From Here: Observing the Natural World

The Frog Chorus

We discovered the frogs the last time we were at the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens, in 2024. Several were visible in the Slater Forest Pond, and we spent some time observing them as they called to one another and basked on rocks.

Paul was especially entranced. So I knew we had to find them again when we went back to the gardens the other day.

We could hear the frogs singing as soon as we crossed the bridge from the visitors’ center. And from the second bridge.

But there were none to be seen.

The frogs were vocal in the children’s garden too. We spotted some tadpoles, which was exciting, but no frogs.

The little forest pond was quiet. There were many dragonflies, but no frogs.

“Let’s try the vernal pool walk,” I suggested. Alas. Though there were plenty of mosquitoes, there were no frogs.

We had a few minutes before we wanted to head to lunch, so we went back to the bridge. Paul insisted he didn’t have to see any frogs, but I thought he did.

The frogs were doing a loud call and response. But could we see them? No.

It was time to take out my monocular for its maiden voyage.

Paul gave me the eyepiece earlier in the week as a 70th birthday present. I was eager to use it. I had figured I would mostly use it for birding, but surely it would also help me locate frogs.

I took it out and aimed it at the pond below. I could hear the frogs’ metallic tones so loudly—they had to be right below me, in a thicket of brush in a corner formed  by a lip of land and the end of the bridge.

Twang! Twang! Twang!

I perceived, in my peripheral vision, a couple approaching me. “She’s looking for it,” the man said in a quiet, almost reverential tone.

They peered over the bridge. They whispered to each other. I felt quite important, but I still wasn’t seeing a thing.

“There he is!” The man was pointing triumphantly. “Next to the boulder!”

I lowered the monocular. Yes, there he was, a handsome green frog. Oh, well, so much for gadgetry. No, wait a minute. I raised the monocular again and was delighted to see the frog’s tiny fingers in detail.

A mother and toddler now approached. The little lad fastened himself to the bridge railing. “I see it!” He said.

No he didn’t. Mother called for him to come and he moseyed forward a few feet. He grasped the railing again. “I see it!”

She cajoled him away, but he was undaunted. “I see it!”

I waved at the two. “It’s over here. You can see the frog from over here.”

I stepped aside. Mother took her son to the spot. Paul and I stood farther down, enjoying the sun, scanning the pond.

They stayed for several minutes, watching the plump amphibian and discussing it intently before they moved off, probably to visit the nearby giant troll, Rosvka.

Paul and I took one last look at the green frog glistening in the sun. I declared “mission accomplished, with the help of a small village.

It was time for lunch.

------------

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

Scruffy No More

I said I wasn’t going to name squirrels anymore. But the squirrel with the moth-eaten middle kept coming back.

I called her Scruffy. I couldn’t help myself. Scruffy was so cute, and I’d see her several times a week. Plus she was recognizable, because of her regrettable tummy.

One of the problems with naming squirrels is that it’s impossible to tell them apart. Sure, it’s the rare squirrel who comes right up to me for a peanut. But how do I know it’s the same one who was friendly last week?

The other problem is that, being squirrels, they may show up regularly for weeks and then disappear. They are wild animals.

But I wrote about Scruffy in late March and she’s still on the scene. Well, I think it’s her. Her fur has grown in, but her demeanor is the same. Of all the squirrels who have become friendly with me, she is the only one who will wait for me directly outside the garage, where the peanuts are stored.

In fact, when I tell her, holding up my index finger, that I will be right back with the goods, she will sit up on her haunches and cock her head. Once when I came out of the garage she was in front of the door. That was a first.

So now her name is Sophy, because she is Scruffy No More.

I have a couple of other squirrels who dance around me as I distribute peanuts, but they don’t come too close. There is no mistaking them for Sophy. I suspect they are twins. I call them Frick and Frack.

So much for good intentions. Squirrels don’t care about them anyway. Or whether I call them by silly names. They want the concrete. They want reality. They want the peanut. 

Update! 5.18.2026

Today Sophy took a peanut from my hand for the first time. First she raced across the big back yard, where I was taking a bird feeder down to refill it. I told her I needed to get the peanuts from the garage. When I came out of the garage, she came running up again. I held out a peanut and she delicately took the very end into her mouth. I put a second one on the ground for her—squirrels can fit two into their mouth. Sophy then ran off to enjoy her snack.

