A New Pink Wildflower I Can't Identify

July 25, 2010.  Sunday.

Situation:  I have to, as usual, work today, but at a different place, so I won’t have as much commuting time taking up my day.  It rained last night so I’m curious to know how the creek is faring.  When I wake up, Moi is milling around the house, getting ready to take Mway out to fetch stick (she won’t take her for a walk when the weeds are wet). (I have to break off for a moment and jump in the pool; sweat is pouring down my face as I write.)  Mway must bark for about 10 minutes while waiting for Moi to take her out; “Damn it,” I think to myself, “take the dog out already.”  Finally she takes Mway out, and I have to deal with my computer warming up.  I don’t have to leave for work till noon; Moi plans to bottle beer, and has cleaned the kitchen, with a strict pronouncement that I have to eat my breakfast by a certain time.  At any rate, when Moi finishes fetching stick with Mway, I decide to take the dog for a full walk; there could be thunderstorms this afternoon and evening.  Mway is already outside when I step out the door, about 10.

State of the Path:  I stick to the main path.  The weeds are dripping a little with rain, but the path is fairly open since I clipped many of the weeds a few days ago, although there is a new line of weeds leaning into the path, including the moth mullein I spared with my clippers.  At bug land, the red grass, with brown lower stems, is bent over and thatched together.  Between the pin oaks and the hedgerow, the ground looks like an autumn scene: no plants, brown leaves and broken branches, dead branches hanging down from the big oak in the hedgerow.  I walk past the flowers that, when I look at them today, I doubt are St. johnswort, but I have no time to bother to try to identify them today.  The weeds are choking the path at the swale from bug land, through the red willows, and on the other side of the ridge.  I wander over to the feed channel.  There’s a little bit of water in it, and I don’t intend to step across.  Just before it, I spot a new wildflower with a pink carnation-like flower; it looks something like milkweed; I’ve leafed through Audubon without finding anything I can confidently say is it.  The purple wildflowers stand tall in bug land, a dozen or more plants in all, as nameless as ever.  On the other side of the ridge, before the anthill, a bramble clutches me across the chest, almost scratching my face.

State of the Creek:  The pools look a little fuller, but not as much as I expected from the hard rains last night.  The rock beds between the pools are still mostly dry.  At the pool beyond the big locusts, the water does not yet touch the piece of vinyl siding.

The Fetch:  Since Moi already threw stick for Mway, I expect Mway to only fetch the stick once up at the clearing.  And, dripping with sweat as I am, I’m very happy when she does just that.

A Catbird? and -- Could It Be a Black-throated Sparrow?

July 24, 2010.  Saturday.

Situation:  Moi is working all day today, and I’m working alone tonight.  Decide to take Mway out in the morning, before the heat and possible thunderstorms of the afternoon.  It’s 10:42.  Yesterday Steve Gray Wolf came to the house to look at the possibility of painting the high part of the side of our house.  He said he’s extremely allergic to poison ivy and that we’d have to pull all of it out of the flower beds (more properly called “weed” beds) before he could paint.  Usually once a summer I pull down any poison ivy vines that have started creeping up the side of the house, and I clip the leaves of any poison ivy I see, but to pull it out, to dig down in the ground and pull out the root system, is a major undertaking, and Moi and I haven’t discussed the matter.  While we’re out looking at the side of the house, I see two curly dock plants (Moi has to remind me of the name) that are each about 4 feet high.  Steve has never seen curly dock (a common lawn weed) at that height.  “All our plants grow to their maximum heights,” Moi boasts.

State of the Path:  Out in the lawn I see a black-capped chickadee fly from the grass into the mulberry tree.  I haven’t been mentioning birds too much lately, mainly because they’ve been usually hidden in trees.  I call this bird a chickadee, but, after looking through Audubon, I think it looks more like a black-throated sparrow, and I would say it was a black-throated sparrow, except that Audubon says this is a bird of the arid Southwest.  Near the walled garden, I spot another bull thistle along the path; the one deeper in the weeds has sprouted fuzzy seeds.  Along the old orchard, I see a hollow in the trunk of a black walnut tree, and I poke the “pro-quality” stick into it.  A monarch butterfly (though it could be a viceroy) sails by the back hedgerow.  I didn’t bring along the clippers, but I pull up a goldenrod or three or four as I walk along; still have to wade through them at the end of the side path.  Down at the wigwams, I spot one of the purple wildflowers I’ve been trying to identify, and along the creek, I see some new yellow flowers.  I don’t feel like trying to identify them today, and, anyway, I think they might be St. johnswort.  Some sort of mammal with bright brown fur scoots ahead of us along the creek – I don’t know what it is; Mway doesn’t see it, but catches its scent after it’s gone.  Along the ridge, I go to look at the purple wildflowers again.  It angers me that I don’t know what these are, because I remember seeing them in years past.  Beyond what I described yesterday, I note that these plants have reddish stems, and reddish veins down the center of its leaves.  Just before the strawberry patch, a bird in a maple tree scolds me with an obscene sucking sound.  Is it a catbird?  I don’t know what it is, and I can’t see any bird when I look up in the tree.

