THAT GREEN FUSE*

*  “The force that though the green fuse drives the flower

              Drives my green age…”

A peony enjoying the sun

June again!  When everything green is thick with growth and the exuberant ripeness of reproduction.  It is a veritable frenzy of egg-laying and pollination.   Outdoor surfaces are coated with the yellowish dust of pollen from trees and grasses.  Car windshields are streaked with it.   

Other peony buds look ready to explode

On our front porch the new avian tenants are two barn swallow families, back from wintering somewhere in South America.  Before humans built barns and the like they would have been called cave swallows, like the swallows out west that still bear that name.  Swallow nests are wonderful constructions:  built upon barely half an inch of base (they sometimes build upon no base whatever but attach to a vertical wall) the nests cantilever out in semi-circular fashion.   

Both swallow parents build the nest with mud and mix it with grass stems. The cup is lined first with grass, then feathers.  Sometimes they reuse nests, but at the end of last season Ken cleaned up their droppings and took out the old nest.  I think this year we’ll leave it.  (Last year we had one grosbeak nest, and one swallow nest on our porch.)  The location of one nest is in exactly the same place as last year’s.  One of the two sets of parents made a first nesting attempt directly overhead by the front door.  What gave it away was the daily flinging of mud on our front door.   We didn’t relish being dive-bombed every time we used the doorway, not to mention the constant irritant that would provide to the birds.  

One parent sits on a nearby light fixture while the other tends the nest above

They are busy parents, ignoring most of our activity on the front porch to fly back and forth to watch their nests and now–maybe–to feed their chicks.  Their diet is flies of all types, along with beetles, bees, wasps (more power to them!), ants, butterflies, moths and what-have-you.  They look especially busy in early evening as they dip low over the pond to snatch mosquitos or other insects.  

Two hungry mouths.  No three!  (Actually five!)  [Photo thanks to Bob Norland]

The weigela is in bloom along the side of the porch

Hummingbirds that arrived the first two weeks of May are hurrying among the red-flowering weigela and the nectar feeders.  When the wiegela is done flowering they will be even busier around the feeders.  Finding where they nest is not easy; their nests are so tiny and their movements so fast it’s nearly impossible to find where they alight much less locate their nest.  

[Photo thanks to Bob Norland who has become expert at photographing hummingbirds]

The seed-filled feeder behind the house has already had its spring visitors:  first the titmice, the finches, nuthatches and woodpeckers and others followed by brilliant gold finches that ornamented the shrub near the feeder some thirty at a time, followed by grosbeaks, more woodpeckers and now, alas, we are settling for sparrows, some finches, and (ugh!) starlings.

A yellow swallowtail among the dianthus

A Common Whitetail (Libellula Lydia) dragonfly (center) atop a blade of tall grass

I have planted the summer vegetables.  There are fewer of them than last year, when I had put in far too many grape tomato plants, too many jalapenos (what do you do with a dozen jalapenos?) and too many squash plants, a disappointment when they cover plenty of ground but don’t do much in the way of edible squashes).  The year before it was a surfeit of eggplants.  Hard to get this just right.  

It looks better now, but this was the sunflower section earlier.  Which ones are the weeds?

This year there will be a slightly extended flower garden and more sunflowers instead.  I can almost hear it all growing.  Weeds, especially.  The enthusiasm with which weeds grow here is nothing short of amazing.  Once sprouted they lock themselves into the hard clay and refuse to be pulled out.  Or leave roots behind––hah!

In the fields the grasses are already approaching two feet in height.  They probably won't be mowed until later in the summer because the low places, the swales, are still too wet..  

Everywhere: growth, and more growth, sprouting, blooming, multiplying, aging.

The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower

Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower   

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees   

Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks   

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams   

Turns mine to wax.

And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins

How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool

Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind   

Hauls my shroud sail.

And I am dumb to tell the hanging man

How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;   

Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood   

Shall calm her sores.

And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind

How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb

How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

POSTSCRIPT:

Should you happen to remember the March post called "Local Issue":   The removal of the old and dysfunctional Middlebury Town Offices and its replacement, with financial support from Middlebury College, will happen after all.  The second vote or revote took place while we were in London.  For now, things have quieted.  

