Invasive Plants: Accepting Globalization

Call me irresponsible. When I heard about yet another “Invasive Plants in the Landscape” conference, my first thought was “How depressing.”

And it’s not that I don’t care that our fields and forests are being ravaged by garlic mustard and knapweed, I tried to explain to my friends the other evening at dinner. But, one insisted, we make the natural world a better place by reclaiming patches in backyards all over the region. True. But … Let me see if I can do a better job.

Garlic mustard, by the way, is edible!

I am, in fact, a tackle-any-job kind of girl. For years I’ve pulled garlic mustard and greater celandine at the optimum time, and hacked English ivy from tree trunks before it had a chance to become a bearer of berries. I’ve refrained from planting burning bush even though its brilliant and long-lasting color is unmatched by more responsible choices. I still do these things in my own garden, because I know what will happen if I don’t. For years I have cared, fretted, and educated myself about the seed-spreading cycles and eco-niches of culprits like stilt grass and purple loosestrife. But the realization that has crept over me and overtaken my zeal is this: I could pull invasive plants from roadsides gone wild every Saturday all year long, and they would proliferate as soon as I took a break. Inevitably, we fall behind. As Emma Marris put it in her book, Rambunctious Garden, "A historically faithful ecosystem is necessarily a heavily managed ecosystem." Creating a native landscape can be seen as a way that we busy ourselves to further an impossible goal: putting the natural world to rights.

As we toil away, making little patches better places for pollinators and symbiotic organisms, corn fields and deciduous forests alike continue to be transformed into commercial and industrial districts by those who think of soil as something to be moved out of the way so concrete can be poured. We must “spur the economy;” we must “speed up economic growth,” we are told daily by politicians. Growth has saved us in the past. Growth will make us happy. The U.S. GDP rose a remarkable 3.4% a year for 100 years—up until 1980. Thus, the American Dream. All we need to do is produce more—more natural gas, more refined oil, more corn—and we will be saved again (with no new taxes!). 

Polllinators love native plants, and foxglove, too.

It’s time we wrap our heads around an ecological truth: perpetual growth is impossible. When the deer populations exceed the carrying capacity of the land, we moan about the effect on forest regeneration. When mosquitoes flourish we spray the infestation. When garlic mustard rosettes stretch into flowering stalks, and spit out their copious seeds, we fund studies that determine the survival percentages of ginseng. And yet, we exclude our own species from the rules that the science of ecology has established, and on those infrequent occasions when we act to limit our impacts on other species, it is with the stipulation that economic growth will continue unimpeded. Always and forever.

Despite all good intentions of leading a meaningful and intentional life, we are spending increasing amounts of time in climate-controlled boxes, and packing them with more and “better” stuff. We work and work, for if we take a break, the bills will proliferate. We will fall behind. We spend less and less time in nature, and more on electronic devices. We (and I include myself in this) are hopelessly goal-oriented—which seems, more and more as I grow older and (hopefully) wiser, a path to inevitable dissatisfaction. 

There is one benefit to pulling garlic mustard, so long as we have no illusions that we can permanently repair the so-called damage, and that is that it gets us outside. Every time a rosette is yanked out by the roots, someone has to stoop, and observe the forest floor. It’s likely that the puller may look up, and watch the way the wispy clouds move across the blue sky, and listen to the singing of the robin or the popping of peppergrass seedpods, and think, I am doing something good for the environment, and I feel good. But the truth is, the best thing that is being done for the environment is that people are being given a reason to leave their climate-controlled boxes, a reason to step outside, a reason to care. 

Face it: Life is messy. Globalization is a done deal. We are going to have to learn, somehow, to love our neighbors. The wild things will work it out for themselves with little or no help from us, thank-you-very-much. They’ll have to. 

And there are, I believe, better ways to spend Saturday mornings than acting as judge and executioner of aliens that have crept into our country, our wild spaces—better for the earth and better for us. I would rather see people thrill to the sight of thousands of butterflies sipping nectar from purple loosestrife than look at the scene with consternation and a sense of duty. I would rather see them step into the whirl and become enveloped by the buzzing of bees, notice the astonishing diversity that is to be found on a single plant. If people, young and old, were to spend time joyfully learning the world outside their boxes and truly feeling the life in the soil that lies beneath the soles of their shoes, they might experience a kinship with the other organisms that we share our space with. Maybe they will see that a little goal-free time offers rewards that can’t be gained from the accumulation of stuff. Maybe they will grow up to be politicians. Maybe they will understand that never-ending economic growth is not the path to happiness—or even a desirable thing.  

