gone native

i am moving

2007-02-19T18:31:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: I FORGOT MY PASSWORDS. the new gone native is
http://chickory.blogspot.com/

NOT CHICKERY ANYMORE. GRRRRRRRRRR

to a new space thanks to beta blogger putting ol' K9's mug all over my pretty little nature blog. grrherhhaha
the new gone native is called "chickery" .

http://chickery.blogspot.com/

nutty brown

2006-09-24T13:46:00.001-04:00

nutty brown trots along with a pink puppy kong at her "city home".

to my dear friend in naples: go check out my friend K9's photo essay with lots of dog photos.

dovey

2006-08-20T10:40:00.000-04:00

return to paradise

2006-08-13T18:43:00.000-04:00

the cabin was left to stand alone without visitation for so long i could barely recognize what was once my everyday home.
the cattle gate rusted and the gravel had disappeared, now grown over solid in green. tulip poplars that were cut by the power company last summer had returned fuller though still short.

joe pye weeds towered over the drive, bending gracefully to reveal a mop head of light pink humming with bumblebees or decorated with butterfies. the field was overgrown and filled with plants i didnt know choking the life out of my fine fescue carpet peppered with pink and white clover.

the bush hoggers came and the lay of the land emerged again to light me up brightly with pride. i walked what seemed to be every inch again and again without a sense of repetition for there was a new discovery each time; the little wrens, the moles, a fallen hardwood, an odd white frilly fungi, a woodpecker as big a duck pounding away on a snag dead from beetles.

my new pup trout and i share an enthusiasm for advernturous walks in the woods, if not the timing of the season. she is impervious to the webs and webs containing small but potentially dangerous spiders, a finely threaded system connecting trees and blocking the barely visible paths that i once wore down to a defined line upon the ground. now those paths are overgrown from my absence i am reminded that the good earth reclaims her treasure. like the rainforest cover obscuring a pyramid, a pile of ruble to mark a fallen civilization, the eastern broadleaf had almost erased the proof that i once passed this way daily.

the pup is not aware of the potential dangers of copperheads on the other side of a log she jumps, the ticks, the chiggers, the yellow jacket holes to fall into. summer is a season of unpleasant surprises in the woods and i rejoice at the sight of the first red leaves. but this is her very first summer and she is driven mad by the scent of raccoon and opossum...and squirrel. she trembles at the sight of squirrel. lives to run them down and when they escape up the tree she has a sharp little bark of frustration that is just for the agony of the squirrel that got away.

on this morning trout dashed out to disperse a clatch of black crows from the woodpile where i left a treat of raw peanuts. she is alert and very very fast. i worry that the days of visiting turkey hens, bear and deer are over and i miss with piercing loss the old chunk of lab, the slow moving yellow lover of all living things. and missing her is not the same as not loving what i have now: a speed of light hunter/killer/swimmer in a coat of nutty brown.

today a red tailed hawk perched low in a white pine, so lush were its needles it seemed alive like a tree lit with green sparklers. the hawk's color was subtle on this day, courtesy of a heavy sky, a rolling pattern of blue gray this time, less summer like when overcast means white. and there was a faint nip of fall in the air, on it's breeze was the fragrance of every time i fell in love. always it was autumn. and this was another love. being not just among the forest but full fledged member of a particular paradise.

as trout and i passed the hawk's perch, we made our way to the high edge of the creek. the earth gave out from beneath the pup without warning and she rolled like a log into the water...and like many new living things she was loose and floppy and emerged without damage. but three days of hiking have brought fresh cuts to her fresh face and she now has the look of an authentic mountain hound. i look at her and am thankful she does not yet know. this is our last night. tomorrow we will return on the super slab to the city of concrete heat and road rage and greens defined by fences. maybe i can delay for another day. for her. for myself. for what difference can there be from monday to tuesday?

