The Gravitationist

A Violation

2008-01-05T18:32:00.000-06:00

A police officer wrote me up for a moving violation yesterday. I was driving to the veterinarian to retrieve our newest household pet, a cat being treated for a shoulder infection (I suspect a dog bite), receiving his standard feline inoculations and saying goodbye to his testes. The vet bill and the traffic ticket made him a very expensive cat.

The encounter with the policeman had the psychological effect of ruining my day, and my night. Seething about the incident put me off my game for the rest of the day, and produced my worst night's sleep since I can't remember when.

I was guilty of the violation. I knew that, but I could not help feeling persecuted. The violation ("failure to yield") had nothing to do with safety. It occurred in a quiet residential area, and was only witnessed by the policeman because he was lying in ambush for fools such as I.

I rolled through a stop at walking speed or less, following another driver who had done the same. The stop sign was installed at this intersection a few months ago for reasons that remain a mystery. It is ignored by many, if not most. The policeman ticketed both of us. This type of bust is usually referenced in two words; the first is "chicken."

But today I realized my resentment is a silly self-affliction. My persistent flouting of the stop sign finally produced the result I could have expected.

Defiance of small-time regulatory stupidity will change neither the regulations nor the regulators; it only will invite trouble for oneself. Defiance of the law will not dissuade a policeman from picking cherries. More to the point, petulant defiance in such insignificant matters does not improve one's life, nor does it make a better world. It is a waste of energies best reserved for the larger debate.

I will pay the fine and consider the experience worthwhile. I think I have learned a cheap lesson, whatever the expense.

And henceforth I will obey all stop signs.

Stone monuments do not a legacy make

2007-12-22T07:36:00.001-06:00

a photo by Midas

We pass this way briefly, and mostly ineffectually. Stone monuments are no legacy. The only meaningful legacy is the range of influences we leave behind.

Some of us will, before we depart, elevate the common good.

Some of us will benefit a smaller circle by our works, or perhaps by our mere presence while passing through the cosmos.

Others of us will leave a trail of pain and the flotsam of time misspent.

Still others will leave behind disaster to afflict all whose lives might intersect with theirs, most of whose faces they never see. The disaster-leavers are legion. Sometimes we know their names, and our history books detail their malfeasances. But mostly the wreckers are faceless, cloaked in anonymity inside the institutions whose masters they serve.

Sentient societies on our planet will be engaged for centuries, for millennia, perhaps forever, with the suffering bequeathed by the vandals.

We humans have much to atone for now, to repair the destruction, reverse the degradation and make things right.

Praying at the invisible wall

2007-09-16T13:30:00.000-05:00

I have a companion outside the window pane behind my computer monitor. A praying mantis, one of a large conclave of family Mantidae around the plantation this summer, has come to rest on the glass while contemplating his next project or his next meal.

The pronoun “he” will fit today's subject because I am not well grounded in the sexing of mantids and because I suspect this is a male who arrived here after a night of carousing. Male mantids generally fly at night in search of mating opportunities, not unlike habits observed in many species, including our own. I suspect this fellow was drawn to my window this morning by the small lamp which illumines my desk during pre-dawn hours of coffee-drinking and ’Net browsing.

It is a boom year for mantises, whose number in our valley is even greater than in bountiful 2004.

Now my morning visitor is put on alert by a hummingbird visiting the feeder two feet away. His head quickly swivels to follow the bird's movements. Does he fear this aerial intruder (bats prey on flying male mantids), or is his tiny brain calculating the probabilities of a meal (some larger mantid species include hummingbirds in their diets)?

The bird drinks and departs, and the mantis resumes his meditations, one antenna sweeping rhythmically across the pane, seeking odors of interest. But his torpor has been disturbed, and he begins to move, his rear appendages rubbing and tapping the glass for best purchase before each step. He moves across the pane to a point opposite a hanging indoor basket. He reaches for the basket edge and its support chain, but the glass defeats him. Again and again he grabs for the vine he believes can be his stairway. The invisible barrier is beyond his understanding, a dimension his limited brain cannot decipher.