Did you know Japanese hops causes dermatitis when you pull it?

So yes, I’m done wringing my hands over the presence of Japanese hops and European garlic mustard in the wilds—and it’s not because I don’t care that natives are losing their niches. I care a lot. But my American Dream has taken on a different perspective. I believe that if we can succeed in getting Inside People out, into nature, we might, as a culture, stand a chance of remembering that More (to paraphrase Bill McKibben) is not what we need. We need to value the joy that comes from getting to know the non-human world. Some things are beyond our control. Others, starting with our relationship with nature in this period of our species’ “progress,” are fixable.  

Gardening in Winter

"Why don’t we have baby carrots?” This is the question Chef Robert is asking me, in late January. Baby carrots are a staple of the beautifully designed gourmet plates that Robert sends out from the kitchen and in to the elegant dining room night after night. This is serious.

I would have carrots, I tell him, if it weren’t for the cats. And the nasturtiums. 

Robert looks at me sideways, with annoyance.

Two cats: double trouble

I had a whole bed of carrots in the top greenhouse—Rainbow, Nelson, Yellow Sun—but the kittens chose that bed for their playground. They trampled the greens and, just for fun (you know how kittens like to have fun) pulled out the roots, leaving little tiny premature carrots lying all over the ground. But you’ve seen my beautiful baby turnips, haven’t you?

“Yeah I’ve seen them. They’re white.”

Hakurei turnips, in January!

I had another two beds of carrots in the second greenhouse – you know, the one we keep warm. But the nasturtiums self-seeded and I let them climb the tables and now they’re draped all over the screened tabletops in a gorgeous jumble. You should see them! Gary says it reminds him of the Caribbean! I’ve been harvesting about 3 dozen flowers a week for garnish … and they’re orange and coral colored.

“And that has what to do with the carrots?” he asks. Impatiently. 

Acrobatic nasturtiums

 Well, the nasturtiums became infested with whiteflies. I can still harvest the flowers, and even the leaves are clean—at least the small ones are. But the whiteflies spread to the carrots and they sucked all the life out of the green tops. So the tops stopped growing and the roots stopped growing and … well … the carrots are not really worth harvesting.

“So,” (voice clipped) “ … when will we have carrots?” 

Cat atop the carrot seedlings.

I planted more carrots – two beds more, in fact – in the top greenhouse about a month ago, but the days are so short that they took forever to germinate. And the kittens keep scratching in the beds. I have chicken wire and plant trays all over the carrot rows but the cats get under the wire and toss the trays around. They make a game of it, hiding and chasing each other out and up and over the chicken wire. And so my seedlings are still tiny, and most of them aren’t doing too well. 

Are we carrots yet?

Robert sighs. “Ok so no carrots. What happened to the parsley?”

Well, I was picking bunches of it until a week ago … remember? But parsley is related to carrots so when the whiteflies got into the carrots they ruined the parsley too, and I figure that you can order parsley pretty cheaply this time of year, so …

At least somebody's enjoying the parsley.

Silence. 

I stand up and head for the door. Just as I’m about to make a clean exit, I hear,

“And kale?” He looks up at me. Grimly.

Oh. Kale. 

Remember the hurricane, I ask?

“That was 3 months ago.” Robert’s voice is flat. Irritated. 

Yes, well, I planted the kale in the top garden because of the groundhogs—they’re not quite as bad up there. But when the hoophouse blew down and the sheep got out and ate every head of cauliflower they ate the kale too. My plan was to harvest the kale growing outside through December and then start harvesting what I planted in the upper greenhouse. But I had to start harvesting the greenhouse kale early so it’s pretty picked over. Plus the gray aphids that jumped onto the kale from the savoy cabbage are getting a little out of hand. I tried to start some more kale in the fall but the week I transplanted them we had no sun, no sun at all!  So all but five of them rotted. But the five are growing well! In another three weeks or so …

Robert rolls his eyes. 

