August 13

There are showy goldenrod plumes everywhere now, and it can’t be too long until the first hints of purple asters appear. In the unmowed periphery fields of Anna Maria, the goldenrod clones are particularly tall and healthy looking.

Now is the time to examine them closely for galls, visible as cancerous looking lumps in the midst of their slender stems. These were formed by the plant itself, in a bit of self trickery induced by a parasite that lives within, the gall fly larva.

When the plants were mere shoots in late spring, the gal fly female laid eggs on its exterior. The newly hatched larva secreted a chemical that caused the plant to develop the gall structure, in which the larva lives within in the soft plant tissue, while the exterior provides a tough protective layer.

In August, as the gall nears its full capacity, the larva too have grown within, spending a portion of the month chewing away a tunnel just to the surface (but not through) of the gall. Then, it settles down to ready for over-wintering, using the gall as a sheltered home.

In early spring, the larva transforms into the adult gall fly, piercing through the thin remaining layer of the gall shell and beginning the cycle anew when the first goldenrod shoots arrive.

Look closely at the galls now; many will have drill holes pierced into them, made by birds like the downy, who have learned to seek out the larva within.

August 12

Perceid Meteor Showers

I awakened this morning at 3:30 and saw through the bedroom window that the sky was crystal clear, perfect for viewing the Perceids.

Needing only a bathrobe, I tiptoed down to the sunroom, turned on the porch light to check for any bears, raccoons or skunks at the dooryard feeder, and looked once again to see that the sky overhead was clear.

Lights off, then to the porch to sit on the Adirondack chair, which was damp from a dew fall overnight.

Almost directly overhead, Cassiopeia sat in her throne, with the evanescence of the milky way barely visible against a sky slightly lit from the distant Holden lights. While I waited, small rustling sounds came from the direction of the lower woods, and the near constant white noise of cricket calls were in the background.

Then, a flash overhead, a small streak off to the east which started near the zenith and moved nearly 10 degrees across the sky. A minute later and another, followed quickly by two more. 

August 11

The swamp maples in the lower valley that forms the basin of wetlands toward Moore State Park are beginning to turn. We’ve had successive cooler nights, and I suspect this has prompted their changing color, as the low areas are cooler all the more. The road that travels from Paxton toward Barre (Route 122) crosses the wetland, and on the east side the maples that border the small pond which feeds the culvert are becoming gold and auburn, and when seen against the background of the still green wild grasses and low shrubs makes a nice transition between summer and autumn.

It’s a month yet before our sugar and silver maples will make their change, but there is evidence now of the progressing season. The sugars are starting to drop their keys, and we see them collecting in the shoulders of the road. A still wind yesterday brought down dozens, winged key seeds still connected at the fruit, the pair forming a little bow tie.

Over the next few weeks, those that remain high in the tree will drop further and separate, falling to the ground in spinning helicopter fashion.

August 10

Fred was out in the field late afternoon walking slowly up a singular turned row, pushing an old hand planter. From my vantage point, it was a timeless image, of farmer and antique implement working to plant radish seeds in the soil in preparation for a possible late fall harvest.

It is easy to imagine this same tool used in this same way and in this very field by his father and his father’s father, the continuity of a commitment to this life and this place, the cycle of the seasons played out over years of plantings, growth, and harvest.

August 9

The sun crested the lower trees at 6:45 this morning, high enough to bathe a good portion of the back porch in golden light. It was fairly warm out and with no breeze, making the old Adirondack chair we keep a perfect spot to simply sit and awaken.

I dream about these mornings, when winter sets in full, and this very spot is covered twelve inches deep with crusted snow pack. The enjoyment then is of a different sort, where such austerity and elemental harshness is indeed invigorating. It is only a detached appreciation at best, seen and felt beneath a layer of insulation we’ve steadily accumulated since last autumn, both of the physical and mental kind.

To sit here in this summer morning is an exposed investment, where the warming sun and verdant scents are nurturing and inviting to be a part of the experience.

