That time of year...

The sun’s trying to break through today, a balmy but warm afternoon with the temperature pushing 70.

The past four days, fog lingered in the hills and hollers, day into night into day. Everything assumed an eeriness, the ever present suggestion of phantoms in the woods.

Just before that we had two days of relentless rain, seven inches or so, leading into an unpredicted snowfall of three inches, gone by afternoon.

Next, another blast of of cold to welcome winter’s arrival, and Christmas next week. Seems a little less Christmasy this year, with people worried about work and all.

The mantle in our living room, from from it’s early days as a one room cabin, holds the happy scars of hundreds of Christmas stockings from the past century and a half or so. Anxious little kids grown up and gone back home to their maker. It’s our place now, but the suggestions of their Christmas mornings hang about that space, adding as much of the holiday cheer as the garlands, decorations and lights now about the place.

Joe Brown,who was a child in the house during the depression, told how happy he was to get a n orange, some nuts and candy and a toy or two, and what great Christmases that made. When we bought the place and opened the attic, we found a marble pinball game he received from an older brother and wife who’d left home for the promise of better jobs away from here. He made my kids a model of the kind of home made plane, a few scraps of wood and rubber bands, he received another year.

He’s gone now, but his Christmas memories, they’re part of our house, too.

Fall's Harvest and Invasion

Fall is long and warm in the hills this year. Though some were predicting a dearth of colors, due to a prolonged dry spell in late summer, the season has again come on in all its glory. I’m looking out now at a landscape ablaze with reds and orange, yellows and fading greens.

What’s most noteworthy about this fall, however, is the bountiful harvest of nuts and fruits. The limbs of apple and pear trees in the area seem overburdened. I’ve never seen as many walnuts on the black walnut in our yard. I’ve already raked a full season’s worth and as many, if not more, still cling to the branches.

Theories run all directions on why this is so. Some say the bountiful harvest is nature’s way of protecting itself against a pending harsh winter. By spring we’ll know if there’s truth to that. The other notion holds the abundance of fruit and nuts is survival instinct at work in the forest. The drought of last year, its lingering effect and the prolonged dry period of this summer, have no doubt stressed the trees, Here in the ridge several long-standing hickories and oaks succumbed to the lack of water by late August. Under such conditions, proponents hold, trees go into overproduction of seeds as a way of ensuring their survival.

Whatever the case, the harvest is ours to enjoy. With the abundance of apples, a friend retrieved a borrowed cider mill from 12 years in storage, and hired my son. The novice cidermeisters spent a couple of days mashing and pressing bushels of apples into gallons of fresh juice. I’ve never tasted better, and have a bucket of apple mash fermenting in a half hearted attempt to make some jack.

They’ve had to shut down the cider mill for a while with arrival of what has become one of the autumns most unwelcome events: invasion of the Asian ladybugs. Now out in full force, buzzing clouds everywhere in the afternoon sun, leaving a trail of orange stench on windows and doors, and on your hands should you try to brush one off. Were just one to fall into the vat get pressed with the cider, they fear the batch would be ruined.

I read these ladybugs were first brought to the U.S. in a government effort to control aphids. But without any natural controls in place, the Asian variety proliferated, becoming a seasonal nuisance all the way north. That’s what I heard, anyway.....another well intended government cure.

Rings of Things

No wonder there’s so many legends and superstitions about them: You’re out in the woods or walking a field and suddenly you come upon a circular ring or arc of mushrooms, so deliberately placed. so obviously planned.

Wherever you encounter a fairy ring, they always catch your eye.

I glimpsed this one while driving down the road and had to stop take a picture. I’ve stumbled upon these rings in different places in the past, always startled by the pattern. And I’ve found them, then returned a few hours later to find no trace of it. Mushrooms can be like that.

However, if you look closely at the picture you can trace a pretty well defined green circle beneath all the mushrooms. That suggests semi-permanence; once established thecircle expands as it grows, kind of like the rings of a tree, only in this case the further from center you move the older the ring.

