Monarch Migration as Metaphor

I am writing this from the Cape, but I have just returned from three weeks flitting my way south, visiting daughters along the way, then with my eldest daughter’s family, continuing south to visit a dear friend who lives on the panhandle in Florida, near Destin. Collectively we had three children with us, three and under, so we spent our time going to the beach, on river walks, to pumpkin patches and wherever we went, there were butterflies.

Mostly, there were Monarchs, on the flitting migration south and then west on to Central Mexico. I loved seeing so many for here on the Cape they seem far less abundant then they used to be. I couldn’t help relating to them too, for I had just “flitted” my way south, and soon must also head west. And if I seem to be taking forever to actually get to Texas, well, they allow themselves a good 130 days for the journey, so I am doing a fair job of keeping up with their schedule.

And isn’t it amazing, that a creature weighing 5 grams with a wingspan, at the most, of 4” would undertake a journey of some 2,000 miles! When they are just going with the flow, “hovering”, they average about 7mph, when they are actively flapping their wings, they attain about 11mph, with speed bursts of, hang on to your hats, 22mph! Yet on they flap. They also know how to take advantage of rising air masses, and somewhere I read or saw where they can get a free ride from the higher jet currents, which would have to be a handy thing.

I also read that prior to migration, they beef up on nectar, attaining a weight 6x their normal weight. And, get this, after flying for about 4 months, and covering upwards of 2,000 miles, they still have enough fat left to make it through a winter to be able to head north again in the spring! Now, all you dieters out there, is that not a bit depressing that you could fly continuously for 3 months or so and still have weight to spare! But of course, for the butterfly it means survival.

Also, if I understand this correctly, at least for the Monarchs ending up in the Sierra Madres, they didn’t go for the warmth and Margaritas.
It is very cool in the mountains and there they maintain a temperature that keeps them alive but slows down their metabolism to let that remaining fat take them through winter. Once spring arrives, they warm in the sun, mate and head north again. These migrating Monarchs will have a life span of 8 months or so, but then the usual cycle again of egg laying, larva, pupa and adult, all in 6- 8 weeks, kicks in and it will take at least three generations of Monarchs to make it all the way back to the Cape in summer again. Really, is there anything in nature that doesn’t amaze?

So, I continue my “flitting” process, although tomorrow, I too shall take advantage of the jet stream and jet my way out to Texas to finally look for a house. More than looking for a house, I seem to be looking for the elusive property that might have a tree in the yard, for there are Texas birds to be fed, and without trees their presence would seem unlikely. Seasonal whiplash continues. I have gone in and out of fall and summer at least three times now and it is all getting a bit disorienting. In fact though, I have only used up about 60 days, so if I stay on Monarch time, I still have months to go. And although I may still have a bit of a “Bottecelli belly” from Italy, I am happy to say I did not increase my weight six fold for the journey!

Twice Blessed by Owl Calls

Hearing an owl is always a treat, and, at least for me, a fairly rare one. And yet here, in the span of two weeks, on two separate continents, I have had the wonderful serendipity of being at the right place at the right time to hear them. First in Italy, throwing open the shutters on my last night there to hear that trio of Scops owls,
and now tonight, in TN while taking my dog for his final walk of the evening.

I had just left the house when I was delighted and surprised to hear, over the cricket calls, dogs barking and distant traffic, the low sound of two calling owls. By their calls, I am quite sure they were two Great Horned Owls, one calling and the other echoing in a duet. I expect to hear that sort of things in courting owls up North in January, but tonight was the full moon, and why not hoot on such a night as this.

I tried reading up on aggressive owl behavior; do they tolerate another owl living in such close proximity if it isn’t a mate? Not likely. And one source said that although it’s true that they nest in late January, early February, they could start courting as early as October. Bingo- maybe it was a pair. The male’s call is low and strong, and the female higher pitched. Can I say with certainty that it was higher pitched? Hmmm , I am not sure. Either way, it was lovely, and unexpected.

