Being in the moment

Ralph and I went for a walk around the south half of our property yesterday evening.  Although we've been back from the beach for three days, this was our first chance to survey post-Irma effects in the lake and low-lying acreage.

During normal periods, this area is a meadow abutting a marsh.
Prior to Hurricane Irma the line of 6-year-old slash pines stood on dry ground.
Now the trees are standing in the middle of a shallow pond.

Same area photographed during a dry period in 2012
Look closely to see the line of slash pines just beginning to grow along the rim of the bog

Although slash pines can tolerate standing water for short periods,
they'll die if it takes months for water to recede

Our Groveland homestead is fairly evenly divided between high and low ground.  During normal periods, about half of our acreage is either wetland or lake.  The remainder is fertile upland in forest, fields and gardens. But that proportion changes dramatically during times of extreme weather.  

Hurricane Irma definitely counted as extreme weather.

The beach in November 2010 during a period of normal water levels

Our beach post-Irma - less than half its normal size

For several months prior to the storm, we’d experienced a prolonged period of drought that exposed low-lying sections of the lake-bed. My morning rows in Hour Lake didn't take as long because the lake had shrunk. Land that used to be underwater was no longer submerged.

Large swaths of exposed lake-bed 

Bog buttons growing in dry, cracked lake-bed

During the first few years we lived here, I remember worrying when it rained too much or when it didn't rain enough. But now, after 25 years of lakeside living, I've come to a better understanding, a realization of sorts of the way things work. No matter what we might want or expect, landscape is never static. Water levels constantly change as do the type of plant and animal life responding to those weather-influenced fluctuations.

Now, instead of feeling anxious about things beyond my control, I do my best to simply accept. To savor the seasonal ebb and flow of the world outside my window. In high times and low times and all times in between, my goal is simple: With awe and fascination, strive to be in the moment. To accept the present as the gift - the extraordinary gift - it is.

   

Whippoorwill - often heard, seldom seen

I woke up this morning to the song of a whippoorwill. First of the season!

I love that sound. Every year when winter begins to wane, I await the plaintive three-note cry of this elusive bird.

Whippoorwills are nocturnal birds in the nightjar family Caprimulgidae. Of the six nightjar species in North America, central Florida is home to two, the slightly larger-bodied Chuck-will’s-widow, Caprimulgus Carolinenesis, and its more commonly known relative the Eastern Whippoorwill, Antrostomus vociferus.

During the last couple weeks, I’ve had the feeling I’d soon be hearing a nightjar’s call. On three recent pre-dawn rows through the still water of Hour Lake (my new name for our homestead’s 12-acre pond) in Groveland, I inadvertently flushed large, fluttery birds from along the leaf-littered shoreline. From the size, shape, movement and timing of these three avian encounters, I suspected the discovery of nightjars.

Although I’ve listened to whippoorwills for years, the sudden rush of movement from those three encounters was only the second time I’ve actually come close to seeing one. On each occasion, it has always been too dark and too brief an encounter for me to identify which nightjar species I had unexpectedly startled. Most recently, the birds only fluttered a few feet down the shoreline to another hidden spot on the forest floor where, try though I did, I was unable to find them.

That’s how it is with nightjars. These surprisingly loud and persistent callers are notably hard to see. Even experienced birders have trouble finding them due to their well-camouflaged plumage. The medium-sized owl-shaped body of all nightjars is covered with a mottling of brown and gray feathers, which enables them to blend seamlessly into their preferred habitat - leaf-littered forests with limited understory plants along the edge of fields and water.

 

This specialized habitat provides the short-legged, large-mouthed ground bird with the requirements it needs to do what nightjars do best - catch insects at night and find hidden roosting spots by day in the low branches of trees, logs and stumps.

Since I had recently startled several birds while rowing in Hour Lake in Groveland, that’s where I expected to hear the first whippoorwill of the season. But that’s not what happened.

