A Flutter of Wings

~ shoreacres ~ 63 Comments

BERJAYA

 

The words seemed familiar, pulling at threads of memory as though determined to unravel their mystery.

If you do not believe in the ginn, you have only to look at the heavens for proof. That ‘shooting star,’ as you call it: what is it but the stone thrown by one of the angels in heaven when an evil ginn approaches in order to overhear the conversation of Paradise, and learn the secrets of the future?
Another custom is the way they mark one of those pauses in conversation which, in England, is sometimes accompanied by the declaration that ‘an angel is passing.’ After a moment of silence, one of the company will say, ‘Wahed dhu!’ (‘God is One’), and the whole company in a low murmur will repeat, ‘La ilah ilia Allah!’ (‘There is no God but one God’), and conversation is resumed.
I made a note of all the proverbs I heard in these talks, for conversation in the East is enriched with unending proverbs, as with a wonderful power of expression in poetic form and idiom.

Reading on, I began to wonder if S.H. Leeder, in his Veiled Mysteries of Egypt and the Religion of Islam, had provided source material for Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet. In the third volume of Durrell’s series, the diplomat Mountolive reflects on certain Egyptian customs in remarkably similar language.

Ali says that shooting stars are stones thrown by the angels in heaven to drive off evil djinns when they try to eavesdrop on the conversations in Paradise and learn the secrets of the future.
Also, the pause in conversation which we call ‘Angels’ Passing’ is greeted another way. After a moment of silence one says, ‘Wahed Dhu’ or ‘One is God’ and then the whole company repeats fervently in response, ‘La illah illa Allah’ or ‘no God but one God’ before normal conversation is resumed. These little habits are extremely taking.

Paragraph by paragraph, page by page, elements from Leeder’s work appear in the opening section of Mountolive. Having surprised Durrell at his craft, I smiled first at his source material, then smiled again at the presence, even in Islamic culture, of the so-called ‘silent pause.’ Western literary examples abound, as in this dialog from August Strindberg’s 1879 novel, The Red Room.

‘But as breakfast has been ordered for eleven, we’ll have to wait a while. Won’t you sit down?’
There was an ominous silence.
‘An angel is passing through the room,’ said Agnes.
‘You!’ said Rehnhjelm, respectfully and ardently kissing her hand.

Three years later,  F. Marion Crawford described the nature of the experience in his novel, Mr. Isaacs: A Tale of Modern India.

There are times when silence seems to be sacred, even unaccountably so. A feeling is in us that to speak would be almost a sacrilege, though we are unable to account in any way for the pause.
At such moments every one seems instinctively to feel the same influence, and the first person who breaks the spell either experiences a sensation of awkwardness and says something very foolish, or, conscious of the odds against him, delivers himself of a sentiment of ponderous severity and sententiousness.
‘The Germans,’ said Isaacs, ‘say that an angel is passing over the house. I do not believe it.’

BERJAYA

The German expression Isaacs may have been referencing – Ein engel flog durchs zimmer  (‘an angel flew across the room’) – was collected by folklorist Reinhold Köhler in 1865. Even earlier, Jacob Grimm observed, “If among a group of people there is suddenly a silence, it is said that an angel has passed through, or an angel is passing through: its sublime appearance silencing worldly noise.”

While the French describe everything from bed and breakfasts to birds in flight as un ange passe, they also use the phrase to refer to sudden, unexpected breaks in conversation due to awkwardness or embarrassment.

Regardless of context, an implied question remains: is the angel the cause of the silence, or its effect? Some suggest an angel’s passage causes conversation to cease. Others, believing that the angel is aware of human awkwardness or embarrassment, chooses to ‘pass over’ in order to smooth things out.

Even those not inclined toward angelic explanations acknowledge the phenomenon’s reality. Significant breaks in conversations sometimes are referred to as the ‘Harvard pause.’ Not limited to academic settings, the phrase is used to describe a variety of sudden silences — sometimes awkward, occasionally discomfiting, always unexpected — that can descend upon family gatherings, social occasions, or boardroom discussions.

The source of the phrase seems a bit of a mystery. In a 2006 forum discussion, the member known as jshelus described the phenomenon.

