James M. Redwine

Mother Nature

Man’s Almost Best Friend

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You may already know that Peg and I live in an isolated cabin where our human neighbors are not close, but often other species are. We enjoy the normal reverie of our own thoughts but occasionally have our space invaded by two and four-footed, uninvited interlopers. We have had to deal with raccoons, opossums, field mice, voles, skunks, ocelots, possibly a rare mountain lion or two, crows, hawks, eagles, assorted squirrels, woodpeckers and songbirds and flocks of quail, among several others, including armadillos and curious coyotes.

During the recent snowstorms and related inclement weather, the armadillos were ascendant with holes appearing almost everywhere. Now, some folks may find all wildlife entertaining and equivalent but Peg and I carry no brief for armadillos who look like armored pigs and lack any furry cuddlesomeness.  We do have a friend who hails from Central America where, I assume, armadillos migrated from. Recently he chided me for depopulating the armadillos who tried to take over our yard. Our friend told me armadillo meat tastes like “the sweetest of pork”; I assured him we would not find a way to make the comparison.

What we have noticed however is that several non-human carnivores also enjoy an occasional repast of armadillos. Chief among those ravenous raptors are the vultures but they are in hot competition for “sweet pork” left-overs with our habitation of coyotes. Our experience has been that coyotes are not so adept at catching armadillos but they are quite efficient at eating the innards and interiors of the housing of the already dead armadillo.

We have also noted that we have a bevy of coyotes that regularly patrol our small ranch for any hapless armadillo that should find itself dispatched by some other non-coyote cause; my 20 gauge for example. The most recent evidence of a symbiotic relationship between our rather almost dog-like coyote population and ourselves occurred during the recent ill weather.

I looked out a cabin window and saw a fat armadillo gamboling in our front yard with its pterodactyl sized front claws. I grabbed my shotgun, checked it was loaded, clicked off the safety, eased out the back door and quietly moved to within lethal range. Voila! One more mess of sweet pork made available.

As it was almost dark, I decided to leave the carcass till the next day. Well, the next day the prize was gone. I rejoiced in the provenance of Mother Nature and gave the matter no more thought until two days later when Peg found a hollowed-out suit of meatless armadillo armor right outside our front door; there was no note. There was a rather neat display that to us was just like the remains of a Thanksgiving Day turkey as left by in-laws along with a bare pumpkin pie plate.

Okay, I get that some would think this a mere happenstance. But those people are not the nature lover I am. I am convinced our quasi-canine coyotes were leaving us a two-fold message:

  1. Thank you; and
  2. Keep ’em coming!

Spring Forward

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JPeg Osage Snake

Tuesday, March 19, 2024 was the Vernal Equinox. The sun was directly over the earth’s equator and husbands throughout the world saw their sublime winter days replaced by wives who feel compelled to build nests, or more correctly, to exhort their husbands to help do so. Peg does not care that we live in the country and no one can even see our yard from the nearest road. When spring arrives, my reverie ends. Watching sports on TV fades in the glow of longer days that demand immediate attention to countless tasks that must be attended to, “Right Now!” Never mind that not one of these matters mattered until the ponds stopped freezing over.

The inexhaustible energy of a wife in springtime is exhausting. What is there in the female biology that cannot accept that Mother Nature provides her own rejuvenation of beauty such as dandelions and blooming thistle. Woman-made improvements to nature’s burgeoning bounty of wild growing plants, that Peg calls weeds, must be addressed with rakes, hoes, chemicals and sweat, mine.

It is not that I wish to ignore home maintenance. I agree that grass should be mowed occasionally. However, where is the sin in appreciating what comes from nature? Do we need numerous areas for flowers and vegetables that are readily available from Walmart? Why did we save for retirement if we are not going to retire? And, what about the welfare of all the little critters we are disrupting and worse with god-knows what concoctions that we spray and spread? I ask you, Gentle Reader, well, at least those of you who are husbands, what is wrong with living with nature? Live and let live sounds good to me.

Another thing that comes with spring is the plethora of Nature’s creations that apparently want to live in proximity with us and which Peg cannot abide. About once each day I am startled by, “Jim!” I know from the tone and decibel level that some unlucky snake, mouse, squirrel, scorpion, spider or bird has been doing its spring things too close to ours and my role is to ruin its day. Never mind that all these creatures want is to eat and procreate on their own terms without our interference, they must be dispatched, by me of course.