On Saturday, Ralph and I arrived at our place in New Smyrna Beach and the next morning as I was waking up I heard a familiar tune filtering through my bedroom window along with the light of the nearly full moon.

“I know that sound!” I said to myself.

Kicking off the covers, I got up, opened the sliding glass door and stepped outside where a whippoorwill - or was it a Chuck-will’s-widow? - was loudly chanting its namesake call. Although the two birds sound slightly different, both repeat a similar three-note refrain used to attract mates and define territory. The only way I can distinguish between the two is to listen carefully comparing both bird calls in my head, something which still-sleepy-Sherry finds hard to do at 5:45 in the morning.

As satisfying as it would be to know for sure which species I was hearing, my pleasure was not tied to a successful ID. There was special delight early this morning, hearing a familiar voice in an unexpected place.

As a longtime central Florida resident, I consider a nightjar’s cry to be the sound of spring, heralding in the changing of seasons in my adopted home. More importantly, it’s a reminder that beauty doesn’t always need to be seen to be appreciated. Beauty can be felt, touched and - in the case of the persistent whippoorwill - heard repeatedly by those willing to listen during those elusive and fleeting few hours of dawn and dusk.

Want to learn more about nightjars?  

Below are several informative links:

An essay I wrote in 2008 about my first encounter with a nightjar when Ralph and I were walking through the woods at dusk

Walk in Florida woods flushes out nightjar

Good information by nature writer Chris Duke about all 6 species of nightjars 

Finding nightjars  

Good general information about the Eastern whippoorwill from Audubon http://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/eastern-whip-poor-will

A video comparing the call of an Eastern whippoorwill and Chuck-will’s-widow 

http://953thebear.com/do-you-know-the-difference-between-a-whip-poor-will-chuck-wills-widow/

Who says Florida doesn't have seasons!

After being away for five days, we returned to our Groveland home to find the ground concealed beneath a blanket of leaves. Maple and sycamore leaves covered the grass along with culm covers from our many bamboos.

Maple, sycamore and bamboo leaves and culm covers

Prior to our getaway, I’d been watching swamp maples put on a flashy show. Although they hadn’t yet begun to fall in earnest, many leaves on deciduous trees had turned bright red, a darker scarlet, rusty orange and even yellow.

Swamp maple tree putting on a show

Sycamore trees, which hold onto their leaves the longest, released their leafy headdress en masse while we were gone. As we drove in the driveway, the car’s tires crunched over a crusty coating of large, brown leathery leaves. The yard and walkways were covered. The gutters, too. And when we opened the garage doors to drive inside, a frenzy of sycamore leaves followed us.

Although autumn in Central Florida is not as obvious as it is in other parts of the country, assorted deciduous trees still manage to put on an impressive performance. During a month when Northerners tend to shovel snow, Floridians are busy raking leaves. That is, if they rake leaves at all, which I don’t normally do. The only time I pick up a rake is when my grandchildren visit. Then I try to create as big a pile as I can so my baby grands can jump, hide and throw leaves in the air. They love doing that.

Baby grands having a grand ol' time playing in the leaves

Coming home to a such an obvious seasonal shift reminds me how different the reality of living in Central Florida is from the way most non-residents imagine our state to be. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard non-residents say they couldn’t live in Florida because they’d miss the seasons.

Miss the seasons? But we have so many!

Right now, Central Floridians are experiencing autumn. It’s also the start of strawberry season, and the time of year when oranges begin to ripen. My tangerine tree is heavy with fruit, and a lady down the road who has a small backyard citrus grove is already displaying bags of navels at her front yard farm stand.

Tangerines a'ripening

In another couple months, it will be loquat season, and I can already smell the beige blossoms’ subtle scent when I walk by a loquat tree. Mulberry season begins in February, followed shortly after by the beginning of the blackberry and blueberry time of year.

Loquat blossoms a'flowering

And then there are all the flowering plants and grasses.

