A nettlesome time of remembrance #phenology

The folks who are telling us that climate change / global warming contributes to more ticks surviving our Winters are on target, at least according to the number I've lifted off my skin and clothing this year compared to years past. Part of our Memorial Day weekend is being spent pulling stinging nettles and dame's rocket. The latter are pretty but invasive, or at least aggressive, and I haven't yet worked up the courage to try any foraging uses of the former.

an explosion of dame's rocket

Photo by J. Harrington

The folks up the road (Eichten's) look like they have a nice collection of bison calves going in to Summer. We drove past them several times yesterday as we were picking up a new tractor/mower and some implements. (See above re: Memorial Day weekend activities.) Their's is one of two bison herds in our general neck of the woods, the other one being at Belwin Conservancy.

bison, Memorial Day (2014)

Photo by J. Harrington

As you're enjoying this long weekend, traditional start of Summer, please don't forget the real reason we have this holiday, remembering those who died while serving in our armed forces. I still remember, as a child, the parade followed by a 21 gun salute at the cemetery and someone playing Taps on the bugle, or, perhaps, on a trumpet if a bugler couldn't be found. I was fortunate in those times to have my Dad as company. He had returned safely from both WWII and the "Korean police action." Like many kids, I didn't know at the time just how lucky I was to have him.

Memorial Day

By Gregory Orr

1

After our march from the Hudson to the top

of Cemetery Hill, we Boy Scouts proudly endured

the sermons and hot sun while Girl Scouts

lolled among graves in the maple shade.

When members of the veterans’ honor guard

aimed their bone-white rifles skyward and fired,

I glimpsed beneath one metal helmet

the salmon-pink flesh of Mr. Webber’s nose,

restored after shrapnel tore it.

         2

Friends who sat near me in school died in Asia,

now lie here under new stones that small flags flap

beside.

          It’s fifth-grade recess: war stories.

Mr. Webber stands before us and plucks

his glass eye from its socket, holds it high

between finger and thumb. The girls giggle

and scream; the awed boys gape. The fancy pocket watch

he looted from a shop in Germany

ticks on its chain.

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