Independence Day

2006-07-03T12:57:00.000-04:00

I am a member of what my Dad would call "the lucky sperm club". I was born into a great country at fortunate time in history. I enjoy a bounty of personal freedom and space, good health, wealth of friends and family, abundance in nature and experiences, and most importantly, a recognition of the random luck that i would end up holding a winning ticket in this lottery of life. I wish everyone a lovely fourth of july to enjoy all that is right with this nation and your own lives.

native's plant safari

2006-04-22T16:42:00.000-04:00

the trees filled with perfect new leaves, free of the later summer scars inflicted by sun and insects. the tree flowering blocked the satellite again. tv is a winter comfort only, and as it turns out, its a good thing. because i dont have any business wasting precious outdoor time or evenings that could be filled with good meals, friends, books, and art........watching tv. but enough broke through to allow me the heads up on the tornado watch. V called to say be sure and go into the crawlspace under the cabin should i hear the freightrain of wind. but it was only a storm, remarkable in that there was so much lightning -one after another flickering the sky like an old 8mm movie. the next day was perfect and fresh, sparkling with raindrops balanced on the tips of slim branches.

on my walk i spotted ladyslippers pink and tender like a human heart. carpets of creeping phlox. tiny bird's foot yellow violets. sweet shrub. bloodroot. chickweed. solomon's seal. wild ginger. tiny native southern blue flag iris. lily of the valley. and great stands of trillium. Here are some of the beauties i encountered on my own little patch of paradise:

white trillium. a frequently poached plant, only to die at the new location. it takes 7 years for a trillium to mature to the blooming stage you see above

the southern blue flag. a tiny native iris with spearlike leaves

lady slipper. you find it where dead trees have decayed to a soft loam on the forest floor

little white stars. dont know what these are

the one red trillium on the entire place

lily of the valley

a fiddle head fern

dovey in the creeping phlox

the new puppy. "Trout". a little brown hound of the mountains

easter

2006-04-16T17:11:00.000-04:00

in praise of poultry

2006-04-10T19:06:00.000-04:00

they are like dinosaurs, they way they run, big legs pumping and covering ground quickly. they can fly but often choose not to. When they do, its an interesting flight. If they were jets they could land on aircraft carriers...they make extreme sharp turns and short landings. the little wings blurred like fast moving insect wings and the tail feathers fan out like a quail. they are master earth movers, scratching up grubs and larvae, picking them up and dashing them down to the earth to bleed out the soft insides. their eyesight is enviable and when they turn that one eye upon you for inspection it is the stuff of horror films. Its no mystery to me that birds are the descendants of dinos. Their vocabulary is very specific with soft trills and sharp reports, and they can be so so sweet - when you have peanut butter to share or some sweet cake-like cornbread. they are a social creature in may ways, hanging around wherever the people are and inquisitive of the goings on around the place. Yes, this is another love letter to chickens and probably not the last.

dusk in more ways than one

2006-03-27T09:04:00.000-04:00

the woods appear fuller in late afternoon, the long shadows stretching into the field, now beaming fresh green with new spring growth. i followed the violet lines out of the shadows and into the light. it is still so cold. the last of the sun warmed through 3 layers but the wind found my ears and chilled my mind. i didn't turn back for a hat, the daylight fading so fast and my time short already. Instead i went down into the creekbed and pressed hard against the bank hiding from the wind. the waterfalls downstream filled the space with white noise and i was temporarilly lost in a fog of anxiety-laced second guessing. the divided heart makes for an unsettled way of being from which there is never any relief. I pretend i am a solider about to begin a 3 year tour, a mission to be gutted out, and then to return to the forest again, better able to take care of it.
trapped in "the stares" an image materializes as pattern in the very spot where my eyes have rested throughout the endless reviews of my choice. the 'coon has left a calling card reminiscent of kindergarten art projects; little hands pressed into wet media, dried and preserved on the muddy creek's shore. i follow them as far as i can until they disappear into the water. I remember last year's coon and wonder if it is the same individual. the one who came for corn at dusk, scattering late-feeding cardinals from the stump. he was fat and fine and still very wary of human interaction. good i thought, stay that way.

the first star blinked on and i pulled myself back up onto the bank. there was barely enough light to check and see if any new ferns had started yet. eyes and hands searched for little spirals; the fiddleheaded jewels of exotic salads. i heard a whiporwhil to the west as three crows passed over me in silence. i straightened and headed in toward an evening before the great brown God of propane.