Confounded by the unknown, at last he dumbly folds his front appendages and retreats to his prayers. It is, after all, Sunday morning in the Bible Belt.

Dog days

2007-08-05T18:14:00.000-05:00

If you want to know about dog days, visit the Arkansas River Valley to experience our August. Some time during the month you will confront breathtaking meteorological ambience.

Literally.

A noon walk from the house to the mailbox and back will leave a man's shirt damp. The same slow walk at 5 p.m. will soak the shirt and leave the man breathing hard. In August, the heat and humidity descend upon our river valley like a wet canvas cloak. If you plan to do any work outside, wear a button-up shirt, because you'll strain something removing a T-shirt.

Thermometers often reach triple digits. Electricity bills always do.

The survival strategy is to stay indoors if you can. If you must work outside, do it as soon as you have enough morning light to see (these days, about 6:30 a.m.) and finish up by 10 o’clock. Summer temperature usually jumps 15 degrees or more between daybreak and 10.

The real dog days are those with no wind. A large high-pressure center frequently drifts slowly over the Ozarks in summer, which leaves our valley with little or no surface air movement. Anyone who has not experienced 98°F with 88% humidity in calm air has not experienced real summertime.

The dog days came in the first week this August. The northeast Arkansas town of Newport hung up summer's first official 100° reading on August 4. There will be many more to come for all of us.

Tick fever

2007-07-24T11:40:00.000-05:00

Doxycycline . . . don't leave home without it.

Early last month, day after day, I felled beetle-infested pine trees, removing limbs, cutting the trunks to manageable length, then carting and dragging all of it down to the burn pile on the meadow. I was constantly knee deep in habitat for one of our most active local families, the Amblyomma clan.

Around our rustic acres, these Amblyommas often mix with the Rhipicephalus crowd. It is a down-home bloodletting when the Dermacentor bunch arrives. They love to attack us, and they will jump at the first opportunity.

We don't call them by their names. We just call them ticks.

The moist early months of 2007 produced a bonanza of these tenacious arachnids around our neighborhood. Despite my semi-religious daily application of DEET-laced repellent, I was fair game for these eight-legged animals. I was bitten (on the ankles and around the waist) eight times in a one-week period. Most of the perpetrators were Amblyomma (Lone Star ticks). I would find these little passengers as I showered after work. By that time, they had done their job, and the itching began within 24 hours.

I began to feel the effects within a few days: I had tick fever. The symptoms were painful joints, weak and aching muscles, fatigue, a periodic fever of 1-2 degrees, frequent shortness of breath and a reddening and slight swelling of my lower legs. None of this was a surprise, as this was my third experience with tick fever (ehrlichosis).

This time, I didn't visit my doctor right away. We were leaving immediately on a long vacation, and I intended to catch up with a doctor friend in Detroit to get the standard treatment of doxycycline antibiotic. But I missed connections with him there, traveled to Canada and suffered with the symptoms for almost a month before I got home to my own doctor.

I finished the two-week course of doxycycline, but the episode has left me physically weakened. I have missed my regular workouts at the gym, and I expect the climb back to 100 percent health to be long.

It was a foolish procrastination — how foolish I didn't know until just this morning when I read on a state health department Web site: “If not treated early, Ehrlichiosis is potentially fatal, especially in the elderly, those with compromised immune systems, people with diabetes, and those with collagen vascular disease.”

Now, this is more like it

2007-05-16T22:48:00.000-05:00

At last, we have come to a forecasted stretch of the kind of May weather we advertise to friends and family. When our up-north folks begin talking about visiting our pastoral patch, we tell them to plan for a stay in April, May, October or November. Those are the glorious T-shirt-and-shorts months — sunny days, gentle breezes, tolerable insect populations, nights made for sleeping with open windows and light bedclothes.

