Vibrations wavered into a metallic buzzing, becoming loud as a machine, a power saw, a hammer drill. At first, I surmised it was the crew working on the Skyway, they've been doing repairs and even on a Sunday, Buffalo business pushes forward.
Then it got louder. Cats ran, plants shrunk in their pots, spiders hung "Gone for the Day" signs and melted into crevices. I'd better investigate before the floor shifts into a crazy slant and spills us forward into the trees. The open kitchen window was the source of this incredibly loud cacophony; dishes were rattling, cracks into the wall widened, then something flew away from the sill. A cicada. One of those immense chubs of bug that you hear singing and buzzing in summer, mostly up in trees. When right on your windowsill, it sounds like the army is sawing the brick building down with a toothed machine that chews up asphalt for repaving while grinding up Buicks.
I had been on my way to the exposed digging pits to get a few more brachiopods before this air raid siren scared a bag of fur off the cats. The rock hammer, a trowel, and a metal bucket with a few paper towels for more fragile specimens: ready Freddy. I was after the spiriferids, a species that has two pointed ends like wings, and a longitudinal groove in the middle of the shell. These aren't molluscs, even though they look like it from the outside; they anchored themselves with a pedicule, so it looked like a shell growing from the top of a stem. I haven't studied it much, but apparently the gizzards were constructed completely opposite to current bivalves.
It was lovely out, overcast with a slight drizzle; a family with three or four boys was shoveling through mounds, it was hard to tell how many kids because they kept moving. Fossils! Here's a fossil! LOOK A FOSSIL! They came over to see what I was doing and approved, earning a specimen each for their enthusiasm. LOOK WHAT THE LADY GAVE US!! I told them it would bring good luck on their homework.
An hour later, I had about fifty in the bucket, with a few translucent shells wrapped carefully; this is amazing, that not all of them fossilize. Some remain the same material, calcium carbonate, shut away from deterioration by the soft, muddy shale; frightfully delicate, but holding something 400 million years old is incredible, and causes your brain to grow twelve new synapses in trying to understand the immensity of time, life, and small critters scuttering around in mud under a tropical ocean. These animals rode the tectonic plate from it's site below the dingdang equator, for heaven's sake, up to where it is now called Western New York State and next weekend is the Wing Fest.
Panthalassa, the "Universal Ocean", covered the planet with most land masses hanging around the South Pole. Things were moving, and over the millions of years, continents collided, joined, formed mountains, or disappeared. We are still moving, I forget in what direction, but in the far future I believe the people of Los Angeles will be able to take a bus down the road to Shanghai, China. This whole beast of North America will plod and swim it's way half across the Pacific Ocean, carrying with it the buildings, sunflower fields, trains, grocery markets, livestock, and people who have no idea that they are going for a ride. Tell them, at least the Americas North and South, that they are moving at about one inch per year and you may get a look of indignation. People resist change. They like to think that they own their backyards.
Antarctica is fairly stationary at the axis, it moves very little; Africa and Australia go a bit faster at 2 - 4 cm per year, but the zoomiest continent is India, as it sits on a bubble of hot magma and furthermore, is half the thickness of the other pieces of Gondwana which broke apart. It's like a stone skipping across the water, and 150 million years ago, was careening along at 20 cm per year. 7.87402 inches, folks. It's still the fastest moving chunk, but has slowed down to between 5-9 cm from the pressure of the Himalayas, which are still rising. By the by, that pretty in pink Himalayan salt that they scrape from the tops of the mountains was once a saline ocean, the Tethys Sea. What makes it pink is the sandstone layer of land that was periodically flooded by the Tethys, and it now sits in a glass jar on the fancy grocery shelf. Just make sure you get your iodine, there's a rise in deficiencies from people using uniodized sea salt. Look up what it causes; you need iodine. Need.
