On a Dreary and Rainy Day

I prayed for rain for weeks and weeks. Even though it’s the middle of May, grasses looked dormant and yellow, no matter how much fertilizer we applied.

Finally, one day after Mother’s Day, the grey and cloudy skies finally opened, and a deluge filled the dry swamps, the drainage ditches, and the huge pond nearby. It rained all night and it’s still raining hard. Flooding has overwhelmed ditches and capturing ponds.

It has been raining non-stop for hours today. The bull frogs in the pond were croaking happily last night in a choral unison of “rum, rum, rum.”

Everything looks green, colors look more intense, and the birds are chirping harmoniously from all directions in the forest. The bird nesting under our deck is hiding at the moment but the resident fox came by to snatch the bones I left for her last night. A blue heron landed briefly by the pond but flew away.

On days like today, nature comes alive, but humans disappear. The only vehicle that drove by was the garbage pickup truck.

I am pensive, waxing philosophically about our place on earth at this late stage in our lives. It seems that time flew by, our children now have grey hairs, homes of their own, some have children. We are happy and blessed with our children and grandchildren, but I still don’t understand why we are here, what is the purpose of life, of our lives? Why are we here?

I miss the years of my youth, I miss my people, some of my relatives, the few friends I have, and the place where I was born, a place where I no longer belong and barely recognize.

My closest and dearest relatives have passed away, my parents are gone, and all of my friends have moved on. There are very few people left who are barely in our lives.

I have two second cousins who live in the U.S. but none have made any contact so they might as well live on another planet. Everyone is on Facebook, so impersonal and sad, liking each other’s posts, or getting angry at total strangers, who insult them. The world is smaller but a sad place, thanks to technology.

I am staring out the window, watching the rain and the flooding in my back yard that is greening everything. There is a sort of peace in being inside and dry, watching the animals and birds playing in the rain and foraging for food. It’s a life they enjoy in these moments, not wondering about their existence.

It's a dreary and rainy day but nature is green and alive.

Encounter with Progressives on April 3, 2021

Yesterday, in 45F weather, (we always get a cold spell the week before Easter), we were in Colonial Williamsburg for the purpose of taking pictures of blooming tulips, daffodils, cherry trees, lambs, and other simple and beautiful corners of nature waking up from its winter slumber. Hubby was kind enough to drive us a few hours coming and going through heavy traffic. People are tired of masks and lockdowns and seem to be going places in larger numbers.

Among the azaleas, cherry blossoms, shuttered stores, and larger crowds than we have seen before, two older, Caucasian women in the market square caught my eye.  They were manning a BLM booth, offering free lemonade above a large Black Lives Matter poster, and the simple words, “Can We Talk?” The implication was that they wanted to have a conversation about BLM and race, further causing division among Americans to promote the progressive Marxist agenda of “the white race and patriotism are bad, black and anti-Americanism are good.”

It raised my ire immediately; they were William & Mary college professors trying to indoctrinate visitors into their racist and Marxist hatred. I asked one of them what she wanted to talk about? ALL lives matter, in my opinion, not just black ones.

One of the ladies, no doubt a tenured professor, asked, “Are all cancers equal?” My immediate reply was, “cancer is a life-threatening disease and it’s a horrible analogy to make.” I continued with my own question, “How do you feel about the killing of black babies in the abortionist Planned Parenthood?” Silence and a smirk of superiority from the two college professors.

“I won’t listen to you because you are irrational liberals promoting Marxism, racism, and hatred.” One said, “I’m not calling YOU irrational.” “That’s because I am not a nutjob, I am a rational person, fighting communism, racism, division, and genocide promoted by academic ‘progressives’ like you.”

My husband, who was already crossing the street and did not stop at the booth, overheard only my calling them “irrational.” He said, which is true, “when you call people names, you’ve lost the argument.”

It seems to me that, at this point, I have lost more than the argument, I have lost my country to Marxists who used fascistic methods to gain control. We are way past debates as Marxists are not using rational dialogue to make their points. It is a “my way or the highway” takeover, with Marxists in full power of government.

Marxists like these professors are not rational, do not make cogent arguments, they use indoctrination to push their agenda and therefore cannot win something they never had, i.e., rational thoughts.

