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.

Silver Lake

Remember the feeling of gazing across a lake as the sun sets in the background. As the sun retreats behind the mountain, the coolness of evening creates mists which drift and swirl lazily over the surface. The water is nearly as smooth as glass except for a few riffles which glisten like a hoard of gems.

On the far side fishermen wade out in the shallow water to cast their fly to the wary trout. Spin casting and composite fiber rods have not been invented yet. The floating lines are dressed with a lard-like substance to keep them buoyant. The men control the line with the grace of a ballerina as though in slow motion. They roll cast a loop that glides out and settles the fly softly on the water. I’m only about ten years old at this time and perhaps my memory is playing tricks but it seems they cast nearly a hundred yards of line. Impossible, I’m sure. I couldn’t cast a third that distance with the best high-tech gear available today.

How do you paint this picture that lingers in my memory? It’s not colorful, more a contrast of the bright sun and the sparkling water against the deep shadows of the trees and the hills. The mists add the mid-tone grays which grow as the sun retires. The light gathers in a narrowing band at the horizon and the lake’s surface becomes perfectly calm.

It’s nearly time to walk back to camp. The end of another day yet not the end.

The Farm

Why is it always Grandma’s house, not Grandpa’s? Grandpa lived there too.

It was always fun to visit Grandma. There were so many wonderful things to explore and discover. Outside in a bucket in the barn were beans and their dried up pods. I don’t know if they were used for food or seed for the next year’s planting. Next to the bucket was a box of photographic equipment. It was very old when I found it. Someone long ago had processed film plates and printed photographs. The barn was two buildings with a pathway between them. The cows were milked and fed in the other building.

The plum tree was just off the back of the house. It was a good tree for climbing. There was a boxelder tree at the corner of the barn that we could climb to get on the barn roof to see what was happening around the yard. It was a good place to stretch out and lay in the sun. It was a popular place to hide when playing hide and seek.

The fields were irrigated and the ditches bordered the property except for the ditch in front that divided the lawn from the apple trees. Just outside the front fence and across a footpath was a gate for the irrigation. Care was needed to switch the water because there was a patch of poison ivy nearby.

My cousin Ralph and I loved to sail boats in the ditch running along the south side of the property. Pea pods made great canoes when propped open with a small twig.

Next to the ditch was an outdoor fireplace with a stovepipe chimney and a plate on the top for cooking. I only remember roasting hot dogs in the fireplace. Perhaps the cooking griddle was too rusted or dirty for cooking. The fireplace was made of stone and cement mortar. The stovepipe was so black and corroded that there were holes all over near the top. The hot dogs sure tasted good.

Kite Tales

I began life in the dark sun-warmed soil where Squirrel buried me with his winter food supply. As the snows melted I began to stir and send down my roots. I stretched my needles and branches to catch the sun. I look up and see my parents towering above me and wish to grow tall like them and look out at the mountains, streams and meadows. Years pass and I am nearly grown as tall as Mom and Dad. Today there are visitors in the forest. They came with trucks and saws. Someone is cutting into my trunk and I'm getting dizzy. I'm crashing down through my brothers and sisters and lying flat on the ground. My dreams of gazing across the vistas of mountains are dashed forever. If I'm lucky I could be made into lumber to become a home for a human family. I would like the laughter of children and keeping them warm and sheltered from the rain and snow. No, they are passing the sawmill and dumping me at the pulp and paper mill. They chop me in pieces and run me through the grinder. After I am mixed with other ingredients I get pressed and dried. I could still become something exciting like a coloring book or children's stories, even a family portrait but no; I'm being made into a big roll of newsprint. I'm going to be a newspaper and then be thrown away with the trash. All my hopes are dashed. After I'm folded and thrown on the doorstep, I'm opened and read. I like the soft hands that gently turn my pages. What's next? I'm not thrown in the trash but cut and folded and fastened to crossed sticks. Some of my pieces are twisted and tied on a long string which trails from the rest of me. Outside I go and off to the park where the warm sun and cool breeze lift my spirits. Oh my, the wind lifts me above the grass. High into the air I soar above the trees up with the birds. I can see forever. The mountain vistas, the meadows and streams all within my view. I'm taller than the tallest trees and I have a human family that shares my fun. This is better than my greatest dream.