new spring chicks

2006-02-19T16:48:00.000-04:00

i went to the feed n seed to look at the new bantams. and i reflected with sorrow on the towers of birds burning because of the avian flu. ducks and poultry and wild song birds. birds who are now making their way from africa back to europe. the storks who build impressive nests on the spires of cathedrals in france and spain will face execution upon their arrival home. i live with two free ranging hens of tremendous personality. i know their language well, the sharp report of annoyance, the trill of danger nearby, the chortle of a finding a juicy insect hidden below a mat of sodden leaves. i have had this pair for two years now. they are good little layers and outstanding sentries.

driving behind a tractor trailer filled with broilers on their way to slaughter i know that if these birds had lived as my pets red and dovey, each one of them would be a distinct individual. when i had brick, the chunkette brown bantam hen, she was so insecure that she was being left behind or ignored by the other chickens. it was heartbreaking to watch and impossible to set right. the famous pecking order we have come to know as an expression was played out before me in a social circle of hens. how odd to see the largest hen was the most fragile emotionally. and that ping, the golden campine so slight she was like a balloon with some feathers pasted onto it, was a fierce creature who dominated the laying box letting no other birds in. this was too much for red and dovey who were with me first and felt they deserved some respect for being the pioneers. in the end, ping and brick went to live with another chicken lady.

i read a story about a little girl in turkey who died of bird flu. the situation was the family flock was compromised with exposure to the flu and had to be destroyed. the child loved the chickens and kissed them all good bye as the distraught parents discovered too late. i know what is is to love a chicken. there are ten billion ways to die. in my own barn or forest here i could encounter a brown recluse or a murderous redneck meth addict or a cottonmouth, or die on the winding country road where speeding and not maintaining lanes are everyday, or smashed by an ice laden dead branch or shot by a poacher. so i will continue to enjoy my hennies and let the chips fall.

three day snow

2006-02-16T10:53:00.000-04:00

daffodils. the harbingers of spring.

a favorite house i pass on the long road toward the cohuttas.

you know you're a redneck when your Christmas tree is thrown out in the yard with the stand still attached and it's february!

winter forest

2006-01-23T18:17:00.000-04:00

Today was warmer than usual and i was surprised to find a clutch of eggs under the deck stairs. I had no idea the hennies were laying again. I scrambled the surprise eggs and offered them to the the dog i am babysitting for an out of town friend. A turkey hen was startled by my unexpected guest, and as the dog charged out this morning the giant hen flew up to the closest branch. whump whump whump was the sound she made, like a slow motion helicopter. her flight both awkward and elegant. she seemed a creature from another time, almost too large for the tree branch on which she perched, the proportions all wrong.

Sapsuckers have returned to strip little saplings of their nectar and the goldfinches are legion. The tips of daffodils and crocus are piercing the earth to show their pale green tops, still flexible with newness. the snowdrops, too are punching through to the light. white-tailed deer were in the field earlier and my guest dog tracked the path they took to the woodlot across the creek. the deer have eaten all the tops of the hydrangeas i got from the arboretum to use for reference on the botanical garden project. the light is changing and soon the field will go brilliant in color and i will have sun again as the suns path moves higher into the sky. i could never love life more than i do in this very moment, though the absence of the yellow dog still weighs heavy on my heart.

epiphany on ice

2005-12-19T18:41:00.000-04:00

i drove the long but scenic route. 10 lanes and tall buildings give way to 8 in the suburbs and down to 4 where the commute from that point is an hour to the heart of the city. i pass the last stand of old properties defiantly seperating business parks, the dixie 400 flea, the business with very large poorly colored outdoor animals, and the right turn for all the lake people.