So, millions of years and cicada sirens, where does it put you? Well, maybe it gives you a better grasp of where we are headed, a bit ahead of the analysis in the constant change, growth, and awareness conversation. Something to think about; nothing ever stays the same, and while you can't deliberately put the brakes on an agile continent smashing into the Asian plate, you can offer your two cents in the next debate on future cities. Build them at least five miles inland, so they don't end up in an embellished glass jar of salt in the gourmet section of Zaphod Beeblebrox's Milky Way Mart. If you like your cicadas dipped in chocolate and served at Roman banquets, I will be more than happy to argue in favor of the turbulent noise they produce, as a necessary part of insect perseverance in jolting human sagacity. It's all the same thing; enjoy the ride, be nice to your surrounding organisms. Lend a hand.
Fossils are washed and drying, tools wiped, buckets rinsed. Time for turning in on this whirling ball, so intricate in it's mysteries, so connected as we are to each other. The night is cool, and several spiders have wriggled through the ragged screen in the bathroom, setting their nets in a bugless realm. There is that cicada corpse in the bug museum; if I plopped that into the web, I am sure tiny screams of joy would echo no louder than a single drop of water. Plink! We dine like kings!
Sleep on, sleep well. Paddle through the curtains, there are stories on the other side. Good night.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Summer Field
Even the furrows would be dry, and a wealth of dusty soil would expand itself into the air when you pulled weeds. Weeds are tough, the taproot of a dandelion goes deep, wild chicory even more tenacious. Plantain was easy, but outnumbered the rest. If I was smart, Mom's trowel would have been with me, but, most of the time I was snagged by Auntie Anne, who promised a Spanish peanut cookie if you pulled a row. She would come out and check; they were very good cookies.
So I pulled weeds from the green beans, carrots, and cucumber vines; the corn outgrew the other plants, so it wasn't necessary to clean around the stalks. As a kid, you're closer to the ground anyway, but not strong enough to pull the most stubborn of mustard plants. They fought; in fact one knocked me out cold.
The stem was growing out of a crick, over which a plank had been placed for access to the back fields. I was picking flowers to give to my Mom, and the yellow blossoms would have rounded out a meager bouquet. Standing on the plank, I grabbed and pulled and pulled. Nothing; this thing's roots were held fast by an underground giant. After working at the stem, the giant's wife must have called him to a supper of fee-fie-fo-fum bonebread, for suddenly the entire plant came up from the clay bed that it had been hanging onto.
Released, the force of pulling tossed me backwards, and the next I knew was blackness just before my eyes opened to birds flying above in the blue sky. My palms were bloodied with grey slivers of wood from the old board, and I yelled murder as Mom took tweezers and needle to remove what she could.
Auntie Anne's vegetable garden was huge, dug up by my Uncle Termite's tractor, and, being ground, the earth would catch me when I toppled. Working down the row, you met new friends. Guess who was the one to pick up toads, because when you do, they let go with a flood of urine. Toad pee. You hook them under their arms and hold them away from you, preferably in the direction of a cousin. Once that's over, they blink and would rather be on the ground; however, hold them gently and they settle into your warm hand. Pretty forgiving, toads.
Ladybugs, grasshoppers, snakes, rocks, and caterpillars; sometimes a preying mantis, that most Confucian of insects. Confucius say, cricket sing once; now sing in my belly. A mantid will buzz through an exoskeleton like it was a pretzel stick. I saw one eat the head off of a struggling cricket, hold the still flapping body like an ice cream cone, and delight in the creamy, greeny-brown goosh inside. These are ferocious beings; once upon a barn, I witnessed an indignant mantid strike a defensive ninja pose with a cat. The cat wasn't truly after the thing, but was curious to play with it to death. I scooted the fuzzer, and moved the small demitasse to a safer spot in the bushes, so the cat wouldn't get its pride hurt.
Sticky with dirt and plant sap after pulling a row, I would have earned a cookie and a carrot to have. Never washed it, but wiped most of the soil off, and agreed with my cousin that carrots taste best with a bit of dirt in the crevices. Come again tomorrow, my aunt would say; I'd make sure that I was someplace else, at least until the blisters went away. Yet, eating a garden-fresh carrot is unparalleled to anything a grocery can offer; the varieties available from seed are tenderer, sweeter, and sometimes grow legs, as recently happened to a friend. I wonder if she ever heard wee footsteps out the backdoor.