There is hope for Peg’s yearly compulsion to control the natural world with my labor. Before long the Summer Solstice will arrive and the moist earth and temperate weather will gradually metamorphosize into sunbaked clay and near drought. Then maybe Peg’s condition will cure itself until she hears the siren of autumn’s equinox and the chores of preparing for winter.

 

A Friend In Low Places

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Photo by Peg Redwine

The telephone call began ominously, “Mr. Redwine (?)” It is never a good sign if a professional office treats you as an equal. Usually such a call would start, “James, state your full name, your date of birth, social security number, and most importantly, scan in your financial responsibility history for the past ten years.” Now, that is more the attitude I would have expected.

 I responded, “Ugh, may I ask your name and why you are calling?”

“No, but feel free to contact your Congressional representative if you please, and good luck there too.”

The caller continued, “You were randomly selected for a couple of medical tests. Be at our office in Bartlesville Monday at 8:00 a.m.”

When I asked, “Can I ask …” all I heard was a click. I showed up Monday and followed orders. Tuesday, I received another call.

“Is this the party to whom I spoke last week?”

“Yes, may I ask …”

“No. We found a large kidney stone in your CT scan. It’s got to get crushed up and sucked out right now. Be here next Monday at 8:00 a.m. and no food or liquids after midnight the Sunday evening before.”

“May I ask …(click).”

I showed up Monday at 7:30 a.m. and the gate was opened at 7:55. A woman with a stack of legalese-clad releases asked me a series of COVID-19 related questions as she shoved the releases and a ball-point pen at me. I followed her unspoken directives and shook my head left and right as to COVID. Then, from behind her back she produced a LONG tube and told me to get undressed. I did and stood on the cold, tiled floor as she began to insert what felt like a fire hose into an area Mother Nature never intended to accept even a fine thread. By the way, a fine thread with a knot in it was attached to the tubing. From this point until about four hours later I have to hope someone knew what they were doing to me because I certainly did not. However, when I once again became aware of my situation there was an entire apparatus with tubing affixed to the apparatus Adam was made aware of when Eve coaxed him into taking a bite of forbidden fruit. Once the anesthesia wore off I really gave both Adam and Eve and that meddling serpent what for. Gentle Reader, I do not recommend kidney stone attacks for Monday morning pastime activity. OUCH!

Fortunately, my best friend from my old Air Force and Indiana University days had just sent me a great book of medical information for my birthday. Dr. Walter Jordan, O.D., has been my free medical advisor as well as an excellent source of information about all things IU since we first met in 1963. He has also long provided me with excellent reading material each year on my birthday. This year, by coincidence, he sent me Dr. Tony Robbins’ new book, Life Force, ISBN 978-1-9821-2170-9. Walt did not get the book to me in time to study up on the pain and misery of kidney stones. Nor did Dr. J have the opportunity to fulfill our long-ago made honor pact to use a 38-caliber solution to save me from a fate worse than watching IU lose the Big Ten Championship to Purdue. However, it is a wonderful source of information and I plan to recommend it to the office that attacked my lower quadrant.

Things have finally reached what we in the legal biz describe as a permanent and quiescent state and it appears I will survive although my friend Dr. Walt has been of more medical value to me than those “providers” who get paid for it. Anyway, as those who live in a “house” with kidney stones should not throw them I will forever hold my peace.

I do look forward to those days when we will, perhaps, all benefit from Dr. Robbins’ insights on how we might stop or even reverse the aging process. Of course, Walt and I have been around for so long Robbins’ book may not add much to our lifespan. But, Gentle Reader, I strongly suggest a trip to a book store or a library to read all of Robbins’ Chapter 4: pp. 96-120, “Turning Back Time: Will Aging Soon Be Curable?”

Thanks A Lot Noah

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In his book Letters From The Earth, Mark Twain has Noah making an extra trip in the Ark so he could save the housefly that spreads typhoid fever. I could not find any reference to scorpions in the Book of Genesis nor in the account of the Great Flood that also appears in the Quran. However, Noah, or in Arabic, Nuh, must have heroically preserved the “creature with the burning sting” as I stepped on one in our cabin at JPeg Osage Ranch last night. If Satan had stepped on a scorpion with bare cloven hoof, I bet he would have sent a scathing letter to heaven from his temporary banishment on Earth. Perhaps then either St. Michael or St. Gabriel, the Devil’s correspondents, might have pointed out to the Creator that His creation of the scorpion was a bust.

The Latin name, scorpion, given to the eight-legged arachnid with the pinching front claws and the stinging tail aptly describes the menace that apparently has no value except to encourage one to wear shoes in the house. Except for me, scorpions have few natural enemies other than lizards and tarantulas; choose your poison.

