The Savannah River spoke to me as I walked its banks at night. Stark white and neon purple lights reflected across its surface, and it whispered, “I’ve been widened, deepened, and dirtied. Cargo ships ply through me. Tourists in paddlewheel boats churn atop me. Factories have dumped their pollution in me. I am ancient, older than those who use me. Once you are gone, I will remain. I will become whole again.”
I usually take two walks every day. Recently, on one of my walks, I saw a painted turtle crossing the gravel road. It was headed in the direction of a small lake and had already made it across most of the road. But was now it had stopped. I worried it might get run over by an inattentive driver. I was tempted to pick it up and move it in the direction it was traveling, yet didn’t want to overly disturb it.
Luckily, as I stood behind the turtle, pondering, it began to move closer to the road’s edge. I slowly stepped forward and kept encouraging it to move in this way until I was sure it would be safe.
I wondered whether it was a late hibernator emerging from an inland pond or if it had laid its eggs somewhere and was now making its way back to the lake. I often see multiple painted turtles hanging out on a log at the end of the lake or swimming with their noses just above the water on quiet evenings.
After I walked a few more yards, a drizzle began. Then the drizzle became a shower. I wasn’t wearing a raincoat, so I cut my walk short and began quick-stepping my way back home. About a hundred yards past the first turtle, I saw another one that was almost the entire way across the road. It was moving quickly, so I didn’t worry about it like I had the first turtle.
Curious at seeing the two turtles crossing the road at nearly the same time, once back inside, I searched online for a possible explanation. Google said: “Every year, in mid to late spring, turtles start to move. The males are looking for partners and the females are looking for a good place to make a nest for their eggs. Unfortunately, for a lot of them, this means crossing busy roads and many don’t make it.”
In addition, Mississippi State University said that in the South, a legend says that rain is on the way any time you see a turtle cross the road. They continue, “There’s very little truth to this myth, even though it does seem like rain is in the forecast after we see one of these creatures slowly making its way across the street.”
Given my experience that day, I’m inclined to believe this legend!
Then I looked up the spiritual meaning of a turtle crossing your path. Google said it’s a sign of good fortune to come. Turtles are also omens of good health and symbolize a long, prosperous life.
If that ends up true, I’ll let you know in about thirty years.
My second wildlife encounter happened the next day. The moment I stepped out the door for another walk, I felt something land in my hair. I thought it was a bug and tried to brush it away. Out fell a five-inch black feather!
I looked around but whatever bird had lost the feather was long gone. However, a crow sat in a tree not far away. The feather certainly looked like it could be a crow feather.
While I’ve come across feathers on the ground before, I’ve never had one actually fall on me. The event was rather surprising and noteworthy (thus this blog post).
I seemed to be a roll with interesting animal encounters. Once again, I consulted the wise and wonderous internet for interpretation. I searched for “meaning of crow feather falling on your head.”
Nothing came up under that specific heading, but there were lots of entries about the “meaning of coming across a crow feather in your path.”
Apparently, like with the turtles, this is a good omen. A woo-woo yoga site said, “When a crow feather lands at your feet, it is a positive omen, meaning your calls have been heard and answered. If a feather comes to your path magically or surprisingly, it means a spirit is supporting or guiding you.”
Since the feather fell on my head, I must really be protected and supported!
Another site said it can also signify a visitation by a male loved one who has passed.
For several months, I have been working on a nonfiction story about a male relative. Although I was not born when he died (tragically and suddenly), I’ve found myself wondering if I haven’t conjured up his ghost with all my recent attention.
If he is watching over me, I’m okay with that. He was a good guy and I wish I would have had a chance to know him. Even if he’s not, these natural encounters have been interesting.
When I told Russ about the mysterious crow feather atop my head, he said, “At least it was a feather and not something else that birds usually let drop!” That’s my guy.
I think I’ll take another walk and see what happens next.
Thanks to a gargantuan sunspot group 15 times the size of Earth, we on Earth in northern climes were treated to a spectacular aurora borealis display last night.
The evening began with a thunder shower, which led to a picturesque sunset, which was capped off by the northern lights display.
I ran around with my camera, documenting everything at our cabin in northern Minnesota. I had tried before to photograph the sky at night with little luck. But this time, it worked! My camera captured even more colors than were visible to the “naked” eye.
As I wandered on gravel roads in the middle of nowhere with eyes raised to the eternal mystery of the dancing sky, our resident loons began to call. Spring peepers croaked and a distant train whistle blew. We are so fortunate to live in these times, in this place.
