Sitting in the family room gazing out the patio window I see a swarm of damsel flies. I have nothing better to do so I watch in wonder at the speed and agility of these insect aerobats. As I watch their aerial dance, I see that they are not alone. There are small midge-like bugs flying among the swarm. Then a disembodied pair of wings flutter to the ground. A few seconds later another pair fall. Before long the number of small midges has fallen sharply. I concentrate my observation to discover what is going on. Then a damsel fly darts up from below and behind a midge and another pair of wings flutters free. The dragonflies, as we always called them, are making a meal of the midges. When there was no more 'meal-on-the-fly', the damsel flies flew off in search of better hunting grounds.
If we could design aircraft to mimic the speed and agility of these savage insects there would surely be no adversary in the skies to rival our air power. Such a feat would take a new way of thinking. Or put in the words of one of my favorite poems "The Calf Path": "A moral lesson this might teach were I ordained or called to preach, for men are prone to go it blind along the calf paths of the mind and toil away from sun to sun to do what other men have done. But I am not ordained or called to preach."
A greater moral lesson, to my thinking, is whether it is more probable to believe that life came about by chance from some primordial ocean soup without any intelligent organizing power or that there is a being with the intelligence and power to organize life into a myriad of creatures of such variety with amazing abilities, not the least of which is the ability to reproduce. But I am not ordained or called to preach
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Swimming Hole
Chores were complete that sunny summer morning. School was finished for the year and now we could decide how to spend our time. I spent a lot of time walking the Union Pacific tracks that ran behind our home. The ore that spilled from the railcars was interesting. Iron pyrite was worthless but the sparkling crystals looked so rich that about half my rock collection was composed of the shiny rocks.
The swimming hole was about a mile from home so I had to have permission from Mom to go that far to play. It was far enough away to make the trip something special. Mom couldn't keep her eye on us that far away. Walking south on the tracks for a little less than a mile, I came to the creek. A bend in the stream had cut into the clay bank leaving a cliff about fifteen feet high where the more daring boys would jump into the creek. Arriving before the swimmers had muddied the water, I could watch the large fish swimming in the hole below the cliff.
Even on these hot summer days the water was very cold. I was satisfied to jump off the bank, float around and watch the better swimmers jump from higher on the cliff. Becoming engrossed in the diving, I was swept into the shallows where I stubbed my toe and bruised my tender feet. We hadn't brought a towel to dry off but playing in the warm sunshine soon dried our skin. The swimming suits took longer to dry.
Going back years later, I could hardly recognize the spot. Russian Olive, willow and Chinese Elm trees have grown along the bank; the cheat grass has surrendered dominance to weeds and taller grasses that reach above my waist. It was never a residential neighborhood but the few surrounding homes are now gone, replaced by industry and businesses. Just this year one large industrial company was replaced by apartment buildings. Perhaps as time passes the old neighborhood will again ring with children's voices but it will never be the same. The times when your doors were left unlocked and neighbors shared snacks with neighborhood children will never return, I'm afraid. I don't think my grandchildren have ever made a whistle from joint grass but I, likewise, never played video games when I was a child.
The swimming hole was about a mile from home so I had to have permission from Mom to go that far to play. It was far enough away to make the trip something special. Mom couldn't keep her eye on us that far away. Walking south on the tracks for a little less than a mile, I came to the creek. A bend in the stream had cut into the clay bank leaving a cliff about fifteen feet high where the more daring boys would jump into the creek. Arriving before the swimmers had muddied the water, I could watch the large fish swimming in the hole below the cliff.
Even on these hot summer days the water was very cold. I was satisfied to jump off the bank, float around and watch the better swimmers jump from higher on the cliff. Becoming engrossed in the diving, I was swept into the shallows where I stubbed my toe and bruised my tender feet. We hadn't brought a towel to dry off but playing in the warm sunshine soon dried our skin. The swimming suits took longer to dry.
Going back years later, I could hardly recognize the spot. Russian Olive, willow and Chinese Elm trees have grown along the bank; the cheat grass has surrendered dominance to weeds and taller grasses that reach above my waist. It was never a residential neighborhood but the few surrounding homes are now gone, replaced by industry and businesses. Just this year one large industrial company was replaced by apartment buildings. Perhaps as time passes the old neighborhood will again ring with children's voices but it will never be the same. The times when your doors were left unlocked and neighbors shared snacks with neighborhood children will never return, I'm afraid. I don't think my grandchildren have ever made a whistle from joint grass but I, likewise, never played video games when I was a child.
