Mother Earth by Nathan Bolls

I recently received from a friend and was intrigued by “12 Truths I Learned from Life and Writing” by syndicated columnist, Anne Lamott. A sample follows:

The loud, thumping trill from the woods booms against our ears. I’m reminded of James Thurber’s “things that go bump in the night.” What Phantom of the Forest with such auditory might lurks therein and calls from the night? Or... “what rough beast...slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?” (W.B. Yeats poem “The Second Coming”) Numerous societies across our world speak of a mysterious local monster, but the existence of none, as of yet, has been proven. We hear most often of the Himalayan Yeti, the north American Sasquatch (Bigfoot), or of Scotland’s Loch Ness Monster.  

A big topic during our recent “National Climate Week,” was that of “ecological literacy.” The current ecological crisis suggests the necessity for a steep ecological learning curve for all of our world societies, but especially for those of the “industrial belt” that circles the globe north of the equator. This area uses natural resources and produces trash and pollutants at levels that are disproportionate to its percentage of the world’s population.

These days a great fury is filling the air waves between plants and many of the animals of our world. Ease yourself across the prairie and within its tree- and shrub-filled gullies and patches. Stroll the woods; watch the trees, shrubs, and flowers around your home; or the plants in your gardens. Even with watching closely, you’ll sense very little of the fury, very few of the trillions of small, quiet acts of which I speak.

   Today is the 75th anniversary of D-Day: the huge, costly, and ultimately successful allied land assault on Hitler’s Fortress Europe. Although mere words never can even remotely capture what happened that fateful day on Omaha Beach, I want to share a powerful experience that Imogene and I once had there.

   Lots of people like the smorgasbord fashion of dining, at least occasionally.  But another smorgasbord exists, and it’s all around us 24/7/365 & 1/4th.  The menu varies with the season, but it occurs throughout our campus as well as our rural hills and valleys.  Wild animals dine, without reservations, both night and day, and on an endless variety of goodies, depending upon the species—and time of year.

We soon will lose our summer umbrella of living shingles: the marvelous evolutionary development we call the green plant leaf. In addition to the leafs' essential process of photosynthesis, they offer shade to plants, animals, and soils in thousands of different ways.

   But leaves, even on conifer trees, are temporary structures. For deciduous trees, we celebrate this ephemerality by looking forward to the change in leaf colors—our palette of fall--knowing full well that color change is related to leaf drop and death.

   Most bird species migrate some with the seasons, but this migration pattern comes in different flavors.  Consulting various authorities, I have identified eight flavors (variations), with the first being that many of the bird species that nest in our area just go south in the fall. I deal here with the seven other variations within which at least a few members of certain species overwinter in eastern KS. I gathered a list of ninety-plus bird species for which at least a few of each spend the winter with us. Not all of these species are mentioned here.

   All through the fall, winter, and spring we on campus have been privileged to hear calls of both the barred and great horned owls. Both rank among the largest of owls in North America. Field guides usually describe their calls as follows:  great horned owl, often referred to as the “ hoot” owl—four to six resonant hoots, with rhythms varying with the owl; barred owl—“hoo—hoo—boohoo,” That comes out as a slightly shrill and insistent “Who cooks for you?” The barred owl also sometimes calls during the day.

Let’s hope that most wild organisms survived the human-based wonder and chaos of December. What must they have thought when all manner of lighted globes and twinkling lights were strung here and there, when conifers became technicolor. Surely the creatures noticed that large groups of humans gathered in certain buildings, and large colorful windows glowed from lights within. Surely they noticed that instead of calling back and forth to each other, those inside made various strung-out group sounds.