Too beautiful to eat?

But the collards are looking great, don’t you think? I can bring you at least three big bunches a week. And the chard is beautiful too.

“Kale is trendy right now; collards are not cool. And I hate chard.”

Case closed.

What I’d like to say, and what Robert would not like to hear, is this. 

So here’s the thing: January, in Pennsylvania, is a challenge. It’s not one of those other J-months when fat heads of broccoli and tight, red-ribbed rounds of radicchio make heroes out of farmers, when exponentially growing tomato plants are laden with plump green promise, when the grasshoppers and stink bugs are still too tiny to do damage. In those other J-months, plants want to grow. In January, the greenhouse is the only place in town for aphids and whiteflies to suck plant juices and for kittens to dig holes and deposit their doodoo. It’s not fair to judge me by January’s skinny roots. And, by the way, who else do you know that’s producing beautiful heads of lettuce in January?!

Photo taken January 25th. No lie!

But the truth is, I’m equally disappointed with the carrots, the kale, and the parsley … not to mention the arugula.

This week, I planted three rows of red-ribbed chicory. It’s colorful, and it’s trendy. It likes cool weather and it’s not related to carrots. I have high hopes for red-ribbed chicory. It’s Italian. It will remind Robert of Tuscany, or Venice.

Ladybugs to the rescue.

But it is still January. I’ve released 1500 ladybugs and a vial of lacewing eggs. I’ve cut an entire roll of chickenwire into garden-bed-sized pieces and introduced the cats to a litterbox filled with nice, loose kitty litter. Every day I wet down the beds so that they will be a little less diggable—for cats, that is. I stick dandelion diggers and trowels and wooden stakes in the beds—anything that might serve as a kitty impediment. And yet, one thing I know is true: I might solve the problems of now, but something else, something unpredictable, is bound to happen. Last year, rabbits created fur-lined birthing beds in the carrot greens, and mice eviscerated the beet seeds before they had a chance to germinate. Maria, the rambunctious Great Pyrenees pup trampled the lettuce. The outdoor wood furnace malfunctioned causing the ceiling-mounted heating elements to drip icicles and the chard to freeze. We brought in kerosene heaters, which spewed a coating of black dust over every, and I mean every, green leaf. Superstorms, deep freezes, equipment malfunctions, and animal invasions are facts of life. Especially in January.

On the bright side, there are no groundhogs in January. They are, it seems, smarter than us. They know better than to look for baby carrots when the ground is frozen.   

True Confession 1: Robert’s name is not really Robert.

True Confession 2: The real chef (whose name is not Robert) is nicer than Robert and would never say those things. 

But I know he thinks them.

Spinach: the gritty truth

You may remember when supermarket spinach was a recognizable plant, with leaves attached to stems. You dunked and swished it in a basin of water and the grit would fall from the crinkled leaves. You would separate the leaves from the stems, tossing the tough, fibrous stalks into the garbage and chopping the not-so-tough stems for cooking. A second dunking and swishing followed and maybe even a third. But still, a grain or two of grit would sometimes spoil the sensory feel of eating the soft green leaves, steamed for only the number of seconds it took for them to wilt.  

I always supposed that spinach was grown in sandy soil, and that the grit that clung tenaciously to the savoyed leaves was sand that resisted my dunking and swishing. But now, as I harvest spinach leaf by leaf throughout the winter months, I have reason to doubt that assumption. The first leaves of fall are rounded and tender—the same as the baby greens pre-washed and packed in 5-ounce bags and shipped from California (but they hold their freshness for days longer … without irradiation). As the weeks pass the leaves change their shape; they acquire waves and ridges, and develop a more substantial feel. At some point in their maturation, I begin to feel a grittiness on the backs of the leaves, even though my soil is not at all sandy. When I examine the leaves very closely I see constellations of crystals concentrated on the leaf veins, and spreading outward. Spontaneous eruptions of salt.

Do you see the crystals?

I now suspect that some of that grit I was unable to wash off came from the spinach leaves themselves.