You are at a party, everyone is talking in small groups. The din is notable, and people speak up to talk over it. About every 20 minutes… the din drops dramatically for about 30 seconds to the point where it is noticed by everyone, Then, it picks up again.
We both remember being told about the phenomenon as something that was studied by a Harvard professor and [thus became known as] the ‘Harvard pause.’

Another person suggested the phenomenon had been explored in one of Jay Ingram’s books.

[Ingram] hypothesized that the noise level at a party randomly goes up and down, and when it goes down to a certain level we subconsciously pick up on it as a signal to be quiet because something’s happening, and so the noise level drops further.

One forum participant recalled being told that such silences mean Abraham Lincoln’s ghost has walked into a room. That reminded me of my grandmother’s response to conversational lulls. “Someone’s coming to visit,” she’d say, though whether she expected Lincoln, an angel, or a neighbor from down the street is impossible to say.

BERJAYA“Angel Unaware” ~ James Christensen

Whatever the truth about Harvard and angels, we live in the midst of a season when pauses of any sort are rare.

The Christmas season might well be called the clamorous season: a time for Christians to complain about retail pressure and commercialization, while non-Christians grump about bombardment with Christmas carols and demands for public nativity scenes.

Still, whether we’re lighting menorahs or seeking the star of Bethlehem, awaiting the solstice or breaking the darkness with bonfires, there’s much to enjoy in the social occasions, the decorating, and the gift giving-and-receiving which the season brings. The chatter of children, the cacophonies of shoppers, the chants and choruses of song: these are the sounds of celebration, and the means of our rejoicing.

If silence should descend upon our celebrations like a pall, leaving us  speechless and tongue-tied, silenced without reason, perhaps we would do well to avoid filling that silence too quickly.

Despite appearances to the contrary, this is the season of angels: messengers to humanity of a reality deeper and richer than many will dare to imagine. In the heart of every unexpected silence, those who do pause and listen may at last hear an improbable flutter of wings: un ange passe.

Andjeli Pevaju (Angels Sing)
Noć prekrasna i noć tija,
nad pećinom zvezda sija,
u pećini mati spi,
nad Isusom andjel bdi.
Andjeli pevaju,
pastiri sviraju,
andjeli pevaju
mudraci javljaju:
Što narodi čekaše,
što proroci rekoše,
evo sad se u svet javi,
u svet javi i objavi:
Rodi nam se Hristos Spas
za spasenje sviju nas.
Aliluja, aliluja,
Gospodi pomiluj!
Mir Bozji, Hristos se Rodi!” Vaistinu se Rodi!
A night of beauty and silence,
a star shining over the cave,
within, a mother sleeping in the cave,
over Jesus, an angel vigiliant .
The angels are singing,
the sheperds are fluting,
the angels are singing,
the wise bring it forth:
what the nations awaited,
what the prophets had said,
here and now it is announced,
it is announced and brought forth:
Christ, our Redeemer is born for the Salvation of us all.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, Lord, have mercy!
“Peace on earth, Christ is born!” “He is born indeed!”
 

BERJAYA

Comments always are welcome.

Longfellow’s Complicated Christmas

~ shoreacres ~ 90 Comments
longfellowHenry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ Heppenheimer & Maurer Cigar box label c. 1880

Long ago and far away, in a world still appreciative of rhyme and meter, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow committed a crime which made him poeta non grata to many modern critics: he became popular with the reading public.

By the mid-twentieth century, Longfellow’s accessibility had become, as Indiana University professor Christoph Irmscher describes it, a literary equivalent to the mark of Cain. A century after publication, Longfellow’s work was ubiquitous. By the time I graduated from high school, I’d read dozens of Longfellow poems and memorized others in part or in whole: “The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls”; “Paul Revere’s Ride“; “Evangeline.”

In a series of memorable advertising campaigns from the 1950s and 1960s, even Hamm’s beer commercials featured a klutzy, log-rolling bear and drew on the couplets of Longfellow’s “Hiawatha” for its jingle: “From the land of sky-blue waters, from the land of pines, lofty balsams, comes the beer refreshing: Hamm’s, the beer refreshing.”

BERJAYA

Long before I discovered the Hamm’s-Hiawatha connection, another of Longfellow’s poems had become a familiar part of my bedtime ritual. First published in the September, 1860 issue of The Atlantic Monthly, “The Children’s Hour“ today is judged to be both saccharine and sentimental, but the story my parents read to me became a treasured part of my own ‘children’s hour.’

