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The squirrel files

One day the squirrels didn’t come. Not at daybreak, not at noon, not in the afternoon. I was surprised by my concern. I had grown more fond of the four young squirrels than I realized.

They had made our front yard part of their playground earlier this summer. It is also their dining area, as they did all sorts of acrobatics and contortions to hang on the bird seed feeder, then take a nibble at the grape jelly dish before they went to the bird bath for a drink. And then they played, chasing and jumping and tumbling, no different than puppies and kittens.

The whole show amazed and amused me, a welcome diversion in the summer of losing the second of our two little dogs. Squirrels don’t replace dogs, but they had become a welcome daily sight. And after years of trying to keep squirrels off the bird feeders, I struck a deal with the bushytails. They provide entertainment, I provide sunflower seeds. (In truth, I simply surrendered, tired of the battle.)

In my new Zen approach, the squirrels’ acrobatics and comedy are rewarded. The birds still come, so what’s the big problem, besides a bit more strain on the seed budget? To watch squirrels hang perfectly upside down from the feeder by their toes as they nibble seeds, then do a pull-up to get more seed, drops my jaw. The least I can do is support the arts.

Oh, the little squirrels test me sometimes, taking to chewing on the deck boards, even with a layer of deck stain on the treated lumber. I’ve never figured that out, but the squirrels appear to suffer no ill effects. They will also take 6-inch long strips of lilac bark, running through the yard with the strands hanging out from both sides of their mouth. Is it for fun, like a dog’s ball? Or, perhaps for their nest?

Some summer days, in the heat of the afternoon, they take turns lazing on a low horizontal branch of the small maple tree near the feeder. It’s a prime spot, and there are spats at times over who gets to rest there. A piece of unspilt firewood I happened to place near the tree one day has become their springboard to the branch. When I moved it, my wife questioned why, saying the squirrels liked it. You see, she’s softened on the critters too. I put it back.

So, what of the day they didn’t come? Well, after supper, while doing dishes with the bird feeder right outside the kitchen window, I suddenly saw the squirrels dashing across the street, bent on our yard. In an instant they were on the feeder, chasing each other around the bottom of the pole, leaping on and off the chunk of maple. Where they had spent the day, who knows? Perhaps the Twin Cities.

I shouted to my wife, “The squirrels are here!” with such glee I surprised myself. Can you believe it?

Dragons and dogs in the clouds

When I was a small boy I’d lay on my back next to the barn’s silo on summer days and watch clouds pass by the silver dome. They were puffy white clouds in a blue sky, dreams in a young boy’s eyes.

My fascination with clouds would only heighten as I studied their flight and ever-changing shapes. A cloud’s formation might be an animal, say a dragon or dog, but the head and tail would grow and shrink before my eyes. And then what I thought was a dragon or dog would suddenly be all different, transformed into a bird or maybe even a state. Look, Montana is flying!

I could also stare long enough to make the clouds stand still. This would create the illusion that the silo was moving, or falling, which caught my attention real fast. I’d close my eyes to block out the fear, and then open them again to let the clouds continue on.

Where were the clouds going? How far and how fast? Would they circle the globe or dissipate over the neighbor’s hill? Would a cloud that looked like a bear to me take on the same form 10 or 100 miles away?

I looked at clouds again the other day through the eyes of an aging man. But, squinting back to my youth and child-like view of the world, I saw two dogs in the clouds. One dog was sitting looking away from me, the other stretched out and pushing a paw toward the sitting dog. The scene changed in less than a minute, and the sitting dog cloud suddenly formed a poodle’s head.

I actually saw a poodle in the sky. And I felt a little kid in my heart.

Leaves by the number

Warning: Rough estimates ahead.

Every summer I’m amazed at the height, width and fullness of our large birch tree in the back yard after its spring rebirth from winter’s bareness. It is the biggest birch I know of, though I don’t go on searches for big birch trees.

As I stare at this old, mature tree, which hides all kinds of birds and squirrel nests and has some dead spots for the pileated woodpeckers, I always ask the question with the impossible answer: How many leaves?

I finally came up with a formula to estimate the number of leaves on the mighty birch with its three trunks from which several hefty horizontal branches spread. The formula may be flawed, but I go with it.

I stepped off the widths, north to south and east to west, and they were fairly even at about 40 feet. Knowing the tallest birches in Wisconsin are 65 to 70 feet, I conservatively topped my tree out at 60 feet.

Those measurements gave me 96,000 cubic feet of space. Accounting for open spaces in the tree, I halved that to come up with 48,000 cubic feet of leaf area. Then I counted 55 leaves in one cubic foot. Multiplying 48,000 by 55 gave me about 2.6 million leaves.

Am I even close? I did some research of other folks with the same leaf question. I found one estimate of 2 million leaves on a big oak tree, so that’s close to my number. However, another leaf counter came up with 200,000 leaves on a large mature tree, so that’s not close.

