To Little Current for a looksee. On a beautiful warm and sunny day. Seems we know quite a few of the exhibitors, but then perhaps we should, as we’ve been summer Islanders now for quite some time.
Cruise ship hogging a large part of the Little Current waterfront
My favorite exhibit at the trade fair was a wood-fired outdoor oven. The sample I got of rustic-crust pizza with duck sausage, Split Rail beer, jalapeños, and blueberries was indescribably delicious.
Dinner at Therese’s. She and Marc and two other couples. Delicious lamb dinner finished up with Sue’s lemon meringue pie—two pies, actually, and both plates scraped clean enough to need no dishwashing.
Flooded fields all across the Island. Here’s the Mindemoya River shouldering is way into Providence Bay—not the gentle wading place we are used to. Slow ride home, wending our way through deer and fog.
Warm enough and buggy enough—with black flies getting pesky. (Also, first use of outdoor shower!)
Fine day for a row.
And, the water is high. Norm is going to need a floating travel-lift.
Blackflies. Thunderstorm at 5 A.M. Chilling morning fog and mist. But then, after noon, sun!
Of course, once the sun was out, the blackflies were too. Even paradise must have a few imperfections.
Theoretically switching to it. Deck spindles all repainted, sandbox topped up (meaning driveway cleared). Which is about it in the heavy lifting department. For this year. (If you exclude chopping and splitting lots of wood.)
The biggest impediment to recreation, at present, however, is the weather—cold, showery, with a strong east wind.
New style masking tape
And, here comes the easterly, building, by the hour
Erudite, skillfully written, emotionally wrenching. Very much worth reading. (Regular daily blog down below.)
Quotes from the text:
There are no individuals. There aren't even separate species. Everything in he forrest is the forest. Competition is not separable from endless flavors of cooperation. Trees fight no more than do the leaves on a single tree. It seems most of nature isn't red in tooth and claw, after all. For one, those species at the base of the living pyramid have neither teeth nor talons. But if trees share their storehouses, then every drop of red must float on a sea of green.
Something marvelous is happening underground, something we're just learning how to see. Mats of mycorrhizal cabling link trees into gigantic, smart communities spread across hundreds of acres. Together, they form vast trading networks of goods, services, and information ....
There are no individuals in a forest, no separable events. The bird and the branch it sits on are a joint thing. A third or more of the food a big tree makes may go to feed other organisms. Even different kinds of trees form partnerships. Cut down a birch, and a nearby Douglas-fir may suffer ....
In the great forests of the East, oaks and hickories synchronize their nut production to baffle the animals that feed on them. Word goes out, and the trees of a given species whether they stand in sun or shade, wet or dry—bear heavily or not at all, together, as a community ....
Fungi mine stone to supply their trees with minerals. They hunt spring tails, which they feed to to their hosts. Trees, for their part, store.extra sugar in their fungi's synapses, to dole out to the sick and shaded and wounded. A forest takes care of itself, even as it builds the local climate it needs to survive.
Before it dies, a Douglas-fir, half a millennium old, will send its storehouse of chemicals back down into its roots and out through its fungal partners, donating its riches to the community pool in a last will and testament. We might well call these ancient benefactors giving trees.
You and the tree in your backyard come from.a common ancestor. A billion and a-half years ago the two of you parted ways. But even now, after an immense journey in separate directions, that tree and you still share a quarter of your genes.
What can be owned and who can do the owning? What conveys a right, and why should humans alone on all the planet, have them?
The best and easiest way to get a forest to return to any plot of cleared land is to do nothing—nothing al all, and do it for less time than you might think.
What you make from a tree should be at least as miraculous as what you cut down.
Life has a way of talking to the future. It’s called memory.
The best arguments in the world won’t change a person’s mind. The only thing that can do that is a good story.
Bright, sunny, warm, calm and quiet. No noise apart from two merlins.
Also, no fire all day. Windows and porch open. Almost feels like summer.
All the old slabs and other miscellaneous pieces of scrap lumber ripped off the underlying cedar logs, and then replaced with 2x6 cedar boards. One hundred of them. Under the old boardwalk we found, not the Drifters, but half a dozen beautiful little black and red salamanders. Not so much need now to “Watch Your Step!”
Gallery seasonal opening, and to meet up with Therese.