Or you can find one ring, then never see another one in that particular spot again.

There's mystery to it which bred all types of superstitions. People once believe the fairy ring marked the gate to the world of the little people, the place where witches gathered or elves danced, a space one could never answer without dire consequence.

We know better, The celebrated fairy ring may hold less magic for us, but it’s still an infrequent marvel of nature.

Short Mountain

There’s a landmark here called Short Mountain. It dominates the landscape all the way to Nashville, an isolated remnant of the Cumberland Plateau. You can’t miss it, especially at night as several cell towers flash along its summit.

Been hiking there for years. At the very top there’s a series of rock bluffs and large boulders. It’s a dramatic setting but s short and easy hike along a well worn trail. The rock is sandstone with breaks of deposits of ocean-rounded stones you’ll find some days at the shore. How many millions of years since they tossed in the surf?

Around one turn there’s a long rock shelter still a popular campsite. I’ve found arrowheads there over the years, and there’s an emblem pecked into the wall identifying two men who mined millstones from the bluff in 1806. How they got them off the mountain is a mystery to me.

A few years ago, on one of our hikes there, we came across what appeared to be an ancient pictograph of the form of a man scratched into the rocks. It was worn away, the entire summit is a kind of sandstone, and covered with a pale green mold. Still it looked to me like it could be centuries old. Some fool has scratched over it with a newer, cruder stick figure, defacing what could have been the genuine article. Lost.

At any rate, we all took the grandkids on the hike through the bluffs, taking pictures in the very settings where I took pictures of my kids 20-25 years ago. The same rocks were there, nothing had changed. To their tiny eyes it must have seemed we were hiking among mountains as they scrambled to climb to the top of the same rocks which once challenged their father and uncles, when they were that small.

Over the years there’s been talk of making the place a state park. It should be, or at least a natural area for everyone to enjoy. There’s no trespassing signs along the road, but we were assured by a group of horseback riders riding the trail it was OK to hike as long as we didn’t get over on the property of the Bible camp which claims one side of the mountain. Still, it's a pocket of Tennessee's native beauty which should be open and inviting to all.

Tranquility Base

We first moved here around this time, might have been this very week, more than 30 years ago. Many of the things which so amazed us then are now routine parts of our lives: the nightly drone of the cicadas and katydid; the graceful flight of the hawks and buzzards as they ride the thermal waves ever higher; the coolness of the shade as respite from the sun; the seemingly endless shades with which green can define the forest, and the chill of the night by where the frost line stops as it works its way up the slope.

We know the calls of the tanager and bluebird now, the lonesome call of the whippoorwill on a moonlit night, the bark of the fox, and have never forgotten the shrill cry of a bobcat our first night in the house.

The hills are all familiar to me now, I’ve hiked every one, explored the valleys, recognize where the fog gathers as the creek runs through the lowest points. I know the trees, the succession of plants, the flowers of spring, then summer and fall. The neighbors are familiar whether friend or foe, and I know just as well the bends and dips of the road, where it rises and where it falls away.

I’ve learned the history of the place, can recall the names of many who lived here in their own time, trace the lines of the plow, tell the story of the battle, and where to find traces of the Indians who once roamed the land without ever claiming to own it.

For all I’ve seen, and learned, and everywhere I’ve been I’ve just never gotten over the marvel of the place, our own little tranquility base in the Tennessee hills.

And I greet each day, and enter each night, with thanks in my heart to the One for leading us here.

Taking Liberties...

Here in the country, the rising price of land is a frequent topic of conversation. Even hillside acres which barely brought $250 30 years ago can average between $1500 to $2000 today. Then, as now, they really aren’t good for much more than running goats. I do have to note, though, at these prices there’s a lot more land for sale here than there are buyers. Last time I looked there was something like 600 parcels for sale in the county. For lake view lots, barely large enough for a decent sized home and yard, the asking price can easily be in the $100,000 range.

