At last. The venerable Grand Slam fun regatta has been called on for Saturday and Sunday on Lake Kegonsa, south of Madison. Tomorrow Solstice (#165) and Wombat (#10) will unfurl their sails for the first time this season. Let the wild rumpus start.
Our boats are still on the trailer, in the middle, between red and blue. On the ice, but not enough time to get set up. Plenty of time tomorrow.
Chilly, gray, and windy. Gale warning on Lake Michigan.
Returning home after some tedious business, I noticed that the plexiglass squirrel baffle, normally sitting just below the bird feeder, had been broken in half and was lying, in pieces, on the ground. Using either induction, deduction, adduction or subduction, I came up with the idea that one of our Sciurus creatures had attempted the now longer rooftop-to-feeder leap, and had almost made it.
After picking up and disposing of the pieces, I made a replacement, using material at hand—much stronger but of which I had little. So the question for tomorrow is: how now, you rascally rodents.
No sailing today.
Lake Geneva wide open.
Ice on Delevan, but still rough and unsafe.
Folks were going to set up on Pewaukee, but held off because of too much wind. Racing planned for Friday.
Mostly sunny and colder.
Lately, I've seen the occasional squirrel on the bird feeder and been puzzled by how it got there. Today, as I was conducting my extended daily observation out the kitchen window, I found out how—a leap from the rooftop. Finding that incredible, I got out the tape measure and noted that the leap was of about 9 feet horizontal with a drop of just one and a half feet from roof to feeder. Furthermore, the target is really quite small.
So, I'm proud of my Olympic-class rodents. But even so, I have moved the feeder another foot and a half farther out. Is a leap of ten and a half feet possible? If so, will I be able to keep the feeder in sight of the kitchen window?
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Word is out that people will be beginning to set up iceboats on Pewaukee tomorrow. Mother's Zamboni has apparently done its job. Around here the plan is to be on the ice by Friday noon, all things considered.
Thaw and melt. Upper forties around here with a spanking wind from the south.
While Sue was about her visits, also down south, I worked on the big, two-stage snowblower our neighbor Kathy was throwing out (before I rescued it). Changed the oil, greased the bearings, fixed the one flat tire, adjusted the the adjustments; and now it runs like a Foreverspin top.
Which puts me in a difficult position. I want a really big snow so that I can test its mettle, but then snow and iceboating don't go together at all. Today's big melt may have Zambonied the small and medium lakes, so once again there's hope. And the big lakes remain open, awaiting the next dose of really cold cold.
Which may be coming. Today's spanking wind began veering this afternoon from south to north-west, and the the thermometer has been falling fast.
Thinking about it, snowblower vs. iceboat—nolo contendere.
Traditional dinner at the Morrisons, but for the first time ever a quiet one, just the four of us (plus Pax), which allowed extended conversation. And some top spinning, and several hands of Timeline.
Perfect spin
Light rain, strong wind, temp in the upper 30s. Night not fit for man nor beast.
...on Christmas Eve.
The town of Whitewater seems deserted. Pax and I had a long walk on campus and saw no one, only occasional footprints. McDonalds and Walmart about the only things open.
And, speaking of open, I remember Bookstore Christmas Eves, when we were very much open, in fact experiencing pandemonium right up to the closing bell. But then, at five, satisfied relief, and a celebration—we had done it, and made enough money to keep the store alive another year.
Since my memory sometimes falters, I asked John to provide some background:
Mostly, Christmas Eve was something to get past so morning would arrive sooner. Dad always read "The Night Before Christmas " just before bed. We were allowed to open one gift. Once, I remember going to bed and hearing noises from downstairs (music? I thought). Come morning we found a new record player under the tree. After opening lots and lots of presents, the cousins would show up, and perhaps also Unkie and Aunt Janet, and after another round of present opening we would eat a big brunch. But this was Christmas Day. I remember hoping for ice (smooth ice) to arrive over Christmas Eve so we could skate on Christmas Day.
