July 18

Late June’s deep greens are slowly giving way to a maturity that brings fading to more yellow hues. There is still green enough, to be sure, but it is unmistakable that the pace of production can only be sustained so long.

With maturity comes the first hints at decline, and the leaves of oaks, maples, ash and willow all show signs of fading color. The vibrant green of June now shows patches of wilt or yellow.

Yellow and orange will explode of course, when autumnal change takes hold and the trigger moments of cooler temperatures and fading light arrive. Now, the yellows are a normal succession, and indication of fatigue where the frenzied pace of production must wane.

There are other yellows to be found, which will become more abundant these next few weeks and herald the ending of summer. The golden rods are beginning to bloom, only here and there just now, but surely more tomorrow.

These pennants of late summer fill the fields and roadsides well into autumn, and will juxtapose with the New England asters to display our fall yellow and purple.

There is a small clone blooming today in the meadow on the circle of Village Drive near Highland Street. I noticed it standing amid an array of Timothy Grass, wild carrot, waning red clover, and daisy fleabane. On the whole it had a decidedly summer look – a meadow untouched, save for the hopping crickets, buzzing dragonflies and my passage within.

Still, the presence of the Golden Rod bloom was a reminder, that one season is giving way, slowly to be eclipsed by another. We tend to characterize summer followed by autumn, as if discretely to occur. Look closely; the change is already taking place. With passing days, the autumn that will be is taking hold of the summer that was.

July 17

The garden has been pathetic this year, and I fear the heat and drought have taken its toll. July can be cruel this way, particularly since we vacationed away at the cottage earlier, when the July heat beat down on the garden, left to fend for itself.

May saw enthusiasm with transplanting of seedlings, the promise of maturity seemingly likely. June’s rains tempered the growth, but it provided moisture enough to facilitate the warmth that we knew would come.

Come it did, and full force no less. The garden I left at the start of July has been replaced by wilting plants, with little to show, replete with the thriving purslane and chickweed among the stalks.

Now we cultivate and water, hopeful for progress. The tomatoes still have flowers; the cucumbers will recover, as with the squash. Only the peppers seem unperturbed, though well behind where they should be.

Notes:

First Goldenrod in Bloom at Highland Meadow

July 16

Warm evenings have intensified the mosquito hatch, brought from rains of a couple of weeks ago which filled the low areas enough to favor the larvae. The ecologist will argue the importance of this insect in the scheme of the food web, perhaps going so far as to postulate a possible keystone role; I am of two minds on this. The naturalist in me retreats in this discussion, and the selfish resident takes over. In short, I would eradicate mosquitoes for a week, were it in my power.

Fortunately, our evening denizens are at work. Just after supper, the dragon flies take to the yard by the dozens, flying in curious “Z” like patterns with repeats, at a height of ten feet or so. They remain for an hour or two, till the twilight descends, giving way to our more secretive crew.

We have several bats that live in the attic vents, easily visible in the daylight as brown balls of fur wedged tightly within. On the whole, they are quiet during the day, apart from a chittering sound when disturbed. At dusk, they emerge to hunt, and we enjoy watching them flap about, locating insects with sound and performing their acrobatic maneuvers to adjust their flight.

Just now the oaks are dropping leaves, sparsely so, to accommodate the loss of water transpired by the high heat. We find some on the ground with small, unfulfilled acorns, and this is particularly so if a wind storm has brought down any small branches with leaves. These acorns are our natural projectiles for playing with the bats.

We collect the acorns and wait until the bats fly overhead, then toss up a single nut high into the air. It is truly amazing to watch the passing bat abruptly change course, dive toward the falling acorn, perceiving it to be an insect. All this occurs in the stillness of the twilight, apart from the gentle flapping of its wings and the nearly silent clicks and squeaks of its radar.

