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Let’s be clear. Mom definitely wasn’t a really a nature person. Oh, she had her moments. She actually met my father at a summer camp in the Adirondacks. He was a lifeguard, she was a guest. A mutual friend had asked my mother to deliver a note to my father. Dad, who is also a magician (!), made the note disappear although he was wearing only a swimsuit. Mom spent the rest of the day trailing him trying to find out what happened to the piece of paper. The rest, as they say, is history. 
NNN's "Natural Mom," Lisa Sussman, who writes frequently about living the green life with her kids, recently aired a "This I Believe" essay on WRNI. She talks about how all of us, including political candidates, should pay more attention to the innocent beliefs of our children. 
"Beware the Ides of March." I do. Early spring is our chore season. Daylight savings means that I can now see dust bunnies that have been breeding like, well, rabbits, all winter long under the furniture and in sharp corners. The new slant of light streaming through the windows is marred by a Rorschach blot of fingerprints. The spiders have constructed their version of I-95 throughout my house, connecting lamps to picture frames to touristy chatkes of the Eiffel tower and the Golden Gate Bridge with an intricate web.
It is time to sweep it all clean.
But I also feel the pull of the outdoors. The wind has an undercurrent of warmth, a promise of sunnier days. The trees are beginning to adorn themselves in their spring finery. There are hints of color everywhere and you can even hear the occasional dozy buzz of a yellow jacket queen emerging from her lonely winter vigil. I nest in my bed, buried under down and consider the alternatives: go outside and look for spring, or do the windows.
The longed-for warmer weather also means that everything loosens up. Terra no longer so firma underfoot. My heart pitter-patters with the anticipation of sorting through my seeds, planning my garden, working the soil. But meanwhile, the kids and cats are tracking in mud, leaves and unspeakable green slop that I don’t want to know the origins of. Heaps of damp mittens mound up in the mudroom, creating a smell that is anything but spring-like. I mop up only to have the crew stampede in and out again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Because I grew up in an all-white house, I learned the power of bleach at an early age. Smudges on the floor? Crayon marks on the wall? Soap scum on the bathroom tiles? Make them vanish with a rag dipped in Clorox. It was a wild war against filth that the all of the mothers waged daily. Soil was never something to plant seeds in: it was dirt, and it had to get out of the house. Instead of inhaling sweet, scented breezes, and surrendering to seasonal tides, we children were taught to neutralize the giddy verdant feelings with ammonia in the constant community quest to get surfaces to "sparkle." After the annual spring clean, everyone from the youngest to the oldest was enlisted to stand grouchy guard against dust for the rest of the season.
Little did we know that our family’s all-powerful secret recipe of a cup of ammonia (“perfect for getting rid of rust stains”) and a shot of bleach (“kill those germs”) was actually a military formula for making chlorine gas, a caustic mixture used as a weapon during World War I.
I no longer use bleach in my assault against dirt. Now I mix up various gentle blends of white distilled vinegar, vegetable-based soap, lemon juice, baking powder, hydrogen peroxide and elbow grease (
But an animal’s migratory departure is as predictable as an airline schedule. In other words, a completely capricious thing based on the weather that day, how full their bellies are, whether they have a roof over their heads and predators in the neighborhood. I get this – throw in a latte caramel and you pretty much have what makes or breaks a day for me.
It seems birds fly faster during migration than during ordinary flying. Small songbirds can zoom along at 20 miles per hour; starlings at 47 mph while ducks, swifts and hawks really put the pedal to the medal and can crank it up to 59. In fact, almost all birds fly fast enough to get them to their destination in a relatively short time. But most prefer leisurely journeys, taking in the sights along the way.
I like the thought of a group of starlings stopping to check out the world’s largest peanut in Ashburn, Georgia, or the weird hay-bale sculptures of Eutaw, Alabama. When I was growing up and road trips were more the norm than airline travel, I remember my sister and I languishing in the backseat as we took yet another “scenic route” (translation: my father refused to ask directions and would claim that he was merely taking a slightly longer route around “the city” and why don’t you take a nap or something?). But it did mean that we got to see every oversized and weird roadside attraction in America.