In my workaday world where I drive around, sit at my desk, eat, and sometimes sleep, I often run across photo opportunities that I don’t have the time or energy to pursue. I’ll be driving down Duluth’s hillside and see the sun shining in an interesting pattern on Lake Superior, but I have a work meeting to get to, so don’t have time to stop. Or, I’ll be walking into the grocery store and there’s a spectacular sunset but I’m on mission, so bye-bye sunset. Or, darn, I don’t have my fancy camera with me, just my cell phone, so I won’t take the shot.
Often at these times, I’ll sadly joke with myself, saying, “If I were a real photographer, I’d find a way to take that photo.” I can’t count how many times I’ve thought that over the years. My hope is that once I retire, I’ll have more time to follow up on these photo opportunities, but that’s about a year off.
This morning at our cabin, one of those moments happened again. I’d been awake in bed since 5:30 a.m. It was now an hour later, and sleep was not returning. From bed, I could see the lake, its far shore lit golden by the rising sun, water as smooth as glass with winter’s ice only recently melted.
Lying there, I thought, “If I were a real photographer I’d get outside and take that photo.” But I was cozy and drowsy. Outside, it was probably only 40 degrees.
But the spectacular shoreline lighting was only going to last a little while. It would be a shame to miss this opportunity. All I needed to do was get out of bed . . .
Beside me, Russ slumbered peacefully. I didn’t want any movements I might make to wake him . . .
Then, I thought about what fun it would be to actually be a real photographer this morning. Sure, I only had my cell phone, but that was better than nothing.
I hopped out of bed, donned my light blue fuzzy bathrobe, grabbed my phone, and jumped into my big Sorrel boots. As I headed outside, I could see the light fading from one section of the far shore. It wouldn’t be long before the bare trees were a drab brown once again across the whole thing.
As I neared our small beach, a duck farther down the lake took off in startled flight. That might have had something to do with it seeing a blue monstrosity emerge on shore!
I raised my phone and fired off a few shots, walking along the shoreline to gain a better vantage. The sun lingered for a few more minutes, enough time to take a few good images. I especially liked one with some reeds in the foreground.
Phone lowered, I stood for a while, drinking in the view directly with my eyes. All was still and quiet.
I turned to walk back the few yards it would take to get to the cabin. After a couple steps, I was stopped by the sound of something crashing through underbrush in the neighbor’s yard. I recognized two dogs, Kamikaze spaniels, as I like to think of them, headed right toward me! One sported black spots, the other brownish-red.
I knew from previous encounters with their master on the road, the dogs running beside his ATV for exercise, that they were nice dogs with a lot of energy. Whenever they pass a driveway, they head down it, circle the yard with noses to the ground and meet their master back on the road.
Still, to ensure they were forewarned of my presence, I greeted them with, “Hi dogs, hi dogs!”
Unlike the duck, the dogs took no notice of me and sped right past. One rounded the far corner of the cabin and headed back to the road, while the other took a detour around our boathouse and then ran through the forest, rejoining its buddy.
In all, I was only outside this morning for a few minutes, but a lot happened. As I opened the cabin door, I felt a bit more like a real photographer.
I recently worked in a bar. Not as a bartender, though. I didn’t even drink! I was there to view art and explore how it relates to community and the restoration of the St. Louis River, which flows along the border of Minnesota and northwest Wisconsin. You can view my resulting story on Wisconsin Sea Grant’s “Unsalted” blog here.
Will this post be about a quest for emotional security? No! It’s all about web site security.
I recently completed several frustrating weeks of time (on and off) to get my author and photography website deemed “secure” with an SSL certificate. What is it? SSL stands for Secure Sockets Layer, which is “an encryption-based internet security protocol.” An SSL certificate is a digital certificate that authenticates a website’s identity and enables an encrypted connection.
I’d put off buying the certificate because the need for it strikes me as a money-grab by web hosting companies – rather like the kind of security a person receives from payoffs to the Mob. 😊
But now, many web browsers won’t even let people access “unsecure” (or insecure?) websites without going through a lot of clicking acrobatics. My analytics have also been dropping, so I decided to splurge and get the SSL certificate.
I didn’t want to hassle with coding it, so I purchased a more expensive option where I wouldn’t have to deal with that. I thought I could just buy the certificate and that would be it, but NO. I waited several days, and nothing changed with my website. It still came up as unsecure in my browser.
