A Pocketful of Corn…

Yesterday as Gladys and I passed the Werkhoven Dairy, I saw Jim Werkhoven exit the milkhouse and stride toward some farm machinery parked nearby. Gladys gave Jim a feminine ting-a-ling, but her greeting was muffled by machinery noise and we glided by unnoticed. I heard Big Jim on the radio again the other day, the ad the Werkhovens do for the Washington State Dairy Commission and it always seems a bit strange to see the Werkhovens in person and later hear their voices coming from the radio speaker.

“You know, we try to be good neighbors,” Jim’s gruff voice booms over the airwaves. I think about all that good organic by-product I’ve been granted from the Werkhovens’ Dairy (they’ll even load it for you if they’re around). Friends of ours, those Rollers, wanted to pump up their pumpkin patch this spring. I told them to contact the Werkhovens. Sure enough, the Rollers came away with two pickup loads of digester effluence. “It’s the least we can do for you,” Jim told Darren, “after all the ****you’ve had to put up with from us all these years.”

I sat down with Jim last January to talk about the farming business, the dairy industry in particular. One subject that came up was the communal patch of corn that’s been a tradition with the Werkhovens for years (a part of their“…trying to be good neighbors”policy). Last year the patch was bare—in part because of the long, cool spring—but also because Jim, Andy and Steve were disheartened by some corn patch visitors who discovered the corn and took advantage of  the free produce. “I’d see fancy cars out there…one guy in a BMW,” Jim exclaimed, implying, “I’m sure, if you can afford a BMW, purchasing a few ears of corn shouldn’t be a problem.” Jim remarked about a van that stopped at the patch and the driver proceeded to load the vehicle with corn. “Now I know that guy couldn’t eat a whole van full of corn himself! He had to be selling it somewhere!” A sad fact, if true…which it most likely was. “Free” anything triggers something in our brains (unless, that is,  it’s a free used mattress) and perhaps because the situation arises so seldom, we tend to take advantage of it and often to excess. (Consider my last post and the dozen “free” apples from Hood River.) The “neighborly” intent of the communal corn patch was to provide a few ears for a family’s supper, share some of the Valley’s sweet corn with the locals and Valley visitors, enough for a meal or two--certainly not to provide a corn bake for a “city” block part or a sales booth at some farmers’ market. Jim just didn’t know if he wanted to continue the gesture.

And that’s why I smiled last spring when I saw new corn sprouting in the tilled ground, and I smiled again last week when I pedaled past  the communal patch and noted a hand painted sign propped against a metal box by the corner of the field: “CORN IS READY.” I parked Gladys alongside the patch and strolled into the field to examine the crop. A half dozen rows into the patch yielded two nice, plump ears. I removed the husks, left the sheaves for compost, and pocketed my loot. Now I must confess I have two rows of corn in the backyard garden, Golden Jubilee, and the ears are ripe for the picking. Why, then, you may ask, did I take two extra from the Werkhoven communal patch?  Because I appreciated the gesture in which it was offered. Because I could. And because the corn was free. Two ears. That’s all I took. Just enough for one recipe of little corn dumplings, enough for one evening’s meal. Two ears for one batch and no more.

                              Little Corn Dumplings

1/2 cup flour

2 Tbsp cornstarch

1 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp salt

1 egg

1/3 cup ice water

2 ears sweet corn, husked, kernels removed (1-1/2 cups)

6 Tbsp vegetable oil for cooking the dumplings

1. Mix the flour, cornstarch, baking powder and half the salt together in a bowl. Add the egg and 1/4 of the water, and mix with whisk until smooth. Add the remainder of the water, and again mix until smooth. Fold in corn kernels.

2. Heat 3 Tbsp of oil in a large skillet, and drop one Tbsp batter for each dumpling. Cook for three/four minutes per dumpling per side and transfer to wire rack when they are cooked.

3. Sprinkle the dumplings with the remaining salt and serve immediately. (Alternately prepare a few hours in advance and reheat on wire rack set over a cookie sheet in a 175 degree oven for 10-15 minutes.)

Note: Leftovers can be frozen and reheated at a later date—or we like them refrigerated and eaten cold.

A Late Summer Pilgrimage…

Chaucer’s storytelling pilgrims did theirs in the spring. We “Yanks”call it “Cabin Fever.” In England perhaps it’s “Cottage Fever,” that springtime urge to move about, go out of doors, hit the road, let the vernal breezes “inspired by Zephyrus” refresh your spirit. A pilgrimage by definition is a religious journey and in fourteenth century England that meant traveling from “every shires ende of Engelond to Canterbury” to worship at the tomb of the martyr St. Thomas a’ Becket. Come the second week of September, however, I like to get away from the place for a while, the demands of the lawn, the garden, household maintenance, all the trimming and mowing, the tilling and weeding, the watering and this summer—the house painting. You just need to step away, take a break, put some distance between you and the lawn mower.

I suppose it’s a vacation I’m talking about; yet for me it is a pilgrimage of sorts, too, because in a round about way there is a religious motif rattling around in this picture somewhere. Unlike Chaucer’s foot weary pilgrims, it’s not spiritual enlightenment I’m seeking but the opportunity to swing the insect net one last time for the season.

