As passes Spring, so passes two Golden Girls

She had been swimming with us a couple days before. We knew she was slowing down and attributed it mostly to arthritis and the searing 100 degree heat, somewhat unusual for this time of year. She was spending more time indoors, enjoying the air conditioning.

Tuesday my golden girl refused to get up and turned away from food, although she was still interested in drinking water. She'd been out a little longer the day before than we'd intended, perhaps she was suffering a heat stroke.

Wednesday morning there was no improvement, so we took her to the hospital and blood work showed her glucose way down and her liver enzymes higher than they'd ever seen. Her liver had stopped functioning, probably due to liver cancer. We brought her home and I held her in my arms. She passed at 3:40 p.m.

Utah was the last of my dog family representing my long life lived elsewhere. She was 13 years old. Yes, there still is the husky wolf who never fit into that pack. Our other two dogs acquired here miss her companionship. She got along with everyone. Memories come flooding in, too much to write here.

The heat has been getting to me, too. I'd been thinking about cutting my hair and letting it go grey in an acceptance of middle age. With the curls stretched out, it just made the 10 inches required for a donation to Locks of Love. I've only had really short hair twice, both as a form of grieving: The day John Lennon was shot, and the day of my divorce from a youthful marriage that wasn't working out.

It took about twenty phone calls to find a salon with an opening on Saturday afternoon, and it was two hours away. My husband was supportive. About two blocks from the destination, a huge lightning bolt zapped from the sky close to our car, which sent the traffic light into blinking mode. The salon was in darkness, and the stylist assured me she couldn't cut my hair in the dark. I reminded her that scissors weren't electric, and that I had made a half-day round trip just to get this done. Candles were brought out, like a solstice ritual. The ponytail was snipped.

It did not turn out like the picture I brought with me, but I'm glad it's gone. It's like feng shui for my head. I'm also glad it's going to be a gift to some child, who needs some gold. Gone is the tug of weight on the back of my neck. But now I feel like I have a hat on top of my head. Guess I'll get used to it with time. This morning my neighbor let out a gasp as I took off my hat in the garden.

So, two Golden Girls have passed...one to Rainbow Bridge, and the other into the next phase of life, whatever that is. At least hair can grow back. Utah, you hold a special place in my heart, and I miss you greatly.

Chocolate's cousin and eat your greens!

Here's a sweet little flower that's in the chocolate family. It's called Mexican Mallow (Hermannia texana) although it's not really a mallow at all. It's an endemic, meaning it's found only in my part of the Hill Country. Actually, I've not seen it anywhere other than my own property. I love the bright orange petals, which never unfurl any farther than pictured, and the way they hang. The seed pod is very sculptural, too.

The flower seems to like the drought, and has proliferated in the short grass prairie, even sending some scouts across the creek into the oak-mesquite savanna. It's very interesting to observe our property divided in half by a creek, where each side has an almost entirely different collection of forbs. A visiting geologist once put forth the theory that the creek is actually a fault line.

We have been reworking our drip irrigation system to even out the pressure between the various gardens. The San Marzano paste and Chadwick cherry tomatoes are laden with green fruit, peanuts are up, and eleven kinds of melons and winter squash have a nice start. We have our first head of cauliflower and the blackberries are starting to ripen. The bok choy has taken a hit in the heat and will soon become salad for our sheep and chickens, but the amazing chard just keeps on keeping on.

I made a delectable dinner the other night for some friends of chard, raisins, and walnuts sauteed in brown butter tossed onto whole wheat linguine, and topped with Parmesan. I think chard has become tied with kale as my favorite vegetable. I am amazed at how few people (or restaurants, for that matter) cook greens which provide so many nutrients. Most people tell me they just don't know how to cook greens. The secret? Wilt them with garlic sauteed in some olive oil.

Loving what you have

Another flower abstraction for you. This is the lower half the the odd little Ratany (Krameria lanceolata) flower. Looks like an orchid, but is really small and prolific bloom on a sprawling mass that also likes the short grass prairie, especially our path where it has less competition.

It has elements of both Earth and Fire, and a wicked seed pod. I love the color.

Today we bought a small work truck for our farm and the entire contents of wood shop tools from a local friend that's moving to Seattle. It was an incredible win-win deal for all of us. Never mind we don't yet have a shop and are storing them in various outbuildings. It's another piece of our homesteading dream and will enable much future creativity.

With economic perils looming many of our friends are moving away for better jobs or to be closer to family. There are times we entertain the idea. But in reality we have a pretty sweet and ever evolving self-sufficient life here. It's all about loving what you have.

Prairie dance

I love the abstraction of flowers. The styles emerging from the anther tubes of this Skeleton Plant flower look as if they are involved in a dance. Lygodesmia texana gets its common name from the fact that the leaves are so small the plant has the appearance of being leafless. In my opinion, a terrible name for something so lovely.

On closer inspection, they are dancing with the ants. The Pipevine Swallowtail butterflies use them for nectar. Don't you wonder what a glass of this stuff might taste like?