So, I called my web hosting company and asked for help. In a minor miracle, I was actually able to talk to a real person. As an added bonus, he had a sense of humor and he appreciated my humor. All was good. Except for the fact that my website was built on a platform that was too old for the fancy SSL certificate where I didn’t have to do any coding.
Mind you, my web site is only 10 years old, but in technology years, that’s ancient. As a result, the humorous tech guy gave me a partial refund and signed me up for the less-expensive-but-needs-coding certificate. He was also nice enough to add some of the needed code to my site. He said it should begin working within 48 hours.
It didn’t. I won’t bore you with the details, but the fix involved two more phone conversations with my web hosting platform and one hour-long online chat with my domain-name-holding company. Said company had to do a backdoor end-run special code to make the certificate work. It wasn’t something I could have ever done myself.
The process was a pain in the butt and took a good five hours of my life, but anyone who cares to visit my site can now do so with a sense of internet security. I am happy about that. What I am not happy about is that I will have to do this every year!
It might be time for a new web site, but I think I’m gonna eke the rest of my money’s worth out of this one, first. 😊
About a week ago, we drove north along the shore of Lake Superior to Grand Marais, Minnesota. We carried a precious cargo: a dozen landscape images I took, printed out on canvas, metal and paper. They had been accepted for my first public exhibit at a local health facility in the town.
I was excited by this opportunity to share my hobby with an audience. Once we arrived, we were met by the organizer who helped us unload. He also showed us where the images would be hung. We left my works with him and headed home on our two-hour drive.
After a half-hour cruising past pine trees along the rugged landscape of Lake Superior, I began feeling like I’d left something important behind me in Grand Marais. The feeling nagged until I acknowledged it and searched my psyche for its source.
It didn’t take long for me to realize the important things I left behind were my photos! The feeling was similar to when I dropped both of my children off at college. I turned to Russ and said, “My babies! We left my babies back there!”
He looked at me quizzically, but Russ is a quick study and soon smiled.
I did not expect that feeling. I didn’t realize I was so attached to the images, many of which have hung in my home for several months. It’s not that I don’t trust the exhibitor, it’s more I feel like I’ve left part of me in Grand Marais. Of course, the feeling isn’t as strong as what I have for my human babies, but it kept coming back over the course of the next few days. Russ got used to hearing me blurt sporadically, “My babies, I miss my babies!”
As with dropping my children off to college, I hope this is a one-time thing that will get better with time. But it’s made me wonder if other photographers experience this when they let their images out of their sight. I’d appreciate hearing any impressions you wish to share.
In preparation for a trip to Ireland and Scotland that Russ and I are planning, I was rummaging around in a genealogy book that my mother and her sisters prepared about the side of my family that has U.K. roots. I was looking for Irish names. I came up empty. Thanks to family lore and 23 & Me, I know I have Irish blood but I’m not sure where it came from.
As I rummaged around in the book, I came across a pamphlet written in 1877 by Willard Parker (Detroit, MI) that I had noted before but never spent much time reading. It was about my Great (to the 4th power) Grandfather Caleb Parker. He was born in 1760 in Shrewsbury, MA, to Stephen Parker Jr. and Abigail Wright.
The surname of Parker originated in France. In essence, it means “park-keeper” and is an occupational name describing a gamekeeper. Could this be why I like “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” so much? (The book’s main character is a gamekeeper.) The name was introduced into England after the Norman (Viking/French) invasion in 1066.
Caleb’s original name was Nathaniel, but his parents changed that along the way to honor his brother Caleb who died in the French and Indian War in 1755 or 1756. The soldier was never heard from by the family. I suspect Nathaniel must have been very young when his name change happened. The French and Indian War ended in 1763 when Nathaniel was three, so maybe his parents changed his name during that time, once they gave up hope of Caleb the elder’s return.
Caleb/Nathaniel married a woman named Thankful Pratt of Shrewsbury in 1782 when he was 22 years old. He was a soldier in the late part of the Revolutionary War. While in the army fighting under George Washington, he acquired a taste for military life and in 1793 (after he had moved to Vermont), the governor appointed him captain of the Vermont Militia.
Militia fighters were also known as minute men because they had to be ready to drop everything they were doing at home with only a minute’s notice when needed for battle. They are immortalized in Longfellow’s poem, “Paul Revere’s Ride.”
About six years later, Caleb resigned his commission and moved to Stukley, an eastern township of Lower Canada, not far over the Vermont border. He died there in 1826. His wife, Thankful, lived 23 more years, dying in Stukley in 1849.