LOST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM

The "Shard"

Architecture

Do we make as much fun of buildings we don’t like as the British do?  Do we have the same number of silly-looking buildings?  No and no–or rather, I don't think so.  On the other hand, we don’t have as many you can point to and say, wow, that’s wild!   It’s been a good 15 years since we were in London, pre-millennium, before many of the physical changes in the cityscape, the most obvious being the millennium wheel (14 years ago right there).  Now we have the "Shard" (tallest in all Europe!), the "Gherkin" and the "Wurlitzer", plus one in progress (droopy, like it wants to bend over, the “Accordion” I think it's being called).  I kind of like the Shard. The wheel is okay, too, although I can’t say I was eager to ride it–a whole hour in a capsule for a single revolution.  

In the center the "Gherkin" protrudes; to its right, the "Accordion" as yet incomplete
(If the "Gherkin" were in the US I think we'd call it the "Bullet," as that's where our minds are at.)

The building with the ramp in the middle is intended to evoke a sailboat.

Then there’s the National Theater where we saw a terrific “King Lear” on our final night.  The theater’s not exactly new (1977!) but we missed it completely on earlier visits.  Brutalist architecture–in more ways than one.  The numerous ramps and protrusions offer a challenge to figure where the entrance is.  Inside as well as out all is gray, massive and gloomy, like a Soviet-style mausoleum.   Amid these stark surrounds the Terrace Restaurant inside has the vibe of an old high school cafeteria.  The first thing a person says when you stop to ask directions is how hideous the architecture is.  “A clever way of building a nuclear power station in the middle of London without anyone objecting,” Prince Charles quipped when it opened.  One imagines big time architects in the UK to be an arrogant lot.  Maybe I just don't get it.

The National Theatre (stock photo; I couldn't have found this angle unless I was in midair.)

A river trip to Greenwich, an excursion that we hadn't made before, revealed much new construction along the Thames banks.  Each apartment house appeared to be outdoing the other in terms of architectural style or novelty.  One had penthouse apartments hanging over the rest of the building.  (How would you like to be on one of those balconies?)  Another was designed to resemble a sailboat (albeit a heavy one, engendering much mockery), while several others had braces? swords? buttresses? reaching from top to bottom to liven things up.  Some were pretty cool, warehouses turned into residences.

Apartments with hanging penthouses

Lots of steel whatevers add something or other to this building; steel whatevers seem quite popular.

The view from the Old Naval Observatory at Greenwich

At the Observatory Ken watches the red ball move to let us know it's one o'clock

Other Changes, and Not

The Rose Garden in Hyde Park

So much was the same, or better than before.  It was lovely, amazing really, being there in sunny and warm weather.  Everyone was out and about.  The streets were jammed day and night, but especially at night.  Portobello Road on a Saturday morning was crazy crowded.  The Tube was crowded at every hour.  (I love the Tube.  Funneling from one line to another–up, down, around and through–I felt like a hamster.)  

There still are eels with pie and mash

Or eat at Rules for the sake of tradition

Food was excellent. Many of the pubs are now called "gastropubs." Prices, though, are like £'s masquerading as $'s.  That is, the prices look like $, and then you gasp when you realize £ means 60% more.  Food servers, hotel workers, and other service jobs are now most often Eastern European.  And of course, ethnic restaurants at all levels of cuisine, haute and low, are everywhere.  Where else, outside of Turkey, but in a little alley in Shepherd’s Market in Mayfair, could Ken get the full Turkish barber experience extended over an hour and a half that included old-style razors, hot towels, massage (head, neck, arms) and ear hair singed with flames.

And the pubs....

...are busy around 6 o'clock on weekdays

The Strand, crowded on a lovely Saturday night

In the British Museum

An article about a major Viking exhibit at the British Museum was partly what got us to London.  The BM also has an outstanding collection of early Anglo-Saxon finds, unearthed hoards, that we looked at first.  They, like the Vikings, had cone-like helmets and huge brooches in the shape of a circle with long pin inserted through it. The Vikings as we usually think of them are such a cliché–all that raping and pillaging.  In fact they were actually wide-ranging traders, and farmers to boot.  (Forget those silly horned helmets–only a 19th century re-imagining.)   Viking women were thought to have had special powers, and some were regarded as sorceresses–iron wands were buried with them in positions that signified importance.  

