"What Is it?" St. George Island Nature Identification

First, the hardest shot:



Next, from farther back, a strange animal appears:



Finally, the easiest (a family of plants not entirely foreign to Great Lakes people):

“That’s So Random!” or, Island-Hopping Thoughts and Some Questions They Dredge Up

What joy, arranging books on new bookshelves! It is purely delicious!

There is no map or agenda for today’s post, which contains random reading and assorted sights that attracted my eye and camera. Susan, you may skip from picture to picture, if you like, but the word parts aren’t excessively long, either—more like verbal snapshots.

First, former northern resident and forever-Michigan writer Jim Harrison was quoted somewhere recently (I read it requoted in “Shelf Awareness”) describing the late Barry Hannah as "one of those young writers who is brilliantly drunk with words and could at gunpoint write the life story of a telephone pole.” Anyone else agree?

In her memoir, Riding the Bus With My Sister, one of Rachel Simon’s many insights was this one near the end of the book: “...I know that in her eyes I will always be the big sister. It is both my bridge to her and the moat eternally between us.” Rachel’s sister Beth is retarded, but the bridge and the moat may be part of any sibling relationship. Think so, fellow sisters? (I think so.)

“What happened in the Scottsboro case wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that the world heard about it.” It will take me a long time to close the book Scottsboro Boy completely. Haywood Patterson’s tragic life, like that of Anne Frank, haunts me long after its end, which occurred before my own beginning. Diary, memoir, biography and autobiography all let us inhabit another’s skin and life. When that life ends too early and with horrible cruelty, do we mourn for the dead or for ourselves?

Benjamin Franklin. My new hero. Must read more of Founding Fathers in general. Everyone, I suppose, has a favorite?

“Never mind the palmy setting, the people here were as cruel and violent and crafty as people anywhere, but they were slower and so seemed mild.” Paul Theroux’s narrator of Hotel Honolulu says this of Hawaii. One could apply the same observation to Florida, as “people anywhere” admits of no perfect earthly paradise. But then, too, Michigan can’t be let off the hook, eh? “Never mind the pristine wilderness setting....”


George Bernard Shaw certainly had the Irish gift for words pithy and succinct. Not for the first time, however, I reflect in reading him that verbal facility can be as much a pitfall as an asset. From Karl Marx to Ayn Rand, how many thinkers and writers have been led astray by the force and attraction of their own insights, pursuing half-truths far beyond reasonable conclusions? “Overstate your case, and you weaken your case.” I wish that were as true as it should be. Unfortunately, as hearers and readers, too, we human beings are easily blinded by brilliance, seduced by siren songs to shipwreck upon rocky philosophical shores. (Feel free to nominate a candidate of your own choosing here.)

Change of pace! Ogden Nash! “Does anyone read Ogden Nash any more?” David asks dubiously. “Some of us,” I reply with arch and exaggerated dignity, “grew up on Ogden Nash, and he is very important to us!” A surprised expression greeted my defense. “You don’t say!” I.e., why on earth? Well, how about, to name only one reason, for the sake of his captivating, easily memorized little animal verses?

“The Pig”

The pig, if I am not mistaken;
Supplies us sausage, ham, and bacon.
Let others say his heart is big—
I call it stupid of the pig.

Or

“The Canary”

The song of canaries
Never varies,
And when they’re moulting
They’re pretty revolting.

Beware! Ogden Nash fans, once started, are difficult to stop. If you should not care for his verses and find yourself in the company of a couple of Nashers, walk, don’t run, to the nearest exit! “If called by a panther, don’t anther.” I mean it. If, on the other hand, you are a fan yourself, feel free to chime in with your favorite.

A Pair of Feathered Parents

Sandhill cranes are no fools. They raise only two youngsters at a time; that way, as long as the parents maintain a united front they are never outnumbered by demanding children. This mama and papa are still in the easiest stage of parenthood, that of anticipation.

Latest Sightings from Birdland

I’ll never make my mark as a wildlife photographer. For that I’d have to spend more time both behind the wheel (rather than as a passenger) and out of the car, on foot. I’d also need a much, much better zoom feature on my camera, not to mention years of training, knowledge and experience. So, it’s not in the cards, and I have to start this post by admitting that I have not a single photograph of the pair of sandhill cranes with their adorable little rust-colored chicks, a family we saw on the side of the road near Hernando Beach a few days back, the parents so elegant, the babies so charming!

Later in the day, down at Jenkins Creek where we had gone with our folding chairs to sit in the sun and read and draw (wearing jackets, please note), I failed again, repeatedly, to catch a great blue heron in flight as it swooped down in pursuit of a fish on the end of someone’s line. Storks, on the other hand, skulking around like grumpy, hunchbacked beggars, were no trick at all to catch in the camera’s eye.



