Outside Again

Now that the weather here has finally turned mild (highs in the 70s, breezy), I’ve felt less inclined to go to “the gym” and more eager to get out in the fresh air. A nasty cold kept me in for a week or so, but I’ve since had several opportunities to reacquaint myself with the neighborhood. As usual, changes are more noticeable when some time has elapsed. The “little pink house” had been reduced to an empty lot the day after I reported it as a pile of rubble, and when I next saw it, on October 25, workmen were digging trenches for the footings of the new construction. The following day, a cement mixer was on site pouring concrete. The next time I got out (November 1), several courses of concrete block had been laid on top of the foundation, and the wall has continued to rise over the past week.

A few blocks away, I was astonished to see another vacant lot. The previous property owner had died some years ago, and the house had been empty ever since. The yard had been allowed to grow up into such a wilderness that it brought to mind visions of the prince hacking through briers to get to the Sleeping Beauty. Some months ago, the yard had been cleared, leaving only a few shrubs, and it was rumored that the property had been sold and the new owner intended to “remodel” or “renovate” the house. I was dubious. The property is a large corner lot overlooking the bay, and the house was small and run-down. The new owner had undoubtedly paid a pretty penny for the location alone. So I was not surprised that the house had been demolished, just startled to realize that it had happened while I wasn’t paying attention. Now the property is surrounded by erosion control fencing, but a yellow building permit sign is the only other sign of activity so far.

As an aside, one advantage of walking on a treadmill for several months is that I’ve gotten in the habit of walking faster, so walking outside should be better exercise for me than before. I’ve yet to match my time on the treadmill, at least in part because of traffic. Yesterday I stood in a crosswalk looking impatient while half a dozen cars passed; I felt justified in shaving that 20 seconds off my time. Today, on the other hand, a car actually stopped for me in the same crosswalk. Since there was a car speeding toward us in the opposite direction, I just shrugged helplessly. But the considerate motorist seemed bent on being courteous, and the other motorist, seeing that one car was already stopped for me, also stopped. Amazing! I was too intrigued by this drama to even notice how many seconds that diversion had cost me.

Listening for Brown Thrashers

About a month ago, as I was driving to Troy, Alabama, for a Rotary meeting, I happened to catch the tail end of the program Living on Earth on Troy public radio station WTSU. The segment I heard was called “The Hidden Sounds of Bird Song,” and in it renowned bird scientist Donald Kroodsma was being interviewed by program producer Laurie Sanders about his experiments with slowing down recorded bird songs to hear otherwise undetectable subtleties.

This was pretty interesting stuff, but the most arresting comment was this: “Depending on the species, a songbird may have just a few songs in its repertoire or it might have hundreds. A brown thrasher has more than 2,000.” One online source claims that the thrasher has “up to 3,000 catalogued sounds.” Whatever the number, the thrasher is generally acknowledged to have the largest song repertoire of all North American birds.

The Outdoor Alabama site says:

The brown thrasher belongs to the order Passeriformes, birds that have feet well adapted for perching, with three toes in front and one long toe behind. It is in the family Mimidae, which includes thrashers and mockingbirds. Members of this bird family sing loudly from conspicuous perches, imitating other bird songs. While mockingbirds repeat phrases many times, the brown thrasher usually emits the song twice.

Another site says, “The brown thrasher is known to be one of the best and most spectacular singers, with the largest repertoire of songs of all North American birds. It is also a very shy bird so that the chance of people actually spotting the bird is smaller than that of hearing the bird sing.”

I would tend to disagree with both statements.

I first became aware of brown thrashers when I heard them outside an open window, living up to their names by thrashing about in the dry leaves and underbrush. And I certainly have no difficulty spotting them; they are quite frequent visitors to our yards and gardens. But unlike their high-wire-artist cousins, the mockingbirds, which seem to love to perch on power lines and pine branches for their impressive concerts, I rarely see thrashers very far above the ground.

And I have never knowingly heard them sing.

Presumably there are two reasons for this: One is that I wouldn’t know it was a thrasher singing unless I could see it doing so. And since, unlike the mockingbird, it isn’t taking pains to be conspicuous doing it, I’m less likely to see it. The other is that, with such a large repertoire of songs, there is not any one specific call that I could easily identify. Mourning doves, for example, are dead easy. And other bird calls are equally distinctive even if I don’t know which birds to associate them with. But I would have to have a much better ear than I have for the sound of a thrasher’s voice to be able to identify it when it might well be singing a different song every time I hear it.

So I remain tantalized by the idea of these seemingly mute and retiring birds being such “spectacular singers,” and this causes me to give them a second look every time I see them, just to see if their lips are moving.

Dem Boidies

Der spring is sprung
Der grass is riz
I wonder where dem boidies is?