Kurt serenades me plaintively from the grave. "where do bad people go when they die? not to heaven where the angels fly!"

i take the 2 lane left towards the mountains. i pass the auto shop of a famous nascar driver, a meat and three palace, and a place where you can pay to fish a trout out of a pond. there's apple houses, and in the summer, a petting zoo of goats and lambs and piglets. rows of gleaming and fragrant chicken houses are stacked along rolling pastoral hills laden with all manner of bovine creatures. next is the forest fire tower and a row of smokey bear signs. i read them and shake my head yes in solemn agreement.

soon my range appears and i am first day at school excited. everytime.

(same way i feel coming back from a long trip. from the plane my home, my city, familiar and full of comforts, stretches out below and theres a moment of expectation and real happiness. i don't remember all the things that annoy me, i'm home! )

the mountains are big and blue on this day and the air is crystal. low winter sunlight beaming through the endless line of bare trees strobes my eyes and makes me see blood red in my peripheral. it goes on too long. the almost home stretch offers a long range view of the big frog; his back looking hairy now that you can see the trees on the ridgeline. the final, real home stretch is a dead end into wilderness. it's anything but dead with the abundant wildlife who call it home. the road winds and banks and is a ribbon of mercury in this light. evidence of fires puff out of little cabin chimney pipes. mixed with an army of white pines and sparkly decorations it is a greeting card for all the senses.

an american flag in metal swings open with a groan and smashes into a fallen virginia pine bearing a tremendous bounty of cones. i take in the last mountain view and roll down to the black water. the little Christmas wreath i put on the hens door is still in place but i may have lost one of those fancy hydrangeas from china. the goldfinch sak is empty of thistle and the other feeder is empty too. the evergreens are full and lush and the field in the last of the light is almost glowing through the dark giants blocking my view. it seems i've been gone longer than i have.

inside i get the little heater all cranked up and sit quietly. this time it is different. acutely aware now of lost valuable time with the ones i love, i reflect on an absolutely correct drawing of eva by my friend margaret. my heart is divided and unsettled. the big loves do not inhabit the same space, and i have missed so much. but something will be missed either way, i protest!

this season will carry with it a dilemma. but that is a discussion for another time.

ashes and hennies

2005-12-12T10:00:00.000-04:00

we have lived a whole week without the yellow dog. burning bright is our living room shrine of photos and favored toys and sweetly scented lights flickering on baby pictures and sympathy cards. little chewies laid out should her spirit pass by in hunger. the killing shot went into her leg and stopped her heart. ashes are what we are left with. and hennies.

now it is time to return to the forest. i am behind on my project, behind on Christmas, behind on preparing to move my studio. there is pressure every december and it is making it my least favorite month of the year. but the crunchy ice covered grasses and black water will restore me. away from the hum of the city. blowers and jets and construction noise. the incivility on the roads.

some of the ashes will go into the creek where the maple leans low over the bank, another pinch to the field.
the far side where the last of the sun warmed 2 yellow girls before dropping behind the mountain. i will find her fur and old balls and reminders over and over again, i know. but the goldfinches on their thistle feeder, mourning doves and chickadees will be my companions. maybe a fox, or opossum. certainly the big kingfisher. maybe even the wandering yellow lab from the other side of the creek.
and the hennies. i still have the fussy fussy hennies.

good-bye baby

2005-12-03T12:30:00.000-04:00

Rest in Peace my beloved. Gone. December 3, 2005.

put down today in an act of mercy. i still feel your last kiss.
i saw the light leave your eyes. good-bye my angel.
you will be missed but remembered always.

Read the next entry for a full rememberance.

when the last leaf drops

2005-11-02T10:16:00.000-04:00

so too will our girl. her hips cannot support her anymore. black coal eyes now stay wet with pain and awareness of the failure of her body. and yet she's still in it. she offers a wag and a little muffled woof so we aren't so alarmed. we know we have to put her down. have we rubbed and loved and given all we can? enough to let go? we did the acupuncture. the rimadyl. the petitions to St. Francis. little rubbery boots for traction.

colasped in the backyard this morning she laid among leaves of golden and red, and that beauty seemed to be a consolation prize for the sorrows of decay.

we got our pup when we had been dating only a few months and we have never known our life as a couple without her. she was the fiesty one of the litter; not the smallest or the largest. but the most engaged and active. she was pale yellow like a baby duckling and cried only the first night away from her mother.

she chewed a hose, a coach wallet, and ate an entire lawn chair. she ate the net that V drove golfballs into. what an explosive moment it was to come home and find that V had the pup wrapped in the destroyed net like a trapped rare animal. to teach her a lesson. and me, busting into the house, sword drawn, demanding an explanation: "why is the baby in a net?!?"

we broke her of digging by filling one of her holes with water and holding her head underwater until she was damn near drowned. after, she went to the far corner of the yard and faced away from us. and we went to our bed and cried like babies. she never dug again.