Notes:

White meadowsweet in full bloom

July 15

A July heat wave began today, with temperatures in the low 90s and the humidity on the rise. The tractor was out early, well before dawn, and it’s a wonder how they survive the long day in the fields, where the demands of cultivating and harvest are now in full measure. We’ll see Fred still out working well after sundown, where after I imagine he simply collapses into bed. These days are the demanding stretch, which will intensify when the corn is ready for picking. This should be any day now.

We have a large patch of Coreopsis in the knot garden, in full bloom and exposed nearly all day to the sun’s intensity. It seems to thrive in this heat, and there is something about it which reminds me of a folklore remedy the southerners used years ago to counter the summer swelter.

Old homes in the deep south had shallow niches just outside (and often around) the window sills, where the residents would take Spanish Moss from the trees and line the niches. The moss would absorb humidity from the passing air, providing a measure of relief, in the days well before air conditioning was invented.

Our coreopsis reminds me of this; its interior is akin to a dark forest, and the temperature within is some ten to fifteen degrees cooler and less humid on even the most blistering of days.

We don’t line the windows with coreopsis, nor do we have a natural (or electronic) means of air conditioning. It’s hot now, and we make due with fans at night, resigned to lying atop our sheets, thinking about the coolness that autumn will bring.

Notes:

Joe-pye weed in bloom along bend toward Hill Road from Whittenmore Street)

July 14

In the wet areas, whether along the roadside or near a pond, look now for teasel heads. They are a finicky thing and prefer fairly wet and yet sunny locations, which is why they frequent the in-between ditch of some divided highways in the state or the accompaniment of cattail and reed grass at shore’s edge of the lesser ponds.

Teasels must be close cousin to the thistles, for they too are beginning to bloom in the fields and waste lots.

Often, the easiest method of locating teasels is to simply seek out the sere heads from last year, dark brown with the distinct teasel leaves and prickly comb. When driving on potential roadways for teasels and thistles, it is the sere cluster from last year that advertises the spot. This year’s growth is light green, with small purple flowers that grow in a curious ring in the teasel head, lifting ever upward toward the tip with each passing day.

I’m told the sere heads were used as wool combs long ago, and I believe it. They are prickly things.

July 13

Midsummer perfumes are almost overwhelming just now. In winter, the senses long for some semblance of life and renewal, when the forceful wind carries virtually no scents. Spring’s awakening spoke of Earthly promise, of moist humus and rain-covered roads, turned fields that would one day deliver provender enough.

Now we are awash in the scents of maturity, content that the promise of spring has been fulfilled, delivering us from the isolations of our winter hibernation. Here is a sample:

Milkweed continues in full bloom, and when combined with the clover and hay grass creates a unique sweetness.

The dark forests wasp balsam and fir, which mix with the cover greens of ferns that thrive in the shady coolness.

The farmer’s market displays blueberries, raspberries, and peaches, each worth their appearance in taste and smell.

The warm water wind picks up the scent of rush grass and cattail, shoreline beach where small periwinkle shells create a thick line just a few feet on shore as the waves break.

Somewhere distant a cookout is happening; the smell of something on the grill floats by, and our mouths water thinking of a summer barbeque, complete with watermelon and lemonade.

July 12

In Michigan

There are trails here that wind from one cottage to the next, sometimes down to the shore. The woodland paths have been trod for generations, traversing small brooks that outlet from the lake and navigating over tree roots and mossy stretches, where the coolness of the canopy affords a pleasant walk when the summer warmth has set in.

These are the trails of my childhood, where freedom and exploration began out the doorstep, as I sought out my friends down the shore to share in my summer adventures.

There were secret paths that we created, made by forays into some hidden fort within the trees or to access the beach, shell strewn and in the company of emergent frogs.

Many of these paths have vanished with the years, and even some of the main trails have gone fallow with the passing of generations. It seems that children explore less outdoors, and the highways of my own use are returning to the wild slowly, most only a memory now.

July 11

In Michigan

Perhaps there is Karma.

