Massasauga

Yesterday afternoon I mowed the front portion of our lawn next to the sidewalk and adjacent to the flowerbed where resides a number of tall plants that are in the last stages of color and vibrant life. As is my wont, I failed to clean up the sidewalk or the flowerbed after putting away the mower. And so it was, in the early evening as I was relaxing with a cocktail to rejuvenate my spent energy, and the Missus was sweeping the sidewalk that I had managed to ignore, she came rushing up to me, camera in hand, and asked did I want to see a snake, a Massasauga. Of course, I did.

I arrived at the sidewalk just in time to see the aforementioned snake strike at my trusty roommate who was just then creeping close to the coiled rattler. The strike did no damage since the critter was so small – seemingly, a baby massasauga. While I watched she bent closer for a better picture and the little devil tried again with the same results. Apparently, the size of your opponent is of no concern to a baby rattler.

Her second attempt with the camera included a close-up photo of the snake’s triangular shaped head and his regular diamond pattern flesh that had no interruptions in color or shape from head to tail. The only thing missing was a distinct rattle, but that may have been because the pose the animal struck prevented a clear view of his nether region or because it was still a baby. After another moment, the snake finally had enough and he slithered back into the tall flowers, presumably to re-occupy his hiding spot.

Since my afternoon libation was beginning to be diluted with the necessary ice-cubes, the Missus and I retreated to the deck to study the photos she had taken. After a close look at the results and a quick consultation with Mr. Google, we concluded “there is no possibility of refutation or doubt,” * that the little creepy, crawly, snake was indeed a massasauga, Michigan’s only rattler and only poisonous snake able to inflict harm and possibly death to a human by his venom. Of course, the last is only true if one exempts those who are likely to die of fright after an encounter.

Michigan is one of the regions where massasaugas continue to have a tenuous hold on life. This snake is the victim of ignorant and frightened humans who seem to believe the only good snake is a dead snake, hence its numbers have been steadily declining in the wet areas where it feeds on crayfish. This one is the 4^th of its type that we have spotted in our neighborhood over the past 20 years. Since they are so rare, this must mean that we have a colony somewhere nearby … or maybe we are just lucky. In any event, it seemed a treat to us to see such a rare and beautiful example of nature, despite his animosity at seeing us.

 

*A common refrain from my Geometry teacher of 60 years ago, Mr. Broman, when we finished a ‘proof’ in our geometry class.

I hope you are having a nice fall,

Bill T

Vacation Time & Climate Change News

 

I am sitting outdoors for the 2^rd evening in a row enjoying the warm air and the sights and sounds of a busy river front at Sault St. Marie, Michigan. We camped here just downstream from the Soo Locks alongside the St. Marys River watching the comings and goings of the large freighters plying the cool and clean water. We have camped many times at the Sault, but never has the weather been this warm.

One of the pleasures in sitting along the river is watching the sun turn from its brilliant yellow afternoon brightness to a muted red color as it moves toward the horizon. However, it is a bit sobering to understand that the red color stems not from some natural occurrence as the sun marks the passage of time, but rather results from the smoke and wildfires that are burning out of control in the western US. The fires are prompted by the unusually dry conditions in California and elsewhere in the west and have nothing to do with forest maintenance and everything to do with climate change.

The forest fires that cover thousands of acres now provokes the smoky air in several parts of the west. The ongoing air pollution has added to the woes of those who have recently contracted Covid 19. As we might have guessed, the pulmonary distress from Covid has been found to be more severe for those who are forced to breathe the polluted air near the firestorm areas. Disasters really do multiply when things go wrong.

The red sun reminds of the recent announcement from the United Nations Committee on Climate Change that things are getting worse, not better. The August 2021 sixth report compiled by an impressive coterie of scientists concluded that time to correct the ills of increasing air pollution is slipping away from us. The report projects that in the coming decades climate changes will increase in all regions.

The report is at its heart a scientific assessment of the earth’s response to the continuously increasing amount of carbon dioxide that humans release to our atmosphere. The data shows that even if we achieve net zero emissions of carbon dioxide soon, we will still have excessive heat and the consequent insults of fire, flooding, drought, storms and so forth in regions all around the world. The amount of air pollution we have already released will cause an increase in temperature of 1.5°C in the next decade.

Here are a number of conclusions from the report and press release.

“Each of the last four decades has been successively warmer than any decade that preceded it since 1850….and there will be increasing heat waves, longer warm seasons and shorter cold seasons.”

