those Birch Lake people are extremely friendly.   I posed for a photo on the dock on Gunflint lodge at sunset.  Those trees and the shoreline behind me?  That is Canada!  I am on international waters having a heck of a good time.  Today there was a sale.  The Gunflint Lodge was sold from elderly owners to a new couple from Atlanta, Georgia. I met the new owners and I thought they seemed a little shell shocked.  I can imagine. Georgia/ Minnesota.  Owning a lodge from not owning a lodge. Owning the Gunflint Lodge would not be a career but a lifestyle.  I wished them the best of luck as I enjoyed a glass of Chardonnay in the rustic lodge with the head of a moose on one wall and the skin of a silver fox on another wall.  I can not imagine owning this lodge.  What I can imagine is coming back here in the future and sharing this awesome place with others who have never seen it before.

Unfuneral

Today I went to an unfuneral.  This was my first unfuneral so I wasn't sure how to handle myself.  "My condolences" doesn't seem right.  "Get well" is also wrong.  A friend of mine's husband is very ill and has decided to stop all his medications after today.  No one knows how long he will last without his medicine.  Several years ago he needed a kidney transplant.  Turns out my friend, his wife, was the perfect match for him.  She gave him one of her kidneys.  That was about the most romantic thing I ever heard.  So now, when he dies, a little bit of her will die with him.  I am sad for him and for her and their entire family but I was happy to go to the unfuneral.  He remembered me. I had only met him half a dozen times.  That was cool.  I wasn't sure what to wear.  For funerals most people wear black.  So for an unfuneral should I wear white?  Truth is I don't like black and don't usually wear black even to funerals.  I don't like white either.  I didn't want to be too casual.  This is this man's last party so I should dress up a little.  I decided to wear a form fitting kick-a$$ dress suitable for a Navy officer graduation ceremony.  I almost had to call a neighbor over to help me get into it.  But I managed.  I wore my dress proudly.  I shook his hand and we talked for a few minutes. People were laughing and talking.  Children were running around being crazy like children do. I reminisced with the future widow about some of the good old days we had together.  I admired the photos of them as a young couple and as new parents.  The situation was sad but fun too.  I said, "I don't know what to say but I'm glad to be here and I'm glad to see you and I wish you the best." I guess those words are of the "one size fits all" variety.

New Radio Station? WIIFM

Yesterday I talked with a guy about water quality and he mentioned WIIFM.  After the third time he brought it up, as in "People these days are listening to WIIFM," I finally asked what wiifm was.  I knew he wanted me to ask.  WIIFM, he said, stands for "Whats in it for me?"  He implied that people now days always question what is in it for them.  He said some young people have a sense of self-entitlement and they think they are above the rules.  I could agree with that but something seemed a little off as he mansplained it.  All of us ask what is in it for me, don't we?  Isn't it a natural and good part of our psyche to question what is in it for me?  If we didn't ask what is in it for me would we survive?  With the world events going on around us it does seem like some people are fearful and desperate.  They look ahead and can see that what they have is not sustainable.  We are going to run out of fossil fuels.  We can't keep drawing water out of our aquifers and sprinkle that clear, cold water on suburban lawns polluted with petrochemical fertilizers and smile as the dirty water washes into our watershed and away.  People who are different are scary and must be kept away. Why are people so afraid?  This isn't the time of the great depression or the dust bowl.  Yesterday I was reminded that in 2008 the people in the great state of Minnesota voted for the Clean Water, Land and Legacy Fund.  The voters said, "Yes, please raise my sales tax for 25 years so we can enjoy our clean water, public lands, arts, parks and trails."  We voters joined together and did that.  I was very surprised when that happened.  But there again, I think the voters were thinking WIIFM when they said yes to the sales tax increase.  Clean water benefits all of us.  The voters knew that in 2008 and spoke in a clear voice.  If our voters can do that, we can do more great things in the future. Maybe if we answered the WIIFM question clearly we could get farther than we can when we mock those who ask it. 

