Response to Recent Beanie Babies Inquiries

In response to the recent comment on the "Beanie Babies Septette" entry, I would like to advise all that all participants in the program were male. Also, the score on the piano was open to "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear". Obviously, lacking in certain jurisdictional or jurisprudential appreciation, the decision to open with "Down By The Old Mill Stream" prevailed, with hardly a whimper. The folly of this had become obvious when we found that the culprit leading the program was none other than the anonymous fiction author of the infamous slanderous creation of June, 2013, which was reproduced in this Blog.

It would appear that the entire group had imbibed in the same poisonous potion as had impregnated the sensibility powers of the author, purportedly recanting the marvelous historical archived essay of the November, 1963 Deer Hunt Weekend.

Efforts of members of our traditionally austere family failed, in allowing a certain portion of extremely fine 15 year old Irish Whiskey to fall into hands of one who was unable to handle the reins of a team so voluble; thus resulting in an impressive issue of fiction, rather than fact, as is to be expected when in the hands of an inexperience teamster. You see, genetic traits do not necessarily track, do they?

 Septette

For Beanie Babies

First three are published

 Excerpt from page 21, Gee! A Story From A Forest Continues:  "I think something is tickling my toes at night and I don't know what it could be."  "Well, I am surprised you hadn't asked me that question before Mari.  There are many things going on above and below our forest floor, and I think my next story will give you your answer," said the Big Black Oak Tree in the Forest!!!

I Promised To Keep You Informed

I PROMISED TO KEEP YOU INFORMED

Some time ago I mentioned that I was going to try to “evolve” some of my BLOG into a series of children's books. At the time, I had no idea what a time consuming project it would be. It was not the conceptual or narrative part that was a problem, but the processes of so called “publication” that proved difficult. Converting a concept and a story into an effective child's learning tool requires a bit of manipulation and a great deal of frustration. Having managed through both so far, we have succeeded in completing the process for release of the first two stories.

They are entitled: Gee!! A Story From A Forest and Gee! Another Story From A Forest. They are directed toward children in the 6 to 9 year old age group, and I promise that the stories exhibit far more imagination than do the titles. The stories run sequentially and there are three more now in process of completion.

Always having appreciated constructive criticism, (do you see the lump in my cheek?) I look forward to your critique and hope that the stories fulfill a need for our kids. The first two books are available at Xlibris.com. The first is available at other outlets, including Amazon, Alibris Books and Barnes and Noble.

Be Careful What You Wish For

 It may reach ninety degrees fahrenheit today, but-on the other hand-should you ask for cooler weather, it could eliminate mowing the lawn.

If only the choice was ours......

WHY DOES ONE WRITE A BLOG???

Why does one start a BLOG? Have you ever been urged to “write it down” before you forget everything and memories of the past are lost forever? Some people are motivated to write simply to share their innermost feelings with everyone. That would only apply to the people with enough nerve to share those things.

I guess my motivation evolved from the desire to share, or rather expose, people to the pleasure I have absorbed from my frequent wanderings to and fro through mother natures pathways. I recently started such a wandering, but I do use the word recently with trepidation, since it may reflect months or years rather than hours or days.

Just think about it. Whenever you start to reminisce on the past, your thoughts evolve into memories only of nature, beauty and serenity. That is exactly what my blog stimulating strolls through the Forest do for me. It is surprising what a stroll through a mere thirty acres of serenity can do for the soul. Here we go again. Parenthetically, we don't replace our everyday life with illusions, but we can create positive thoughts during our stroll. And we can do it every time we read a chapter or take an actual walk through the woods. Whichever path we choose, we can find serenity. And with every venture we find some new wonder of nature, be it from the changing seasons or the change in environment. There is always something new to find.

I have recently decided to “evolve” a portion of my BLOG into a child's book. Only because I believe that children need some additional prompting into science, nature and language, and their curiosity is the key to their success. With nominal help from teachers, mentors and especially parents, curiosity may have killed the cat, but it will build the child. I felt that these discovered wonders should be shared with both my friends and “the children” before they pass them by.

I can share them with my friends in a BLOG, but with kids, I thought it best to go with simple but challenging reading. The challenging part may require some mentor or parental assistance to start, but that is exactly what I meant to create.

I'll keep you informed.

ps. “Parenthetically” A six syllable word that I use too often, but whenever I strain myself into thinking, my mind wanders into other similar but parenthetical subjects; you know-like butterflies/airplanes, noise/mausers, logs/chainsaws, and on and on.....

