Author: Robinne Weiss

Wolves

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IMG_1524 smToday’s vacation outings included a trip to the Wolf Sanctuary of Pennsylvania. Though wolves and humans alike were wilting in the 94-degree heat, it was an interesting tour.

The animals’ individual stories were sometimes heartbreaking—most of them had been removed from owners who kept them illegally, often in poor conditions.

The wolves, kept in small to medium-sized ‘packs’ throughout the 80 acres of the sanctuary, ranged from the friendly young one who begged the keeper for a scratch through the fence, to the wary animal (kept for nine years on a chain in someone’s back yard) who wouldn’t come near the fence, even for a venison snack.

The wolf pictured here was happy to approach the fence and display his remarkable sense of smell. As you can see in the photo, he is blind—cataracts. In the wild, a blind wolf would be driven from his pack—there’s no room for disability in the wild (at the sanctuary, he is kept in a pack of two to avoid this). In captivity, he clearly thrives, making his way by smell and hearing. While we watched, he sniffed out a chunk of meat thrown into the undergrowth, and our guide related how he had once caught a rabbit that wandered into his enclosure.

Seeing these wolves in captivity was nothing like hearing wild wolves howl at night in northern Minnesota. And the stories of how they cam to be at the sanctuary are a terrible symptom of humans’ desire for mastery over wild animals. But I was glad for the opportunity to see these marvelous animals up close, an to know that in spite of their sad pasts, they are now being cared for with compassion and respect for their physical and social needs.

Some Things Never Change

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Photo: Peter Weiss

Summer. The beach. Sisters.

These photos were taken forty years apart. My sister and I at Barnegat in 1976, and my nieces at the same beach in 2016.

They could practically be the same girls.

Photo: Peter Weiss

Photo: Peter Weiss

Playing in the waves with your sister. Perhaps you didn’t spend much time together at other times. Perhaps your sister was the younger, irritating type. Or perhaps she was the older, bossy type. But you went to the beach, and there, with the waves rolling in, and the sand stretching on forever, you were kindred spirits. You laughed and played stupid games with the waves and sand. You collected shells together. You built sand castles.

And maybe you went back home and ignored one another, or maybe you yelled at each other, or maybe you enjoyed each other’s company at home, too. But the beach was a special bond. A place where your irritations with one another were set aside, and you were sisters—real sisters—braving the ocean together.

 

Cicada Killers

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IMG_1470How can you not love an insect called a cicada killer?

The eastern cicada killer (Sphecius speciosus) is a solitary burrowing wasp. One of the largest wasps in eastern North America, the females top out at about 5 cm (2 inches) in length. These beautiful, large wasps are harmless to humans, but deadly to cicadas.

The female catches and stings adult cicadas. The sting paralyses, but doesn’t kill the cicada. The wasp then takes her immobilized prey to her underground burrow where she lays eggs on them. Male eggs get one cicada each, and female eggs get two or three cicadas (because females are bigger and need more food to reach adulthood). The eggs hatch out, and the wasp larvae eat the cicadas.

Cicada killers, looking a lot like giant hornets, strike fear into most people’s hearts. Their behaviour can be frightening, too. Males defend territories from other males, and can be seen fighting one another, grappling in midair. But males have no stinger, so they’re completely harmless to humans. Female cicada killers can theoretically sting, but unlike the social wasps, they don’t sting to defend their nests. You’re only likely to be stung by a cicada killer if you pick it up and squeeze it.

The cicada killer in this photo is a male. His territory is in my mother’s garden, and he is reliably found on a particular plant in the morning sun, sallying forth to challenge other males who get too close.

Garden of Colour

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IMG_1454I don’t get to visit my parents very often, as they live on the other side of the planet. When I do, I am always struck by my mother’s garden.

For me, flowers are a second-thought. I like them, but I’m so focused on the vegetable garden, I don’t have the energy leftover for the effort of growing flowers. Nor do I really have the water to keep them growing through summer.

IMG_1453 (1)My mother, however, focuses on flowers, and her garden is a stunning show of colour. It’s amazing to me the wide variety of plants she packs into such a small space!

 

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Like Those Lichens

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2016-07-04 10.32.44 smLichens are one of those groups of organisms that defies categorisation. A lichen is a symbiosis between a fungus and either a green alga or cyanobacteria. As such, they are neither strictly fungus, nor plant, nor bacteria.

Nor are all lichens the same. The relationships between fungi and their photosynthesising partners did not all evolve from a common ancestor, so each relationship is unique. In all cases, the fungus has the upper hand—capturing and enveloping its algal partner, and drawing carbohydrates from it. In some relationships, the fungus is only mildly parasitic, and in others it better resembles a disease on the alga.

The algae, however, do reap some benefit from the relationship. The fungal hyphae protect the alga from excess sunlight and keep it moist, allowing it to thrive in places it would otherwise be unable to survive.

Then there are the lichens that are parasitic on other lichens, stealing their algae, and those that begin as a lichen, but then become independently living fungi—there seems no upper limit on the complexity of lichen relationships.

