Sunday, June 17, 2018

Finding the Rare One – An Audubon-Sponsored Wildflower Trip to the Blues



Which way?
   
This way?

Yes, this way.

A glorious day of hunting wildflowers in the Blues with our guides Jeff and Cheryl Fredson was a day of discoveries.  The flowers were bagged one by one with checkmarks on a list prepared ahead of time by Cheryl.

Early on I lost my yellow, #2 pencil in a field of flowers. When I backtracked to locate it, I couldn't find it, but I spotted the tip of a pencil under some wild strawberry leaves.  Here was my replacement writing implement. A rare first find in the woods:


Although the flowers were absolutely the highlight of the trip, the trees offered their own version of sensuous and lovely.

Pine Tree Buds Opening
The emerging buds of a pine tree (above) appear as if they are the petals of a flower, but the cone flower below is a flower with green petals.  A child once asked me if there were flowers with green petals.  I thought not.  Shortly afterwards,he spotted one of these green cone flowers alongside a road in the Blue Mountains in Oregon.  Proved me wrong!

Western Cone Flower

Green can be a most sensuous color.

Leaves of the California Corn Lily - Common in Target Meadows, OR
An unidentified bug coming in for a Landing on a Corn Lily
Alpine Mitrewort

The blossom of the Alpine Mitrewort (above) is only an eighth of an inch wide, but a very tiny bug would appreciate the beckoning arms.  The plant with a backdrop of green is easy to overlook by humans.  We found it by a tiny stream in Target Meadows.

Least you be tired of green, here are a few of of the other flowers that we saw:


Big Head Clover

Skyrocket Scarlet Gilia and Harsh Indian Paintbrush (orange)

And a rare flower – previously unlisted on the Umatilla Forest Species List – a Silver Crown Luina:


At least, that is what we are hoping!  These are normally found in the Cascades in Washington and into northern California.  Cheryl is returning on Monday to check again.  Fingers crossed.  A new rarity for the Blue Mountains!  

A Silver Crown Luina?  I would have named it the Wild Hair Flower.



Thursday, June 14, 2018

Portraits of Americans – with Our Lawn Mowers





My lawn is a four-minute mowing job.  The length of the task barely qualifies for being worthy of documentation, but the lack of such a photo in my albums would puzzle my descendants.  I come from a line of Americans intent on posing with their lawn mowers, snow blowers, and shovels.   My distant relatives Arvilla and Walter Jones (below), are dressed in their church clothes for a formal portrait with their reel mower.  I think a good title is Patriotism with a Mower. 


Early lawn mowers, designed and constructed in the 1830s in England, were made of cast iron. They were so heavy that they often required one person to push and one to pull – giving them the moniker of “man and boy machines”.  


My dad loved mowing.  He enjoyed being outside, getting some exercise, and basking – in a humble sort of way – in the quiet admiration of his family, neighbors, and passing cars.  He loved all aspects of yard care. Seeding, sodding, thatching, fertilizing, watering, and weed killing.  But the American family pastime, yard care, was deceptively complex.  
                                                                   ***
“My, my, your children are growing like weeds,” said uncles, and neighbors, and the men at the hardware store.  Patting us on our summer-bleached hair, our heads soft and golden as dandelions, the salesmen at the hardware store touted to my dad the merits of the best and latest in weed killers.
“This here weed killer, just the strongest.  Kills them weeds right off.  Yup, growing like weeds, these kids of yours.”
We shook our tousled golden heads in puzzlement.  Adults were so odd.
The chemical and pesticide firms were led mostly by men back then.  Their marketing efforts touted the glories of green grass and robust flowers.  They printed on the labels in type, as tiny as the edge of a blade of grass  – if they did so at all – the unpronounceable names of poisonous ingredients and their hazards.  They hoped the buyers would associate size with significance.
      Excerpt from my memoir in progress, The Education of an American Houser
                                 ***
The sound of lawn mowers, baseball announcers, and the clink of ice cubes was the fond background noise of my childhood and youth.  Only later, when cancers became common and I owned my own lawn, did I decide to cautiously use weed-killing chemicals.  My quarter-acre lawn was never the dense and bright green field of a well kept yard, but I mowed and pulled dandelions by hand.  It was my neighborly duty. Some might say patriotic duty. 