A day to celebrate!

------------

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

Lunch Is Coming

Sandy Point Beach in Stockton Springs, Maine, is a quiet spot along the Penobscot River, near where it flows into Penobscot Bay. 

Ruined pilings range out from the beach at one point. They may be from a wharf used by the steamship that used to dock in the area, or may be the remains of a fertilizer factory. The details are sketchy. No one seems to know what they are, or were.

The pilings are scenic, in their way; they look haunting on a cloudy day, or in a fine mist.

But the sun was shining brightly on the late April day when Paul and I stood gazing at them. It was our 40th wedding anniversary. We were enjoying a walk along the shore before a celebratory lunch.

My eyes landed on a platform on one of the pilings. “Is that an osprey’s nest?” I said.

As if in answer, a majestic bird suddenly rose out of the box. It flew directly over us, slowly. Was it glaring at us? Then it headed off into the woods beyond.

The reason for the warning soon became apparent. Chirps and plaintive cries arose from the nest. Chicks! We stood and listened, smiling. We couldn’t see the babies, but they were clearly hungry. And then, a second adult flew out of the nest, this time toward deeper water.

“Lunch is coming,” I wanted to call out to the young ones.

We waited a bit but the adults did not return. Oh, how I wanted them to. I wanted to be sure the babies ate. I hated to turn away to continue our walk. I felt like I was deserting them.

I took one long look before I left. But as I walked, watching the waves gently lap the shore, I calmed down. Nature takes its course. Ospreys will do what they have always done. They know their chicks are hungry and they have gone off to find food for them.

I found peace in that thought, as a soft breeze rippled through the nearby salt marsh, as the sun rose higher in the sky.

------------ 

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

 Earth Day

Today is Earth Day. For years I have told myself that I participated in the first Earth Day on April 22, 1970. I joined an organized group of classmates and picked up trash in my Massachusetts hometown. I have always been proud of my participation, but as I sat down to write about it, I wondered how valid my memory was.

First I realized that I was 13 in 1970.  A school-sponsored outing to mark Earth Day did not seem like the kind of thing that would have happened in my junior high school. It seems more likely that the outing occurred when I was a freshman in high school, in 1971.

Then there’s the problem of April vacation. In Massachusetts and Maine, spring break occurs at the time of Patriots’ Day. That occurs on April 19th, but since 1969, it has been celebrated on the closest Monday. Earth Day always falls during spring break in Massachusetts and Maine. I know this as I was a school librarian who yearned to celebrate Earth Day with my students for 32 years.

Then there’s this. I heard on the radio show “Living on Earth” that Earth Day was not envisioned as the yearly celebration it has become. This lends credibility to my notion that I participated in that first event, although it probably wasn’t on the actual day. Maybe the Saturday before?

Hmphh.

Well, that trash-collecting outing, whenever it was, has stuck with me all these years. And I know it was related to Earth Day. My group was dispatched to a bleak area underneath the Braga Bridge, a soaring span that connects the city of Fall River and the town of Somerset, where my family lived. The bridge crosses the Taunton River near where it connects with Mount Hope Bay.

I remember thinking at the time that I had no idea that Somerset bordered the bay. Of course I knew the bay—it extended along the west side of Fall River and the adjoining town of Tiverton, R.I., where my mother had grown up and some of her family still lived.

But this area was dominated by the coal-burning Brayton Point Power Plant. I had no reason to be down there in normal circumstances.

So I learned something new about my town that day. And that maybe I needed to be a bit more aware of my surroundings. I was proud, too, to be part of the effort, to be doing my part. I was appalled by the ugliness of the trash that had collected along the beautiful bay, and the specter of the power plant so close by.

The day helped me become an environmentally aware person as I grew into adulthood. There were other factors. My mother’s father had grown a big garden on an in-town lot in Tiverton, a couple of blocks from the bay. He was an inspiration to me. I have a photo of him, in his Boston cap and overalls, holding a basket of strawberries, on display. My father started growing vegetables in our backyard in the early ‘70s. and taught me what he knew. 