Rufus returns home
The mountains of New Mexico are so beautiful in the spring, The cottonwoods fresh with young leaves chatter as the cool breeze fans their branches and the tiny pods of cotton form on the upper branches. It will be a few weeks before they burst and send the seeds borne on fuzzy puffs. The ground will look as if snow has fallen. William and Wendy Wren will gather the pillowy down to decorate their home and make it comfy for thier babies. Here comes William now.
Why Rufus, what are you doing so far away from your home on the Virgin River, chirps William?
I've been all the way to Sonora to visit my cousin there. He brags about how tasty the scorpions are around his cactus patch. I will admit that they make a spicy change from my usual meals.
I mentioned how the sheep herder's boy on the reservation likes to practice with a braided whip and he told me a story about a legendary masked rider named Zorro who used a whip and a sword to defend the peasants when his great grandfather was alive. The indian boy must think he too can become a legend. I could show him a trick or two with the rattlers I catch. The boy's whip isn't alive and can't strike back.
I've seen you dance like a Spanish bull fighter when you challenge a rattle snake. You do put on quite a show. I don't know of any other bird who would risk their life against a snake that is too big to even swallow.
Oh that is nothing, William, I may not be able to swallow one all at once but I can find a nice bush to crouch under and swallow a little more as my stomach makes room. You see, I don't ever need to drink water so I can keep my mouth full for days. I won't have a big meal while I'm on this journey but if you get too close, I might have you for an appetizer.
I've seen how quick you can be. I'm fast too but I know better than to challenge you to a duel. Good day now and you have a safe trip. I'm going down to the stream bed and get myself a drink and take a bath too.
Good bye William. I can run all day and never break a sweat but a few seconds of flight and I'm ready to stretch my legs again. Before I cross the mountains I'm going to flip over a few rocks and dine on fat scorpions. You never can tell where your next meal may come from and Mom always said to be grateful for the blessings God provides and not waste his gifts.
On the second day in the mountains I notice a paw print in the dust. Bobby Bobcat told me about Lenny Linx who lives around here somewhere. Watch out for him, cautioned Bobby, he may mistake you for a sickly forest grouse. Lenny loves forest grouse more than he does green-headed ducks. The feathers on the back of my neck bristled as I trotted through the cedars. I felt as though someone was watching. It pays to follow your instincts. If the sight of the paw track hadn't made me extra careful, I would likely be Lenny's dinner now. As it was, he gave me quite a scare when he bolted from a mound of rocks. It was only my quick reflexes and hiding among the leaves in the chapparal that saved me from his claws.
Three more days and I caught sight of the cottonwood trees along the river near my home. I hadn't come home with a present for my parents or my friend Renae Roadrunner. Old Mr. Rattler had left his curled track across my path so I decided to take a short detour and hunt him. He would make a fine homecoming feast. No sooner had the thought entered my mind than I saw Mr. Rattler peeking from under a cactus. I danced right up to him using my wings to draw his attention. He was in a nasty mood as he bit my feathers but I had done this dance many times and shortly Rattler was exhausted. Grabbing him by the tail I snapped him back and forth until his spirit left and he lay limp. Instead of swallowing him, I grabbed his middle and sped home to present him to my parents. I did peck off the best part and took it to Renae. She did the most beautiful dance when she saw me approach and I could tell she liked my simple present. Watching her dance made me feel warm and strange inside. As much as I enjoyed the visit with my Sonoran cousin, I doubted that I would ever make that journey again.
Days later I was strolling by the river when who should come riding past on their bicycles but Ellie, Jenna and Brooke. Evening was coming on, the sun low on the horizon and I was starting to look for shelter for the evening. I guess the girls were preparing for night-time; they stopped at the park and prepared for their dinner. Dad and Mom followed close behind the girls. In their packs were meals for the family and treats for the girls. As I perched on a boulder overlooking the park I watched as they helped each other prepare for the meal, dine together and then clean up afterward. I held their gaze and felt the love they shared for each other. I was overpowered by the desire for a family of my own and I couldn't get Renae out of my thoughts.
Why Rufus, what are you doing so far away from your home on the Virgin River, chirps William?
I've been all the way to Sonora to visit my cousin there. He brags about how tasty the scorpions are around his cactus patch. I will admit that they make a spicy change from my usual meals.