Given our mild climate, we have an abundance of birds year-round. Some may winter here, while others—mockingbirds, mourning doves, blue jays, cardinals, a variety of finches and sparrows, and of course the ducks, geese, seagulls, and other aquatic types down by the bay—can be seen anytime. I doubt that any make this their summer home, but some species can be seen briefly on their way to more temperate regions in the spring. One of the most thrilling and memorable events of my life was seeing a huge flock of indigo buntings massed in my neighbor’s driveway. It was what a writer friend of mine calls a “haiku moment,” and in fact I wrote a haiku about it:

Chicken Little’s Prophecy Fulfilled

The sky has fallen.
Bright blue pieces on the ground—
Indigo buntings.

Even before we moved over here from Mobile in 1980, we noticed a sign on the way into town declaring Fairhope a bird sanctuary. Presumably there were ordinances on the books protecting birds in some way, but nothing seemed to be done to actively promote them. A few years ago, however, the City put up several purple martin “apartment houses” on the bluff overlooking the bay. More recently, a string of bluebird nesting boxes was mounted on trees along the bluff. If you build it, will they come?

Despite reports that these domiciles were being used, I was dubious. I’ve seen birds “catching their breath” on the balconies of the purple martin houses, but none that appeared to be purple martins (the one I saw today looked a lot more like a starling). But this morning as I walked down the street along the bluff, my attention primarily on the two small boys working to get kites aloft in the stiff breeze, a flash of color caught my eye: from the brief glimpse I got, it was almost certainly an Eastern bluebird. I believe this may be the first time I’ve ever seen one, which is satisfying enough in itself, but it does also offer evidence that perhaps the City’s efforts are not wasted.

After the Rains

It would appear that the rains have moved out of the area for now, after another night of heavy thunderstorms. When I emptied the rain gauge at 8 this morning, there was five inches’ accumulation since Wednesday morning, and the front page of the paper featured photos of random devastation wreaked by isolated tornadoes. All is well here, though (yesterday I had to reset the microwave clock twice because of power blips, today only once), and by 10 a.m. the sun had come out and I was able to get out and walk.

Under a mostly blue sky, the grass and trees looked greener than ever. If there were any doubt that spring has sprung, the pecans would prove it. In case you don’t know, pecans are a very cautious tree, the last to lose their leaves in the fall and the last to leaf out in the spring, so when the pecans get their new spring raiment, you know spring is really here: there may be another cool snap, but the danger of frost is past.

I saw several runners and walkers out taking advantage of the weather, which was breezy and seemed cooler than when I went out for the paper (at which point it was quite muggy). And as I turned one corner I saw a whole family standing out in their front yard—father, mother, and two small children. I’m no longer very good at estimating ages, but if I had to guess, I’d say the little girl was maybe a year and a half and the little boy about three. All four were staring at the lawn, but the object of their attention could not be seen. Surely too early for an Easter egg hunt? As I approached I detected movement. Surely too early for an Easter pet? Perhaps a wild rabbit?

Finally I drew close enough to see a large box turtle plodding through the tall grass. I couldn’t quite make out what the people were saying, but from their body language I gathered that the parents were urging a “Look but don’t touch” policy, while the children were all for capturing the turtle and keeping it for a pet. As they physically yearned toward it, I caught a snatch of something about letting it return to its home in the wild. Perhaps it had struggled up from a nearby gully to escape the torrents of stormwater runoff.

The disadvantage of walking fast and minding my own business is that I see these brief and incomplete vignettes of life. Often I make up my own stories about what I see, and if I were a real writer, I could probably turn these to my advantage. As it is, they just give me something to think about as I keep on walking.

Green Party

It was raining this morning, and I didn’t think I’d be able to walk, but, as luck would have it, the skies cleared just as I finished my chores, and I was able to squeeze in a walk before I had to dress for my Rotary meeting. It was a great day to be outside! Thanks to the recent spring rains and warming temperatures, everything is very green. Shrubs and yards and beginning to green up, and, on the bluff overlooking the bay, the year-round grasses are beginning to shoulder aside the winter rye sown by the City in the fall to maintain a green lawn.

We don’t have many deciduous trees around here—mostly pines and cedars and magnolias and a variety of evergreen oaks. Our live oaks stay green throughout the winter, but, although they don’t lose their leaves in the fall, they do drop them in the spring. Right now they are donning their new summer raiment, tender young green leaves whose incongruity with the gnarled old trunks always reminds me of little old ladies in frilly organdy party dresses.

Adding to the party ambiance are the azaleas, which are just now coming into glorious flower, even while the winter camellias are still blooming. The Taiwan cherries and Japanese magnolias responded to the first breaths of spring several weeks ago, closely followed by a few courageous dogwoods. Brilliant purple wisteria dramatically blankets an oak across the street. It would probably be an exaggeration to claim a “riot of color,” but there are certainly plenty of colorful accents, not least of which are the corner beds and hanging baskets planted by the City. Surely this must be the most beautiful time of year in Fairhope.

