On this Thanksgiving day, a chilly drizzle dims, but cannot mask, the beauty of fall’s spectacular finale here in Northern Virginia.
Late-blooming roses and a few determined petunias share space with brilliant red maple leaves, soon to fly away. As I give thanks for nature’s many gifts, the words of this familiar old hymn, a comforting presence, abide with me today.
For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
A red maple, in its blazing final burst of fall color.
for the love which from our birth, over and around us lies.
Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
Due to some unsupervised weeding and many hungry deer, only one Montauk daisy has bloomed in our patch this season.
For the beauty of each hour, of the day and of the night,
hill and vale and tree and flower, sun and moon, and stars of light;
Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
A ginkgo tree, a living link to the era of the dinosaurs, dressed in its golden November glow.
For the joy of ear and eye, for the heart and mind’s delight,
for the mystic harmony linking sense to sound and sight;
For the past two years, this azalea puts forth a few fall blooms. Unlike the typical spring blossoms, of dark fuchsia, the off-season flowers have petals of striated pale pink.
Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
Wishing you and your loved ones a Thanksgiving filled with many blessings!
Slim revels in the various lead-up events to the big day. His enthusiastic presence heightens the fun at our church’s annual Trunk or Treat. It’s a pleasure having him by my side, revving up the crowd from his usual perch at the back of my car.
It was Slim’s idea that the refurbished nativity animals accompany us to the event. By this time, he and the pups had gotten chummy with the foursome of ox, donkey, lamb and ram. He decided that their debut at Trunk or Treat should function as a preview in preparation for Advent. But they needed some Halloween flair, he insisted. He dug through boxes of fall decorations to find suitable ribbon for bows, which he carefully tied around each faux-furry neck.
We were all happy to see our daughter and her fiancé, who dropped by last weekend between Halloween parties. Slim heartily approved of their regal vampire costumes.
Slim loves a festive centerpiece, and he has an eye for detail. In our dining room, he toyed with the painted gourds, arranging them just so in the punch bowl.
The week before Halloween was warm and sunny here in Northern Virginia. Between decorating projects, Slim could often be found soaking up the October rays and basking in the balmy breezes. While sad to see that the impatiens had succumbed to a recent frost, he appreciated the persistence of our petunias.
He was surprised to discover some out-of-season blooms on our lilacs.
A birder from way back, Slim had for years been encouraging me to join the Feeder Watch program of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Now that I have, I understand. I’ve always appreciated the peace that comes from being immersed in nature, especially at times when the human world is a muddle of confounding conflict. And I’ve found that when I’m counting birds for Feeder Watch, I pay closer attention to each little creature that appears. I’m looking with greater concentration and intentionality, and the experience is more satisfying. Slim spent hours sitting motionless in a chair close to the feeders, gazing at the variety of birds that swooped around him, not troubled at all by his presence. I found some precious moments to settle myself in a chair just beyond, and savor the pleasant ambiance.
Before long, it was time for the annual pre-Halloween joyride. The dogs piled in, and Slim took the wheel. On an afternoon that epitomized convertible weather, they merrily cruised the neighborhood, looking for old friends and admiring the numerous ambitious Halloween displays.
Slim has claimed that he and his wide circle of influencers are largely responsible for the exponential growth of Halloween, from a quick one- day celebration, to a weekend, to its own extensive season. He’s been known to get a bit cocky, so I take his words with a grain of salt. Is it really a good thing, I wondered, for gargantuan blow-up spiders, demons and Disney villains to join us as early as August? I asked him why he and his colleagues, if they wielded such power, couldn’t turn their attention toward easing some of society’s ills. They were trying to do just that, he replied. The thinking was this: If we can unite for weeks over a love of candy, playing dress-up and poking fun at our fears, maybe we can realize that our points of commonality outnumber our differences.
Maybe there’s something to this. Even one day of Halloween is an amazing occasion. People across our country open their doors to hand out generous amounts of candy to children. Most of these are kids we hardly know, or have never met. We greet and give to strangers, simply because they show up, wear a costume, and say “Trick or Treat.” It seems that over the years on October 31, we’ve moved toward a greater emphasis on the treating than the tricking. That’s something to keep in mind and strive for, every day, whether it’s Halloween season, or not.