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations
That is known as the Children’s Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

Still a child myself, I didn’t realize that Alice, Allegra, and Edith were actual Longfellow children: half of the six Longfellow siblings. Another sister, Fanny, died in childhood; brothers Charles and Ernest completed the family circle.  By 1854, after resigning his teaching position at Harvard, Longfellow enjoyed the support of this devoted family as he entered into one of his most intensely creative periods.

Glimpses of their life can be found in the journal of Longfellow’s wife, Fanny. On July 9, 1861, she wrote:

We are all sighing for the good sea breeze instead of this stifling land, one filled with dust. Poor Allegra is very droopy with heat, and Edie has to get her hair in a net to free her neck from the weight.

The weight of Edith’s hair would lead to unspeakable tragedy. The day after her journal entry, Fanny decided to trim some of the seven year old’s hair. As was the custom, she set out to preserve a few of the clippings in an envelope. While using a candle to melt a bar of sealing wax to close the envelope, hot wax fell into her lap. Her dress ignited almost immediately, enveloping her in flames.

Attempting to protect Edith and Allegra, Fanny ran to Longfellow’s study, where he attemped to extinguish the flames with a throw rug. When that failed, he tried putting out the flames by wrapping his arms around her: burning his own face, arms, and hands in the process.

Fanny died of her injuries the next morning, July 11, 1861. Overcome by grief and still suffering from his burns, Longfellow wasn’t able to attend her funeral, or her burial in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. He carried scars from the experience throughout his life, both emotionally and physically. His iconic beard was neither a bow to custom nor an affectation, but a result of the scarring that made shaving difficult.

longfellowportrait

BERJAYA

The first Christmas after Fanny’s death, Longfellow wrote, “How inexpressibly sad are all holidays.” A year later, on December 25, 1862, his journal reads, “A ‘Merry Christmas’ say the children, but that is no more for me.”  In 1863, there was no entry on Christmas day, but more than lingering grief over Fanny’s death was involved.

In March of 1863, two years after his mother’s death, Longfellow’s 18-year-old son Charles left home to join the Union Army. Knowing his father would disapprove, the young man wrote:

Dear Papa,
You know for how long a time I have been wanting to go to the war. I have tried hard to resist the temptation of going without your leave, but I cannot any longer. I feel it to be my first duty to do what I can for my country, and I would willingly lay down my life for it, if it would be of any good. God bless you all.
Yours affectionately,
Charley

When his son missed the 1863 Gettysburg campaign because of “camp fever” (probably typhoid), Longfellow traveled to Washington, D.C. to oversee his care. After two weeks, the pair returned to Massachusetts, where Charles continued his recovery before returning to Virginia on August 14. In late November, the Army of the Potomac moved against Confederate forces in a series of maneuvers known as the Mine Run campaign.  On Nov. 27, 1863, while participating in the campaign, Charles suffered a severe shoulder wound and narrowly avoided spinal paralysis.

Once again, Longfellow traveled to Washington, and brought his son home. Charles survived, but never again served in the Army.  As for Longfellow, he summarized the past years’ ordeals to a friend with remarkable reserve, saying, “I have been through a great deal of trouble and anxiety.”

BERJAYA

Despite Longfellow’s empty journal page, he did write on December 25, 1863. As he pondered both personal griefs and national strife, his poem “Christmas Bells” came to life. The song we know as “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” was based on his poem, despite having its more uncomfortable verses excised. Here is the complete poem:

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered from the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearthstones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on Earth, “ I said:
“For Hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on Earth, goodwill to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead; nor doth He sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on Earth, goodwill to men!

Ironically, Longfellow — often criticized for sentimental verse — had one of his strongest poems rendered somewhat sentimental by its popularizers. While preferring not to sing about cannons and their “black, accursed mouths” during Christmas celebrations is perfectly understandable, there is value in knowing the poem as written. Subject to our own personal griefs and suffering through yet another time of great civil division and distress, we surely can say, with Longfellow, that we have been through a great deal of trouble and anxiety.

Nevertheless, and despite everything he had endured, Longfellow maintained hope, and distilled that hope into his poem. We may not sing his words as he wrote them, but we can read his words, and reflect. In the midst of the commercialism, contentiousness, and cynicism that mark our Christmas celebrations, the bells still ring.

