July 31: Loon Call

Most mornings I hear a loon calling as it flies north over the house. The river out back is much too shallow and rocky here to accommodate a loon--they need a certain amount of open water to get up enough speed to take flight--so these early calls are from a loon in transit. Does the bird have a dawn fishing ritual in Camden Harbor? Wherever it goes each day, we're lucky enough to live in its flight path as it presumably returns to the lake.

It always gives me a little thrill to hear that tremolo as I go through my morning ablutions. Although we live in a dense neighborhood just a mile from downtown Camden, this flight song of the loon is our own call of the wild, hinting of remoter places. For just a few moments I look out at the craggy face of Mount Battie and imagine that I'm spending this golden summer at an old sporting camp in the North Woods wilderness, with a sunny deck overlooking a lake full of trout and loons that know how to properly greet the day.

Loon's dawn reveille.
Clean morning air promises
perfect summer day.

July 30: Loon Chick

This evening we spent time with my four-year-old niece, who is staying with my parents for the weekend. We had dinner al fresco in the back yard, and then Fiona and I decided to sit on the dock and watch the river. Water bugs skittered across the surface, and Fiona was excited to see a couple of small fish slip past us underwater. As my husband got his fly rod ready to do a little casting before sunset, we all noticed the loon family in the middle of the river: two adults with one fuzzy brown chick between them. They seemed to be teaching it how to fish. Fiona looked through binoculars at them, but I'm not sure she knows how to use them well enough to see the birds. My mother tried to explain to her how loon calls are different depending on where they are, that the place, not the bird, determines what they sound like. I think that too was beyond Fiona's interest and comprehension at this point, but we'll make a birder out of her yet!

Fish began jumping as sunset burnished the clouds. Fiona was impressed with Uncle Paul's dragonfly fly. She'd probably have been even more impressed if he'd caught something with it. Four ducks that I think were wood ducks flew past. A beaver slowly made its way upriver, as it does every evening, a silver vee trailing behind it. And the loons drifted upriver too, still fishing. My dad built a small fire in the fire pit, and we all stayed outside in the growing dark, past Fiona's bedtime.  

Loon chick with parents--
family night on the river.
I watch with my niece.

July 29: Restless

A restless breeze blows through the leaves this evening, washing away the remaining traces of today's heat and humidity. While the cooler air is refreshing, there's an edge to it that hints of fall, and I'm not ready for that yet. It's still July for two more days, and I want to continue to absorb as much summer sunlight and warmth as I can--a sort of solar recharge for the cooler months that I know are coming. So this wind makes me a little anxious and on edge, like being faced with an unwanted conflict. It cascades through the trees in a rising rush of sound, indistinguishable from the flowing river. On our after-dinner walk around the block, my hair whipped across my face and waving branches flung themselves in our path. The wind is just toying with us now, but already we can glimpse the faint gleam of its wintry teeth. This is the kind of night when I find myself awake at some odd, early hour unable to fall back asleep, just lying there trying to still my mind and block out the noise of the wind swirling through the yard, crashing against the house. Nights like this I can relate in some weird way to those pampered Victorian maidens who had a fear of "drafts."

As evening descends
wind rises like a flood tide
through shivering oaks.

July 28: Deer

I rode to work this morning with a co-worker, and as we pulled into the office parking lot, she exclaimed, "A deer!" A doe was dashing down the dam access road from our parking lot, tail flashing, though she was shielded in part by trees between us and the river. We could see enough of her to follow her progress until she went off the road and down an overgrown embankment. Then she disappeared. Even though we'd moved up to the office porch for a clearer view and would have seen her had she made her way into the woods on the other side of the office, she'd vanished completely. This was a large doe, too. She was probably right there in front of us, watching our every move with those predator-wary eyes. Amazing how a big wild animal like that can slip out of sight so quickly and without a sound.

I think this is the same doe that has visited the office in summers past, a couple of times with a very young, spotted fawn. I've taken photos of her standing right outside my office window. Another neighbor I'm always pleased to catch a glimpse of, however fleeting. It's partly that fleetness that's keeping her alive, after all.

Summer doe grazes
in ferny fields, in daylight,
yet always wary.

July 27: Crickets

My mother's nickname for me growing up was Cricket, so I think that just gave me a natural affinity for the insect, which I still enjoy observing in my yard. When I was a kid I made a little box out of toothpicks so I could keep a pet cricket like I had read that the Japanese do. I wasn't sure what to feed it, so I gave it little bits of bologna, which I'm pretty sure it didn't eat. I only kept it for a day and then freed the poor thing because it wouldn't make its cricket noises for me.