Slim and my husband worked together to light up our house in a Halloweeny palette of orange and green.
For many years, we rarely glimpsed a raccoon in our immediate area. I wrote about young Kiko’s only encounter with a raccoon inside his fenced domain back in 2013. During our Covid home confinement in 2020, we began to notice them more often, and they provided much-needed entertainment. They were the ideal visitors for that era: always masked, always outside. Our family would gather eagerly at the windows to watch these unexpectedly agile athletes perform acrobatic feats. They persisted, and persisted, and managed, somehow, to feast on seed from the hanging feeders. These days, raccoons are ever-present.
This winter, a pair of small, absolutely adorable raccoons began appearing regularly as dusk approached. We’d see them working patiently, using their delicate, long-fingered hands to comb the ground for sunflower seeds beneath the feeders. I’d learned that it’s an easy task for a raccoon to remove a feeder from its hook, so I’d started securing them to the branches with carabiners. For a while they seemed to work. But raccoons clearly persevere. I’d awaken to find both feeders on the ground, their components scattered across a wide area, the seed long gone. Now I remove the feeders at night, after the last of the late-feeding cardinals has retired. A slight delay, though, and I’ll find a feeder already on the ground. These little guys work quickly now that they’ve mastered the carabiner.
Once they realized that the feeders disappear after dark, the raccoons are more likely to show up during the day. Early morning, mid-day, late afternoon, whenever. Hearing a louder than expected rustling in the weeds one recent day, I watched as a raccoon vigorously dragged a feeder toward a more private dining spot, behind the garage. And I know, from the gifts they leave, that they check for the feeders every night. I still think the raccoons are very cute. But I wouldn’t object strenuously to fewer visits from these furry friends.
My childhood neighborhood in urban Atlanta was full of large, mature trees and pockets of densely wooded areas. I grew up amidst plenty of small wildlife. Squirrels, chipmunks and birds were, and are, plentiful. For some reason, we often saw an opossum sitting placidly on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s home, easily visible from our kitchen window. Friends tell me that foxes, coyotes and deer all make the occasional appearance these days, but I never spotted any in all my years there. So I wasn’t prepared to be surrounded by the larger wild creatures we see every day here in Northern Virginia.
We had been in our present home just a few months when my husband and I awakened to a horrific screeching sound. My first thought was that our daughter, then about eighteen months old, was crying out, in a most terrible way.
“She’s OK! She’s OK! It’s not her!,” my husband assured me. “It’s coming from outside.” It was spring, and the windows were open.
The screeching continued. It still sounded like a child suffering a brutal attack.
It wasn’t until the next day that we determined the source of the noise: a fox. Just a little red fox.
Freddie at left, and Frankie, the senior female, at right
Over the last twenty years we’ve come to be aware of the many foxes around us. Now that we know where to look, we see them as they go about their typically quiet everyday lives. We consider it a privilege to share our space with them. Their middle-of-the-night screeches no longer frighten us. Sometimes I’ve looked out and watched with interest as a fox stands in the center of our yard and yells out, repeatedly. During daylight hours, our local foxes regularly follow certain routes, from one patch of wooded county land to another, crossing yards, or following paved paths like driveways and walkways. Occasionally we’ll spot them curled up and snoozing in a patch of sun.
Kiko in September 2009
When our dog Kiko was alive, his favorite look-out spot was by the fence in our side yard, where he could watch the foxes on their rounds. They frequently passed within a few yards of the boundary. But neither Kiko nor the foxes made a sound. They eyed one another with intense scrutiny, as if wondering if they might be related. The Shiba Inu is sometimes called the “little fox dog,” and the two are similar in size and appearance, with their thick red fur and pointed ears. The fox’s long bushy tail, though, contrasts with Kiko’s shorter, curly one. In a post from last winter, I remarked that a glimpse of a fox in the front yard sometimes prompts a moment of panic when I think it’s Kiko, still with us, but alarmingly beyond the safety of the fence. The foxes have become a sort of stand-in for our beloved dog, and I find their presence comforting. In their mannerisms, they also remind me of Kiko. They look at humans with a calm, steady gaze in their golden-amber eyes, then glance away coolly, as if to say, “I’m fine without you.” Their black-tipped ears twitch at the slightest sound. And like my dog in his agile prime, they can jump up, turn on a dime, and dash away speedily.