Viking style helmet, only this is Anglo-Saxon

When you exit the Viking tour you are ushered into a gift shop–what else?–one created especially for this exhibit in an obscure corner of the museum, making a total of about three or four gift shops in all. Ken, in full Norse mode (it’s in his DNA), gathered up what seemed like thirty pounds of books.  We were finally done shopping when he abruptly turned, dumped the whole pile in my arms saying he needed a bathroom, and shot out the door.  For ten minutes I struggled to hold onto everything and my own stuff until I found a collapsible shopping bag they supplied to put it all in.  I was so weighed down I couldn’t move.  Every time I put the bag down it collapsed and the books fell out.  So I waited.  And waited.  I realized then he might not be coming back.  At that moment this was me:

(Painting at the Tate Modern)

First I had to get loose of the weight.  I paid for what I deemed the best of the books, dumped the rest, and took up a post just outside the gift shop door.  There were four directions Ken could have disappeared into: a staircase, two corridors and an elevator.  I didn't dare move.  Half an hour went by.  He could have gone anywhere; there were toilets in several directions.  An hour went by.  He emerged from none of the directions.  There was no cell service.  And, anyway, he had no phone.

Staying put was getting me nowhere.  I figured I'd better start looking.  I checked the museum map to find out where I was.  The BM has an immense two story round structure in an atrium by the museum entrance.  There's a gift shop there too.  It wasn’t far.  The atrium was the simplest place to look without getting lost myself.   The alternative was to go back to the hotel and assume he would do the same.  I had visions of a missing persons call to the police.  Notices in the paper.  I circled the atrium.  Everywhere–men with white hair and beards!  Where did they all come from?  Then, among the throng, there he was!  He had been walking around, and around, very, very slowly, figuring (hoping?) I would eventually come to the same place to get out.  Well, I did, didn't I. 

Next time we make a plan.  Just in case.

DAIRY TIME

You get to visit a lot of dairy farms when you hang around 4-H’ers.  Most of the barns I’ve visited (accompanying Carly and Audrey who are participating again this year) are pretty dim places despite overhead lights.   Milking is a dirty business.  Barn floors are often wood or dirt, the dirt churned into mud by the cows in season.   Hoses filled with pure clean milk wind past floors that can have varieties of mud, hay, manure and/or cow pee.   Everyone wears muck boots.  On a cold day a barn may feel colder inside than out. 

The dirt floor turns into mud in season

The first farm we went to one chilly day in March is run by Farmer Dan, the same farmer who mows our field, and his brother.  It’s his brother who mostly handles the dairy cow operation whereas Dan’s income comes mostly (or in part?) from repairing farm machinery and engines.  Dairy farming was in the family, their father before them a dairyman, and maybe it goes back further than that.  His brother is less presentable than Dan:  a few missing teeth right up front, a big belly, and much less of a conversationalist.  The cows they have are boarded from one place or another.  They don’t actually own any of them.  This is not an unusual arrangement.

Dan's brother (right) with Audra, cow expert and 4-H leader

Another farm, and another chill and dimly lit barn, wooden floor.  A newborn calf (days old) stood shivering in its stall.  This seemed to be a matter of small importance to the farmer.  After all, cows can be outdoors in all kinds of weather, while calves are almost always indoors, sheltered from wind at least.  Yet one can’t help thinking that if the world were different, this calf would have been sheltered by its mother, and would have been taking its mother’s milk.  But that is absurd on a dairy farm.  Calves are separated from their mothers almost immediately after birth.  Mothers need to keep producing milk and get pregnant all over again.  Holsteins are the preferred milk cow because they are big and produce a lot of milk.  One can’t forget this is a business.

Something different:  a bright cheerful-looking calf barn

A barn we visited in April had a different look.  We were led around (“we” being half a dozen 4-H’ers, me, and two other adults) this 1,000-cow operation by the chief herdsman.  (How many people have you ever known with the job title herdsman?)   He was a fairly hip looking guy, the telltales of his work the confetti of hay on his hoodie.  A single light-filled structure–more Quonset hut than barn–was filled with calves of various ages. The bright clean space conveys a sense of well cared for calves.