State of the Creek:  The pools of water are shrinking; what water used to be lying below the big locusts is now gone; the rock beds are dry again.  The fungus on the log at the log jam has fallen off or shriveled up.

The Fetch:  No messing around today – just one fetch. (But, after all, Moi already took her out this morning.)

Still Can't Identify the Purple Wildflower

July 23, 2010.  Friday.

Situation:  Last night I described to Moi the purple wildflower down at bug land – without looking at it, she said it was probably Canadian thistle, but I don’t think she’s right about this.  This morning I searched thistle online, as well as the similar knapweed, but I didn’t find anything to my satisfaction.  The photo on one site of a common knapweed showed a flower very similar to mine, but nothing in the description of the plant seemed right.  I came across a guy named Josh in a similar dilemma I’m in, but with the advantage of having a camera, who posted a flower he took a photo of and confessed he didn’t know whether it was a thistle or a knapweed, and asked for comments.  I see I’m hardly alone in the world about being confused about wildflowers, but Josh’s flower, whether a thistle or a knapweed, didn’t look like mine.  I have to work tonight, and decide to take Mway for her walk about 10:30, bringing along the Audubon, though without much hope of settling my confusion.

State of the Path:  Near the pig pen, underneath a couple young black walnut trees, I see a bull thistle – no doubt in my mind about this, as the photo in Audubon matches exactly what I see, and whatever’s down at bug land is definitely not a bull thistle.  I decide to take the side path along the old orchard, as I haven’t gone this way in a while.  With the dry weather, the path is still fairly open, except where it finally goes into the goldenrod, which I end up having to wade through.  Some of the jack-in-the-pulpit fruit is still green, some white and rotting, and others, I notice for the first time, are turning orange.  Jewelweed is still flowering here and there, but not as much as I recall it doing in past years.  I don’t whack back any weeds with my stick, although I think about bringing my clippers with me on a walk soon, and I have to pull aside many briars that arch along the path.  Down near the wigwams, a bramble seizes my shoulder and claws my skin for a step or two before I finally pull away from it.  Along the creek, I decide that the yellow flower I saw yesterday is indeed fringed loosestrife, but much beleaguered from the dry weather.  Finally in bug land, I take another look at the purple wildflower – I still can’t identify it.  Whatever it is it has purple thistle-like flowers, about a half-inch wide, with bracts beneath them, appearing in clusters at the crown.  The clusters on some of the plants have as many as thirty potential flowers, although only a half dozen to a dozen of the flowers in the center are opened.  The leaves are bluish-green, elongated, with fine serrations on the edge.  If I had a camera like Josh, I could post a photo online, and ask for help; as it is, I can only close my book and head with my stick up to the clearing.

State of the Creek:  Under the tree stand, Mway goes into the pool of water – still enough water to take a sip and cool off.   Down where the path narrows, I notice that the piece of vinyl siding, which was under water when I last mentioned it, is now lying on dry creek bed –  the vinyl siding acts as a good marker for the water level.  I see some movement of frogs in the pool of water here, and as I’m trying to see what’s going on, I lose my footing on the creek bank and nearly fall into a patch of weeds.

The Fetch:  Only one fetch – good enough for Mway, good enough for me.

Try to Identify Purple Wildflower in Bug Land

July 22, 2010.  Thursday.

Situation:  I have to work both this afternoon and tonight, so I’ve decided to take Mway out this morning, about 10.

State of the Path:  I bring along the Audubon, my focus to identify the purple wildflower in bug land.  Along the creek, I come across one specimen of a new yellow wildflower, but I’m unable to identify this – I don’t think it’s more fringed loosestrife.  Disappointed I move on to the purple flower.  This seems to me to have petals and bracts like a thistle, but its color is purple and not rose like all the thistles in the book.  The stem and leaves look something like in the photo for tall ironweed, but the flower is all wrong.  Perhaps Moi knows what this plant is.

State of the Creek:  The pools holding their own, water drying up between them.  On the big log at the log jam, a fungus has emerged.  Will I ever have time to try to identify this?