Snowball, inside the fenced area
After our return from Cape Cod, I was glad that the fox I’ve come to see most often hadn’t moved on to new territory. I call him Freddie, and he’s evidently the senior male, the group patriarch, father to three cubs. Early on sunny mornings, he’s often curled up in front of his favorite tree in my mother’s yard. In the winter, he was frequently accompanied by his mate, a nursing female. I dubbed her Frankie, short for Francesca. She was dainty and skittish, slightly smaller than Freddie, and lighter in color, with a narrower face. I haven’t seen her for a couple of months. But their youngsters are everywhere: long, lanky adolescents, lean and big-eared. The sibling in charge is a spirited, fearless female. I dubbed her Snowball for the prominent bob of white at the end of her tail. She’s a skilled and patient hunter, often lying flat in the mulch, blending in, motionless, waiting to pounce. And sometimes she and the other young ones venture inside our fenced area. They’re small enough to pop easily in and out through the wrought-iron bars. Now that Kiko’s nearly fifteen-year tenure as guard is over, the area has become even more of a safe sanctuary for birds, squirrels and chipmunks. But with his absence, his foxy look-a-likes have become bolder. When I’m at my desk and spot Snowball inside the fence, I raise the window, and she flees immediately. Foxes are intelligent, and they seem to learn quickly the limits of human hospitality. But they’re also persistent and sneaky.
Freddie, on alert
Just the other day I happened to witness Snowball flying across the front yard with a bushy-tailed squirrel in her jaws. It’s a wild kingdom out there. I’d prefer that all our neighborhood critters were vegetarians, but it’s not up to me.
Frankie
I wonder about little Frankie. I’d like to think she’s moved on, by choice. It’ unlikely, I know, but I hope she’s living her best life in another welcoming enclave, relishing the absence of familial responsibilities. After all, she knows her teenagers can take care of themselves.
Our family recently returned from our summer vacation in Cape Cod. As we’d hoped, it was a lovely, fun-filled, restful get-away. We’re very grateful to escape from the ordinary in a beautiful, beloved spot, doing as much, or as little, as we please.
And what a delight it is, at the end of that time, to be home.
Compared with our little rental cottage, our house feels immense. There is no sparkling view of Cape Cod Bay, but I can gaze out from every window on scenes I find satisfying in a different way: the muted green and gold landscapes of home.
Since our dog departed this earthly life in July 2022, I’ve become more attuned to the other creatures that share our home turf. Now that Kiko no longer patrols the territory, they’re clearly more at ease. Upon returning after time away, I eagerly look for the non-human friends I’m getting to know.
Among the first sounds of my Northern Virginia morning are those of a couple of wrens. One typically calls out boldly from the railing above our front porch. As he tweet-tweets, he looks to be filled with gusto, bursting with boldness, jumping abruptly this was and that. From a nearby tree comes a buzzing, warbling response. In our side yard under the pines, the mourning doves are foraging quietly below the feeders. All pearl-gray patience and propriety, they glide along like demure, hoop-skirted ladies, unexpectedly clad in sassy, fuchsia-colored shoes. I hate to catch them by surprise, because they fly off with such a loud commotion of fluttering feathers. At the feeders, there’s a constant coming and going of house finches, sparrows, chickadees and titmice. The red-bellied woodpecker swoops in periodically with a flourish and a squawk. A congregation of cardinals is always present, from just before dawn to well past dusk. They cluster at the feeders, perch in the pine branches, and amble along the ground, like convivial regulars in their local pub. Touches of bright yellow flash in the sunlight, as goldfinches feast merrily on the heads of Black-Eyed Susans by the back porch. Crows survey their domain from atop the highest branches of our old maples.