When they start "singing" loudly enough to really take notice, that's a sign that summer's reached its peak. This afternoon I was sitting at my desk, just sitting and thinking, and I suddenly really noticed the sound of crickets. There's supposed to be some formula you can use to figure out how warm it is from how rapid the cricket's chirps are, but all I know is that it's a hot afternoon and the individual chirps produced by the crickets' wings are coming fast, blending together to create a rising hum. We get used to hearing it in the background on days like this, but it really is a beautiful chorus of sorts when you take a moment to listen.

The hum of crickets
awakens me from daydreams.
Summer is passing.

July 26: Golden Glow

I confess, I love goldenrod. Just look at it! I love the golden glow it brings to the lush fields of high summer, that rich sunny color hinting of the maturity of the season. (And green and gold are such a vivid combination. No wonder so many sports teams use it, including my grad school alma mater, University of Oregon). 

I love how its appearance signals the arrival of my favorite time of year, late summer into fall, when above these burnished fields, birds will soon migrate south once more, the very air humming with their restless spirit. Goldenrod's height and hue make it seem as if Mother Nature put all her remaining flower power into firing up this late bloomer of the year. 

As with many flowers, goldenrod gets more intriguing the closer you look at its little starry florets. Its a complex plant, and there are actually dozens of species of goldenrod, guaranteeing hours of field study to figure them all out. 

Unfortunately for me, I'm quite allergic to goldenrod. I know they say that it's not really goldenrod people are allergic to, it's the ragweed that blooms at the same time. But no, I've been tested, I'm allergic to ragweed and goldenrod. Which is why today my voice is hoarse and I'm squinting at the screen because my contacts are a bit gummy. But none of that dims the joy I feel when I look out the window at those glowing golden sprays, offset perfectly by the reddening leaves of the dogwood and the Queen Anne's lace (see yesterday's post), with the river shining in the background.

Does anyone doubt

gold is the color of joy

in this rich season?

July 25: Queen Anne's Lace

This time of year roadsides and lawns are graced with tall stalks of Queen Anne's lace, a common wildflower that always speaks to me of high summer. As my husband and I went for a walk through the neighborhood before dinner tonight, the pale, filigreed faces followed us the whole way. It's not a flashy weed like the black-eyed Susan or tiger lily, but its delicate beauty always invites a closer look.

As a kid, I was always a bit wary of Queen Anne's lace because at the center of each cluster of white blossoms is one dark purple one that always made me look twice to be sure it wasn't a spider. I've never been fond of spiders. But now I'm kind of fascinated by this little quirk in a familiar flower. Legend has it that that spot represents a drop of Queen Anne's blood that fell after she pricked her finger while making lace. Stories aside, I wonder what its real purpose is in nature. Perhaps it serves as some sort of beacon to pollinating bees, who can see ultraviolet colors that are invisible to us--that frilly white face with the one dark spot might look completely different to a bee's eyes.

Queen Anne's lace is also known as wild carrot and it's what our garden carrot was cultivated from. If you let your carrots bloom, this relationship becomes apparent in the similarity of the flowers. Queen Anne's lace root is edible, like a carrot, but you want to be very sure you know you're eating the right plant, because it bears a striking similarity to poison hemlock. You'd only live to make that mistake once.

For such a dainty flower, this one is tougher than it looks. Its sturdy stem can be very difficult to pick, and may even irritate some people's skin. I personally prefer to enjoy "free range" Queen Anne's lace, each blossom a perfect little floral galaxy shining amid the universe of the summer fields.

Summer offering--
field of graceful, frothy lace,
delicate but strong.

July 24: "Mmm, doughnuts."

...to quote Homer Simpson.

Every weekend Farmers Fare in Rockport taunts me with Facebook reminders that Saturday is doughnut day, with fresh doughnuts from Tracey's Bakery in Northport arriving at 10 a.m. They post photos. Their description makes them sound almost healthy--made with organic sugar and flour, local eggs, and Cabot Creamery butter, fried in safflower oil. This rainy morning seemed like a doughnut-worthy day, so I succumbed to temptation. Luckily my husband was gracious enough to help me fulfill my craving by driving to Farmers Fare at 10:00 on the dot and getting me some.

This is what he brought back for me:

The big one on the left is obviously a glazed doughnut, and the smaller one is cream-filled. They were both exquisite. Enjoying them with my husband this morning reminded me of when I was a kid and my father used to bring home a box of Dunkin' Donuts' Munchkins every Sunday morning. (I loved the chocolate honey-dipped.) As an adult who tries to lead a healthy lifestyle, I don't eat doughnuts as a rule, but for ones like those pictured above, I make an exception. And it's always worth it. Now I just need to fight the urge to make this a regular Saturday morning ritual. I suppose I could always alternate Farmers Fare doughnuts with a sticky bun from Home Kitchen Cafe in Rockland... 