The Fetch:  Two fetches, then Mway forces me to play “Put it down” once.

Long Unidentifiable Weed Turns Out To Be Dogbane

July 6, 2010.  Tuesday.

Situation:  I’m still on an early morning schedule, even though Moi has come home, and wake up about 7:30.  Yesterday the temperature had soared to 101 degrees by late afternoon, and I suggested to Moi, after Ezra left her off, that we cook supper outside on the charcoal grill.  We thawed out some kielbasa and salmon, and I went to the store to pick up some vegetables, ready to try out my vegetable griddle that Jazz had gotten me for Father’s Day.  Between 6:30 and 7, we figured it would be bearable to go outside.  All the McNeighbors were in their air-conditioned lairs.  It was absolutely peaceful and quiet out, no noise pollution from machines and loud voices.  (Moi had turned off the filter of our pool.)  After we ate, we took a dip in the pool – it was Moi’s first time in it this year (she doesn’t go into the pool until the temperature reaches 99), and she spent most of her time in the water scraping down the algae that had accumulated on the pool sides.  When I come down to the kitchen this morning, Moi is at her laptop, the coffee is made.  But I’m surprised to find out she hasn’t yet taken Mway for a walk.  I offer to do so (Moi hadn’t turned on my computer, so I have to wait for it to finish its grinding anyway), and Mway and I head out at 7:40.

State of the Path:  Despite the hot weather, I still wear my regular outfit of long pants, long-sleeve workshirt, boots, gardening gloves, and safari helmet.  Even though the plants are all distressed by the lack of water and high temperature, they’re still growing enough that I need protection from briars, burs, nettles, spikes, overhanging branches, and poison ivy.  Before we hit the path, I notice that there’s poison ivy growing up the side of the chicken coop, and make a note to myself to pull that down sometime.  Out at the walled garden, I glance at the plant I’ve been trying to identify.  Last evening I told Moi about my failed attempts at trying to identify this plant; we took a walk to look at it, and Moi recognized it right away: “Oh, that’s dogbane,” she said, “Look it up in the book.  This stuff has really tough stems, and if I had done my wigwam completely to traditional specs, I would have used this for lashing.”  I remember now that several weeks ago Moi had pointed out some dogbane in the field amidst the goldenrod, and I should’ve remembered that before.  For, having looked it up in the book, I’m satisfied that this is what this is: a type of dogbane.  It might not be the spreading dogbane that’s pictured in the pink flower section, although “milky juice exudes from broken stems and leaves,” its leaves are “ovate, blue-green,” and its fruit is “2 long, slender seed pods…opening along one side”; because I’ve yet to see any pink flowers, it might be the kind of dogbane, mentioned in the same entry but not pictured, called Indian Hemp, “a slightly smaller species with erect clusters of greenish-white flowers [that] is also found in fields and is poisonous.”  Time, however, may reveal that some of these plants have pink flowers (as Moi now tells me she has seen in past years).

State of the Creek:  The three pools, or rather puddles, have not yet given up all their water, although I smell freshly exposed mud as I walk past them.  Along part of the creek bank, now flanking nothing but a corridor of dry rocks, there’s a row of jewelweed that hasn’t disintegrated into dust, clutching vainly to a source of moisture.  I touch one of the few touch-me-nots; it doesn’t recoil, but it seems to me it does spray some seeds – I can’t tell for sure.

The Fetch:  Up at the clearing, Mway runs over some dogbane as she dashes after the stick.  I find again, as Mway fetches the stick over and over, that I’m composing sentences in my head.