The gray squirrels are the most numerous and omnipresent of the furry creatures. Rarely do I peer out any window and not see at least one or two. We have so many squirrels. I noticed a bunch of slightly smaller, younger ones, for the first time this spring. (Mama squirrels are doting mothers, and they keep their young well sheltered until they’ve grown nearly to adult size.) They clatter round and round the tree trunks in frenzied games of chase, they leap heroically from branch to branch. In a group of exuberant acrobats, one little guy stands out like an Olympic gymnast. We often see him twirling his little body around a branch as though mastering a routine on the parallel bars. He hangs by his toes like a trapeze artist. He back-flips off a tree trunk and sticks the landing.
For a couple of months or so now, we have not seen Bobbie, the bob-tailed squirrel we began noticing in 2020. (I first dubbed her Bob, then noticed later that she was a nursing mother.) Where her tail should be, she had only a fuzzy stump; it appeared that it had been pulled off, either by a predator or in an accident. But Bobbie didn’t let it bother her. She made up for her lack of tail with an extra doze of chutzpa, and my goodness, could she jump. She became a local celebrity, a familiar sight to all our nearby neighbors. We’re sad to think she’s no longer with us. But the squirrel community may feel otherwise, as Bobbie was one fiery gal. Often, when we saw a squirrel making a fast exit from the feeding grounds, it was likely because Bobbie was in determined and aggressive pursuit. I expect she lives on through her progeny, as she apparently was a mother to several broods.
Bobbie will certainly live on, vividly, in our memories, as well as in neighborhood lore.
While spreading seed for the birds and squirrels during Saturday’s soothing morning rain, I spotted an unidentified object in the wet grass. It appeared to be made of black patent leather. What is that? I wondered. I bent down to look. I gasped. Wow! It was the biggest beetle I’ve ever seen.
It was easily the size of a small mouse. After observing the beetle for a while, and judging it to be deceased, I gingerly picked it up. When I showed the find to my husband, he suspected that I was trying to fool him. He recalled a similar episode from our past.
We hadn’t been seeing each other very long when my housemate at the time played an unforgettable prank on me. Inside the oatmeal carton that I opened every morning, she had placed a gargantuan black rubber cockroach. Upon discovering it, I was horrified. It sure looked like the real thing. If my memory surrounding the event is correct (and it may well not be), I ran into H soon afterward on the Princeton campus. The route to my carrel at Marquand Library intersected with his path to the Engineering Quad. I told him about the traumatic oatmeal event, and he came back with me to see for himself. “Is it real?” he asked. I replied that I thought so. I’d left the beast on the kitchen counter where it fell. I can still see its dark, looming form against the slightly glittery surface of turquoise Formica. It looked frightening, still. But maybe not quite as authentic as I’d previously thought. I took a knife from the drawer and pushed the side of the blade gently down on the back of the insect. It didn’t crunch, but smooshed down quietly, as if it were made of rubber. “Lauren!,” I exclaimed. My roommate had pulled a good one on me.
I appreciated her prank, as she expected I would. I kept the huge rubber roach. Occasionally, I’d wear it, for shock value, like a brooch on a fancy dress, or set like a barrette in my hair. I even wore it, briefly, during my wedding reception, as in the photo above. I still have the creature somewhere. When I find it again, I’ll probably scream, just as I did upon our first encounter.
The beetle is about 2.5 inches long. The AA battery is there for scale.
It took a while for H to be convinced that the beetle wasn’t a clever prop I’d surreptitiously obtained. When we first began trying to identify it, we kept coming up short. In size and color, it looked like a rhinoceros beetle, found in Australia and elsewhere, but not native to the U.S. Before long, we noticed that as the beetle’s shell dried in the sun, it was fading to pale gray-green, with a splattering of dark spots. This coloring identified it as an Eastern Hercules beetle, a type of rhinoceros beetle that’s native to our country. They’re fairly uncommon, which explains why I’ve lived my life to this point without ever meeting one. The two long, curved horns identify our critter as a male, and earn that rhino name. The horns are not used to injure humans or predators, but only in battle with other male competitors to win a mate. The spotted shell over the abdomen is actually a pair of hardened wings, known as the elytra. They protect another pair of wings beneath. These beetles do, indeed, fly occasionally, despite their large size. Yikes!