By the early 1950s, reel mowers were replaced by lightweight, gas-powered lawn mowers that "even women could use”.  A gas can became a necessity in every American toolshed or garage.  I didn't often see my mom (above) mowing, but she loved wearing the gardening clothes the American fashion began marketing for the modern, suburban woman.  Shorts, capris, halter tops, and tennis shoes appeared in catalogues and local department stores.  They were a boon to the clothing industry.  Although girls rarely mowed, they wore similar outfits as their mothers. The style of clothing suggesting that being active was okay for females.    

Meanwhile, men and boys began wearing their t-shirts (formerly their underwear) as outer wear for doing the yardwork.  The style gained favor up and down the social order, making it harder to discern someone’s economic standing.  A very democratic move.   


In the fall some of my family used leaf blowers and in winter snow blowers (like my Uncle Ted above).  They all celebrated the machines that made us proper American citizens. 

There is much to admire in yard care work: the ingenuity of the inventors, the production of the machines, the creativity of the chemists, the changes in clothing for women and men, and more recently the leg-up to becoming citizens for hardworking (primarily Hispanic) lawn maintenance crews.  

But there is a downside. America now has over 40 million acres in lawn.  An astonishing figure!  Every weekend approximately 56 million Americans mow their yards using 800 million gallons of gas a year.  Gasoline spilled, when tanks are filled, pollutes groundwater. The inefficient, small engines emit pollutants into the air and also contribute to noise pollution and hearing loss.  (Facts from Clean Air Yard Care, 2018)  Moreover, as riding mowers gain a majority of the mower market, the earlier benefit of aerobic exercise decreases.  The next generations of Americans will be challenged to redefine the look of yards or how we care for them.  Chemical companies are already working on growth-inhibiting products for grass. Solar-powered mowers are becoming available.

This little guy, in the meantime, is learning to mow my four-minute lawn with a reel mower.  Documentation of mowing machines continues in my family.  We are not done with lawns, yet.  We might not have a flag to wave, but we have mowers to push.  




Sunday, June 3, 2018

Study of a Big Chief Bottle and a Clutch of Peony Buds

As I reached to click off a lamp last night, I noticed tiny bubbles clinging to the stems of peonies displayed in an antique, embossed bottle.  A half-an-hour later, much past my usual bedtime, the light got switched off.  This is the series of photos that resulted during that space of time.  The post includes a little information on the history of the Big Chief soda bottle brand and of peonies.


 Isn't this lovely?  The bubbles almost look like tiny, clinging creatures.


 The bottle says BIG on one side and CHIEF on the other.

Old bottles, even mine with its thick and heavy bottom, have chips.  As I looked for information about these types of glass containers, I came across a conversation in which an older gentleman described where he looks for bottles. He said he searches along old roads in his locality, looking approximately a foot under the leaf mold around oak trees.  His theory was, much like what happens today, bottles were aimed at trees, tossed out as litter from passing cars.  My bottle has very thick glass, so it likely hit a rock instead of a tree to make a chip of this size:
   

I put my bottle on a red coaster to highlight the swirls and to emphasize the thickness of the base, but here is another view of the same chip.


The patent date is Dec. 29, 1928.  The Big Chief emblem, a flavor branding, was purchased by soda companies.  They were then free to manufacture the bottles in various sites around the United States.  Some bottles have the place of manufacture embossed on the base or lip.  Mine has none.  Some of the bottles have paper labels and are not embossed.



On my bottle, this portrait is displayed on both sides.  There were a number of variations of this face and headdress made.

The patent date does not indicate the precise date the bottle was made.  A company buying the branding would make its own version to fit what they produced.  The variety of embossed designs was possible only when bottle-making machines became more automated and required less-skilled labor.  Cherry, strawberry, lemon, lime and orange flavors were a few of the types of sodas bottled under the Big Chief name.  The brand was available from the 1920s through the 1950s.  These bottles are now considered to be "common" among bottle collectors.  The attractive design and Native motif made them popular items for people to keep as treasures.

On June 2, 1924, five years before this patent was awarded, Native Americans were finally granted full citizenship (although it would be many years before every state made the right to vote a reality for Native Americans).  It seems so strange that a fascination with the Native culture by European transplants took so long to translate into full rights and benefits under the Constitution for the original inhabitants.
  


Peonies are also native to the Americas, found in the Pacific Northwest.  I always associated them with China and Japan, so I was surprised to find that, like the Native Americans, they too were here before the European explorers and settlers.

And the water, and the air and the bubbles... likely native also!







 And this is the last photo before the light went off.


A credit for the gift of peonies goes to the Lapp-Floyd family.