Have you noticed all the muhly grass currently blooming? The University of Florida Garden Solutions website calls muhly grass a ‘gardening superstar’ that puts on a fabulous show every fall without needing special attention. Muhly’s soft, feathery pinkish-purple plumes add pizzazz to even the most ordinary landscape. This Florida native grows in small dividable clumps that reach a height of about five feet. A white-plumed variety is also available.

Beautiful muhly grass
(Photo credit: UF-IFAS Garden Solutions) 

While I haven’t added muhly grass to my landscape yet, it’s on my wish list for the future. Until then, I’m content with other ornamentals that add color and fragrance to the yard. During Confederate jasmine season — early summer — the clay wall by our driveway is transformed into a sweet, scented spectacle. Jasmine’s small white flowers pack a powerful punch, igniting the atmosphere with an intoxicating aroma. Brunfelsia, better known as yesterday-today-and-tomorrow plant because of the way its blooms change colors from white to dark pink, is another favorite aromatic plant. Brunfelsia season begins just after the New Year and continues for several months.

White, pink and purple - the three colors of Yesterday-today-and-tomorrow flowers

In addition to all the flowers that grow in the Sunshine State, vegetable gardeners like my husband Ralph have multiple planting seasons. Gardeners can begin to sow seeds in August for autumn harvests, and edibles can continue being sown and grown throughout the winter. Although the heat of summer hampers many vegetables, certain varieties tolerate it to provide garden fanatics like my spouse to continue planting and harvesting.

Ralph working in his raised-container vegetable garden

Here in Central Florida, seasons may not be as dramatic in the same way they are in other parts of the country, but they have their own special flavor, distinction and beauty. There’s no shortage of seasonal changes. Quite the opposite.

There are so many changes, it’s hard to keep track of them all. I’d list more, but right now there’s raking to do. Our grandchildren are coming over to visit and it looks like a perfect autumn day to jump in a big pile of leaves.

What season is it?

Many plants think it’s spring, though it’s only early February.

In downtown Clermont, I spotted a Tabebuia impetiginosa tree all primped up and fancy with a blush of pink blossoms. I remember noticing the same tree last year around a month later in the season. By then, it was in full bloom, a dazzling flush of floral effervescence.

Tabebuia impetiginosa, aka pink trumpet tree, is a colorful sign of the changing seasons

Coming home from Clermont along U.S. Highway. 27, I saw tall yellow flower spikes of mullein reaching for the sky, and under our mulberry trees at home, the prickly leaves of cow thistle have already grown sharp enough to make walking barefoot unpleasant.

Mullein - a tall showy spring wildflower

Along the lakeside, yellowish-green catkins have begun to appear on Carolina willows while in a nearby thicket, a few white blackberry buds have opened their petals, turning expectant faces to the sun as if they couldn’t wait a day longer to absorb its warmth.

White blackberry blossoms on their way to developing into berries

The uppermost branches of our swamp maple trees sport tiny red leaves even though our sycamore trees refuse to let the last of their large, brown leathery leaves fall to the ground.

The sycamore tree is still covered with leaves while the leaves of other deciduous tree have already fallen to the ground

It’s February — but is it autumn, winter or the start of spring? In Central Florida it’s often hard to tell.

Birds have begun to seek out nesting sites. Our bluebird boxes are seeing activity and a red-bellied woodpecker has set up house in a nesting box mounted on a tree. 

Two female bluebirds check out a nesting box

Little Carolina wrens are chattering as they poke around shrubbery and flowerpots in search of just the right spot to raise young. While rowing, I startled a Great Egret with long, lacy plumes on its back, an indication that breeding season has begun.

I like the anticipation, hopefulness and optimism of spring. But as much as I want to believe that the birds and plants know what they’re doing, experience has proved that they may be wrong. Another cold spell could arrive tomorrow. New leaves on the maple tree could die back, ripening fruit on the loquat could spoil, and the birds that nest prematurely might have to wait a little longer to successfully raise young.

Loquat fruit have started to grow but will they make it to maturity or succumb to another winter cold snap?