I mentioned how the sheep herder's boy on the reservation likes to practice with a braided whip and he told me a story about a legendary masked rider named Zorro who used a whip and a sword to defend the peasants when his great grandfather was alive. The indian boy must think he too can become a legend. I could show him a trick or two with the rattlers I catch. The boy's whip isn't alive and can't strike back.
I've seen you dance like a Spanish bull fighter when you challenge a rattle snake. You do put on quite a show. I don't know of any other bird who would risk their life against a snake that is too big to even swallow.
Oh that is nothing, William, I may not be able to swallow one all at once but I can find a nice bush to crouch under and swallow a little more as my stomach makes room. You see, I don't ever need to drink water so I can keep my mouth full for days. I won't have a big meal while I'm on this journey but if you get too close, I might have you for an appetizer.
I've seen how quick you can be. I'm fast too but I know better than to challenge you to a duel. Good day now and you have a safe trip. I'm going down to the stream bed and get myself a drink and take a bath too.
Good bye William. I can run all day and never break a sweat but a few seconds of flight and I'm ready to stretch my legs again. Before I cross the mountains I'm going to flip over a few rocks and dine on fat scorpions. You never can tell where your next meal may come from and Mom always said to be grateful for the blessings God provides and not waste his gifts.
On the second day in the mountains I notice a paw print in the dust. Bobby Bobcat told me about Lenny Linx who lives around here somewhere. Watch out for him, cautioned Bobby, he may mistake you for a sickly forest grouse. Lenny loves forest grouse more than he does green-headed ducks. The feathers on the back of my neck bristled as I trotted through the cedars. I felt as though someone was watching. It pays to follow your instincts. If the sight of the paw track hadn't made me extra careful, I would likely be Lenny's dinner now. As it was, he gave me quite a scare when he bolted from a mound of rocks. It was only my quick reflexes and hiding among the leaves in the chapparal that saved me from his claws.
Three more days and I caught sight of the cottonwood trees along the river near my home. I hadn't come home with a present for my parents or my friend Renae Roadrunner. Old Mr. Rattler had left his curled track across my path so I decided to take a short detour and hunt him. He would make a fine homecoming feast. No sooner had the thought entered my mind than I saw Mr. Rattler peeking from under a cactus. I danced right up to him using my wings to draw his attention. He was in a nasty mood as he bit my feathers but I had done this dance many times and shortly Rattler was exhausted. Grabbing him by the tail I snapped him back and forth until his spirit left and he lay limp. Instead of swallowing him, I grabbed his middle and sped home to present him to my parents. I did peck off the best part and took it to Renae. She did the most beautiful dance when she saw me approach and I could tell she liked my simple present. Watching her dance made me feel warm and strange inside. As much as I enjoyed the visit with my Sonoran cousin, I doubted that I would ever make that journey again.
Days later I was strolling by the river when who should come riding past on their bicycles but Ellie, Jenna and Brooke. Evening was coming on, the sun low on the horizon and I was starting to look for shelter for the evening. I guess the girls were preparing for night-time; they stopped at the park and prepared for their dinner. Dad and Mom followed close behind the girls. In their packs were meals for the family and treats for the girls. As I perched on a boulder overlooking the park I watched as they helped each other prepare for the meal, dine together and then clean up afterward. I held their gaze and felt the love they shared for each other. I was overpowered by the desire for a family of my own and I couldn't get Renae out of my thoughts.
Ghosts, goblins and wraiths
The solitude of the english moors is a fertile breeding ground for legends of ghosts and mysterious happenings. One story tells of a ghostly apparition who patrols the byways of the moors and of strange disapearances of travelers caught out on a moonless night. It was such a night as two LDS missionaries drove their van from a late night meeting when they came upon a lone bicyclist cloaked in black, riding toward them on the opposite side of the road. They passed and traveled a short distance before their curiousity prompted them to turn around to have another look. As they neared the same spot, there was the mysterious rider again coming toward them. They proceeded to where they could turn around and retraced their course. This time the road was empty. Where had the traveler gone? Was it the ghost?
The truth was revealed days later as they related thier story to a local family. "That is not a ghost," they were informed. He is a man who rides his cycle along the road in the solitary late evening hours and composes crossword puzzles. He has such a mind that he can keep the puzzle in memory until it is complete at which time he returns home to put it to paper.