Secchi Social

Today a friend and I left Ramsey together to attend the secchi social in Little Falls. This is a gathering of citizen scientists who monitor the water of streams and lakes for the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency.  I've been doing it for, I'm not sure, 6 or 7 years.  I monitor the Rum River on a bridge in Anoka and also Coon Creek just before it dumps into the Mississippi directly downstream from the Coon Rapids dam.  I spend a few minutes at each location every week from ice out until October measuring the water temperature, the recreational suitability, the physical condition, the water clarity and the depth of the stream.  To measure the water clarity I have a bucket tied to a rope.  I throw that baby over the bridge and bring up enough water to fill my 100 cm secchi tube.  From there I can raise and lower the secchi disk until I have determined the depth at which the disk moves from visible to invisible.  I write all that down and turn it in to the Pollution Control Agency in the fall.  They use that information with other information to determine which streams or lakes are "impaired" and take steps to repair the impaired water.  Coon Creek, for example, was determined to be impaired and now restoration projects are being completed.  I monitor the last spot on Coon Creek before it enters the Mississippi watershed so of course, that spot is more impaired than other sites upstream.  Much of the problem for Coon Creek is from urban development.  Other streams are impaired from agriculture, feed lots, and recreational use.   My friend and I sat together at a table with some lake monitors and we learned a lot.  A lot, I say.  For one thing, the h in secchi is not pronounced (much like the h in my last name!).  One guy I met monitors Snail Lake. I've been there.  Another guy does two lakes; both Como and McCarrons Lake in Ramsey County.  I've been to both.  McCarrons is where this old lady learned how to swim!  He said both lakes are about the same size in terms of acres.  He can lower his secchi disk to 9 feet on McCarrons Lake and only 9 inches in Como. Fascinating! Mc Lake Como is very shallow.  He said the city of Saint Paul dredged the lake in the year 1900 but at most, is 5 feet deep.  Another guy monitors a lake near Paynesville.  All three guys had a wealth in information and I enjoyed them very much except for heavy amount of aftershave one guy wore.  Axe body spray much?  Holy cow, he was choking me in his perfume.  We gathered in the Great River Arts Building in Little Falls.  We heard information about how the data we collect is used and the process used to improve the water of Minnesota - our greatest resource.  About 2/3 of the group monitored lakes.   They were also involved in lake associations.  They talked about the problems they faced and how they solved them.  Some of the information was encouraging and some was discouraging.  Also discouraging was, in looking around the room, I saw only two people that I estimated to be less than 50 years old.  One encouraging project was discussed by a volunteer on Big Sandy.  His lake association raises money and funds a school for children in the summer that includes a bunch of state agencies and offers education on dragonflies, lake vegetation, pollution control, invasive species, birds, and nature.  I was so impressed with his efforts that will surely have a good effect on the future.  We had a great speaker on phenology which you would think would be a politically safe topic but no, one of our fellow citizen scientists had the audacity to interrupt her with questions (that weren't really questions) such as has global warming been proven?  Wouldn't it be better if the earth did warm?  What about all the useless land in Russia that, with global warming, could be used to raise food?  Isn't carbon a good thing?  Don't plants require carbon?  While my mind is reeling from the shock of his questions, other members of the stream and lake monitoring citizens have more social graces.  They politely and firmly shut his fake questions down and got the speaker to move on.  Seriously?  I could not believe the audacity of this old man.  I need to get out more. As uncomfortable as it is, I benefit when my beliefs are challenged. Hours later, when we left the Great River Arts building, I lingered to see if this Hawaiian shirt clad trouble maker with his fake questions drove away in a Hummer. I made an assumption, based on his questions, that he drove a Hummer.  He was a slow walker  and an obviously arthritic old man, so I didn't get to see what kind of car he drove, and seriously, what does it matter?  I'm pretty sure he didn't drive a Prius. Why does he even monitor the stream or lake that he does since science appears to mean nothing to him?  Except for that dude, the rest of us were, from what I could tell, all tree huggers and great people in general and I am proud to be included in the group invited to the first secchi social. One guy I met monitors a lake and part of the Crow River near Paynesville..  He's seen county commissioners get elected for the sole reason they don't want to be held financially accountable for their personal septic system and feed lot failures to abide by pollution control laws. Rather than pay the fines they owe or (shocking, I know, change their practices), they change the laws so they can do what they want and make money without having to pay.  He talked about the difference between wave action caused by wind and wave action caused by 100 hp boat motors.  It's a law that boats leave "no wake" within so many feet of emergent vegetation, docks, and and boat landing.  To curb the boats from tearing up the vegetation on the lake he lives on, he and other lake owners installed 4 swimming platforms. The fine for breaking the no wake law is a small amount.  I can't remember if he said it was $300 or $700.  But to a boat owner of a $50,000 boat and a huge, expensive trailer, the fine is negligible.  He got the DNR to enforce the no wake law with a radar gun from a county road.  After the big boat owner paid the fine every day for 4 consecutive days, the boat owner decided it wasn't worth racing around on this little lake.  Success! Boat motors of 100 HP can churn the water so much that weeds 20 feet long are sucked out of the sediment at the bottom the lake. Waves caused by wind do not do that kind of damage. That was news to me. I'm striking "jetskiing" off my bucket list. So he was encouraging.  On the other hand, his lake has starry spinewort and that news was totally discouraging.  Except zebra mussel love starry spinewort.  What a rollercoaster this day has been.  Some guys have been monitoring their lake or stream for 30 years.  Yeah, that is a citizen scientist right there in the flesh.  Cool beans.  I had a great day in Little Falls, Minnesota!   

Happy 9 Year Anniversary

My first entry on this blog was June 27, 2007.  I was home recovering from a surgery to install a spinal stimulator to alleviate the pain I have from sciatica.  At the time, when they said the rechargeable battery lasts nine years I thought nine years seemed like a very long time.  But the nine years was up so I had my new battery installed yesterday.  I am so grateful for this technology.   Without it I would still be spending 5 minutes getting out of the car constantly looking for ways to move without awakening that stabbing pain.  Without it I doubt I could work.  I'd probably be home on disability.  Without it I wouldn't be able to exercise as vigorously as I do.  My health would suffer.  Without it I would not have been able to snorkel in the Galapagos Islands and the Great Barrier Reef.  Without it I wouldn't have been able to touch a black rhino in Kenya.  Without it I wouldn't have the strength or energy to listen to owls and frogs and secretive marsh birds.  Without it I would not have been able to go on that tiger cruise on the USS Nimitz.  Without it I wouldn't have been able to zip line in the cloud forest of Ecuador or ride a horse on the beach in Australia. Without it I would have a different life entirely.  Pain is a thief.  Pain steals my energy, my motivation, my hope and my happiness.  I asked my doc to please clean the battery off well before he sent it back to Medtronic.  He said he thought they threw them away. He asked me if I wanted it.  I did!  This little battery has been to 3 continents and would make a heck of a conversation piece on the coffee table.  I guess it's a long process to get the battery back. It needs to be cleaned and filled with epoxy and engraved with the fact it can't be used again.  The surgery itself went fine. I basically had a one hour nap.  I was very anxious before surgery and instead of talking myself down like I usually do I thought it was appropriate to be anxious and rode that anxiety.  When the nurse asked me, "Would you like to walk into the operating room or ride in a wheelchair or . . .?"  Her voice trailed off.  In my highly anxious mind, where thoughts bounce around like a ball inside a pinball machine, I pictured myself riding into the operating room on a Roman chariot. 

