IT’S A MATTER OF DEGREES

In a world that seems to have turned on us (or perhaps is seeking revenge on us), it’s nice to know something makes sense, something is predictable.

Hear Ye, 

Hear Ye, 

Here Ye:

 Sun dogs make sense.

Sun dogs are like rainbow parenthesis on either side of the sun. They are a beautiful sight, a little unexpected bonus in an otherwise normal day. They often occur later in the day, just when you need a boost. And sun dogs have a wonderful name: Parhelion for one, Parhelia for more than one. It's Greek for by the sun. Aristotle called sun dogs mock suns. Of course he called everything something.

You can catch a glimpse of sun dogs in the city, but we have a 270° view horizontally and nearly 180° vertically, so sun dogs are a common occurrence.

Is there anything in nature that is this predictable: sun dogs appear 22° on either side of the sun. My own dogs are far more erratic.

To understand why sun dogs occur, you need to search your brain for that file drawer marked Physics and the folders marked Refraction and Angle of minimum deviation. You’re on your own with that. In the case of sun dogs, light is refracted by prisms in the form of hexagonal ice crystals.

The colors of sun dogs are predictable, too–red nearest the sun, then moving through the color spectrum to a white halo on the outside.

If you can’t see a sun dog, perhaps you can catch a moon dog when ice crystals refract moonlight.

I love the surprises in the country: the deer leaning over the fence in the morning, the coyote looking in the double doors, the turkey sniffing my oregano. But it’s also nice to know that some things in nature know how to follow the rules. 

NANCY

When our country school closed, we were shipped off to the big city, a nearby town of 3000. The townies in 6^th grade had been together since kindergarten, and they looked suspiciously at the three of us country bumpkins. There was one exception. A girl with long hair so black it was nearly blue. She sat quietly in the back corner. She had just moved to the area and looked as lost as we did. I later learned she lived on the opposite side of town on a huge hog farm. We two misfits were soon drawn together. Turns out we both loved being in the country, words and writing, and school. That September day in 1957 was the first day of our fifty-year friendship.

Nancy and I went through school together and were roommates at the University of Michigan. While we both still lived in Ann Arbor, we traded off watching our combined 4 children under 4. Then I moved, and she moved. Over the years, we’d lose touch, then regain it, but we always wrote long letters. Mine were plain and factual, Nancy’s were flowery, poetic, and exploding with her current loves. Folded inside were pressed flowers or scribbled poems. She shared her joy at living in France, writing poetry, hiking and always, always her children. There were a few rare visits along the way.

Nancy and I had two special bonds: nature and our cameras. We shared snapshots and later electronic photos of our individual adventures with trees, bugs, birds, and most especially, turtles. Nancy loved turtles so inordinately that she finally had to call a moratorium on people sending her turtles in every form. I knew my own obsession with turtles was understood by someone, even if she was hundreds of miles away. Like grandmothers pulling out a stack of photos of their grandchildren, we tolerated each other’s turtle tales.

It is rare to find someone who just needs a word or glimpse of your life to understand and be right there with you, no matter how far away. I sent her green heron pictures. I inundated her with green heron pictures. I knew that she understood what it was like to be with them. She sent me pictures of her hike on the Appalachian Trail. I could picture her sitting on a rock in the mountains, taking out her journal full of dramatic, Baroque handwriting.





Sometimes I would sit on my antique wooden chair sunk in the mud up to its rungs and call her to describe the warblers I was looking at in the marsh, and she would be right there with me. She always knew something special about each bird or beast I was fixating on at the moment. "If it has that tail stripe, it's a king bird. You can count on it." And I do.

Nancy filled a room with laughter. Her laugh started deep in her gut and traveled up the scale. Life in general delighted her. She was unfettered by convention, and had a light around her that drew people to her.

When nature turned on Nancy, she lost her battle with cancer, but she kept her spirit intact. When I see a king bird, which she loved, I instinctively think, “I need to call Nan and tell her about this.” Then I remember. Sometimes I just tell her about it anyway because if anyone can persist in this universe it is Nancy Ann Huelsberg from Chelsea, Michigan. And Vermont. And Massachusetts. And France. And anywhere there are streams, ponds, and trails to hike.

BLOWIN' IN THE WIND

When I was 11, I gathered all the empty bottles I could find along the road, turned them in at the store for the 2-cent refund, and bought a grape Nehi. Then I bicycled down the narrow road toward Noah’s Landing. It was a dirt path that ran between two swamps. There was no shoulder and the road was at the same level as the swamp, so it looked like a ribbon floating on the water. Stuffed under the waistband of my jeans were a small spiral notebook, a pencil, and a bottle opener.

I hop-scotched across soggy islands of grass to a good climbing tree in the middle of the marsh, and found a strong limb to perch on. When the pop was open and the notebook and pencil were on my lap, I became a scientist. At least I felt like a scientist. I sketched the birds, made charts and graphs of their comings and goings. After an afternoon of data gathering, I had a notebook full of incomplete and inaccurate information but a heart full of happiness. I was saturated with my favorite subject–biology. I also was saturated with swamp water, and I have no idea why I didn’t contract encephalitis.

Fifty-five years later, I am still sitting in a swamp, trying to organize and categorize information. I have gained more appreciation of nature, the mystery of it all, but arranging things along the x and y axes is still very satisfying.

There’s nothing more beautiful than the sun shining through milkweed seeds. I can never resist sending some of those paratroopers flying. But how do they fit into the big picture? The mind goes to seed dispersal systems. Well, my mind does. And exploring systems only adds to the beauty,  to my amazement.

How do seeds get where they need to go? What mechanisms are there? Don't you hear a list just begging to be created?

Some seeds go blowin’ in the wind like the milkweeds. The little parachute is called a pappus. A Maple seed helicopter has a blade pappus.






Some seeds just give in to Newton’s notions and plop to the ground. Rounder ones may roll away, some falling into streams or rivers. Others stay put, and still others are buried or hidden by animals.

Some seeds float to their final destination. This includes water plant seeds but also those that float, such as coconuts. We grow very few coconuts in Iowa. Coconuts in the front garden might be one benefit of global warming. Some adventuresome seeds travel the ocean by this means.

Some seeds are hitchhikers, traveling in or on animals, including us. Our two little Johhny Appleseeds come in covered with burr-encrusted seeds all the time. The nasty sharp sticker seeds that stick in my socks and ankles are carried unintentionally, but intentional planting has a place on this chart as well

Stella, the Seed Collector

Norah dispersing seeds

And now that the sparrows are nesting in the cow once again, we are well aware of how they carry and “deposit” seeds on our deck. 

Soon-to-be blue blobs on the deck

Dung beetles drag seeds right along with the dung

Some seeds are shot right out into the world. Pods explode and send forth their young ‘uns. The pod dries out, and that has the same effect as hitting one of those tubes of crescent rolls on the edge of the counter.

Some seed capsules have small holes and seeds shake out when the plant blows in the wind or is brushed.

Wistfully the 11-yr.-old in me wishes she had another chance at 7th grade biology. She sees a seed dispersal mechanism chart in her head, blissfully unfettered by actual information. It’s just another way of appreciating the order amidst the chaos in the countryside.