 

BERJAYA

Comments always are welcome.

Small Town Glitter, Big City Warmth

~ shoreacres ~ 80 Comments
BERJAYANewton, Iowa Courthouse Decorated for Christmas, c. 1955

Given the extravagant light displays common around today’s homes and shopping areas, the spare arrangement of garlands, arches, and colored bulbs that marked the beginning of the Christmas season in my cold and snowy home town seems almost laughable. Seeing those light strands draped from the courthouse peak to the ground below, today’s revelers could be excused for thinking budget cuts had come to town, rather than Santa. That said, the lights were more than a beloved tradition; they were quite an attraction, and not only for the residents who admired them.

As a youngster, from the post-Thanksgiving lighting of the courthouse square until its darkening at the New Year, I imagined our little town to be as brilliant as Rockefeller Center, as exotic as Kansas City’s Country Club Plaza, and as compelling as New York’s 5th Avenue. Airlines bound to or from Des Moines from such exotic locations as Chicago or St. Louis would re-route flights in order to allow their passengers a glimpse of our lights; seen from the air, they were said to glitter like diamonds.

Attending the lighting always took place as a family event, but in time I grew old enough to walk uptown with friends to window shop, or simply to enjoy the atmosphere. On the way, we caught snowflakes on our tongues or jumped into drifts. Once in town, we admired the painted snowdrifts, Christmas trees, and stars decorating the windows of shops displaying a glory of animated wonders: bobbing and bowing Santas, prancing reindeer, and model trains making circular journeys through tiny snow-covered villages and pines.

Awash in color and light, the nights were no less filled with sound: neighbors exchanging Christmas greetings, childrens’ laughter, and the light, pleasant sound of ringing Salvation Army bells. Above it all, recorded music played from the courthouse speakers, cycling through favorite Christmas songs and carols. As the sound of “Silver Bells” washed over the bright, bustling scene, it transformed our small town into an equal of the world’s most sophisticated cities, imbuing it with a feeling of Christmas.

“Silver Bells” ~ Bing Crosby and Carol Richards

“Silver Bells,” written by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans for the 1950 movie The Lemon Drop Kid, became an enormous hit for Bing Crosby. Eventually, Livingston revealed that his inspiration for the song came from hearing the bell-ringing Santas of Manhattan: an urban equivalent to our Salvation Army bell-ringers. When the bells ringing through our small town night and the bell-ringers populating our greatest metropolis merged in my imagination, “Silver Bells” became, for me, one of the most evocative Christmas songs ever written.

BERJAYA

Years later, I no longer had to imagine the sound of those urban bells. While spending occasional Christmas holidays in New York, I not only experienced Livingston’s bell-ringing Santas, I also experienced a city that differed from my expectations in a number of interesting ways.

New York seemed edgy and energetic, a little self-important, and perhaps even self-obsessed. If people walked faster than in my small town, they certainly talked louder: often ignoring those around them with casual aplomb. Manhattan may have been sophisticated, I thought, but it also seemed slightly brittle, exploding with levels of noise and light I couldn’t have imagined as a child.

BERJAYANew York winter street ~ courtesy Brandon Remler

And yet, even the most frenetic city can show a different face. Early one evening, walking to my aunt’s house in lower Manhattan, an increasingly heavy snowfall began to swirl and play in the lights, obscuring the outlines of buildings. The faint shush of tires in snow and a noticeable absence of car horns caught my attention: even the taxis seemed less aggressive.

As I neared West 16th, bus stops were emptying and few customers lined the counter at Chock Full o’Nuts, but colored light streamed from the window of a neighborhood bodega. As a departing customer opened its door, I heard the faint but unmistakable strains of “Silver Bells” drifting into the street. Impulsively stepping into the shop, I smiled at the man behind the counter and said, “I like your music.” Returning my smile, he said, “Good music for a good holiday.” It may have been an unfamiliar shop in a very large city, but at that moment the city could have been my home town: filled with the light, and warmth, and peace of Christmas.

I’ve pondered the strange and paradoxical nature of “Silver Bells” for years. The same song that allowed me to imagine our small Iowa town as a gleaming, glittering gem of a city, once heard in the heart of an actual city, momentarily transformed its impersonal streets into a small-town community: a place where people could stop, and smile, and speak.