Separate a lichen into its component organisms, and each will take on a form quite different from their joint lichen form–the lichen is more than the sum of its parts.

Together, lichens can colonise some of the most inhospitable places on the planet—bare rock, polar regions, mountain peaks, intertidal zones, and even the backs of living insects.

They certainly like to colonise my yard—benches, tree trunks, my office deck, even the roofs of house and shed are home to lichens. Many of the lichens in our yard are leaflike or shrubby in form, which is a good indication that our air quality is high. Shrubby and leaflike lichens don’t like air pollution, and tend to vanish in more industrial areas.

Biology and ecology aside, lichens are simply beautiful, with their intricate shapes and sometimes vivid colours. There’s a lot to like about lichens.

Be a Plantain

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2016-06-29 14.01.15 smWeeds are survivors—that’s part of what makes them weeds—and none more so than the lowly plantain. This plant, carried throughout the world by European colonists for its medicinal uses, thrives in even the most inhospitable places.

It is common along roadsides and paths, in lawns, and even in the tiniest of cracks in pavement. It withstands trampling and mowing, and can resprout from pieces of root left in the soil.

It was known by the Anglo-Saxons as waybread or waybroad, for its habit of colonising roadsides, and it was revered for its tenacity.

And thou, Waybroad,
Mother of Worts,
Open from eastward,
Mighty within;
Over thee carts creaked,
Over thee Queens rode,
Over thee brides bridalled,
Over thee bulls breathed,
All these thou withstoodest
Venom and vile things
And all the loathly ones,
That through the land rove.

Anglo-Saxon poem about plantain, as reproduced in A City Herbal, by Maida Silverman.

As a gardener, I should despise plantain’s tenacity, it’s ability to invade and overtake my garden. Instead, I side with the Anglo-Saxons—I admire it. I might even say I aspire to be as tenacious myself.

Be tough. Be strong. Thrive in spite of the tramplings of life (or the bridalling of brides). Be a plantain.

Saturday Stories: Killers for Hire

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“Now, would that be who I pledge to, or whom I pledge to?” muttered Jane chewing on the end of her pen. “Or should it be to whom I pledge?” She sighed and threw the pen down. “This is never going to work.”

“What’s not going to work?” Jane’s colleague, Babs appeared around the corner of her cubicle, munching an apple. She sat on the corner of Jane’s desk and looked down at the paperwork spread out on it.

“You still working on that wedding?”

Jane nodded.

“I don’t get why it’s so hard to stop a wedding. Just pop off the bride or the groom. I mean, that’s what we’re trained for. It’s what being an assassin is all about.”

Jane sighed. “But I’m supposed to be killing love, not the people involved in it.”

“What kind of stupid job is that?” Babs spoke with her mouth full, and droplets of apple juice splattered across Jane’s desk.

“Well, how many real assassination jobs have we had in the past six months?”

“Um…”

“Exactly. Assassination isn’t stylish anymore. It isn’t the trendy thing to do like it was a couple of years ago. Have you seen the ad the boss ran in the paper last week?”

“Nah, I don’t bother with the paper.”

Jane picked a folded newspaper out of her recycling bin and paged through it to the classified section.

“Here,” she said, handing the paper to Babs and tapping at a quarter-page ad.

“Assassinations Incorporated—more than just bodies,” read Babs. “You’ve trusted us to eliminate your enemies and loved ones for over 35 years. Now Assassinations Inc. has expanded our services to meet all your killing needs. Sick of the cat? We can take care of that! Got roaches? No problem. Tired of undying love? We’ve got you covered. We can kill the lights, the fatted calf, the goose that lays the golden egg, and even two birds with one stone. Need to dress to kill? Let our sartorial staff help. Want to kill with kindness? We have gifts for all occasions. Trying to kill the clock? Let our sports team step in. We’ll even kill time for you, if that’s what you need.” She threw the paper down in disgust. “What is this shit?”

“It’s the brave new world, I suppose,” said Jane, shaking her head. “Anyway, the King of Baumgarte has hired us to stop his daughter marrying that poet guy—Julius what’s-his-name.”

“Julius VonStrueben? I love his stuff!”

“Yeah, well, apparently so does Princess Kalla. But the king can’t stand the guy. Being a thoroughly modern monarch, he doesn’t want to tell Kalla she can’t marry him, but he wants to make sure she doesn’t.”

“So, why not just kill the guy?”

“Kill the national poet of his own country?” Jane shook her head. “Every woman in Baumgarte is in love with the guy—the king would have a popular revolt on his hands if he did that.”

“That’s what our Confidentiality Prime service is for—to guarantee no one ever knows who ordered the job. Surely a king can afford the extra for that?”

Jane shrugged. “Maybe, but like I said, assassination just isn’t fashionable anymore. He’s only asked for us to kill the love, not the lover.”

“And so how are you planning on doing that?” asked Babs as she picked up one of the papers off Jane’s desk.