One thing I am sure of is how much I, along with the birds and squirrels, enjoy this big birch, no matter how many leaves.

How long true darkness?

Darkness comes slowly now, hanging behind the new leaves, waiting patiently in the wake of the summer solstice. It’s as if night is reluctant to disturb the bustle of early summer, respecting the need for extra daylight so birds and animals can nuture their young, so flowers and bushes can burst with bloom, and so the stewards of the earth can tend their young crops.

When do you see the last hint of light before the late June evening finally slips into true, total darkness? On these last days of June are the latest sunsets of the year. By the Fourth of July weekend, sunsets will come a bit sooner each evening.

It’s 10 p.m., and the last bit of murky sky still hangs in the portals of the birch tree’s branches. The sky to the northwest, where the sun slipped below the horizon an hour ago, still has an amber glow. I’ve read that total darkness doesn’t occur until 2 hours after our eyes can no longer detect light in the sky. So that would mean the dark of night, the true darkness, doesn’t surround us until midnight this time of year.

And is that true as dawn approaches, when a soft ripple of light is sent out shortly after 4 a.m., more than an hour before sunrise? If so, true darkness has already lifted. That leaves us with perhaps only 3 or 4 hours of total darkness in the days after the summer solstice, and it explains why birds are chirping before our eyes pick up the first light of dawn.

Though the summer solstice on June 20 this month was the “longest day” in terms of daylight, neither the year’s earliest sunrise nor latest sunset occur on that day. The earliest sunrise is a week earlier, and latest sunset is over the final days of June, when the sun finally slinks away just minutes shy of 9 p.m.

As nights now descend upon us slowly and gently, sending birds to their roost, morning is not far off, beginning with a single chirp of a bird detecting the ripple of a light wave. The first ripple in the waves of long summer days.

Soul of the solstice

The summer solstice eases upon us this 20th day of the sixth month with 15 hours and 38 minutes of daylight—the most of the year—as the sun takes its most northerly path in the celestial sphere, from sunrise in the northeast to sunset in the northwest.

So what to do with the longest day of the year? Look for agates in the storm-washed creek and then look for Jupiter and Saturn when the reluctant darkness finally falls after 10 p.m.

Sunrise. Share it with a cup of coffee on the quiet porch or with a fishing rod on the quiet lake as the first golden rays yawn across the tranquil waters, the silence broken only by the call of a loon.

Sunset. Should I sit quietly, watching a deer tiptoe through the corn rows or stop in the fold of ferns to query my presence. Or should I be on the trout stream, watching brookies break the surface for mayflies, and perhaps for my fascination if not my imitation?

And the long, lazy hours between dawn and dusk. What about them? I’ll watch a catbird at the bird bath, then walk a trail and make notes of brambles with green, budding blackberries.

Should I mow lawn or drive through the countryside and smell fresh-mown hay? Perhaps I’ll follow a bumblebee or butterfly, look for a walking stick—one the insect, the other a walking aid—then check the bluebird nest or pursue a myriad of matters nature is taking up as summer begins.

At 4:44 p.m. on this day, can I feel the solstice, the balance of the hemisphere, the assurance that the sun is trailing the correct path before it turns back toward autumn? Is there a solstice, a turning point, in my life? Have I reached a balance and found the right course by connecting the natural world with my inner self?

On this day, there’s plenty of time to find out.

Little things in the shadows

It’s the little things that make up the big picture of nature. When we look across the woodlands, back yards and flower gardens, do we see the understory, figuratively and literally? In a reverse of the old saying: Sometimes we can’t see the trees for the forest. Yes, sometimes we should get lost in the details of tiny scenes of beauty.

I was taking photos of trilliums one morning when the shadow of a fern appeared on the flower’s white petals. I say “appeared,” for it was seemingly suddenly there, or so I thought. But it was there all along, begging me to see it, and I didn’t notice until I studied the photo composition in the camera lens.

The photo became more than that of a trillium in bloom. And though I often avoid direct sunshine in nature photography, here it worked, bursting the greens of the fern out of the darkness of the forest floor, with the red of another blooming flower in sharp contrast of the black backdrop.

We have to train ourselves to see, for nature truly does conceal its mysteries, especially its small mysteries. And so, as spring greens toward summer, what can we look for as we hike along a woodland trail or survey the back yard? There have been bumblebees in our herb garden, but until I look closely, I have no idea what sweetness they might be pursuing in early June. Lungwort? I will look.

I see white-throated sparrows in the front yard, and I know they must have a nest in the bushes next to the house. Maybe I can see their cup-like nest, only inches off the ground, with inch-long, pale blue eggs distinctively marked with blotches of reddish brown and lavender.

Is that a frog’s eyes just above the pond surface? A toad flattened out in the mulch? Ladybug beetles on hostas? Spittlebug in the green tansies? What are those dainty blossoms of soft hues on bushes every direction I turn? Oh, there’s a caterpillar on the underside of a milkweed’s emerging leaf.

What am I seeing? What am I missing?