Nice price, if you can get it. But there’s often a chasm between what a seller believes his land is worth and what a buyer is willing to pay.

When it comes it neighbors there’s rarely such disagreement: the most valuable piece of land always seems to what’s just on the other side of the fence. I’ve seen come near blows about it, go to court about it, even read of murders over fenceline disputes.

The deed for part of our place is one of those old landmark deeds. One border runs to the bottom of the hollow, thence east to a corner where it starts back up the hill. The lowest point in that hollow is a branch which runs its length. The previous owner of our property told me since that branch is the lowest point there, it defines the border. Folks used to run their fences on alternate sides of the branch so everyone's livestock would have access to the water. I’ve accepted his word and that border for 30 years without incident.

Well my neighbor recently sold the place to a son-in law who right away hired a crew to go out and fence “what’s his.” By his interpretation the border is our side of the branch, giving him full access to it and us none. I pointed out the explanation given me and my longstanding interpretation of it, and the fact that it is the lowest point in the hollow. Nevertheless he put up his fence as he pleased, without regard for being neighborly.

Another neighbor has a road easement over a farm I watch. That road leads right to the entrance gate to his place. Presentation matters to him. A couple of years ago he started having his farm hands maintain the grass right on the other side of the fence. Then for a few feet out, then yards, each time wanting to “keep up” more of what wasn’t his. When they started clearing the trees on this side, I talked to him about it. Asked that nothing be done without contacting the owners. He agreed... probably for about as long as I was talking.

Hadn’t been to that end of the property in a while but now the trees are gone, new ditches are dug and there’s a grand entrance to his place on this side of the fence, And seeing what liberties he’s enjoying, the neighbor at the other ned of the property I watch ook down the fence defining the border and “cleaned up” the fencerow..

And I’m to explain how things got that way to the absentee owners, for only they have legal recourse I have no use for those who removed the fence, but I like the other guilty neighbor in a lot of ways, he’s an old man living alone and I don’t want to upset him, but...

When will human nature change and people not covet what isn’t theirs? When that day comes there will be less cause for wars and feuds, I bet.

Unusual appearances

So far this spring has been distinguished by two appearances I’ve not seen before. Wonder if it's cyclical or somehow a product of last summer’s drought.

First, there is an abundance of crane flies this year, not like anything I’ve seen before. Walk through a field or the woods and the rise from the ground in all directions, hovering everything in their awkward slow motion flight

Then there is the profusion of yellow locust blossoms.

In the 30 years I’ve watched the spring here I’v never seen anything like it. They are hanging heavy with drooping flowers, thick as leaves. You can catch the fragrance on the breeze. Look out the valley and they have taken over with the same occasional brilliance.... just as the dogwoods have faded from view.

Tremors

Woke last night like someone was shaking me awake, only it was the bed doing the shaking. My wife was sound asleep and I lay there a few confused seconds trying to figure out how she was rattling the bed. Then it subsided and right off I noticed the roosters crowing in the dark. After a while slipped back into sleep.

Turned on the TV this morning and they said there had been a 5.3 earthquake centered in Illinois, I, about 200 miles north from here. So, my first tremors.

Around 10:15 this morning felt an aftershock, my log cabin office vibrated with a dizzying effect for a few seconds. It rated around 4.5, depending on the source.

We’re about 200 miles southeast of Reelfoot Lake, epicenter of the New Madrid earthquakes of 1811-12, strongest to ever hit the United States.

A few years ago a guy from Texas came wandering through here, retracing his roots. His family had been Tennessee pioneers, settled in Liberty for a while before they pushed further West. Had a diary from that period. They wrote about strange days when the trees swayed back and forth on the hillsides like thy were riding an ocean wave.

Must have been quite unsettling to see, and feel, but not know.

Dogwoods and Redbuds

There’s two times of year when I’d urge all with any level of passion for the outdoors to take in the woods, and its short-lived seasonal glories. The fall, when the forest is consumed with color, and right now for the brief reign of the dogwoods and redbuds. If you can’t walk a forest trail, then drive any of our country roads for the tonic of an Appalachian spring.