I’m reminded of the time I first saw one of our Southern “palmetto bugs” take flight, and I shudder. As I remember the incident (and again, some details may be incorrect) my mother, my high school boyfriend and I were watching the opening sketch of Saturday Night Live in our Atlanta family room when we noticed an enormous roach inching its way high up along the wall. My boyfriend sprang into action. He grabbed a yardstick and stood on a chair, poised to swat the giant insect. Mama commented, “I’ve heard that some of these can fly.” “I don’t believe that,” he replied. As he prepared to strike, the huge bug flew directly at his head. And with great speed, the three of us fled the room.
The beetle has two smaller horn-like protrusions on each side of the central horns.
But back to our Eastern Hercules beetle. His appearance is fierce, but he was not a threat to most living creatures. In his larval stage, he lived underground as a greenish white grub, chewing away on rotting wood, turning decaying tree material into soil. As an adult, he was active primarily at night, where he kept close to the ground, foraging among the leaves for fallen fruits and berries. Given the opportunity, he may have dined on ash tree sap, but he was not a pest. Despite his commanding presence, bulky armor and body ammo, he was a quiet, solitary vegetarian, doing admirable environmental work. He rarely used his well-protected wings to fly. His adult life may have lasted two to three years. I’m glad his final steps led him to a spot in our yard where I could discover him.
The beetle’s large compound eyes are visible in this photo.
Thank you, Big Beetle. You’re a remarkable character. You’ve broadened my perspective, and reminded me of the richness and diversity of creation that surrounds us, often unnoticed and unseen, every day. You will be remembered!
When I awoke yesterday and looked out my bedroom window, as I do most mornings, I was, very briefly, confused. The front walkway appeared to be wet. But that couldn’t be. Here in Northern Virginia, our version of extreme weather this summer has been fixed and unchanging: exceedingly hot, and absolutely dry. By mid-morning, the sunshine is so relentlessly intense, so adamantly bright, that it takes on a sort of menacing quality. Plants are shriveling and lawns are browning. Squirrels splay their little gray bodies out flat on tree branches, attempting to cool off. They resemble the stuffing-free toys we used to buy our dog. The neighborhood fox family trudges by slowly, mouths agape, panting. Even the birds look miserable, as if their feathers were burdened by the heat. After about three weeks without a drop of rain, we were at last gifted with a pounding evening storm three nights ago. But rain in the morning? That just doesn’t happen.
Water droplets, though, were visible on the hydrangeas.
And on the leaves of the red maples and climbing roses. The impatiens were bowing their heads, as in grateful prayer for the healing moisture.
The temperature dropped from the high 90s to the 70s. Furry and feathery friends appeared newly invigorated. The rain continued, off and on, all day long.
It continues today, as well. Normally, I’d be disappointed to wake up to another rainy day.
But these are not normal times.
The sky is crying, the streets are full of tears Rain come down, wash away my fears And all this writing on the wall Oh, I can read between the lines
Rain come down, forgive this dirty town Rain come down, and give this dirty town A drink of water, a drink of wine
Over the Memorial Day weekend, my husband and I drove up to New York state to visit his family in the Rochester area.
We watched our young nephews play hockey, of course, in a very cold, very old-school ice arena.
But there was time for me to indulge in a favorite activity, walking interesting historic neighborhoods. H’s sister and her family live in Spencerport, that picturesque Eerie Canal village bedecked with Hometown Heroes banners. A charming, pedestrian-friendly town, it’s filled with comfortable old homes and well-tended gardens. Spring had truly sprung, at last, in the Rochester area. Lawns were lush, trees were leafy, and flowers were flourishing in the bright sunshine. After a brisk morning walk with my sister-in-law, I retraced our footsteps so I could linger and take many photos.
Spencerport may win the prize for the greatest number of Little Free Libraries per square mile. Their repeated presence is one expression of the town’s gracious, welcoming attitude.
Another is the multitude of cute rock critters peeking out from their dwelling places, to be discovered if one pays attention.
We missed the lilacs, for which the area is famous, but rhododendron, irises and peonies were near their peak.
It’s a town of lovely old churches. Above, from top to bottom, are the First Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ, the United Methodist Church, and St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church.
Above, just a few of the village’s cheery old homes.
