Recent heavy rains here in Northern Virginia have created a network of temporary ponds along low-lying roadside areas. This is good news to a pair of mallard ducks in the neighborhood. Last spring and summer, they took up residence in one such puddle-pond on our street whenever weather permitted. Just a few days ago, they appeared again, as though opening their vacation home for the season.
Nearly always, the pair sticks together; it’s rare to see one without the other. While I have no credentials in duck psychology, I see them as a couple seeking respite from the chatter of the loving yet overbearing familial horde. When they get the chance to steal away to this cozy pond, pleasantly shaded by cedar and pine trees, they take it, and they savor it. The puddle is just big enough for two, but no more. It’s their peaceful hideaway, a summer getaway, with no guest room or pull-out sofa. Please, this puddle is private.
One afternoon, I was a bit alarmed to see the male duck alone in his micro-pond.
When I checked back shortly, I was relieved to see that Mrs. Mallard had returned. Her presence apparently relaxed her mate enough so that he could catch some z’s.
This photo shows the puddle after a fresh rain.
Yesterday, after a couple of days without rain, the ducks were gone. Their private puddle, like so many treasures, is ephemeral. Its water level had dropped considerably, and the area, shown above, more closely resembled a reedy marsh than a pond.
But barring unforeseen incident, the ducks will be back. Once again, the skies this morning are ominously heavy and gray. Storms are coming. I wonder how ducks feel when battered by vicious weather. I assume they are well-suited, like the best-constructed boats, to ride it out. I doubt they are gripped by overwhelming fear, as Kiko is now, huddled at my feet in the kneehole of my desk, shaking, his generic xanax having little effect. And unlike most human vacationers, the ducks have discovered a retreat that is improved by bad weather. When the skies clear, I expect to see the devoted mallard couple enjoying their time alone, floating serenely in a more luxurious puddle.
Every May, our backyard undergoes a spectacular costume change. Our family considers it all the more glorious because we remember when it retained the drab, unadorned look of a concrete wasteland all year long. See Up from the Concrete, Roses, May 2012. As the month begins, our twin red maples start the cycle and burst into brilliant foliage. When the sun shines, they absolutely glow.
By mid-May, the Double Knock-Out Roses by the fence are overloaded with flowers.
The pale pink climbing roses on the garage trellis join the party next. A gray catbird, visible on the fence at far left, has been busy making a nest in one of our red maples. A pair of cardinals claimed a spot among the trellis roses.
Kiko gazes at the world beyond our fence, which also gets a May makeover.
At the very beginning of the month, the scruffy, thorny, typically disheveled locust trees by our driveway dress up and perfume the air with their delicate white blossoms.
The many pockets of heavily wooded public land in our neighborhood are lush and fragrant every May with an abundance of honeysuckle and wild white roses.
This most beautiful and sweet-smelling month is drawing to a close, once again, all too soon.
Savor these last May days.
Count today, and be glad that there are two still to be enjoyed!
They’re coming. Cicadas, in extraordinary numbers, will soon be waking from their seventeen-year naps. Really? It hasn’t been seventeen years since they last overwhelmed our area. I know this for certain. An intense cicada season is not forgotten. Our daughter was five, nearly a preschool graduate. Time does fly, but she’s only fourteen now, not twenty-two.
We hear it’s likely that the DC area will see more cicadas than usual this year. Various broods hatch every seventeen years, and this year’s Brood II is not the one that deluged us here in Northern Virginia in 2004. Fairfax County lies on the outer limit of this coming brood, so we may not feel the impact as strongly as places farther south. We’ve heard from my husband’s brother that the big, lumbering insects have indeed been spotted in their neighborhood in Richmond. Our daughter’s young cousins have never been party to a cicada invasion. I hope they enjoy it as much as she did.
D has always had a soft spot for oddball creatures. I admire her ability to find beauty where many cannot see it. She took an immediate liking to H’s pet box turtle, with us since we married, and before that, with H since he was a boy. Speedy (H was twelve when he named it) lives in a spacious glass box in our basement. He dines on raw ground beef, blueberries, and now, thanks to Kiko, canned dog food. Occasionally he gets the run of the basement or one of our larger bathrooms. D maintains that Speedy is terribly cute, although few would agree. As a toddler, she befriended the numerous toads that make their home each spring in our yard. She named them and discussed their differentiating traits of appearance and personality–how she could distinguish Squeaky, say, from Emily. As I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, she loves all the bizarre aquatic life of Cape Cod bay, including the spider crabs and the slimy moon snails. See Our Summer Village on the Cape, September 2013.