Spinach is renowned for its health benefits—its vitamin A content is through the roof, and B₉, C, and K amounts are more than respectable. But there’s one nutrient spinach does not offer us, even though it has plenty of it, and that is calcium. The calcium robber—otherwise known as the antinutrient—is oxalate, an organic acid contained in fruits, vegetables, nuts, grains, chocolate, and even in our own bodies. 

(Our cells produce it and it’s in chocolate. How bad can it be?)

In the spinach plant, and in many other plants as well, the oxalate binds with the calcium to make crystals, effectively seizing the calcium for the plants’ own functions. These crystals are the salt-like particles I feel on the backs of the leaves. Nobody’s exactly sure what good the calcium-oxalate crystals do for the plant. After all, we don’t know everything. But one theory is that they deter chewing insects. 

Now you see them!

Even though, as I mentioned, our bodies always contain oxalates (our cells routinely convert Vitamin C to oxalates) this antinutrient has gotten a bad reputation in some circles. It is blamed for kidney stones, though this has not been proven. In one recent study of about 250,000 men and women the researchers concluded that “data do not support the contention that dietary oxalate is a major risk factor for incident kidney stones.”(1) Instead, other complex factors are at work, which I cannot pretend to understand. The Harvard Health letter recommends drinking plenty of fluids to keep mineral concentrations lower, eating calcium-rich foods to bind oxalates that might otherwise cause trouble, and avoiding calcium supplements. Calcium in food and calcium in pills apparently act differently, proving that we have a lot to learn about calcium and our bodies. And spinach, no doubt.

There is one more twist—if you’re still with me. Here is the plot so far: A green plant chemically holds back its calcium from animals for reasons of its own. We (humans, that is) would like the calcium to benefit our bones and teeth, and are a little leery of the plant’s materials and methods. We don’t trust oxalate. At all. We fear that it will cause us pain, and whether or not the plant is at fault is not all that important. The plant contains the antinutrient, the calcium robber.

So what do we do?

We take back the calcium!  

That’s right. Researchers are looking into genetically manipulating the oxalate levels in plants. Natural mutants that lack crystals, they say, grow just as well. And if we eliminate the oxalates, our teeth and bones will get the calcium.

Here is my message for those researchers:

I humbly submit that there’s a better idea. We should recognize that we’re not that smart. We should remember that we don’t know everything. Maybe, just maybe, spinach has a good reason for making calcium oxalate crystals. And, the truth is, we can have our spinach (and its vitamins A, B₉, C, and K) and our calcium too if we just eat more kale, and carrots, and bok choy, and turnip greens. And drink more milk.   

And, by the way, don’t even think about messing with chocolate.

(1)Taylor, E., Curhan, G. 2007. Oxalate Intake and the Risk for Nephrolithiasis. JASN 18:7

January Count Down

 

January is for dancing. Or it is for slowing way down—and I mean Sigur Rós down—and doing some necessary but mundane task. Painting a hallway. Ripping down someone else’s choice of wallpaper. January is for getting a haircut or a new pair of boots, anything to make one feel shiny. January is for making soup.

Crunching through January ice to enter a warm and welcoming greenhouse should be fun. It should be uplifting. But if you’re used to the cheery growth rate of spring lettuce, the happy balance of plant-juice-sucking insects and well-fed carnivores, the satisfyingly speedy April transformation of a handful of arugula seeds to a dark green salad, it isn’t. Fun, that is. It’s work.  As the lettuce seeds I planted two months ago struggle to reach the salad bowl, my spirits sink into their sluggish rhythm. Whiteflies suck our vital juices. We wait. For the sun. 

I need a dance. Or a haircut.

The rate of photosynthesis is dependent on the amount of sunlight. Today, December 30^th, in Allentown, Pennsylvania, we were graced by only about 9 hours and 19 minutes of that precious commodity. Tomorrow, we will get an additional 38 seconds. By the end of January the days will be increasing by a full 2 minutes each day, so that on January 28^th the day will be 10 hours long, the same as it was on November 12^th. Ten, according to Eliot Coleman, is the magic number when it comes to lettuce and other greens. Ten is the number that sets us on the path to normalcy and good spirits. 

Magenta!