Apparently, bird males are more geographically-inclined than my dad. I recently read that males sometimes fly ahead to do a recce on the area, checking out local feeding sites and getting the nest ready. That is definitely my kind of man. Other times, the migration is one big speed-dating spree with males and females traveling together and choosing their mates along the way. And then there are the geese, who mate for life and travel as couples in large flocks, like some winged tour bus.
This last group most resembles my mode of travel these days. Except my large flock is my family and it’s only two children and one husband. But the numbers add up when you also need to pack Sister Cat and Black Cat (two oversized stuffed animals – it probably would be easier to bring along our three real cats… except that Choo Choo and Babyoh would end up fighting over the window seat and who is getting more catnip while Meow would want to stop every five miles for snacks, so scratch that).
Birds and AARP members are not the only creatures heading south. So do some bats, fish and yes, even insects. Imagine – while you brave out the next nor’easter, there are dragonflies, beetles, moths and Monarch butterflies basking in the subtropical climes of Florida, the Caribbean, Mexico and even South America. What’s wrong with this picture?
Of course, not all birds are just fair-weather friends. I used to wait out winter with those hardy perennials at my bird feeder - chickadees, nuthatches, titmice, juncos, jays, woodpeckers and finches. While I would don multiple layers of down and fleece just to go out and refill the endless cup of thistle and sunflower seeds, I found that these little birds survive the cold weather by actively shaking to create heat calories in cold muscles.
But this year, I have decided enough with these false cold winters. If the snow is going to be a no-show, then I will stop dreaming of white blanketed fields and start actively pursuing white sandy beaches. I plan to join the winter migration – for a couple of weeks anyway. I am searching for someplace that has 0% chance of freezing. And I plan to ask for directions.
So, whether you are in the midst of pursuing your own personal migration this season or staying put with the chickadees, have a look around you and take notice of what else has moved on. Whether it's tourists, senior citizens, insects, birds, or bats, wish them buen viaje and happy returns.
Myself? I’m all for cloning!
You’ve probably heard that the clones are here. Well, nearly here. After years of debate, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) gave the thumbs up last month for farmers to put cloned livestock into our food chain. The United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) retaliated with the very strong message that breeders should keep their cloned foodstuffs off the market indefinitely, but that’s a totally voluntary choice, so, you know, you don’t really have to if you don’t want to – uh, okay?
Meanwhile, the real powers that be – the biotech companies that have invested millions in this brave new technology – claim hey-diddle-diddle, they just want to take the angst every clueless consumer apparently experiences when shopping to put meat on the table. Just think – no more hours wasted in front of the butcher counter wondering: “That steak? No, wait, maybe that one looks a little juicier and more marbled?” By using Xeroxed cattle, goats and pigs, you’d be assured of the exact same mass-produced quality and cut of meat each and every time. Clone appétit!
All right, I’m not a scientist. So I can’t weigh in (at least with any real authority) on the safety issues of what some (okay, me) are calling "frankenfood" or just plain weird. It does seem to me that cloning isn't all that much of a radical departure from techniques already in use in the agri-industry. For instance, in vitro fertilization and artificial insemination allow breeders to accelerate evolution by cherry-picking superior traits in an animal herd — like cattle that have lean but tender beef or dairy cows that are proven milk producers. By reproducing the healthiest, most disease-resistant animals, cloning can minimize the need for antibiotics, growth hormones and other chemicals that can enter the food supply.
But all the same, something tells me all this shifting of our food production from the field to a laboratory is not a good direction to take. Frankly, I’m not all that thrilled about my local farmer playing matchmaker either. The so-called golden olden times is chockablock with examples of monoculture disasters: the Irish potato famine, Dutch elm disease, the boweevil cotton crisis…today, the banana, which has been bred to the point of sterility, is threatened to extinction by mysterious blight called, with scientific exactness, “sudden death.” So if it’s true that history has a bad habit of repeating itself when we don’t learn the lesson the first time, it would appear that the real scientific breakthrough would involve expanding and diversifying the gene pool and not shrinking it.
However, having just simultaneously researched the FDA news, organized playdates for my kids, caught up on my emails and worked out my family’s schedules for the next month, the following occurred to me: Scientists should stop cloning around in the barnyard. The public just isn’t ready for this sort of other meat. But how about Parent Cloning? I personally would be first in line to duplicate myself.