D’s five-year old self welcomed the cicadas enthusiastically. She picked them up, but gently, carefully. She enjoyed letting them amble along her arms, even on her face; she often had one perched on her nose. She loved their segmented, transparent wings, red bulbous eyes, stick-like legs, and coal-black armored bodies. I agree that each full-fledged cicada is a majestic specimen, and I find their uncertain, drunken flight very endearing. But I don’t care much for the nymph stage, in which they first appear after their long gestation period. They tend to tunnel out of the ground in unsettling droves around dusk, each cicada leaving a perfectly round, approximately half-inch hole in the earth. D didn’t even mind the look of these initial wingless, moist, pale beige creatures. Unattractive, I would call them. Or better yet, just plain icky. D wasn’t put off by the discarded exoskeletons that clung to tree branches, reminding me of some dreaded dermatological condition, or the pile-up that accumulated around the bases of our old maples. She wasn’t bothered by the noise, a sound like the roar of a hundred generators and power mowers. And she wasn’t even offended by the smell of pervasive decay, rather like the scent of rotting shrimp, that marks the winding down of cicada season.
It will be interesting to see the scope of this coming invasion and how it affects us this time. Will it be really be an onslaught? Will D, at fourteen, be as eager to mix it up with the cicadas as she was nine years ago? And what about Kiko? While he thrills at the hunt for the single buzzing cicada in the grass, this will be his first major brood year. Will he try to gorge himself on the insects, as some dogs do? Considering his finicky nature and dainty habits, this seems unlikely.
The Cicada Clock is ticking. Recent mornings here have been unusually chilly, but surely spring-like weather will arrive before long. Will the warming earth send these Rip Van Winkles of the insect world out just in time for H’s family’s Memorial Day visit? We were together, memorably, nine years ago for the holiday. As we watched D enjoy the kiddie rides at our local carnival, cicadas hitched rides on our clothing and in our hair. Occasionally a particularly clumsy new flyer would careen into one of our faces. Will this year’s start to summer bring with it another such noteworthy interspecies reunion?
One of the most appealing features of our little corner of Northern Virginia is the beauty of its landscape. It’s pleasantly hilly, interestingly rolling, never aggressively steep. Woodlands are interspersed with open fields, vestigial traces of the many farms that dotted the area in the last century. We consider ourselves fortunate to live in one of the last few surviving farmhouses. On their 200 acres, the original owners planted wheat and raised chickens. They had a small apple orchard and a sizable flower garden.
On the other side of the winding county road, where big fields sweep down to small lakes, some families still keep horses. There are charming little stables, grassy paddocks and old vine-covered wooden fences. When Kiko and I walk there, it’s hard to believe we’re in suburbia, a place I never expected to live. We cross the road, follow a short path through the woods, and we’re suddenly somewhere more remote. It’s almost like a quick trip through time and space to the countryside of my childhood at my grandparents’ farm in Kentucky. Early on a spring morning, it’s an especially satisfying escape.
It was a cold March here in Northern Virginia, but spring began with real promise. On that first day of the season, it seemed as though warmth, bright color and new life were truly on their way. Then, somehow, the pause button was pushed. Or maybe it was the reverse switch, because throughout the rest of the month, we got the weather we should have had in February. We got the snow that the kids had hoped for all winter. Mornings were frosty, with icy winds and various threats of frozen precipitation. Afternoons were only somewhat less bitter, and nights were consistently cold. Buds and blooms put themselves on hold, understandably unwilling to emerge in the inhospitable climate. I needed every bit of my winter dog-walking gear, from the woolen hiking socks to the mittens and fuzzy scarf.
When the first warm weather arrived last Friday, it caught me completely off guard. I had almost given up hope that spring would ever again feel like spring. The morning felt expectedly chilly, but by the time Kiko and I returned from our walk, he was panting vigorously and I was carrying a bundle of outer wear. That afternoon was absolutely perfect weather for April. Saturday was warmer still. On Sunday, even I was digging around in my closet for shorts and T-shirts. Yesterday the temperature reached 80 degrees. Kiko, who had spent the entire weekend sleeping in the sun on the patio, took refuge in the shade of the porch. He had the exhausted, overheated grimace he wears during most of August. Today the expected high is 82. On Wednesday, it might reach 90.