I like the legend of the ghost. What spawns these tales of ghosts, goblins, trolls and other unearthly creatures? Were they used to discourage wayward youth from staying out into the wee hours? Another legend comes down through many generations telling of wicked "Lady Howard" who likewise travels the lonely paths of Devonshire in her carriage drawn by headless horses. Travelers who accept a ride are never seen or heard from again. The legend follows:
"There was once a very wicked woman called Lady Howard, or more familiarly the Old Lady, who now every night for her sins rides a coach made of bones from Fitzford to Okehampton Castle. As the clock strikes twelve, she starts from Fitzford Gateway in her coach of bones drawn by headless horses; in front of the carriage runs a sable hound with one eye in the middle of his forehead. Arrived at Okehampton the hound plucks a blade of grass (or in some versions three blades), and the cortege returns to Fitzford, where the blade of grass is laid on a certain stone. This is Lady Howard's penance, and it will last until every blade of grass in Okehampton Park is plucked, or the world ends." -"Lady Howard of Fitzford", Mrs. G.H. Radford, read at Barnstaple, July 1890. [reprinted from Transactions of the Devonshire Association for the Advancement of Science, Literature and Art, 1890. - xxii. pp. 66-110]
The truth was revealed days later as they related thier story to a local family. "That is not a ghost," they were informed. He is a man who rides his cycle along the road in the solitary late evening hours and composes crossword puzzles. He has such a mind that he can keep the puzzle in memory until it is complete at which time he returns home to put it to paper.
I like the legend of the ghost. What spawns these tales of ghosts, goblins, trolls and other unearthly creatures? Were they used to discourage wayward youth from staying out into the wee hours? Another legend comes down through many generations telling of wicked "Lady Howard" who likewise travels the lonely paths of Devonshire in her carriage drawn by headless horses. Travelers who accept a ride are never seen or heard from again. The legend follows:
"There was once a very wicked woman called Lady Howard, or more familiarly the Old Lady, who now every night for her sins rides a coach made of bones from Fitzford to Okehampton Castle. As the clock strikes twelve, she starts from Fitzford Gateway in her coach of bones drawn by headless horses; in front of the carriage runs a sable hound with one eye in the middle of his forehead. Arrived at Okehampton the hound plucks a blade of grass (or in some versions three blades), and the cortege returns to Fitzford, where the blade of grass is laid on a certain stone. This is Lady Howard's penance, and it will last until every blade of grass in Okehampton Park is plucked, or the world ends." -"Lady Howard of Fitzford", Mrs. G.H. Radford, read at Barnstaple, July 1890. [reprinted from Transactions of the Devonshire Association for the Advancement of Science, Literature and Art, 1890. - xxii. pp. 66-110]
The Rock Pecker
The rock pecker (hornithopterus amphibius) is a presumed extinct relative of the pterydactl. Its common name derives from the way it uses its beak to chip small rock particles from the rock walls. Though there have been no documented confirmed sightings within recent recorded history, there is ample evidence of the creature's existence from its cup-shaped creations in the rock walls of the canyons bordering the Colorado River. Scientists believe the depressions are used by the rock pecker for shelter and nesting. The rock pecker derives most of its diet from the rock fragments it produces. An important benefit from eating the rock chips comes from the concentration of arsenic in the rock pecker's tissues. Though benign to the rock pecker, the concentrations of arsenic are highly poisonous to would-be predators. The rock pecker's beak extends up between its eyes and over the brows providing protection for the head and eyes from a misplaced blow.
"The Rock Pecker Legend" - Looking a little like the offspring of a bird and a bat, the rock pecker emerged from primeval waters during the age of the dinosaurs. It retained the ability to live submerged in water or out in the open air. The wings developed from aquautic fins, growing larger, stronger and better adapted to flight as the rock pecker spent more of its life out of the water. The wings were used mostly for fanning rock dust from the burrows it pecked in the rocky canyon walls. Those that tried to fly tumbled helplessly to the ground. One day while pecking at the face of a cliff, a rock pecker was struck on its lizard-like tail by a boulder falling from above. The flattened disfigurement made others of its kind shun the misfortunate creature leaving it to mate only with others who had suffered a similar fate. Somehow the physical malformity became genetically encoded and passed to subsequent generations. The flat tail made it possible for the rock peckers to develop stable flight. The legend explains that rock peckers do not die of old age. As they grow very old, an irresistable drive like the pigeon's homing instinct forces them to fly into the sun, never to return. This explains why fossils and skeletal remains of the rock pecker have never been discovered. Researchers are at a loss to explain why the rock pecker is no longer found. The legend is silent on their disappearance, leaving us to speculate. Perhaps like the lemming racing into the sea, all the rock peckers flew in a mass exodus into the sun. Are there any remaining descendants of the mysterious rock pecker? If you have seen one or even discovered its cup shaped hollows in remote canyon walls, please leave a comment explaining what you saw and where. Who knows, we may be able to ferret out a remaining specimen and preserve the species for future generations.