These flourish in our short grass prairie, where the Earth offers up a seemingly inhospitable terrain of limestone crushed by the waters of eons past. They tower above the rest and give a good showing after a rain. Their seed head is much like a dandelion, delivering its progeny to the wind. According to flower essence theory, this flower would be categorized as exhibiting the qualities of Air.

My neighbor doesn't understand why I don't keep this remnant of 'weeds' mowed. Long ago he seeded his side with a monoculture of invasive exotic Bermuda grass and uses a lot of fossil fuel to keep it manicured for no apparent purpose other than he likes it that way. Many people don't realize that the American prairie is more endangered than the rain forests of the Amazon. Most of them have sadly been turned into subdivisions.

We celebrate diversity, and seek to make additions, not subtractions on our property. I'd rather dance than mow.

Deep thoughts about nuts

Now it's not just the orioles and hummingbirds looking for a handout at my home office window. This little fellow peeking from behind my laptop had to hop over two large, obviously snoozing dogs to get my attention.

I've never seen a squirrel at my window before. They are usually content scampering around in the front yard trying to remember where in the lawn or among the potted plants they hid last year's crop of native pecans. I'm sure every one of our towering pecan trees owes its start to the forgetfulness of his ancestors.

I wonder if there is anything I will forget that has the potential to become something more beautiful in its forgotten-ness than in its remembrance?

Birder, who me?

This part of the Hill Country is known for its abundance of birds, both resident and migratory, some even endangered. Birding this area requires field guides to both the Eastern and Western U.S. as many species overlap on my sliver of the world.

I suspect this is due to having the headwaters of many of the state's rivers originating within a few miles of our farm, the incredible diversity of terrain, and one of the longest county rosters of endemic plants (and there certainly are a lot of counties in Texas). Diversity begets diversity.

I know I post a lot about birds, but I'm not a birder, OK? By training, I am a botanist. There are many advantages. Studying plants does not require getting up at the crack of dawn, owning an optical bigger than a hand lens, or keeping a competitive "life list". Plants do not move around--you can usually count on them being in the same place tomorrow or next year.

As the years pass, I have to describe myself as a botanist (and a gardener) very interested in birds and butterflies. It's impossible to look past a beautiful butterfly or interesting bird to study a flower: they are all interrelated.

This week, there were two exciting bird observations at the homestead. First, I had just read in Sibley's field guide to birds that male hummingbirds do acrobatic airshow patterns to attract their mates, and the very next day I witnessed my first one. From the short grass prairie overlook to the creek, this little, determined fellow did several swoops back and forth, starting above the majestic live oaks and diving toward the limestone ledge and soaring to the other side above the trees.

Since then, I've noticed several of these performances each day. Some hummers make a "J" pattern. Each display is accompanied by a particular whirring sound. I realized that this has been going on around me all along, and I just had not been observant to what was causing the sound before now. I find that it is easier to bird by ear, even though I am a visual person. It helps me know what I'm looking for in the tree or bush.

The second observation was a male Hooded Oriole at the hummingbird feeder. I heard a ka-thunk and looked up from my computer work, and there he was trying to disassemble the feeder to get to the sugar water. I decided to help by unscrewing the top plate to reveal an open reservoir of nectar. Soon he and his girlfriend were taking turns drinking from the sweet fount and entertaining me with their antics. (Too bad our windows have screens as they blur the photography, although we appreciated their ability to keep out mosquitoes). These photos were taken a couple of feet away.

Before they land, they sing a couple of bittersweet notes, followed by some squawky chatter that seems to tell the hummingbirds to clear the deck, they're coming in for a landing. Ka-thunk! I've learned his song, and can now find him wherever he is on the property. This morning he woke us up tapping on the feeder and scolding because the feeder was dry.

I don't want to admit I'm a birder. No, I'm just a botanist willing to get up early on a weekend morning to make sugar water.

Birdlets

Here are the adorable baby wrens to the right of our front door the day before they fledged. I was able to take this photograph about four inches away while the momma scolded me. I have given up growing plants in this decorative metal hanging envelope planter as Nature sees it more useful for raising birds.

The momma bird built and used it last year, then took off for the summer. A large wolf spider moved in. By fall, the spider was gone and the wren was back. She spent the winter sleeping in it, head first. It is right under our porch light, so we could see her breathing in slumber.

As the nights began to warm in early spring, she took to sleeping in the pecan tree. We were able to use her to forecast the occasional nightly freeze--on those nights she was back in the nest as soon as the setting sun hit the trees. How is it that Nature innately knows what we must build machines to tell us? Living in the country I have begun to relearn what people have forgotten by living in cities.

We knew she was setting eggs when she started sleeping with her head facing out. She gave us an inconvenienced look every time we passed in and out, so we tried not to make eye contact. Complete strangers at the door, however, would be surprised when she escaped within inches of their faces. That's pretty neat that she knows and trusts us.