Apodemia mormo—common name the Mormon metalmark-- flies in autumn, late in the butterfly season and while this butterfly species to the best of my knowledge is not in anyway affiliated with the Church of Latter Day Saints, it is decidedly a “latter day” butterfly, the last species in Cascadia to emerge and fly during the butterfly season. This species, whose habitat is the Great Basin, roughly the same as Mormon country—thus its commonplace name—is the only metalmark (subfamily Riodininae) species in our locale. Because most species of Riodininae possess a metallic-like appearance on the top and lower sides—metal markings—they are commonly referred to as “metalmarks.”

Metalmark territory is stark and barren--hot, arid basalt hillsides and scablands--certainly not the terrain in which one would expect to find much insect life, let alone this attractive little bug. An experienced butterfly friend of mine said of  A. mormo: “You have to sweat to get ‘em.” And she’s right about that. To stay long in metalmark country, you need to be well hydrated.

The base camp from which we launch our assault on the metalmarks is the scenic town of Hood River, Oregon, a little town teetering on the hillside above the Columbia River Gorge and famous the world over because of its ideal wind conditions for windsurfing and parasailing.  We have booked three nights at the Hood River Best Western Hotel, our favorite place to stay at Hood River and have set aside one entire day of our stay to “sweat” for butterflies.

No sweat it looks like this time around. For days, weeks even, the weather has been warm and dry, but as luck would have it, the weekend we arrive in Hood River, the clouds move in and drag the wind with them. Whereas the day prior the temp was a torrid 97 degrees, the day after, a chilly 66 degrees settled on Hood River. Sweater and sweatshirt weather...and disappointment. We cross our fingers for the next day, hope this weather system blows east upriver and beyond.

The next day is “D” day, the day of our metalmark foray to the Deschutes River. Temps in the fifties; rain puddles in the parking lot; clouds layer the Gorge: all spell disappointment to me. But we may yet salvage the day. Our destination is due south between The Dalles and Bend. In that direction we see sunshine, blue skies…only a few clouds. Fifty miles south and an hour later, we hoped, conditions would improve.

The Deschutes River and Sherar’s Bridge provide a stark contrast to Hood River. No longer that mile wide expanse of Columbia or hillsides dappled with scrub oak and pines. The Deschutes has gouged its way through sheer basalt cliffs which in places give way to cobbled hillsides, sage-covered and bunch grassed. And through this bleak, austere landscape winds a beautiful aquamarine river, the Deschutes; lush greenery lines its banks: a moving oasis in the midst of arid scabland. This is Mormon metalmark country.

Mt. Hood has our back as we turn east off Highway 197 and drive the winding seven miles to Sherar’s Bridge. Upriver west of the bridge is reservation land, the Warm Springs Indian Reservation where Native Americans still fish Sherar’s Falls for salmon in the old way with long dip nets. Downstream of Sherar’s is public land, a recreational area, and a popular stretch of river for fishing. The salmon season opened August 1 and concludes October 31 (“limit four Jack salmon and two adults”). The hard pan unsurfaced road is washboarded and rutted. Pickups trailing boats, empty trailers, contrails of dust billowing behind, rattle by constantly as if some kind of a commute was occurring in this desolate spot. Drivers smile and wave; after all, I’m carrying a net, too.

Butterflies deplore three conditions: rain, of course, clouds that shadow the sun (I’ve seen the airspace above mountain meadows empty instantly of butterflies when a thundercloud passed before the sun)--and wind. No rain today along the Deschutes and temperature was in the high 70’s. A few clouds but these slid quickly across the sun. Clouds, however, usually mean wind and windy it was indeed. Fifteen to twenty mph gusts were the norm, but I’m sure some exceeded twenty. My net billowed out like an airport windsock nearly everywhere I went. Small butterflies would lie low and cling somewhere in a breeze so strong. And metalmarks are not big butterflies. The biggest disappointment, however, was not the weather, but the timing: adult metalmarks nectar on a species of eriogonum (buckwheat). This plant dots the hillsides above the road, but not a one was yet in bloom. There would be no metalmarks this day. Nor tomorrow. Next week…maybe…perhaps…. A pilgrimage of three hundred fifty miles and we had to reconcile ourselves with the scenery, but the Deschutes is beautiful river. Perhaps that was enough. 

So enjoy the scenery we did as we ate our riparian lunch. Fisherman were not the only ones using the Deschutes that day. For our lunchtime entertainment a party of rafters drifted by. A wave from me prompted the drifters to waggle paddles and arms: everyone likes to have his picture taken.A stop sign at the Fish and Game check point halted us as we left  the recreational area. A young man left a small trailer and walked up to the car.“Catch any fish?” he asked. “We weren’t fishing,” we told him, “just catching bugs.” A quizzical smile and with a wave he motioned us through.Even though we left the Deschutes empty-handed, our stay in Hood River was relaxing and memorable. Our last evening we strolled the trail along the river just as a graceful fifty foot sailboat, sails furled, under auxiliary power (a rare, windless evening in the Gorge), glided up to the hotel dock where captain and crew (a man, woman and two dogs) performed a slick bit of seamanship—neatly docking with nary a bump. We felt a connection to home when we saw the ship was the Ingrid Princess, homeport Friday Harbor. As we strolled back to the hotel, we stopped to watch three teen boys who we’d earlier seen fishing beneath the Hood River toll bridge. Now they were struggling with a fishing pole bent nearly double. The eldest of the three was helping the younger fisherman land some large fish. I videoed the struggle and recorded their catch as they pulled a four foot sturgeon from the water. “Congratulations,” the older boy said to the younger, “You just caught your first sturgeon!” He was more than happy to hold the big fish up in full view to be photographed. When asked if the fish would be served up for dinner, we were told it was a catch and release candidate. That made sense, I thought…a four foot Columbia River sturgeon? Well, it was still a fingerling, wasn’t it?