IT WAS HER KIND OF GARDEN: A Portait Of A Forester

There it was. A plot of rustic, rock strewn land, covered in sinister blackberry bushes and looking like a street wise orphan longing for a plush foster home. And there she was, a pure garden loving naturalist, longing for just such a needy orphan. It was a match made in heaven just ready for the starting bell. The bell rang and it was off to the races, though be it a race in slow motion.

No, no trip to the store for new clothes for the orphan. Instead, a trip to the Campbell Tree and Land Company to arrange for clearing and planting plans.  Roundup and seedlings, rather than new clothes.

Thus started the transformation of the ugly duckling into Cinderella, a fete requiring nearly thirty years and not yet finished. But the duckling is now a flourishing and lovely garden of pines, awaiting its transformation into a mature forest, stately and proud.

The entire encounter reflects a similar scenario in which the pure naturalist played the same role, but rather than adopting a blackberry covered, rock strewn piece of land, it was the creation and nurturing of her own family.

During the Cinderella transformation , as little Pine Trees grow, it was accepted practice that the lower branches be pruned off as they died each year. Presumably, this would allow creation of clear, knot free wood at some time in the future when the tree was harvested. True to form, our loving naturalist would systematically be there each year to effect the required pruning, regardless of some questionable urging to the contrary that such action may not be necessary.

It may be obvious that similar pruning might be a prudent action in other familial developments. I am sure that our naturalist utilized such techniques in all such endeavors. At least, it is apparent that the same keen techniques were applied in the nurture and development of her primary family, obviously with outstanding results.

Her Garden Of Pines is a treasure to walk through. Her family is a treasure to meet and know. All of her efforts have rendered beautiful harvests, and the fruits of those efforts continue to multiply.

Don't Put All Of Your Love Into One Basket

"I'm going now honey", he said.  "  Okay, enjoy your game", she said.

"I'm leaving now for my Bridge club dear".  "Bye Bye, have fun", he said

Sound familiar?  These oft duplicated exchanges are commonplace and certainly healthy ones.  But let them go too far, and they may signify unhealthy runaway life styles which are better avoided.

If you have ever started a project in the workshop or began reading something of great personal interest and suddenly realized several unaccounted for hours had  gone by, you  have  experienced the first warning sign of "guilty of putting all your love into one basket".

I had a close acquaintance who perfected a talent for producing wood decoys.  Much of his time was spent in his basement workshop and he constantly complained that he had little time for anything else.  This is a typical result when one is guilty of our subject violation.

There is a simple direction to follow if we are to avoid this  infraction. "Forced Diversification" is the answer.  I accentuate "forced" because of the difficulty in replacing one love fixation with another.  As difficult as it may be, however, the interests churned up by true diversification could bring to light other activities equally worthy of one's attention.

The broadening of focus may well serve to expand horizons not previously contemplated.  Of course, the prime objective of overcoming the results of our misdemeanor (implying, of course, that it is not a felony) is to avoid or minimize the exclusionary effect that our activities have had on our  close circle of family and friends.  It is important that we avoid aggravating the effect by merely stuffing more exclusionary interests into the same basket, thus negating the diversification affect.

Just as I thought I had the problem licked, I realized that I had infringed on an already perfected concept:

                "JACK  OF ALL TRADES, MASTER OF NONE"

The net result of this study is a move to adopt a new rule:
             
                "VARIETY IS THE SPICE OF LIFE"

Come to think of it, neither rule is really new, is it?  All routes lead to the dreaded accumulation of toys and exponential growth of the "TOO LONG TO DO LIST".


ps. The compilation of true facts in refutation of the felonious attack on our November, 1963 historic depiction (From the Archives May, 2013) blog is ongoing and I assure you that the prevaricator shall be subjected to his or her just deserts at the appropriate time, even to the obviously cheap brand he or she was nipping at the time of the crime. The wheels of justice move slowly, but with certainty.
 

To Do List Too Long

There was a day when the TO DO list merely delayed doing the things I really wanted  to do.  Now it "PREVENTS" doing the things I really want to do.  Which leads me to the conclusion that either the list is too long or I am not as fast as I once was.

Upon cursory review, the list appears to be the same length as before, with a few tasks added from acquisitions, so I decided to review the efficiency factor.  Could it be that old speedy is not so speedy anymore?  Have the good old sayings on tee shirts, such as "I'm not over the hill, I'm just gaining speed" or "What hill?  I don't remember any hill", been relegated to tee shirts only, rather than actual fact?  It is conceivable that we all may slow down after a while, but I think the real culprit is the "LIST".  The list has quietly expanded along with the earthly possessions responsible for its existence.