Christmas day, mentioned above, reminds me about early Christmas mornings when we kids had to roust our recalcitrant parents out of their long winter's nap. It was slow work. Then Dad had to go downstairs to plug in the Christmas lights—taking forever and seeming to forget about everyone left upstairs. When he eventually returned, subtly suggesting that Santa might or might not, in fact have missed 7 Crandall Avenue, the rest of the family had to line up behind him, single file, in ascending order of age (I do believe), with Mom in back to make sure nobody got lost. Then we would begin descending the stairs. But ever so slowly! And a few steps down, invariably, with the view of the tree still obstructed, progress would halt, and we would encounter some problem that might require a little backing up. Once that got resolved the descent would resume, but slowly.
Eventually, once everyone had a view through the bannister of the tree and what lay below it, there was no more slow.
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ON CHRISTMAS EVE
In byre and barn the mows are brim with sheaves,
Where stealeth in with phosphorescent tread
The glimmering moon, and, ’neath his wattled eaves,
The kennelled hound unto the darkness grieves
His chilly straw, and from his gloom-lit shed,
The wakeful cock proclaims the midnight dread.
With mullioned windows, ’mid its skeleton trees,
Beneath the moon the ancient manor stands,
Old gables rattle in the midnight breeze,
Old elms make answer to the moaning seas,
Beyond the moorlands, on the wintry sands,
While drives the gust along the leafless lands.
—William Wilfred Campbell (19th century Canadian poet)
What I find so interesting about this poem is the complete disassociation between its content and title. Maybe that's why I like it, too.
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Pax is in hunting mode. After yesterday's taste of squirrel he's obsessed. As we were shoveling this morning he chased a rabbit right through the garage.
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Above freezing most of the day, making it convenient for shrimp on the grill tonight.
Heavy, wet snow...fat flakes floating lazily down.
Dundee cakes, then prep for dinner at the neighbors, which was followed by Sequence. Green lost 3 to 1.
Pax got one today. Returning from a walk, we came around the side of the garage onto the patio only to find a squirrel on the bird feeder (no idea how he got there). Seeing us, he leapt off and landed badly, then bounded through the snow toward safety. Pax quickly overtook him, snatched and threw him in the air—only to see him land at the base of the big red pine where he was able to scrabble out of reach. The blood on the snow, contributed by Pax from a small gash on his cheek, did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for the hunt.
This time with Maddie in the starring role.
Fun numbers, well performed. (Ellie's classroom, while nearby, was busy with its own business and not able to attend.)
In the weather department—bright sun and a temperature above freezing for several hours, both of which contributed to improved (though far from perfect) walking conditions.
Shortest day.
Over to Fox Point to help with furniture moving and other house projects, so the day didn't seem as short as it might have.
A bit of a thaw, with mushy slush.
Now on to lengthening days, and thoughts of spring and summer.
Becca's turn in the limelight.
Excellent program, followed by wonderful snacks.
In other news, gale force winds from the south relaxing early winter's painful, icy grip.
Calm, uneventful, relatively unproductive. (Do have to remember that around here Christmas is over.)
Discarded the idea of sitting out back with a nice fire in the chiminea. Actually, pretty much discarded the idea of being outside at all, although Pax and I did take several painful walks. Serious windchill. On the plus side, cleared out clogged closets and assembled a substantial pile of things to be relocated.
Went swimming, too, at the Aquatic Center, and it is a bit strange to dive into water when on the other side of the large windows surrounding the pool the temperature is 30 degrees below freezing.
...following our wonderful not-quite Christmas.
Snow cakes were on the breakfast menu this morning at our "snow-bound" hotel.
Spruced up spruces on the way home.
Bitter cold now, making me not want to sleep out with the wildlife. 'Musher's Secret' waxy salve on Pax's feet, but otherwise the cold seeming to invigorate him—he constantly, and uncharacteristically, tugging at the leash, and when un-leashed, shooting off like a bobsled. We walked (and ran), longer than I wanted but shorter than he did, over a stretch of deserted campus, as the sun was descending, which wasn't that much after lunch.
Tonight, here in Whitewater, we are almost at our light's end, with Daylight only 9 hours long. (Of course, it's worse further north, such as on Manitoulin.) Barometer way up high.