I wanted to say "Roman Chariot" so BAD I could taste it but I bit my lip and kept my anxious mouth shut.  I actually have a mark on my lip from holding back my anxious thoughts.  The anesthesiologist leads the way by holding onto my IV bag.  "I'll follow you anywhere," I joke lamely.  Am I funny or annoying?  Both?  I'm too anxious to tell.  As 7 people, all gloved and masked, watch, I am told to lay face down on this very narrow table.  The IV is in my right elbow so I can't use that arm to help me get in the right place.  A huge bruise is forming in my left hand where the IV didn't go in so it's hurts to use my left hand too.  I stand on the little stool and contemplate how to do this.  Do I just jump and land on my belly?  That seems a bit extreme for a newer right hip.  So I sit down on the table and lay on my back first.  Then, with a hospital gown tied in two places, trying to keep myself covered, and without using my right arm I roll over.  Good!  I didn't fall off. I'm way too low on the table.    I have to move at least a foot towards the top end of the table. There is no space on this table for my left arm to rest and help myself up.  So I inchworm my way up the table feeling awkward as heck.  Actually I am surprised how good at inch worming I am as I don't practice that move ever. Surely someone could give me some verbal assistance here but no, they all stand and watch in silence.  I see a padded hole in the table where my head should go and there is an oxygen mask in the hole already.  I suspect there is more than oxygen coming out of that mask. I suspect there is some  happy gas in there and I could use some happy gas right now.  There is a pillow under the head hole and, well, being female, I need to get things adjusted right if I'm going to lay here for an hour.  So I say, "Excuse me, I have to adjust things here."  I do that.  There is no room for my arms.  I ask, "What do you want me to do with this right arm here?  Leave it hang down or put it somewhere?"  They tell me they'll take care of it.  Next thing I know I'm in the middle of a conversation with a nurse.  I don't remember the start of the conversation but I had to be in one.  Everything is over and I am seated on a recovery table on my back.  I am, like the Energizer bunny, re-energized and free to go home.   Happy 9 year Anniversary dear blog readers.  I guess I am surprised this blog has lasted this long.  Writing gives me an outlet to the cool things I see, the neat things I learn, and is an outlet for all my crazy, anxious thoughts such as Roman chariots.

Saturday on the Gunflint

After three consecutive eight hour days spent forging knives, my friend and I were exhausted.  As I expected my right shoulder and elbow were a little sore. What hurt the most though, to my surprise, was my abdominal core.  I didn't realize I was exercising my core while forging and filing and sanding.  Now I understand why those blacksmiths on Gunsmoke were so buff with their muscular bare arms and muscled torsos underneath the long leather aprons.  After coffee and a good breakfast we went canoeing the length of Birch Lake.  That is where we saw the dead moose.  My friend had to rescue her husband with a spare bike tire so first I went by myself in their kayak.  They have a sea-going kayak with a keel and a rudder; unlike my kayak that I got for $100.  I got in that kayak and took off.  Holey moley!  What a kayak!  This kayak goes straight as I paddle whereas mine goes left, right, left, right, wiggle waggling a crooked path when it would be more efficient to go straight.  I was so impressed with this kayak I thought I'd go full speed.  Wowsers!  Am I fast in this kayak?  Yes!  I am SO FAST!  It's no wonder I was tired at the end of the Mississippi River Challenges! Other people had nicer kayaks and my workout was way  more difficult than theirs.  That gave me a good feeling to know I worked harder.  My friend came back so I got out of the kayak and into her canoe. I steered and she was in the front.  She was used to her husband telling her "Left" or "Right."  I told her to paddle whatever side she wanted and I'd compensate.  We had a leisurely six mile canoe trip.  This friend and I can talk all night long without running out of things to say.  On this canoe trip we vow to write two books for our older selves; books the staff at our assisted living homes can give to us to calm our agitated selves.   One book will be "Happy Moments," and the other will be "WTF Moments."  The WTF book will be illustrated with a drawing of a person with eye brows raised, eyes widened, and arms out raised with palms up.  Besides seeing the moose we saw painted turtles, gray jays, bald eagles, turkey vultures, six beaver lodges, labrador tea and some kind of yellow lily - possibly a blue bead.  For dinner she made portabella burgers.  She was surprised that, as a vegetarian, I had never had them before.  Once I had a portabella sandwich at a restaurant and the texture was so rubbery I never had them again.  But her portabella burgers were to die for and I will be making them for myself soon. After dinner we went on an unsuccessful moose safari.  After that we drove to Gunflint Lodge located on Gunflint Lake on the Gunflint Trail; a triple Gunflint.  I had never been to the Gunflint lodge before. It's very nice and we listened to a concert on the grass. A guitarist sang songs about canoeing and camping while his accompanist charmed us with her talent on the violin and her engaging personality.  If it wasn't for the no-seeums biting me and raising huge welts, I would have had the most awesome time.  Afterwards a woman invited all of us "Birch Lakers" to a beer in the lodge.  The people living on Birch Lake are very friendly and I told them so. The lodge was old and full of skins, stuffed heads and memorabilia.  Just that day a couple from Atlanta, Georgia, bought the lodge.  Up until today this lodge had always been "in the family."  The new owners seemed nice if not a bit overwhelmed by their new responsibilities.  What a fun-filled, awesome Saturday I had!  

A lily noticed on the hike from the lake back up to my friend's cabin.  It's gorgeous!

My friend lives on the south side of Birch Lake. Here is what I can see of it from her wrap-around deck. All the lakes up here in NE Minnesota seems long and skinny and oriented east and west.  There must be some geologic reason for this.

The concert at Gunflint Lodge.  Loved it!

Here I am, having a great day, on the dock at the Gunflint Lodge.  Red sky at night; sailor's delight.  Those trees across the lake are Canadian trees.  This is a border lake.