Blue Angels, Eat Your Hearts Out!

It was drizzling a little this morning when I got up, so I didn’t get out till about 9 a.m. I spent half an hour edging the front walk before leaving the house, and by that time the sun was well and truly up and making the streets steam. The rising hot air was obviously generating “thermals,” and as I headed down the street toward the bay I simultaneously noticed (a) a neighbor standing in his front yard gazing skyward and (b) what he was looking at: dozens of seagulls soaring above us. While we watched, more flights joined them until they numbered perhaps as many as a hundred.

As they banked and turned in tight circles, I was reminded that the Blue Angels, the U.S. Navy’s Flight Demonstration Squadron, are scheduled to perform at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola (their home base) today and tomorrow. It occurred to me that even if stunt pilots could fly in such close formation, they could not do it in these numbers and certainly not in total silence. How birds achieve this is still a mystery, but it is incredibly beautiful to watch, and I wasn’t surprised to see that everyone I encountered on my walk (as long as they remained in sight) was also looking up.

One person said he didn’t think they looked like our local gulls and wondered if they were migrating, but we both admitted that we hadn’t paid that much attention to what our local gulls look like in flight. To me it just looked like all the local gulls had come out to play, Jonathan Livingston Seagull–fashion, and I was so glad that the timing of my walk had permitted me to see it.

Looking Up

Someone (I think it was my daughter) passed on this wise advice for tourists: Don’t forget to look up. Many of us, when overwhelmed by magnificent architecture or unfamiliar surroundings, tend to look down and around, whether we’re making sure we don’t stumble or admiring a Roman pavement, examining carved woodwork or taking in a scenic vista, while some of the most glorious sights may be above our heads. This is especially true in the case of classical architecture. The Lady Chapel of King Henry VII at Westminster Abbey has the most spectacular fan vaulting I’ve ever seen. A mirror is placed flat on a pedestal in the center of the chapel to help visitors admire its intricate tracery without getting dizzy. One also must look up to see the unique crests and banners of the Knights of the Bath and, partially concealed behind the banners, 95 medieval statues of saints. In a venue such as this, it is natural to look up, but one doesn’t always remember to do this outdoors, especially when bent on getting from Point A to Point B. (This is even more true if it is raining, which it was most of the time we were in England; getting a faceful of rain is something you try to avoid.)

When walking, I wear a hat with a brim, to keep the sun out of my eyes when it’s sunny and, if it should start to sprinkle, to keep the rain off my glasses. So I tend not to look up much. Today, however, after yesterday’s researches, suspecting that the mysterious blossoms might have fallen from a vine, I did look up. Sure enough, twined around the trunk and among the upper branches of the pine tree was a vine with clusters of three or more of these orangey blossoms. I picked up a fresh one to bring home, planning to google “orange honeysuckle” (a term I’d run across yesterday, though it seemed very unlikely since these flowers have no fragrance at all and certainly don’t seem to promise much in the way of nectar) and “trumpet vine,” a phrase I thought I’d heard somewhere.

First, however, I dragged out my Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Wildflowers: Eastern Region. This guide is useless for identifying the flowers I see in people’s gardens, but since it seemed to me unlikely that anyone had planted this vine on purpose, I thought there was a chance it was a “wildflower.” Fortunately, the guide is organized by color and shape, and I very quickly located “trumpet creeper,” with a color photograph that unmistakably matched my sample. Sure enough, googling for “trumpet vine” or “trumpet creeper” produced many similar photos, including one from the Encyclopedia Britannica (which I reproduce here), which describes the flower thus: “The petals of the delicate flower of Campsis radicans (trumpet creeper, or trumpet vine) form a corolla tube with five spreading lobes. A shortened calyx tube covers the base of the flower.”

So, one puzzle solved. There remains yet another. I still haven’t identified the mystery room in the house under construction a few blocks away—the one that isn’t a pantry or utility room but may be an office (albeit rather short of electrical outlets for that, in my opinion). Somewhere recently I’d run across a description of a new house as having space reserved for an elevator. This is becoming increasingly common in an area where many retirees are building two-story homes they’d like to stay in as long as possible. Although a stretch, it occurred to me that perhaps that might be at least part of the function of the mystery room, so I thought I’d “look up” to see. Alas, no, the ceiling was full of ductwork, wiring, plumbing, etc. So that theory was a bust.

On the way home I ran into a building contractor I frequently stop to chat with, and I mentioned this mystery. He was intrigued, saying he hadn’t been through that house yet, but he said he would have to go check it out. I’ll be interested in his conclusions!