In October I planted three full beds of head lettuce in the cooler of the two greenhouses. Even without the supplemental warmth (heated water circulates beneath the soil) they would be doing an admirable job of soldiering though these short days. I harvested the tall romaines first, fearing for their vulnerable tips, and then the splaying ‘Two Star’ heads. ‘Magenta’ is still staged prettily in rows, waiting its turn. Or waiting for the little sap-sucking insects to discover its sweet juices. Which they undoubtedly will. Any day now.

Flowering stem on Dec 30 2012

Spinach is a little more immune to winter bugs. As I cut the leaves I can feel the calcium oxalate crystals on their backs. In fact, I feel them more now, in January, than I do in May—possibly because of their lethargic growth rate. These indigestible crystals cost us the benefits of the calcium, but they profit the plant in some way, either as a repository of calcium, insurance for lean times, or as a defense against chewing insects. Turnip greens have the calcium without the crystals. They also have the bugs. Leaves start out promising and perky but succumb to winter malaise. Two out of three of their ping-pong ball roots turn ugly. Where’s the fun in that?

But look! Phalaenopsis is sending up its lanky stem, its flower buds already visible. I will move it to the kitchen window, where I can watch its progress while making soup and counting, very very slowly, to 10.

9.315

9.326

9.338

9.350 …….

Crabby Creek Revisited

The big, gracious beech with its carved initials—the one that created its own clearing midway down the steep hill, the one that offered us strong horizontal branches for easy climbing—is gone. No trace remains. Some of the hearts and letters, not all, had been our doing; other climbers had defaced the smooth bark long before we discovered it. A short distance from the void where (we believe) the beech had once stood—much closer, in truth, than in my memory—the challenging cliffs that once served as our wild wild west overlook the creek. Fifty years later, they are still impressive.

The whole of our childhood playground—the cliffs, the creek, the salamanders, the pollywogs—is now a township park, with a sign and all. The fact is, it was always public property, being too rugged for fast-buck developers to easily plop houses upon. But now it is official. With a sign and all. 

The bridges that had made the stream banks accessible to vehicles in the years before we claimed them as our own have crumbled and crashed. That remarkable “road” was probably built between 1935 and 1943, when the United States government provided jobs for eight million men. Back then it’s very possible that humble structures built of oak stood along the banks of the Crabby. Structures that housed families with children. Children who climbed trees and carved hearts in their smooth bark. If so, no surface signs remain. Any trash heaps that may have existed are buried under many layers of forest debris. 

One thing is certain: the dirt road that gave us access to crayfish and adventure predated Green Road, the winding street where our post World War II childhood home still stands overlooking the wooded ridge. 

“You take the low road and I’ll take the high road…,” we used to sing, sometimes walking the low trail by the creek and other times the upper (WPA?) lane as we made our way to the small man-made pond by the railroad tracks. The pond too is gone, a victim of the cul-de-sac built for the convenience of two extravagant houses that replaced our road. The dirt had to go somewhere. 

Why the pond and its associated dam were there in the first place is another question. They were positioned just south of a freight line that was built sometime after the mid 19^th century. Was there a practical connection between the two? Maybe not. The pond may have been constructed for the convenience of a wealthy pre-Depression Philadelphian who desired a fishing hole. We do like to control our environment. 

At any rate, the pond is absent and the dam is a useless slab of concrete. Harmless remnants of the past, layered with leaves. I want to walk up the hill to see if blueberries still grow near the house we lived in, or if the deer have changed the plant community that left an indelible impression in my consciousness, but grownup restraint holds me back.


The curved banks of the Crabby have been undercut, in some spots, by waters rushing down hills foolishly cleared of their oaks and beeches. But the surrounding forest is wonderfully alive. Papery beech leaves cling to juvenile trees, and every shade of dirty blonde is represented in the rustle beneath our feet. We see brilliant orange orb weavers, multiple signs of woodpeckers, prints from the cloven hooves of deer. 

Tires lay on the ground near the defunct dam, posed in a distinct pattern, arranged, we guess—we hope—by kids who spend their summer days looking under rocks for salamanders. On hot summer days, we imagine, they “help” the waters of Crabby Creek flow in channels built of stones and sticks, and prod crayfish out of their crevices.