When you stay at a nice hotel, there’s always the ethical question about what amenities are yours to take—you paid for them, right?  A part of the deal? Those tightly wrapped bars of perfumed soap…they’re yours. The little bottles of fragrant shampoo…they’ll make the trip home with you, too. The complimentary de-caf coffee pouch (the caffeine pouch is your first coffee of the morning)? Pack it away to serve to guests later at home. The on-the-house tea bags? Same thing. The plush bath towel that could easily absorb a gallon of water? Better leave it for the maids. And the thick terry cloth pool robes? Don’t you dare…they know where to find you! But there are some gray areas that seem to defy ethics. What does the Golden Rule say about those two fruit-laden apple trees on the hotel’s riverside lawn? (Wasn’t there something a while back about apples and temptation?) What do you do when those big, green globes hang there beckoning? What did I do? I pocketed two to munch along the banks of the Deschutes. The other ten? Well, I’ve always longed for a Hood River apple pie!

A Crow in the Wilderness: From the Archives…

Today Gladys and I were cruising along the lower Loop road just approaching the wooden bridge over Riley Slough when I was startled by a sound so unfamiliar I immediately brought my ride to a screeching halt. Given the rush of slipstream as we blazed along, it was difficult to discern not only the location of the noise but its source. As we squealed to a halt a good forty feet later, I heard the sound again. It was a sound so strange I’m at a loss for words to describe it. The Ripple, however, will dive deeply into its ample word vault and strive to surface with a general description of what we heard. Let me say, first of all, whatever made the sound was determined to be heard, was emphatic about it even, and like an annoying car alarm, persisted to vocalize. First impression was a crow in distress pleading for help (I have no idea what sort of distress cry issues from a crow). I even entertained the thought the sound might have come from some unfortunate in distress, some poor soul being sucked down into Riley’s murkiness or floundering in the thorns of a blackberry covert. Somewhere in the rambling bramble greenbelt on the banks of the slough was some sort of critter crying out for attention.

He certainly got mine, the rooster did, for that’s what it was that broke the silence of the sleepy slough—a rooster braying his cock-a-doodle head off in an ecstasy of fowl exuberance. It’s not unusual in the Valley, especially in spring to hear a Chinese pheasant rooster, some plucky survivor of last year’s hunting season, sound off from the middle of a field somewhere, but to hear a sound associated with the barnyard, coop, and henhouse issuing from the wilds of the slough was a curious surprise. That healthy-sounding domesticated fowl (shall we call him Riley?) in full voice crowing in the wilderness brought back the past and the memory of another rooster that strayed the safety of the chicken yard and went forth to seek his fortune. And thereon hangs a tale.

The story of Fred and Ginger did not end well. If the principals were not poultry, theirs would be one of epic or saga proportions. In fact if chickens had a “fatal flaw” of character their story would make for a classic Greek tragedy. But perhaps Fred did have a personality flaw—if wanderlust can be considered a flaw in chicken nature--a quirk of some sort that made him seek greener pastures.

One day Fred and his soul mate Ginger showed up in our yard. I suspect they ran away from home, home being the corner domestic menagerie belonging to one Mrs. Caroline Peters. I suspect as well that competition for food was fierce in Peters’ chicken yard, since way too many friends of feather flocked together in a space much too small for such a large flock. Fred and his missus decided to strike out on their own, simply flew the coop and took up residence on and around our place. By day they foraged for bugs and grubs under the trees and bushes about the yard, pecking and scratching their way through the landscape. Nightly they roosted in the big Norway spruce in the front yard. We soon became accustomed to their presence although the pair were always wary of us.

Fred was a stately-looking rooster, white and cream-colored with a lovely tail, a medley of black, white and creamy feathers. At night among the dark branches of the spruce, Fred glowed like a dimly lit lantern. Ginger…well, she was dowdy, a drab, swarthy dinginess. But Fred doted on her as if she were of the finest Plymouth Rock stock. Oftentimes he would cackle and cluck over some juicy bug, hold it hostage until Ginger came running to devour it. Both birds were most likely offspring of some banty line, several hybridizations removed. They were inseparable, Fred and Ginger, and thus we named them: Fred after the talented actor and dancer Fred Astaire, Ginger, after his graceful dancing partner Ginger Rogers.

And so they came to stay and a rooster’s crow at dawn (and quite an early dawn, too, I might add) punctuated the morning traffic rush but with much less annoyance. Romance bloomed that summer, just a couple of banty newlyweds; their love affair we enjoyed watching. Midsummer Ginger disappeared for some time and we were afraid she’d been plucked from the place by a coyote, raccoon or some other varmint. One day the little hen mysteriously appeared, but this time she was not alone. Darting to and fro around her were five little fluff ball chicks. Ginger had been in the broody way and now she and her little family joined father Fred in the yard.

At this point in their history Fred and Ginger’s story starts its spiral into misfortune. In the next couple of weeks the little flock dwindled. One chick I found lying dead beneath a hedge. As the days went by, four chicks became three, then two. Predators were picking them off one by one. Our hope the last little chick would somehow survive sank, too. One day only Fred and Ginger remained. The yard seemed a sadder place.