Today, memories of both experiences sharpen my sense of expectation for the coming season. Some way, somehow — whether in the pleasure of a much-beloved song, the surprise of rippling bells, or the warmth of a stranger’s open smile — the transformative power of Christmas is available to us all.

 

BERJAYA

Comments always are welcome.

Song for a Turning World

~ shoreacres ~ 85 Comments
BERJAYATurning toward a new season

As a maelstrom of conflict and change sweeps across the world, I find myself returning to the music of Gordon Bok: woodworker, sculptor, sailor, and poet. It serves as a touchstone — a reminder of a more gracious time — and I’m once again grateful for the graciousness of a reader who introduced me to Bok’s life and creativity.

Al and I had been exchanging thoughts on music. In an emailed post-script to our conversation, he added, “I can’t think of a better song than Gordon Bok’s “Turning Toward the Morning.” Pointing me toward Albany, New York’s WAMC and their Saturday night broadcasts of the “Hudson River Sampler” he said, “I can almost guarantee you’ll hear something by Bok: if not this Saturday, then next Saturday, for sure. And something by Stan Rogers, as well. But you’ll also hear songs you’ve never heard before, and will want to hear again.”

He was right. Having been introduced to Bok and his fellow musicians, Ed Trickett and Ann Mayo Muir, I couldn’t help wanting to hear more from their rich repertoire. Drawn from an historic sea-faring culture, redolent of seaweed and salt, their net-hauling songs and ballads of the Maine coast evoked a world whose broad outlines would be recognizable even to Gulf coast shrimpers.  It’s a world that informs Bok’s original compositions, as well as his retelling of folk tales rooted in cultures from around the world.

Listening to his music, I wondered at Bok’s pathway through life, deeply touched by his simplicity and kindness. I even laughed at certain similarities between us. “I didn’t understand what my father did because he worked in an office,” Bok once said. “There was nothing that came out of it that I could feel – you couldn’t put a coat of varnish on it.”

BERJAYA

After much reading and listening, I still agree with my friend. Good songs continue to be written, and great songs endure, but there’s no better song than Turning Toward the Morning. Like a small-boat day on the water, it’s easy and rhythmic, perfectly designed to soothe away preoccupations and care.

But “Turning Toward the Morning” is more than easy listening for an easy afternoon. It’s a poet’s way of stating an inviolable truth: that in the face of all that life imposes in the way of difficulties, chaos, and fear, life itself goes on. As Bok tells it, the song was born of personal experience:

“One of the things that provoked this song was a letter last November from a friend who’d had a very difficult year and was looking for the courage to keep on plowing into it. Those times, you lift your eyes unto the hills, as they say, but the hills of Northern New England in November can be about as much comfort as a cold crowbar.
You have to look ahead a bit then, and realize that all the hills and trees and flowers will still be there come spring, usually more permanent than your troubles. And if your courage occasionally fails, that’s okay, too. Nobody expects you to be as strong as the land.”

In this time when political wrangling, deep division, fearfulness, lack of trust, and generalized crass nastiness increasingly characterize our society, Bok’s song affirms what faith proclaims and what hearts dare hope: that despite appearances, despite the coming darkness of our winter-shortened days, the world continues to turn. And always, no matter the depth of the surrounding darkness, it is turning toward the morning.

When the deer has bedded down
and the bear has gone to ground,
and the northern goose has wandered off
to warmer bay and sound,
it’s so easy in the cold
to feel the darkness of the year,
and the heart is growing lonely for the morning.
Oh, my Joanie, don’t you know
that the stars are swingin’ slow,
and the seas are rollin’ easy as they did so long ago.
And if I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
that the world is always turning toward the morning.
Now, October’s growin’ thin
and November’s comin’ home,
you’ll be thinkin’ of the season
and the sad things that you’ve seen.
And you hear that old wind walkin’,
hear him singin’ high and thin,
you could swear he’s out there singin’ of his sorrow.
Oh, my Joanie, don’t you know
that the stars are swingin’ slow,
and the seas are rollin’ easy, as they did so long ago.
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
that the world is always turning toward the morning.
When the darkness falls around you
and the north wind comes to blow
and you hear him call your name out
as he walks the brittle snow,
That old wind don’t mean you trouble,
he don’t care or even know,
he’s just walking down the darkness toward the morning.
Oh, my Joanie, don’t you know
that the stars are swingin’ slow,
and the seas are rollin’ easy, as they did so long ago.
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
that the world is always turning toward the morning.
It’s a pity we don’t know
what the little flowers know —
they can’t face the cold November,
they can’t take the wind and snow.
They put their glories all behind them,
bow their heads and let it go,
but you know they’ll be there shining in the morning.
Oh, my Joanie, don’t you know
that the stars are swinging slow,
and the seas are rollin’ easy, as they did so long ago.
And if I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
that the world is always turning toward the morning.
O, my Joanie don’t you know
that the day is rollin’ slow,
and the winter’s walkin’ easy, as it did so long ago.
And if that wind should come and ask you,
“Why’s my Joanie weepin’ so?”
won’t you tell him that you’re weeping for the morning.
Oh, my Joanie, don’t you know
that the stars are swingin’ slow,
and the seas are rollin’ easy, as they did so long ago.
And if I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
that the world is always turning toward the morning.