The couple had 11 children who met various fates. One was killed by a falling tree. One was a founder of Stukley township. The writer of the pamphlet said that Caleb’s “descendants have been mostly tillers of the soil. If there have been but few distinguished men among them, I may say, in all truthfulness, that honesty, industry, temperance and Christian character have been the prevailing characteristics of the son and daughters” of Caleb. “These qualities have been inherited from our emigrant ancestor [Thomas Parker], whose descendants in New England are not unworthy to rank honorably with those among whom they dwell.”
Thomas Parker, Caleb’s grandfather, came from England originally, sailing on the ship “Susan & Ellen” in 1635. I was surprised to discover that he has his own Wikipedia entry! Thomas was a Congregational Church deacon and had a large family with his wife, Amy Aylesworth. He founded Reading, MA. I also discovered that the oldest surviving building in Reading is named after the family. The Parker Tavern was owned and operated by Thomas’s great grandson Ephriam and it has been turned into a museum. I’m thinking a trip to Reading, MA, is in order someday!
If I were more talented with graphics, I would make a genealogical chart for you, but my skills do not lie in that direction. I did scribble one out with pen and paper for my reference, though, to try and keep everyone’s name straight.
My line of the family is descended from Thomas’s son Nathaniel Parker. But Thomas had another son (I’m unclear whether his name was Hananiah or Thomas) who had some notable descendants. One is John Parker who was another minute man like Caleb. John led the Lexington, MA, militia in 1775. In fact, he was a model minute man. A sculptor used his likeness for the famous Lexington Minuteman statue that stands on the Lexington Battle Green.
John led the fight against the British in the battle of Lexington on the day the Revolutionary War began. The militia suffered lopsided losses to the British (8 militia killed, 10 wounded to only one British soldier wounded). One of Parker’s men, many years later, recalled Parker’s orders on the Lexington Green: “Stand your ground. Don’t fire unless fired upon, but if they mean to have a war, let it begin here.”
During the skirmish, John witnessed his cousin Jonas Parker killed during a British bayonet charge. Later that day he rallied his men to attack the British returning to Boston in an ambush known as “Parker’s Revenge.”
John is featured as a character in the book and movie called “April Morning,” which is about the beginning of the Revolutionary War. The book is mandatory reading in many a U.S. classroom.
Sounds like I will also need to visit Lexington in addition to Reading some day! I can’t believe that a relative of mine was involved in the very beginning of the Revolutionary War. If I had known that earlier, I would have paid a lot more attention to my American History class in school.
The other notable descendant is Theodore Parker. John was his grandfather. Theodore was a noted Unitarian minister and abolitionist. Just out of Harvard Divinity School, Theodore preached at a church in the Boston neighborhood of West Roxbury. That church still stands today as the Theodore Parker Unitarian Church with a statue of Theodore on its grounds. But eventually, he left after being kicked out of the Boston Unitarian brotherhood for his “radical” views on abolishing slavery and other religious matters. He also believed outrageous things such as women should be allowed to vote, and to become doctors, lawyers, and (gasp!) even ministers.
Theodore is credited for famous quotes later shortened and used by President Lincoln and Martin Luther King. The phrases are, “a government of the people, by the people and for the people” and “the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice.” The former was used by Abraham Lincoln in the Gettysburg Address and the latter by Martin Luther King.
By coincidence, I’m a Unitarian! (Or perhaps it’s not a coincidence?)
Those Parkers were quite a bunch. It’s not every day that a person discovers their ancestors have their own Wikipedia pages, movies, statues, and a tavern and a church named for them! Plus, I learned that they founded two towns. I don’t think my mother and her sisters knew any of this because they never mentioned it.
Although my search for Irish ancestors was unsuccessful, I learned more than I ever dreamed about my family and their role in shaping early America.
Bogs get a bad rap. People tend to think they’re just a waste of good land. However, they have a unique beauty, especially when frosted with winter.
This is my favorite bog that I often visit in northern Minnesota. I’ve written about it before. (See Bog Wonder). I recently finished reading “The Good Berry Cookbook” by Tashia Hart. It’s much more than recipes about wild rice. She also describes her relationship to plants and the importance of Manoomin (wild rice) to her Native culture.