I am old enough to remember that fruits and vegetables came in seasons; you could get strawberries only once a year, the same with peaches, asparagus, or any other succulent produce. It was a treat to slice into the first melon, slice strawberries with sugar, have that first ear of corn; you did yourself proud because it would soon end. This morning, I had a tomato for breakfast; just chunked it up and ate it with a fork. It was delicious and full of summer, but not quite the epitome of tomatoes. The season is just starting to rev up in the northeast, and almost nothing says it's hot, the green leaves are out, and birds are singing like a tomato. Unless it's corn. There's a farmer at the market who is known for his corn, and sells out before half the morning has gone by. Why, yes, I think I changed the vote to corn on the cob.
But sit on the backsteps and spit watermelon seeds into the grass in hopes of growing miracle vines in a week when you're a kid. I've become dainty (sort of) and now spoon seeds onto a plate or stick to seedless. Rosy red juice, flesh eaten as far down into the white rind as you could; pure fun. Nowadays we dissect reasons to eat sweet fruit, and concoct rosters of pros and cons. High sugar content, sure; but rich in Vitamins A and C, antioxidants, potassium, and fiber, and it isn't even a fruit. Related to cucumbers, pumpkins, and squashes; the cucurbits, a watermelon is part of the gourd family. Still going with corn as the favorite, which is not a vegetable either, but a grain. So much isn't what we called it.
Watermelon at twilight, watching the sun go down, then throw your paper plate into the fire. I miss my Auntie Anne; Uncle Termite, not so much. The kids would run around, swat at mosquitoes, and catch fireflies in a jar. Go in for a bath and scrub off, get to bed and listen to night sounds. Large moths banging against the screened windows, raccoons squalling at each other, owls, bullfrogs, farm dogs barking, lost cows echoing into the dark, and a far, far away train whose tracks went through the wood, sounding a singular, piercing, heart-wrenching, wavering call as it neared the intersection with a country road. In the morning, split hoof footprints would be in the mud, telling of silent deer; the smaller paws told of fox and weasel, sometimes decorated with chicken feathers from Wuller's hens.
The sun is setting sooner, we have passed midsummer and are rejoicing in the beginning harvest of the summer crops. Don't let them pass without indulging, it feeds earth into you with minerals, iron, potassium, copper; it fills you with sun through the vitamins and chlorophyll produced by light from a star. Hear the planets rotate and revolve, in spite of the vacuum of airless space, they hum; our own, Terra, has the rumble of tectonic plates, the singing of our magnetic fields, the crush of ocean waves colliding, the sizzling crackle of the Borealis; tuck under the covers and dream of songs. Listen to rains over summer fields. Good night.
So I pulled weeds from the green beans, carrots, and cucumber vines; the corn outgrew the other plants, so it wasn't necessary to clean around the stalks. As a kid, you're closer to the ground anyway, but not strong enough to pull the most stubborn of mustard plants. They fought; in fact one knocked me out cold.
The stem was growing out of a crick, over which a plank had been placed for access to the back fields. I was picking flowers to give to my Mom, and the yellow blossoms would have rounded out a meager bouquet. Standing on the plank, I grabbed and pulled and pulled. Nothing; this thing's roots were held fast by an underground giant. After working at the stem, the giant's wife must have called him to a supper of fee-fie-fo-fum bonebread, for suddenly the entire plant came up from the clay bed that it had been hanging onto.
Released, the force of pulling tossed me backwards, and the next I knew was blackness just before my eyes opened to birds flying above in the blue sky. My palms were bloodied with grey slivers of wood from the old board, and I yelled murder as Mom took tweezers and needle to remove what she could.
Auntie Anne's vegetable garden was huge, dug up by my Uncle Termite's tractor, and, being ground, the earth would catch me when I toppled. Working down the row, you met new friends. Guess who was the one to pick up toads, because when you do, they let go with a flood of urine. Toad pee. You hook them under their arms and hold them away from you, preferably in the direction of a cousin. Once that's over, they blink and would rather be on the ground; however, hold them gently and they settle into your warm hand. Pretty forgiving, toads.