White Nights in Portland

One of the aspects of Portland that took us by surprise (though quite unreasonably since it’s not as if we were ignorant of the phenomenon) was the length of the days. Afternoons seemed to stretch on endlessly, and although our body clocks should have been telling us it was two hours later than clock time (we’d traveled back in time by two time zones), it always seemed an hour or two earlier by sun time. One night as we returned to our third-floor hotel room after a late supper or shopping excursion, my husband commented on how incredible it was that we could look out our (west-facing) window from a lighted room and still see a glow on the horizon at nearly 10 p.m.

Having arrived relatively late on Wednesday, June 25, we figured we’d wake up bright and early the next morning since our body clocks would not yet have been reset. And we certainly expected it to be light just as early as at home (although a west-facing window was a disadvantage), so we thought the sunlight would wake us. The morning of June 26 dawned overcast, however, and the skies did not clear till midday, so it was not till Friday that we experienced a normal sunrise, though it took a while for the sun to peek over our building and fall on other structures we could see.

Back home in Fairhope, the sun was rising at 5:52 a.m. and setting at 7:58. In Portland, it was rising at 5:24 (only a little earlier) but not setting till 9:04. The daylight in Portland was actually more than an hour and a half longer than in Fairhope (15:39 hours compared to 14:06). Variations in the time of sunrise and sunset are of course affected to some extent by longitude: 15 degrees of longitude are equivalent to an hour’s difference in time; although time zone lines don’t exactly coincide with lines of longitude, Fairhope, at nearly 88 degrees west of Greenwich, is close to the 90-degree mark, while Portland, at 122.675° W, is on the other side of the 120-degree line. The difference between their offsets, a total of nearly five degrees, would make a difference of about 19 minutes.

Latitude, of course, makes a much greater difference. Everyone is familiar with the “white nights” experienced above the Arctic Circle in summer, when the sun never really sets, and our daughter and son-in-law had actually lived for a time in Norway, “Land of the Midnight Sun.” So it should not have surprised us that, so close to the summer solstice, the days were quite long, but we still found it confusing to have so little idea what time it really was and were surprised every time we looked at our watches in the late afternoon.

In discussing this with my brother from Cincinnati, who was also in Portland for my son’s wedding, we established this benchmark: I commented that Fairhope’s Fourth of July fireworks display always starts at 9 p.m., as that’s when it can be counted on to be good and dark. In Cincinnati, he said, the fireworks start about 9:45.

Following up to my previous post on sunrise and sunset, I found a page at the U.S. Naval Observatory Web site that explains this phenomenon. I don’t claim to understand it, but it does confirm what I was saying. The USNO Data Services site is also the source of other data in this and other posts. I can’t say enough good things about how useful this site is. One really cool page is the one that shows “What the Moon Looks Like Today,” and if you’re a writer and want to be sure you get your phases of the moon right, you can reference the “Phases of the Moon” page. And of course you can get sunrise/sunset or moonrise/moonset times (for a specific day or year) for any given location in the United States (or the world) from other pages at the site. The FAQ page has a wealth of other information, including links to pages at other sites.

Sunrise, Sunset

I hit the street at least half an hour later than usual this morning. A monstrous (but very welcome) thunderstorm woke me in the wee hours (sometime after 4 a.m.), and I went back to sleep hoping in vain that it might still be raining at 6. Alas! no, and when I finally got up around 7, I had to hustle.

It was pleasantly cool (low 70s F.), and, though it was a bit muggy, at least the streets hadn’t started to steam. Luckily the cloud cover hadn’t entirely broken up, so my route was still mostly shady even though the sun had gotten quite high. As I dodged the occasional puddle or blown-down limb and kept a wary eye on the sun as it fought through the clouds, I thought about sunrises and sunsets and a little-remarked phenomenon regarding them.

This year the summer solstice fell on June 20, the earliest date since 1896. As can be seen from the charts on this Web page, the date (on average, balanced by leap years) will continue to shift back until 2100. In general the backward progression is arrested every hundred years, since a century year is not a leap year, but 2000, being a century year divisible by 400, was a leap year, so the progression continued. An interesting factoid but not the one I was thinking about.

No, what interests me is that, although the days do start getting shorter after the summer solstice and longer after the winter solstice, the change in length affects sunrise and sunset unevenly. I first noticed this with regard to the winter solstice. You might expect that the sun would begin to rise earlier each morning after the solstice, but in fact it does not. On the contrary, it actually rises later for as much as a month afterward (the phenomenon is more pronounced the closer you are to the equator). For example, at my latitude, the sun rose at 6:44 on December 22, 2007. It continued to rise later until January 15, when it rose at 6:50. It did not rise as early as 6:44 again until January 30, and it was February 1 before it rose at 6:43. The day is instead lengthening at the other end. Similarly, after the summer solstice, sunrise times do start getting later, but sunsets are also later till well into July, though the disparity is not nearly as pronounced in the summer.