 Maybe they find slim trees that some stunt of nature has caused to bend down, and up, and then down again, and ride them like camels. And maybe, hopefully, they will grow up to know the difference between a white oak and a chestnut oak, and recognize that beeches flaunt their papery leaves far into the winter months, and that dead trees are hotbeds of life. 

They will see white waxy Indian pipes rising from the dark earth, and weave the ghostly images into stories that will play and replay in their minds throughout their lives, triggered by the sweet smell of decaying oak leaves, the rippling waters of a small creek, or the always thrilling sight of the nodding translucent flowers of the elusive saprophyte.

Crabby Creek will live on in their minds as they travel their lives, its steady flow defying attempts to dam or reroute it with sticks and stones. Their future dealings with the natural world—we hope—will be measured by its clarity and its promise. 

This is our best hope.

Discovering Nature's Stories

In preparing for a Nature Journaling Workshop I have been thinking about stories—their seductiveness, and their universality. My partner Bob’s particular gift is learning the stories of the people he meets, every day and every place. A stranger’s offhand comments in a Wegman’s checkout line can, and often does, lead to an extended conversation. Points of intersecting lives are discovered and celebrated. There are friends of friends in common, mutual cheers for life-changing movies from the ‘60s, or shared tastes for smoked salmon and dark chocolate. Every person has a story, and within that story, a thousand others.

Lichen, meet moss.

To me, a solitary walk in nature holds a similar appeal. Fragments of stories reveal themselves with every step. Soft mosses of every shade of green compete with lichen for space on rocks; lichen radiates outward from the center like a new philosophy crowding old-thinkers onto the diminishing edges. Pushing, pushing, a mystifying enmity at work. What forces propel this glacially slow movement … and why?

Goldenrod bunch gall, caused by a fly

Questions. Intrigue. What is that bunching of leaves on the goldenrod stem? Who goes there! Does the crow’s single caw mean something different from the double, or triple caw caw caw? “Being a good noticer is terribly important in learning animal language,” said Polynesia, Dr. Dolittle’s talking parrot. Through a combination of books, databases, and deduction, I attempt to fill in the plentiful gaps between the noticed and the known. Always there are riddles. A puzzle may linger for weeks or years until, one day, an inspiration or flake of information floats to the top. And so the next level of inquiry reveals a whole new set of mysteries.

For Bob, the stories of the people he meets hold endless fascination. For me, they can be tiresome. And yet I wonder how anyone could possibly find the stories of nature anything but compelling. The synapses that cause our brains to snap and crackle differ from person to person, but we are all, in our underpinnings, noticers. We are all curious. We follow every enticing word the media feeds us about the General Petraeus scandal. Details about extramarital activity and international secrets keep coming and coming, and we can’t look away. When the focus is honeybees, the popular media has not so much to offer us. “Honeybees are Dying,” the sensational headlines read. But where are the subplots, the ancillary characters? Major media outlets have little to say about nature’s regenerative powers, about the 4000 species of native bees that are still on the job, about the honeybee’s history in America. Rather than captivating us, the dumbed-down story leaves us with a vague feel-bad sensation. Somehow it is all our fault … again. This is no way to build a good relationship.

Parasitic plant strangles its host!

Coming upon a silly-string patch of dodder I can’t help but ask, “What is your story?” This crazy parasite of a plant has somehow developed a homing pigeon instinct for finding a host. The host, scientists believe, sends out volatile compounds to the dodder that say, “Come to me.” Why would a host send that message to a marauding intruder, one might well ask? And how did the common name dodder come about anyway, and is it related to doddering fool? Mysteries, mysteries. 

What many people forget as they busy themselves with inside occupations is that Nature is not out there. Our story is entwined with those of the goldenrod gall and the long tailed wasp. The air, the trees, the ancient mosses and liverworts, the parasites and gall builders, the rotting trunks and the decaying grasses vibrate with interconnected activity. The Story of the world, which holds a million other stories, is one without an ending. All you can do is grab at threads and try to weave sense into the whole. And try to steer clear of the human impulse to adopt a creed that pulls it all together in a neat package. 