It’s all about timing. Humans aren’t alone in occasionally misjudging seasonal shifts.

The other day, I watched a newly hatched butterfly — a tan and black striped zebra longwing — sip nectar from a cluster of goldenrod flowers. Leave it to a butterfly to find a source of nourishing sweetness among a field of fluffy beige seedheads. Although many goldenrods grow on our property, only this one plant is blooming. The others are in that autumnal stage of development when the spreading of seeds precedes springtime’s flush of new flowers. The butterfly had latched onto the solitary plant sporting a gold floral crown.

A zebra longwing latches onto a solitary goldenrod flower

The lone goldenrod might have been an early bloomer or very late in following the other plants’ lead. Then again, it might simply have wanted to burst into bloom and did so regardless of what others were doing.

Nature is nothing if not full of surprises. No matter what the reason, no matter what the season, no matter how confusing the weather or irregular the patterns, nature never fails to mystify and amaze.

The acoustic sounds of January in Florida

During a month when our Northern brethren are stomping through snowdrifts in boots and parkas, we’re lolling around green expanses in sandals and short-sleeve shirts. Instead of skating over frozen lakes, some of us are gliding through silky water in kayaks or rowboats.

Kayaking through calm water on a foggy afternoon

We might even go swimming. At 72 degrees, the Atlantic Ocean was two degrees warmer last week than it was at the peak of summer on Cape Cod, and during yesterday’s sunny afternoon, my husband Ralph swam across our lake.

Swimming in the lake

The ability to garden during a month when the ground is frozen in other parts of the country is another reason why Floridians like January. Rather than shoveling the white stuff into piles, Florida gardeners are sowing seeds into rows. January is prime planting time for cold-weather crops such as lettuce, potato, broccoli and bok choy. There are strawberries to harvest at u-pick farms and fresh oranges to squeeze into juice.

Despite wearing a hat and long sleeve shirt, January is prime gardening time for my husband who tends to young seedlings of Asian Greens in his raised container garden

Instead of eagerly awaiting the appearance of the first crocuses on a bleak landscape, we find ourselves already surrounded by an abundance of blooms. Yellow allamandas, red bottlebrush, sweet-smelling jasmine and colorful bougainvilleas are among a multitude of flowers that fill the January landscape with beauty and fragrance.

The yellow blooms of Carolina jasmine cover a trellis

But there’s another reason why Floridians look forward to the first month of the year, and it has nothing to do with the scent of flowers, the taste of fresh-picked produce or the warmth of the water. It’s all about sound — the sound of music. January is when a cadre of beloved folk singers flee cold New England winters to entertain us with the sweet sound of acoustic songs.

The fun starts Saturday January 16 at 8 p.m. when Cindy Mangsen and Steve Gillette return to Lake County for their annual performance of traditional and contemporary folk music at Trout Lake Nature Center as part of the Lake Eustis Folk 3rd Saturday House Concert series.

Traveling, recording and performing together since 1989 under the banner of Compass Rose Music, the Mangsen-Gillette duo is a well established part of the American folk music scene. Although I have been attending their performances for many years, I never tire of listening to their beautiful harmonies, mellow tones and humorous takes on everyday situations.

The Mangsen-Gillette duo at a 2003 concert in The Villages

And while I love their songs — many are on my personal playlist of all-time favorite tunes — I also appreciate the gentle graciousness with which the pair approaches their audience. I find it a pleasure to listen to songs sung clearly with beautiful melodies that stay with me long after the concert has ended.

Preceding Saturday evening’s event is an optional 7 p.m. potluck supper, a casual gathering of fellow folk music aficionados. For those who choose to attend the pre-concert meal, it’s also a chance to mingle with two down-to-earth performers in a friendly, low-key environment. Following the concert, an after-concert jam ensues in which music-making attendees bring out guitars, fiddles, dulcimers and other instruments to take turns making more music. It’s yet another chance for those of us who don’t play to sit back and enjoy the talent of others. The entire evening is available for a donation of just $10, a small price to pay for a large serving of food, fellowship, fine songs and good old-time fun.

