Morning revelry
Walking up the stone steps from the dock, I crouch next to the garden to study a hydrangea. Its petals meld rose-pink and sky-blue into a perfect periwinkle. Drops of rain from last night cling to the inner florets. The petals are violet, but their stems are pink. Other blooms hang limply, faded to sage green with splashes of magenta.
I never noticed before that hydrangeas have opposite branching, not alternate like most plants. This must classify them in the viburnum family, caprifoliaceae. I remember this from my days teaching plant identification. The brown leaf buds are erect at the base of each lateral stem, tightly clasping the stalk.
Transfixed by the garden, I sit on a granite step. I assume it’s granite because I’m in New Hampshire, but geology isn’t my strong suit. It is mottled ivory and gray, with small chunks of quartz and flecks of silvery mica. It cools my bottom through my pink pajama pants.
I finally got to bed early last night. A long bike ride following a couple of late nights made my eyelids heavy. It still took hours to fall asleep, but 11pm is better than 2am. I slept fitfully, half awake with strange dreams, my naked summer skin not dressed for the cold night. I awoke in time to see a golden sunrise shimmer on the lake. I pulled on my PJs and sweatshirt and walked down to the waterfront.
Now as I sit on the cold granite step, I notice another rock to my right, broken off along a vein of quartz with rough, tiny crystals like a white and amber geode. I’ve climbed these stone steps a thousand times and never noticed it.
The fronds of a hay-scented fern (that’s its real name) tremble in the breeze. I pick a few leaves off and crush them in my hand to smell its earthiness. The feather of a blue jay lies beneath the fern next to brown, crumbling oak leaves. It is striped black and cobalt blue with a white tip, looking like it’s been for a swim. It must be drenched from the thunderstorms last night.
I paddled to the island before supper yesterday, just as puffy white thunderheads blew in from the west, blocking the sun. As soon as I dove into the lake, the sky rumbled. I paddled back to the dock as it grew darker. The warm deluge of the outdoor shower contrasted with the chill of the swim. As I toweled off, it started to sprinkle. Thunder clapped as soon as I climbed into my camper. I lay on my back on the bed under the blanket, listening to torrents tap the roof.
A jogger ran by as I soaked in the first rays of sun on the dock this morning. He was an older guy with the build of a distance runner, wearing a small hydration pack on his back. He must be doing a six-mile lap of the lake, I thought. That was an hour ago. He just ran by a second time. I used to do miles like that. It’s been more than a decade since I ran a marathon.
The leaves of the hosta in front of me are an insect snack, yellowed at the edges with small angular holes dotting the center like an irregular paper punch. Some are chewed along the margins. They will wither in a month or so, joining the oak leaves and ferns in the mulch.
One of my dogs barks, so I stand to walk up the stairs to the camper. I pause at the 54th step to examine a clump of Indian pipes (is there a more politically-correct name?) that are drooping, decomposers about to be decomposed. I wonder what will decompose them?
I google Indian Pipes and can’t find a better name, but I’m surprised to read that they are angiosperms (flowering plants), not fungi. They have ghostly-white flowers and stems that resemble a tall, skinny mushroom more than a wildflower. Unlike most plants, they don’t use chlorophyll to photosynthesize. Instead, they feed on mycorrhizae, an underground web of fungi. This late in the season, their white petals open to reveal a bulbous rose-colored eyeball with a black iris. I’ve never noticed that before.
The loon makes a plaintive cry, maybe calling for its mate and babies? I’ve seen them floating up-close on my paddle trips, the young ones still small and speckled brown, circling their parents and peeping for food. The large black-and-white mother (I can only assume) dives bottom-up to search for whatever loons eat—fish? Algae? She has dense bones for diving, unlike the hollow bones of other birds. She can swim underwater up to 90 seconds. She surfaced and put a shiny minnow in the youngster’s mouth. It chirped for more. I was close enough to see the black-and-white checkers adorning the ring around her neck.
Now the osprey calls from above, or is it the bald eagle? Seth can tell the difference, when we spend weekends sitting on the deck in front of our camper, perched among hemlocks on a steep slope. It feels like a treehouse that you don’t have to climb. The front of the deck is propped on an old stump with a giant shelf fungus growing out of it. Hen of the woods, Seth wondered? I’ve never seen them that big. The ospreys and eagles like to land in the neighbor’s white pine. Sometimes they sit on a branch of the oak in front of the cottage. Last week one of the raptors dropped a headless fish at the base of the front steps. My dog rolled in it.
The dog! I’ve gotten sidetracked lounging on the deck. She’s settled since her initial squeak. I have to pee, so I imagine my pups do too. They haven’t been out since last night.
But now there’s a chipmunk sitting still as a statue on a nearby stump, its tail curled around its torso like a fox. It could be mistaken for a lawn ornament until it blinks. A tickle in my throat creates a cough that sends it scurrying. I reach for my metal water bottle.
My mother-in-law’s teatime company arrives on her porch, and I’m glad I’m not still in front of the cottage, stooped over the hydrangea in my PJs. I’m hiding in the woods up back, on the deck with a view of the lake, wondering whether to sit in the swing chair, the hammock, or my reclining zero-G. A breeze blows the swing and rattles distant windchimes.
My bladder beckons, and I head up to the camper to start my day.
Closely and beautifully observed morning!
Gorgeous !