I’ve been a gardener ever since, and have tried to be a good steward of the earth. I am not perfect by a very long stretch. But I have done my best to provide food, water and shelter for the critters who frequent my city yard; to plant for pollinators; and to reduce, reuse and recycle. Paul and I chose to live in a community that was close to our jobs, services and amenities, which kept our need to drive to a minimum.

What a wonderful surprise it was to learn, as I did my research for this piece, that the wider area where my group worked is now the Brayton Point Wildlife Management Area. I would love to see it some day. The plant closed in 2017 and a wind power facility is being developed on the site.

Progress!

I will continue to relish that mental image I have of my teenage self, picking up trash. I may not have all the details straight, but the inspiration endures. Cherish the earth.

------------ 

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

 Back to the Bin

Something happens when Paul announces, "We're ready to start composting again."

The world shifts. Soon I will be gardening and shopping at farmers’ markets and farm stands. I’ll be cooking with local and seasonal foods. I’ll be picking flowers from my beds.  

And when I find a moment, I’ll be sitting on the porch, reading.

I will be in my happy season.

We take our fruit and vegetable scraps and store them in a metal bucket designed for that purpose. When it’s full, we bring it out to the wooden bins Paul built years ago. They don’t get full sun, so they don’t make for an optimal compost-producing operation, but they do provide enough product to keep most of our beds nourished.

Composting isn’t just about the end result, though that is important. If you want to grow organically, which we have always done, there’s nothing better to enrich your soil than your own rotted lemon peels and potato parings.

Meanwhile, food waste is a real problem. It’s the single largest type of material in U.S. landfills. When it rots there, it produces methane, which is a greenhouse gas.

When I compost, I do feel I’m doing the right thing, environmentally speaking. But I also enjoy the process. Turning food waste into fertilizer makes me feel a bit like a magician. And I prefer, for hygienic reasons, to bring food scraps outside rather than throwing them in the kitchen trash container.

When I was growing up, my parents had a metal container with a lid buried in the yard. My mother would put the “swill,” as she called it, into it. Somebody—I’m not sure I ever saw him—would come by and take it away, to feed it to pigs.

It pleases me to think that my parents, in this way, were more ecologically correct than me.

Composting is easy. Save your scraps. Add garden debris and fallen leaves to your bins. Mix it up and let it sit. Soon you will have a rich, crumbly mixture that will make your plants grow tall and strong without chemical additives.

In fact, the scraps already start percolating while they’re still in the house. When I pick up the container to add more swill, I can feel the heat.

It’s exciting, but I don’t take a deep breath, for obvious reasons. I do smile. I know that from a brown banana peel, a scooped-out grapefruit, a few moldy peas, my happiness will grow.

_______ 

 

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

Splish-Splash—It’s Spring! 

A robin flapped its wings in the birdbath. She stuck her head into the water, splashed some more. Flapped those wings around. Splish-splash!

It was March 30th, and I had seen a few robins around town. But this was the first one to appear in our yard. The robin, of course, is a harbinger of spring. But a robin taking a bath—well, that is reason to rejoice.

We provide water for our backyard critters all year round. In the winter, Paul is in charge of setting up “The Bluebird Cafe,” a heated birdbath. Sparrows and chickadees enjoy drinking from it regularly, along with the squirrels. Sometimes our resident cardinals and blue jays also pop in.

They drink, sometimes heartily. But they never, ever bathe.

It’s a different story in the warm weather. We have three warm-weather baths in the backyard: a standard pedestal model, a shallow leaf-shaped receptacle that lies on the ground, and the Zen birdbath.

The latter is a squat square block of concrete and the birds love it. It only stands about a foot off the ground, but sometimes in midsummer there’s a line waiting to get in. The birds splash around, then hop on the rim and preen. They can be quite vigorous. If no one swoops in to take their spot, they may head back in for a second round.

The robin had the place to herself. She took her time, and made sure she was squeaky clean.

It was a pleasant day for March. The sun was out. But it was still March, gray and brown with a bite to the breeze. The calendar said spring had arrived, but it didn’t feel like it.

Until I saw that robin. That robin, taking a bath.

_______ 

 

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

The Trouble With Naming Squirrels

I feed peanuts to my backyard squirrels to keep them away from the bird feeders.

That’s the theory, anyway.

It does keep them busy for a while. It does prevent them from emptying the feeders on a daily basis.