Other out of context, or out of the usual time frame, sightings have come about simply because I switched to a more southerly latitude.
Osprey left the Cape about a month ago, but here was one today sailing over the Pigeon Fork River, not far from the infamous “Dollywood” of TN. I was out at the foothills of the Smokies for a trail ride with my 3 yr old granddaughter. How marvelous was that! Riding tandem in the saddle, up ridges and down we saw not only the changing foliage of walnut and hickory trees but also a coyote mid- day. And during our Chimney top hike on Sunday there was a patch of woods that was full of warblers. Heading south, with further to go no doubt.

And I too am heading south with further to go, all of us heading to Florida in two days. I’ll watch the season unwind a bit more, leaving fall behind and heading back into summer. The miracle of travel, when you jump seasons like this it becomes its own form of a time machine doesn’t it? And it would seem unlikely that I will have any time to blog about it, until the whole thing is put into reverse and I make my way north again to the Cape. Once there, I only have two days before I jet to Texas to finally look for a house. No doubt that will seem a solar system away from where I am now. Seasonal whiplash seems to be my destiny for a while longer. And it seems I am intent on taking all of you along for the ride! Keep your neck brace handy.

My Own 24/7 "Art" Museum

I am writing this in TN, but I’m thinking back to the way I felt when I took that first morning walk around the bog upon returning home from Italy. It was a beautiful sunrise, one worthy of an Ansel Adam piece, all golden light hitting the tops of trees and the dew uncovering the latest spider works of art. It struck me that we all have eyes to see, but we are gifted at “seeing” different things.

When we were in Florence we went to the Uffizi Gallery, as does everyone who goes to Florence. A veritable “Who’s Who” of Renaissance artists; Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, Titian, Botticelli ( I fancied I sported a “Botticelli belly” by the time the trip was through -all that divine pasta and pizza!)
The Renaissance’s greatest hits all under one roof. But because I am not trained with the eye of an art major, I can only pick out the “Masters”, as it were, by the crowds around those paintings, or because I read about them in the guide book. Given a room full of “Madonna and Child”
or the Birth of Jesus or His death, could I pick out the one that topped them all, that had books and books written about it? No I could not.

I have heard of people having their lives transformed while gazing at a particular scene, but stare as I might, the nuances of a crimson robe, or falling light would probably escape me. There are things I just don’t “see”. And so it is with the natural world. What stops me in my tracks, and as I recall, on my first morning back, it was the sight of a spider just beginning to weave its web, playing out the line of strong-as-steel silk till the wind would bring it to some snag on the other side, others probably would have walked right by. However, it caught my eye and I was so thankful to “see” it.

I also thought how lucky I was that my favored “museum”, is open 24/7, with no price tag attached and not relegated to being seen by 30 people at a time. Please, this is not intended as a slight against Art Appreciation, how I wish I had more knowledge in that area, but just to take a moment to be thankful for the “art” I do so appreciate; the art that makes every day different, every day with a potential for glory.

This morning at my daughter’s house in TN, I walked the dog at the perfect time to catch the sun coming out from under an early morning bank of clouds and change a huge maple tree that was already lit by the fiery colors of fall into one that was as illuminated as any gilded manuscript. And at the top of the tree, also caught in the same gold light, was a raucous, just getting out to the jobs of the day, family of crows. Even they looked regal in the light. And then, as quickly as the gold came, it faded, and I was grateful to have caught this little masterpiece just for at the moment it was showing.

The conclusion? Life is beautiful, Art is beautiful and although the saying is “Life imitates Art” it would seem that the opposite is equally true, “Art imitates Life”, in all its glory. I hope then, that today you might find the time to visit your own favored “museum”. It’s bound to be open and the price well within your budget.

In Search of MY People

Authors note: The following will likely be far more “personal” history than “natural” history. I am of Italian descent and I just returned from 8 days in Italy where my DNA was apparent in every hand-gesturing, nonstop-talking Italian I saw, and I LOVED it! If this interests you, per favore, read on.