“Climate change is intensifying the water cycle. This brings more intense rainfall and associated flooding, as well as more intense drought in many regions. Climate change is also affecting rainfall patterns. In high latitudes, precipitation is likely to increase, while it is projected to decrease over large parts of the subtropics.”

 “Coastal areas will see continued sea level rise throughout the 21st century, contributing to more frequent and severe coastal flooding in low-lying areas and coastal erosion. Extreme sea level events that previously occurred only once every 100 years could happen every year by the end of this century.  Further warming will amplify permafrost thawing, and the loss of seasonal snow cover, melting of glaciers and ice sheets, and loss of summer Arctic sea ice.”

Recently, and for the first time in recorded history, it has rained on the Greenland ice shield instead of snowing.The report provides a terse summary. “This is a code red for humanity.”

Michigan has experienced our share of environmental disasters resulting from climate change and more is expected in the coming months and years. The flooding in Detroit, higher lake levels and decreasing shore lines at our Great Lakes and temperature increases like that in the western Upper Peninsula that has already warmed a whopping 2.7 degrees Fahrenheit since 1951. All the Great Lakes have suffered insults due to climate change. Chief among these has been algal growth that has dire consequences for water quality thereby affecting wildlife and drinking water for humans. Activists have been urging Michigan’s Governor Whitmer to stiffen resistance to the fossil fuel industry by eliminating give-aways sought for pipe lines and to increase the amount of required renewable energy beyond the measly goal of 15% by 2050.

A small measure of optimism can be taken from a close reading of the report. First is the impressive array of human talent that has been brought together for the work. Two hundred thirty-four leading climate experts participated in the conducting the studies and prepared the resulting report. These men and women came from 195 nations and represent humanity’s best thinking on the subject.

 The press release about the report indicates that human actions still have the potential to determine the future course of climate. The evidence is clear that carbon dioxide (CO2) is the main driver of climate change, even as other greenhouse gases and air pollutants also affect the climate. “Stabilizing the climate will require strong, rapid, and sustained reductions in greenhouse gas emissions, and reaching net zero CO2 emissions. Limiting other greenhouse gases and air pollutants, especially methane, could have benefits both for health and the climate.”

So, the future is in our hands. The question is whether we have the will to implement the changes needed to assure the future for our children. Those of us in Michigan should contact both our state and national representatives to let them know that now is the time we want action on climate change remedies.

 

 

 

What You Should Know About Composting (and other important stuff)

 

My Worm Ranch and Other Lies

 

I have been a composter for a long time after having read many ‘how to do it’ articles about composting. Most were glowing reports about the benefits of composting, and how you can help save the world by reducing the amount of your throw-away food stuff. Some of the reports included grandiose claims that aren’t quite true. My composting experience has taught a few things about what works and doesn’t work. Here is my story.

I got into the composting game as a consequence of a bad experience in fertilizing flowers with commercial products guaranteed to create bigger flower blossoms, more potatoes, redder tomatoes and so forth. My bad experience occurred when I was put in charge of managing flower gardens at our church. Early one spring after I had chosen and procured all the new flowers, I had the job of planting each of the tender plants that would provide a variety of colors and shapes in my newly created garden. Since there was talk of entering our church garden in the annual community garden walk, I wanted our garden to look its best. Since I had read too many ads about the benefits of ‘Super Booster Flower Food,’ I purchased a large bag of Super Booster determined to make sure that each of the tender seedlings had a generous helping of Super Boost right from the start of their new life. I reasoned that the best approach would be to put some of the fertilizer in each hole dug for the new plants.

It was a mistake. The plants soon kneeled over and died.

WARNING. DON’T EVER PUT FERTILIZER IN THE PLANTING HOLE DUG FOR NEW PLANTS. (Unless you enjoy watching your new plants slowly die from the effect of too much fertilizer that will ‘burn’ the plant’s roots.)

This grievous error provoked my interest in composting since most of the composting proponents claimed that with proper soil mixtures and generous helpings of composted material, no added fertilizer is needed. Why spend your hard-earned cash for fertilizer when you can make your own? For free, according to the gardening folks who know about such things.