Hang in there, wild ones, life will improve.
In Oconomowoc, after a great Almost Christmas party.
Too dangerous to drive home.
Snowball fight.
Winter storm warning received and its contents noted.
Eight to eleven inches. High winds. Temps forecast to drop to double digits below zero by Sunday morning. Worries about not having a white Christmas are diminishing. And, on top of that, the Nies family is having its Pre-Christmas Christmas tomorrow evening in Oconomowoc. Could be a four-wheeled drive.
Diner tonight of roasted root vegetables: parsnips, turnips, rutabagas, and carrots. If only we had beets too. Next year most of the garden will be in beets.
Painfully cold.
The score in this game is one below zero to two below zero, and the fans are few.
The barometer is high, but the thermometer is low.
I feel for the letter carriers and other outside workers; and to a lesser extent, for Pax and me. Pax seems to be on hyper-drive when we walk, tugging on the leash, which normally he does not do, and picking up his feet. He seems to want to be quickly somewhere, so that he can be quickly back. I feel sorry for me because I have to take my mitten off in order to operate the ridiculous clip on the end of his leash. Plus my nose gets pinched just breathing.
On top of this, we have another Winter Storm Warning—and things look to be getting worse and worser.
That's the sound of the thermometer as it slides ever downward.
But, as you can see, the birdseed that spilled out of the feeder day before yesterday has somehow blossomed, in spite of the cold.
Pax and I found walking a challenge. It was so cold that the spring in the retractable leash snapped, traction was minimal, and our feet hurt. But, on the plus side, we did not have to deal with other walkers, either human or canine.
Below zero tonight.
Below, a description of the first snow of this season.
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First of Winter
Last night’s snow, the first of the season, now goes down on the calendar as the beginning of winter, this year. Four to five heavy inches, flocking the trees, covering the remnants of fall, giving the luster of midday to the very long night, revealing, at sunrise a world transformed—and reminding me to put out the birdfeeders.
One hangs from a wide eve, just far enough in from the edge so that a squirrel can’t drop to it, although many have tried. The other sits atop a seven-foot pipe anchored in an umbrella stand and collared by a squirrel baffle, also well tested.
Come morning, with the snow easing up, I fill the feeders. I then wait, wondering, as always, if my efforts will be noticed. For over an hour, nothing happens. Then a black-capped chickadee, brave for his size, flits in for a quick look. Almost at once a second tiny pioneer joins him, and the two of them dart between feeder and nearby redbud, enticed but prudent.
Next to arrive are the juncos, nuthatches, and finches. And then the sparrows, lots of sparrows, of various kinds, which I can never tell apart. By afternoon, the early arrivals are joined by cardinals, doves, and occasionally, a starling or a jay.
Word of new provender has spread fast, though certainly without words—probably through the “many eyes” phenomenon. One of the benefits of belonging to a flock is that many eyes are always looking many ways—with danger, as well as resources, more easily identified. The two intrepid chickadees had no doubt been spotted, and as other birds came to investigate and the crowd grew, the excitement at the feeders became impossible to overlook.
And what a crowd then came to dine! The redbud was festooned with avian ornaments like an overly decorated Christmas tree. The alpine currants along the southern wall, a sheltered gathering place, quaked with life. The ground level gleaners were many and varied, among them eleven squirrels, appreciating everything that found the ground.
Higher up, access to food appeared to be more difficult, more competitive. Often a blur of feathers—too many birds competing for too little perch, and once space attained, a need to defend it, at least long enough to grab a seed or nut. Much bickering—with those convinced of their singular importance and elevated position able to peck their lesser cousins away (temporarily).
So, it appears that, while there are advantages to being in a flock, a good measure of self-esteem is also necessary. The result of the scrum at the trough could, perhaps, be described as a form of sharing, but certainly not the kind that’s taught in kindergarten. It made me wonder if everyone, eventually, got enough to eat.