One funny story she shared was about spending an hour admiring plants (orchids, Labrador tea, pitcher plants, etc.) in a bog. A car pulled up on the dirt road near the bog and parked. A woman emerged and then, “squinted at me, and began to shout, ‘What are you doing out there!’ It came across as less a question about what I was doing and more a question about my character. ‘Looking at flowers!’ I replied, still crouched low. She stood there for a bit, hands on hips, obviously disturbed, then shook her head and flailed her arms as she stomped back to her vehicle and drove away.”
Tashia mentions that one must be careful not to sink into bogs. Perhaps the woman was concerned for her safety. But Tashia felt safe there. Moose walk on the floating plant masses and seem to do fine. But to be safe, she recommends bringing a friend along.
She offers a recipe for Swamp Tea, made with the Labrador tea plant. I think those reddish masses in my photo are dried up Labrador tea plants. The tea is supposed to lift anxieties and aid creativity.
Sounds good to me. Next time I’m at “my” bog, think I’ll put on my rubber boots or snowshoes, grab Russ, and meander out there to gather some tea leaves. We’ll see if anyone stops and yells at us.
If you’ve watched Disney’s “Finding Nemo” movie, you probably recall the scene where Bruce, the ravenous great white shark pledges to curb his natural impulses as a way to improve the reputation of sharks. “Fish are friends, not food,” he says during a mock Alcoholics Anonymous meeting undersea.
That line runs through my head whenever anyone asks me if I fish in the lake at my cabin.
I tried fishing there once, a couple of years ago. I dug out my angling gear, which hadn’t been used in years. As a child, I enjoyed fishing, once I got over my squeamishness at impaling angleworms on hooks and handling the sunfish I caught. I thought it might be fun to resurrect this pastime.
I asked Russ if he wanted to fish. His answer was short and definitive: “No.” Then he added, “And don’t come running to me if you can’t get the hook out of the fish’s mouth.”
Oh well, more fish for me! I bought a fishing license online. Then I set up a chair at the end of the dock, tied on a rubbery lure impregnated with fish scent, and began casting.
Not long afterward, I caught a long, skinny northern pike. These fish have a lot of teeth. They’re voracious eaters and are considered an undesirable invasive species in the western U.S. Since this one was too small to eat (and pike are supposedly full of bones, as well) I gingerly picked the fish up to unhook it, intending to throw it back.
I’d hooked it well. I couldn’t get it out though just using my hands. Now, most experienced anglers have a pliers in their fishing tackle box. I was just getting re-started, so I hadn’t quite got that far in my preparations.
I carefully laid the fish on the dock planks and scurried into the boat house, looking for a pliers. I couldn’t find one, so I went back to the dock and put the fish back into the water, securing my pole so the pike couldn’t swim away.
I ran into the cabin and asked Russ if he had a pliers in his toolbox. Grumbling a bit, perhaps shaking his head, he retrieved the tool for me. I ran back to the dock, fishing the fish out of the water. I began to work on the hook again. It was stuck into the fish’s mouth at such a weird angle, I couldn’t get a good grip.
At this point, I was getting stressed out. I felt urgency to release the fish back into the water so that it could survive being hooked, and I knew that messing with it so ineffectually was probably stressing out the fish, too.
I worked on the pike a few more minutes and then put it back into the water. I realized I was going to have to break my promise to Russ. The life of this watery being depended upon it.
I ran back into the cabin. “Russ, please, you’ve gotta come help. I caught a pike and I can’t get the hook out. It’s stuck in this weird angle and I just can’t do it.”
Bless his reluctant heart, Russ took pity on me, or perhaps he took pity on the fish. He sauntered down to the dock, picked up the fish, and with a single flick of his wrist, dislodged the hook.
I stared, dumbfounded, as the fish swam away into the murky depths.
To this day, I don’t understand how Russ unhooked the fish so easily. It must be a Man Thing.
My return to fishing was not fun. I decided it was too stressful to continue. I tell this story about Russ and the hook whenever anyone asks me whether I fish.
I’ve realized I’d rather be like another Minnesota woman I saw on the television news. She feeds the sunfish that gather underneath her dock, even forming a five-year friendship with one of them. The fish follows her when she swims. She dislodged a hook from its mouth once after someone tried unsuccessfully to catch it.
That’s more in my nature. I want to be like her. The television woman digs up worms, which she no doubt cuts up for the fish. I don’t think I can do that, but I can buy some commercial fish food pellets and see if those will work. I used to take care of a tank of sunfish in a Forest Service reception office where I worked, and they ate pellets just fine.
That’s going to be my project come ice-out this spring.
Marie's Meanderings 