I was hooked. I began my composting at home in a shaded, hidden part of the backyard that very fall. Within weeks I had a gargantuan pile of leaves, weeds and various food wastes that altogether formed a disgusting pile. “Just pile it up and forget it,” said one of the articles. I followed their advice, making regular trips to the backyard pile with left-overs and no thought of aesthetics or the critters that regularly visited the pile to consume those materials they believed were too tasty to ignore. My potato peels and dinner left-overs never went to waste as it always seemed there was someone in the world of wild critters who favored such a dish, leaving in its place a small pile of their wastes (already composted material, it seemed to me). I continued my treks to the compost pile in the winter. As fewer critters were about in the cold, snowy weather, the waste food began piling up, slowly changing colors and losing all semblance of form or color, becoming a pile of disgusting gunk. Fortunately, my pile was well-hidden and I was able to ignore the mess since it was mostly hidden from view and I consoled myself to its nasty appearance with visions of spring time, with a new source of fertile soil springing forth from the pile of wastes. Meanwhile, the pile continued to grow in size. I could hardly wait for spring to arrive.

As winter weather subsided and the month of May appeared, many of our spring birds had arrived before I decided to open up the compost pile and take some of the free, fertile soil for use on my garden beds. Upon examination, I was surprised to learn that the pile was frozen solid, unyielding to my piddling efforts with a shovel. I waited another two weeks as the wild flowers came into bloom and the weeds began to grow in my gardens. One inch below the surface, the hoped-for compost was still frozen solid, impossible to dig. In June, the compost yielded 2 inches of melted soil that I furiously hacked into while the garden weeks grew even higher. The ice was still several inches thick, impossible to dig. It took until early July before the compost pile had finally thawed, allowing me to dig into it, uncovering the still undigested left-overs, that no one would want to see on any garden bed. A new composting strategy was clearly needed. I decided to move my compost pile to an area exposed to the sun in hopes of an earlier melt. I also filled several plastic bags full of leaves to serve as insulation to keep my compost pile warm for next year’s compost. The experts said the leaves would become themselves composted even as they performed their insulating duty. I also decided to hedge my bets and begin a worm ranch in the basement where freezing would not be a problem.

Worm ranching, (or vermiculture, as we experts call it), involves creating a ranch for the worms and feeding them for a period of several months as they create fertilizer, otherwise known as a pile of worm poop. I spent a good share of my first vermiculture winter climbing up and down the stairs to the basement for feeding our left-over food scraps to the worms. In a few weeks I learned what the little red worms liked and didn’t like. Coffee grounds were favorites, while they disdained banana peels and most other left-over fruit peels. It turns out that red worms don’t need many left-over food scraps to be happy. My observation was that they favored eating their shredded paper bedding material since their bedding seemed to rapidly disappear while they ignored my food scraps save the coffee grounds and the odd morsel that was free of meat, diary, and citrus. Around Christmas, I finally gave up on much of the left-overs still adorning the ranch and removed the mushy, blackened peels and other detritus returning it to a rightful place in the trashcan. The worms didn’t seem to mind.

The following spring, I moved the worm ranch to the now-warm garage and opened the frozen outdoor compost pile early, using water to help the sun in thawing the pile. In the meantime, I found that the piles of leaves were just as I had placed them in the fall. The black plastic bags that were supposed to help make compost failed to do any such thing and the leaves were beginning to blow around the lawn due to the large tears in the bags from my rough handling as I tried to nudge them in place around the unforgiving pile of compost. I judged the leaf insulation to be a failure in my compost adventure, despite the garden magazine recommendation.

I kind of forgot about the worms in the ranch that was stationed in a corner of my garage while I watered, turned and fed the outdoor compost. The worms in the outdoor pile seemed much more forgiving than the ranch-raised red worms about their food. The outdoor worms seemed to delight in practically everything I fed them. I remember putting a melon peel in the pile and in several days the peel was coated with large worms, of the size of night crawlers. I assume they were happy with the melon peel while their cousins, the red worms, had earlier ignored all fruit peels. After the spring had turned into early summer and we returned from a camping vacation, I remembered the garage-based worm ranch. I opened the top (worms don’t like light) and was surprised that I hadn’t been greeted by several wrigglers. With no worries, I pushed my hand into the worm poop that now occupied most of the ranch. There was no sign of any worms. None. Apparently, the worms had all gone to worm heaven and they were now as one with the worm poop, leaving no sign of their adventures in the plastic bins that had been their homes. I was a little sad and I hoped they had a good life. Thus ended my six-month adventure into ranch-based vermiculture. I deposited the 12 by 16-inch tray of worm poop into my outdoor compost, certain that the worms there would happily make use of remnants of my ranch.

