shrew and earthstars

Talking to Rita on Sunday, as we sat on her porch, she informed me that the critter Doof has been bringing home is likely a shrew. I had thought he was digging up small moles, because he was obviously digging, and the little things had short tails and longer snouts. As she has lived in, and loved, the country far longer than I have, I’ll take her word for it.

Having access to the Internet, I went on an information expedition. Blarina brevicauda is the formal name for the northern short-tailed shrew. Their preferred habitat is woodlands, but unfortunately, they also like my flower gardens. They may not burrow as deeply as moles, but I can attest to the fact that they DO burrow. Just walking across the middle level of the yard, on the way to the fire pit, you have to be careful not to twist an ankle. According to the University of Michigan Museum of Zoology website, they are 3 to 4 inches long and have soft slate gray fur. They are not sociable but are territorial and mark their areas with a foul-tasting secretion. They have poor sense of smell and vision, using a form of echolocation, similar to bats. Female shrews can have multiple litters, averaging 6 babies, throughout the warm months of the year, starting at about 65 days old. Shrews are voracious eaters; it’s estimated they consume and metabolize as much as three times their weight, daily. As squirrels do, they store food for the winter. Their salivary glands produce a toxic substance which is effective in subduing their prey, which enables them to kill and eat animals much larger than themselves. Because they eat insects, snails, and mice and have such voracious appetites, they help control crop pest populations. For my lawn and garden, Doof can keep up the good work. As far as the slugs and snails go, kudos to the shrew!



After the rain eased yesterday, I found a number of interesting growths around an oak stump. I knew it was a fungus of some sort, but I had never figured out what kind. So, back on the internet, I found the earthstar, botanically geastrum saccatum. I hadn’t noticed them in their pre-adult phase, a smooth, egg-shaped ball with a pointed beak. The ones I found had opened, the outer skin peeling back to form 4 to 9 triangular petals, with a soft looking punctured ball in the center. The petals are thick and tan. It makes a pretty flower. I’m going to try to keep a couple, see if they’ll last.

forty-three hours

The rain has eased. The creek is over the road at the entrance to the camp. The caretaker of the camp has moved a horse and pony to higher ground, after having to wade in. The county FEMA coordinator showed up at my door, thinking the director of the camp still lived here, looking for the caretaker. It’s been a busy morning.

As usual, the photos don’t do justice to the event. The creek over the road at the camp photo is clear. The photo of the creek in my yard doesn’t tell you that it’s covering twenty feet of ground, completely over the little dock and ladder.

The emergency management guy tells me we’ve had almost five inches of rain since this started Tuesday afternoon. It’s now stopped raining, but I’ve yet to see all the runoff from the feeder creeks.

forty hours

That’s how long it’s been raining. The National Weather Service says it will continue through to about midnight. The creek has covered the lowest level of the yard, the dock no longer visible. The cats are chasing each other through the house. The roof is leaking in two places. The farmer across the creek has rolled out a bale of hay for the cattle, the first this autumn.

For the past eighteen plus years, I’ve lived near this creek. As you would expect, its effect is evident, always.

In kind weather, the creek is a source of pleasure and entertainment. Last March, I was startled to hear voices, looked out the back windows and saw a group from the local wilderness camp maneuvering their canoes. Many times, as I sat drinking my coffee in the early morning, I was privileged to watch a great blue heron glide six feet off the water, heading downstream. I’ve seen Canada geese and mallard parents training their young. One morning, an otter was playing. Human visitors enjoy it, too. The kids sit on the dock; the adults watch the water, mesmerized.

Release of control and respect for the elements is wonderful, never better than when the weather is not “kind.” Don’t push it; don’t test it. Just sit back and watch the power that isn’t generated by humanity.

the Morning Show

Now that the majority of the leaves have fallen, I’m enjoying the morning acrobatic display.

Between the house and the creek are three terraces. As you would expect, the house is on the highest level. The shed and the fire pit are on the middle level, creek access and a small swimming dock and ladder are on the lowest. One of the trees on the middle level has a broken branch, quite large, caught on a lower, smaller branch. A squirrel family appears to have taken up residence. As I sat on the back porch, coffee cup in hand, I watched the show.

It seems there’s always a bold one (or two or more) and, by comparison, a timid one. The bold one came up out of the broken branch, scampered out on the smallest of branches and leaped six feet through the air to another tiny branch on a tree at least thirty feet from his home tree. As I was gazing in wonder, I noticed another squirrel emerge from the broken branch. This one boldly dashed to the end of the small branch, paused, then went back to the trunk. After a few seconds, he or she made a mad dash and cleared the jump.

I always tend to applaud the timid one.

Jack

I’ve known Jack for about fifteen years. We first talked when his son did some excavation work at a store where I worked. Some years later, we spent a quiet few hours, watching his son push dirt at my house. He had had some medical issues and retired early, so he and his dog, Pepper went along on his son’s jobs. When I see him at the grocery store or the bank, I’m always pleased. Yesterday, we exchanged words, when he came to the polling station, where I was working. He’s seventy-five to my sixty-three, fairly crippled up to my healthy as a horse, but I’m interested.

Both of my husbands were younger than me. Not by much, but I’ve always been drawn to and attracted by younger men. Younger women, too for that matter. Maybe that’s a way for me to feel younger, myself. Being attracted to someone does not equate to anything sexual. Even as a young woman, I lived in my head more than in my body. “Repressed” may come to mind. That could be, as I’ve always had some issues of that sort. But I find, as my body sends sexual messages less often, I’m open to different kinds of romantic relationships. The place where I choose to live, feel most comfortable, doesn’t afford me much in the line of romantic partners. These guys are a blue-collar, deer hunting group, intimidated by self-sufficient women. I’ve made friends with a lot of them and cherish those friendships but know that will be the extent of it.

But just maybe, Jack and I can take a ride in the mountains or meet for dinner. I suspect, given his physical limitations, Jack won’t act on what seems to be our mutual attraction. I’ll have to see if I can get up the nerve to pursue this.