Like Mangsen and Gillette, David Roth is another soothing voice in a noisy world. A Chicago native transplanted to Cape Cod after several years living and performing in Seattle, Roth entertains audiences with his unique ability to combine offbeat observations with moving stories that often are humorous, as well as powerful statements on contemporary issues.

David Roth

Although Roth’s bookings rarely bring him to Lake County, he’s a regular winter performer in Central Florida. This year, his final stop on a 9-day tour across the Sunshine State will be a 6 p.m. concert on Jan. 24 at the University Unitarian Universalist Society in Orlando for a donation of $15 per person.

While Lake County is home to a great number of talented local acoustic musicians who perform all year long in intimate settings throughout the region, I consider it a special treat to be able to attend small-venue concerts by special performers who only visit our stomping grounds in the month of January.

While there are those who object to all the snowbirds who come south when temperatures dip low, I say, bring ’em on. Especially snowbirds that sing, because I for one, intend to be in the audience, absorbing the stories and singing along to the sweet sounds of Florida winter from a folk music perspective. Hope to see you there too.

Here is where you can get details on the performance:

David Roth: www.davidrothmusic.com

Cindy Mangsen and Steve Gillette: www.compassrosemusic.com

UUU Society of Orlando: 11648 McCulloch Rd, Orlando, FL 32817, 407-737-4018.

3rd Saturday concert in Eustis: Trout Lake Nature Center; 520 East County Road 44, Eustis, 352-408-9800 or email [email protected].

Springtime in New England

Ralph and I recently spent a week in New England. On the drive from the airport to our daughter Jenny’s home in Florence, Mass., I found myself fixated on the colorful landscape. Although I grew up in Pennsylvania and lived on Cape Cod for 17 years, it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced a northern spring.

Spring in New England (photo by Jenny Boas)

It was by happenstance that the timing of our trip coordinated with a flush of flowering plants, but what a stroke of luck! I was able to experience the bold bloom of forsythia bushes, the fragrant pink blossoms of crab apple trees and prolific displays of groundcovers such as violets, forget-me-nots and phlox. I was there to see tulips and lilies emerge from winter-weary ground. I saw fruit trees flower, maple leaves unfurl and everywhere I looked, I watched weeds grow at an alarming rate.

Maple leaves opened during our visit

Dandelions, that bane of many a residential landscape, were ubiquitous. The large yellow blooms dotted small yards and vast fields alike. Although I’m sure many people struggle to eradicate the invasive wildflowers from their lawns, every now and then you come across individuals who look at dandelions and see opportunity.

Dandelions everywhere!

On Mother’s Day, on our way back from a birding walk, Jenny and I passed a group of children and adults gathered in a field overtaken by the yellow-flowering plants. A photographer kneeling next to her tripod was taking a family portrait. As we drove by, I smiled to think how treasured that beautiful scene — a family encircled by gold — would be in years to come. The timing was perfect. A few days later, that same field was covered with dandelion seed heads, those feathery orbs of far-flying seeds attached to wispy parachutes. It’s no wonder the common dandelion is… well, so common in New England.

Another omnipresent weed that I watched emerge during the week we spent in Florence was Polygonum cuspidatum, better known as Japanese knotweed. 

Knotweeds emerging alongside a daylily

When Jenny and her husband Brett bought their house last year, their entire eastern border was covered in dense stands of towering knotweed. My husband worked hard last October to chop down and dig up the aggressive perennial but, despite his valiant efforts, new plants began poking through the ground this spring shortly after we arrived. By the time we left seven days later, numerous shoots were already leafing out, three-feet tall and growing taller.

If left alone, this is what knotweed can look like (photo by eattheinvaders.org)

As I watched the knotweed surge madly skyward, I couldn’t help but feel glad it doesn’t grow in Florida. I had the same thought as I noticed all the tiny maple trees popping up in garden beds and onion grass invading lawns.