Now, here it is summertime with the gardens in full bloom and the worms still happily helping to turn lawn, garden, and food wastes into newly created soil. I should add that I have returned to the occasional use of purchased fertilizer, sprinkling it adjacent to growing plants but never in a hole dug for their roots. Sheesh! Who would do such a thing …

Your gardening friend, Bill Green Thumb

 

 

 

A Frightening Experience

 

I want to tell you about my recent scare – a frightening experience which occurred recently and one I am still struggling with. And it is my own fault, since I was unable to leave well-enough alone, and I plunged into new technology for which I am totally unprepared.

The change that I am about to tell began some months ago when I noticed my computer had begun acting up, refusing to respond instantly to my commands, seemingly reluctant to do even the simplest chores.  I ignored the problem for a while in the presumption that it was just a symptom of age. After all, my beloved computer was now several years old and I presumed that maybe it was just that; the old girl was feeling her age a bit, slowing down just like me.

 Over the next several weeks other symptoms of aging became noticeable: some of the lettering on her keys were missing and a few were totally illegible. She also seemed to run out of power quickly, and only the slightest bump caused her to drop her power cord. I finally came to the fateful conclusion – it was time to give up on the old girl and buy a new computer. Of course, I would see to it that she was given a thoughtful end appropriate to our long and happy times together. Not just any dumpster would do after all our hours together.

And so, I began my search for a new machine, thus paying less attention to my old one. Since I have a reputation to uphold, (that of being a cheap-skate) I decided to begin my search for a new machine at Sam’s Club, where I had purchased my last machine. This was based on the assumption of Sam’s superiority in offering the lowest prices for things. Unfortunately, Sam’s had virtually no inventory of laptop computers. With no patience for advanced planning, I was forced to seek family advice about another source for cheap computers. Of course, I turned to my granddaughters.

“The best place is Micro Center,” they said, “You’ll like it, it’s a super center for all things electronic.”

That was almost the kiss of death. The truth was that I was afraid of any computer store where my ignorance about the world of electronics would be on full display. My solution was to convince my granddaughters to accompany me to the super store and point out the computer that they each had at home. My theory was that if was good enough for a 14-year-old, it would be good enough for me and I could avoid the embarrassment of demonstrated ignorance.

The store lived up to my worst fear. It seemed that every computer maker on earth had a display of their offerings. We began at ASSUS, then moved to ACER, and we were heading toward APPLE before being approached by a salesman, a young man who had just left the set of The Big Bang Theory. I knew I was a goner when he asked what kind of machine I wanted and how many Gigabytes were required to satisfy my needs … or something like that. I mumbled a reply just as one of the granddaughters whispered to me that the ACER machine on display looked just like hers. I told the salesman that was the machine I was interested in. The next part of the salesman’s pitch was a jumble of information about solid-state electronics replacing spinning disks and other mysterious blather that seemed mostly nonsense to me. After he went on a bit, I told him the ACER machine was the one I wanted and he flashed a big smile.

“I’ll take it up to the check-out lane for you,” he smiled again as he asked how else he could help. I asked about transferring files and he explained that for just a few dollars more I could get the largest available thumb drive from the check-out kiosk. “Just tell the checkout clerk what you need,” he said through another smile that was becoming tiresome.

Everything seemed to be falling in place until I mentioned my ongoing upset with Microsoft, and their recent threats to shut me down since I hadn’t sent them any money recently. Apparently, my old computer had reported to Microsoft that my subscription to Office 365 was coming to an end, and Bill Gates and his team were sorry that I hadn’t sent them a payment to insure continued availability of the software. The computer salesman seemed sympathetic to my tale, and I brightened to the fact that he seemed baffled by Microsoft and their intransience in the matter of the Office software. Maybe he was a man like me, after all. He broke the spell with his next sentence.

“I can fix that for you. Why don’t you buy your very own copy of Office 365 and load it onto your new machine and never bother with Mr. Gates or his underlings again?” He paused before concluding the sale when he mentioned as an afterthought that having my own Office 365 would occasion a $150 add to the price of the computer, a paltry sum in consideration of the ongoing licensing fee of $100. This turn of the conversation buoyed my confidence and I quickly replied with what I hoped sounded like a nonchalance answer, “Sure, add the 365 software to the bill.” This provoked yet another smile.