Mostly, though, my peanut feeding is a source of entertainment, especially during the winter.

I enjoy watching the squirrels scurry around me, at a distance, as I throw out the peanuts. Later, from the house, I see some of them grab the peanuts, then sit on their haunches and munch them. Others disappear to parts unknown to bury them or enjoy them in solitude.

Sometimes I know exactly where they’ve gone. When Paul finishes using a stack of firewood, there are always peanuts and shells tucked among the bottom logs and strewn on the ground.

The best moments are when one of the squirrels comes up to me for a treat. I was so charmed when the first fuzzy rodent approached me that I named him Owen.

He came running up to me several times over the course of the month. At least, I think it was him. How would I really know? As Paul likes to say, the squirrels don’t wear name tags.

Then, just as suddenly, Owen stopped coming.

I was sad, but told myself that he, in his squirrel way, had moved on. He had probably started a family in a nearby yard.

When, a few weeks later, a squirrel ran up, looked up at me and accepted a peanut a foot from my feet, I was pleased. But I did not name him. Or her.

I have since decided that “my” squirrels move through my life the way they move through the yard—quickly, lightly, and without much regard for any attempts to keep track of them.

These days, I’ve made my peace with the arrangement. I toss the peanuts. The squirrels  come and go. We share a moment, and that is enough.

This morning, a little guy approached me tentatively. I threw a peanut at my feet, but he didn’t come any closer. Then he snapped up the one I threw about two feet away. He sat up on his haunches, just adorable.

I noticed he was missing some fur around his middle. Maybe I should call him “Scruff.”

Then again, maybe not. 

_______

 

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

The Bobble Cap

There was still ice on the water when Paul and I walked on the Kennebec River Rail Trail early last week. We were bundled up; the day was bright but cold. We were alone on the trail, save for a bald eagle perched high in a tree. He watched us solemnly, and judged us to be not good eating.

We had returned to the trail, where we walk regularly in spring, summer and fall, after weeks of exercising at the YMCA. We’re grateful we have a place to go when it’s too icy and frigid to walk outside, but we’re eager to get back into nature again.

Spring officially arrived last Friday. On Saturday, we walked on the trail again. It was cloudy and raw. But yes, we said, we want to be outside. The trail was quiet as we headed toward Hallowell. The ice was gone, I noted. A tufted titmouse sang mightily. A group of raptors flew overhead.

Suddenly, a voice. “Hello!” It was a woman we often see walking. She passed us and waved. “Good morning!” We responded. She headed down the trail, her bobble hat bouncing merrily.

Soon came another familiar face, the man with the Very Good Black Lab. “Hello!” We all said.

We turned around after walking a mile. The sun came out. More people were heading down the trail. More familiar faces. “Hello! Hello!”

I felt like perhaps, maybe, spring had truly arrived.

Today it is snowing. I am not walking today, but I’m not fretting. I have literally seen the light—shining over the Kennebec’s free-moving waters. The weather’s not settled yet, but it’s already brighter and warmer out there. The natives—the eagles, the titmice, the walkers—have returned to the trail.

_______

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

Crow

The crow landed with a thud in the tall maple and cawed.

“Peanuts!” I said, holding out the plastic container I was carrying. Crow cawed again — but this time, a slightly different sound. Lower, longer. I wondered if he was calling a mate, or a friend. Or was he addressing me? Did he know me as “The Peanut Lady”?

Crows are regular visitors to our yard. They enjoy the peanuts I originally put out for the squirrels — in hopes of keeping them away from the bird feeders — and the blue jays. I was glad when they showed up. I like the way crows strut around the yard. They are handsome birds, and they have an attitude.

Often, at dusk, I see dozens of them flying far overhead. There is a murder of crows that roosts somewhere in Augusta — I think on the other side of the Kennebec River. It’s an amazing, soul-satisfying sight.

Another crow arrived as I filled the bird feeders and threw out some peanuts. The two watched me from the tree but did not come near. 

I went into the house, washed my hands, and then joined my husband, who was waiting in the car in the driveway. As I opened the car door, a crow flew overhead, low enough that I could see it had a peanut clenched in its beak.

Mission accomplished. For Crow, and for the Peanut Lady.

_______

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com