Shore erosion, high water and north-east wind
Extra ramps needed for floating docks in Gore Bay
What better to do on a cold and very rainy day?
Not quite, but we have been decimating the woodpile.
Cold, with another big rain event forecast.
I had planned to do a review of Richard Powers’ novel Overstory, but an hour’s worth of wrangling with recalcitrant scanning software has made that a tomorrow project.
Anyway, the sandbox is ready to be moved into position and filled with...sand.
Burt Farm “Smokies” for dinner.
...all except the ashes, which are slow.
New sandbox under construction, actually almost done. Also, about 20 of the 55 8-foot cedar 2x6s destined for the boardwalk cut down to size. And Pax to the vet for some minor surgery. He’s kind of out of it at the moment, and so is our WiFi. Therefore a brief blog posted by LTE.
Cold and rain, rain and cold. But no matter.
Ready for use, but no use yet
First to Tekummah and JD Gardens to pick up a coreopsis, as a gift, then, after noon, to a “Come and Go” in Gore Bay in honor of the 60th wedding anniversary of Don and Joan Lloyd.
~~~~~~~~~~~`
…and here is a little thing from FLOW (Traverse City, MI)
Being a Good Ancestor
It’s not often that we think about what it means to be a good ancestor. But our close friend and elder, Frank Ettawageshik from the Little Traverse Band, recently challenged us and others to ponder this fundamental question in his keynote speech at the annual Northern Michigan Environmental Action Council Environmentalist of the Year award gathering. And I thank him for this opportunity to consider the legacy that we leave behind to our children and generations to come.
Being a good ancestor is a big responsibility. It can feel overwhelming, so I first focus on what I can do as an individual. Living as intentionally as I can is the best way I know to take responsibility for my personal actions. Globalization of our economy often makes individual lifestyle choices complex, so I try to eat, shop, and live as locally as possible.
Collectively, being a good ancestor means that when we create things, we need to consider the full life cycle from cradle to grave. If we did take this responsibility seriously, toxic and persistent chemicals like PFAS would not exist. It’s the unprecedented and cumulative impact of all our human actions that is accelerating the extinction of up to one million plant and animal species according to the UN’s latest report.
Being a good ancestor means being deeply respectful and connected to nature. Maintaining a healthy Great Lakes ecosystem is not only good for us to assure clean, safe drinking water, but also for all animals, plants, and life that depend on these life-giving and sustaining waters. This ancestral reverence echoes in The Water Song, which states: "Water, we love you. We thank you. We respect you."
Lovely, if variable weather—clouds, rain, but mostly sun. And warm enough to require no morning fire, and now, no evening fire (so far).
In no particular order: first tree frog heard; lots of jays and mergansers; quite a few warblers and nuthatches, kingfisher, pileated woodpecker gliding out of pre-history and into the back yard; tinge of green up on the bluff; maples showing red; marsh marigolds showing yellow. Our four, potted coreopsis dug out of the chip heap apparently alive; parsley, cilantro, and basil seeds planted; herb garden trimmed of last year’s growth.
And, in the work department (Sue): front deck railings power-washed; raspberry brambles trimmed; outdoor shower prepped for use.
All in all, rather a fine day.
Great humanity, careful observation, fine thinking, and skillful writing—by an ordinary person.
...and very high deep blue water, at that.
2019
2019
2019
And here is a photo taken by Sue exactly five years ago.
2014
Bob has headed back home, after immense help here in the early stages of the annual cottage restart.
And, while he was driving, we slowed down a bit—mostly dinking and recuperating.
...wood and lumber.
Tree hugger
Long felled ashes, finally sectioned
To Noble lumber in the morning to pay bill for deck materials and get a few sticks for the new sandbox. To Taylor sawmill in the afternoon for cedar planks needed to resurface the deck-to-pier boardwalk.
Deck repair almost complete. All that’s left is hanging the gate.
New grill now almost in its permanent location, old grill seriously deformed by avalanche.
New griddle seasoned, and working on breakfast (buttermilk pancakes)
...aka deck work.
That’s Bob underneath
Progress is being made, though we took a good part of the morning to hike up along the raging river to the falls.
...and drying out.
Some chores possible and accomplished, to Mindemoya on errands, and Bob Cave here to help out with deck reconstruction.