I left the store with all the things the salesman said I needed and breathed a sigh of relief as I began the trip home, assuming that the frightful experience was about to end. How little I knew at that point.

I stopped at my son’s house to drop off the granddaughters and brag about my new computer. I managed to solicit some advice from my computer savvy son about setting up the new machine at home. He said the first step should be to copy the files from my old machine and then use the thumb drive to make the transfer. Copying the files from my old computer to the giant-sized thumb drive went smoothly. It was probably because my son did it for me. After I arrived at home, I was on my own to set up the new machine in my home office.

I opened the box expecting to find instructions about getting started. Sure enough, inside was the new computer and a small pamphlet entitled SetUp [sic] Guide. The guide was four pages long; one page with two giant pictures was in English and the remaining pages were written in an indecipherable foreign language. The English portion had but two instructions: plug in the machine then turn it on and follow the onscreen instructions. [I believe I could have gotten that far myself] The pictures were an illustration of the power cord and second drawing was a picture of the start button. Apparently, the ACER executives believe that is all that computer users need to know.

 I did what the Setup Guide said to do, but nothing of consequence happened after I turned on the machine. Technically, that’s not true. Something happened but I couldn’t figure out how it was supposed to help me learn the operating parameters of the machine. Much later I deduced what was supposed to happen. Before explaining this, you need to know that modern electronics are inexorably tied to the internet just as are the current generation of software developers. The intent of Setup Guide was to lead me toward using the internet to locate a page where instructions about using the new ACER machine were supposedly located. I never got that far since the new machine seemed to be unfamiliar with my in-house WiFi system[WT1]  thus voiding an opportunity to sign on to the internet.

I knew I was in trouble from the start when the machine asked for my WiFi user ID and password in order to log-in. After I finally figured out what was wanted, I left my home office and looked for old files labeled “computer.” You can translate that to mean that I asked my wife to help find those miscellaneous scraps of paper I created with passwords scratched on them. She found several records, and I tried each but nothing worked so I finally went to bed, ready to give up to the Gods of the internet. Some days later I stumbled on the correct password info and the machine jumped to life, offering 20 or 30 different screens as entry points for further information. Now I was finally getting somewhere. The most annoying of the screens was an advertisement for Windows 11, proving that my new machine would be instantly out-of-date with its now-antiquated Windows 10.

One of my first successes with the new computer was with the mail. After I clicked open the mail program I was rewarded with 838 emails that had accumulated from the period when I had put away my old machine and purchased the new machine. I was now back in familiar territory, dealing with the annoyance of unsolicited advertising, impossible loads of mail and deadlines that retired men shouldn’t have to face. As I closed out the most annoying of the pages, I realized that learning how to use the new machine would be just a matter of time, with me hunched over the machine, trying to come to grips with the latest technology. It will be a long ride. Stay tuned. I will, no doubt, have much to complain about shortly as is normal practice for me and my computing.

 

---

 [WT1] 

Camping in the North Woods

 

Camping (again)

 

This blog is about a recent camping trip and the foibles that occurred despite best intentions and careful planning that began in early spring. Since the pandemic seemed to be coming to an end just as the camping season began, the Missus scheduled an extended camping trip of 10 days with four destinations to welcome the warmer weather. The trip didn’t work out exactly as planned.

But first, a bit of background. Some of you may know that I have a long history of camping beginning while a youngster in Indiana. Since I grew up in the dark ages when parents only worried about children if they had broken something important, like a lamp, or an essential bone, I was allowed to camp with friends at an early age. I remember Snake Island along the Wabash River, and an unfamiliar pasture field owned by the brother-in-law of a neighbor who had boys the same age as my brother and me. Each of these trips provide an example of camping miscalculations since both had an unfortunate happening: The pasture field camping experience erupted in a knock-down, drag-out fight between my brother and me while the river campout caused totally unexpected explosions when we piled river rocks around the campfire and the moisture hidden within expanded, causing the rocks to break and upset our cooking gear just as dinner was being prepared.

The pasture-field fight had a similar outcome. At the beginning it was a minor happening since my brother and I engaged in disagreements most days and fisticuffs were needed to settle matters. Unfortunately, this fight began in the tent that we knocked down during the preliminary wrestling match. Of course, the fight provoked us into rolling around the ground with no thought about our food supplies that featured mostly bread, peanut butter, a can or two of baked beans, and a large bag of potato chips that turned into potato crumbs. In the end we learned that flattened bread worked passably well for peanut-butter sandwiches and potato crumbs were just as nutritious as the undamaged kind. The trip ended well as I recall, and we weren’t attacked by any of the farmer’s cows.