In mid summer Ginger disappeared a second time. “She’s begun a second settin,” I thought, “setting a clutch of eggs somewhere, hidden herself,” and waited hopefully for Ginger and her second family to emerge from the shrubbery. Fred, too, appeared anxious for his mate to return. One day I noticed a faint shadowy ring at the edge of the yard and went to investigate. The blotch was a pool of drab feathers, neatly arranged in a circle, as if by design…all that remained of Ginger was that sad pile of plumage.

Fred didn’t seem to know he was now a widower and continued on as before. I wondered if in his little chicken brain he still believed Ginger would rejoin him any day. Perhaps his chicken heart refused to give up hope. Fred did seem aware that he was now winging it on his own. As if he couldn’t bear the memory of his nightly cuddling place with Ginger, he changed his roost to a low sweeping branch on a neighboring fir tree.

Fall arrived. Fred’s morning wakeup call came later now. He went to roost earlier in the evenings, a splotch of white like a plastic shopping bag caught up in the branch. As the days grew shorter and the summer bounty of insects dwindled, I was concerned about Fred’s food supply and thought he must have to do some serious foraging to sustain himself. On the lawn by our flagpole I set a square of plywood for a feeding platform and purchased a sack of cracked corn. For a day or two the rooster eyed the feeding station warily, but eventually the corn scratch was gone evenings when I went to check it. Whatever grief Fred bore hadn’t affected his appetite in the least. This routine continued a couple weeks before Fred felt comfortable with his new feeding arrangement. I would throw a couple handfuls of corn on the plywood and Fred would appear out of nowhere and hover impatiently until I scattered his meal. He still hung back, however, and waited for me to retreat before he approached the board. After a few days visiting the feeding station, Fred associated me with his evening meal and would come running to the board the moment he heard the kernels hit the wood. Soon his appetite took precedent over my presence; I might as well have been invisible.

Mid-October. Late afternoons were quick to turn into twilight. Fred’s dinner hour conflicted with his roosting urge. One day I returned home later than usual (a boring faculty meeting I suspect). As I slowed for our driveway I noticed a white plastic bag on the right of way and was about to vent my wrath on some thoughtless litterbug when I saw some movement on the bag: a large raptor (I believe a rough-legged hawk) perched victorious on that white heap. I parked the truck and ran to the right of way. There clasped in the talons of that rough-legged murderer was Fred. I shooed the hawk from his carcass and the killer leisurely flapped its way to a maple tree across the road where in indignation it proceeded to curse me in hawk language. Fred lay there in a halo of pale feathers. The hawk had plucked him from the fir bough like a ripe plum, eviscerated him, ripped open his gullet, and picked it clean. I carried Fred’s shredded carcass to the garden and solemnly buried him in the tomato patch.

The next morning was sadly quiet. No wake up clarion crow at dawn from the neighboring fir tree. I just about overslept. With Fred there had been no such thing as a snooze alarm.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings,

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

                            *          *          *          *

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Ginger and her Romeo.

Staking Out the Election…

The late journalist and news anchorman David Brinkley, when asked about the press’s responsibility in regard to politics and the country’s political infrastructure in a free Democracy, said something to the effect: “Without the press, there would be no one to keep an eye on the politicians, absolutely no one at all.” Considering Brinkley’s high journalistic ideals, you might wonder if The Ripple is shirking its duties by not taking a stand on the political issues and candidates currently mixing it up in this election year’s campaign season. If that’s weighing on your mind, you don’t know The Ripple. The trivial, the esoteric, the mundane--everyday incidents that happen in the Valley—or elsewhere (like the man who accidentally swallowed a yo-yo or folks who gather the Valley weeds for their salad…real news of that nature is this journalist’s jurisdiction and The Ripple is there Johnny-on-the-spot to scoop the story. I suggest those so consumed by the current political folderol skip this post and spend their time watching the talking heads babbling away on CNN instead. So if you readers are tuned out by this post’s title, you needn’t be: The Ripple is proud to focus its political attention not on Donkeys and Elephants but tomatoes.

They’re sprouting up everywhere, and with such a variety of heirloom colors they readily catch the eye—along busy stretches of highway, every corner where a moving vehicle has to slow to make the turn, at stoplight intersections. Like random mushrooms they seem to shoot up overnight. From all appearances it looks like there’ll be a bumper crop this fall. It’s a welcome sight for the tomato gardener who even after the first seed is sown is already looking ahead to next garden season.

My tease about tomatoes may have mislead you. The bountiful crop I’m talking about is not that plump, red fruit but wooden stakes. I’ve tried a variety of methods to string up my tomatoes. Tomato cages, those inverted wire cones, have proved a flimsy support for my Early Girl tomatoes that, blight excepted, may yield upwards of fifty pounds of fruit per vine. Early Girls are an indeterminate variety of tomato (and my favorite variety). That means the plant and fruit continue to grow until the late season shuts it down; the fruit doesn’t set and mature at the same time like romas or sauce tomatoes, for example. To support this variety, the method that’s proven best for this gardener is a sturdy wooden stake. I observed that Jeff Miller of Willie Green’s Organic Farms uses a wire trellis on which to secure each plant. Brandon Bischoff does the same on his little plot at Kelly Bolles.’ That’s a serious consideration if one were to plant a hundred foot or longer row of tomatoes. I, however, have a smaller plot and normally plant twenty or so tomato plants each season. A nice, sturdy stake at least three feet long is the means I use to prop up the vine. Some hemp twine wrapped around the main leaders of the vine is then knotted securely to the wooden stakes.