Not Ready To Use It Yet

My knife remains in the middle finger of my suede glove.  I'm not ready to use it yet.  I built it for a gardening knife but it could slice a tomato or cheese as well.  But not yet.  I believe it needs some serious cleaning. Here is a shot of me, my hammer hitting the target, my anvil, and my knife blade. I'm smiling for the camera but well aware of the danger of pounding on orange hot metal.

Here is a shot of our coal forge.  This knife needs serious cleaning, I say.  First of all this knife was the spring on a car. Car springs are not clean.  It was held many times by dirty tongs and hammered with at least 5 dirty hammers.  I dropped it on the floor a couple times.  Sometimes coal stuck to the blade and coal is very dirty (you should see my pile of dirty clothes)!  It was submerged in vegetable oil and heated until purple in a propane torch. I spent hours filing it and sanding it.  I spread soapy water on it to get a good sludge on it while sandpapering it smooth.  And one time I accidentally smeared it with creamed coffee instead of soapy water.  Oh, the dangers of keeping liquids in coffee mugs on the work table with the tools.  I rubbed it on a diamond sharpening stone with plain water.  Anyway, some cleaning is in order before I use this knife on something I put in my mouth.  Maybe I should make the first cut something special and memorable. Perhaps tomato instead of buckthorn.

Should Have Been More Specific

I have been on the look out for a Minnesota moose for about 7 years now.  I look and I look for moose.  I made a special trip to Ely just to find a moose with no luck. Last week I spent 4 days staying on the Gunflint trail and I hoped to see a moose.  As my friend and I drove up and down the trail for 3 days attending our class in Grand Marais. we had our eyes open for moose.  Moose are seen on the Gunflint trail on those days but not by us.  My friend's husband saw 3 moose while I was up there but he wasn't attending a class.  He was preparing for an upcoming mountain bike race so he biked 80 miles on gravel roads and had more opportunities to see moose.  But I wasn't totally skunked.  I did see a Minnesota moose.

The story is that this moose fell through the lake.  A week ago it raised to the surface in front of a cabin.  Two cabin owners roped it and towed it to this spot on Birch Lake away from all the cabins.  The smell was pretty strong so I didn't get super close but from what I can figure, this turkey vulture is standing on the moose's side.  The legs are reaching toward shore.  The head of the moose is on the left and the hips are on the right.  Much of the moose is still covered with hide.  A very large femur was exposed.  The vulture visibly struggled to get meat off the corpse while I watched in horrified fascination.  Three other vultures waited on branches nearby and four bald eagles waiting in tree tops along the shore. 

Does the fact that the vulture was eating while the eagles waited mean vultures are top of the pecking order?  Or does it mean the eagles were full for the time being?  In any case, I did get my wish.  I saw a Minnesota moose.  Now I want to see a live Minnesota moose.

Forge a Knife!

Last week I spent 3 days at the North House Folk School taking a class with a very good friend of mine.  We forged a knife.  Yes, just like on the television series Gunsmoke, I forged a knife.  And it was bada$$.  Dangerous as heck.  Heat, sharp objects, power tools, all combined at once.  Nine students and nobody got hurt.  Nine interesting students from Minneapolis, the state of Washington, and Duluth.  Ages varied from 17 to older than me.  We all got along.  Coal?  Yes, real coal.  We burned coal in our forges and I had a black lining inside my nose. Not charcoal; this was some other kind of coal that came in 50 pound bags.  I used about $5 worth of coal on my knife.  If anyone wants to know how to start a coal fire, I am now an expert at that. Our bellows had a hand crank.  The story begins in the driftless area of Wisconsin.  A squirrel got into a Honda CRV.  The first day the squirrel destroys the foam padding and the upholstery.  The second and third day the squirrel eats the wiring and totals the car.  The owner gets more money from insurance than the car is worth.  He retains the springs from the car and from that comes at least 9 knives.  Our first job as a knife forger, and I was not expecting this, is to straighten the coil and cut a piece off for our knife.  We heat the coil in our forges.  I stick one end in the hole on our anvils (yes, we got to use actual anvils) and with a tongs try to pull the curve out of the coil.  But we did it and without burning ourselves.  I cut a four inch length of coil off the length by heating it past red, past orange to a yellow color over the coal forge and hammering it over a sharp point.  When I got it beat to 90% through I use two tongs and worked it back and forth until it broke off.  Whew!  Then I heated my coil section to yellow and banged the hell out of it until I had a flat rectangle. It was not easy.  My instructor, who has made several hundred knives, make the metal look as pliable as bread dough.  I do not have that strength or that talent.  Our instructor said to hammer each blow a half blow over from the last blow.  Yeah, right, a half blow over.  I'm lucky to hit the yellow glowing metal instead of the anvil.  My accuracy improves though with time.  After the first 8 hour day my shoulder, elbow and right hand ache terribly.  Plus my ankles and knees  and hips are screaming because I've been standing on cement all day. I'm so into it I forget to drink water.  I wash my hands and the soap lather is black; not gray.  I look in the mirror at the end of the day to brush my teeth and see that my nose if black with coal dust. My clothes are filthy. Oh, tis good to get dirty. The second day is more hammering. I choose a rat tail tang on the knife instead of a full tang. The tang is the part of the knife underneath the handle.  A full tang involves sandwiching the knife end between two blocks of wood and setting them with pins and epoxy.  A rat tail tang is smaller and fits into the handle with epoxy but does not go down the full length of the handle  Both options are equally strong.  My friend and I are a bit behind the rest of the group.  She gets anxious about it but I reassure her that our instructor will help us finish.  Turns out I am right.  After the second day we have our rat tail done but not our handle and not our guards.  But by the end of the third day we have a completed knife and it looks awesome.  We anneal (harden) the knife blade by heating it up and submerging it in vegetable oil - the sharpened end first and later the entire blade. The knife makes bubbles in the oil. Geez, that was a gleaming hot blade of metal.  Later we I could have sanded and filed all the hammer blows off my blade but I wanted mine to look like it was hand forged.  We temper the blade with a propane torch making sure we heat the tang first and let the heat rise up the blade as the color changes from straw to purple.We sand the purple color off and sharpen the blade. I think our instructor seems very laid back considering the danger involved and all of his students are now armed with sharp knives.