Jane snatched the paper back, but not before Babs had gotten a good look.

“You’re writing poetry?” She sniggered.

“Well, he’s a poet. I figured that if she happened to find some poems he wrote to other women…”

“And you think you can write poetry like Julius VonStrueben?”

Jane sighed. “I suppose it was a bad idea. But how else would a poet express himself to a lover? How else can I convince Princess Kalla that VonStrueben’s a two-timing jerk?”

The women were silent for a moment. Then Babs’ thoughtful expression turned to a smile.

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat. What if you convinced her that VonStrueben was, in fact, completely besotted with her?”

“How would that help?”

“What if VonStrueben were to write poetry for Kalla? Really bad poetry.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it. How would you feel if your boyfriend—”

“I don’t have one.”

Babs dismissed the technicality with a wave.

“Assuming you did, how would you feel if your boyfriend smothered you with really awful love poems?”

Jane wrinkled her nose.

“You see?”

“Yeah, but I’m not a princess. Aren’t princesses supposed to like that sort of thing?”

“Maybe if they’re good poems, but what if Kalla began to think that VonStrueben hadn’t actually written all those poems he’s famous for? What if she thought she was in danger of marrying a guy who not only couldn’t write, but who had become famous by claiming someone else’s writing as his own?”

Jane considered the idea for a moment.

“Not quite as sure as the philanderer tactic.”

Babs picked up a paper off Jane’s desk and read it aloud.

How many ways do I love thee?

I love thee like a tree.

I love thee like a bee.

I love thee like a well-ripened brie.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Poetry this bad addressed to someone else? She’ll dismiss it for what it is—a ploy to make her ditch VonStrueben. But I’m sure he writes poetry to her—all you’d have to do is exchange the good poetry for your bad stuff, and she’d begin to look for a way out. Half a dozen poems like this, and she’ll be running for the door.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Babs shrugged. “You’re an assassin. You’ll figure something out.” She patted Jane on the shoulder and left.

Jane sighed and picked up the poem Babs had read aloud, reading it again to herself.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have included the brie,” she muttered. She tossed the paper aside, pulled out a clean sheet, and got to work.

 

Creative Combinations

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2016-07-08 13.14.04 smOne of the cool things about having teenaged children is their increasing ability to combine ideas and skills in new and exciting ways.

Last weekend, my daughter was weaving flax fronds. I noted she had the Fun with Flax book out, and assumed she was making one of the projects in that book.

Some time later, I saw her with a wide cylinder of woven flax and a stick. She was using the stick to spin and toss the flax cylinder into the air.

I thought the idea must have come from the book, but no–she’d used weaving techniques in the book to create a unique shape, then used new skills in plate spinning (learned in PE in their circus arts unit) to manipulate the woven shape at the end of a stick.

How awesome is that?

Disrupted and Disgruntled

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In the basket--that lasted about 10 minutes.

In the basket–that lasted about 10 minutes.

No one likes to have their routine disrupted. And no one hates it more than a cat.

I recently took the bean bag chair out of my office. The cat was the only one who sat on it there, and the build-up of cat hair on it was triggering my allergies.

I cleaned off the hair and put it in the living room, where we’ve been enjoying it.

Well, everyone except the cat.

In the recycling box--a bit small for him.

In the recycling box–a bit small for him.

He used to spend all day sleeping in the chair in my office. Now he doesn’t quite know what to do. I’ve provided him a basket in the office, but he doesn’t want anything to do with it. He also won’t sleep on the bean bag chair in the living room. Instead, he prowls from one spot to another, spending no more than a few minutes in each spot. In between naps, he sits at my feet and howls his indignation at me, punctuating his howls with vicious bites (it’s a good thing I wear jeans).

He’ll get over it, eventually, as we all do when change happens. At some point, we’ll get tired of the bean bag chair in the living room (it takes up an awful lot of space in there), and it will move back to my office. Then the cat will be pissed off at me for putting the bean bag chair into the office, and we’ll have to deal with his disruption all over again.

Change is tough.

Tūrangawaewae

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DSC_0095 smIt’s Maori language week, so I thought I’d share one of my favourite Maori words—tūrangawaewae.

Tūrangawaewae is a place to stand, where a person feels strong and at home. It doesn’t really have an English equivalent. Homeland comes sort of close, but one’s homeland is not always one’s tūrangawaewae.

Though I am not a religious person, I am a spiritual one, and the word tūrangawaewae speaks to me in a spiritual way. I know where my tūrangawaewae is. It’s not so much an actual place, but a biome–the forests of the north eastern US. I am an organic part of that biome. It is wired into my nerves and muscles. Every leaf, animal and rock feels familiar.

I have little use for American culture, and no affinity with the cities and interstate highways that encroach upon my tūrangawaewae. I have honestly tried to find a new tūrangawaewae here in my adopted home. There are many places here I love. Many places to which I feel drawn. But none matches my tūrangawaewae for that deep sense of belonging.

Where is your tūrangawaewae?