What I want to know is whom did Mother Nature put in charge of species extinction and why hasn’t She extinguished scorpions? Scorpions have been around for 435 million years and, I humbly suggest, that is long enough. According to Google (who else are you going to rely on), extinctions are a normal part of evolution. They occur naturally, periodically and somewhat regularly. We Homo sapiens would not be here if millions of other species, dinosaurs for example, had not gone extinct before we came out of the primordial ooze two to three hundred thousand years ago after two to three million years of genetic iterations of hominids.

I submit it is fair to ask Mother Nature, “What were you thinking?” Much like the White-Tailed Hornet of poet laureate Robert Frost’s poem, it appears to me whoever designed the scorpion should have gone back to the drawing board, or better yet, file thirteened the whole thing. The white-tailed hornet (or scorpion) might be viewed romantically by nature lovers who assume infallibility or even lovability in all of nature’s creations. But Frost (1874-1963) watched in disillusionment as a white-tailed hornet in search of a fly to eat repeatedly attacked both the head of a nail and Frost’s nose. As Frost concludes about nature and life in general, once we begin to see the fallibility of the natural world “reflected in the mud and even dust” we can no longer convince ourselves we humans are only a little lower than the angels and are probably no higher than creepy crawlers on the floor.

 

The White-Tailed Hornet

The white-tailed hornet lives in a balloon (nest)
That floats against the ceiling of the woodshed
…
Verse could be written on the certainty
With which he penetrates my best defense
Of whirling hands and arms about the head
To stab me in the sneeze-nerve of a nostril
…
I watched him where he swooped, he pounced, he struck;
But what he found was just a nail head (not a fly).
…
Won’t this whole instinct matter bear revision?
To err is human, not to, animal.
Or so we pay the compliment to instinct.
…
’Twas disillusion upon disillusion.

 

In much the same manner as Frost’s hornet, did that scorpion on my cabin floor mistake me for either dinner or a possible mate? Why bother me at all? When it should have been gainfully employed in more reasonable pursuits it was not using any reason and we both suffered for its frailty.

The Greek astronomer Ptolemy identified the constellation Scorpius in the 2nd century A.D. Why didn’t Mother Nature take that as a clue to make scorpions extinct 2,000 years ago? Even Nancy Reagan with her reliance on astrology for advice to her husband on affairs of state might have used her influence to have “Scorpio” disappeared from our existence by bringing the power of the federal government to bear. After all, our federal government killed off generations of eagles and other more cuddly species than scorpions with DDT. Why did scorpions escape?

I am glad the bison somehow miraculously survived mankind’s slaughter but do wonder what if any reason exists to preserve the scorpion. I guess it comes down to “Only the good die young” and we humans have been around about 430 million fewer years than the scorpion. We will probably be gone long before scorpions pass.

On the other hand, perhaps I can convince Jeff Bezos and Amazon to help me market scorpions to the public as pets. Hey, entrepreneur Gary Dahl got rich back in the 1970’s by convincing people a rock could be a loving pet. Maybe a slogan such as “Get Your Zing Avoiding a Sting” could be catchy. Or maybe I could sell them as a great gift idea for misanthropic people or dry them out and make necklaces from them. I see all kinds of people sporting plastic human skulls on their belt buckles or as tattoos.

Of course, if I were able to get such an enterprise going the government would just regulate it out of existence or tax it to death. Well, at least I could get rid of some of the crunchy little crustaceans that way. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just need to wear my shoes and watch my step.

 

A True Depression

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If a recession is when your neighbors lose their jobs but it is a depression when you lose yours, what is the analogy for our society’s losses due to ’Ole 19? Let me suggest that for Peg it was when she finally submitted herself to asking me to cut her hair. Yep, it’s complete capitulation; 19 can claim total victory. I should be able to show you photographic proof but it turns out that a wife’s hirsute humiliation is in the same category of bad husbanding as failing to separate the whites and colors for the laundry. No pictures of my artistry were allowed. In fact, Peg has found a new use for the flowered bandana she uses as a face mask; it now covers the top of her head too. And my attempts to assure her that within a few months her hair will grow back just seem to exacerbate the situation. Please allow me to digress.