Think about it – we could be in two places at once or just double up on what we need to accomplish – no more worry and stress about how to pick up one child from the soccer practice and the other from boy scouts and not leave work because a project is due. The possibilities are endless. One of me could sit by the fire and catch up on all my reading, another could go to the gym, a third could have some quality time with my husband, a fourth and fifth could share out lap duty with the kids and then I would need one more to put in overtime so I can afford all of these extra mouths to feed. Hmmm, maybe a cloned cow or two wouldn’t be so bad after all.
I don’t like this wishy-washy weather. This is the season of cozy fleece and hot baths and long winter evenings spent reading on the couch. Or rather, it should be. But one day, I am bundling up the kids like mini yetis; the next, it is practically balmy and we are stripping down to our shirt sleeves. I long for the constant cold of a true New England winter.
My husband, on the other hand, loves these warmer conditions. He has never been a fan of Old Man Winter. Every time the mercury starts dropping, he begins his seasonal grumble: “Do people really live with this? Why did anyone decide this place was habitable?"
I admit, though, that it is harder to get out of bed when the mornings are grey and gloomy. During the darkness of winter, my energy and enthusiasm wane. A friend of mine jokes that she is solar-powered - when she goes too long without seeing enough sunshine, her battery needs recharging. I identify with this need to push back the winter dusk. Around 25% of us suffer from SAD – seasonal affective disorder – when the light is reduced. We get mopey and dopey. Perhaps our bodies are trying to tell us something.
I recently read an article about European peasants in the 19th century who would spend one-half of the year in sleep. According to a 1900 British Medical Journal report: "At the first fall of snow the whole family gathers round the stove, lies down, ceases to wrestle with the problems of human existence, and quietly goes to sleep. Once a day, every one wakes up to eat a piece of hard bread. . . . The members of the family take it in turn to watch and keep the fire alight. After six months of this reposeful existence the family wakes up, shakes itself" and "goes out to see if the grass is growing."
It’s not true hibernation, but it sounds pretty good. The funny thing is that there aren’t really very many true hibernators in nature either. Bears, raccoons, skunks and opossum may all bunk in for much of the winter, but they wake periodically and even venture outside. In order to be classified as a "true" or "deep" hibernator, there must be a drastic reduction in metabolism, heart rate and respiration combined with a body temperature that plummets to just a few degrees above freezing. Our great, true local hibernators are the common woodchucks and little brown bats.
As for humans, I would say that we could easily miss out on the sad anticlimax that is January. And February is hardly worth waking for, even with its extra day this year. Just think – Groundhog Day? Valentine’s Day? It seems to me that these are holidays created out of real desperation to liven up a dreary time of year. March in New England, with its blustery winds, is nothing to write home about. In fact, true libertarians needn’t open their eyes until late April, when the first warm wisps of spring finally blow into our neck of the woods. The rest of us will probably want to set our alarms in time to file our taxes on April 15.
Just imagine the benefits if we all shuttered up the house and snuggled down between the covers for the next few months. For one thing, we would save much wear and tear on the planet. There would be no enormous fuel usage. The roads and skies would stay empty. There would no longer be a need to ship out-of-season fruit and vegetables across our oceans.
Then there are the simple physical blessings. I heard somewhere that squirrels lose up to 40% of their body weight during their winter snooze. So there would be no need to go on my usual spring diet. Like a bear grabbing salmon and berries, I have spent a merry season of eating far too much potatoes, puddings and pies. I am sure I have stored enough fat to last a few months. If all goes well, I will wake up svelte and ready to face down that spring rite of passage known as “bathing suit shopping” without my usual angst.
There would be social advantages as well. This is the time of the calendar when my patience is worn thin. After having resolved to cultivate a kinder, gentler version of myself in the New Year, I am quicker than ever with my criticisms. First, I get angry with myself for failing to live up to my resolutions and then I become irritated with those closest to me for being such flawed human beings that there is no way I could possibly execute my self-imposed makeover. If we were all just to doze for a few months, it would be like taking a collective time-out from each other. When we awake, that thick layer of tolerance needed for any communal interaction would have had time to regenerate. We will once again be more forgiving, less disappointed, ready to kiss and make up.
So hands off my Thin Mints! I ordered a few extra boxes to tide me over in case I wake up. Happy dreams!