Somewhere in between total failure and resounding success were my attempts to photograph a majestic bald eagle. Well, majestic in appearance, like the great blue heron, but, like the heron, eager to let someone else do the fishing and then zero in to steal the catch. High in a bare, dead tree, late afternoon sun bathing him in golden light, the eagle was an exciting vision. But you see where a more powerful zoom would have been more than handy.



It’s been a pretty birdy winter here in Florida. There was that roseate spoonbill on Valentine’s Day, and another day I had a marvelously clear view through binoculars of an eastern bluebird—a common bird, I know, but I don’t commonly see it. “Our most common woodpecker” is exciting to me, too, whenever I get a clear, close view of one like this:


And I don’t think I have yet posted this closeup of a crested cormorant.


One of the best things about Florida is that after several visits to winter bird paradise David is finally getting over the worst of his bird-phobia and becoming interested in feathered and flying things. But did he want me to check out the National Geographic video of birds of America? He hasn’t come that far along yet.

Exploring the Neighborhood on Foot

Not far from where Old Dixie Highway joins Aripeka Road there is currently an interesting parcel of land, currently accessible to the public. I was disappointed to learn that this area was not swapped to Pasco County by SunWest but the other way around, and it is slated to become, eventually, a golf course. I have nothing against golf. I have dear friends who are golfers. But have you ever known a golf course to revert to wild land accessible to the public? Yet much “undeveloped” (I call it “wild”) land is turned into golf courses. Is there some national shortage of golf courses? Is there a national shortage of condominiums? –But let me not become distracted by my wishes for a different future from that planned by developers, because the truth is that the present world offered us some very pleasing new vistas on Sunday afternoon in our Aripeka neighborhood. Also, my negative remarks in the last post didn't go over very well, so here's some happy talk today.

Any chance to get off the road on foot, away from cars and houses and commerce, is a delight. When there is water involved, the delight is compounded. Sun on the water? Signs of spring? Boundless joy!


The pond is a former limestone quarry. Limestone mining was a big thing around here, most of the material (I think this is correct) going for road base. A little distance away from the pond, the remains of an old roadbed lead to the remains of a building that once stood on the spot, housing an office, stone crusher and scales. Any kind of “ruins” bring out the amateur archaeologist (i.e., little kid) in me, and the closer one approaches, the more small details one finds to observe and appreciate.








Like Leelanau County’s Lime Lake, these old quarries with their limestone bottoms are remarkably blue. The bottoms of old quarries, however, do not slope gently.


The same informant who told us what the old building was used for also speculated that the pond may be 30 or 40 feet deep. When Sarah impulsively decided to step in for a swim, she was surprised and startled to find that her feet weren’t touching bottom and that it was pretty difficult to scramble up a vertical shore--not the piece of underwater shore pictured above but over on the other side of the pond. Still, a dog swim is usually a good swim. It’s invigorating and gives a dog a glorious sense of freedom before going back on the leash.

A Tale of Two Tourist Cities

Four years ago, when we were staying in Weeki Wachee, it was not unusual for us to drive down to Tarpon Springs two or even three times a week, pulled as if by magnetic force to the sponge docks, downtown, to the city’s many attractive parks and neighborhoods. Already fortunate to be in Florida for the coldest part of the Michigan winter, we two dreamers still lived several fantasy lives in parallel with our actual existence, and one of our favorites was an old apartment across the Anclote River from the sponge docks, where we could sit by the window and watch the boats and birds and the street life on the opposite shore.

We are more settled and more focused this year, no longer in deep exploratory mode and running off to the north and east and south to Homosassa Springs, Yankeetown, Inverness, Brooksville and Tarpon Springs at the drop of a hat. The cold weather, too, has made it easier for us to stick to our books and canvasses, rather than forsaking them for the open road. And then there is frugality, always a feature of our lives but more so than ever this winter. So January and most of February somehow slipped away, and we had not been to Tarpon Springs once.

But such a state of affairs could not continue forever. Our friend Michael’s visit was a perfect excuse to visit the sponge docks for lunch on a sunny, if not terribly warm, winter afternoon, following up with Greek coffee on a back street sidewalk. And then, once reacquainted with the irresistible Mediterranean atmosphere, David and I were drawn back again a few days later. The nip in the air was even sharper the second time. I wished for a heavier coat. But our self-indulgence in making the impulsive trip was more than repaid by the unexpected presence of a harpist making heavenly music on the docks.

We sat on a bench to listen and enjoy, and when the musician stopped briefly, David initiated a conversation, as is his wont. A delightful woman! Studied in Paris, has played all over the world, is living in Tarpon Springs this winter while she and a friend build a boat to sail to Europe. We were charmed! She for her part was intrigued by what we told her about Aripeka. Then she asked where we were from, and we said Michigan.

“I was in Michigan once,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s the only place I was ever asked to leave.”