(In reality all cows are cared for matter-of-factly, to my eye.  They are a commodity, they have value, and they are someone’s livelihood.  Cows are big, and they are dumb, and they have to be pushed around sometimes.  I see a cow stumble when it's been shoved, and I say "Oh!"  But I'm being soft.  Me before you, cow!  Let's not get emotional.)

These calves’ metal cages were filled with fresh straw and each cage had a pair of clean white buckets with grains and water.  One larger corral held half a dozen calves that were ready to be weaned.  A row of rubber nipples were arrayed on one side attached to hoses that led to a barrel of substitute milk so the calves could suckle whenever they wanted. Younger non-weaned calves get their substitute milk via individual bottles. 

Chief herdsman, in profile

The cows in this 1,000 size herd (a “closed herd,” no cows boarded from anywhere else, all cows owned by the farm) are housed inside full-time, their milk marketed as Monument Dairy, a completely local operation.   Along with “local” we like to think “natural,” where natural in this case would suggest cows munching the grass in the scenic outdoors.  That’s the image.  And there are many cows in the fields in Addison County, plenty of them right on our street.  But pasturing or not, it’s a personal decision, depending on the kind of dairying you want to or are able to do.  Because it’s a business, these are business decisions.  Pasturing is cheaper.  However, it’s harder to keep track of or monitor cows that are out to pasture.  They have to be rounded up to be milked.  Or maybe there’s not enough pasture for all the cows.  Or the pasture isn’t right for these particular cows.  One has to weigh issues of soil quality and type, the amount, type and quality of forage (vegetation) to determine how many cows can feed on how much acreage.  Dairy cows, because they are lactating, need more forage and better quality forage than beef cattle.   An agricultural service elaborates on how soils can vary: 

Soils in "herd pastures" that serve as lounging areas for cattle often are very high in phosphorus and potassium. However, soils from an adjacent field where harvested forage is grown may be low in these nutrients.

I like thinking about lounging cattle.

Management info at the calf barn

Dairy has been a major farming business in Vermont for a very long time.  I remember hearing some years ago how Vermont’s population was described as consisting of “more cows than people.”  If this was ever true, it isn’t anymore.  On the other hand, Vermont has the largest number of cows in the country per capita, that is, the ratio of cows to people.  According to the University of Vermont, with a population of about 626,000 people, we currently have about 150,000 milk cows that produce some three billion pounds of milk (one gallon of milk = approximately 8 pounds; figure it out!)  per year.

At right, an early (primitive) milk pan and skimmer; at center (quite unrelated!) a boot dryer

Any businessman, farmer or not, wants to decrease the workload and increase efficiency.  Hence the large number of inventions related to the dairy business.  We heard a talk about Vermont inventions a while back from a former engineer who collects these objects.  Many of them have to do with the prime issue of separating the cream.  The most primitive form of this was letting the milk sit until the cream rose to the top, then skimming it off.

 

A pair of butter printers (you stamped on the name of the producer and/or a design)

The very latest thing in dairy management was recently in the news in the New York Times.  A dairy operation in upstate New York has entirely automated the milking process.  With a transponder around her neck, a cow walks into a milking cubicle (seeded with specially tempting grains) whenever it feels a need to be milked.  There a laser guides the milking nozzles to the udder.  There’s hardly a limit to the kind of data about the cow and the milk that can be collected automatically.  This farm also has a robot that functions much like a Roomba vacuum that sweeps the cows’ feed neatly along the floor for the cows to eat.   A smooth concrete floor is needed for that.

Lot of acreage, but the cows stay in the barn
(In the distance, the ubiquitous used tires covering manure that will become compost)

Probably in a few years milking robotics will come to this area.  Maybe it’s already here, somewhere.  Maybe the floors of all barns will be concrete instead of dirt or wood, and milking will be automated.  Maybe only beef cows will feed in pastures.  Maybe (hey, why not?) milk will be made chemically instead of taken from cows.  Maybe male cows will have a brighter future beyond veal, somehow.  In a more perfect world of course.

All things considered, I would rather farm plants.

*”With Farm Robotics, the Cows Decide When its Milking Time,” The New York Times, April 22, 2014. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/23/nyregion/with-farm-robotics-the-cows-decide-when-its-milking-time.html?_r=0