 

BERJAYA

Comments always are welcome.
“Turning Toward the Morning” lyrics are (c) 1975, Gordon Bok, BMI.
For more information on Gordon Bok’s work, please click here.

 

Walking An October Woods

~ shoreacres ~ 118 Comments
BERJAYAAutumn sunflowers among Big Thicket pines

For several years, the annual event known as Walktober has encouraged bloggers to spend time in nature, sharing their experience with others through words and photos.

This year, I chose to make two end-of-October visits to a pair of sites close to one another geographically and closely related ecologically: the Solo tract and the Sandylands Sanctuary, both part of the Texas region known as the Big Thicket. Distinguished by sandy soils, loblolly and long-leaf pines, and a variety of plants that thrive in an environment that’s been described as ‘a prairie with trees,’ both Solo and Sandylands are fascinating places to visit.

In this environment, the sunflowers shown in the photos above and below are better described by the alternate name ‘narrow-leafed.’ Their preferred environment is moist, but not necessarily swampy. In fall, these flowers sometimes fill acres of land.

BERJAYASwamp (or narrowleaf) sunflower ~ Helianthus angustifolius

Nearby, another member of the sunflower family continued to bloom at the end of its long season. Roughstem rosinweed often appears alongside roads in south central Texas as early as mid-March; its ‘long goodbye’ benefits every sort of pollinator.

BERJAYARoughstem rosinweed ~ Silphium radula

Another summer-into fall delight, Bidens aristosa, thrives in moist conditions: so much so that it’s sometimes called swamp marigold. Unlike other Bidens species, this beggartick’s seeds don’t easily attach to clothing, shoelaces, or fur.

BERJAYABearded beggarticks ~ Bidens aristosa

It’s impossible to miss beautiful blue dayflowers, even in the deepest shade. Sometimes known as widow’s tears for the drop of moisture that can be coaxed from the spathe at the base of the flower, they’re widely distributed across the country. The common name ‘dayflower’ refers to their bloom, which lasts for only one day.

BERJAYADayflower ~ Commelina erecta

Our tiny, pastel pink rough buttonweed can be distinguished from Virginia buttonweed (Diodia virginiana) by its color; the Virginia buttonweed is white.

BERJAYARough buttonweed ~ Diodia teres

The fall-blooming prairie agalinis, common on both coastal and inland prairies, isn’t shown for these Hardin County sites by the USDA, but it appears on the map provided by BONAP (The Biota of North America Program). Regardless of maps, flowers decide where to bloom, and multitudes of these beauties were scattered across the Solo tract.

BERJAYAPrairie agalinis ~ Agalinis heterophylla
BERJAYAMore than butterflies and bees visit this charming autumn flower

One of the creatures visiting the agalinis was this sculptured pine borer I found lying motionless on a stem. Females of this species lay eggs on scars in the bark of living pines or downed logs; their larvae may feed for several years before emerging, usually in summer. The adults live relatively short lives, lasting only a few weeks; this one may be gone already.

BERJAYASculptured pine borer ~ Chalcophora virginiensis

One of our most widespread and familiar wildflowers, firewheel can be found blooming year-round at the coast, but it emerges early and lingers late in other areas of the state. A source of nectar and pollen for insects like honey bees, it’s especially attractive to humans.