We’ve just emerged from the yearly early April chill known as as “dogwood” winter. It seems to herald the coming show, while there’s still a green blush to the dogwood blossoms. Maybe that chill infuses the flowers with the brilliant white which charms so distinctively under clear blue skies.

On the hillsides, along the bottoms, wherever there’s an edge to the forest, dabs of bold white counter the soft lavender of the redbuds and green hues of the awakening season. It’s the redbud's final show, too, before heart shaped leaves rule limbs now decked in delicate flowers. Under foot, the warming earth invites trilliums and wake robins, phacelia, violets, and stands of mayapple back from winter’s retreat.

A few years ago, there real fears a blight would banish the dogwoods from our spring. And dogwood anthracnose took its toll, bringing down many trees. The dogwood still reigns, but with less hold than seasons past. But the worst may be over, or at least that’s my hope.

Over the weekend I wandered off a trail into a pocket of deep woods where a dense stand of loblolly pines had been planted years ago. Another scourge of recent years, the pine beetle, left the forest floor criss-crossed with fallen trunks, moss covered and decaying.

But in their wake, young dogwoods had taken root, a stand stretching for a hundred yards or so, determined and promising even in the shower of ice pellets that fell as I passed in winter's finale.

A Long Way Here

We’re into he early throes of spring now, grass and weeds starting to surge from rent rains, leaves taking shape on the branches of all the trees and shrubs.

One of the harbingers of real spring in the woods here is the blossoming of the shad bush or serviceberry. It’s what I call an occasional tree, pretty infrequent here. In fact there’s less than a dozen or so in our entire 40 acres. So few, I set out last week to mark them so I could track them throughout the year. Tied a strip of orange on a branch then moved on search for another break of fleecy white in the woods.

Two falls ago, after all the leaves had fallen from the trees and a spot of bold pink suddenly appeared in the upper branches of one tree across the hollow. With my binoculars, I could make out a balloon tangled there. Over the next few months it gradually lost its shape as the helium leached away. One day, it was no longer visible and quickly forgotten.

As I searched for shadbushes last week I stumbled on a baggie holding a folded over wet piece of paper right below where that balloon had hung. I could make out a name, a place—Etta, MS- and a request “If you find this please call..”. So I did.

A woman answered, I asked for the name and she told me it was her six year old son who was not at home. When I explained the call she reasoned he must have released the balloon at school, either in nursery school or kindergarten. It traveled 350 miles here, but we’re not sure how long it took.

Whenever I stalk a shadbush I'll remember the reach of things scattered in the wind.

Snow On The ButterCups

Where I come from they call them daffodils, ‘Round here these yellow harbingers of spring are commonly know as buttercups.

There’s a saying, too, “It always snows on the buttercups.”

But it didn’t look like that was going to happen this year. We’ve had a mild winter, with barely a trace of the white stuff all December through February. So over the last couple of weeks, as the bulbs pushing through started to lend a little color to the brown winter lawn, it seemed this year might live down that bit of weather lore.
Then yesterday, with March a full week old, and the buttercups in full bloom a storm took shape out west, driven by a cold blast to remind us we’re still two weeks shy of spring. Some time after midnight the snow started falling, giving us the first real snow of the year. By sunrise, the yardstick showed two inches out back of the house, and it kept snowing well into the morning.

As so often here, the storm was quickly followed by clearing skies and gradually rising temperatures. It’s late afternoon now. The icy roads are gone. The melting snow drips steadily off the roof. It’s already disappeared from all the hills facing South, leaving them a brighter green. This time tomorrow it will all be gone.

Spring can’t be too far off, the maples are in bloom, and we can leave winter behind, now that it’s snowed on the buttercups.