It must be a mast year for cicadas (I think the 17 year emergent is indeed this year, though the apocryphal predictions of cicadas blanketing everywhere simply hasn’t happened). Still, there do seem to be more adults just now, and the trees have what appear to be greater numbers of molt casings upon them. We have yet to have the chorus calls that hallmark their full maturity, and I am thankful at this point; cicada calls mean the ending of summer and the coming of the fall. As it is, this season has gone too quickly, and there is still much to savor. We do hear sparse calls in the afternoons now, furtive still as if testing their ability.

I went out on the lake in a kayak this evening, making my way slowly to the middle a mile or so out then back, simply to enjoy the calm of the water and to watch the water striders dance on the surface.

I was distracted more by the cicadas that were floating upside down on their wings, still alive through given to exhaustion. There were two dozen or so on my paddle out and back, and I felt compelled to stop, lower the paddle underneath the insect at each instance, so that it could right itself, and lift it to the rear of the boat. There it would shake its wings vigorously for a moment before sitting still in a perch on the side.

By the time I returned to shore, I had over a dozen still sitting on the back. Some had taken flight during the return trip, making a buzzing sound while lifting off and heading out overhead toward the shore.

July 10

In Michigan

White clover is blooming in the roadsides, as are thistles. The white clover resembles tiny loosestrife, and the leaves smell vaguely like vanilla when crushed.

The second cut of hay was made yesterday at the farm and now sits in rows in the field drying in the summer sunshine until the baler can be put to service. Midsummer sees round bales nearly everywhere these days, but we worked the fields thirty years ago with square bales (which were rectangular really). In the sunshine we’d ride on the unsteady flatbed, pulled behind the Oliver tractor, two of us with hay picks in hand to catch and position the bales thrown up to us from below. When the tiers became too high, an elevator was hitched to the flatbed, lifting the bales up six to seven tiers and dropping them over for placement.

This second cut seems early, but perhaps the rainy June has hastened its growth. There is clover and vetch cut within, and the cows enjoy the additive all the more.

Notes:

Wild Bergamot and Bee balm in bloom

July 9

In Michigan

A warm and gentle rain fell today, a truly summer rain without the windborne front or violent storm. With a slicker and mud boots, it was perfectly pleasant to walk the two-track road and admire the effects of water everywhere.

The rain must have begun overnight, for the puddles in the low spots of gravel in the road were already full this morning, making the depressions look like miniature brown colored kettle ponds seen from high overhead; the sparse grassy ridge of the two track was the imaginary forest that divides them.

The surrounding trees were bent lower to the road, burdened by the moisture, and in several places the effect was a canopy where the boughs of one tree on one side met those from the other. Every leaf and needle had miniature droplets, and when any breeze stirred they collected and fell through the boughs making a sound like a rain chime.

Where the road departs from the cottage fronts, it makes a bend upon itself in a place where the canopy opens, permitting more sunlight. Here, just at the ditch edge where the gravel meets the mixture of wild grasses, heal all, Queen Anne’s Lace, and creeping dogsbane, I noticed plump red raspberries within. They are full this year on account of all the moisture, and I stopped to sample several, picking them off the rain-soaked bushes and putting them in my mouth one-by-one. This very spot I’ve known and enjoyed berries for over forty years, and I recall walking to this bend as a child in summer with pale white bucket in hand to pull berries and place within for eating.

Notes:

Purple Coneflower in Bloom.

July 8

 In Michigan

Another harbinger of things to come, a singular cicada called tentatively this afternoon from somewhere high up in the tall white pines that border the lake.

Earlier, I waded out into the water to cool off from the summer heat, and while walking out through the sandy bottom, waves gently lapping at my waist, I happened upon a young cicada which was struggling upside down on the surface. It was trying desperately to right its wings in order to dry them and escape.

I reached down and cupped both hands underneath, gently lifting upward so that the insect rested gently in my palm, allowing itself to go upright and crawl slowly onto my pinky finger with its wings properly folded backward on its body.