Here the hot knife blade is being annealed in cheap vegetable oil.  Does that not look dangerous to you?

  I chose a copper guard with a Peter Panesque shape and an antler handle.  "You want whimsical?" asks my instructor. "I do," I reply.   I thought about a black walnut handle but decided antler was better.  I considered a bone handle but got a little queasy handling the bone so went back to antler.  I love it.  I file the antler so the end isn't sharp.  The deer grew a natural depression that fits my pinky finger just right.  My friend also chooses a copper guard but her handle is from some black ash from her property on the Gunflint trail.  Both knives should be sharp and strong enough to cut roots and branches.  Now I need a sheath so I don't loose it.  This bada$$ knife is too sharp to put into any pocket.  I would slice my jeans and my leg.  For now I am storing it in the middle finger of my suede gardening glove.  By the end of the third day my elbow and shoulder feel better but what hurts is my core - my abdominal core must have been exercised without my knowing it.

The Honda CRV car spring.  My knife is on the right and hers is on the left.

The school is located in downtown Grand Marais right on the harbor.  We both wanted to take a class here and we wanted something out of our comfort zone.  We wanted a challenge. We chose well.

Traveling

I have been traveling for the last five days to the north and to the east and backwards in vegetative time to an era when lilacs, peonies, iris and bridal wreath bushes are in full bloom.  I went to a 3 day class in Grand Marais with a good friend of mine and while there I stayed at her cabin located about mid-point on the Gunflint Trail.  While studying and learning at the North House Folk school we had an opportunity to witness the rehearsal of the summer solstice play.  I totally loved the play because, for the first time, a play had characters such as a field guide, spring peeper frogs (with white balloons under their chins which sadly deflated during rehearsal), blue spotted salamanders, fairy shrimp, water striders (I call them Jesus bugs), meadowhawk dragonflies, and a great blue heron.  And while these characters were on stage, a young girl on a unicycle cycles back and forth holding a sign with their common name and Latin name.  The live music score was awesome.  The funniest part was a snail slowly crossing the stage while a little boy in a turtle costume ran continuous circles around the snail.  All this was set on a big patio outside the folk school with the Grand Marais harbor in the background.  The whole time I was watching it I thought to myself, "I am so glad to be right here, right now."

Father Winter and Mother Summer?

This fella with the big ear is listening for spring peepers.  I look exactly the same on my frog and toad survey.

I never saw a field guide as a character and I think this is epic.

This is a meadowhawk dragonfly according to the girl on the unicycle.

There were 4 blue spotted salamanders in this play.

The great blue heron had help with it's head movements.

This little turtle ran full speed during his entire performance.

Maybe this represents summer or maybe it's the jolly green giant.  Ho Ho Ho

 

Call of the Red Bellied Woodpecker

I had a million things to do when I got home last night.  I had made a list and everything.  I rushed around the house gathering things and organizing for the days ahead.  As I scurried around I heard a red bellied woodpecker call and call and call.  I see the red bellied woodpecker all the time so I didn't stop to admire it on my peanut feeder.  But the woodpecker kept calling again and again and again.  I wondered if maybe there was a youngster waiting in a tree for the parent to bring it a peanut.  The woodpecker called steadily for another two minutes so I put my things down and went to look out the window.  Oh, now I see why the woodpecker was calling me to come to the window!  On the oriole feeder next to the peanut feeder was a Baltimore oriole gobbling down generic grape jelly.  Totes awesome!  Thank you, red bellied woodpecker, for calling me to see this wondrous sight.  I can't think of any other reason for that woodpecker to call because as soon as I saw the oriole, the bird went silent.

Enon

I read Enon by Paul Harding.  In this story a guy named Charlie is devastated by the death of his daughter.  I liked Charlie because he has such a close relationship with his 13 year old daughter.   Any father that close has to be a good guy, right?  As the story progresses though, and Charlie's downward spiral of despair continues I began to wonder if Charlie really was a good guy or not.  The writing was colorful and imaginative.  Charlie's thoughts go so far I began to wonder if the author wasn't taking something.  As Charlie tries to escape his grief with prescription pain killers I really began to wonder if the author isn't taking something. Some of the images he wrote about were disturbingly descriptive and they linger in my mind longer than I want them too.  I guess that is a sign of a good book - one that leaves a linguistic hangover even after you returned it to the library.