My collection of stakes has come from two sources: real estate signs and, most plentiful of all, political signs. Three or four years ago approximately at five a.m. Saturday I would be awakened by a car slowing to a stop across the road. Then I would hear a “tap, tap, tap” of a hammer followed by silence. Next the sound of the vehicle moving on. Normally such an interruption would be an annoyance, but I tolerated it gladly for it meant one more free tomato stake for my Early Girls. Some real estate developer was advertising homes in his housing development—the name of the project escapes me—no doubt something quaint and nature-related like “Quail Run,” the construction of which most certainly scattered any resident wildlife to the four winds. For support, the signs were strategically placed next to a DOT highway sign post. Later that day I would cross the road, wiggle loose the sign, dispose of the signage and store the stake with its predecessors. If I didn’t do this on the weekend, come Monday morning the little white DOT dump truck (bed always empty) with its flashing yellow lights would remove both stake and sign: no distractions on a state highway. The economic downturn and decline in the housing market brought an abrupt end to that source of tomato stakes.

This election year’s selection of stakes shows potential. However, my stake harvest is tempered somewhat by politicians on the cheap (shallow war chests, I guess). Some are using those inexpensive thin wires to support their signs. Just a word to the wise, you politician skinflints: the slightest breeze from a passing vehicle blows your name recognition right down in the weeds; an eighteen wheeler will flatten your election aspirations to ground level. A word of advice from a nonpartisan (tomato grower): use sturdy wood to display your political aspirations. Just a few “tap, taps,” and your name will remain upright in everyone’s face  (if not memory) until the November election. As I said before, the gardener looks ahead to next year. The day after the election after the political dust has settled, I’m pulling up stakes wherever I find them.

The political machine grinds on inexorably; it has a life of its own just as we have ours. The fact of the matter is that about the only political support my tomatoes and I can really count on comes from these sturdy stakes. Besides, as far as the political affiliation the stakes display, tomatoes could care less: they, like all vegetables and fruits remain staunchly nonpartisan.

The Smell of Summers Long Gone By…

Not only do our five senses (or “5 wits” as they were called in medieval times, thus the saying “keep your wits about you”) serve us in real time but they are also powerful fonts of memory. This is especially true with our sense of hearing and past experiences with music. Not long ago I heard a piece of music on the radio and immediately was transported to a film we saw in 1973. The music was “Tubular Bells,” the theme from the movie “The Exorcist.” Quicker than a Google or Bing search the piece brought back vivid impressions of a little girl (played by Linda Blair) possessed by a demon called Captain Howdy. It was a movie that spawned nightmares for me for some time afterwards. What frightened me most—more than the hideous physical transformations the possessed little girl suffered, her heading spinning on her neck like a top—was the sudden loud thumping and banging that came from the attic of the house. After that film you were never again sure if your attic—any attic—basement, or crawlspace was safe.

Thank goodness not all sensory-evoked memories are unpleasant. I had one a few days back that recalled my boyhood and summer Augusts of many years ago. Three years ago, inspired by a friend in Pennsylvania, I planted a buddleia bush, and although gardeners and landscapers may refer to the plant by that name, most folks just call it a “butterfly bush” because of its appeal to butterflies. (It is interesting to note buddleia has been designated a Class B noxious weed by the Washington State Noxious Weed Control Board.) Encouraged by my friend who had noted and identified some fifty species of butterflies nectaring on his bush and disregarding its notoriety I planted one myself. With a pair of sharp pruning loppers I figured I could lop the “nox” out noxiousness should the bush prove problematic.

The other day I decided to check the asparagus bed, which by the way is now a fern grotto, for a late season stalk or two. To access one side of the patch I had to pass by the buddleia bush, now in full bloom. The afternoon was a warm one and instantly the pungent fragrance of the bush doused me in memory. When I was a boy, my parents would load us kids in the car and for a week of Dad’s allotted two week summer vacation, usually the second week in August, we headed across the Cascades to the coast to visit the paternal grandparents a day or two before heading to the ocean beaches. The neighbor lady, a nice Philipino woman named Mrs. Adriatica, had as a centerpiece in her side yard landscaping a huge buddleia bush. The second week of August the bush was in full bloom and a hundred or so little orange skipper butterflies (common name “woodland skipper,” Ochlodes sylvanoides) thronged to the pendant-like lilac flower spikes for their nectar. In those days—as I remain to this day—I was fascinated with butterflies and would spend an hour or so watching these hyperactive little insects flit about from one plume to the next. The heady fumes of the buddleia must have seared my memory, I guess, because when I passed my bush that day all of a sudden I was back on Mrs. Adriatica’s lawn in the company of buddleia and butterflies, just a kid again in delighted wonder, spellbound by the spectacle.

But then the years piled up one after the other and the fiery little skipper became a symbol of foreboding. Mid-August. The skippers’ arrival was a sign summer was in its waning days, the next school year just around the corner, and that meant going mano-a-mano with the Sophomores for another nine months. The skippers and the Fair Days parade banner over Main Street spelled double doom to me. I would open the mailbox with dread, knowing any day the school district letter would arrive and seal my fate for another year. Our “Greetings” letter we teachers called it, a direct order to report to duty. Even though my exit from the halls of public education happened twelve years ago, I still get a momentary rush of panic when I see the first skipper of the season dart by. Why the buddleia then, you wonder, if its blossoms are skipper magnets, harbingers of the encroaching school year (I’ve seen at least a half dozen at a time on my bush)? I guess because it’s a “butterfly bush,”and I had hoped it would attract a number of Western Washington species. In that regard it has been a disappointment. Since the bush matured enough to flower, in our butterfly bereft Pacific Northwest environment I’ve only tallied five species to date. But the bush attracts fond memories, fosters nostalgia, doesn’t it? I planted the bush for the butterflies and got memories instead…not a bad tradeoff, I’m thinking.