Those distant memories had little bearing on this most recent trip, although sharp-eyed readers may find some parallels since I am the major character in each of the trips recounted and it seems that I have a frequent run of bad luck during campouts that I engage in. This latest trip provoked an outcome that had little to do with my mistakes, but you may wish to judge that for yourself after I recite the details, assuming that you are still awake.

Part of the reason for our latest camping trip was the chance to entertain and enjoy the company of our granddaughters, aged 14 and 16. The trip required some advanced planning since Michigan campgrounds have become extremely popular what with the pandemic limiting other forms of entertainment. Since our granddaughters would be with us, we scheduled visits to campgrounds where swimming was featured, and bicycle trails were abundant.

The first problem to strike was the intervention of life. One girl was scratched from our guest list when she was offered a sought-after job that required her orientation just as our trip was about to begin. The second girl had a sudden medical problem – her ankle was injured during a soccer match and the doctor’s office scheduled a needed examination also at the scheduled trip. There was no cure for either absence. The Missus and I decided to entertain ourselves without the granddaughters by camping in our 5^th wheel immediately following a weekend square dance that was held at a mid-Michigan campground. Other than a sore ankle, the dancing was a hoot after a pandemic-induced year-long absence. Surprisingly, we remembered most of the steps and enjoyed the company of other dancers, including a couple who accompanied us to Bay City, Michigan where we had the next set of reservations for camping. Bay City State Park features both swimming and bicycling along with superb viewing of their natural areas that are dominated by the Tobico Marsh, a wetland that provides a haven for birds of all sizes, colors, and descriptions as they feast on the fish and insects drawn by the wetlands. (Let me know if you want to see any of the several hundred pictures that the Missus captured).

I may have overdone the bicycling part on the first day. After the ride, I waded in the cool water of the Saginaw Bay (named after the long-ago Sauk Indians who reigned over the area), assuming that the cool water would offer palliative care for an overtaxed ankle. It didn’t. Maybe that was because on the following day we went for a longer bicycle ride on the area’s rails to trails path that extends from the park to the city. It was a nice ride through native areas alive with colorful wild flowers and I enjoyed it so much that I felt obliged to call a Bay City official concerning overflowing garbage bins at a pocket park along the trail that provoked a sharp contrast to the beauty of wild areas. He promised to fix the problem.

From Bay City we went to our next camping reservation at Tawas Point, the place where the land has grown to form a long isthmus into the bay from the winds and countless waves. Although this natural process has continued, in recent years the Tawas Point shoreline has been buffeted by the increasing water levels associated with climate change and the melting of sea ice. The park was full of campers and we enjoyed the park’s natural areas. Watching our fellow campers with their families and many dogs reminded us that camping is a family affair. The changes to the beaches and the rip-rap placed along the shore to stem further damage seemed to have no effect on the park’s popularity.

Tawas City and East Tawas have made a giant step forward in sponsoring a new bike trail that has been highly acclaimed by enthusiasts since it is part of the Iron Belle trail that will ultimately run from Detroit’s Belle Isle to the Upper Peninsula’s Iron Mountain, becoming the longest bicycle trail in the nation when it is completed. Of course, we had to test our endurance by a ride on the trail. That evening I had to try the lake wading process again in hopes of reducing the size of the now oversized ankle that was again swollen and warm to the touch. We left the Tawas Point Park after a short, two-day stay.

I am typing this blog at our last campground, Pontiac Lake State Recreation Area, while awaiting a visit from our granddaughter(s). I hopeful that we’ll all be too busy visiting to ride our bikes so that my ankle can recover a bit and I can hide my now-limited biking endurance. Granddaughters don’t need to know everything about their grandparents.

The Big Tree

 

The Big Tree

 You may know that I live in a place where the single most prominent feature of our environment is our wonderful array of forest lands. The forests have come to us honestly; the upper part of Michigan was the principal supplier of wood for lumber during a 35-year period of our history, supplying logs for lumber across the Midwest. The customers for all those Michigan logs were the growing cities across the farmlands in the middle of the country, and industrial centers where forests were absent. Chicago deserves especial mention as it was both a customer and a distributor of Michigan logs as our wood helped build that city and others in the early years when virtually all buildings were made of wood.