Gentle Reader, you may have noticed it is hot in July and August near the latitude along the Mason-Dixon Line. Well Peg, who was born in upstate New York, had not quite acclimated to the previous weeks of 100-degree temperatures. Her Joan of Arc length hair tended to stick to her forehead and the back of her neck whenever she lugged water to her flowers and her vegetable garden. The martyr-type comparison will make sense by the time you finish the column. I was understanding and sympathetic, but my advice that Mother Nature would eventually provide rain was not received gladly. She stubbornly persisted and even suggested I could get involved if the TV re-runs of old golf matches didn’t interfere. Surely, we need not revisit that painful discussion.

The real problem is not me but ’Ole 19. Peg used to go to the beauty shop to get her hair cut. Or, when we still lived in Indiana, our daughter, Heather, who is a beautician would take care of it. However, now, as we do not wish to contribute to 19’s macabre statistics, we have socially isolated since our last foray out to eat which was March the 5th. We wear masks, we wash our hands, we ignore our friends and family, we shop online, we eat lots of tuna. But we both knew the Corona Virus had achieved complete domination when Peg said last week, “Jim, I just can’t stand this heat and having my hair string down my face and neck. Nobody but you is ever going to see me again anyway (I thought that a little overly dramatic) so you are going to have to cut it. Come watch these YouTube videos and try to pay attention.”

Well, it didn’t look that hard to me. I remember when I got my hair cut in Pawhuska, Oklahoma by Clyde Ensley or Bob Butts or in Mt. Vernon, Indiana by Steve Burris. Heck, it appeared about like cleaning a squirrel or a chicken. Just slice here, snip there, shear off the sides. No problem. After watching for ten minutes or so I was pretty sure I could give Vidal Sassoon a run. “Peg, get a towel and I’ll grab a pair of scissors and the electric clippers you used to use on our dearly departed dog and meet you on the front porch.”

It probably would have turned out better if Peg had not sat as if she were an unfortunate customer of an electric chair and if she hadn’t jumped and squirmed each time the clippers whirred and the scissors snipped. Regardless, in my unbiased opinion I did a fine job. If the bowl I used had fit better it would have helped. I can only guess at Peg’s opinion as she hardly has spoken to me for three days and when she does it is difficult to make out what she is saying amid the shrieks, sobs and expletives as she tries to pull her hair back to its former length.

Hair on the porch floor

Pugh Or Phew?

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JPeg Osage Ranch

Peg and I recently moved from Posey County in southwestern Indiana to Osage County in northeastern Oklahoma. The acculturalization for me was fairly seamless as I was born in Pawhuska, which is the county seat of The Osage. As for Peg, she was born in Schenectady, New York and has lived north of the Mason-Dixon Line and east of the Mississippi River her whole life. She is what we of the Oklahoma persuasion would generally classify as a “Yankee”. For Peg, the move from the land of corn, soybeans and concrete has been, well, let’s just say more interesting. And our log cabin out on the prairie thirty miles from the nearest Walmart occasionally poses new challenges for her. Oh, we do have a Dollar General about five miles away, but there’s one of those everywhere so that does not assuage Peg’s concerns.

As Peg becomes accustomed to being called “Ma’am” and getting to frequently use her high beam headlights on the uncrowded highways she is often confronted with the ambiance of a life lived among creatures she used to assume lived in zoos or within the confines of the Tallgrass Prairie Nature Preserve or the 3,700 acres of the marvelous Woolaroc Museum with bison and other animals only 7 miles from our cabin. Imagine her reactions when she began to encounter hawks, eagles, deer, wild turkeys, cattle, armadillos, scorpions, coyotes, opossums and raccoons right outside our door. Actually she has habituated quite well to most of Mother Nature’s creatures even when they pushed their way into our personal space. Unfortunately, our most recent visitors have been a family of skunks. That’s right. What the French zoologist Charles Lucien Bonaparte (1803-1857) classified as Mephitidae, which means stink.

When Pepé Le Pew was cavorting on the cartoon movie screen in search of love while spouting off in a French accent, the skunk came across as cute and lovable. However, when our own skunk family took up residence under our cabin and spent their nights defending their territory by spraying copious volumes of malodorous ink at the opossums challenging for the same space, Peg called for Terminix. The nearest office was in Tulsa fifty miles away.

Now we have live traps baited with some kind of cat food and cement poured into every cranny around the base of our cabin. Each night the skunks find a new way to burrow, chew or claw their way back under our home.  Gentle Reader, please imagine city girl Peg’s reaction to the wafting of odiferous waves of stench up through the floor and into her rugs and clothing. That’s right. It ain’t pleasant.

On the positive side we probably do not need to worry about any visitors wanting to stay even the traditional 3-day limit. As for Peg, she now understands why I bought a shotgun when we decided to move west.