Experiencing springtime in New England was a fortuitous bonus for a pair of grandparents whose trip was planned around spending time with family. I enjoyed taking walks in the cooler air, seeing daffodils and watching lilacs develop. I loved the color of ornamental quince flowers — a reddish, coral I’ve rarely seen in nature — and finding mounds of swamp cabbage in wetlands. 

Ornamental quince

But mostly I found myself feeling grateful to be visiting only. As much as I enjoyed a week-long taste of a northern spring, I was eager to return home to the ever-changing southern seasons I have come to love so much.

When we told one New Englander we lived in Florida, his response was, “What’s it like there now, 130-degrees?”

Florida may not be everyone’s idea of paradise, but it’s mine. Although we were away for just short time, it sure is good to be home.

Seasonal reflections

Simply Living
For the first time in years, I’m experiencing a northern autumn. Everywhere I look, leaves are falling to the ground. Crimson reds, butterscotch yellows and all shades in between vie for attention as they swirl about on a chilly breeze.

Although I’ve lived in Florida since 1987, I grew up in Pennsylvania and spent 17 years on Cape Cod before moving south. After a long absence, my husband Ralph and I are back in the North, visiting our daughter and her family in western Massachusetts where, despite it being early November, there are still leaves ablaze with color.

Autumn has always been my favorite season. Before moving to Florida, I looked forward to the brisk weather that turned green to gold, red and orange. As temperatures dipped, I willingly slipped into soft sweaters, long pants and warm coats. I bought Winesap apples at local farms, baked pumpkin pie and picked bouquets of purple asters. I watched Canadian geese take flight while the white fluff from dried milkweed pods flew off on the wind. A northern autumn is a dramatic, in-your-face time of transition, so different from the more subtle signs of a Floridian fall.

In Florida, I learned to seek out softer shades of familiar hues. As flocks of white-eyed vireos flit from branch to branch and a pair of pied-billed grebes returns to the lake, I look for yellow flowers to form on the cassia bushes and for goldenrod and groundsel shrubs to brighten up the marsh.

Pied-billed grebe

The cooling weather causes golden rain trees to put on one of the most dazzling displays, changing from green to gold before bearing coral-colored seed pods. In place of apples, I keep a close eye on the burgeoning tangerine trees where green orbs are just beginning to turn orange. I pick starfruit and harvest the remaining bananas and papayas. I savor the scent of loquat flowers with their promise of winter fruit.

Picking starfruit

At my daughter’s house, I’m covered in layers. I wear long pants over tights, socks and insulated boots. Beneath a fleece vest, I have on a turtleneck shirt and a sweater — and that’s just when I’m indoors. A typical fall day in Massachusetts requires more clothing than the coldest winter day in Central Florida.

All bundled up for a November New England walk

Until I moved south, I took seasons for granted. Because I knew nothing else, I assumed autumns everywhere were like the ones I grew up with in the Northeast. Although I now know they’re not the same, I’ve come to love their differences. I like how in Florida, I have to put on a sweater in the morning but need to strip it off by afternoon. I like the way maple trees along wetlands turn brilliant shades of red, yellow and orange while the red berries of the dahoon holly glimmer against its glossy green leaves.

Dahoon holly berries

I like the way my husband can be busy planting a new crop of vegetables while his northern counterparts are putting their gardens to rest for winter, and I like how nice it feels to take a walk in the middle of the day without overheating.

Adding transplanted broccoli to the fall garden

But maybe most of all I like knowing both autumnal experiences are there for the taking. A trip to New England doesn’t provide just a seasonal display of brilliant color, crisp weather and fresh-pressed apple cider, it also gives me a chance to savor hugs and kisses from the little arms and sweet lips of my two-year-old twin granddaughters.

Cuddling with grandchildren is special

There are many reasons to travel north for seasonal changes but none as important as staying close to the people you love.