Eva loved baseball. our game, known as "hits and runs" worked like this: the playing field was the driveway and backyard. my job was to bat a tennis ball, make it bounce on the driveway and get it past her and into the grassy part of the yard. If she stopped the ball from reaching a certain spot in the yard, then that was a run for her. If i was able to get the ball past her it was a hit. If the ball didnt bounce on the driveway it was also run for her. She was a brilliant player and i worked hard to get those hits past her. you could never throw a ball and expect her to retrieve it. you always had to bat. two, three, four times a day, this game was played to exhaustion. as she rested and panted that tail circled endlessly in joyful triumph. and i think of that wide dog smile now and will take it with me until the last of my breath.

she would retrieve sticks from the creek all day long if you were willing. all the moments i cherish are flooding back to me as i write. there was the time when she was still a puppy and we camped at cooper's creek. V came up out of the creek with vines draped all over him and making the sound of a monster. eva ran to the truck and hid. later she would become an adventure loving animal; not so easily frightened though she would never be a tough dog. she would push through briars and hedges and have stickers in her fur at the end of the day.

there was the time she cut up her paw on an oyster bed in sarasota. the time the kong toy somehow got wedged in her mouth, propping it open so much that we almost couldn't get it out. her boyfriend Barney the wandering tramp of a golden retriever. jumping up on the tub and biting the bubbles from my bath. nosing around under the Christmas tree smelling her gifts. neighborhood children coming to the front door and asking if eva could come out and play. working as a team to drive bird killing kitties out of the yard.

learning how to open the back door by pulling a rag with her teeth. we showed her how to do it just twice, and she took to it readily. eva going out into the cold to get the paper as V and i watched from our warm home, coffee in hand. There was the time the cop drew his gun on her as she stalked down the driveway at him with her fur standing up on her back four inches high, all show and no bad intention. her speak and shake routine to amuse dinner guests. the lipoma the size of a turkey breast we had surgically removed. the first seizure. the first hip collapse. the beginning of the sorrows. just like that first cool morning - the glimpse of the fall and then, finally, the full force of winter.

now i will call the vet and arrange a house call. for this week? tomorrow? next week? it will be a civilized demise. none of the old school "florida way" where the dying dogs were taken out and shot in the back of the head. efficient and brutal and honest too. but that way isnt for us. she is too gentle, too soft, too yellow, too good, too smart, too important, too eva.

i can't pick her up anymore. i can't stop loving her either. we dont know what to do. we do know what to do. its confusing. shes better now, no wait she's fading again. the leaves are swirling all around. she's laying on a carpet in the kitchen watching the leaves and she will most of the day. tonight i will comb her to perfection. i will put a vision in my mind's eye and send it to her as a telepathic love letter. i will tell her she is the truest purest gift of creature a couple could ever have shared.

leaves and tears are falling but not for much longer.

self-portrait

2005-10-18T09:42:00.000-04:00

sunday stick burn

2005-10-17T18:25:00.000-04:00

i picked up and burned sticks all day long. it was a perfect perfect day. crisp. colorful. swirling leaves, woodpeckers hammering away at old snags, grasshoppers hopping and rubbing their legs together for that sweet late summer sound extending into fall. I had to wear a jacket! the hens don't like hanging out at the fire; i miss the company of my soulful Eva dog. I wasn't alone though.

