Traditions

Well friends, hi! It's that time of year again where I write and I can hardly believe it...it's a strange life we live if you think about it too much, isn't it? 

That's when I find joy in showing up on a wildlife cam like this. United with another human. Sharing love. Sharing time outdoors.

In the same spot, but at a different time, this buck found the staghorn sumac and made his presence known with significant scent marks.

Others came to read the message.

We smelled them too, but we don't communicate the same way and cannot understand what he said. We know part of it is to mark territory or alert others of his presence, but might their be more?

Before the land became covered in white we savored a mild end of fall. Frogs found our lamp lit windows and dined on moths attracted to the brightness.

We explored with friends and found incredible caterpillars. 

Checkered-fringe Prominent:

Spiny Oak Slug:

Oval-leaved Ladies' Tresses made herself known at Persimmon South: 

Our traditions are minimal or so I believed until I thought through our days, our weeks, our months. Some folks could definitely pass off our activities as habits, but given that we are repeating human patterns, we will call them traditions.

Musclewood seeds (good cardinal food we learned this year):

As I thought through this year, not in a nostalgic way, but in a practical, logging type of way, I realized our traditions are mostly defined by plants and by sunlight and all who depend on them. Shortening daylight correlates with seed gathering and dormant planting so that is what we did.

Persimmon Pilgrimaging is a bonafide annual tradition and the 2025 late fall exploration took us on the road headed southwest from Ohio towards Missouri for multiple quests.

Hunting swamp chestnut oaks for a friend was first on the agenda. Little bits of information and plant discovery (or not) is exciting! The thrill of the chase is real!

Though we didn't find the trees where he wanted us to look, we did find a monster at Big Oak Tree State Park in Missouri.

As we look for plants we don't know as well, we learn to look for certain clues. Like the way Quercus michauxii has distinctive flared scales on the acorn cap. 

Our second quest was the FOREST grown, not open grown, state champion American persimmon tree in MO. The height was draw dropping and the fruit SO VERY delicious. This tree is in decline, but there are sprouts coming up everywhere around the mama that are getting mowed; we think it's time to let them grow.

Magnificent!

We also found many wild grown American persimmon trees in Tennessee and Missouri and as wild trees do, they exhibited so much interesting variability. 

The bark is always a give away. Chunky, dark, blocks. This boy scrounged around the ground like a mad man after gold. Definitely a man after my heart!

With the abundance of acorns and American persimmons, we decided to try a new tradition I read about long ago: persimmon ash cakes. How to do it, I couldn't remember fully, but I remembered enough so we gave it ago. We mashed persimmons and chopped white oak acorns as best we could with a tiny knife:

formed patties and put them in the ashes first:

then moved them to the coals and let them roast. Our first attempt ended up burnt, but you can bet we will try again next year with a little more knowledge than this year. 

We are grateful for the traditions in our lives, for noticing what happens daily in the nonhuman world, for always witnessing this is a shared planet, not just with other Homo sapiens, but with the estimated 8.7 million other species on Earth. The very end of November brought us into contact with:

Jumping Bush Cricket (male) on our porch:

Orange-banded Checkered Beetle on the Kamelands Trail in the Highlands Nature Sanctuary:

Red Flat Bark Beetle on the Jungle Brook Trail at Malabar State Park: 

Wheel Bug on the north side of our garage: 

Wheel Bug laid to rest in the leaves...

The last of the big migratory flocks of turkey vultures:

And before the wild December snows of Morrow County, Ohio...into the presence of beautiful autumnal forest.

As the snow fell and blanketed the Earth, we said so long to our insect friends and to easy tread on trail and embraced the next season of 2025. What else can we do, but be here now?

Alvin said ok:

Luke said no way:

Minnie Pearl said I don't care:

Happy (almost) Winter Solstice! What a joy to say! I do believe this is our most favorite day of the year - we made it to the darkest day and we are only brighter from here. Bring back the light! Take care friends. Please let us know your traditions.  

