Silently Speak the Daffodils

Some twenty years or so ago, my family embarked on a pilgrimage of sorts;

a journey to the site of the Farm, a magical land at the heart of many of my favorite tales from my dad's childhood. The Farm was the homestead of Colonel Lodowick Meriwether Hill, located a few miles outside the town of Washington, in the rolling red clay hills of Wilkes County, GA. 

In the days of my father's youth, the farm belonged to his Grandfather and Grandmother Anthony, and my dad had woven many a fascinating tale for my siblings and me of the huge house with many fireplaces and more than a dozen rooms and wide porches all around and the huge barn from which he would leap with his cousins and the children of the household employees during blissful summers spent at the Farm.

On a warm winter day in February, 1996, descendants of the Hill family from England and California and Florida and South Africa and the Sandhills of North Carolina and places beyond and around and in between, gathered among the tombstones of the Hill family cemetery and together gave witness to the place and the people which had previously existed for me only in the words of the storyteller.

The farm and its vast holdings of land had been sold, and the grand old house and barn were no longer standing, but the spirit of the place remained; 

resurrected in the voices and the laughter and the tears of reunited family and friends, 

and in the clumps of silently eloquent daffodils...

I think of the Farm and those daffodils every year around this time, as I make my way about town and along the rural byways all around my own humble homestead. 

The old field daffodils are seemingly everywhere, 

announcing the arrival of spring, and telling and re-telling the same old tale:

A people once settled in this place. 

They planted flowers and stayed a while, 

and now they are gone...

but their flowers remain.

Early morning, on a vacant lot in downtown Jonesboro.

A little later, near the old Deep River dam in Carbonton.

Narcissus near where the original front porch probably stood...

Old fashioned double daffodils, many years removed from the pages of the bulb catalog.

A stone's throw away, on the shoulder of Carbonton Road (Highway 42).

Looking ahead to the Deep River bridge at Carbonton.

Just across the road, dainty golden trumpets...

Hiding near a thicket of old shrubs, more of the double daffodils...

Butter and Eggs, Scrambled Eggs, or Van Sion...?

Old names, old varieties, old voices...

Echoing the same old tale.

A little farther along, between Egypt (Cumnock) and the old Camel Back Bridge on Deep River.

Sounds the silent trumpet, solitary herald -

Where now the settlers, the builders, the planters? 

What of the house and the garden?

Naught now but empty spaces,

brown and gray and neglected, 

perhaps even poisoned...

and the daffodils.

Valley Road, just north of Sanford.

Another old home place...

Carbonton Road, near Cool Springs Road.

We hear you, silent sun-kissed dancers,

keepers of secrets and tellers of tales,

long and far we've traveled, restless spirits all;

you remind us both of what we seek, 

and from whence we've come.

That most rare and precious place;

a place to live and to love

 and be loved in return,

 a place called 

Home.

Spring Peepers - Seeing is Believing

Here in the heart of Carolina, the high-pitched call of the male spring peeper is as indispensable an element of the soundtrack of early spring as the monotonous hum of the dog-day cicada is to the ambience of late summer.

If you've been out of doors anywhere near a pond or stream or puddle in the past week, you should have heard their calls, and if you were quite close to the water, 

you may have had difficulty hearing anything else over the deafening chorus of amphibious courtship. 

Seeing these diminutive divas is another matter altogether, however. 

They may be in the water, on the bank or in nearby vegetation, and while they are not shy about singing with strangers around, 

it can be nearly impossible to pinpoint the source of an individual caller.

 They remain resolutely motionless, generally prefer to stay near or under cover, and have wonderfully camouflaged skin. More than one frustrated seeker has been known to abandon the search and settle for the audio-only version, all the while muttering their doubts as to whether the frogs are large enough to be seen by the naked eye.

For the brave and determined soul, however, who's willing to brave the chill of a late winter's eve, and silently make their way to the brink of a local farm pond or ephemeral pool deep in the dark of night, 

it is sometimes possible to catch a glimpse of a bold bachelor or two, 

belting out their best from a perch in the open, the better to be seen by other amorous amphibians.

And on this particular night, the peepers are so firmly focused on wooing that an early emerging mosquito manages to drink its fill from an unflinching frog, even as the camera flashes bright. 