Despite my sometimes impatience I have learned to appreciate the chance encounters at Wegmans (really, I have). Take a minute (or in Bob’s world, 20) to learn a little something about someone and they become real, and the time turns out not to be wasted. A stranger suddenly and unexpectedly gains value. Being a nature noticer requires a similar attitude adjustment, and yields similar rewards, compounded each time you take the time … to notice, to explore, to care. Grab an hour and a blank book. And a drawing pen. Try to leave the camera at home; this is not about capturing images but about uncovering stories. It’s about building understanding, getting lost in the narrative with its multitude of characters and twists of plot. 

Respect—the same respect that is present in any good relationship—is a happy byproduct.

 "Well that," said Polynesia, brushing some crumbs off the corner of the table with her left foot—"that is what you call powers of observation—noticing the small things about birds and animals: the way they walk and move their heads and flip their wings; the way they sniff the air and twitch their whiskers and wiggle their tails. You have to notice all those little things if you want to learn animal language. For you see, lots of the animals hardly talk at all with their tongues; they use their breath or their tails or their feet instead. That is because many of them, in the olden days when lions and tigers were more plentiful, were afraid to make a noise for fear the savage creatures heard them. Birds, of course, didn't care; for they always had wings to fly away with. But that is the first thing to remember: being a good noticer is terribly important in learning animal language." – from The Story of Dr. Dolittle, by Hugh Lofting

After Hurricane Sandy

Just imagine, for a moment, that you are a sheep. You and your 60 or so fellow sheep find yourself in an open-ended shelter as a terrible storm rages. A deafening roar fills your world and gusts of wind, such as have never been felt before (although, because you are a sheep, you know nothing about weather history) threaten to lift your shelter up and carry it away. 

Suddenly a massive blast of air pushes the pole structure that had until then offered minimal protection several feet to the west, bending and breaking the water pipe in its path as easily as if it were a strand of spaghetti. A geyser of water is now spewing from the ground; sheets of rain are pouring from the sky. The structure tilts and topples, poles bending and fences snapping. Still the roar surrounds you and you strain against the wind just to stand in place. 

Someone among you takes the lead (is it the same someone every time, or do you, like geese in a V, take turns being the leader, one wonders). Is it sheep intuition that instructs your leader to brace her shoulders against the wind and head up hill? Maybe she remembers the location of the broccoli, and knows instinctively that it is good to eat, though none among you have ever sampled even a single leaf. Or maybe the broccoli’s alluring scent carries through the sodden air and transcends the supposed fear of the moment.

You follow your brave, or clever, or particularly olfactorily gifted—or just lucky—leader over the broken fence and up the hill to the promised land, where the taste of tender florets greatly outweighs the discomfort of the blustery march. You eat your fill. 

You devour heads of cabbage, tender leaves of Brussels sprouts and kale, and a whole long row of broccoli and cauliflower. Big full heads of green lettuce are covered by a flimsy white cloth—it’s only a minor inconvenience to rip through it. When the good stuff is gone there are the grassy blades of oats and delicacies like carrot and parsnip leaves, turnips, and rhubarb stalks. The rain pelts and the wind furiously blasts at your wet hide, but how often do you get a chance to eat like this? 

Never! That’s how often. Usually it’s fields of grass and clover. If you’re really lucky, alfalfa. How sweet are the rewards of an occurrence calamitous enough to disrupt normal life. And, in the case of a sheep, how immediate. 

As humans, the process is slower, and more reflective. When we find ourselves displaced, our homes lacking the things we need to carry on, we have no choice but to experience life from a different perspective. In the midst of our discomfort, a kind friend, a soft bed, a pot of African peanut soup arrive on the scene. 

Suddenly there are conversations that would not have happened, revelations that would not have been learned, a debt owed and instantly discounted, a favor granted, a bond deepened. The garden is in ruins but the good feelings multiply. The sheep now know where the broccoli is kept, we now know that we can trust in friendship. 

I rip out the bare stalks of brassicas and chomped heads of cabbage and count my losses. One, two, three trashcans full of remains will go to the pigs. Enthusiastically they will grunt and rejoice over their good fortune (do pigs rejoice, one wonders). 

Safe, warm, full of contentment, I am once again ensconced with my stuff. The refrigerator has been emptied of its spoiled contents and refilled. The prematurely empty garden is planted in winter rye and vetch, builders of next year's soil. I am much richer for my losses. 

After all, It’s only broccoli.