Third and Final Marsh Bird Survey

On Friday night three of us went out for the final marsh bird survey.  At our first stop a half hour before sunset (8:30) we listened for marsh birds but heard geese, chickens, red winged blackbirds, common yellow throats, and cowbirds.  Because marsh birds are so secretive, as a part of this study we play the sounds that they make for 30 seconds.  We play 30 seconds of the calls of the least bittern, American bittern, sora rail, yellow rail, Virginia rail and pied billed grebe.  We didn't hear any at the first or second or third stops.  At the third stop a sora rail (see picture) answered with a whinny just once.  We didn't hear any rails at the fourth stop but the fire flies were putting on quite a beautiful light show.  The mosquitoes were feasting on us despite my long pants, long sleeves and I was wearing a mosquito net headpiece.  The night was hot and humid so I didn't want to wear jeans.  By the way, mosquitoes can bite right through yoga pants.  As we watched the marsh we could see the mist forming. At the fifth stop we had technical difficulties.  Unlike the frog and toad survey and the owl survey where we rely on our ears and pen and paper, we need technology to play the sound of these marsh birds at 90 decibels.  What could we do?  Try as I might sound like a sora rail, a real sora rail can tell the difference between one of it's own kind and a poor imitator such as I am.  A partial survey is better than none.  We can't come back later and pick up where we left off.  We'd have to do the entire survey again.  Our next opportunity to do that was early Sunday morning.  If we couldn't do it then, we couldn't do it at all.  We would have to start at 4:55 a.m.  I set out my clothes and set my alarm for 4 o'clock.  I worry about not getting up and don't sleep well.  A storm wakes me up about 3.  Thunder and lightening appear but not much rain is falling.  The storm decides our fate for us. We can't redo the third survey this morning so we will have to turn in our partial run.  We tried though.  We really tried.  We were up at 4 a.m. on a Sunday morning and that alone shows real effort.  Looking back, I am glad I did this survey. It was a challenge of my learning skills, my listening skills, my map skills, my Garmin skills and my navigation skills.  I learned the sounds of eight new birds and my yearly goal is two or three.  I learned more about my local community and I met more fascinating and talented people.  I had some adventures.  I spent more time outside.  I lost some sleep.  I got a couple ticks and many mosquito bites.  Now our survey is complete.  I still have to enter the data into the Point Blue Conservation Science system which won't be hard to do.  The cool thing is this system is made for and used by real scientists.  I fell like it is an honor to be given a chance to log in and use it.  Some day I really want to hear a yellow rail.  A road trip may be in my future. 

Things That Take Awhile To Figure Out

As a kid I didn't have a lot of fears. Spiders were tolerable.  Snapping turtles?  I said, "Hi" when snappers popped their little heads up out of the water right next to me when I was swimming in Block Lake. Snakes weren't so great and I wasn't happy when my cousin put a garter snake down the back of my shirt.  Lucky for me my shirt wasn't tucked in and the snake was out before I fully processed it's presence.  Frogs?  I collected them and sold them for a dollar a dozen.  Leeches?  "Don't swim under the dock!" I was told time and time again but it was fun and I would come out with leeches attached between all ten toes.  I wasn't afraid of bears of wolves or getting lost. What I was afraid of was quicksand.  Quicksand was deadly.  And I've never seen actual quicksand.  Even sand bars made me nervous because there could be quicksand on a sandbar.  So why was I so afraid of coming across quicksand?  I never knew why until the most recent rainy Saturday when I was cleaning my house.  MeTV was having Tarzan marathon.  Now it comes clear to me. Tarzan's enemies were constantly wandering into quicksand. Quicksand is possible in Minnesota if there is running water under a sandy soil like next to a river for example.  Or, possibly, a gravel road with a frost boil in it.  I DID get stuck in one of those.  Actually the frost boil that ate the front end of my Honda Civic was a Minnesota version of quicksand.  I guess I didn't realize it until now..  I've grown up.  I do have fears. But I'm not afraid of quicksand any more.  The upcoming presidential election scares the crap out of me now but quicksand? Schmicksand!
 

I Can't Even Guess Anymore

I used to think, "If only I paid more attention to my chickens, I would be able to tell which eggs are from which chicken."  I don't think that any more. This picture shows the variety of egg from the one, the only, Chicken Caruso.  The darkest egg on the right side of the photo is the oldest egg; maybe a month old. The egg on the far left is from today.  All eggs came from the same chicken.  One chicken lays eggs that vary in color that much?  From light caramel brown to tan?  No longer do I think I even have an chance to guess which hens lays which eggs.  In the middle of next month I will receive more chicks.  I  know that that Americanaus will lay eggs what are blue or green and the Polish will lay eggs  that are white. Other than that, Chicken Caruso has taught me I can't even guess more than that.  I should be surprised. As a mother I had one blonde, hazel eyed kid with spiral curls and another with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and straight hair.

VIP Visitor

When I got home tonight I was busy doing some chores when a shape in the walnut tree in the backyard caught my eye.  A bird shape. A big bird shape.  A big bird shape with a striped tail facing away from the house and looking down toward the ground for, what was it looking for?  Frogs?  Voles?  Toads?  Snakes?  Smaller birds? Excitement rolls through me forcing my hands into jazz hand movements.  I moved slowly and slyly with quieter hands to the living room.  Dang, where is that camera when I need it?  I sneak like the spy that I am back to the kitchen.  I quietly unlock the deck door.  From this angle I can see less of the bird. Branches block my view.  I go back to the living room, slow and easy like and look again.  White bars on the tail are not that helpful identifying hawks.  Broad winged, sharp shinned, Cooper's hawk, and red shouldered hawks all have white bars on the tails.  This bird was silent and the red shouldered hawk is hardly ever silent.  On the other hand, the red shouldered hawk has been spotted many times in my yard so that makes it more likely.  On the other, other hand, Cooper's hawks and sharp shinned hawks are more likely to attack other birds at a bird feeder and although this hawk is turned away from the feeders, there are four bird feeders in the near vicinity.  Staring at the back of this hawk any longer is not going to help me identify it. I quietly slide open the screen door.  The hawk hears me and leaps off the walnut tree going forward and down a few feet before the wing beats give it lift.  The hawk soars silently through the tightly knit forest into the woods.  Who was that raptor with the barred tail?  I really don't know for sure.  I think it was too small to be a broad winged hawk and too quiet to be a red shouldered hawk.  This was a large hawk with a big head.  I'm gonna guess it was a Cooper's hawk but I'm not going to put any money on it Oh, so cool! 