(Note: Several viewers have indicated the mosquitoes are a little difficult to spot. We agree! In the picture below, a mosquito with belly distended by blood is perched on the left rear leg of the frog. In the picture immediately following the one below, the mosquito is perched on the curled leaf surface beside the frog, feeding from its right foreleg.)

 In a rather nifty turn of the tables, 

we notice other mosquitoes preying upon other hormone-happy hoppers as we make our way around the pool.

Ants, flies and mosquitoes typically comprise a significant portion of the spring peepers' diet, but tonight the mating game apparently takes priority.

As the amphibian chorus reverberates among the towering pines,  

a dozen voices are amplified to the volume of hundreds,

and a dozen cross-bearing males wait with bated breath for a mate to appear...

before resuming their peeping again. 

As for Hoot Owl Karma, we slip silently back into the darkness, content in the knowledge imparted by our very own eyes.

Spring is here!

Aerial Anglers

After trading an hour of sleep Saturday night for an additional hour of daylight on Sunday, 

Hoot Owl Karma decided to redeem that extra hour right away with a return trip to the site of the prior evening's moonshots. 

Several weeks of above average precipitation had raised lake levels to the point that a significant amount of water was being released into the river below the dam, creating quite a boon for the gulls and piscine raptors hovering above the roiling whitewater. 

   

A handsome pair of ospreys plied the skies, successfully nabbing fish after fish before our admiring eyes. 

  

The "fish hawk" or "sea hawk" depends upon live fish for nearly 100 percent of its diet, and is ubiquitous once again along most of North America's coastline and inland waters, after nearly succumbing to the detrimental effects of the chemical DDT in the middle of the last century.

It was well worth a little lost shuteye to spend an hour in the presence of such impressive creatures, soaring and diving and thriving once again in their rightful place above the waters of central Carolina. 

Seeing in the Dark...

Last night, we here on the east coast of the United States lost an hour to Daylight Savings Time, so that we could gain an hour of daylight today.  A few hours in advance of the big clock roll-ahead, Cousin Danny called and invited Hoot Owl Karma to honor the soon to be departed hour of darkness with a little nighttime photo shoot.

So Jay and I headed out to Jordan Lake with Cousin Danny and trained our lenses on the darkness. Only it wasn't quite as dark as we expected...

Just about the time we reached our destination and unloaded our gear, this thing cleared the horizon. It's amazing how effectively our moon reflects the sun's light back at us, even in the "dark" of night. Our hour was very well spent, nonetheless, as Jay and Danny got some wonderful shots of the lovely lunar orb. Stay tuned in coming weeks for more shots in the dark as the lunar cycle progresses, and we get a little more practice. 

In the meantime, why not go outside today and enjoy that extra hour of daylight?!

Early Risers...

After highs near 80 degrees F on Wednesday, Thursday ended with a Winter Weather Advisory due to the threat of black ice, and Friday's temps flirted with freezing all day.

Our wild week of weather wound down with an early morning walk on the wild side at San Lee Park under cloudless skies and a brilliant sun.

Red-shouldered hawk and its mate carried on a shrill conversation from their perches high above the stream, and a murder of crows responded with an agitated chorus of their own from just downstream. 

The trout lilies, object of our chilly early morning quest, had progressed significantly since our visit last week. 

Many more mottled leaves pierced the dense layer of last year's cast off foliage,

and at least a dozen flowers tentatively spread their petals to greet the morning sun.

Eye-catching as these golden baubles are to the wandering human, 

one wonders what pollinators nature had in mind for such an early bloomer.

Perhaps today's sunshine and tomorrow's combined will arouse a hungry bumblebee from its winter slumber...

Regardless of that answer to that little riddle, this colony of early risers appears to be thriving on the stream banks of San Lee. 

Judging from the hundreds, if not thousands, of plants now appearing, there are likely other reproductive forces at work in the soil of the forest floor, rich with the accumulated nutrients of a healthy forest ecosystem.

Tiny little bulbs sending out root-like runners, creating clone after clone, sending more and more leaves to the chilly surface each spring to tap into the life-giving light of the sun.

Thrilled by the continued success of our little colony, we pause for one last picture...

A rare individual lily, perched all alone on the massive moss-covered foot of a gentle forest giant, mere inches from the falling waters of the rain-swollen stream; 

a priceless reward for the early risers...