The beginning of wisdom, as the Chinese say, is calling things by their right names. (E. O. Wilson, as cited by Elizabeth J. Rosenthal, Birdwatcher: The Life of Roger Tory Peterson)

Friday, September 9, 2011

Frustrated by the Pennsylvania Smartweed

September 9, 2010.  Thursday.
Situation:  I again begin a day at the computer with Squeak sitting for a while on my lap, nuzzling her face against my arm, then hopping down whenever she feels like it.  Squeak is a calico cat and most like a cat we used to have named Honey, whom Moi called Miss Honey because she was like an old aunt, demure in her motions, who treated sitting on one’s lap as a kind of noble right for herself and as a privilege for anyone sat upon, although I most remember her later days, after she became incontinent and no one would let her on a lap because she was shooting liquid shit out of her ass everywhere.  At one time, when the kids were still all at home, we had as many as five cats, Honey and Jazz’s cat Spook being among them.  The other three cats included Black, a smallish and shy, nightdark stray whom our dog Spot adopted one day, who had a whisper of a meow and who generally avoided laps.  For a long time we never had her spayed, and she produced a great many progeny, whom we gave away and who themselves had more progeny, including a bony longhaired black cat with white paws, a white belly, and a white spot like a milk stain on his upper lip, whom we took on and called Baby (although the Boy first gave him the name Socks, after the then famous White House cat).  Baby was a languid cat, noted for lying down anywhere and everywhere, especially in anything new or newly placed in the house, an empty appliance box, a stack of newly washed towels, a frying pan left on the stove, his wisp of a body seemingly melting into the contours of whatever container he was in.  Of all the animals we’ve had he was the only one that ever slept with me, having found a dozing place on top of my forehead for a summer.  The fifth cat was a wiry gray sleek predator Moi and I picked up from work, whom we called Puss.  Puss hated laps, would run from any arms trying to pick him up, and spent most of his time outdoors chasing rodents.  But if you stepped outside, Puss would inevitably find you, curl up his tail, and rub his taut belly against your legs.  (I should mention that we might have had a sixth cat, but Smoky, a gray cat similar to Puss, wandered down our old lane and was killed by a car not long after we got him.)  I have no work tonight, but I do have work during the day.  Work all afternoon, get home about 4:30, and immediately change into my walking clothes.
State of the Path:  I bring along the Audubon, thinking that I’ll maybe at least try to identify Moi’s new plant.  I don’t immediately find the birch branch, and consider for a moment using another stick, when I think to look on the rim of Mway’s wading pool, where indeed it is.  Mway is feeling feisty today, and chases the chickens around the yard.  Moi left for work this afternoon wearing a sweater; dark watery clouds hang in a blue sky, not a drop of water falling from them.  More and more leaves on the black walnuts are tainted yellow.  I brush away drooping goldenrod on the main path with the birch branch, until I come to a briar that bars the path completely.  As I fight to push it out of the way, a dead briar close to the ground at the same time attacks my pant leg.  Moi’s plant is just beyond: if these flowers were elongated, and not in a cluster, I would definitely call them smartweed (Audubon shows photos of at least three different smartweeds, swamp, Pennsylvania, and long-bristled, and the similar looking lady’s thumb).  The leaves are kind of arrow-shaped like those of bindweed, and the stem is bristly and sticky.  I read that Pennsylvania smartweed has a “sticky-haired stalk,” and when I then check on what I’ve been considering to be Pennsylvania smartweed I find that these plants don’t have that; I despair of ever getting these plants straight and wish I had a full day to study them.  As I duck under the pin oaks, my eyes meet some new reddening leaves I did not notice before; I soon realize that almost every tree and bush now has some dying leaves.  Along the creek, I might come across some new wildflowers – I say “might” because I’m so frustrated by the smartweed I try to ignore everything else.  I do note some more lavender asters at the feed channel (which I cross without a problem), and some more of them in bug land, where the ironweed has now mostly crinkled up brown.
State of the Creek:  I expect that the creek might be completely dried up and first notice that the puddle at the log jam is gone.  At the narrows only one puddle is still there; the one closest to the vinyl siding has dwindled to a spot of mud.  There’s still a pool of water below the swale, viewable only from the crest of the skating pond.  I step around some bushes and a small tree to see how far back toward the swale it extends; seems to me it might be about 15 feet, more water than I expected.
The Fetch:  As I step into the clearing, I note (as I may have noted before) a giant anthill in front of the “chokeberry” bush, which may be why Mway seems to sometimes hesitate when I throw the stick in that direction.  I throw the stick once in another direction and then ask myself why I feel like I have to pay attention while I’m doing this, when before I know it Mway seems ready to stop.  Probably less than ten fetches today.  In the back yard, Mway slips quickly into her wading pool and deposits the birch branch on the rim.  Though I like to brag to Moi about how I’m a polar bear swimmer, I don’t think I’ll go into the pool today; Moi has turned the filter off, and quite a few dead black walnut leaves are floating in the water. But I’m still feeling cruddy after the walk, and I wonder if I should take a shower.

1 comment:

sisyphus gregor said...

Picked up Moi today from the hotel where the Red Cross dropped her off this morning. Dennehy’s won’t be able to return to their house probably until Sunday, so they are still here, together with their old dog, Sam, who doesn’t do much but sleep and make frustrated faces, as no one in particular will have noticed. (Not sure how to pluralize Dennehy – Dennehys or Dennehies doesn’t look right; Dennehy’s looks possessive – could use advice from anyone interested in such matters.)