"The Rock Pecker Legend" - Looking a little like the offspring of a bird and a bat, the rock pecker emerged from primeval waters during the age of the dinosaurs. It retained the ability to live submerged in water or out in the open air. The wings developed from aquautic fins, growing larger, stronger and better adapted to flight as the rock pecker spent more of its life out of the water. The wings were used mostly for fanning rock dust from the burrows it pecked in the rocky canyon walls. Those that tried to fly tumbled helplessly to the ground. One day while pecking at the face of a cliff, a rock pecker was struck on its lizard-like tail by a boulder falling from above. The flattened disfigurement made others of its kind shun the misfortunate creature leaving it to mate only with others who had suffered a similar fate. Somehow the physical malformity became genetically encoded and passed to subsequent generations. The flat tail made it possible for the rock peckers to develop stable flight. The legend explains that rock peckers do not die of old age. As they grow very old, an irresistable drive like the pigeon's homing instinct forces them to fly into the sun, never to return. This explains why fossils and skeletal remains of the rock pecker have never been discovered. Researchers are at a loss to explain why the rock pecker is no longer found. The legend is silent on their disappearance, leaving us to speculate. Perhaps like the lemming racing into the sea, all the rock peckers flew in a mass exodus into the sun. Are there any remaining descendants of the mysterious rock pecker? If you have seen one or even discovered its cup shaped hollows in remote canyon walls, please leave a comment explaining what you saw and where. Who knows, we may be able to ferret out a remaining specimen and preserve the species for future generations.
Horsehair snake
Four boys huddled around a paper cup peering intently on the thread-like object wiggling lazily in the water inside. None had seen anything like it before. While trying to catch water skaters along the bank of the irrigation canal one of the boys had spied the curious object and captured it in the cup. Horsehair snake is an appropriate nickname because it looks so much like a hair from a horse's mane or tail. It is not a snake but a parasitic worm which matures in the abdomen of grasshoppers and crickets. It is completely harmless to humans. The mysterious creature somehow manages to induce the grasshopper to jump in a stream or pool of water where the grasshopper dies and the worm swims out into the water to seek a mate. Legends say a horse hair falling into a watering trough or puddle of water comes to life becoming the horsehair snake. Much mystery still surrounds the life of this interesting creature. It is sometimes referred to by the name Gordian Worm for the habit of curling into a twisted ball resembling the knot that Alexander the Great severed with his sword in frustration with the task of untying it.
Frogs don't have tails, but that's another story
School was out for the summer. The hot days in the classroom were over until Labor day. After my chores were finished I had to run an errand to the store to buy bread, milk and a can of soup for lunch. With that done, I had the rest of the day to myself. Walking down the dirt lane bordered on my left by gnarled boxelder trees and on my right by the irrigation ditch and pasture, I strolled down to the pond. The sunfish were plentiful though not very big. What they lacked in size they made up for in speed and aggressiveness. Jigging a fly through a hole in the moss soon provolked a speedy attack. A quick eye, a quicker hand and more than a little luck and there dangling on my line was a frisky bluegill. The first time I tried to remove a sunfish from my line I found the sharp spines on the dorsal fin and it was not a pleasant lesson. I caught and released a few more fish then thought to myself, "I'll try casting out to the middle of the pond. Perhaps there are bigger fish out there." The only thing I caught was a big gob of moss. As I was retrieving the next cast a frog popped his head through the moss and jumped at my hook. I missed his bite but the rest of the day I forgot about bluegill and concentrated on frogs. A big bullfrog rested near a fallen tree with just his eyes and nose out of the water. I must have spent an hour trying to get him to go after my hook but he was either too smart or too lazy. Counting the day a success I collected my gear and walked back past the cows in the meadow, the barn and old farm dog. The summer breeze carried a hint of catnip or mint. As I came to the boxelder trees their somewhat bitter smell reminded me I was almost home and it was time for supper. Mom had been cooking a pot of navy beans when I left and the fragance flooded my nostils as I opened the screen door. I wonder how that big bull frog's legs would taste with a heaping bowl of beans.
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