My initial realization is that the length of the list has expanded to a greater degree than originally thought.  The exponential factor has a  great effect upon the list, since, it appears, TO DO items propagate excessively in proportion to the number of toys accumulated over time.

I recall reading an old seafaring novel wherein the main character spent over a year preparing his worthy craft for venture.  It is conceivable that, had he acquired several worthy craft over the years, he may never had  been able to "cast off".  Therein lies the solution to my riddle.  Too many worthy craft, and perhaps I'm no longer as fast as the tee shirts profess.

I, of course being a died in the wool old naturalist, would find it excruciating to kick out the old family dog even if I had one, but I admit it may be both prudent and expedient to start preparing another "LIST".  I think I'll head out to the shed and contemplate a "KICK OUT THE OLD TOY LIST".

Revelation of Recent Attack Reported: details in www.cabin-muse.blogspot.com

Since the preceding entries are related to a four part sequentially entered series, I would suggest starting at Part One, entered 5/28/13.  This tale was resurrected from an older archive which may or may not have been originally recorded on the proverbial shovel with a piece of charcoal.

Is it a shocking contagion of catastrophic acts, or: merely copy cats, after recently disclosed IRS, NSA Edward Snowemall, or whatever, type irrational actions.

Whatever it turns out to be, it represents the first and only attempt by person or persons unknown to impugn the integrity and reputation for long honored, principled and virtuously unembellished prosing on the part of this publisher. 

In my treasured position as head muse, and reflecting the totally forthright and transparent method of musing by our government and our business community in general, I have chosen to reprint the obviously prevaricated and totally fictional folly as contained in a recently received communication.  Since the offender has chosen to remain anonymous, I choose not to reveal his identity to avoid embarrassing him when the true facts are confirmed as originally reported.

If necessary, I shall revert back into the coveted 1963 Archives in my determined battle to refute these totally inaccurate depictions, even to the extent of determining from which bottle the usurper was nipping.   

Fictional Letter Received

Log Cabin Muse -- Fact or Fiction

Date: November 24, 1963

Place: Cecil. WI -- Uncle Augie's Farm

Subject: The Annual Deer Hunting or The Real Story

As we prepared to enter Uncle Augie's back 80 in our quest for white-tail deer, we were advised by Johnny Sanborn's dad to keep a look out for Uncle Augie's pet bear.  The bear went by the name of Blackie, according to Mr. Sanborn. He, Blackie, was placed in Augie's care following Blackie's retirement from Ringing Brothers in 1961.  We were told that everyday at about 9:00 AM Blackie would make his way from his den to Augie's house to have breakfast with Augie and Augie's wife. 

Several hours after entering the woods, a shot was heard.  Following the shot, a terrifying scream was heard.  The scream was followed by the sound of breaking and crushing of branches.  These panic stricken sounds were  immediately followed by the appearance of the hunter in the red boots.  The same boots described in the Log Cabin Muse.  The hunter in question will remain nameless in this narrative for on that day I promised never to divulge his identity.  His face was ashen, and he was obviously emotionally upset.  He kept talking (actually screaming) about shooting an abominable snowman, or something similar; something big and casting a dark shadow.

After reassuring the red booted hunter that he was in no danger, his friends convinced him that it would be safe to return to the location where he allegedly encountered what may have been the abominable snowman.

It is difficult for this writer to continue for the sadness experienced upon finding not an abominable  snowman but poor old Blackie is still fresh in my mind.  Uncle Augie's tears are also still fresh in my mind.

I can't go on.  The Real Story is too sad.  We did carry old Blackie out of the swamp, and we hung his 50 pound carcass from a horizontal timber behind Mr. Sanborn's house. Old Blackie was hung next to the 160 pound 8 point buck I harvested on that infamous date in hunting history.

Note:  This commentary was not recorded in the log cabin muse comment section for as I previously indicated I did promise never to reveal the identity of the red booted hunter, or the true or Real Story of what occurred on November 24, 1963.

Have a nice day red booted hunter!

From the Archives Sunday November 24, 1963

From the Archives, Part IV: The Finale November 24,1963

Sunday Morning (continued)-The Finale

Hemingway said "the sun also rises".  But not in a Wisconsin swamp.  The clock says so, but the ground fog and overcast denies penetration of its promised light. I proceeded hand over hand along the north/south fence line, that is until I came to an old Cottonwood tree.

