July 25: Queen Anne's Lace

This time of year roadsides and lawns are graced with tall stalks of Queen Anne's lace, a common wildflower that always speaks to me of high summer. As my husband and I went for a walk through the neighborhood before dinner tonight, the pale, filigreed faces followed us the whole way. It's not a flashy weed like the black-eyed Susan or tiger lily, but its delicate beauty always invites a closer look.

As a kid, I was always a bit wary of Queen Anne's lace because at the center of each cluster of white blossoms is one dark purple one that always made me look twice to be sure it wasn't a spider. I've never been fond of spiders. But now I'm kind of fascinated by this little quirk in a familiar flower. Legend has it that that spot represents a drop of Queen Anne's blood that fell after she pricked her finger while making lace. Stories aside, I wonder what its real purpose is in nature. Perhaps it serves as some sort of beacon to pollinating bees, who can see ultraviolet colors that are invisible to us--that frilly white face with the one dark spot might look completely different to a bee's eyes.

Queen Anne's lace is also known as wild carrot and it's what our garden carrot was cultivated from. If you let your carrots bloom, this relationship becomes apparent in the similarity of the flowers. Queen Anne's lace root is edible, like a carrot, but you want to be very sure you know you're eating the right plant, because it bears a striking similarity to poison hemlock. You'd only live to make that mistake once.

For such a dainty flower, this one is tougher than it looks. Its sturdy stem can be very difficult to pick, and may even irritate some people's skin. I personally prefer to enjoy "free range" Queen Anne's lace, each blossom a perfect little floral galaxy shining amid the universe of the summer fields.

Summer offering--
field of graceful, frothy lace,
delicate but strong.

July 24: "Mmm, doughnuts."

...to quote Homer Simpson.

Every weekend Farmers Fare in Rockport taunts me with Facebook reminders that Saturday is doughnut day, with fresh doughnuts from Tracey's Bakery in Northport arriving at 10 a.m. They post photos. Their description makes them sound almost healthy--made with organic sugar and flour, local eggs, and Cabot Creamery butter, fried in safflower oil. This rainy morning seemed like a doughnut-worthy day, so I succumbed to temptation. Luckily my husband was gracious enough to help me fulfill my craving by driving to Farmers Fare at 10:00 on the dot and getting me some.

This is what he brought back for me:

The big one on the left is obviously a glazed doughnut, and the smaller one is cream-filled. They were both exquisite. Enjoying them with my husband this morning reminded me of when I was a kid and my father used to bring home a box of Dunkin' Donuts' Munchkins every Sunday morning. (I loved the chocolate honey-dipped.) As an adult who tries to lead a healthy lifestyle, I don't eat doughnuts as a rule, but for ones like those pictured above, I make an exception. And it's always worth it. Now I just need to fight the urge to make this a regular Saturday morning ritual. I suppose I could always alternate Farmers Fare doughnuts with a sticky bun from Home Kitchen Cafe in Rockland... 

And soon enough, I'll be looking like Homer Simpson.

Rainy Saturday--

homemade doughnuts for breakfast

with husband and cat.

July 23: Bully

The song sparrow that visits my little window feeder at work has shown himself to be somewhat of a bully. He gets right in the feeder, kicks all the seed around, chows down for awhile, and if, say, a chickadee flutters nearby wanting to join the feeding fun, he won't let it perch. The chickadees and goldfinches, both slightly smaller birds, are forced to take their turns when the sparrow is busy singing at one of his special spots, which include the dogwood tree, the porch railing, and a post in the parking lot. Fortunately he sings often and all day.

I'm fond of this sparrow, despite his territorial behavior. He visits throughout the day, often pausing on the window sill to look in at me. He's a regular, a neighbor. Sometimes I'll even see him around with his mate, so maybe his hogging the feeder is just a hormonal phase while they're nesting. He really makes a mess, too, scattering seed bits and empty hulls all over the ground and hollowing trenches in the filled feeder. The daintier chickadees are probably counting the days till he migrates.

Sparrow's assertive,
a feeder bully, seed hog.
And yet, when he sings...

July 22: Background Noise

Thunder rocked and rolled through the neighborhood last night for much longer than I had expected--a true summer thunderstorm, with the fireworks of frequent lightning flashes, as well. Even our old, semi-deaf cat, who has never been weather sensitive, seemed startled by some particularly loud thunderclaps. It sounded as if an ogre were up on Mount Battie bowling a few of those big glacial erratics over the talus slope. It went on so long that I almost grew used to the rumbling as I read into the evening.

