Street Level Zen: Family

"Having children takes talent, like any creative thing."

Maurice Sendak


(Photo courtesy of Seth Anderson and Wikimedia Commons.)

Tandem

Let us walk alone together, comrade sojourner.
We will be like pebbles in a bag, polishing each other bright.


(Ship's dogs, ca. 1920, courtesy of the US Navy and Rawpixel.com.)

WW: Pacific crabapple

(Malus fusca. Native to the North Coast, in my home county it's a common understory tree, flourishing on the margins and in clearings of mature forests.

Though M. fusca's apples are only bean-sized, given the number available, they're a staple of local indigenous cuisines. Like all crabapples they're barely palatable raw, but a brilliant upgrade to other fruits, contributing depth, tartness, pectin, and rosy perfume to evergreen huckleberries, apple pie and cider, rose hips, blackberries and a great many others.

The wood is dense and hard, verging on flinty, and so good for such things as tool handles, stakes, digging sticks, and hard-duty walking sticks.)


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Vaudeville Dharma

"Dying is easy. Practice is hard."

(My monastic riff on a hallowed show biz pun.)


(Photo of Chàn ancestor Hanshan Deqing's mummy courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)

WW: Prairie farm

(Appearing also on My Corner of the World.)

Glamorous Mystery

When I encountered this florist-worthy flower on a bike ride through local prairie country, I was certain it must be a garden escapee, persisting on ground that was once a yard, or arriving more recently in a load of soil. A dozen-odd volunteers had formed a loose colony, with random pioneers scattered along the trail beyond for perhaps a hundred yards.

I was so taken with the glamour – and mystified that I couldn't identify this stranger, given moderately wide experience of garden blooms – that I emailed a few shots to a friend who's a recognised expert on the topic.

The mystery only deepened when she couldn't identify it, either.

At last, my friend worked her resources and reached a verdict: Clarkia amoena.

Thus was I thoroughly humbled, because not only does this eye-catching bloom turn out to be native – while in theory I'm Mr. Wild Plants Guy – it's a fêted member of the freakin' Lewis and Clark herbarium.

Named after William Clark, for God's sake! (Way to rub it in, karma.)

Clarkia amoena, also called farewell-to-spring, is an evening primrose relative, which accounts for another common name: satin flower. It prefers well-drained and –sunned soil, and as that first common name suggests, tends to burst into glorious blossom just as things start to hot up. Which is exactly the moment in which I passed that day.

Indigenous peoples made a staple of this plant's tiny, grain-like seeds, eating them toasted as-is, steamed into porridge, or brewed into a thick, nutritious drink. In addition, Clarkia was one of several field-forming flowers on the pre-settlement prairie that sustained multiple species of butterflies and other insects that have since become endangered.

Finally, it counts among the relatively few North American flowers to pivot to cultivation, thanks to a ready willingness to thrive anywhere that supplies its minimum requirements.

And also, of course, its magnificence.

So, why has this once-classic local suddenly (re)appeared? Well, the land on which grows is actually a reserve, donated to prairie preservation by former owners who'd run a horse-training facility on it. As such it's undergone incremental restoration, some of which might recently have included inoculation with Clarkia seed.

The reserve trust has also taken to conducting controlled burns on their property, as fire is important to prairie health – among other things, nudging Clarkia seeds to germinate.

Whatever the reason, I'm glad it's back.

WW: Giant yellow bamboo

(Suspect Phyllostachys vivax. This is very big stuff - diameters up to 4 inches and heights to maybe 60 feet. This grove occurs in the neighbourhood where I grew up, on a tract of land that was once a farmer's backyard, but has been untended for 50 years now.

Always surreal to see such an iconic plant of the tropics growing so happily here on the North Pacific Coast.)


Appearing also on My Corner of the World.