Western tiger swallowtail on buddleia

Breakfast Out…in the Valley

It’s again the season of old tractors in the Valley. The Tualco Valley Antique Tractor Show got underway last Friday. Sent out on assignment by The Ripple and chaperoned by Gladys, I wheeled up in front of  Elmer’s Kitchen and Bert Frohning, cup of coffee in hand, surveying the lay of old tractor land. I knew Bert retired last spring. “How’s retirement going?” I asked. Bert beamed a broad smile. Question answered.We chatted for a bit before I told Bert I hadn’t had breakfast yet. “I’ve already had mine,” I’m informed. I left Bert sipping his coffee and headed for the pancake line.

Five dollars later I was served up my plate of pancakes, sausage, (two of each) and scrambled farm fresh eggs (two at least). My plate in one hand, a cup of steaming coffee in the other, I looked around the dining area for a place to settle and give my plate the attention it deserved. One table, except for a stocky fellow about my age, was empty. “Mind if I join you?” I asked, pointing to the chair opposite him. “Not at all,”he said, and down I sat.

The gentleman introduced himself as Max. Max wore a broad brimmed hat, the variety my dermatologist suggested I wear to shield my ears from the sun. He had a twinkle in his eye, a ruddy complexion-- the picture of good health- and a friendly smile. After we exchanged a few general comments (“great weather for looking at antique tractors”), Max pointed to three newcomers rolling by on a trailer. “Three nice Fords,” he notes, “like the one I have,” and launched into a lengthy treatise on that model’s gearbox (“It’s a Howard… made in England…very difficult to find a replacement”). I soon realized I was in the presence of someone who knew his tractors; I was definitely out of my league where these old workhorses were concerned. My limited experience with them, I shared with Max, didn’t go much beyond the tractor I learned to drive on the ranch where I grew up, a little, gray Ferguson four speed. “I’ve seen a couple this morning,” Max said. “Had a hard time getting the knack of backing up an orchard trailer with it,” I laughed and told him about the time I’d backed the left rear tire up on the trailer’s tongue and had to be rescued by an experienced tractor hand.

I told Max I was on assignment for The Ripple and would he mind posing for the next edition? He agreed. “How about including one of the old Fords just like yours?” Max thought that would be fine. As we strolled through the rows of shining relics, I learned more about my companion. He had come to the Valley from Camano Island. Max has been a pilot for years, he tells me. When I asked him what kind of planes he flew, he replied, “Just about everything.” Flying is a family thing, he said. His son is a commercial airline pilot. His daughter just graduated from the Air Force Academy. I told him about my uncle, a career Air Force man, who among other assorted military aircraft, flew C-124 Globemasters. Max smiled, nodded and said: “Old Shakey!” Apparently he knew his aircraft as well as his tractors. I’m surprised to learn he owns and maintains the Camano Island Air Park, a property he purchased from the travel agent Doug Foxx. “Yeah," he laughed, “I’m always checking the end of the runway for skid marks; it’s a short runway and if you overshoot it, you end up in the drink.” Max pulls up short by a shiny Ford. “Almost like mine,” he said, “except the gearbox is on the other side on my model.” I take their picture, thank Max for his time and conversation, and head out to gather more news.

These old tractors, it’s obvious, hold an amazing appeal for many. Since The Ripple’s inception the post about Tualco Valley’s annual antique tractor extravaganza has received the most page views, twice as many as the second most viewed. As of this post “Got Old Tractor” (8/13/2010) has tallied 553 page views. Perhaps the key word “tractor” is the reason; internet search engines readily call up the word. But first the appeal has to exist. Take the audience that flocks to see these old workhorses. (Max shared that Tualco Valley’s show is just one of others he attends.) I come upon an elderly gentleman musing over a rusty antique. He is wearing navy blue cotton slacks, a long sleeved dress shirt and a ballcap. For a good while I stand and observe these two old timers. I would have given a couple of Elmer’s breakfasts to know just what was on his mind, back to what youth, what farm, what connection he had with that similar machine and am tempted to ask. Instead I defer to his reverie, leave him alone with whatever nostalgia he was awash in, just the two of them together, and move on.

The Tualco Valley Antique Tractor show is still evolving. Each year more participants come, vendors selling everything from barbeque to jams and jellies (every kind under the sun—except quince) and hooked rugs. There’s a blacksmith’s booth, hayrides (Max rode the circuit: “I thought I’d look things over from a little more height.” Just what you’d expect a pilot to say).  And events, of course. A gal named Cindy, astride an old tractor, pushed a plastic barrel around the course—a grudge match to best her friend Laura’s time.