Tonight we've got background noise of a different sort, as the guy who lives across the river mows his lawn past dark. I just finished mowing my own lawn about an hour ago, having been thwarted at the task yesterday by the rainstorm, so I don't hold it against him. I've never gotten a good look at exactly what kind of lawn is over there, but it must be big, because he mows often and for a long time, and on a riding mower. So the drone of a lawn mower is a near constant during the warmer months. Before dusk fell in earnest, the mower's whine was complemented by the sharp whistles of our neighborhood cardinal, who decided to end his day with some fanfare.

Even with the mower going, I can still hear the trickle and flow of the river on its meandering way into the harbor. That's a constant. As is the undercurrent of cricket song, that gentle thrum in the soft July air. And just now, the querulous honking of a lone goose heading upriver to join its family on the lake.

Last evening, thunder.
Tonight, crickets' hum outlasts
the lawnmower's drone.

July 21: Characters

My alma mater Middlebury College posted a video today called Postcard from the Chinese School. In this short clip, various students at Middlebury's Chinese School respond to the question, "What is your favorite Chinese character?" (They reply in Chinese, of course, since all summer language students sign a "no English" agreement while they're there.) One young woman responded that she liked a particular character for the word "rice," "because when you write it, it's beautiful, like stars or fireworks."

I appreciated her aesthetic approach to her answer and, seeing the character, understand its appeal. It got me thinking about how we write our letters and which ones are my favorite. Back in second grade when we were learning cursive writing, I liked the capital Q best, because of its graceful curves and curls, like a big 2, a slender swan, or a curling wave rolling across the lines of the paper.

Also, that letter seemed the most unlike its non-cursive counterpart, thus perpetuating my belief that learning this new form of hand-writing was a bit like learning a secret code. (This was around the same time I began reading the Nancy Drew mystery series.) Also, Q in general is an unusual letter--a one-tile, 10-pointer in Scrabble--and it's part of my last name, Lindquist. I've always enjoyed having an odd letter in my name. 

Of course we don't write in cursive anymore, so I never get to practice my flowing Q. It's probably just as well, because even my ordinary hand-writing has devolved over the years to near illegibility. But it fascinates me to think of the letters we write as characters like the Chinese symbol above, as little pictures--like the open mouth of O or the sinuous snake of S. 

My friend Brian Willson, who designs fonts based on old handwriting, must think about this as he meticulously designs and creates a new font. He's not just drawing lines, he's creating a little piece of art for each letter. And I bet he has a favorite letter in each of his fonts, like the funky capital G in Texas Hero that looks like it would be fun to write but also looks a bit like a little sailboat heeled over in a strong wind or a long-petalled flower.

A was aleph was

once the shape of an ox head.

It still bears its horns.

July 20: Tired

A long, draining work day ended just over an hour ago, and it was calming to step out of the office into the cool evening air and watch a family of geese--the young indistinguishable now from the adults--drifting on the river. I was about to type "quietly drifting," but actually one goose was honking rather loudly, at a nearby swimmer, I believe. But honking aside, it was a soothing scene. I felt like jumping in to join them in the warm water. But then it probably wouldn't have been so calm.

Afloat together:
family of geese waiting
for evening to fall.

July 19: Wild Kingdom

I bet if you polled a group of nature lovers / conservation professionals about my age or older, you'd find that the majority of them watched "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom" as a kid. Marlin Perkins and his trusty sidekick Jim were always tracking down wily wild animals on the savannah of Africa, shooting them with tranquilizer guns, and in the process, somehow doing something beneficial for science and nature. My grandmother semi-jokingly referred to it as the "torture torture show." I was simply happy to see cool wild animals up close on the screen.

The thing about watching nature shows like that is that you get the impression wild animals are lurking around every corner, just waiting to be chased and tranquilized, or at least observed through binoculars. When you get out into the woods on your own, however, you realize that most days seeing a red squirrel or the hind end of a deer might be about as exciting as it gets.

Today my director and I were walking a property with some donors--one of those situations when you want a place to be at its best. While we weren't so lucky as to have a bull moose walk through the field or a bald eagle soar past, Mother Nature didn't completely let us down. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead, then called dramatically. At our feet, we found two ruddy turkey feathers. Further along the trail, we came across turkey tracks in what was once mud, and then, the crescents of deer prints. And to crown the moment, a hermit thrush's lilting song rose from the trees. Nothing extraordinary, but the value of the place as wildlife habitat was validated. The donors were delighted; the animals had done their jobs well, even though the hawk was the only one we actually saw.

Deer tracks in the mud
and two feathers, patterned fans
telling wild stories.