So, this year we have a parent living with us during the spring, and what happens? Rain. Muddy paths. Windstorms. Trees down. Humidity off the charts. Unpredictable temperature swings. Uncomfortably strong wind many days. Clouds.

Over the long term, a one-month period of unexpected weather is barely noticeable on the charts. But our 21st-Century, I-want-it-now mindset magnifies everything out of proportion.

Now it appears we will experience some climatic normalcy for at least a week:

ARZ021-022-030-031-038-039-171200-
CONWAY-JOHNSON-LOGAN-PERRY-POPE-YELL-
INCLUDING THE CITIES OF... BOONEVILLE... CENTER RIDGE... CLARKSVILLE... DANVILLE... DARDANELLE... FOURCHE JUNCTION... GRAVELLY... HECTOR... HOUSTON... MORRILTON... MOUNT MAGAZINE... OLA... OZONE... PARIS... PELSOR... PERRYVILLE... RUSSELLVILLE
1000 PM CDT WED MAY 16 2007

TONIGHT... MOSTLY CLEAR. COOLER. LOWS IN THE MID 40S. NORTH WINDS 5 MPH.
THURSDAY... SUNNY. HIGHS IN THE UPPER 70S. NORTH WINDS 5 TO 10 MPH.
THURSDAY NIGHT... MOSTLY CLEAR. LOWS IN THE MID 40S. NORTHEAST WINDS 5 TO 10 MPH IN THE EVENING... DECREASING TO 5 MPH AFTER MIDNIGHT.
FRIDAY... SUNNY. HIGHS IN THE MID 70S. EAST WINDS 5 TO 10 MPH.
FRIDAY NIGHT... MOSTLY CLEAR. LOWS IN THE MID 40S. SOUTHEAST WINDS 5 MPH.
SATURDAY... SUNNY. HIGHS IN THE UPPER 70S.
SATURDAY NIGHT... PARTLY CLOUDY. LOWS IN THE LOWER 50S.
SUNDAY... MOSTLY SUNNY. HIGHS IN THE LOWER 80S.
SUNDAY NIGHT... PARTLY CLOUDY. LOWS IN THE MID 50S.
MONDAY... MOSTLY SUNNY. HIGHS IN THE LOWER 80S.
MONDAY NIGHT... PARTLY CLOUDY IN THE EVENING... THEN BECOMING MOSTLY CLOUDY. LOWS IN THE UPPER 50S.
TUESDAY... PARTLY SUNNY. HIGHS IN THE LOWER 80S.
TUESDAY NIGHT... MOSTLY CLOUDY. A SLIGHT CHANCE OF SHOWERS AND THUNDERSTORMS IN THE EVENING... THEN A CHANCE OF SHOWERS AND THUNDERSTORMS AFTER MIDNIGHT. LOWS IN THE UPPER 50S. THE CHANCE OF PRECIPITATION 30 PERCENT.
WEDNESDAY... PARTLY SUNNY. A CHANCE OF SHOWERS AND THUNDERSTORMS. HIGHS IN THE LOWER 80S. THE CHANCE OF PRECIPITATION 40 PERCENT.

The neighbors were in the hayfields this afternoon, cutting and baling as fast as they could. The timothy and alfalfa is abundant. So are the grasses and weeds on our acreage. I will be on the mowers and the tractor much of the next three days.

Spring

2007-03-04T22:13:00.000-06:00

Out the door, a few steps across the yard, a deep breath and I know it has arrived. Spring, lovely spring.

Not according to the stars, of course, but springtime is upon us here, just the same. And none too soon. The mild winter in this part of the Arkansas River Valley was reluctant to leave. Like a stud player with a weak hand and dwindling chips, winter hung around taking another card, then one more, trying for a lucky draw. In most years, the game is over by mid-February and my neighbors are setting tomato plants by March 1.