PS Migwe Seems Fine

I worried about him all day but Migwe seems fine. He is bearing weight equally, eating normally, drinking normally, and chirping as a Russian canary chirps.  Whew!  What a relief. I think if I had hanged (hung?) upside down by one leg for any length of time, I would not do as well.  He isn't singing tonight but I totally understand how one might not want to sing after what he has been through.

The House I Loved

Picture in your mind a woman who is not mentally healthy.  She keeps secrets and allows those secrets to burn in her soul.  She doesn't accept reality.  She despises change and refuses to adapt.  She is stubborn to a fault.  That is the story of Rose Bezoulet in The House I Loved by Tatiana de Rosnay.   Rose, she is a stubborn one. She lives in Paris in the 1850's and 60's - the time of the  American Civil War.  A Paris city planner, named Hausmann plans to change Paris to allow for traffic, rid the Paris inhabitants of the danger of cholera, and enhance the city with wide boulevards threatens Rose's house.  Hausemann is a real person and the changes he made were real.  Yes, he took people's homes but he had a larger public welfare in mind.  Rose can't adapt.  She can't accept the change. She can't see the good.  She clings to her house which actually is the house of her husband, Armand.  I understand that property means very much to people.  But when it comes to life or death. property doesn't mean so much to me.  I loved Rose as a person. Maybe she didn't connect with her daughter (which I don't really get because my daughter is above average) and maybe she wasn't the most adaptable person but I grew to love her. I, too, once lived on Saint Germaine.  My Saint Germaine was in Saint Cloud and underneath an antique shop, but it was Saint Germaine nonetheless.  Although this story doesn't rank up there with Sarah's Key, it was an enjoyable story.

How?

I have had Migwe, my Russian canary for eight years.  I got this flight cage about six years ago and that is where he has resided ever since.  Today, since it was nice out, I put the cage outside on the deck. I typically do this in the summer.  I put his blue towel over half the cage so he could get relief from the sun shine.  I thought, maybe, he could commune with the golfinches like he usually  does.  Today I finished gardening about 4:30.  I wondered if I should bring him in now or let him enjoy a couple more hours of fresh air.  I decided to bring him now.  And I am so glad I did because when I removed his blue towel there he was hanging upside down by one leg.  One tiny canary talon was stuck between the bars of his flight cage. How did this happen? I don't know.  How long has he been hanging upside down like the baby brought before King Solomon and claimed by two women?  One woman says, "Go ahead. Cut that baby in half." The other woman says, "Let the baby live."  The mother who wants the baby to live is the one King Solomon decides is the true mother. I don't know how long this canary has been topsy turvey but I figure it couldn't more more than four hours.  I talk to Migwe as I rescue his tiny a$$. Is it my imagination or does he understand my comforting words?  Within a few seconds I get his tiny claw free of the cage wires. He falls to the bottom of the cage. I hope he is okay.  He flies up to a perch but looks a little lopsided. He's not bearing weight evenly.  I bring him inside. His wings work fine; it's his right leg I'm worried about. I give him 20 minutes to collect himself.  I go to give him fresh water and fresh food but he is at the food dish searching for seeds. That is a good sign!  I wait until he is done before refilling his food dish.  How did this happen? Six years in this extra large flight cage and never before has he been strung up by one leg like he was today.  What happened?  Did another bird frighten him?  Did the breeze blow him into this position?  The poor fellow!  My dear canary! His leg must be killing him. If only I had some canary tylenol; better yet canary oxycontin.  All I can do is hope for the best and send loving vibes his way.  The average life span of a captive canary is between 9 and 10 years.  I've had Migwe since 2008; a little more than eight years.  His songs have made me so very happy.  Migwe had brought life and joy in my darkest hours.  He's not singing tonight though.  Poor, dear Migwe!  What a day he has had.  I got to youtube and play some Russian canary songs.  At least he can enjoy some of his own kind talking tonight.  

Grandma

This week I have spent time fondly remembering my Grandmothers.  One was born on June 1st and one was born on June 4th.  I miss the one who was born on June 1st and the one born on June 4th.   As a child, I would sit by their side and listen to their stories and enjoy every minute.  At the time I remember thinking, "Other kids might get tired of this sitting and listening but I don't."  Sometimes the stories were ones I had heard before.  It didn't matter. What mattered was the love.  Both of them loved me; talked to me; listened to me; and treasured me.  One taught me how to bake a cake; how to grease and flour the pan; how to mix the batter; and how to check for doneness with the straw off of a broom.  As I write that I realize how unhygienic it is to insert the straw off of a broom into a cake but that is how we did it in those days.  Another taught me how to make a glossy cookie frosting with egg white, vanilla, and powdered sugar. Who uses unpasteurized egg white raw now days? Salmonella much? Okay, so maybe my Grandmas didn't have the latest public health information on hygiene but they knew how to love a granddaughter.  They knew how to make her feel safe, to feel loved, to feel worthwhile.  And by her I mean me. They didn't have much education; in fact neither one graduated from high school.  They didn't dress in the latest fashions. Neither one used any make up or nail polish or wore any jewelry beyond a gold wedding band.  Neither one traveled very far.  Neither drank alcohol. Both were strong and generous.  Both were loyal.  Both were loving and beautiful.  Both were amazing women.  Both were strong role models. Both enjoyed life and treasured relationships.  Both were industrious.  Both had true grit. Both of them meant the world to me. I miss them very much. If only we could go back in time and have another five minutes with the ones we love!  Because I would go back and I would spend another five minutes with both of my Grandmas and it would be the best five minutes ever. 

