Growing Up

Bear Creek, where Papa Hemingway fished about 100 years ago.

Fishing the contemplative waters of the Little Manistee River in West Michigan this past week, I thought about my dad—as I often do while fishing. It was he who sentenced me to this life-long pursuit, starting with a cane pole and bluegills when FDR was president. Now, the activity has evolved to high-tech fly fishing tackle and what might seem to others a near-impossible way to catch fish.

Long after dad was dead, I discovered he'd been a fly fisher. He gave up this more complex way of catching fish in favor of teaching me and my three brothers how to bait a hook with a red worm.

So, as I shivered in the challenging Little Manistee trout stream last week, I thought about how much has remained the same in this spot over the past 100 years and what a different world it is from when dad probably fished here.

The gorgeous, challenging Lilltle Manistee River in Michigan

I think he might have gotten excited about things like the Mars rovers; even appreciated the Internet. (Though he probably would have thought both a waste of money--like power windows in a car.)

One thing I'm sure he would never have abided was tournament fishing. To dad, the concept of chasing about in glittery speed boats in pursuit of bass or trout would have been as inconceivable as voting for a Republican.

For dad, fishing was a quiet, contemplative diversion; something to savor if only for two weeks out of a year otherwise filled with two or three full-time jobs necessary to feed his family. Our annual vacation/fishing trips always marked a significant period in dad's year, not one fixed on the calendar like Christmas, but a point more filled with meaning; marking the beginning of our summer exile; a time to recall past exiles--for better or worse.

As a kid, fishing for me was a numbers game. As an adult my thinking has evolved to the point where I'm not sure catching is all that crucial--which was what dad probably thought.

Grow up little guy. I'll be back looking for you in a couple years.

Labor for Elephants

Lisa at work

The traveling circus passed through our village this morning. I considered running away, then remembered a few other obligations. And besides, how would the government know where to send my Social Security check?

So instead, we took our 10-year-old grandson to watch the circus folks raise the big top. I think he might have preferred something a bit more digital than archaic, however, any chance you get to see a piece of living history, I say, "Take it! Go for the gold!" (Oh, too much television in my system …)

Anyway, watching the elephant (Lisa, by name) in harness, pulling on the rigging that raised the roof 39 feet above us, I had one of those what-if moments. Lisa is a well conditioned 37 year old, tipping the scales at around 8,000 pounds—give or take. She eats about a quarter ton of food every day and drinks about 190 liters of water.

Just think of how many humans could be hired to do this same manual labor—and they'd eat and drink a lot less. The humans would, of course, have other duties around the circus, but their primary function would be the daily raising of the tent with its 160-foot-diameter. There is huge entertainment value in this, as well as a cost savings.

So, later in the day when I was talking with President Obama, again, about the unemployment situation here in the U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A, I outlined legislation proposing humans, not elephants, be used as tent raisers. I told him, I know he's against this top-down economic mess the Republicans got us into, so this would be a top-up program.

As usual, the Prez was a step ahead of me. He said the idea has merit. He thought the symbolism of elephant pictures would make it easy for Congress to understand and hard for them to object to. But in the end, he said, elephants still work for peanuts, we don't have problems with them climbing that fence in Arizona, and we don't require birth certificates. Plus, they're only about 1 percent of the work force.
What if an elephant gets sick, I asked.
Prez said, one-percenters know how to take care of their own.

 Lisa at play

Let’s Keep Our Fingers Crossed

I’m a day late, I know, however, August 1 was the full moon, the full Sturgeon Moon according to American Indian tribes that lived in this region. The full moon of August seems to have carried the same name with other tribes in the Great Lakes region because August was when the fossil-like sturgeon fish was most plentiful.

It took a while, however, overfishing virtually wiped them out. They were thought to be gone from Lake Erie, yet, every now and then someone would come in with a fish tale about a prehistoric looking fish tail, almost three feet long, etc.

A three-footer would be only a small sample of what a full-grown sturgeon looks like. Fish measuring seven or eight feet are not uncommon; fish weighing more than the fisher who catches it.

Reports of small sturgeon being caught are becoming more common. What’s encouraging is that last fall a seven-inch sturgeon was caught. As every fisher knows, where there’s little ones there have to be big ones. Do we dare to hope? As tough as it might be, we who fish the streams leading into the Great Lakes might try doing so with our fingers crossed.

But this piece was supposed to be about the moon—the full moon to be accurate. If you missed the August 1 full moon, you will have a second opportunity this month; August 31 will be another full moon. We’ll experience the rare occasion of a blue moon, as the occasion of two full moons in the same calendar month is called. In fact, it’s so rare, it only happens once in a blue moon.