July 18: Summer Songs

My husband and I went for a long hike today on Mount Megunticook in Camden Hills State Park. We wanted to get outside together on this beautiful day, get some exercise, and enjoy the views from on high, but we were surprised by how many birds were singing in the shady mixed forest through which winds the Ridge and Jack Williams Trails. We started off at the Maiden's Cliff trailhead, and as we began the climb up to the ridge line, heard what I thought was a scarlet tanager. Because he wasn't singing his full song, it wasn't till we had completed the entire hike and returned miles later to that same place when we confirmed that it was indeed a tanager (he finally gave his characteristic "chick burr" call) and then we were even able to find the vivid red bird gleaning bugs among the oak leaves overhead.

My favorite birdsong in these summer woods is that of the hermit thrush: angelic notes tumbling down from the trees, clear and haunting in the lush forest air. We passed several singing thrushes, to our delight, as well as another Maine forest favorite, a winter wren, whose lovely, complex song goes on and on, seemingly rising out of the trees themselves.

Although we expected to hear black-throated green warblers, which seem to sing all summer, we were surprised to hear several black-throated blue warblers and a Blackburnian warbler. When I commented on how unusual that seemed, my husband suggested that that's what I should write about for today's haiku. Ever the dutiful wife, I did so:

On the mountainside,
height of day, height of summer:
warbler still singing.

July 17: First Swim

This afternoon I attended my 25th high school reunion (Camden-Rockport High School, Class of '85!) at rustic Beaver Lodge on the shores of Alford Lake in Hope. On this hot summer day, the venue encouraged swimming. Fortunately several of us were armed and ready with bathing suits. We always were a fun-loving bunch.

You would think that given how hot the summer has been that I'd have been swimming many times by now, but I'm not a big swimmer. I'm kind of squirrelly about getting water in my ears, and I'm not a strong swimmer, strictly breast stroke. But peer pressure usually works well on me, and when a group of my former classmates decided to hike down to the beach, I put on my suit and joined them.

Even then I might have been content to simply stand in the water for a while to cool off. My friends Shannon, who competes in master swimming races and triathlons, and Sarah, who was on our high school swim team, headed across the lake with strong speedy strokes. I slowly waded in up to my waist, that crucial point at which you pretty much have to fully immerse, and then gave myself over to the lake's embrace.

The water was comfortable and clear, no pond weeds dragging at my ankles or submerged rocks to worry about. I picked a buoy not far away as my goal and headed for it with my slow and steady breast stroke. And then I treaded water for awhile, to take in the landscape. I had been so distracted with the busy-ness of the roped off little beach with children splashing around my legs that I hadn't paid attention to the vista visible from the lake shore. Across the lake on one side rose Hatchet Mountain, and on the other, the distinct, lumpy ridgeline of Ragged Mountain. The hills wore their hazy green shawls of mid-July, and the opposite shore of the lake below them wasn't marred by too many camps or docks. My heart lifted at the sight. Ah, to be alive on such a summer day in the company of fun and decent people I grew up with, living a good life that I never could have imagined 25 years ago in a place of great beauty--my home.

Jump into the lake,
into mountains reflected--
reflecting on home.

July 16: Into the Wild Blue Yonder

You know when you're driving, and the topography is such that it looks like at the top of the hill before you there's nothing but blue sky ahead? Have you ever had the feeling that it would be kind of cool to just launch your car into the air like a plane when you reached the top? I don't mean a tragic Thelma and Louise kind of thing, I mean more like a flying car...

Back road, driving fast.
At the top of the hill: sky.
I fly into it.

July 15: Chipmunk

Another sultry summer day. Yet instead of lounging on a breezy beach in my bikini (ha!), I was at my desk all day. Our office is not air-conditioned, so our only cooling comes from personal fans at our desks and an open front door if there's a slight breeze. This morning something caught my eye out my office door, and I turned to spy a chipmunk making its way over the threshold. Alert to every movement, it almost ran out when I turned, but then decided I was apparently harmless and came further inside.

We had to deal with getting a squirrel out of the office basement this spring, and I've witnessed firsthand the chaos that ensues when a cat brings a live chipmunk into the house. So I shooed it out for the first of what became many times today.

This afternoon someone arrived for a meeting as the chipmunk was attempting another foray inside. I pointed it out, and she described how her husband was trapping chipmunks in their barn, where the little guys were stuffing their cheeks with the food they put out for their barn cat. Instead of chasing the rodents, the cat seemed intimidated by them. Her husband sprayed each chipmunk with green paint before releasing it a few miles away. He has now caught 21 chipmunks with no repeats!

I'm not sure what the attraction of our office was for this chipmunk. Maybe it smelled the bag of birdseed I keep just inside the door, or maybe it liked the feeling of the cool linoleum on its feet. Or maybe it was interested in land conservation. In any case, our cute, perky little visitor was a diversion on a busy day.

Hot day. Open door
tempts a chipmunk to visit.
The outside comes in.