Soundtracks:

Samantha Crain - When We Remain

Alabama Shakes - This Feeling

Ketch Secor: Catch Me If You Can

Rabbitology - The Bog Bodies

Van Morrison - Stretching Out

Austin and The Syd Experience - Mass Destruction

Molly Tuttle - Everything Burns

Marveling, Just Plain Marveling

The warmth returned just like that, overnight, and we flew out of doors, shedding layers, shedding clothes, embracing the sun on our skin, the wind in our hair, the smells in our noses. I emulated the winter fireflies and oriented south, not missing a moment. 

The frigid, teeth-rattling, snowy days of winter ended.

The hermit thrush who sheltered out the south door, under the steps, depuffed and went back to their private habits.

The rafts of ducks concentrated on the nonfrozen water moved on. 

The bird-flu killed waterfowl, dead and frozen on the ice, sank and returned to Earth.

The killdeer stopped skating and started running again. 

Then, the rain fell and we knew it was going to happen. The forecast was perfect: rain, warm rain, warm rain at night. What a recipe for amphibian magic! There were already a few early arrivals in the watery pools on this 3.5 acres: western chorus frogs in the frog pond, one or two wood frogs in the vernal pool.

The rain started slow and steady as the day shifted to night. I sat on the floor, cross legged by the open window, both elbows on the sill and listened to the music of spring rain. All I could think about were these little porous bodies that weren't yet in the pools, but were instead in the forests and fields, their main homeland, feeling the rains and feeling the pull to the pools. The pull to go. The pull to the present and to the future, to make more frogs and salamanders; utterly linked to this watery world. In my mind's eye, I could see the salamanders put one leg in front of another, all four of them, marching forward purposefully. Tails dragging on wet leaves, over wet logs, across roads. Spotted salamanders, unisexual ambystomid salamanders, tiger salamanders. Swaying, swaying, making their way.

I could see the wood frogs hopping, the spring peepers hopping, the western chorus frogs hopping... feeling the wet on their bodies. This is their world, their element, their perfect moment. What must it be like after that long journey, over logs and branches and leaves and stalks and fruits and pinecones to finally slip your body into that pool of water? 

Winter cold water. The water which is essential, which pulled them there. They slip in and suddenly they are right there, in the moment and they might swim to the bottom doing little dances, laying spermatophores, picking up spermatophores, or floating on the water, clinging to the edges, singing and singing. The females are there too. It's a ritual, a sacred ritual and the union comes naturally. The egg laying is natural. The egg laying is ancient. The future all secure right there in that watery pool. That one pool that was the birth place to many who returned. The draw of the home land that strong. There are the travelers though too. Always the travelers. Those keeping species diverse and rich and always alive with new ideas and ways of being. 

Western-chorus frog egg masses:

Again, what must it feel like? That first dip in that pool? It makes me smile just to think about it because it must be wondrous. Like the journey was worth it. As I sit here and listen with the open window, the wood frogs sound louder. Maybe more have joined. The perfect night. The perfect amphibian night. 

Bullfrog, year-round resident:

Life goes on and I hope to meet them once again as they wander far and wide this summer. 

Spring Peeper during summer resting on White Ash:

Wood Frog during summer visiting a bird bath:

In his song, Hypersonic Missiles, Sam Fender asks: "Can I say that I've lived my life?" This is not a new question in the human world, but it struck a chord in me when I heard it. I reflected on the question and I quickly knew, YES! I've lived my life by loving. Especially by loving outside of my species, Homo sapiens. I love the caterpillars, the woodland wildflowers, the insects, the frogs, the salamanders, the trees, the shrubs, the squirrel tucked away in the soffit of our house - the underrepresented, the non-included, the non-mentioned lives amongst much of humanity. By unconsciously opening my heart to all these brilliant, beautiful lives, I've lived my life. What a great realization. What a great life. 

We observe nonhuman life in a marveling sort of way. How is this world so magnificent? So beautiful? So receptive to love and care?

From our home to yours, we wish you warmth.

We also wish you much joy and marveling at the world we live in and on. All we have to do to witness is go outdoors and open our hearts. Even when it's freezing.

Happy Spring Equinox dear friends!

Wild yam emptied seed pod:

Snow trillium:

Highland County field station, where new land restoration magic is happening. More next time!

Soundtracks:

Let Things Go - Caamp

Go - Indigo Girls

F***** Up - Macklemore