Clear Skies and Long Views

It occurs to me that some of you may fear that this blog is, at times, in danger of becoming a "weather report", justifiably so since ProfessorRoush shares that same fear with you, and yet I still cannot resist showing you this view, as it presented to me a couple of evenings back as I turned onto my road:

In the west, I saw this view and thought, "that's a rain cloud," and yet we had no rain predicted.  I was not prepared, however to check the weather on my phone and see that this thunderhead belonged to a single isolated cell that was still more than 60 miles distant (radar screenshot taken at 6:49 p.m.)!   Salina Kansas, to the storm's south, is 66 miles from me!  How's that for clear air quality?

I haven't calculated the earth's curvature over that distance, and I know this storm probably reached tens of thousands of feet into the air, but, still, I can scarcely believe I was able to see it coming at that distance.  The world is a wonderful place, full of surprises if we only let them in.

I watched the cloud through the evening as the storm tracked from our direct west.  At 8:07 p.m., it was still more than 25 miles away to our west, but it ended up passing barely to the south later that evening.   My  last view of it below is at dusk, 8:07 p.m., still to the west and at the same time as the radar capture seen to the left, with barely enough light from the setting sun remaining to outline the storm cell.  Lightning was flashing in the storm itself as I watched, and it is no wonder that the Vikings could conclude that Thor was angry in the center of that cloud.

Perhaps now you can better understand my fascination with weather events here in my view from these semi-arid, rolling grasslands where rain is sometimes measured in drops and the wind can strike fear in a brave heart.   Better at times, I wonder, would we be if we were this garden spider, a Yellow Garden Spider (Argiope aurantia)  that has patiently tended its web in this exact spot near my back patio for over a month.  I can't tell you how many times I've almost shortcut across this bed into this web, but so far it has survived obliteration from myself, Bella, the neighbor dog, and the weather.  I'm happy for the spider's presence because  it is another sign that Fall is coming and it seems to justify my seasonal neglect and provides some natural pest control for my garden.

Everything's Alright

Believe me, ProfessorRoush is very aware that he's been "blog-absent" for a couple of weeks, but life sometimes makes other plans for us.  This past 2 weeks, the "other plans" have included some emergency medical visits and surgery and hospitalization of Mrs. ProfessorRoush, and the mere fact that I'm blogging now should be taken by all as a clear sign that she is mending.  Slowly, but progressively.

During a period where I was traveling back and forth from home to hospital, missing my wife and worrying about her surgery and recovery, I was struck one evening by the likely Divinely-inspired appearance of the Sweet Autumn Clematis that grows on my now-neglected gazebo.  I built this hexagonal gazebo nearly two decades ago merely to have a place deep in the garden to escape from the sun and sit on a swing on a hot day.   Surrounded by a honeysuckle on the south, a struggling 'Romona' clematis on the west, and the Sweet Autumn clematis on the north, I've neglected the gazebo a bit, especially the last couple of years, and it is beginning to show its age.

Hence, as I have not paid any notice to it this summer, I was surprised when I saw it suddenly in bloom from my bedroom window and I realized the clematis had climbed through the top of the gazebo.  In my tired and lonely mental state, I was struck speechless by the gift and the perfectly-timed message from nature, and I received that message loud and clear.  I took this sweet-smelling, perfectly-white, delicate but determined floral display as a certain sign that my beautiful bride of  nearly 43 years would be okay, and my fears and worries melted away at the sight of it. 

A view of the inside of the gazebo reveals the path of the clematis as it sought out the sunlight and clung to the cross beams.  "Life", as Michael Crichton wrote, "always finds a way".   This Sweet Autumn clematis is the only one I have allowed in my garden for several years because I've learned it will self-seed everywhere here in this climate and become invasive. But now that it has demonstrated its resolve to thrive, and superimposed itself on my mind's eye alongside my love for Mrs. ProfessorRoush, it is likely that I'll allow others to grow here in the future.  After all, who am I to deny the forces of life and ignore heaven-sent messages? 

Mowing Musings

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail (dark form)

If you've followed this blog long, you have probably guessed that many of my photo inspirations, and the majority of my "musing" time occurs during mowing.  That means that while he gathers his thoughts and the materials for these blogs, ProfessorRoush is often sitting atop steering a rapidly spinning knife moving at 2-4 miles/hour across the lawn and around, over, or through various obstacles, some of which turn into lethal projectiles when they exit the mower deck.  And this all occurs while my attention is distracted to the borders or plants beside my path of mowing rather than staying focused on the task.  It is a miracle that I have yet to injure anything more dear than an errant clump of groundcover.

