You Can Go Home Again

Brook trout and dandelion greens, quintessential components of late April in Maine, are finally available. I dug the first mess of dandelions last week and at the same time, caught several brook trout.

My meal that night was completely foraged and home-grown. The one non-foraged item was some of my home-grown and home-canned corn, a real treat that I save for special occasions. In partaking of this, I knew that the winter had officially passed and spring was here in truth and deed.

I have a little anecdote to share today. This warmed my heart and I hope it touches readers in the same way.

This morning saw me upstream on a local brook, by a little waterfall, happily catching and releasing 8- to 10-inch brook trout. I kept two for dinner. On my way back, nearly to where my car was parked, I saw two youngsters fishing. These boys were probably 10 years old, give or take a year. They had caught nothing and neither would they, since the place they were fishing held no trout. I knew that because I had tried it earlier.

I greeted them in passing and one of the boys politely asked, “Mister, do you know where we can catch some trout?” This was the kind of question I wait for people to ask, especially youngsters.

Pulling the bigger of my two trout from my creel, I held it up and said, “I sure do.” The boy’s eyes grew as big as saucers. They were that excited over the prospect of catching a few brook trout.

I told them exactly where to go and how to go about it. With all the ambition, hopes and dreams that 10-year old boys have for trout fishing, the two began running to the appointed location. There, I’m certain, they made lasting memories, catching handsomely-appointed brook trout.

But there’s more to this than just my satisfaction of directing two youngsters to a productive trout hole. The boy who asked me if I could tell him where to catch some fish somehow reminded me of myself when I was about his age. Many years ago, when I was 10 or 12, I had a trout fishing buddy and we two would walk for miles in search of trout. Distance and time meant nothing to us. We only cared for the sound, smell and ambiance of the stream, and the trout that it held.

There was the essence of magic for us in the quest for trout. Along the way, of course, we learned many things, not just regarding trout. We saw nature because we encountered it firsthand. It’s amazing what a person can see by walking, rather than driving. Our trout fishing times were part of our early education.

The boys today had no way of knowing how they had helped something in me to come full circle. But they fulfilled an important task. They allowed me to see myself…myself and my buddy Dan, as we were so very long ago.

Who says you can’t go home again? 

Here's a note to Don from Enfield. I answered your comment. Just go to the April 15 blog post to see it. Sorry I missed it earlier. Tom. 

Sears Island Plant Tour

I’m happy to announce that on June 21, I’ll conduct a wild plant tour on Sears Island. The island is a 940-acre, publicly-owned, undeveloped (for now) island with access via a causeway, in Searsport, Maine.

This is a step in a new direction for me, since up until now, all my classes and seminars were for groups or organizations. Now, I’m going to organize and conduct an event all on my own.

I chose Sears Island because it contains a wide variety of plant types, typical of different parts of Maine. From edible plants of the seashore to those more typical of far inland, Sears Island is the perfect vehicle for discovering new plants and learning something about them.

Planning a trip to the island requires some thought, since part of the route follows the seashore, meaning that section of walk must be accomplished during a cooperative tide. On June 21, 2013, low tide occurs at 12:45 a.m.

And so we will meet at the island end of the causeway on the Sears Island Road, just across from the Maine DOT facility on Route 1 just east of Searsport. We’ll gather at 10 a.m. for introductions and a brief outline of what we’ll do and where we will go. Beginning at this time means that we’ll be following an outgoing tide for the beginning of our walk. And by the time we reach the far end of the island and start our walk back to the trailhead, the tide will still be near dead-low.

In addition to identifying and discussing wild plants, I’ll note some of the historical features of Sears Island. All in all, this looks to be a fun and informative trip.

I would ask that participants sign up ahead of time so that I can monitor the number of people. Call or email me so I can jot your name down on my signup list. My phone is (207) 338-9746 and my email address is tomgseymour@gmail.com. 

Ideally, I would like at most, 10 participants. That way, I can give everyone close attention. If, given sufficient interest, the list fills in quickly, I will host another trip the next day, Sunday, June 22, same time, same place.

The trip will take at least two hours and may run over by a half-hour or so. The fee per person is $75. We’ll go rain or shine, with the exception of thunderstorms, with danger of lightning strikes present. If weather looks dangerously bad, please call me the evening before or early on the morning of the trip.

 

Woodland Scene, Sears Island

West Shore, Sears Island

Beginnings

The natural world awakes and changes come quickly, one atop the other. The ground continues to thaw, heaving areas where snow cover was shoveled or plowed, allowing frost to penetrate deeply. But soon, all frost will have left and the tortured, frost-heaved landscape will become level once again.