Tendrils of steam drift upward from my coffee cup, sitting now on the arm of the chair, and their shifting presence has attracted a curious hummingbird. She hovers frenetically near the cup, if only for a moment, so close to my still arm that I feel the small wind her wings create, before she quickly departs to sample the nasturtium blossoms nearby.

August 8

Gold finches are mating this month, which is atypical of our dooryard birds. We’re accustomed to the flurry of birdsong in the early mornings of April and May, and it is odd to see such activity in August. Our tube feeders remind me of busy airports, with constant occupation at all openings and a half dozen finches either perched on the shepherd’s pole crook or flitting nearby a feed opening in hope of dislodging a companion.

The finches time their mating season with the coming of the thistle seed, and the correlation this year seems right; there are thistles and burdock in abundance in the undisturbed fields that border the college and the farm.

We have none here at the house yard, so our finches resort to the purple cone flower and echinops, both which have seeds that in some respects resemble thistle, though without the downy tufts.

Our front knot garden has dozens of plants for them, and a small depression nearby in the driveway asphalt holds left over rainwater enough that the birds can whet their thirst after eating. They are pretty little things, the gold finches, perched at the edge of the small puddle, brilliant yellow cast in sharp relief against the dark of the asphalt, bending down tentatively to drink.

As I write this, sitting in the afternoon sun on the back porch, I count 18 finches around the two feeders – 12 female and 6 male.

August 7

No sooner do the dog days arrive then does an unusual clipper front follow, bringing a taste of autumnal crispness. Temperature this morning was 49 degrees, and there was almost no humidity throughout the day. Add to this a constant wind from the northwest, and it simply felt as though we’d made an overnight transition to fall.

In truth, this change was refreshing and even welcome, particularly since we know that the heat of August will return in full measure. Soon enough, we will accept these days of coolness, letting go of the summer that was and preparing both mentally and physically for the winter that will be, several months hence thankfully.

Today’s respite is simply that glimpse, and we prefer to look at it as the benefit of autumn’s promise. The air is invigorating and fresh, with clouds taking on well-defined shapes off the horizon. The haze of summer with its lethargic quality has retreated, if only for a day or two, and we can glimpse the coming of fall around the corner now.

August 6

In the building light of the moments before the sunrise, on the eastern horizon the star Sirius now makes its appearance. It is just visible for a few minutes and then fades as the dawn’s approaching light becomes too strong. As the weeks progress, this star will precede the sunrise ever earlier, and we will look to its brilliant blue sparkle in the dark skies before dawn.

The ancient Egyptians looked to its summer rising as a harbinger of the annual Nile inundations, and they celebrated its coming. They also associated its arrival with the sultry heat of late summer, a time when lethargy took hold in the midst of the day.

Sirius was known as Caniculus, which the Latin associative is Canus, or dog. It resides in the constellation Canus Major, or big dog, and its summer arrival we associate with our “dog days” of August.

Indeed, our own two Westies seem to know that the dog days have arrived. In the middle of the day they have only the energy to trot to the middle of the yard and lie down on their sides, tongues rolling out loosely and bellies moving quickly up and down.

August 5

Look to the wetland bogs or slow-moving forest streams, where the canopy is thin so that the sunlight comes easily to the ground. It is here that favors the striking red cardinal flower, which is in bloom this first week of August in this region.

Its color is truly like no other, and cast against the background of greens of other foliage or varied blue of the waters around which is thrives, the red petals appear blazing and out of place.

The first time I saw one was years ago in northern Michigan on the Ingleside Road out of Douglas Lake, at a point where the dirt road crosses a broad meadow stream. The water was shallow, tannin-colored and slowly moving with a sandy bottom and small grassy island of sweet grass and Timothy. It was at the edge of one such island, that a tuft of cardinal flower was on display, and from the passing road with the sun striking on full, it gave the impression of small fire bursts in the background.

That was years ago, and I’ve looked to find the cardinal flower here in Paxton to see its brilliant colors again.

Today, while riding on the Rutland rail trail, just past the deep ravine cut where the bedrock is exposed from the blasting done years ago to create the passage, a ¼ mile further going downhill is a bog section, open to the August sun. As we rode past I caught a glimpse of fiery red sitting just at water’s edge near the trailside. Cardinal flower flourishes here amid pickerel weed and water lily. It is worth the trip to see it.