Flowers, animals, insects, weather, and my general sense of the world are all fair game for my attention and interest while mowing.   For instance, within the last two weeks,  I've mowed while simultaneously racing the absolutely beautiful rainstorm encroaching from the northwest (photo at left), and I've had the (I believe) newly hatched, dark form Eastern Tiger Swallowtail (Papilio glaucus, photo at top) fall from an ash tree right into my lap as I passed.   The "dark form" of this dimorphic butterfly means that this specimen is almost certainly a female.

In the former instance, I kept one eye on the sky as I mowed, both hoping for rain and hoping it would hold off a few extra minutes until I could finish.   In the former, this beautiful and delicate creature that my passage disturbed was unable to fly, and so, afraid that the circling Purple Martins would spot it struggling in the grass, I stopped the mower and gently lifted it back into the lower branches of the ash, under concealment and away from the hungry Martin eyes.   After, of course, I took an extra moment to photograph and document its presence and beauty.

Flannel Mullein

As I mow near the periphery of my influence, where the "yard" changes over to bovine-grazed or bush-hog-mowed native prairie, I keep an eye out for blooming wildflowers, learning their identities and habitats, timing my worldview by their annual growth and bloom cycles, and discovering which insects or fauna each attract.  On a recent mowing,  the bright yellow, nonnative, drought-tolerant biennial  Flannel Mullein (Verbascum thapsus) was blooming (above and at left).  This woolly-leaved plant is said to have been traditionally boiled with lye to make a hair dye, presumably for use by those who believe that "blonds have more fun"/  Left alone, unmowed unlike the clump above, those yellow eye-catching spires reach taller than my head and spread enormous, soft, hairy leaves across their base.  

Blue Verbena (Verbena hastata) was also blooming on "mowing day" and was attracting an energetic Clouded Sulphur (Colias philodice) butterfly to pollinate and feed from it.  Blue Verbena, also known as Blue Vervain, is a native, very drought-tolerant plant and a common tall perennial of my prairie.   Its seeds are a major source of feed for the finches and sparrows of the area, and, as you can see, its nectar attracts its own admirers.

Blue Verbena & Clouded Sulphur butterfly

The complimentary coloring of the  light yellow butterfly and violet Verbena naturally-form a nearly perfect color-wheel contrast, and I couldn't resist stopping the mower once again to grab these photos.  Capturing this rapidly-moving butterfly in a still moment takes patience and time, both of which I provided and yet I was still unable to capture a suitable photo of it with wings outspread. 

Some weeks, my mowing time is extended from around 2 hours to 3 or 4 hours depending on the scenic distractions and the number of times I stop for photos or to remove random offensive weeds.  But can you really blame me?

August Surprises

In the Kansas Flint Hills, late July and August is a dreadful period for gardeners.  There is often a seasonal lack of rain during those weeks and oppressive waves of heat build and sear plants (and gardeners) on a daily basis, turning leaves brown and suppressing plant growth and melting away any resolve to keep the garden in prime condition.   The roses, in misery, pause their blooms and the daylily season has ended and the landscape is left almost colorless, a bland dull green turning brown and not yet displaying any autumn coloration.

I said "almost colorless", though, because there are some intrepid garden denizens who provide some relief from the blandness.   First, I want to recommend loud and clear that every gardener, particularly if you garden in Kansas, needs to obtain some "Surprise Lilies" because this period of summer doldrum is their preferred bloom time.    One minute there's nothing in a spot, and the next, PINK goodness erupts.  I plodded out to my every-other-morning pity-watering of the tomato pots on the last day of July and saw the miracle pictured above.  A few days later, the buds were all in bloom and it was yet even more captivating.  All this from seemingly bare ground!

I've seldom been able to catch them in actual growth, but here are a few early sprouts in process.  In spring, this is a clump of green grass that appears from nowhere, stays green into early summer, and then quickly dries up and disappears.  You can see their remnants at the base of the stems.  The flower stems appear in the same spot a couple of months later, usually unnoticed until they bloom in just a few days.   Sometimes, I think if I watched them closely enough, I could see them grow before my eyes!

My other life-saving perennial at this time is a native, Salvia azurea, the Blue Sage, which is a moderately uncommon but not rare plant in my region.   The clump pictured here is a volunteer in my front landscape that I allowed to remain as a welcome invader a dozen years past and it gets more bushy and floriferous each year.

I'm simply in awe of the gentle sky-blue color and the drought resistance of the plant.   Flowering in the most in-hospitable season here, there must be some survival advantage in being the sole source, or one of the few sources, of pollen during the heat of summer that led its distant ancestors to flower now.   I'm just thankful for all the bees it draws and feeds here, and for the color it brings during an otherwise drab end-of-summer.  And right now, I'll welcome color in any form, however it wants to appear.