Bob's Story

My name is Bob, Bob White. I am a quail. A few days ago I lived in a shell. I have a mother and father, bothers and sisters. Mom and Dad have tassels on top of their heads. I will have one too when I get older. Now I’m just a ball of fuzzy brown and white feathers. Today we are going for a walk. Father leads the way, then mother and we all follow in a single line behind them. Look, Dad sees something. See how he stretches his neck and bobs his top not. Now he is flying to perch on the top of the fence. Mother quickly runs to the shelter of the thorn bush and we follow behind. From deep within the branches of our bush I can see Tom the cat silently stalking up to where we hide. Mother tells us to curl up together and stay until she returns. Then she dashes out where Tom can see her. She is playing a game with Tom. She holds her wing out on the ground like it is broken and hops away. Tom sneaks up trying to pounce on her but just as he gets ready to jump she flies a little further away. All this time Papa is scolding Tom for disturbing his family. Tom pays no attention as he is still trying to catch Mama. Soon he tires of playing this game and finds a shady spot to curl up and go to sleep. I am getting hungry. Mama scolds Tom for a long time then she comes back to get us. Now I am very hungry. We all scurry off in our line like children following the teacher. I would like to curl up for a nap myself. I was too frightened by Tom’s game to sleep.

Squirrel Tales

It was a fine summer day and Mr. Gray Squirrel was busy gathering black walnuts for his storehouse. The summer crop was ripening and soon the cool fall days would proclaim winter’s approach. Scampering from branch to branch then onto the fence with his jaws stuffed with nuts, he paid little attention to those humans watching from the driveway nearby. The fence was made with posts and rails with the fence boards nailed on both sides. There was a hole just big enough to crawl through with a walnut. He had the cavity about half full and there were plenty of nuts left.

Mr. Blue Jay watched from a nearby branch and chirped a warning to be alert. There could be danger about.

Squirrel paid no mind; he was too occupied getting the best ones for his hoard. Back and forth he hopped. He would have a good supply to keep him fed through the winter and spring until the trees provided a new crop.

Many years earlier a chipmunk was scampering in the bright sun among the leaves and pine needles. He sought pine cones for the seeds they contained. He too was storing food for the approaching winter.

A young boy watched envious of the chipmunk’s freedom. In truth, the small animal was bound to a path and activity that should he stray or neglect would lead to tragedy for he and his family. I would like to catch the chipmunk thought the boy to himself. I would make a home for him and we would play together. They boy began the chase but discovered that it was much easier to dream of capture than to make it happen. Usually the chipmunk sought refuge in the trees but once he made the mistake of hiding beneath a 55-gallon drum used to collect trash from the campers. Now the boy thought he had they animal trapped and would take him captive. He tipped the barrel up a little ready to catch the chipmunk when he came out. But he didn’t come out. When the boy tipped the barrel, it pressed down on the poor animal’s head. He lay twitching on the ground. He no longer raced among the leaves and needles but staggered spastically in small circles. There was no healing the mortal wounds and soon the chipmunk lay still. The boy was saddened by the results of his actions. He didn’t want it to turn out as it did. He thought only of his own wants. He knew little of the consequences that could result. Wiser minds could probably not have predicted the ultimate consequences but they would have foreseen that the captivity of the wild creature would not have been good for either the boy or the chipmunk. Scripture talks of ‘looking through a glass darkly’ as we progress through our time on earth with clouded vision for what is to come. Doing the best we can is what we seek. In my work I can erase a line I have misplaced. It is even easier now with electronic graphics. I cannot restore the blameless chipmunk to life no matter how much I would wish to.