August 4

A couple of weeks ago, I took a dawn reading, measuring the compass point of its rising in order to compare it to the solstice figure. Part of the impetus for doing this is because it has noticeably become darker in the mornings when I’ve awakened, and the sun seems to be setting much earlier. Of course, this is to be expected, as we are shifting ever onward toward the equinox some six weeks hence, yet the new darkness still catches us off guard.

The sun rose at 80 degrees on the compass, or 10 degrees north of due east. We’ve lost 2 degrees since the solstice, and this had made the difference. From this point, we will accelerate our daily loss of light until the equinox, when, though we will continue to lose light until late December, it will at least lessen its pace.

August 3

One mile south of town on Route 31, just after Keep Avenue where the road gently curves to the right on its way toward Moore State Park, there is an open field which is beautiful just now in the August sunshine.

It is sun dappled at 9:00 in the morning. Yellow greens of the uncut tall grass are dotted with thousands of Queen Anne’s Lace. With no distracting homes or structures in the midst or background, this field is simply idyllic, almost a romanticized version of a summer pasture in full maturity.

In passing by I stopped to estimate the flower count, for the shear number of the spreading stalks is incredible. In one square meter quadrat, I estimate 6 individual lace plants. The field must be nearly a ¼ acre, and there are 4840 square meters to the acre. 4840 times ¼ times 6 = 7260 plants in this relatively small plot.

Each composite flower is a world unto itself, and seen in isolation resembles an enlarged snowflake with the florets as patches of crystals in arranged patterns. A sample flower contained 38 small clusters, each lifting upward and supporting a platform of florets of roughly 36 tiny white flowers. 38 x 36 makes 1368 florets on the singular Queen Anne’s Lace.

This ¼ acre has thus by estimation 1368 x 7260 = 9,931,680 tiny white flowers spread about, each a potential awaiting chance and circumstance to be pollinated.

The number is overwhelming to me, a reminder of my own relative insignificance in the spatial sense at least. There are dozens of fields like this in Paxton and dozens of small towns in New England so alike.

These flowers live and reproduce and die, in so many fields; their ubiquity is the norm at this place and in this season, and we who tend to believe in an exaggerated sense of ourselves in this land should pay greater attention.

August 2

The farm has learned from its sources that western Massachusetts is showing signs of blight in both tomatoes and potatoes, and of course the fear becomes that it will find its way here.

It is an irony of late summer that we desperately crave frontal changes to bring much needed moisture for the maturing fruit, yet more often such storms can also deliver unwanted pests and plagues.  An early hurricane in the south will push all sorts of insects ahead of it. Easier yet are windborne spores of fungus that can settle here on the fields.

There’s no report from the forecasters about coming storms in the next few days, though that doesn’t slow the preventative work here. The tractor was out early as usual, but the normal diesel was masked by the fans of the sprayer, working the tomato rows with fungicide.

Notes:

Cardinal flower and Pickerel Weed – in bloom in the wetland bogs of Rutland rail trail.

August 1

August

 

The ponds and lakes have changed notably these past few weeks since I last visited. Even the two-track access road is showing late summer’s untidiness, with tall grass everywhere in seed and dead falls here and there which have been left uncut. Most of the wildflowers that line the sides have gone, save for the wild carrot that thrives in the few sunny spots where the canopy thins. The fall asters are bidding their time.

Just before the road ends at Asnebumskit Pond, tucked to the side and slightly within the low area of woods is one of Paxton’s few certified vernal pools. Last time I was here, the water was seeping from the pool across the road via a small ditch that had been created by erosion. (The dogs are used to this obstacle when we walk in the spring, and I smile at their steeplechase leap across to avoid getting wet.) Now the pool itself is nearly dry, which is the norm for August. The teeming sounds of spring peepers and wood frogs we enjoy so in early spring have receded, yet there are crickets in full.

There is still an abundance of life to be explored, and on occasion I’ll take a small vial full of the remaining pool water home to put a drop on a slide. A microscope reveals a complexity of plant and microorganism life that is simply wondrous. There are creatures here that have intricate adaptations for survival.