Glazed over and not really looking for or at anything a face materialized. a doe. we looked at each other for at least two minutes, like playing the statue game with a far better player. she couldn't smell me for the smoke from the fire. finally the face disappeared to be followed by 7 small deer springing across the upper meadow and up through the woodlot to the west. all the creatures seem to follow this same path. their giant floppy tails seemed phosphorescent through the feathery white pines. they were so quiet, if i hadn't been looking i would have never known they passed. i waited for the first star to pierce the sky, as is my custom, and headed in toward a glowing pumpkin of a home. i heard the owl. his voice reverbs off the mountain and he sounds like he is in no particular place but all around me. like the voices that rise up from the shoals of the creek. once inside i cooked some cornbread for the hens and we all watched bull riding together. all five billion satellite channels are back now that the leaves have fallen. just in time for the professional bull riding finals, where Little Yellow Jacket will appear for the last time before retiring. did i already say this was the perfect day?

beauty came down

2005-10-10T18:32:00.000-04:00

ghost bear

2005-08-18T17:55:00.000-04:00

he is an apparition that exists only in the magic hour. impossible to capture in photos fully. leaving the shutter open i can record his movement-look closely at the photo below and you will see his muzzle smelling the tree trunk. and the darker part suggests a kneeling figure. the shaman wannabe in me likes that happy accident of photography. i think he is a young bear because of his astonished open gaze and shiny black coat of new looking fur. his muzzle is without scar. he brings myth and mystery to my evenings making me alive and alert because i respect his wildness.

i am low by the creek and under heavy canopy it is night for me early on. i know he comes from across the creek and so i look and wait, more hopeful for him than any lover i can recall or imagine. (but this may be a condition of age rather than evolution or wisdom.) every dark place pulls my eye. the forest is so alive with movement it is hard not to be fooled over and over again. the creek flows and splashes up little diversions. the leaves are starting to fall and hummingbirds reach for the last of the nectar while red can still, if faintly, be registered by those tiny eyes. black hornets with an impressive nest at the apex of the roof inspect me and move on. the bear, like many things, doesn't come at the time of my choosing and i give up the watch and prepare dinner..........oh yes! wild alaskan salmon on my george forman grill. i did not plan it but in retrospect my unconscious mind was clearly in the driver's seat.

the chicks are inside with me and love kitchen time as they are sure to receive a taste of everything i am having. suddenly the chicks adopt a familiar weird, low and frozen stance while emitting a worry trill. the bear is here. how can he be so quiet? he is more cautious than i, every step tentative. the bear doesnt see me but the twitching snout tells me he smells me or the salmon. he is probably smelling a billion other scents i cannot detect. he is disappointed the bird feeder has been taken in, having been so lucky recently to have caught me off guard staying too late at the studio in town. he checks every place where bird seed has ever been. i am surprised he doesn't come up on the deck. He has before and though i usually let it go so i can watch him, when he touches the dish i am compelled to step out and protect my very very fragile satellite reception; tv becoming as mythological as the bear lately.

he moves on and upward to the west and the night unfolds merrily; heavy in riches and good fortune.

eva in the creek

2005-01-29T13:59:00.000-04:00

eva in the creek, originally uploaded by sparakeet.

Eva is fading. my labrador of fourteen is mostly deaf now, sometimes confused, and her hips are giving away with increasing frequency. she moves carefully; considers 2 steps down for what seems an eternity before heading out to the yard. She has had many a crash lately - too quick of a turn and she finds her back end down, hip hitting hard, looking embarrassed somehow. She turns back to see if we saw that, a sad face that suggests she worries we might think less of her, that we might not remember her glory days as a young athletic dog.

This is a bittersweet time. I run my hands over her now lumpy body, comb her to silky perfection, snuggle her muzzle, whisper sweet somethings into ears that cannot hear, but know. I squeeze her little feet that have always reminded me of the buds of magnolias, and rub her sore hip areas. i am delighted when she stretches out her gams for me to massage them as well. She rubs her smiling face back and forth into the bed in an action i recognize as content. Every second is precious and i am really looking at her, more than i ever have, to sear her image into my heart. Saving things to store in my minds eye that no photograph could ever capture.