Within a few steps, still stewing from my encounter with the radical leftists, I saw a man with a Colonial Williamsburg cap on who was replenishing the hand-sanitizer station.

I asked him why so many businesses have closed or are moving away from the Colonial Williamsburg property. His answer was, “The Democrats have decided to lockdown small businesses and the American people, and to keep them masked and six feet apart like sheep. That is why. And greed. When things opened a bit and people started visiting again, small businesses were levied higher rent and an additional larger percent of their profits which were small or non-existent at that point.”

My wise best friend and daughter Mims replied to my commentary with the following:

“Well, you knew you weren’t going to get anywhere with them. What you should’ve done was tell them where you came from and what you have experienced and ask them if they had any idea what they were promoting? Meaning, asking them to define what it is they think it is so glorious about communism and socialism. I agree that calling them names no longer validates an argument. But I completely understand why you would call them that.

Furthermore, I probably would not have said all lives matter, but I would have asked them why only certain black lives matter. This would have been cited to ask what you mean and then you could have interjected the constant abortions performed in the black community. I would have stood there calm as a cucumber and asked them to define what it is that they were promoting. I would have made them squirm.”

While I agree with Mims assessment, the painful reality is that scams, fraudulent and deceptive ideas, and philosophies, are easy to promote and pass for three important reasons:

1.    Masses are easier to deceive than convincing them that they have been deceived.

2.    People seem hungrier for hope, any hope, even when it is a patently false hope.

3.    Most people are not looking for the truth; it is too hard to search for the truth because people are basically indolent. Humans want constant reassurance that what they believe is the Truth, even when the truth is disinformation, indoctrination, or a lie.

A Good Morning for a Prayer for our President

Our resident squirrel

I am sitting on the deck - it’s a glorious morning, 65 F and a bearable 82 percent humidity with a pleasant breeze.

There are birds chirping in the dense foliage, a woodpecker breaking the forest sounds humming with life, hammering industriously like a machine gun in the tallest tree nearby.

The resident squirrel is foraging for nuts running up and down the same tree silently.  No agitated cries this morning, her enemies are not close by.

The fox gave up digging up my flower beds for more turtle eggs, she finally realized that she ate them all during the first two excavations.

A few daring birds are splashing in the bird bath. I filled the water earlier and they dive in with gusto.

It’s a magnificent Sunday morning, time to pray for our President and his family in nature’s cathedral, surrounded by lush vegetation and birds.

A Rainy Winter Day

Photo: Ileana Johnson 2019

It’s been raining for three days, the kind of soaking rain that turns low areas into veritable marshes. Small creeks of muddy water are running down slopes, cutting deep ruts into the hills. Tree roots are beginning to stick out of the river banks, dripping chunks of mud into the river. Fast rivulets are draining from under a deep carpet of dead leaves concealing tree veins as thick as my arm.

It is a cold and dreary day of 43 degrees F, and the steady rain cloaks the thick woods into a curtain of fog-like mist which elongates the bare branches of the tallest trees. One solitaire evergreen adds a spot of dark green to the tall and orange grasses covering the ground of the forest.

The birds, normally darting about and chirping happily are nowhere to be seen, save for the occasional red cardinal or a blue jay. High up on a tree I spot two eagles resting in the haze. Even the deer, foxes, and squirrels are taking shelter. The woods seem deserted of life.

Photo: Ileana Johnson 2019

 

Nature, even in its dormant and rain-soaked state, surrounds me with a beautiful calm and peace. I walk carefully to the pier that stretches far enough into the Potomac that part of it actually belongs to the state of Virginia and the rest belongs to the state of Maryland.  The division of territory is so strange.

My boots sink in murky ground until I reach the wooden walkway to the pier. The sandy beach is saturated with water and covered in dead leaves and branches carried by the rain. The brown water is overflowing its banks and I can see the furious current in the middle bubbling like a boiling cauldron. Should anybody fall into this river right now, it will be unlikely that they would survive the powerful water run.

The river is obscured by a blanket of grey; the sky and the water are an indistinguishable dreary mist from far away. Tall grasses and the occasional evergreen mark God’s perfect painting with natural colors, light orange and dark green.