Addendum:  I take Mway out again around 5 pm.  Again I have no work today, but because I’ve already had two full days of no work this week, I don’t luxuriate in the fact as much.  Nevertheless, it was too hot today to do much except lie in front of the air conditioner in my bedroom and read.  At midafternoon, Moi checked the official temperature online: 103 degrees.  She had gone out some time today to check on the black raspberries around the perimeter of the yard, something I’d neglected to do in the past weeks.  She found, much as I found in the side acre, that the promising crop of berries were all dried up in the heat.  When I go out in the yard with Mway, both Moi and Barb Dennehy are in the pool.  They warn me that they heard some sort of agonized animal growl in the fields, so I’m prepared to encounter some sort of animal, perhaps, a dying one.  By the walled garden, only about two day lilies are open; the rest are closed – either they’re drying up in the heat or they’ve already passed their peak (out my office window, I don’t see any day lilies in bloom by the summer house; indeed, some of the plants are dried up and flattened to the ground). I look again at the jack-in-the-pulpit fruit; some of the kernels have turned white.  On my way to the creek, I check two of the grasses I’ve been trying to identify.  While online today I found a couple sites that explained the differences between grasses, sedges, and rushes; both of them quoted a little verse: “Sedges have edges, Rushes are round, Grasses are hollow, what have you found?” or alternately for the last line, “Grasses have nodes all the way to the ground.”  The verse is of no help to me.  The stem of the plant I’ve been calling red grass, or more recently great spike rush, is both round and hollow.  The other plant, which has a leaf formation similar to the other, is also both round and hollow.  Along the path, I find a lot of little holes, places I suspect animals like snakes or frogs might be hiding themselves.  In the muddy creek bed, I see what look to me like paw prints, but for all I know they might be Mway’s.  Then past the big trees, I hear a rustling in the weeds along the creek bed.  I turn around and see a gray house cat, running away from me but not frightened enough to run out of sight.  I suspect that it might be one of the feral cats that has been living in our outbuilding, but which we haven’t seen for a while.

Violets, Gill-of-the-Ground, Cheeses, and Shadows of Striders

April 8, 2010.  Thursday.

Situation:  After we visit the tax lady in the morning, I take Mway out about 12:30, so I can rest up later for work tonight. 

State of the Path:  When I step out on the porch, Moi is on the stoop, shaving off the bark of a sapling for a pole in her new wigwam, which she calls Wigwam II.  As she carries the sapling down to the wigwam, with Mway following her, I go out to the old orchard to look for jack-in-the-pulpits, which Moi says I might find now underneath the kids’ broken down tree fort.  I don’t see any jack-in-pulpits, but all throughout the orchard floor, mixed among the spring onions and other grasses, I see purple flowers, which I first mistake for gill-of-the-ground but later learn from Moi are violets.  Audubon suggests to me that they may be either dog violets, which have leaves and flowers on the same stalk, or common blue violets, which have leaves and flowers on separate stalks – if I remember, I should be able to tell tomorrow which ones these are.  I meet Moi down at her wigwam, and we walk down to the creek.  There Moi points out to me some gill-of-the-ground, which I now am reminded actually has more of a blue flower than a purple one like the violets.  She then discovers some of the little white flowers that I had first noticed a week or so ago (they are a little bigger now) – and she tells me they are cheeses.  “What?’ I ask.   “Cheeses,” she repeats, “Like cheese, only cheeses.”   And indeed I find cheeses listed in Audubon, although the leaves in the photo don’t look like what I remember seeing down by the creek.

State of the Creek:  Moi watches some water striders in one of the pools of the creek and says, “I like the way the water spiders cast shadows.”  I look into the pool to see what she’s talking about.  I see a couple striders, and they seem to have big globular appendages attached to their undersides that move in tandem with their upper body.  “That can’t be their shadows,” I exclaim, as Moi walks away.  And I look at the striders for a while, and only when I see one pass very close over a rock and the globular appendages disappear am I convinced that I’m looking at shadows.  I come to realize that when the strider passes over a rock that is deep enough in the water, the sun casts a shadow onto the rock that distorts their spindly legs into fat blobs encircled by a ring of light.

The Fetch:  One fetch.  When I get back into the house I am sweating and dying for a glass of ice water.

Mud Riddled with Prints

January 28, 2010.  Thursday.

Situation:  Have to leave for work around 3:30, so take Mway out around 2.  Moi has cemented what I believe to be the last crack in my boots.  Dried mud stirs up like dust as I put the boots on.

State of the Path:  Mway shoots out the door, dashes to the chicken pen to bark at the chickens.  The mud on the path is all jumbled up and riddled with prints, and it takes up more and more of the path.  I walk in the weeds as much as possible.  The streams through the maples are little more than long shallow puddles and trails of mud.  I don’t hear water sucking into the hole.  The wind is roaring high in the sky, sending frequent gusts into the trees.  I think about walking along the skating pond, but there is water and ice in the feed channel, and it looks too formidable today to cross.  Moi must have removed the red willow that was sticking in the path on the way back toward bug land, because I don’t end up stepping on it.

State of the Creek:  You can hear the water gurgling loudly over the rocks beneath the roar of the wind.

The Fetch:  I lose track of how many times I throw the stick for Mway.  I throw it every which way, toward the exit to the clearing, into the weeds toward the cement pile, within the clearing toward the electric pole, down the path toward the strawberry patch.  When I get back inside, Moi asks me how my boots held up.  It’s hard to say, I tell her.  My socks may still be damp from previous days’ walks.