It’s a tiresome and ungrateful practice to complain about the weather, especially when there are those not so far away who continue to suffer in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, not to mention other natural disasters world-wide. Still, couldn’t we have had another Pause on Saturday, when the weather was pleasant and actually spring-like? Instead we got Fast-Forwarded. But the neighborhood sure looks beautiful.
I love it when the reddish buds of the maple trees
create the look of a rose-colored wash.
A spring-flowering magnolia, in exuberant bloom.
These hearty purple vinca flowers appeared in late February.
At last they look comfortable, as they bask in the sun.
This small tree flourishes despite its proximity to the path of my daughter’s rope swing. Its buds open to reveal raggedy flowers with a lemony fragrance.
Kiko refuses to acknowledge Daylight Savings Time; his alarm does not reset in the wee hours of March 9. He remains purposefully curled in his bed until actual daylight has worked its way into our house. Accordingly, we’ve been walking later. He has the right idea, I realize. March mornings this year have tended toward the cold and cloudy. A walk at 7 AM is likely to be an exercise in gray. An hour or two later, the world is a brighter, warmer, more welcoming place, and its beauty can be better appreciated.
Two days ago, the daffodils were bowed down by yet another late snow. As the sun warms their bobbing heads on this first day of spring, it’s good to see that they’re none the worse for bearing that chilly burden.
The maple trees are getting the message: it really is go time.
These cherry trees in our neighborhood, in the first stage of bloom, are right on schedule. The National Cherry Blossom Festival begins today in DC, with peak bloom expected April 3 – 6.
Kiko and I walk past these mahonia shrubs nearly every day. Mahonia is a vicious looking plant, especially during late summer and fall. Only Morticia Addams would include it in a bouquet. With its tough, spiky leaves, it resembles holly on steroids. In the very midst of winter, however, it begins to show a gentler side; it bears tiny, pale yellow, bell-like flowers that fill the frosty air with a fresh lemony fragrance. As spring arrives, the flowers give way to lush clusters of oval-shaped berries, much loved by the birds. This particular plant is leatherleaf mahonia, or mahonia bealei. Incredibly hearty, it’s invasive if left unchecked. What began as a single mahonia plant in my parents’ back yard forty years ago is now a tall, rather forbidding free-form hedge. I have a soft spot in my heart for mahonia; like nandina and wild trumpet vine, it reminds me of home. When I was growing up, mahonia berries featured prominently in playtime pretend recipes. Light green when they first appear, the berries darken to purple as they ripen. They have a delicate, powdery outer coating, which disappears as they’re handled, revealing the fruit’s true, more intense color. For this reason, mahonia berries often served as the primary ingredient in the “magic” potions my friends and I concocted. Sometimes, all that stood between life and death in our imagined storylines was a single, glowing mahonia berry.
Walking in the sun with my dog on this first morning of spring, I could feel the new season at hand. The birds were chirping, yelling, soaring, partying. Squirrels were jumping and scurrying with renewed vigor, much to Kiko’s delight. Plants were edging up out of brown, dead leaves, stretching new green shoots into the light. I’m in a mood to buy eggs, baby salad greens and asparagus. This afternoon, I might even get out the Easter decorations. Maybe it will be like the old days, when my daughter looked forward to getting home from school so she and I could dye eggs and gather branches for our Easter tree. Maybe. Spring makes all things new again. We’ll see.
The snow that my daughter has yearned for all winter here in Virginia finally arrived early this morning.Understandably, this first significant, inordinately late snow of the season is a much-anticipated weather event. All week long every local TV station has had their Storm Watch coverage going full force. Giddy newscasters reported from points as yet untouched by snow, assuring us that the flakes were on their way. Usually, when this happens, it’s either a huge deal, like the blizzard of December 2009 that shut down the DC area for a week, or it’s a complete and utter bust. This was different; it fell somewhere in between.
Not a flake had descended at midnight last night. When we awoke this morning, it didn’t look like much, just a minimal coating on the ground and a fine snow floating down. But more was emphatically promised. Forecasts called for heavy snow all day and into the night. Schools, the Federal government, and many offices were closed. Even H’s office was closed, which is very rare indeed.
Once D and I went out to walk Kiko, enormous, sloppy flakes the size of mini-snowballs began pelting, and quickly drenching us. It was like walking in a heavy, thick, wet rain. It was not especially pleasant.