Those days are gone along with the great stands of white pine, but the heritage of the industry remains strong as our state and national governments have worked to make the cut-over lands of Michigan again useful by re-creating many of the vast stands of forest lands that were here before the lumberman’s axe. As a result, northern Michigan has national forests, state forests, national and state parks, city and county parks, and large forests owned by private companies for businesses that depend upon trees and logs as raw materials. There are also private individual owners of forest lands both large and small that includes folks like me who have small tracts with lots of trees.

With all these forests and businesses relying on wood as a raw material, you would think we would have many businesses for tree trimming, tree removal and so forth. You would be correct. All those forests use lots of labor to manage them. Accordingly, our area has many small businesses to provide that labor. I am an occasional consumer of that labor as I have had periodic need over the years to help manage the problem of the odd tree falling down or even worse, growing somewhere that I don’t want it to grow. It was this latter case that led to my recent need for removing a big tree, a quaking aspen, better known locally as ‘popple’, a tree that belongs to the cottonwood family.

I had earlier experience in hiring local woodsmen for tree removal work. It was always difficult, and it seemed that you had to know someone to even get an audience. The Godfather movie always came to mind as I waited for a tree boss to say something like ‘So, you know my cousin Vinnie?’

Part of the problem must have been that the high demand for this seasonal work precludes excess work capacity. Another problem was in waiting too late to hire someone as their work schedules quickly filled to capacity during the warm weather months. This became apparent when most of the small tree businesses refused to answer their phones or return calls when I left messages about tree removal work, and it was a surprise when someone actually arrived for an appointment to look at a job. Despite these difficulties, a few years ago, I had two or three trees removed and I included the big tree (it was smaller then), but the tree removal guy didn’t want to take on removing that tree since it was some distance from the others he was doing for me and would added an additional $600 to the bill. So, the tree was left in place, and it continued to grow vigorously. I learned this year that was a mistake.

By this year, the tree had reached near-record dimensions, and if it had fallen for any reason a part of my house would have been its victim. Further, the tree was persistent in its yearly spring-time flowering that resulted in millions of cotton-like tufts cascading on my decks, sidewalks, porches, window screens and everything else within a hundred feet of the tree that was growing on the banks of my pond. Furthermore, the now massive behemoth was still growing, shading my pond, and dropping its leaves and branches in the water. It was finally time to remove it, despite the cost. I faced the prospect once again of trying to find a tree removal work crew who could take on the job.

As luck would have it, this spring a tree work crew was finishing a job in our neighborhood late one afternoon as I passed by. Just as they were loading their truck to leave, on a whim I pulled into the yard and asked the boss if he could look at my big tree and give me an estimate for its removal. He agreed, followed me to my yard and looked over the tree along with two of his men. I stood apart while they conferred, pointing at the upper part of the tree, the adjacent wooded area and periodically shaking their heads. It didn’t seem like a good omen. Finally, the boss came to me. “We can’t get our lift truck back here,” he said, “so it’ll need to have a climber.”

I steeled myself for another rejection, but he continued,“we can do it,” he said. “We have a  hole in our schedule so we can bring it down next week. It ‘ll take just over one day’s work which fits our schedule.”I didn’t kiss him, but he must have seen my pleased expression. His demeanor changed a little as he faced me directly.

“You aren’t going to like this,” he warned, “but to bring this one down we need $1800. You understand that you will have a job in dealing with the branches and logs that we pile up.” I probably agreed a little too hastily at this. He checked his calendar as said his crew would be here the following week.

It was a different crew that arrived the following week to begin the job. We learned later that this crew were subcontractors to the boss who quoted the job. The straw boss of this crew was a man who had spent the last thirty years climbing trees, cutting the ever-larger branches from the top to the bottom of the tree into smaller pieces that could be lowered to the ground by ropes that his ground-based workmen managed, all done at his direction.

In short order I learned by watching that the climber was a master at his work; he attached his climbing gear, with those sharpened hooks on his boots, an assembly of ropes, a chain saw, a few pulleys, and a contraption that allowed him to pull himself upwards as he scaled the tree. Using this climbing gear he slowly worked his way up the tree until he was some 70 feet above the ground and perched on a ridiculously slender branch before beginning to work on the topmost branches of the tree. The procedure was always the same as he removed one branch after another; tying a pulley to the shore-side of the tree, then tying each branch to be cut with a husky rope, fishing the loose end of the rope through the pulley, then dropping the rope to the waiting men below.