And if you’re into forward planning, the second moon in August is known as the Red Moon. So the blue moon is really the Red Moon. This is getting complicated, however, I have a full month to unravel the situation.

Stay tuned, film on the 31^st.

Earning His Wings

Juvenile Black-capped Chickadee

We've had a new visitor at our feeders of late; new in a number of ways. He blundered in one morning, took a quick look around, then disappeared. Susan and I were unsure if we really saw a juvenile bird quite that young, yet so mobile, at the feeder.

Evidently this young Black-capped Chickadee liked what he saw—food and water—what's not to like?

 Since I had a full plate of things to do yesterday, I decided to chuck them all in hopes that he'd return, and I guessed correctly. In fact, he's a regular visitor and in spite of his ragged appearance, none of the other avian crowd seems to be afraid of him. (I'm using the male gender here because you can't really tell with chickadees to begin with, and it's less cumbersome than writing him/her or some other ungodly pronoun.)

His first fearful approaches have become fearless frolics. While he used to hesitantly come along with an adult bird, he now seems comfortable, if somewhat bumbling, doing it on his own.

Kids.

Early Morning on the Deck

Landing gear down, eyes on the prize

It's that time of the year when they drift in like milkweed seeds rather than fly in like birds. Rattling wings offer a counterpoint to the cicadas and click beetles. Butterflies distract them. The smell of fresh coffee seems to have no appeal. They're still young, it's not their fault.

Young of the season, accompanied by parents and siblings, find their way to our water and feeder offerings. Feisty hummingbirds just getting some color in those ruby throats have learned how to protect a food source, though they don't know why. 

American Goldfinches in yellow, the livery-color of the summer, are all about nesting now that others have finished. And shorebirds, those long-distance migrants that travel thousands of miles between the Arctic and South America have started their annual southward trek.

It's the nadir of the bird watching season, some say.

Not so, says I. What's not to watch?

Black-capped (and nearly featherless) Chickadee

For Sally

Ride Sally, Ride.

Sing Loudly And Carry A Big Stick

House Wren: This could be the start of something big

Recently, Susan and I (or is that me?) were in Saratoga Springs visiting family. Our six-year-old granddaughter, Ruby, told us she put a wren house in place about two years ago and finally had some renters. Could I take a picture?

Does a chicken have lips?

Ruby and I spent about 30 minutes watching the antics of a male House Wren as he prepared a nest for his current mate. It was an educational event for me and the wren; I hope for Ruby, too. And since a picture is worth a zillion words, here's a novel in pictures, with occasional anthropomorphic comments.

Let's entitle  this epic: When the Goin' Gets Tough, the Tough Stick With It.

Hmmmm. Houston, we have a problem

Maybe, if I back off a bit and ...

When the only tool in the toolbox is a hammer, all problems look like nails

I know this is the stick that will make her mine. If I work my way to the end ...

Ah Ha!

 

How do you like that, kids?

Okay, back to work

Celebrate the Fourth to the Fullest

July's full moon, aka The Full Buck Moon

During a chat with birding buddy Karin this afternoon she asked the obligatory question, “So, how ya gonna celebrate the holiday? Going to any fireworks?”

For me, there’s no easy answer to that question when it involves a holiday where no gifts are exchanged, but it did make me think about how others will be celebrating.

In fact, sitting on the deck last night, watching the near-full moon rise (or the Earth turn—whatever) I thought about the noise and chaos that surrounds typical Fourth of July celebrations here in America. And how peaceful it would be to have a natural fireworks display. Tree branches occasionally obscured my view and clouds drifted between me and Luna, adding color and action to a scene that otherwise had little action or color.

So here’s how I plan to celebrate the 236^th birthday of America in hopes that our founding fathers and mothers did it this same way. (I’ll assume you begin the count at 1776 with the declaration and not 1787 with the signing of the Constitution. It’s complicated.) ((An aside: Using one of my astronomy programs I turned back time to the night sky of July 4, 1776 and learned that the full moon had been on July 1 that year, however, that does not change the theme of this story.)) I plan to watch the just-past full moon (July 3, 2012 is full moon night) and enjoy the erratic flashing display of golden color provided by fireflies. Maybe a shooting star if I'm lucky.

I guess I just prefer celebrating things in a quieter, more contemplative manner. Instant gratification doesn’t do it for me any longer.

A few clouds, a bit of air pollution and wow!

Look at that moon! July 2, 2012