Plants respond to lengthening hours of daylight and warmer temperatures. Now, for those fortunate enough to have a good crop close at hand, is time for to harvest wild evening primrose, Oenothera biennis. The carrot-like, whitish root, with its strawberry-colored crown, is an excellent root vegetable. The foliage, which at this time appears as a basal rosette (leaves radiating out from a central point and spread flat on the ground), makes a fine potherb and the very young, tender leaves add spice to salads.

Dandelions, Taraxacum officinalis, appear on lawns and in gardens. The little first-of-the-year plants are yet too small to bother harvesting, but a week of decent temperatures and some sunshine will change that.

Common chickweed, Stella media, a perennial groundcover that persists over the winter, makes a good vegetable dish now when slightly steamed.

A friend who lives in Freeport writes me, telling of having pulled a number of rootstalks of cattails and taking the white, starch-laden shoots. These work fine rinsed and eaten raw or chopped in salads or even in stir-fry dishes.

There are other wild edible plants available now in addition to those I’ve mentioned here. Suffice it to say, anyone with a good ration of determination could conceivably go out and gather enough wild plants for a meal.

Basal rosette of evening primrose

So it has begun. From now on, the pace will only increase as other plants begin showing. And until next fall’s first killing frost puts an end to our bounty, we foragers have the world by the tail. Here’s to another season. Enjoy.

New shoot of common cattail

 

Welcome To RFD Maine

RFD Maine is a newspaper column that I wrote for the Republican Journal, a weekly newspaper in Waldo County, Maine. It appeared on the opinion page and was highly popular among readers. But the editorial staff wished for the opinion, or editorial page, to carry politically-oriented material rather than the folksy, down-home country stuff that I wrote. So they decided to drop it and replace it with a political column. When they told me of this, I put in my bid as writer for the political column and it was accepted. So I still have work, but not the kind I began with. I miss writing RFD Maine.

In the less-than-one month that RFD Maine has been absent from the paper, countless readers have called and written me, asking what happened. Of course I have no control over what a newspaper does. But it appears as though the editors and publisher don't have an ear to the ground regarding what the readers want, either. In fact, when I found out that the editorial page was going political, the editor mentioned that he had never read RFD Maine. 

However, it was the most popular column that paper had had in many years, and I have written for it since 1986. I'm wanting to peddle RFD Maine to some other paper, since I see that it "has legs." But in the meantime, I'll offer past columns to readers of my blog. If you, my readers, enjoy it as much as readers of The Republican Journal say they do, then I'll have more incentive to try and either get it back with TRJ, or else find another home for it. 

Meanwhile, here is my first installment of RFD Maine. It gives details of rural life throughout the seasons. I hope you all like it and please, do leave comments. 

Best wishes, and happy spring. 

Tom

A Circle Of Seasons

          For me living in RFD Maine, signs of a past or soon-to-arrive season are always close at hand. This topic came to my attention when I noticed a vase of pussy willows atop my refrigerator.

          In perhaps one more month, the silky-gray catkins of  pussy willows will appear. Pussy willows fall into that fuzzy category of plants sandwiched somewhere between large shrubs and small trees. The still-naked twigs and branches, with their crop of furry catkins, are a time-honored symbol of spring. And as such, we revere them. If pussy willow catkins came on in summer, we would pay them no homage. But in late March and early April, we cherish our pussy willows.

Four Seasons

          Winter-weary souls go out in early spring in search of the first catkin-bearing pussy willows. Successful pussy-willow hunters usually cut a handful or two to take home and put in a vase. First-timers often make the mistake of placing their fresh-cut pussy willow sticks in a water-filled vase. That’s a mistake, because the branches continue to grow and become covered with pollen. Leave them in water long enough and they’ll set roots. Seasoned pussy willow fans know to put their prize in a dry vase, that way the display will remain intact until the following spring, when it’s time to go on another pussy willow foray.

          After considering pussy willows, I turned around and observed the old-time Mason jar with it’s bouquet of tansy sitting on a shelf above my television. The golden-yellow buttons (flower discs) have faded a bit, but there’s no help for it, because they are destined to remain there until late next summer, when they’ll be replenished with a new batch of cuttings.

          Besides the tansy, little wisps of the summer season remain in plain view on my back deck in the form of a folding lawn chair leaning against the house and of course, my barbecue grill.

          In my house, autumn, the fall of the year, is represented by several deer antlers adorning a wall, plus the “fan,” or tailfeathers of a particularly handsome partridge, or ruffed grouse, that I shot last year.

          Winter, my least favorite season, has no reigning ambassador at my place, at least not one I have expressly invited. But even the cold season gets passing notice at different times of year, because of my fondness for Baroque composer Antonio Vivaldi. His trademark work, The Four Seasons, is something I play frequently. This four-part concerto is appropriately enough broken down into Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. So even when listening to this timeless work in spring and summer, I’m reminded of winter.

Lesser Lights

          Reminders of the different seasons are visible in other places, too. These “lesser lights” are often in my way, only to get moved from where they are stored when their own season arrives and I dust them off and use them for their intended purpose.