BERJAYAIndian blanket or firewheel ~ Gaillardia pulchella

The Sandylands Sanctuary is home to a rare white Gaillardia species known as Winkler’s blanketflower. Native only to Hardin, Newton, and Tyler Counties, it shares its habitat with the rare Texas trailing phlox (Phlox nivalis ssp. texensis) and the uncommon scarlet catchfly (Silene subciliata). Finding each of those flowers was sheer pleasure; choosing a favorite among them would be impossible.

BERJAYAWinkler’s blanketflower ~ Gaillardia aestivalis var. winkleri

Two tiny spurge species — members of the large Euphorbia genus — are quite attractive, if you happen to notice them. Sometimes nodding spurge claims attention by turning reddish in response to strong sunlight and dry conditions.

BERJAYANodding spurge ~ Euphobia nutans

In wooded areas, the somewhat taller white flowering spurge shines against the shadows.

BERJAYAFlowering spurge ~ Euphorbia corollata

I learned an important lesson at Sandylands when I found these pretty flowers blooming. I’d never seen anything like them, so I squirmed around on the ground trying to manage photos of plants that seemed to be resprouting: perhaps after having been cut, or burned in a prescribed fire. Within an hour, ‘pretty’ turned into ‘pretty annoying,’ and I added poison oak to my list of pretties to be avoided.

BERJAYAAtlantic poison oak ~ Toxicodendron pubescens

I’ve never found a snake in snake cotton, but I love these odd little plants. Another species, Froelichia gracilis, or plains snake cotton, is common farther west: both produce unusual, urn-like flowers.

BERJAYAFlorida snakecotton ~ Froelichia floridana

The plant does become cottony as it matures, making the common name understandable.

BERJAYASnake cotton all fuzzed up

Every sort of creature lurks within the cotton.

BERJAYAA green lynx spider (Peucetia viridans) waits for breakfast

I watched this wasp digging around in one spot for nearly ten minutes, until it disentangled a larva and flew off with it.

BERJAYA A mason or potter wasp searches more actively
BERJAYAand finds a tasty breakfast treat

A variety of Liatris species still provided color, despite their season being nearly at its end.

BERJAYASharp blazing star ~ Liatris acidota
BERJAYAPink-scale gayfeather with yellow bracts ~ Liatris elegans
BERJAYAA differently-colored Liatris elegans

The dramatically tall prairie blazing stars, so prolific in good years, had mostly faded and fallen, but some combination of conditions had led to new growth and bits of their wonderful color.

BERJAYAPrairie Blazing star ~ Liatris pycnostachya
BERJAYASome provided camouflage for insects like this green lynx spider
BERJAYAIf one stem is good, perhaps three will be better

Finding one of our Palafoxia species in bloom was pure pleasure. According to the maps, a similar species, the showy (or sand) palafox may or may not be present in Hardin county, but the Sandylands plant list mentions only Reverchon’s palafox. In any case, hundreds of these petite pink flowers were attracting a significant number of bees.

BERJAYAReverchon’s palafox ~ Palafoxia reverchonii 
BERJAYAAutumn-blooming flowers ~ pretty and useful

A few dozen lingering summer lavenders remained. Obviously beginning to fade, they served as reminders that the season truly was turning.

BERJAYA Maryland meadow beauty ~ Rhexia mariana
BERJAYATexas ironweed ~ Vernonia texana

Fall is goldenrod season, and at least twelve species are listed for Hardin county. Given these plants’ height, their obvious tolerance for shade, their growth in isolated clumps, and their presence on moister ground, I suspected I’d found Solidago canadensis, although S. altissima, another tall goldenrod, could be a reasonable choice. In any event, tall golden plants scattered at the edge of the woods are a dependable autumn delight.

BERJAYACanadian goldenrod ~ Solidago canadensis

October’s cooler temperatures often encourage what Texans like to call a ‘second spring.’ The buds and blooms of St.Peterswort may seem spring-like, but their pastel yellow regularly appears into October.

BERJAYASt. Peterswort ~ Hypericum crux-andreaeBERJAYAPerhaps a last St. Peterswort of summer

Since my October visits, both frost and light freezes have come to the piney woods, making it hard to say what I’ll find when next I return. What’s certain is that this rich and varied landscape provided a perfect conclusion to October, and will continue to offer delights in the seasons to come.

 

BERJAYA

Comments always are welcome.