Sunday, May 6, 2018

A Visual Bombardment at Harvey Allen Battery on Cape Disappointment #HarveyAllenBattery #CapeDisappointment #DeadMan'sCove #NorthheadLighthouse




Moss, powder, water, and rust provide the pallet of colors for decomposing structures found on Cape Disappointment on the Washington coast.  Built in 1905, Battery Harvey Allen never saw any wartime action, but now it offers its services as the backdrop for drammatic photo-ops for weekend wanderers.
   


The battery's metal doors evoke an auditory impression of the sound they must have when they were clanged shut – even while the salty air silently besieges their integrity.   
 


Could I have stood on the slab below hour-after-hour watching for whatever might come – not knowing that atomic bombs would make this outpost obsolete before anything worrisome would ever come into sight?


Would I have surmised that the emplacement for the cannon's carrage would become a lily pond? 


Or the barracks dissolve into op-art and


while its roof becomes a floor – a surface for leaf and cone litter?
 

Over the hill from the battery is Dead Man's Cove, named for the men whose bodies washed ashore when their ships wrecked at the entrance to the Columbia River.  The haunting, but exilarating atmosphere of the Harvey Allen Battery repeats itself in this nearby cove.  The solitary tree on the rock seems poised as if preparing to jump from the pinnicle of its tiny-island foothold.         


A short driving distance from the battery is the North Head Lighthouse.  Its structures are being restored by an organization called Keepers of the North Head Lighthouse.  You can see the new whitewash on the tower and its freshly painted railings.  Maybe these structures will not become the home of moss and rust.  With luck, you will visit after a rainstorm and have the bounty of puddles and their reflections for inclusion in your photos.
   

Visit.  Do visit.  Be prepared for a bombardment of images! 
 Like me in the photo below: wander, shoot and harm nothing! 


                           (This last photo gets a credit for Susan Dufroese)

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Revitalizing the Wetlands; An Alternative to Draining the Swamps





This duck-like sculpture made me laugh.  Frozen silliness.  When I saw it, I thought of politics.  I hadn't realized how much the news was affecting my appreciation of water.  This has been a year of the drip, drip, drip of criminal allegations, multiple leaks, the seep of scandals, a draining of the swamp, and frozen negotiations.  Water, water and more water. 

Our local newpaper recently had an interesting article.  According to the author, the water fallen on our nearby Blue Mountains seeps through rock at approximately ten feet per year.  That frozen duck in Mill Creek could conceivably be composed of molecules sourced from precipitation that fell a hundred years ago and water from last winter's snow melt.  

Likewise, the political events described in this year's news have their source from influences and situations that began generations ago mixed with the impact of the lastest of tweets.  A century from now our politics will reflect the wisdom we are acquiring from this year's events and the maturity of another hundred years of experimenting with democracy. 

Since seeing the ice duck, I have been looking for pleasing images of water.  The canyons gave me  good examples.

A nearby mountain stream jumped its bed and runs briskly down a former trail.


The shape of sleeping cat drapes over a rock at the foot of a waterfall. 


Crystal-bright water drips down a roadside cut.


In politics, maybe we could look forward to more positive, water-based descriptions like these:  floating ideas,  whirlpools of innovation, flooded with opportunities, rivers of funding, and – instead of draining the swamps – revitalizing the wetlands. 
 

       The water isn't going to stop transforming itself and neither will this democracy.





Thursday, February 1, 2018

Making Decisions by Atmospheric Conditions and the Stage of the Moon


Last night, I questioned the wisdom of driving home the back road over Scenic Loop.  My check engine light glowed in the dark and the traffic would be light or non-existent.  If I broke down, there would be little assistance available.



The beauty of the moon and the sky's ruffled clouds – both easily viewed if I did drive the more isolated route – countered my doubts.

I have made decisions, dubious ones at times, on less criteria than atmospheric conditions and the stage of the moon.  Will my dog enjoy this?  Should I give this man, whose smile I like, my contact information?  Should the fresh pile of bear scat deter me from my walk?  

Occasionally, I formed clearer guidelines to inform my decision-making process. When I was in my twenties, my measure was:  Would I remember the outcome in thirty years?   Now, I sometimes use the strategy of:  Before I die, will the opportunity come my way again?      

But mostly, my choices of where to stop, when to watch, and whom I might welcome into my life depend on the slightest of invitations.   

The curve of hills.


The shade of water flowing against an old bridge wall.


The rare, super blue moon rising.



Usually, all goes well when I make decisions.  After all, I did arrive home with the check engine light still glowing and one gorgeous photo of an adventure on an empty curving road on a moonlit night.