The stately edifice above, on South Union Street in the heart of town, next to the old Masonic Temple, now houses professional offices. Because of its Neo-Classical appearance, typical of bank buildings on the main streets of American small towns, I had assumed it was built as a bank. But its facade originally belonged to a grand home at 25 State Street, in what is now downtown Rochester. The house was demolished in 1923, and the bank, fronted by the saved facade, was erected two years later. Spencerport’s central district retains a variety of businesses that serve practical needs. In addition to a grocery store (with a handy parking lot), it has quite a few thriving restaurants, as well as a dog-friendly brewery which we’ve enjoyed, in the past, with our family and Kiko.
The town is dotted with verdant pockets of greenery, and two swift-running creeks wind through yards and between homes.
And then, further enhancing the town’s quaint aspect and running through its midst, there’s the Eerie Canal itself, to be discussed in an upcoming post.
Of all the warm-weather months, May is to me the most beautiful here in our little pocket of Northern Virginia. For our family, it’s the month of roses. All around our back courtyard, they burst into glorious bloom.
The profusion of flowers and foliage appears all the more fabulous to us, because we remember too well the area when it looked strikingly different.
Our “back yard,” before, c. 2005.
Twenty-four years ago, when we bought our house, there was no real back yard, only an expanse of concrete leading to an ugly garage. In the spring of 2009, after years of idle talk and months of actual planning, we embarked on a major renovation, which included landscaping, a flagstone patio, a wrought iron fence, and a screened porch. (See Up from the Concrete, Roses, May 2021.) With every year that passes, we enjoy our back yard refuge even more.
May is the most fragrant month here, as well. Throughout our neighborhood, there are patches of undeveloped land, property of Fairfax County, which remain pleasantly unkempt. In May, these spots teem with wild roses and honeysuckle. All year long, they offer sanctuary and shelter to wildlife. I’m grateful to live in a place where every last bit of acreage is not overly manicured.
Peonies add their perfume to the rose-scented atmosphere of May.
A new addition to my mother’s back yard is a Teddy Bear Southern Magnolia, which we planted in November. As its cuddly name suggests, it’s a smaller variety. Its creamy white blossoms should be sending forth their luxuriant fragrance well into June.
This May has been marked by dramatic, sudden shifts from clear blue skies to fierce storms, and right back again, just as quickly. On Mother’s Day, after a heavy downpour, we were gifted with a lovely double rainbow.
As spring turns to summer, as May cedes the ground to June, may you push through all your cloudbursts to find the rainbows!
We’re in the midst of a gorgeous, lush spring here in Northern Virginia. Despite the perhaps more than unusually erratic temperature fluctuations, the season’s progress has been moving along at a consistent, stately pace. A fair number of rainy days have no doubt contributed to the luxuriance of flowers and foliage, and in contrast, the periods of sunshine have been all the more glorious.
Our Appalachian Red redbuds, marked by their brilliant fuchsia buds, were in peak bloom toward the end of April.
The lilac in our courtyard generously shares its delightful fragrance, so that we sense its presence even when it’s out of sight.
I love these mayapples, a gift from a garden-wise neighbor. Soon after sprouting, the plants resemble closed umbrellas. The leaves then unfurl, forming a flat canopy. A single white blossom grows beneath the foliage. After blooming, a small apple-like fruit forms, and its weight causes the plant to bow down toward the ground. Box turtles are attracted by the scent, and they spread the seeds (in their poop) along the forest floor. Like other native spring ephemerals, the mayapple is a humble beauty that may be easily overlooked.
Our azaleas, on the other hand, have been boldly emphatic in color and bloom.
Local Kwanzan cherry trees, past their peak, shower the ground below with their pink petals.
This towering jacaranda tree is an unusual one for our neighborhood. A native of South America, it bursts forth in late April with big clusters of fragrant lavender flowers, trumpet-shaped. Its seed pods break into neat halves, each resembling a small boat.
The edges of our courtyard and walkway abound with purple and white violets, bunched together like small, perfect bouquets.
So many of nature’s spring treasures, high above and on the ground below, are there for the seeking. I try to let each one remind me that even when so much of the world is caught up in conflict, animosity and division for its own sake, there is goodness, all around.
Let’s remember to search for, and to savor that goodness. And, when we can’t find it, maybe we need to embody it, to be and share that goodness. It abides with us, no matter what.
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