My Grandfather (Papa) was one of those amazingly intrepid people who dared to leave all they knew for what they did not know, to go to a land where their survival would be up to them with no one to catch them if they failed. But he did not fail, even though he was only 17 at the time, he managed to find a job, learn the language and save enough to subsequently bring his 5 brothers and sister over. And the most amazing thing is that this isn’t that unusual a story for that time in the early 1900’s when the world set its sights on America as the Promised Land. And so it was.

When my husband and I first married, we lived in Germany for a couple of years, and recently, with a daughter who was in England for a year, then assigned to Germany, we have made 5 separate trips to Europe to visit her. She has been our tour guide to the world and it’s been wonderful. One year she took me to Rome, and 30 years ago my husband and I had gone to Lake Como but I had never been to Bologna where my Papa had lived.

I also had fallen in love with all the books on Tuscany that Frances Mayes has written: “Under the Tuscan Sun”, “In Tuscany”, “Bella Tuscany” etc. I loved to listen to them on CD each summer and imagine myself in an Italian villa, throwing open the shutters to a new day, or on the piazza sharing tales of life, having a glass of Vino Nobella. Fantasy all but it was just so easy to imagine. With Andrea Bocceli singing in the background, I was there.

But now, incredibly, I was really there! Jen had booked us for a week at an Agriturismo,“Podere la Fornace”, a farm that welcomes guests. Made of stone, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, set off by Black Cypress, it was quintessentially Tuscan. It even had wooden shutters to fling open. It sat atop a “hill town” (semi-mountain in my book!) at the end of a Wild-Mouse, hairpin-turn laden road. A road that must be negotiated twice a day, along with all the other “Le Mans” type roads that connected our Tuscan town to the others we were there to see: Sienna, Arrezo, Cortona, Saturnia, Florence, San Gimignano, etc. Lets just say, prayers were always on my lips and that the beauty of each town made the “near death” experience worth it.

A few quick impressions:

The antiquity of everything in Europe amazes, all still standing, all looking in better shape 1,000 yrs after it was built than my 35 yr old home. Clearly, it is better to build in stone than in shingles.

The streets in the towns either went straight up or straight down. Each one a thigh burning exercise, yet there would inevitably be someone in their 70’s, pumping by you on a bicycle! Humbling.

If I were to come back as a 70 yr old man, I would want to live in Tuscany.
Groups of old men, old friends gathered on the benches in the town, each morning, each evening. Talking talking, always talking. I would have given anything to be able to eavesdrop. Why did my Papa insist on English only? Grazie Grazie, Bocce Bocce, I have a limited vocabulary.

City birds seem limited too, now that the omnipresent swifts have flown south, (where I wonder, to Africa?) there are omnipresent pigeons that seem to coo and court year round. Is it that romance is always in the air in Italy? Also present, several noisy sparrows, some sort of finches, and the sound of pet finches coming from within. Forts or castles top many towns and jackdaws gather there. As acrobatic as crows, as social as crows but with a much more pleasing voice. No caws but more mews.

The treat of treats though was opening the shutters of my room on our final night, looking at the stars and then hearing the calling of not one, or two but three owls each a little more distant than the other. My guess by looking up the calls of the owls most likely to be there is that they were Scops owls. Owls I also associate with Greece, so how magical is that! And in the early, early morning, with a straight line of crimson over the mountains, the silhouette of bats swooping over the courtyard-Bellisimo!

All right, enough Pat. But you see, it is the talkative; share ALL of life’s details that I most claim as my birthright. Inherited through some distant DNA chain from “MY people”. The world is Tutta bella (all beautiful!) and I have been blessed beyond blessed to see so much of it.

Grazie for bearing with the personal history, next one, natural history, I promise, a return to my new Falmouth bog, if only I can find the time to write it. Presently I am writing in Md, heading to TN where grandchildren await, my “bambinos”! Nona is on her way!