Normally an old tree would not be an obstacle, except when it grows tired of standing and decides to lie down across the fence line.  A straight ahead course is impossible, and to circumvent a 100 foot long tree in this swamp would be a very time consuming detour

 But just as I am studying my alternatives, the old feeling returns-this  time accompanied by movement directly ahead of me and just on the opposite side of our fallen Cottonwood.  It appears taller than myself and heavier, but not identifiable through the branches of the fallen tree and, thus, an invalid target.  We, thus, are in checkmate, I watching him, and he watching me.....neither one identifiable by the other and both frozen in our positions.

As it is destined to do, the sun proceeded to burn its way through the darkness and, in a matter of minutes, vague dawn light started to penetrate the black of the swamp.  My mysterious company began to materialize before my eyes, and I could see two large round ears on top of the large dark shadow.

Fifty years ago the Wisconsin black bear season was simultaneous with the whitetail deer season.  During the 1963 season a total of 553 black bears were harvested in the entire State.  By far, the majority were taken in far northern areas, as the bear population had not migrated so far to the southern areas of the State as to be considered frequent.

With over half a million hunters registered, the odds of an encounter were about a thousand to one, so I consider myself one of the lucky ones.  Both to have harvested a prize...... and that it wasn't really the Abominable Snowman..

PS:  It would be remiss not to recognize the efforts of the real heros of the hunt. Those       faithful companions who ended up helping me drag said quarry out of the swamp. Thanks guys.

PS2: The red of the boots has mellowed, as do all things after 50 or so years...but one of the many events over the past fifty years that has never mellowed was the senseless taking of the life of the 35th President of the United States.

From the Archives, Part III: 4 AM Sunday November 24, 1963

Up at 4 AM.  After breakfast, we proceeded to our chosen positions.  It was dark, overcast and the area was covered by a thick ground fog created by the clash of cold air and relatively warm ground water.  The sought after giant Shawano buck obviously elected to stay where visibility was minimal and travel treacherous-in the depths of the marsh.  After a short deliberation, I decided to move a ways into the marsh and find a suitable clear area where Mr. Buck could be intercepted should he elect to move, and move he most assuredly would, it being the  height of the rut and the ladies would be on the move.

After stepping only a few yards out of the clearing, the surroundings changed from dark and barely discernible to feeling my way a  step at a time.  The marsh had evidently been used for livestock grazing perhaps fifty years before, and remnants of an old barbed wire fence marked ancient boundaries.  Luckily, this provided a guide, at least north and south, to aid me in my penetration into the midst of the swamp.  So I proceeded on my journey into the depths, in retrospect now realizing that my total "journey" may have been only 150 yards.

After feeling my way along the fence line for a short while, I suddenly had a feeling that I was not alone.  Visibility was near zero, the ground fog was quite thick, but either a sound or movement had alerted me that something or someone was near.

Could it be a trespasser?  Who would be crazy enough to be in this swamp?  A  member of our party?  We pretty well knew where each guy hunted,  so that was not probable.  The thought of a challenge was immediately dismissed, for it could alert the much sought after BIG BUCK.  So, I proceeded with the only alternative, to keep on creeping the fence line.  After all, I had the security of my old and faithful Simson & Co 1916 8MM  Mauser, loaded with 196 grain soft points, which were capable of handling even the abominable snowman, if confronted.

Next:  The morning progresses

From the Archives, Part II: Opening Morning November 23, 1963

We were up early, had a big breakfast and proceeded to our selected opening day stands in the woods.  I had chosen a five acre clearing out behind Augie's barn.  It had a large maple tree at one end, against which I had planned to repose while keeping a vigilant lookout for the big Shawano County buck.  Bordering the clearing was a twenty acre marshy area, thickly covered with dense pockets of alder, buckthorn and any other invasive plant species which didn't mind having wet feet. A small creek meandered through the swamp creating a drainage into two surrounding lakes.  It was a spot one would prefer to avoid if at all possible.

It was still, no wind and no snow.  Just a bed of maple leaves upon which to sit.  The sun had not yet peeked out so the light was dim and visibility low.  But...not everything was enveloped by the pre-dawn darkness.  The one thing-or rather I should say two things-that stood out like floodlights in the dark were those two big red boots at the ends of my legs.  For the next several hours, as dawn proceeded to  conquer darkness, I contemplated what  the  actual color of those boots were. Were they really red, or could they be mahogany, or possibly cinnamon?  Regardless, I can attest that they were without doubt the brightest objects within sight.