We were chagrined and asked her what town had been so stupidly inhospitable.

“I don’t remember the name, but it was called the Cherry Capital of the World.”

Now we were really chagrined! Because she had been playing on a downtown sidewalk in Traverse City, at a time when there was no festival going on, she was invited by a plainclothes policeman to “cease and desist” unless she obtained a permit that carried a pricetag of fifty dollars a day. Outrageous! This woman had been asked to pay for the privilege of providing beautiful free music for passers-by in a tourist town, adding to the town’s casual cultural ambience?

“I’ve played all over the world,” she told us with a calm smile, holding no bitterness for having been so badly treated on our home grounds, “and I’ve never been asked to stop playing anywhere else.” She had not protested, she said, but simply left town. “I figured it was a fight for local musicians, and I had other places to go.”

Luckily for us, one of those other places this year is Tarpon Springs, just down the pike from where we’re staying, so we will be able to enjoy again the live music of Meta Epstein, in a town that recognizes the value of beautiful music to entertain locals and tourists alike, and until our next visit to the sponge docks we have her CD, “Celtic,” featuring traditional Irish melodies.

But Traverse City, please tell me, what were you thinking? Please tell me it wasn't a plainclothes cop but a scammer with no official city ties! I did assure Meta that if she were ever to come to Northport, I will take personal responsibility for seeing that she receives the welcome she deserves.

[Note to my friend Laurie: Meta is currently preparing an all-Bach album, which I know you will love when it becomes available!]

On the Water, Part III

Some of the most beautiful scenes of our Sunday on the water were along the palm-lined mouth of the Weeki Wachee River and adjacent salt marsh sawgrass coast and palm hammocks past Bayport.






Among pictures I failed to get were those of manatee greeting us as we made our way upriver. Unlike dolphins, these ungainly marine mammals don’t leap through the air in graceful arcs, though they do glide silently through the water alongside a boat in much the same way. And I must say that the old river and ocean hands in the boat, while they may not have my eye for the funky, are aces when it comes to spotting manatees. They also know where all the osprey nests are.

Well, because the tide was high on our return to Hernando Beach (where we caught a ride back to Aripeka), and because Captain Steve has been boating in these waters for thirty years, he was able to take a shortcut from one channel to another between two little islands. Thrill ride! Shrimp boats (the chief shrimp fishing in these parts is for bait shrimp, I’m told) were going out as we were coming in, and I would have liked to get pictures of those serious watercraft, but our sharp turn into the channel caught me by surprise, and it as all I could do to hang on.


And now that a week of heavy socializing is behind us and we’re caught up on laundry, the Pack of Three (like Gang of Four or Group of Seven) is getting back to its quiet routine. Sarah loved all the company, but she was happy to see the dog park again, too. Now, if only we didn’t need the furnace indoors and heavy jackets outside! It’s all right. March will blow in soon.

On the Water, Part II

Here’s something that struck me on our Sunday cruise: It is that people who have spent 20 or 30 years or more in these waters, along these shores, give themselves permission when out in a boat to speak of other matters. They know so well the surroundings that are mesmerizing to me that most of what I am devouring with my eyes is unremarkable to them. A school of dolphin out on the Gulf or a manatee in the river will still interrupt talk of real estate prices or the never-resolved motor-vs.-sailboat debate, but in between the conversation could be taking place in a bar or on someone’s patio. And that’s fine. But for me being on these waters is like nothing else, like nowhere else, and to make the most of being there on Sunday I found myself as far back in the stern as possible, where the engine noise reduced the voices of the others to a distant murmur. As they gave themselves permission to be elsewhere in their conversation, I gave myself permission to be absent from that conversation. A guest, not a hostess, I let myself enjoy the breeze and brine more quietly and more directly. No one seemed to mind.

So, back to our day on the water. After coming out the channel from Hernando Beach, back into the Gulf of Mexico, with Captain Steve at the helm, we covered another roughly parallel stretch (very rough parallel, you understand) to the mouth of the Weeki Wachee River near Bayport, where again we were met by friendly dolphins.



This bit of shore reminds me of the mouth of the Suwannee, though the latter is one of the longest rivers in Florida (its source is up in Georgia in the Okefenookee Swamp and the Weeki one of the shortest, coming only from the springs west of Hwy. 19. Doesn’t it look different from Michigan? Can you wonder that I wouldn’t want to miss a thing along the way?



We saw many birds, from gangs of salty, bachelor cormorants (at least, I imagined them to be bachelors) to old senior citizen pelicans to a young nest-building couple of great blue herons, preparing for a venture (perhaps not their first) into family life.

[


We saw lots of dogs, from friendly Jack on land to old-hand boat dogs.




And here was my favorite house on the river, simple and old-fashioned. Years ago there would have been vastly fewer houses, and most of them, I imagine, would have looked like this.