There are not many areas where i can look at my life and say i did (whatever) as best i could. But as far as raising and caring for a dog, I can honestly say that i have no regrets with the life that Eva has had with us. Our sweet girl. The ice storm provides an opportunity for our little family of man woman and dog to huddle up together inside and appreciate our beauties however impermanent they may be.

little yellow jacket

2005-01-13T18:39:00.000-04:00

little yellow jacket, originally uploaded by sparakeet.

http://www.pbrnow.com/ridersbulls/bulls/bull.cfm?ID=6754
A big ol red bull has captured my heart. all thirty two available TiVo recording hours in our home have been dedicated to championship bull riding in hope of seeing my hero, Little Yellow Jacket, buck off another cowboy. He's 1750 pounds of brangus beauty, one horn up and one horn down, all heart and a ton of attitude. He has a rating of 22.9 out of 25 possible points that a bull can have, and has been bucking bull of the year three times; the first bull to do so. In 88 career outings he has been ridden only 13 times. His average buck-off time is under 3 seconds. If a cowboy sits the 8 seconds on LYJ they can expect a high score and beaucoup respect.

There are many great bulls on the PBR circuit with colorful names like Sling Blade, Panda, Blueberry Wine, Mossy Oak Mudslinger, Uncle Charlie, and a new favorite of mine, Ugly, who might also be known as champion snot slinger. But Little Yellow Jacket is a superstar in that he knows he is a champion. Most bulls after bucking off a cowboy just head on into the exit chute, still kinda buckin', seemingly unaware of the crowd. Not Little Yellow Jacket. When he bucks off a cowboy he stares him down for a moment, holds his head up high, pausing to enjoy the much deserved praise, and turns with a certain adorable flair and trots off into the shoot. One day Little Yellow Jacket will retire and start a family. I anxiously await his future offspring and hope the attitude and the moves live on. Because of LYJ i am a bull riding fan for life. I sit before the glorious monolithic big screen TV watching LYJ in slow motion over and over, knowing there's some future paintings of him brewing. and i hear the exasperated voice of my husband from another room: "Bull Riding! Again?"

cashes-valley

2004-12-21T19:32:00.000-04:00

cashes-valley, originally uploaded by sparakeet.

On the eve of the first legitimate snowfall this year,
i headed north, leaving a city glittering with Christmas lights in the rear view.
the drive on hwy 2 was all currier and ives.
hemlocks heavy with snow slumped in a storybook way.
cashes valley was a vast undisturbed blanket of white seemingly inhabited by only a small paint horse.
The flakes were beginning to obscure the shaggy brown spots on his back. an hour or two from now he may
be mistaken for a white horse.
A blue grey sky was revealed as the road opened up
and looked bright compared to the darkness of
the cohuttas ahead.
Shrouded in heavy clouds, i knew the better snow was yet to come.

At the cabin i discovered tiny tracks in the snow -birds and
small mammals.
Puffy squirrels waited patiently for their peanuts.
quiet because the snow buffers sound -the road empty of redneck vehicles.
the entire landscape around me was immaculate, the cleaness of snow working its minimalist magic.
it feels as though i have the entire forest to myself
and it speaks to me in snaps, crow calls and feathery evergreen songs.
The creek looks like a japanese painting,
a classic zen scene of rock, snow, moving water
and rhododendron heavy with ice.
I saw the red-tailed hawk in his y-tree perch
and a rabbit on the high part of my driveway.
Black sticks colonized with frilly botanica colored lichens line the landscape
and my breath seems to hang in the air like a frozen sculpture.
i stay out as long as the wind chill allows, just long enough to see
a slate colored junco take his last seed and fly off over the cabin

the-chix

2004-12-08T13:26:00.000-04:00

the-chix, originally uploaded by sparakeet.

red and dove, red and dove,
who would've thought i'd ever love
two fussy feathered dinosaurs
that tear up the earth and shit on the floors?
i've learned your language of trills, squawks and shrieks
but since ya'll are hens there will be no peeps
but eggs galore, though tiny they are
those dear little bantams, my favorites by far!