This time last year the river was crystal clear and blue, frozen solid for a few days, then melted into thick chunks and sheets of ice slowly pushed away from the middle towards the shore by a slower current. If the frigid bluish orange sun hit the ice just right, it sparkled like a chest full of precious diamonds.

The ice had been so thick, blue herons and a few daring fishermen were bold enough to walk on it far away from the shore looking for a break in the ice to fish. In thinner ice spots closer to the banks, the current was moving underneath with determination, trying to crack the ice. The crunching sound underfoot left prints in the frozen ground and crushed the water snails strewn across the sand.

My rubber boots are leaving mud tracks on the wet pavement. A few daring sea gulls flock boldly on the wet asphalt close to me and around the marina where boats normally dock, unafraid of my presence. I take in the crisp and humid air and photograph the forest through raindrops on my camera lens.

Cicadas Emergence 2013

A week ago, walking through the woods, I saw thousands of bore holes in the ground. Occasionally, the hard shells of bugs, stinky exoskeletons I had not seen before, were hanging from the trunks of nearby trees. I did not give it much thought but I was intrigued. What could it be?

I got my answer two days ago when I woke up to the deafening sound of a business fire alarm amplified to annoying levels, coming from the dense woods. Was someone walking and playing the soundtrack of a scary sci-fi movie? It was the chorus of male cicadas, invading the surrounding habitat and looking for mates.

Cicadas are in a hurry because they only live 4-6 weeks. They’ve been living underground attached to the roots of trees for the last 17 years, sucking on root sap, feeling any changes in the tree’s nutrients and hormones, waiting for the right moment to crawl out of the ground when soil reaches 65 degrees Fahrenheit.

To attract females as far away as a mile, males vibrate white plates called tymbals on either side of their abdomen. The constant chirping sound coming from the forest resonates to deafening levels, measuring as high as 92 decibels.

Every seventeen years this harmless insect emerges in North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York. Cicada nymphs, dormant in the ground underneath miles of new pavement and construction that took place since 1996, are certainly out of luck.

Michael Raupp, Professor of Entomology at the University of Maryland, counted 6 cicadas bore holes per square foot in North Carolina, estimating a population of 150 million per square mile, roughly exceeding twice the human population on the East Coast.

These nymphs were hatched in 1996, long before we were able to share their pictures on social websites. They shed their exoskeletons after crawling from the ground and spend about three weeks as adults with red eyes, mating and laying eggs in tree branches. The newly hatched brood, expected to number 30 billion, will burrow into the ground for 17 years of adolescence, until 2030 to be exact. 

The winged insects can fly - several who were in my garage took off when I touched them. Scientists say that males can reproduce with as many females as possible but the females only mate once. Their sustenance during the 4-6 week period is the sap of trees. After their life cycle ends, corpses litter the ground, to the delight of the food chain.

Entomologists study the variables and boundaries of cicada emergence from the ground. Cicadas can be a protein-rich meal. I leave it up to Isa Betancourt, entomologist at Drexel University, who called the bugs “the shrimp of the land,” to enjoy this bizarre delicacy. I am not at all surprised that the University of Maryland established a group called “Cicadamaniacs” who has cobbled a cookbook with American sounding recipes incorporating cicadas as the main ingredient.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A January Day

The forest is wet and misty. A dense fog hangs on top of the river like a fluffy blanket. I hear twigs snapping in the distance. A couple of white tail deer are eyeing us with curiosity. In a few days the forest rangers are going to cull the herd. There is not enough acreage to support all the wildlife. My hubby is walking ahead leaning on his Gandalf stick, his silhouette disappearing in the mist. The drizzly rain shapes diamond droplets in my dark hair like a nature’s tiara.

My breathing is labored. I have not been out of the house in two weeks - the flu really sapped my energy. The hard to discern trail winds gently downhill all the way to the railroad bridge that crosses the river. The return will be much harder, going uphill. I watch my steps carefully - the twisted tree roots bulge out of the ground but are hidden underneath a thick cover of dead leaves.