And soon enough, I'll be looking like Homer Simpson.

Rainy Saturday--

homemade doughnuts for breakfast

with husband and cat.

July 23: Bully

The song sparrow that visits my little window feeder at work has shown himself to be somewhat of a bully. He gets right in the feeder, kicks all the seed around, chows down for awhile, and if, say, a chickadee flutters nearby wanting to join the feeding fun, he won't let it perch. The chickadees and goldfinches, both slightly smaller birds, are forced to take their turns when the sparrow is busy singing at one of his special spots, which include the dogwood tree, the porch railing, and a post in the parking lot. Fortunately he sings often and all day.

I'm fond of this sparrow, despite his territorial behavior. He visits throughout the day, often pausing on the window sill to look in at me. He's a regular, a neighbor. Sometimes I'll even see him around with his mate, so maybe his hogging the feeder is just a hormonal phase while they're nesting. He really makes a mess, too, scattering seed bits and empty hulls all over the ground and hollowing trenches in the filled feeder. The daintier chickadees are probably counting the days till he migrates.

Sparrow's assertive,
a feeder bully, seed hog.
And yet, when he sings...

July 22: Background Noise

Thunder rocked and rolled through the neighborhood last night for much longer than I had expected--a true summer thunderstorm, with the fireworks of frequent lightning flashes, as well. Even our old, semi-deaf cat, who has never been weather sensitive, seemed startled by some particularly loud thunderclaps. It sounded as if an ogre were up on Mount Battie bowling a few of those big glacial erratics over the talus slope. It went on so long that I almost grew used to the rumbling as I read into the evening.

Tonight we've got background noise of a different sort, as the guy who lives across the river mows his lawn past dark. I just finished mowing my own lawn about an hour ago, having been thwarted at the task yesterday by the rainstorm, so I don't hold it against him. I've never gotten a good look at exactly what kind of lawn is over there, but it must be big, because he mows often and for a long time, and on a riding mower. So the drone of a lawn mower is a near constant during the warmer months. Before dusk fell in earnest, the mower's whine was complemented by the sharp whistles of our neighborhood cardinal, who decided to end his day with some fanfare.

Even with the mower going, I can still hear the trickle and flow of the river on its meandering way into the harbor. That's a constant. As is the undercurrent of cricket song, that gentle thrum in the soft July air. And just now, the querulous honking of a lone goose heading upriver to join its family on the lake.

Last evening, thunder.
Tonight, crickets' hum outlasts
the lawnmower's drone.

July 21: Characters

My alma mater Middlebury College posted a video today called Postcard from the Chinese School. In this short clip, various students at Middlebury's Chinese School respond to the question, "What is your favorite Chinese character?" (They reply in Chinese, of course, since all summer language students sign a "no English" agreement while they're there.) One young woman responded that she liked a particular character for the word "rice," "because when you write it, it's beautiful, like stars or fireworks."

I appreciated her aesthetic approach to her answer and, seeing the character, understand its appeal. It got me thinking about how we write our letters and which ones are my favorite. Back in second grade when we were learning cursive writing, I liked the capital Q best, because of its graceful curves and curls, like a big 2, a slender swan, or a curling wave rolling across the lines of the paper.

Also, that letter seemed the most unlike its non-cursive counterpart, thus perpetuating my belief that learning this new form of hand-writing was a bit like learning a secret code. (This was around the same time I began reading the Nancy Drew mystery series.) Also, Q in general is an unusual letter--a one-tile, 10-pointer in Scrabble--and it's part of my last name, Lindquist. I've always enjoyed having an odd letter in my name. 

Of course we don't write in cursive anymore, so I never get to practice my flowing Q. It's probably just as well, because even my ordinary hand-writing has devolved over the years to near illegibility. But it fascinates me to think of the letters we write as characters like the Chinese symbol above, as little pictures--like the open mouth of O or the sinuous snake of S. 

My friend Brian Willson, who designs fonts based on old handwriting, must think about this as he meticulously designs and creates a new font. He's not just drawing lines, he's creating a little piece of art for each letter. And I bet he has a favorite letter in each of his fonts, like the funky capital G in Texas Hero that looks like it would be fun to write but also looks a bit like a little sailboat heeled over in a strong wind or a long-petalled flower.

A was aleph was

once the shape of an ox head.

It still bears its horns.