Frog and Toad Survey #2

Last night we completed frog and toad survey number two.  As I headed north and west and crossed Trott Brook, I saw a large bird over my car.  The wings beat three times and the bird coasted.  Five wing flaps were completed followed by more coasting.  It wasn't until the bird bent it's tail down to land in a big tree did I recognize it as a bald eagle.  I figured seeing this eagle was a good omen and I was right.  As I stopped to pick up my frogging companions, I was treated to home made peach and blackberry crisp hot out of the oven topped with vanilla ice cream. What a treat! We heard four species of frogs on our route. The gray tree frogs were the loudest but we also heard spring peepers, chorus frogs and American toads.  I thought we would hear pickerel frogs of green frogs because I heard those the weekend before on the Saint Croix river but no luck with those tonight.  The night was loud with the wind blowing, crickets, red winged blackbirds, mallards,  Canadian geese, veery, snipe, sand hill cranes, robins, and common loons.  Fire flies lit up the night. We saw deer and raccoons crossing the road.  The wind kept most of the mosquitoes at bay but might have also kept us from hearing more frogs.  The rain held off for us and we enjoyed the nice evening using our ears in the swamps.

Now I Am Ready

I bought a yellow car to match my yellow house and that felt good and right.  I happened to have a yellow umbrella already. What was missing was yellow sunglasses for me to wear in my yellow car when motoring to or from my yellow house.  Last night I happened to be at the dollar store and what do I find?  For one measly dollar?  A perfect pair of yellow sunglasses!  Now I am ready.

The Red Badge of Courage

Stephen Crane knows what he was writing about when he wrote The Red Badge of Courage.  The red badge that indicates courage is a blood stain.  I feel so incredibly sad that young men think the only way to display courage is to bleed.  The other thing that struck me from this book, written about the Civil War, is that people were plainly marked blue or gray.  There was no hiding behind burkas or using children to set off incendiary bombs. Either you were blue or you were gray.  And to set yourself apart, each party had a flag bearer in the lead.  It was a honor to be the flag bearer!  How times have changed.  You don't see ISIS bearing flags.  You don't see the USA bearing flags.  To be succinct, war sucks. In this story we follow Henry Fleming,often referred to as "the youth."  Henry is worried that when battle comes, he might turn tail and run.  He does turn tail and run,  Later he becomes a flag bearer and is honored by the people in command. Yet, through it all, Henry is still Henry.  During the battle Henry changes from a youth to a man.  The Red Badge of Courage is a sad tale, illustrating how we humans resemble animals. I loved the story and I totally understand how this became a classic of American literature.

Marshbird Survey #2

Who lives here?  Rapunzel?

Today is the first of June and, not to brag, but I started the month of in a most awesome fashion.  Up at 4 a.m. and out of the house by 4:30, three of us were at the first stop of the second marsh bird survey route at 5.  As I stand to get out of the car I hear the sweet "pumper lunk!" of an American bittern. We get our papers ready.  The Bluetooth speaker is hooked up to the iPod and Christmas music spills out over the grasses, the rushes and the alder.  Oops!  We are supposed to play the sounds of marsh birds.  We laugh and save the Christmas hymns for six months.  The wind is very slight and the sky is mostly clear.  The temperature is about 56 degrees and hardly any mosquitoes are out.  We hear many pheasants and chicken as well. I must need more coffee because my sibling is winning at saying "Pheasant" first.  A marsh wren twitters in the swamp. At our second stop hear but do not see sand hill cranes. At the third stop we see but do not hear sand hill cranes.  We mark down each minute they are sighted.  Because cranes stand upright and bend over in the swamp, we don't see them every minute.  Stops three, four and five are difficult because we are on a busy county road; the main road between Zimmerman and Isanti.  Cars, trucks, semi-trailers, school buses, and other vehicles go by all the time.  Since we three are wearing our safety green vests, no one stops to question us.  The fifth stop is a pleasant relief from all that traffic. An added bonus is that we can hear and see the common yellow throat calling "whichity whichity whichity."  They are easier to hear than to see but today we are lucky. Two piebald horses watch us uncomfortably closely.  They are probably wondering why we are playing the sounds of marsh birds.  They look at us to steadily with their pointy ears aimed our way that I feel judged.  We look for the screw we placed in the ground decorated with curly ribbon.  We can't find it. So we use the Garmin GPS and find the latitude and longitude again.  After we're there for 5 minutes we see the screw and the marker in the tall grass.  We have to do things at exactly the same spot so it's good we found it.  I see a female wood duck rise up out of the tall grass and land in the branches of a dead tree 15 feet off the ground.  I know it's a wood duck because that is the only duck I know that lands in trees.  I'm right!  We hear a couple sora rail's calling on this road.  After the seventh spot we see the round silo with the room on top that I saw before. This time we can see it in the full sunlight.  I think of Rapunzel living up there.  I take a photo.  We drive slowly off and see a man in the driveway of the Rapunzel tower. He saw me take a photo.  He has a long white beard and long white hair.  He looks a little bit like Santa except he's not smiling; he's glaring at us.  I smile and wave in my most innocent manner as we drive by but he continues to throw shade at us.  We enjoy the solitude and the safety of the 8th and 9th stops.  We didn't hear any Virginia rails or any yellow rails but we did hear soras and sand hill cranes and marsh wrens, pheasants and common yellow throats, Canadian geese and a bazillion red winged blackbirds, grackles and starlings, robins and blue birds, mallards and wood ducks, swamp sparrows and a yellow warbler. By the time we are done it is after 8.  The wind has picked up enough to rustle branches and the sky has become mostly cloudy. The weather forecast was for a sunny day but the sky begins to drizzle as we arrive in Zimmerman.  By the time I arrive at work around 9 a.m. I feel like I have lived half a day at least.  June 1st was an awesome morning to be alive and to spend time with wonderful people outside, listening to sounds of nature, trying to identify what we were seeing and hearing, challenging ourselves to learn new things, collaborate, work as a team, and to enjoy the heaven on earth known as June in Minnesota.