So went opening morning, November 23, 1963.  Analyzing the color of my new boots and wondering why anyone would want to kill our president.  In fact, the remainder of the day and, for that matter the entire weekend, was spent primarily meditating on those two issues, one devastating and  one simply for "musing".

But, although the opening day evening was consumed almost entirely by assassination rhetoric and conjecture among the hunting party, events of the following morning did create an unusual enigma over what was a normal Wisconsin deer hunt.

Next, 4 AM tomorrow...

From the Archives, Part I: Friday, November 22, 1963

I had to leave the office early.  Stop at JC Penneys at Capitol Court. They had ordered my new Leather Irish Setter Insulated Hunting Boots and called to announce their arrival.  None too soon since opening day of the deer hunting season was Saturday.  Next, I had an appointment to stop at Bayshore for a pre-season haircut.  Can't let the hair get in the way of your sight picture, so the time was now.

I arrived at Penneys and when the clerk brought out my treasured boots, my initial thought was they should be on my back rather than my feet.  The leather was a rather deep, dark red that I thought would better serve to alert the deer rather than keep my feet cozy.  It being rather late in my schedule, I put hesitation aside, tucked the treasured boots into their box and proceeded to my appointment with John, the barber.

I walked into the shop and John immediately motioned me into his chair.  I don't recall his next words but they were something like, "THEY KILLED OUR PRESIDENT".  It was coming over the wires that President Kennedy had been assassinated.

Thus began what was to be a series of events which cast a cloud of ambivalence over the entire 1963 Wisconsin deer hunting season.

As I recall, every activity following that event was interrupted by the painful thought of such a senseless action of person or persons unknown at the time.  All of our thoughts during the ride home, the gathering of necessary gear, the packing of the car and the departure for our hunting destination, Cecil, Wisconsin, were clouded and overwhelmed by the resounding cry "THEY KILLED OUR PRESIDENT".

But the hunt went on in Wisconsin, as it always had and probably always will.

Next, we arrive in Cecil......

What A Difference A Day Makes

A classic old ballad of decades ago, but we are not talking about a day or 24 hours, but of a change of seasons.

In not just a day, but three  weeks, these changes signify three "SEASONS" in one fell swoop. Like uncle ART use to say..."UP IN MINNESOTA WE HAVE ONLY THREE SEASONS: JUNI, JULI AND WINTER. It's true so far, except we have had all three in "yust" three weeks.

On our first visit, the lake was frozen over, the trails  were knee deep in snow.  Next stop the lake was  open and playing host to clouds of northern ducks  including bluebills and mergansers who probably found their favored northern lakes inhospitable (interpret frozen over).  Next, our beautiful guests were gone, the lake was open  and pontoons were meandering in balmy 60's and 70's. Who is going to figure it out?

It's obviously much too cool for those little wood frogs to emerge  for their annual pilgrimage so I thought I'd spend some time in a blind awaiting a turkey dinner.  Wisconsin is blessed with  many fine educational  institutions which probably supports my suspicion that turkeys can read quite well.  This conclusion was reached  since all came clean shaven, that is to say "without beards" and, therefore, remain unscathed, since regulations say "no beard, no shoot".*

Heavy ice and snow of the past season laid claim to some trees and branches, blocking the trail in some places, so out with the chain saw again.  The wood's loss is often the firewood pile's gain.   Nature's way of providing, I guess.

Back to watching the frog eggs.

*PS: as clarification, a feathered appendage hanging from a turkey's neck area identifies the bird as being legal to harvest during the Spring hunt

Mama Loon & Passengers

Non Firewood

Firewood

 

I Feel Rather Full Right Now

"I feel rather full right now and don't want to be bothered"

Those were the words I imagined coming from the doe reclining alongside the remote road we were traveling in quiet Waushara County.  The nonchalant lady was being shepherded by a yearling who, although  being somewhat disturbed by our intrusion, had no intention of leaving his mom or, for that matter his soon to be born siblings.  Although he was unaware, it was apparent from the doe's dimensions that she would be delivering in a matter of weeks.

This mother and her year old offspring appeared healthy and well nourished, as did the hundreds of other whitetails we observed off the road on a recent weekend.  The snows were deep in the woods, but unlike the topsy turvy winter and spring of last year, the weather did not seem to adversely affect the health of the wildlife community.  Our observation of various species, including deer, coyote, raccoon  possum and multiple more frequently observed furry friends seemed to bear out that all are doing quite well.