Feedin’ The Stove

During the cold snap last week we kept the woodstove in high gear, ‘round the clock.
Feeding a woodstove is one of those things I never could have dreamed would become such an essential part of our lives. Late summer our first year here someone asked how we were going to heat the house that winter. We looked around for the thermostat---it had never occurred to us a house could come without heat.

A week later we got our first woodstove, a leaky two burner box that wasn’t too efficient. Really cold nights we’d sleep as close to it as we could. By morning the fire would have burned out out and the bucket of water we kept in the room just in case was frozen solid.


From then on I’ve spent part of every fall or winter cutting wood for the stove. First few years I did it all with a 17-inch bow saw, we couldn’t afford better. Cutting wood took up most weekends.

Prosperity and common sense brought us much better and more efficient stoves. A chain saw has made the work easier. Cutting wood is always a good excuse to spend a day outdoors, getting exercise, outside.
And I’ve learned all kinds of practical things. I scout the woods in summer for trees to cut. Can make a tree fall in any direction, and some won’t no matter how carefully you plan. It’s always the gas or file or wedge or sledge or chain I need that I left behind.

Know all the trees now, and to burn polar or maple when it’s not that cold, and save the hickory and oak for deep winter. Elm and persimmon won’t split, locust will, and it will put out heat but won’t leave coals. Cherry throws some colors as it burns, the nutwoods and cedar smell great as they burn. That hissing and pop in the fire is some poor bug who thought he’d found a safe home in the log.

And, there’s nothing better than coming in out of the cold to a room with the woodstove roaring.

Rainbow Hunting

A rainbow is always a welcome surprise. But over the years I’ve learned to recognize when conditions are absolutely right, and thereby increase chances of catching one.

We were unloading the truck yesterday afternoon in a cold rain, but to the south and west patches of blue could be seen breaking through the clouds. And no sooner had the rain moved north then the sun was shining on us.

Good time for a rainbow, I remarked to my on. Soon as I searched upward he shouted “There it is,” directing my attention further down toward the horizon.

And what a rainbow it was! Not only were the colors especially bright, a double rainbow taking shape. And this this rainbow was near enough, there was enough drizzle in the air, we could glimpse where it touched down in the field above and to our left, and further down, in a wide arc, near the bottom of the holler. “

“There’s the gold!” my son joked, pointing where the hues kissed the ground. We stood a full minute or more admiring the colors and curve before I thought of taking a picture. By the time I hobbled to the house and back with a camera, it was starting to fade, the bow breaking up. But you can see where it touches down if you study the left side of the picture closely.

And as for rainbow hunting, here’s what I’ve learned. They only appear when the sun and rain-bearing clouds are on opposite sides of the sky.

Best chances are when the sun in shining in the morning as rain is approaching from the West, or in the afternoon, as the sun breaks through the clouds just after a storm has moved through and the dark clouds can be seen to the east.

Even when you expect to see one, it’s a cause to smile.

Spring In Winter

Hasn’t been much of winter yet. Except for a few days of below 10 nightly lows to start the New Year, it’s been unseasonably warm since fall. I guess its a continuance of the cyclicly higher temps which made last summer such a scorcher. But it seems, at least for now, the drought is behind us. Rain has been falling with some regularity since fall, the earth is damp. Grasses are starting to assume more green, and there’s green showing even in the woods. Out front of my office the daffodils—others call them jonquils or buttercups— have pierced the ground with the tips of their spears. That might be a month early, give or take a week.

I wouldn’t count winter out, yet. Two months more could bring us snows; the worst snowstorm we ever saw fell almost mid-March, gone n days. But Winter warmth like this carried tow dangers: when the weather changes, and it inevitably will, the transition is usually ushered in with violent thunderstorms, even tornadoes. And if the warmth continues too long, or isn’t broken up with prolong spells of serious cold, we end up with an early spring and the prospects of a killing frost like we had last Easter. It was a hard freeze, really, that robbed the warming season of all its glory.

So while I greet the green as sure sign spring’s to come, I hope it doesn’t arrive too soon.