It didn't happen that quickly this time. Days in the upper 50s, nights in the mid-30s reminded us that nature dances to her own beat. But a sudden 70-degree afternoon in late February broke winter's back with a resounding snap. Then came a last cold front, driving a wave of killer storms well east of us and setting up Jack Frost's curtain call.

Three late frosts were mere parting insults by a toothless winter that bit no deeper than 16°F, summoned fewer than half a dozen mornings below 20° and conjured just three instances of visible snow, only two of which whitened our earth. A quarter-inch in December, one inch as January departed and no significant icing any time. The power stayed on, linemen drew no overtime pay.

Firewood on the hearth now had no purpose. I carried it back outside, where half a rick remained untouched, stacked by the house since fall. It will serve another season.

The burning

2007-02-21T19:52:00.000-06:00

Good for the earth? No, but this is the way we do things in the country. When we accumulate a ton of combustible organic material that we cannot efficiently put to other uses, we burn it.

Nature's way would be to let it rot. The wood is infested with insects that would destroy every pine tree on the place in a few years, but so what? That's the natural order of things. The insects would serve their purpose, the deadfall would provide habitat and building material for other cycles of life. To our "civilized" eyes, however, the destruction of our beautiful pines is a grievous wrong, so we interrupt nature's project and commit an aggravated carbon assault upon the earth.

One of our two burn piles has reached crtitical mass. It is deadwood, much of it tunneled by borers, infested with larvae. Turning it into chips for mulch, or converting some to fuel for heating or cooking, would be practical only if I had access to specialized machinery such as a an industrial-grade chipper and a log splitter.

Another option would have been to hire someone with a dump truck to haul the deadwood to an illegal dumping ground. Such places are common in the rural parts of a state where organized recycling is a foreign concept and where the few municipal landfills (usually one per county) will not accept what our city brethren call "yard waste."

The favorite illegal dumping grounds in this part of my county are "over in the bottoms." The bottoms are large areas of scrub and cedar bordering the Arkansas River channel on land owned or controlled by the U.S. Corps of Engineers. It is officially classified as flood plain, acquired by the Corps in the 1970s as a series of locks and dams were being built to prevent devastating floods in the delta country near the Mississippi, and also to create a year-round navigable waterway.

The jakeleg timber cutters know where to take their useless limbs and logs. The wood will lie in the bottoms and rot away undisturbed amongst the other deadfall, mostly rot-resistant cedar snags. The flood control system works so well that the waters never rise high enough to float any of the debris away.

But I don't like the idea. I would rather burn the stuff, just as all my neighbors have been doing. So I read the forecasts and wait for the right day — a week following a rain and a light breeze that will carry stray embers and the grass fire to our pond.

The day comes: Wind forecast at less than five knots out of the west-northwest all day long. The torch is lit, the burn is accomplished. I'll be mowing that spot before summer's end.

Pining for Poison

2007-01-07T14:13:00.000-06:00

The burn pile on the eastern meadow achieves pep-rally proportions again. When last I put the torch to it in 2003, the pile comprised mostly the remains of an 80-foot sycamore that was strangled, then toppled, by wild grapevines. This time, the burn pile is mostly pine.

Last summer's drought was a killer. Pines suffered painfully; oaks lost big branches. Pine bark beetles are everywhere, now that lindane is off the market as a plant treatment. The compound was an effective killer of beetle larvae, but it created two major problems: (1) Lindane production brews some terrible wastes, and irresponsible manufacturers create poisonous swamps with reckless disposal schemes; (2) lindane is probably a human carcinogen.

The stuff now is banned in more than 50 countries, though not in Europe. (Oddly, it is still legal in the USA in a shampoo treatment for head lice, sold in 1% solution in 2-ounce bottles for use on children.)

Our bark beetles have feasted undisturbed since I applied the last of my lindane supply three years ago this month. The experts tell me no legal and safe compound will control the beetles now, and all of our pines will eventually fall victim. As we have dozens of beautiful pines shading our house, lawn, lanes and picturesque coves around our pond, this is unsettling to contemplate.