All we need now is for Mr. Spring to melt the three foot deep snow in the woods so we can visit our coniferous and deciduous friends to see how they coped with Mr. Winter.

“I’M AS MAD AS HELL AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE”

This post is merely a parenthetical expression of discontent totally separate from our stroll through the woods.

Those were the infamous words uttered by commentator Howard Beale in the movie NETWORK. It also came to mind when I saw my last two utility bills. I also noticed that the wood pile at the cabin is diminishing more rapidly than usual. There must be a common thread and I thought it worth pursuing. But I immediately decided that it would take a book rather than a blog to do it….which I am ill prepared to do.

However, retrospectively, I recall that the size of the woodpile did in fact grow smaller in proportion to the cold of the winter. BUT not at the same rate as our utility bills have increased. Am I imagining a disproportionate growth in utility costs or is it reality? Or possibly it could be just a veiled start of someone’s “redistribution of wealth” program. He just misplaced many of us into the wrong category. I do, however, remember buying gasoline at the DX station on Teutonia and Fairmount in Milwaukee at 6 Gallons for a dollar. The station is now closed.

I sure would appreciate your candid reactions so I can place my brain on the proper wavelength in case it has wandered asunder over the years. Meanwhile, I’m going out to chop same more wood. I suppose we’ll have to pay the damn utility bill too.

A Climb Up into the Hardwoods

From a seeming nursery of young white pines, shepherded by a stately stand of giant mother trees, we trek easterly up the hill into an entirely different scenario.  Rather than a crowded forest,of pines, the relatively open hill has allowed sufficient sunlight through the canopy to support a stand of hardwood.  Predominately Black and White Oak, the stand is interspersed with various common species of Birch, Beech, Ash, Cherry and Ironwood.

But our attention is given to the predominant Oak.  Some saplings a mere one or two inches in diameter, some nearly two feet in diameter. (Remember the DBH we discussed earlier in our walk?)  This oak stand is estimated to be about fifty years of age  with a smattering of much older trees which were never harvested.  Although a great disparity exists in the size of the stand trees, they are all about the same age.  Location on hillsides, soil conditions and available sunlight penetrating the canopy will enhance the growth of some and retard the growth of others.  Survival of the fittest applies and they survive to provide the fruits of propagation, the mighty acorn.

But would you believe....they do not produce their first crop of acorns until they reach maturity-between twenty and fifty years of age, depending upon species.  And, incidentally, we can find over six hundred species of oak trees spread widely over our planet.  Our earliest forms of life through to our current living species have relied upon the fruit of the oak for basic subsistence.  And to this day, we can still harvest the acorn for a palatable food source, although a bag of salted nuts may be more convenient.

While some of our native american tribes relied primarily upon corn or rice as their main food staple, others relied upon various nut fruits including the acorn.  The common white oak was the main source since it contained lower percentages of tannin, making the meat sweeter and more palatable.  If one should desire to pursue the harvest of the acorn for food, help and advice is always available on the internet, but, as I previously opined, a bag of salted nuts may be more convenient.

The White Pines

Did I mention watching where we step?   STOP!!!  We are in the white pines, a relatively small two acre plot of pines which were planted about 54 years ago or so.  In that time, they have grown into pretty big kids, averaging sixty feet in height and a foot or so in diameter, commonly referred to as DBH or diameter at breast height.  All of which means we shouldn’t have to watch our step because they are difficult to step on. 

But these mature trees have produced a dense undergrowth of little white pines—a cute family of fast growing seedlings creating a blanket of little guys numbering in the hundreds per square foot, all living in a thick bed of pine needles and oak leaves furnished by the surrounding adults.  Thus the reason for watching our step.

A recent stroll happened to coincide with an annual migration of cute little critters, seldom encountered, but frequently heard by anyone enjoying the evening concerts of our common Wood Frog.  One step could have crushed as many as fifty of these little guys as they were returning from their spring hatch at a nearby ephemeral pond to their summer through winter abode….yes, beneath the needles and leafy ground cover of our little white pine forest.  I can spend hundreds of hours in the woodland without seeing one of these wonders, but on this one stroll, we could count many thousands heading home on migration.  And they will stay in their home in the pines throughout the coming winter and into early spring, when they will awaken from their “hibernation” only to return to the “home” pond to complete the reproduction cycle. 

How do these little guys who can fit on a dime survive our cold winters?  Would you believe they produce a glucose within their little bodies which prevents them from freezing?  More can be discovered about these and other close relatives in our woods simply by delving into the internet.

Next, we walk through the hardwoods.  A whole different story ensues.