Seeing all the energy at the feeder also made me wonder what all these animals were doing for food before the feeders went up. Could this many birds survive the winter without human assistance? Surely there is not enough natural forage—in the trees, bushes, yards (and park across the street) for this many creatures?
And while I’m wondering this—poof—an explosion, a whirr, and in an instant and for no apparent reason no sign of anyone, anywhere. Then, a few moments later, everyone starts coming back, in twos and threes, winking into existence, dropping out of the snowy sky and arcing into the feeder.
In no time the crowd has returned—but then the jays appear, one of them swooping in with a scream. When a jay comes in everyone else clears out, cowering in the redbud or the flowering crab. The smaller birds obviously do not think well of jays. But they have no fear of cardinals, which are nearly as big. Cardinals are polite, self-effacing, never pushy, always willing to wait their turn in line. Even the big starlings, with their stiletto bills are not like jays; they don’t bother other diners. While they take up a lot of space at the table, they don’t intimidate, and sparrows of all kinds feel free to join them, shoulder to shoulder.
Below, the squirrels have accepted the fact that, for all their physical prowess and acrobatic abilities, they can’t fly. They appear resigned, but appreciative of all that cascades, like manna, down upon them. They are industrious in their search, thorough, determined, but never squabbling—looking, rather, like a team of GIs assigned to police a parade ground.
A great many squirrels inhabit this neighborhood, more than might seem possible, even with all the oaks in in this and other yards, and in the park. Modern squirrels have no predators that I know of, except for Pax, my terrible terrier, who well knows that as the snow deepens his chance of catching unwary rodents increases dramatically.
Looking out my window I now see, beyond a line of snow-laden cedars, my neighbor putting out what…must… be…squirrel food. While I do admire squirrels for their incredible ability to survive anything nature throws at them, I have never thought of giving them a handout. For me, squirrels have always been the adversary, and instead of intentionally feeding them I’ve imagined them as dinner, as did earlier human occupants of this place.
So far there has been no sign of the sharp-shinned hawk who last year dropped in from time to time to snatch its meal out of the air around the feeder.
So the feast goes on and now, even as evening descends on this short winter day, the area around the feeders remains active, and I wonder why the animals are so hungry. But then I start to think that they must know what’s coming—the long, dark season with deep, deep cold. Survival, we know, will not be easy.
Perhaps by setting out these feeders and providing sustenance not otherwise available I’m bending nature’s law. Perhaps. But life is hard, and having what Mr. Darwin called “endless forms most beautiful” right outside my kitchen window hardly seems a bad thing. I’ve decided that the wild life and I will get through this winter together.
Clouds gone.
By afternoon, bright sun, but then just as it showed up it started going down—and so did the temperature. Now as darkness descends, we are sliding quickly into negative territory. The polar vortex is back.
But, true to form, the weather has been inimical to iceboating. The smaller, shallower lakes froze surprisingly early, and this last snow event has obliterated them—has actually made them dangerous, in that only a thin skim of ice existed before being covered by thick, insulating blanket of snow—and that is a lethal combination.
And now, the deep cold taking over the remainder of this week will freeze all the middle-sized lakes. This might seem a good thing except that another big snow event is forecast for Friday. And once the middle-sized lakes are gone all that will remain are the big ones—Geneva, Green, Mendota, and they are all farther away. Anyway you slice it, Goldilocks seems adverse to sailing fast.
Pax and I made the mistake going for a walk in the prairie this afternoon. It was cold, and getting colder. The snow was deep, and the traction bad. Half way around our regular loop I started to wonder if we'd make it back by dark. And Pax kept having major problems with snow wedged between his toes.
Lucky for us, we are now sitting around the (fake) wood-burning stove, and soaking in some warmth.
Almost as much as predicted.
Paxton unable contain his excitement, bounding everywhere, at maximum speed, and coming close to snagging one of the many squirrels who hang out below the bird feeder. These squirrels are smart, but they are not good at calculating the relative effects of deep snow on their movements compared to that of the much longer-legged Pax.
Sue put together a perfect, snowy Sunday dinner (of roast beef, mashed potatoes, etc,) even though it was just us—and Pax and Buddy, of course.