possum

2004-12-02T15:09:00.000-04:00

possum, originally uploaded by sparakeet.

i vote for the possum as the poster animal of the south. the ultimate survivor. like a bunch of southern rednecks, they breed faster and mo' better than their brethren. many a jacked up four-wheeler, slick sports car and sticky windowed minivan has smashed them into the asphalt and into the museum of ubiquitous road kill. are we really in that big of a hurry that we cant offer a few seconds for a lowly marsupial to get across? i've heard they can be eaten but are extremely greasy. not that i have anything against grease but i've decided to take the old timers word on this one. even an unwanted creature has it's beauties.
keep that in mind next time you are on the receiving end of a put down, or left out, or dismissed. just take your place along with the possum, who upon closer examination actually turns out to be a fine little fellow.

our lady of the southern pine forests

2004-12-01T12:27:00.000-04:00

lady of pine forest, originally uploaded by sparakeet.

the south is under siege from pine beetles. the evidence can be seen throughout the southern appalachians,,,,the needleless sticks have shed their bark to expose a yellow core. the entry point for the beetle is the size of an aspirin and makes a dark hole. they weaken the tree from within and it falls victim to other parasites. you cant treat it. you can only identify the sick trees and cut them down and burn them. but even if you do cull the sick trees from the property, you can't stop the beetles from the neighbors or the rest of the forest from setting up shop again. virginia pines seem to be the most ravaged which is too bad because they are the giants of pines. a few of them tower over my place from across the creek and are sure to come down someday soon. the largest is filled with holes that woodpeckers have made to reach insects or build homes. that's a good part of an otherwise unhappy situation.

i cannot image a southern landscape without the beautiful pines! their cheerful evergreens are a refuge for eyes that tire of the stark linear hardwood beauties against a winter sky. i love the look of a carpet of fallen needles beneath my white pines. it is a place where i might lay and nap; the piney fragrance is the smell of home, its comforts and goodness. the browned fallen needles are a nice counterpoint to the greens of tall fescues and pink clovers, and defines the woodlot from the open field.

this has happened before. there used to be a pine that inhabited south georgia and north florida. it is called the loblolly pine and it is near extinction. i am hoping the remaining pines dont meet that same fate. i made this painting as a devotional to my forest....like an amulet, i make the prayer to protect my trees in the form of an image. other living things portrayed in our lady's dress is a trillium, a solomons seal, painters brush fungi, a grasshopper, and a butterfly. in the hem of her skirt i have put hemlock needles. bad news from the eastern part of the state: here comes hemlock blight. has a war been declared on evergreens? i can only hope that the winter is every bit as harsh as the almanac promises and kills off, or at least slows down, the beetle blitzkrieg.

the cabin

2004-11-30T23:29:00.000-04:00

deer.jumping400, originally uploaded by sparakeet.

it's magic hour and the lavender shadows contain the movements of little creatures, insects and flickering grasses, briefly flashing bright green when catching the setting sun. it will be dark here soon as the sun drops behind sally ann mountain. up on the road will still be some warmth and golden light and little sparrows flitting around in a hedgerow. filled with seedings, briars and smaller hardwoods, it stands between the upper field and the road above. sometimes i go to the top of the driveway in late afternoon to extend the day and watch the mountain go from blue to ultramarine to dark shape. i am reminded of a rule in painting: the landscape is always darker than the sky. even at night. even in a storm.

back on the deck i look out at a messy woodpile to see a chipmunk with enormous cheekfuls of pumpkin seeds scamper off toward the creek's edge and i am surprised he heads that way. i hear the chip chip chipping of a single cardinal. they are my latest feeders at twilight and the first at dawn. a female on the forest floor is hard to spot at first, but her bright red beak gives her away. my old dog heads up the ramp and waits patiently at the screen door of the cabin. but my rule is i can not go inside until the first star breaks through. i wait for it and finally it pierces the atmosphere with tiny brilliance. i turn to go in and see the cabin glowing like a halloween pumpkin...the warm piney interior will soon contain a tired labrador longing for her bed and a reluctant me anticipating a very dark night