As I walked slowly back to the dock, the cicada rapidly beat its wings, not to fly or call out, but I suspected only to hasten their drying. It was only when I tried to coax it off my finger onto the dock post that it began to protest, making the distinctive rasping noise somewhere within its diminutive body. It was like having the clarion call of late summer in the palm of my hand.

Notes:

Yellow Goat’s Beard in seed

Swamp Milkweed in Bloom

Cattail in Bloom

July 7

In Michigan

Midsummer is well underway, yet there are signs that this season has  begun to wane.

The roadsides here are fairly uniform with a mixture of native grasses, now gone to seed head and occasionally releasing clouds of pollen when disturbed. Dotting the roads and fields are the Ox-eye Daisies, and small Campions, Wild Carrot, Yarrow and Milkweed now in full bloom. Some portions smell summer fragrant, with the mixture of milkweed and sweet grass hay.

Growing quickly within, however, and nearly knee high are the Golden Rods. They are fairly nondescript at this point, with no evidence of the yellow plumes that mark late summer and early fall, but nonetheless they slowly progress toward maturity. Their coming is a signal of summer’s own twilight.

Notes:

Creeping Dogbane in Bloom

July 6

In Michigan

Today was the perfect summer sky, from sunrise to sunset, the color and clarity of which we only imagine when the steel gray winter skies take hold.

The sun rose at 6:20 am, which is notably later than our Paxton time. It is diorienting to be in the western edge of this eastern time zone, and particularly so far north in latitude (Michigan is roughly 46 degrees north at our cottage, while Paxton is 42.5 degrees). The net effect is a later rising of the sun but a notably later setting.

The sun crested just above the sweet grass field that predominates the old MacArthur farm here, a slightly hazy red glow, made so by the humidity of the dew emanating from the fields. We stood to watch its rise and caught a glimpse of two sandhill cranes silently making passage within the grass, stopping only once to squawk a warning cry at our presence.

Throughout the day, as the sun arched across, the sky became a deeper blue and uniformly so, with no clouds at all to mar the range from horizon to horizon. As I write this, the sun is closing within a few degrees of setting, and the sky has taken on a yellow and orange halo near its point of exit. It is nearly 9:00 pm, and the twilight will linger for almost an hour past, gently fading and giving way to the summer stars – Arcturus first over head and then Venus above the western horizon, still rising to its apex hence.

It will be crystal clear this evening, and the stargazing should be sublime.

July 5

In Michigan

In the stillness of the oncoming dark, after the wind has calmed, and we sat enjoying a few quiet moments before turning in, two loons began calling to one another in their mournful way. They must have been fairly far apart on the lake, for the first call came from off near the eastern shore, closer to where we sat than did the answering cry, which came a half a minute or so from the opposite direction and more distant.

Their daylight call is the trilling familiar laughter, and we see them occasionally out on the lake, usually alone and away from shore. They will dive and swim if encroached upon, and it is remarkable the distance they can travel underwater, head reemerging on the surface hundreds of feet away.

July 4

In Michigan

At noon we gathered at the Mercke House that sits high on the bluff, where the open front porch and yard overlook the expanse of the lake. Generations of families assembled loosely outside, young and old reacquainting with friends and reminiscing of days and years past.

The sunshine glistened on the lake, and from this height it was easy to spot the shifting winds, patterns of darkened water which moved across the surface along with shaded areas of cloud cover that made a patchwork of light and dark.

We are celebrating here, as we have done for over forty years; family and friends present and many only in memory, sharing our lives and our commitment to this place and this time, yet paying our deepest respect to the liberties that we enjoy.

Shortly, Nat reads a portion of the Declaration, and the faces of the crowd register a mixture; the adults are somewhat reverent, while the children fidget and giggle at the reading, some resorting to playing tag or spying upon one another.

I have witnessed this same scene for over forty years, and my own giggles of long ago have been replaced with a profound sense of appreciation. As Nat reads, it is easy to become distracted from the words, and I scan the faces of people I have known my entire life – friends who have grown older with the years, and children who are yet the next generation. The reverence I feel at this moment is enhanced by an overwhelming sense of belonging, to these people, to this place, and to these rituals.