The snow continues to fall thickly now. D is at a friend’s house sledding, and H is out on the driveway with his never-before-used snow blower. He knew the snow was probably too wet, but he had to give the new toy a try. It’s kicking up an impressively wide spray of white slush. I hope both D and H are happy. Kiko and I are. We’re inside, warm and dry, and we plan to stay that way.
Kiko doesn’t seem to mind wearing his coat, which keeps him somewhat dry. He doesn’t like rain, and this snow bears a strong resemblance to rain.
Kiko has had enough of the fat white rain. Time to go in and dry off.
Last weekend, we drove to upstate New York for pancakes. Not just for pancakes. Pancakes and maple syrup. We met H’s family at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, a glorified sugar shack located, really, in the middle of nowhere. Its actual address is County Road 15A, Angelica, NY (2 miles from Short Tract), which, in the language of our GPS system, is “not on any digitized road.” Despite its truly out-of-the-way location in the midst of snow-covered fields, it’s a popular spot, with big crowds on weekends. It’s only open during the maple sugar season, which typically runs from mid-February through March or mid-April, depending on the weather. H’s family has been trekking out to Cartwright’s for decades, and now it’s among our winter traditions, even though our drive is far longer. Of course, we don’t return directly to Virginia, but spend the weekend visiting H’s family in Rochester.
The Cartwrights began producing maple syrup on their farm in the 1850s. The Maple Tree Inn dates from 1963, when the family decided to build a restaurant specializing in Grandma’s buckwheat pancakes served with their own maple syrup. In the adjacent shop, the syrup, maple butter and maple sugar cakes became available directly to the public. The somewhat ramshackle building has been expanded over the years and is now fairly large. It will win no awards for architectural style, but that’s not the point. In the chain-store sameness that dominates so much of our country today, the Maple Tree Inn offers a unique, quirky, authentic experience. It’s living history, and it’s worth a visit.
Before I met my husband, I had never tasted true maple syrup. The first time we ate together at PJ’s Pancake House in Princeton, I was surprised to see him pull a small container of pure maple syrup from his pocket. At the time, PJ’s didn’t serve the real stuff, although that has since changed. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Growing up, when Daddy made pancakes on Saturday mornings, we used the typical supermarket syrup–Log Cabin, Aunt Jemima–whatever. H was no food snob, so I found his insistence on unadulterated maple syrup mystifying. That is, until that day at PJ’s, when I tasted the liquid from that little jar. H was right. There is no topping the perfection of the stuff that comes straight from the tree.
Visitors to the Maple Tree Inn are welcome to descend into the building’s lower level to learn how the sap is boiled down, in huge wood-fired evaporators, to its golden maple essence. Several years ago, a Cartwright grandson, no more than twelve or so, gave us a comprehensive tour that began in the frozen fields where we could examine the taps on the trees and see the liquid running into the buckets. As far as I know, this is not an option at IHOP.
These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch whiskies, are earnestly discussed at considerable length, using wine-lingo terms such as terroir. H doesn’t do this, although he can and does enjoy discerning, in blind taste tests, the variations between light, medium, and dark amber syrups. My palette will never attain such a degree of sophistication, but I can say this: a little true maple syrup makes life sweeter.
The snowy landscape behind the Maple Tree Inn.Kiko and I walk through the surrounding fields before I join the others for lunch.
Kiko keeps vigil in the car during our meal. Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he has his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needs to hunker down for warmth. Before this trip, in case it was particularly cold, we bought him a red plaid fleece coat. The temperature wasn’t low enough to warrant it, and he appeared perfectly comfortable, peering out from the front seat, when we returned. For his wait, he was rewarded with an extra sausage patty H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.
Kiko and D atop a tall snowpile on an earlier visit to Cartwright’s, in 2009. Kiko looks almost exactly the same as he did four years ago, when he was two. D, on the other hand, has changed.
On this Fat Tuesday afternoon here in northern Virginia, the sun is emphatic in its brightness and temperatures are well into the mid-50s. Kiko again sought out his customary spring spot on the terrace. He reminds me of a northern tourist revelling in the winter Caribbean sunshine.
The sunshine was so abundant, so luxurious, and so relaxing, that Kiko had no choice but to sleep.
Before long he woke up, overheated. It’s February 12, and he had to find some shade.
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.
This photo shows the puddle after a fresh rain.