Asnebumskit is showing its late fall appearance. The reed grass and rush sedges are tall, as are the cattails and golden rods that line the northern shore. Though it is called a pond, it must be deep enough; plant growth goes out only so far, and the deep water areas are free of both plant and algae. Shallow ponds, like that of Thompson Pond or Streeter, are filled now with a mixture of water lily cover and duck mill, and algae bloom. The latter seems thicker in Thompson, I suppose on account of the fertilizer run off from the houses that border its edge.

July 31

July has come to an end, and the waning of summer will commence these next few weeks. The real work is beginning at the farm now, and it is impossible for them to keep up. Apart from the tomatoes, potatoes and leeks, which should be within the next few weeks, nearly all the crops have ripened, and there is a seeming endless series of trips to and from the fields in the truck.

As I write this, there is the truck now visible through the gaps in the spruce line, making its way toward the store from the lower field, backlit from the descending sun, and set in a fuzzy halo from the dust that is stirred up along the two-track as it moves along.

The lower field has corn, and the store will be needing fresh bushels, staying long enough in the back room to be graded before making their way to the shelf, where waiting patrons anticipate the arrival.

July has been this way, all hurry up toward maturity and wait with anticipation and with satisfaction.

Notes:

110 cricket chirps this evening with a thermometer reading of 59 degrees.

July 30

Thinking more on nature’s evolution and the maturity of the season. It is a wondrous thing really, all that is contrived to achieve the possibility of reproduction. All the energy and intricacies in every living thing, and there are abundant examples now, in the backyard or garden or fence row.

We have a single golden rod clone which has been an interloper to the front knot garden. It poked its way up through the coreopsis within the past month, survived being pulled by the gardener’s hand, and now is displaying its plumes of newly emergent flowers. They are tiny yellow things, though under a 30x lens they appear as detailed and large as a mustard flower.

The wonder is to consider that this single clone had 9 sub stalks, and each of these had approximately 9 stems where the flowers reside. I counted 56 yellow flowers on one of these stems. Conservatively, an estimate is 9 x 9 x 56 = 4536 flowers in this rather diminutive clone, each bearing the possibility of reproduction, if conditions favor.

July 29

It is virtually impossible to walk down to Asnebumskit Pond to inspect the wildlife without looking like a man possessed with fits. I can only imagine my appearance, seen from a distance, as I flail my arms about, occasionally cursing obscenities and smacking my head.

I mentioned deer flies several days ago, and they have been particularly bad this year. The wet June is now showing its harvest in full, including a mosquito boom for good measure.

Deer flies are notably insidious, and we seem to be suffering far longer this summer than normal. There is a growing part of me that wishes for a hard frost to take care of this problem, though I imagine the farm might object to this solution.

Our desperation foments all kinds of creative solutions, and here is a sampling of what I’ve seen around town:

An easy deterrent is to hold a fern branch in one or both hands, waving them about the head. Alternatively, I’ve come across hikers who resort to sticking a branch or fern in the back of their cap, with foliage pointed upward; the deer flies are prone to be attracted to the highest point of the moving object.

Once I saw a jogger with a blue plastic cup sitting inverted on top of his head, several flies affixed to the cup and several others flying nearby. (I later learned that Florida researchers have evidence that deer flies are partial to blue, and that a quirky home remedy is to coat a blue object with sticky substances).

More common is to dangle a bandana behind the hat, covering the neck which is so very subject to attack.

These are all indications of our New England desire to shoulder onward and enjoy what little summer Mother Nature affords us, even if we look ridiculous and unstable in the doing.

July 28

The breeze is gentle today, just enough that it is noticeable in the delicate birch leaves, which move in independence from one another so that the effect creates an almost shimmering look to the tree. These leaves are like tiny hands, waving about in the most subtle of winds.

The birch leaves will show the autumnal change before the others, though less dramatically so. When it is time, these leaves will slowly turn a yellow shade, all the while continuing their playful motion. And then, almost as one they will descend, as if exhaustion from months of summer dance has taken its toll.