July 3

Queen Anne’s Lace is starting to go to flower, with its broad nest-like cluster of miniature white atop a singular stalk. Seeing this invariably reminds me of my mother describing to me its namesake. As a child, I believe Queen Anne’s Lace was the first wildflower to which I became familiar, no doubt on account of the story.

The common version is that the queen was embroidering lace when she accidentally pricked herself, drawing a single drop of blood. This is represented as the small cluster of deep red petals in the center of the field of white. Look closely over the next month, for the red develops as the white unfolds.

St. John’s Wort is also proliferating now. There’s a nice grouping in the undeveloped fields at the top of Highland Street, and I’ve also seen it growing along the roadside at the lower end of Grove, just before it meets Pond Street.

St. John’s has tight clusters of yellow flowers, sitting on stalks that have small leaflets coming out from each axial node, giving the green an almost feathery look. The petals are a brilliant yellow, nearly an inch across, with dozens of stamens protruding from the center point.

Its distinguishing feature almost requires a strong lens or loupe. I use a 30x loupe, which is easy to carry and hold just above the petals. On the outer petal edge is a remarkable line of small black dots, nearly invisible to the naked eye (and surely indistinguishable to the middle-aged eye), and they remind me of the small blue eyes of the scallop, which are visible in the margins between its shell halves.

July 2

Rabbit’s Foot Clover is growing in the roadside ditch of Route 56 at the crest point where the airport runway is visible off to the east.

I also spotted at this same location the first Monarch Butterfly of the season, with wings spread wide in the morning sunshine, seated atop a tall grass head. The timing seems about right, as the milkweed has matured to flower and is now perfuming the air with its sweet scent.

Look for signs of the Jewel Weed in the shady hollows. There is an emergent grouping on Nanigian Road, midway up on the east side, just past the stream that runs through the culvert underneath the road. It is cool and moist here, conditions ideal for the orange blossoms of the jewel weed, with its succulent stems and delicate leaves.

Jewel weed is also called touch-me-not, which is an apt name once the flowers go to ripened seed pods in the fall. At the slightest touch, they really do spring open, throwing seeds in all directions.

It is a bit early yet for jewel weed, though we’ll see more throughout the shady parts of town as the next months unfold toward autumn.

July 1

Pre dawn was notably sultry, and in the gray haze of the morning a cricket was chirping incessantly outside the bathroom window from somewhere within the rock wall that fronts the porch walkway.

I counted 178 chirps in one minute, then went to consult an old folklore almanac which lists how to tell the temperature from cricket chirps. Take the number of chirps per minute (178), divide by 60 (2.9), then multiply by 14 to get the number of chirps in 14 seconds (2.9 x 14 = 40.6). Finally, add thirty to this number to derive the outside temperature (= 70.6).

According to our arthropodial forecaster, the July morning was starting off warm and steamy. Sure enough, the outside thermometer on the kitchen window read 70 degrees. If July begins this way, it may be very hot and humid by the end.

June 30

June is at an end. It has been a month of green growth and vibrant song, of field flowers on display amid the grass grown tall in the full day sun. It’s seen new birds taken to wing from nests built in trees and shrubs we’ve come to expect. It has perfumed us with the fecundity of pollen in the air, of still nights where the scents of honeysuckle waft slowly by. It has seen our longest day come to pass, and June knows that we will pay for this leisure in six months hence.

It ends with the first hints of change. Look closely now. The oaks and maples have leaves that show blight, curled and yellowed. The vegetables are growing yet, to be sure, but there is also fruit on the vine, expanding each day as maturity nears. Crab grass is taking hold in the yard, thriving in the hotter days and warm nights that will mark July.

The rush of May and June is over, and things seem to be waiting for July to arrive. The pace will continue to slow, as the heat builds all the while the days slowly begin to soften.