(She did by three--tenths of a minute. “I saw you slip the judge that five dollar bill,” I tease.) Also, duck races for the kiddos, tunnels of pvc for the ducklings to float their way to the finish line. I’m attracted to the “pop, kapow” from a row of one cylinder engines, spinning wheels, turning gears, winch drums, pumping water and wander toward the noise. Among four or five men fussing over these antique powerhouses I find Dale Reiner standing next to a small donkey engine (pure coincidence, I’m sure). As we watch the handlers tend their machines, Dale embarked on what he does best: tell stories.

noisy pump

A recent Reiner family reunion was occasion to bring the old Reiner farm dinner bell out of mothballs (a thirteen incher, Dale tells me and adds: “Do you know a bell like that sells for fifteen hundred dollars these days!”Somehow I’m not surprised he knows this). This prompts a reminiscence from his boyhood when he used to hike to the top of High Rock, sit there, look out over the Valley and daydream. “About the day when all that would be yours?” I teased. “Yes, that’s right,” Dale replied. And you know, I think he was serious.

When the old bell tolled, Dale put his dreams on hold and rushed downhill to the dinner table. You could stand with Dale for hours and the stories would flow on and on, but this venue was a tractor show, and The Ripple needed to maintain its editorial focus. When the Reiner farm converted from equine to machine, the purchase was a diminutive Farmall Cub. “I was ten when Dad bought the Farmall,” Dale reflected. “That’s the tractor I learned to drive.” He pointed down the way toward a trio of tractors, two of them spit-polished and gleaming, the third tractor, a very un-reddish brown and forlorn-looking machine, stood off a pace from the restored twins. “Which one is yours?” I asked. “The one on the right,” Dale said, and then explains the old relic’s provenance. During one of the Valley floods the tractor was submerged in six feet of water when the barn where it was stored was flooded. “I had just paid five hundred dollars to replace the rear tires,” he continued. “We had to tear the entire machine apart to repair the flood damage.” “Does it run?” I wondered. It does—and one of Dale’s grandsons will learn to drive it.

Before the Valley storyteller can sail into another, I leave him next to the coughing, popping donkey engine and stroll back through the aisles of oldtimers gleaming in their new paint and waxy sheen. Gladys is where I had parked her—unceremoniously by a pair of Sani-Cans not too far from two elderly ladies who were taking in the scene from their wheelchairs. To one of them I joked, “Thanks for not taking my bike.” Her response: “I never learned to ride a bike.” “That makes two of us,” I grinned as I steadied Gladys and we wobbled our way across the pasture….

As we teetered past the parking lot reader board, I noticed attendance fees had increased by a dollar this year. But no matter: the two lot attendants smiled and nodded at the official Ripple press card I flashed as I passed by. And Gladys? Well, she’s a vintage senior citizen, after all, isn’t she?

Nixing the Noxious…

The Asian weed pickers were out in the Valley the other day. I posted about them last summer (“One Man’s Weed is Another Man’s Soup..or Medicine, 8/13/2011).Their foraging reminded me of a visitor our neighbors had the other day. While I was mowing the lawn, I noticed a white pickup slow to a stop at the neighbors’ mailbox. A woman carrying a handful of papers stepped out, looked around, hopped back in the pickup, and drove down their driveway. I watched the truck as it rolled to a stop. There was something official-looking about it, perhaps because of the official-looking writing on the sides. Still wielding her papers, the lady climbed the steps and knocked at the wrong door. The writing on the door of the truck…the handful of papers: “Tax assessor,” I thought and resumed mowing.

I nearly forgot about the visitor next door until I saw her wave goodbye to the neighbor and walk to her truck. Instead of a handful of paper she was carrying a bundle of greenery looking not the least bit bouquet-ish. In order to discover its “official business,” I trotted to the right-of-way as the truck left the neighbors’ driveway and passed by. On the side of the door were the words: “Washington State Noxious Weed Control” “Aha!” I thought. And now the backstory.

Three years ago the neighbors decided to plant a vegetable garden. They staked off a plot. A friend tilled it and prepared the soil for planting. The neighbors were excited about their new garden and planted a nice variety of vegetables from seeds and seedlings alike. To their dismay not only did the seeds sprout but along with them some obnoxious weed. The troublemaker literally furred the garden, grew so quickly in a lush, green carpet that it soon crowded the seedlings and choked the rows of vegetables. Thus began a summer of constant, aggressive weeding that seemed to accomplish little: one weed pulled, three grew back.

Last year and this season the weed made encore performances. After the spring tilling it came back with a vengeance, thick as moss. Small seedlings like carrots were so well buried in the weed, you couldn’t find them and were likely to pull the carrot sprouts up with the weeds. Where the pest was undisturbed, it grew to a thick mat eighteen inches or so high, then flowered. On a warm day the sea of tiny white blossoms gave off a cloying, pungent fragrance. Chuck, one of the neighbors told me, “I’m tired of fighting it. Next year it’s another small greenhouse and we’re bringing in topsoil to fill the raised beds.” Not quite ready to cry “Uncle” though, Chuck thought he’d contact the Washington State Noxious Weed Control Board to discover just what obnoxious weed he’d been doing battle with the past three years. Thus the official white truck in the neighbors’ driveway.

Having on occasion plucked that weed from my own garden, I was curious about the plant myself. The next time I saw Chuck I asked him if he learned anything. “No,” he shook his head. “I need to call and find out.” I decided to investigate for him and set aside some time from my editorial duties, snapped some photos of the floral invader, attached them to my inquiry, and sent the email off to the Noxious Weed folks for identification.