The water level is low - rain has been very scarce this winter. We can see the sandy beach with fantastic shapes of driftwood, empty shells, and dried algae. In summertime I would not dare venture on the beach – there are too many snakes for comfort and the cotton mouth is everywhere. I step on the fine yellow sand and take my shoes off. It is soft and velvety but cold. The water looks like it’s covered by fine webs.

A tree's snarled roots are hanging half in the air and half solidly dug into the soil. The power of water has ravaged the shore and bit a large chunk of earth from the bank where the tree had grown. The roots are covered with barnacle-like fungi. Two trunk knots look like peering eyes. I expect Hobbits to jump out of the fog.

We cross three bridges overgrown with moss before my lungs tire - we must return. I hear the distant whistle of the freight train approaching the bridge. Underneath, a lone fisherman in a grey jacket blends with the background as he stands still holding the rod. He seems to disappear in the fog. I am not sure what he is fishing for - the river is infested with snake heads some weighing as much as 18 pounds. Who knows who dumped this invasive species into the Potomac River but he did a great disservice to the native wildlife and fish.

On the way back, the climbing trail is more difficult. A primitive bench carved from the trunk of a fallen tree offers a few minutes of rest. The silence is comforting. I hear in the distance the cry of an owl and the chatter of small birds. A few squirrels dart from trees to the ground in search of acorns.

 

Morning Walk

The July morning is gloomy. A drizzling rain does not deter me from going for a walk in the woods. A cool 66 degrees is a welcome respite from the 100 degree temperatures of a few days ago. It had been so hot, the asphalt on the tarmac at Reagan National Airport in D.C. had melted underneath a plane.

It must have rained really hard last night - all creatures are still taking shelter. A downpour cleared the path of dead leaves – tree roots are clearly visible through the forest floor like pumped veins full of chlorophyll, the blood of the woods.

I am disappointed that I do not run into any deer with their lovely fawn, or the red fox staring me in the face intently and defiantly, the occasional rabbit crossing my path, or squirrels darting to and fro.

The rain intensifies but the thick canopy sifts the large raindrops into a mist that cools my skin. The silence is soothing and comforting. I forget about the world in turmoil outside of the dense forest.

The path winds up and down along downed trees from the recent straight line winds. Sixty foot giant pines will be slowly devoured by parasites and rot, turning them into soil-enriching dust. I reach the Snake Bridge. I baptized the walking bridge after the snake I encountered one late afternoon - he was resting in a coiled position after a satisfying meal bulging from his belly. The water underneath is higher, teeming with small fish and frogs. I do not see any snakes, they must be hiding too.

Steep stairs guide me to the road. I walk alongside the road until I reach the river. The water level is high against the banks. A lone fisherman is casting from his boat, stopped in the middle of the Potomac. A light fog envelopes the banks on both sides. A father and daughter team are fishing underneath the railroad bridge. The fish are really biting. I wonder if they are catching catfish or snakeheads, an invasive species from Asia. Someone had dumped their aquarium pets into the river and they are multiplying like crazy. A man caught an 18-pound snakehead in the Potomac near historic Occoquan. Fishermen catch them for rewards; others eat them as a delicacy. Snakeheads certainly do not look appetizing to me. It is amazing that they can breathe out of water and actually crawl on the ground.

Walking along the river’s edge, water is lapping against driftwood and rocks, very close to my path. As I reach the forest on the other side, I hear the whistle of a slow-moving freight train, barreling towards the bridge. I am wet now; there are no trees to protect me for a short distance. As I enter the woods again, I cross three more walking bridges. The water is lapping underneath my feet, making the wooden planks quite slippery. A few ducks are out on the river’s edge, catching a morning snack.

I turn around and backtrack into the main forest, careful to watch my footing. The ground is soaking wet and treacherous at best. The smell of rain, wet soil, and rotting vegetation is intoxicating. The drizzling rain looks like a sheer curtain draping the tall trees in the finest silk. My shirt and hair are soaked. Tiny beads of rain trickle down my face, cooling my neck and chest. I take a few photographs – nature is alive with shades of luminous greens, yellows, and chocolaty browns. A few white and yellow flowers in the middle of the marsh look like lost hibiscus. The lotus leaves are a luscious shade of green.