The summer brought 10 weeks in July, August and September without any rainfall on our little acreage. All around us, often less than a mile away, thunderstorms would pass across neighbors' hay fields, granting succor and relief from triple-digit heat. But not on our grounds, where pines in close combat with the relentless beetles could not bear the added stress of drought.

For now, nothing can be done but cut the dead and dying wood, take it to an isolated area and burn it. So the pile grows. Our death toll stands at nine pines, five of them quite large, in the 30- to 70-foot range.

Also lost this year were two pecans and a beautiful hawthorn. The latter fell not to drought, but to my own neglectful failure to prune its three spreading main branches, which collapsed of their own weight on a night of blustery winds.

The pecans and the hawthorn, which gave us so much pleasure in life, have been split into firewood. The billets lie seasoning under tarps in a sheltered corner, awaiting another winter and another chance to serve.

Oaks and acorns

2006-10-02T13:10:00.000-05:00

Trees cannot think. Trees soak up daylight, soak up water, grow leaves, grow seeds, drop the ripe seeds, shed old leaves and rest for the next go-around.

But why were the huge oaks not scattering acorns this September? It was a puzzle.

Our first measurable rainfall in 10 weeks came September 17. The wave of thunderstorms spilled two inches of water on our patch — a good, soaking rain. The thirsty ground rejected nothing. Within a day, a bombardment of acorns began. Within a week, the huge oaks had loosed thousands of acorns. The squirrels went berserk. The drumming of acorns on the roof and deck played ’round the clock, a shower unlike any other.

Trees cannot think, we say. No brain, no synapses, no nerves. Oaks cannot reason that an acorn dropped on parched, rock-hard ground is useless as a propagator.

Yet these old oaks “sensed” that entering the 11th week of a drought was not the time to scatter seeds. They waited. Was it only a sequence of chemical and biological events and cellular changes, triggered by the presence of abundant moisture, interacting to produce the sudden loosening of all those acorns? Even if that purely mechanical process was solely responsible, does that not constitute a form of reasoning — call it “species reasoning”?

Quercus rubra has “learned” through thousands of generations how best to assure its future, its survival. Sounds reasonable to me.

One day, perhaps, homo sapiens will develop species reasoning.

Last snake of summer

2006-09-23T05:47:00.000-05:00

There on the dam, sunning in the stone of our two-track lane next to the pond, lies a three-foot cottonmouth. I think this has not been a good year for snakes (actually, not a good year for humans, either). So, as I drive back from the Post Office, fate chooses this last day of summer for my first 2006 encounter with a moccasin.

Granted, I have not been working around the grounds much this year, for various reasons. In previous years, I encountered dozens of snakes, most of them non-venomous. The only poisonous snakes I have seen around our place in 10 years are a couple of itinerant copperheads and the many members of several generations of our pond's ruling family, the water moccasins. Last fall I stirred up a fat five-footer in a clump of bushes bordering the pond.

This year's drought devastated the insect population (except for cicadas and grasshoppers). The spiders, normally profuse during August, had slim pickings. With so few flying insects, the spiders mostly died off by mid-September. The wasps, which capture live spiders to feed to their larvae, ran out of sustenance and virtually disappeared, leaving far fewer nests than normal.

Water moccasins mostly hunt at night, eating fish, frogs, lizards and other snakes. Without the usual hordes of insects this year, those species have been on short rations.

I expect the snake to hurry into the weeds as I drive onto the dam, but it stays put. Mocs are that way. Sometimes they move toward an intruder. I cut the wheel, roll up slowly beside the sleek beauty and open the door for a better look. Yes, a dark-chocolate moccasin, not a blacksnake. We converse silently for a few moments. The snake does not show me its white mouth. As I open the door wider for a better look, Ol' Moc retreats. Through the weeds it slips, down to the water's edge, away from the human threat.

I close the door, drive on up to the house. Each in our own habitat, our own lives. The way it is.