I received a prompt reply from Wendy DesCamps of the Noxious Weed Control Board. The plant pictured, Wendy said, appeared to be Corn Spurry (Spergula arvensis) and sent me a link detailing the natural history of this plant. Spurries, according to Webster’s Ninth Collegiate, belong to “the pink family,”and S. arvensis is a common European weed. The site revealed this fact about Chuck’s nemesis: “Each plant can produce 10,000 seeds that remain viable for up to ten years.” “Ah, Chuck,” I thought, “looks like you have your own Seven Year War ahead of you.” Only  constant tilling and an aggressive spray program could subdue the spurry.

For you readers who might be weed-choked, the Washington State Noxious Weed Control Board apparently will rush to your assistance—or at least answer your emails promptly. NWCB states a “’noxious weed’ is the traditional, legal term for any invasive, non-native plant that threatens agricultural crops, local ecosystems or fish and wildlife habitat.” According to the Board nearly half the listed noxious weeds are escapees from gardens and landscaping. The Weed Control board has listed three categories of noxious weeds. Weeds designated Class A in Washington State are required by state law (WAC 16-750) to be eradicated. Class B weeds may at the Board’s discretion be designated for removal. Counties, if they think necessary, may elect to eliminate Class C weeds they consider harmful to their counties. NWCB also has a quarantine list which includes all Class A noxious weeds and bans by law their importation to the state.

Other government agencies work in concert with the NWCB to do battle with the State’s noxious flora. The Department of Natural Resources and the U. S. Forest Service workers are periodically sent into the field solely for that purpose. In recent years, in a proactive move at weed control, the Forest Service has posted notices (reminiscent of our local apple maggot warning signs) at the egress to woodland roads accessing the high country visited by horse and mule trains packing in campers. The signs warn that only state certified hay is allowed to pass that point (no weeds allowed!).

Last week I spent a half dozen hours bug collecting along FS Road 7905 south of Tumwater Canyon. For hours my only companions were the towering Ponderosa pines and the rush of sound from a creek that cascaded down the mountainside. My solitude was interrupted when a big Ford king cab, canopied, eased its way to a stop opposite my little Toyota. The driver, a jaunty young man wearing an Aussie-style hat and a smile larger than he, hopped out and wanted to know what I was up to. I briefly explained my business and asked his, nodding toward the “XMT” designation on the vehicle’s license plate. “On the government payroll?” I asked. I’m told “yes” and the young man introduces himself as Tyler. Tyler and his motley crew of four (motley, yet happy) work for the Washington Conservation Corps and are on a mission to eradicate diffuse knapweed (Centaurea diffusa) from state forests’ roadsides. Today’s assignment: FS Road 7905 and since morning they have worked their way down to my site. Only a mile and a half to go and the pickup’s bed and canopy are already packed full of trash bags containing the plucked knapweed later to be deposited at a Forest Service disposal site. I asked Tyler if he was involved in combating the invasive Japanese knotweed west of the Cascades. (Japanese knotweed falls into noxious weed category B. The plant, previously used in landscaping because of its heart-shaped foliage, is one of those escapee species that’s bullied its way into the environment.) Thick coverts of the bamboo-like plant clog the roadside of SR. 203 between Duvall and Fall City. Knotweed is an excellent late summer nectar source for honeybees who readily forage in the creamy white flower spikes. The plant yields a flavorful, dark honey and is currently beginning its bloom cycle.) Knotweed, Tyler tells me, is rampant in the Skokomish watershed and the Conservation Corps is aggressively battling it there.

Tyler’s crew, plastic buckets and bags stuffed with knapweed, catch up with their ride. Three young men and a young woman make up the work gang. Exposed to a summer of eastern Washington sun, they are well-tanned and though it’s past noon, still energetic and enthusiastic about their work. The young lady, spotting my insect net, is curious about my activities. When I tell her I’m on the hunt for a certain butterfly, she shares that she herself is collecting dragonflies and donates her catch to Evergreen State College, her alma mater. She’s familiar with our State insect, the Green Darner dragonfly. Coincidentally as we speak, a fleet of fifty “mosquito hawks” provide us air cover. I point them out to her. I learn she has a degree in environmental science.  As if in apology she explains,“It’s just a general studies degree.” That’s ok,” I reply, “the environment’s just about everywhere, isn’t it?” Not only does she know about our State insect, but our State bird as well and proudly displays a larger than life tattoo of an American Goldfinch male on her upper arm. “It’s my favorite bird,” she boasts.

The weed pluckers took advantage of the diversion (me) to take a break. They loll about the truck and take deep pulls from their water bottles. I ask if I might make a digital recording of our meeting. They agree and request I take their camera and snap a group photo of them in return. They pose and I prompt them with: “Say ‘weeds.’” They smile. “One more,” I say. For the second shot I encourage the five with: “Say ‘weed’” and am rewarded with broad smiles this time—especially from the young lady. Then off they go, Tyler ahead in the truck, on down the road, the crew swinging their buckets after him, stooping now and then to grab a handful of knapweed, two per side of the road. As I watch them go about their work, I think how lucky they are to have such a summer job--out in the piney woods in the company of creeks and waterfalls and wildlife, plenty of exercise, fresh air and sunshine.

By the way Corn Spurry is not on any of the NWCB’s lists. According to Wendy the weed is a plant of cultivated fields and while it is indeed “obnoxious,” the weed has never been a problem to the State’s farmers. That may be so, Ms. DesCamps, but you’d have a hard time convincing the neighbors of that.