June 29

For the past week, the wren parents have been frenetic during the day, both making unceasing trips to the woods and back to find food for the chicks inside the box. It is an interesting thing to watch; both leave, and the box becomes instantly quiet. A few minutes pass, and one or both parents return, either alighting on the box roof or the small branch just overhead. Regardless, no sooner do they arrive then a small cacophony of chirping begins, insistent and shrill. Mom or dad enters, and the sounds quiet to small peeps. Then the parent emerges, and the whole thing begins anew.

On a whim, I waited until both parents had departed, then I moved silently over to the noiseless box. I reached up gently and tapped my finger on the roof, and the chicks within started their calling.

Today however, the box has been quiet all day. At some point yesterday or the day before, the chicks must have fledged.

Notes:

Sundrops and Evening Primrose in bloom

June 28

Many summer wildflowers have appeared within the past week in the successional transition from the cooler days of early June to the sultry beginnings of summer. Here is a brief report of what to see:

Travel down Route 56 toward Leicester along the reservoir, and look for the white blossoms of the Tall Meadow Rue, which seen initially may look like clusters of Yarrow to the passing eye. The Rue is decidedly taller, and the flower heads are feathery white poms, and the leaves are small trefoils.

Where 56 turns to Marshall Street, look to the north side of the steep incline, a favorite spot of mine for early spring wildflowers like Trillium  and Adder’s Tongue. Now, the roadsides contain both Smartweed and Swamp Candles. The former is also called Lady’s Thumb, and the latter as Yellow Loosestrife. All along Marshall, in the sandy soil that borders the road, look for the purple heads of the Wild (or Blue) Toadflax, smallish stalks of 8-10” high with a few snapdragon-shaped tiny blue flowers at the tip.

Look to the borders of any yard or barn to see the tall heads of the Common Mullein now in bloom, with small yellow flowers that appear daily. These giants are often cut down in the leaf stage, mistaken as weeds like plantain when they are still quite young. The adult leaves are similar to Lamb’s Ears, soft and greenish gray, with fuzzy hairs that cover.

Fallow fields may contain Black-eyed Susans now. There is a nice grouping by the old farm house on South Road out of Holden. This stretch has always been a favorite for nature preservation. From the point where South intersects Route 31, the road travels initially through a tunnel of the trees, with roadsides left undisturbed. Roses still flourish there in late June.

The road descends slightly and into open field land, before turning to the east and dropping sharply toward the reservoir below. Look to the “s” bend as the road winds downward, and see the gate that fronts the access road to the wetland. It is covered now with sweet peas, hundreds of pink and white hoods amid a mass of deep green foliage.

Sweet peas remind me of the dusty gravel roads of my Michigan summers, when the heat would dry the roadbed so, that passing cars would trail clouds of dust which would settle on the weeds and flowers by the side. We’d walk the road as children, bound for the general store with dimes or quarters in our pockets to buy penny candy, then back again through the pea-lined two tracks, all mixture of sandy road and green plants with pinks and whites throughout.

Notes:

Day Lilly in full bloom.

Coreopsis in full bloom.

June 27

These past few weeks, young skunks have been testing their newfound potency, usually at some point during the hours before dawn and often somewhere next to the house. I’m told that such skunks have yet to develop the muscular control to use their weapon appropriately; rather they experience a measure of incontinence, so to speak, at the slightest provocation, be it real or imagined.

Now that the nights are warm, we prefer to sleep with the windows open and fans circulating to deliver relief from the contained heat of the day. There’s the dilemma; imagine sleeping blissfully, only to be awakened by the incoming smell of the potent spray from somewhere outside. Sometimes, it is possible to taste it, much in the manner of a passerby who wears far too much perfume or cologne.

Compounding matters is that skunks are largely corpunctular (a word I learned from a skunk enthusiast), which means they forage mostly at dawn and dusk – just at the time our dogs need to heed their own nature’s call.