The climber’s chain saw hung from his belt, dangling six feet below so as not to interfere with his climbing from perch to perch. Once he had established himself at a crotch of the tree and tied his safety belt securing him in place so that he had both hands available, he pulled his chainsaw into position. Then he pulled the rope to start the engine and operate the chainsaw with one hand while guiding each falling branch with his other hand. The ground-based workmen then lowered the branch away from the pond to the ground where they began piling up the refuse for my eventual disposal.

Watching the crew work as the tree slowly began to diminish in size was a treat. The climber was akin to a conductor of an orchestra, directing his men, swinging from branch to branch as he worked efficiently to bring the monster to the ground, piece by piece. I have to say he earned his wages honestly, doing the hard and dirty work quickly and without taking a break. By lunchtime, the upper parts of the tree were mostly on the ground while the larger, six inch and larger branches remained to face the saw. At that point, I didn’t notice the size of the pile of brush that had accumulated on the ground. The men on the ground were running out of room for more branches so they began to pile the larger pieces on top of the brush. Those pieces and the large center part of the tree came down the following day. I could feel the ground shake when the big tree came down in one piece and hit the soft ground. Shortly after, the tree men packed their gear and drove away.

So now I’m dealing with the aftermath of the climber’s performance, dragging the brush away and cutting firewood-sized pieces from the big and bulky logs that measure 30 inches in diameter. Next will be the splitting up of those large pieces that are much too large for my wood-burner. It looks to be a job lasting much of the spring and well into summer. I’m hoping that the job is not bigger than me. I’ll let you know …

Woodsman Bill

                          An R-rated Blog for May, 2021

 

It appears that I reached a new, all-time high in my continuing demonstration that I am an electronic neophyte, a bumbling sod in all areas of electronic communications, not to mention my limited expertise in computers and associated hardware. Here’s the story.

After a hard day of retirement project work, I decided to rejuvenate my spent body by a leisurely bath. As is my wont, I took my phone into the bathroom so that I could use my time studying Facebook posts while waiting for the tub to fill. That task being completed, I climbed into the steaming water, searching for a semi-comfortable position willing my sore muscles to relax amidst the steamy hot water. I put my phone aside, but close enough to reach, just in case.

While you are getting this picture, I’ll sneak in some background. Our neighbor and friend, I’ll call her Ivy, is currently in a nursing home recovering from a nasty fall that resulted in several broken bones. To relieve her tedium at the convalescent home, we have visited her in person on several occasions and learned that she is equipped with her electronic communication gadgets, so I wasn’t surprised when my phone announced that she was calling. The announcement was a little different than most, but I paid no attention as I bent over the edge of the tub and retrieved my own trusty electronic talking machine, confident that this would be a telephone call like any other.

Me: Hello, Ivy

Ivy: Is that you Bill? Your voice sounds a little different, as if you are in an echo chamber. (pause) Is that water I see?

Me: (lengthy pause) I ….ah, yes. How did you know and what did you mean ‘I see’?

Ivy: (laughter) Are you in the bathtub? (more laughter) Yes, you are in the bathtub!

Me: (a shouted aside) Marjorie! Come here and take the phone, please! (My voice must have announced my panic as I hoped. Marjorie appeared shortly thereafter to take away my phone that had suddenly become a movie camera for Ivy.

You probably get the picture. Apparently, the announcement that I missed when the phone call came in was that this was a video call. Ivy had her video chat feature turned on enabling her to see me and my bathing habits just by my answering the phone. I should have realized this as her picture came up along with her voice. As this tidbit of information dawned on me, it occurred to me that I should have been careful which way I turned the phone especially while handing it over to Marjorie since it had suddenly become a voyeurs dream machine for even an amateur spy like Ivy. And what about that feature that allowed the phone to focus – not on my face – but my nether regions at a push of the button. Might I have unwittingly pushed the button while handing it over?

I was tempted to drown my phone to end my torment. In the end, I wisely chose to chuckle in concert to Ivy’s uproarious laughter since it seemed that my discomfiture was approximately equal to her amusement.

I didn’t know about video calls that could be turned on without the recipient’s awareness, nor do I know if my phone has a similar feature beyond the infamous Zoom software that sometimes works. The next time I see Ivy, I’ll ask her to explain it to me and I’m sure we’ll have another good laugh together.

I am passing along this experience of mine as a public service. I suggest being careful with this feature on your phone as it may get you in hot water, just as it did me.