          For instance, I keep my air conditioner in the greenhouse over the winter. The AC is heavy and the greenhouse is the closest outbuilding to the house. Besides that, my barn is very small and fully populated with outdoor equipment. So the greenhouse wins, or loses, by default.

          Even the woodshed shows signs of different times of year. Just the other day, I nearly tripped on one of the boards that I use at the bottom of each row of firewood. These serve the purpose of keeping my firewood from freezing to the ground. And by the time spring, or something like it arrives, the boards are free of piled wood and ready to serve yet another purpose. Now, they become walking boards.

          Mud season creates the need for long boards across low areas along the path between my house and car and house and barn. When genuine spring finally arrives and these vernal pools dry up, the boards go into storage back in the woodshed.

          Right now, inside the house, my humidifier works hard to keep indoor humidity levels at somewhere near the 50 mark. But when spring arrives and outdoor relative humidity rises far above winter’s desert-like state, and the woodstove goes to sleep for another season, the humidifier gets sent to the woodshed…literally.

          Even the food I eat is representative of the different seasons. For example, I’ve had a hankering for dandelions as of late, so to satiate my desire, I’ve been digging into my lode of home-canned dandelions. It’s impossible for me to feast on a meal of dandelions, even canned ones, and not think back upon the season and the circumstances from which they came.

          I just ate the last of the trout that I vacuum-packed and froze last summer. This not only brought to mind the joys of open-water fishing, it made me yearn for the upcoming spring, when open-water fishing on brooks and streams resumes. Eating that trout fillet also reminded me of the trout I raise in my farm pond, and the fun I have sitting by the pond in evening twilight, sipping ale and watching my fish rise to the floating trout pellets I throw out to them each evening.

Kodak Moment

          Well, it’s not really a “Kodak Moment,” but all the same the background on my desktop computer screen is always pleasing to me. I constantly change the background photo, choosing from the large crop of digital images stored on my computer. Currently, in view of and as a respite from cold, snow, more cold and more snow, I have a summertime photo for my desktop background.

          This photo shows a pastoral scene, a gentle hill, covered with hayscented ferns in the foreground and mature maple and white ash trees in the background. In this photo, everything is green. Gazing at it, I can almost smell the sweet fragrance of the ferns, coupled with just a hint of spruce gum. The photo was taken in an inland section of Sears Island, one of my favorite summertime haunts. And yes, the island abounds in spruce trees and the spicy aroma of spruce sap wafts about inland areas, toying with the senses and making each visit that much more enjoyable.

          I visit Sears Island regularly, from spring through fall, and am familiar with most of the plant life there. But now, in winter, I’d just as soon sit in my office by the woodstove and stare at the delightful summertime photo on my computer screen.

          Soon, it’ll come time to change my desktop background. I’m thinking of putting up a picture of springtime flowers, perhaps crocus or hyacinth. By the time the real crocus comes into bloom, I’ll switch photos and post one of me holding up a fresh-caught trout, taken along one of my favorite trout brooks.

          I suppose this circle of seasons awareness is an inherited trait, something from deep inside, reaching out over the millennia. And, thinking along those lines, I kind of pity people who live where there is no change of seasons. To someone from RFD Maine, even the most congenial climate would become old if taken in too-large doses.

         

         

         

Opening Day A Bust

Today, April 1, 2014, marks another opening day of trout fishing in brooks and streams. As per tradition, I arose before sunrise, had a cup of coffee and headed out fishing. But what awaited me was something totally unexpected. Everything was frozen.

Streams that are normally productive on this day were locked up in a thick coating of ice. The few that I did find open had shelf ice on the edges, making it tricky if not dangerous to venture out and take a cast.

Streamsides and banks were treacherous because of snow and ice. I slipped while climbing a wet, snowy hillside on my way back from a stream. Another place saw me breaking through the snowcrust up to my knees at every other step. This was where old cattail stalks stuck up only a foot or so above the snow. Had I thought, I would have realized that cattail stalks, even old, brown dead ones, are taller than one foot.

Every time I broke through, it would knock the wind out of me. In short, this old body endured a virtual marathon of physical demands. And the at most, I’m just a little tired right now, but that might be mostly a result of tossing and turning last night, sleepless, like a youngster on the night before Christmas.

As per results, not a trout moved. Nary a bite. This marks the first opening day in many, many years that I have gone fishless. Well, not exactly. My plans for fish for supper being dashed, I stopped by the store on the way home and bought a fresh Atlantic salmon fillet.

Usually on April I, a few wild plants are in evidence. This year the only plant I saw was a toxic one, buttercups. These had overwintered on a wet, sunny hillside. But as per useful plants, it looks as though we’ll need to wait just a bit longer for spring to arrive in earnest.