Ladybugs, grasshoppers, snakes, rocks, and caterpillars; sometimes a preying mantis, that most Confucian of insects. Confucius say, cricket sing once; now sing in my belly. A mantid will buzz through an exoskeleton like it was a pretzel stick. I saw one eat the head off of a struggling cricket, hold the still flapping body like an ice cream cone, and delight in the creamy, greeny-brown goosh inside. These are ferocious beings; once upon a barn, I witnessed an indignant mantid strike a defensive ninja pose with a cat. The cat wasn't truly after the thing, but was curious to play with it to death. I scooted the fuzzer, and moved the small demitasse to a safer spot in the bushes, so the cat wouldn't get its pride hurt.
Sticky with dirt and plant sap after pulling a row, I would have earned a cookie and a carrot to have. Never washed it, but wiped most of the soil off, and agreed with my cousin that carrots taste best with a bit of dirt in the crevices. Come again tomorrow, my aunt would say; I'd make sure that I was someplace else, at least until the blisters went away. Yet, eating a garden-fresh carrot is unparalleled to anything a grocery can offer; the varieties available from seed are tenderer, sweeter, and sometimes grow legs, as recently happened to a friend. I wonder if she ever heard wee footsteps out the backdoor.
I am old enough to remember that fruits and vegetables came in seasons; you could get strawberries only once a year, the same with peaches, asparagus, or any other succulent produce. It was a treat to slice into the first melon, slice strawberries with sugar, have that first ear of corn; you did yourself proud because it would soon end. This morning, I had a tomato for breakfast; just chunked it up and ate it with a fork. It was delicious and full of summer, but not quite the epitome of tomatoes. The season is just starting to rev up in the northeast, and almost nothing says it's hot, the green leaves are out, and birds are singing like a tomato. Unless it's corn. There's a farmer at the market who is known for his corn, and sells out before half the morning has gone by. Why, yes, I think I changed the vote to corn on the cob.
But sit on the backsteps and spit watermelon seeds into the grass in hopes of growing miracle vines in a week when you're a kid. I've become dainty (sort of) and now spoon seeds onto a plate or stick to seedless. Rosy red juice, flesh eaten as far down into the white rind as you could; pure fun. Nowadays we dissect reasons to eat sweet fruit, and concoct rosters of pros and cons. High sugar content, sure; but rich in Vitamins A and C, antioxidants, potassium, and fiber, and it isn't even a fruit. Related to cucumbers, pumpkins, and squashes; the cucurbits, a watermelon is part of the gourd family. Still going with corn as the favorite, which is not a vegetable either, but a grain. So much isn't what we called it.
Watermelon at twilight, watching the sun go down, then throw your paper plate into the fire. I miss my Auntie Anne; Uncle Termite, not so much. The kids would run around, swat at mosquitoes, and catch fireflies in a jar. Go in for a bath and scrub off, get to bed and listen to night sounds. Large moths banging against the screened windows, raccoons squalling at each other, owls, bullfrogs, farm dogs barking, lost cows echoing into the dark, and a far, far away train whose tracks went through the wood, sounding a singular, piercing, heart-wrenching, wavering call as it neared the intersection with a country road. In the morning, split hoof footprints would be in the mud, telling of silent deer; the smaller paws told of fox and weasel, sometimes decorated with chicken feathers from Wuller's hens.
The sun is setting sooner, we have passed midsummer and are rejoicing in the beginning harvest of the summer crops. Don't let them pass without indulging, it feeds earth into you with minerals, iron, potassium, copper; it fills you with sun through the vitamins and chlorophyll produced by light from a star. Hear the planets rotate and revolve, in spite of the vacuum of airless space, they hum; our own, Terra, has the rumble of tectonic plates, the singing of our magnetic fields, the crush of ocean waves colliding, the sizzling crackle of the Borealis; tuck under the covers and dream of songs. Listen to rains over summer fields. Good night.
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