Shedding Not Just For Dogs

OK, people…get a grip. Yes, it’s a snake skin. Gives us cause for pause…right?

As wildlife biologist John S. Powers, of Alabama put it, “ Few creatures inspire a thrill or, for many, a chill more readily than snakes. The snake's public relations woes are well documented in the writings of many early civilizations, most prominently in the Christian Bible.


He continues:  "Though more common worldwide than most people realize, snakes tend to be secretive by nature and are relatively rarely seen. This "out of sight, out of mind" arrangement works out well for the majority of people (and the snakes) the majority of the time. However, it can intensify the shock when "out of sight" is brought sharply to mind by indisputable evidence that snakes are among us and are often closer than we think.”


Right on, Mr. Powers!


Now, I am not a “snake person." Thankfully I have a husband who does not suffer from herpetophobia and who doesn’t berate me for mine, and who, with the sound of my screaming “ssssnnnnnaaaake!!!” will come to my rescue and cart the critter off.  My point, here is that despite my dread, I still can appreciate the elegant design of the snake’s exterior. Sans snake, it’s safe to hold the shed skin in your hand and marvel at its beauty.


Living out here JOTOLR, we have a good partnership with Black snakes.   Some say Black snakes and Copperheads won't occupy the same territory.  I've not found any evidence to support that claim other than the fact that we've never had a copperhead on our farm here, after 35 years of living a mostly outdoor life on it.

I found this medium-sized snake skin on one of our oak lumber piles day before yesterday. It was obviously a Black Snake—non-poisonous, and consumer of vast quantities of mice and other pesky rodents that annoy and anger a farmer. Shorthand for the fact that a Black snake is one of the "good guys.” The flipside is that it is also a consumer of chicken eggs and baby chicks if one isn’t watchful, and a heart stopper if one isn't particularly fond of snakes. In fact, MM had just removed one from the chicken coop which I discovered about a week prior to my finding this skin.  Back to skin-shedding:


Animals all “shed” their skins. Just differently. In snakes, it’s called ecdysis. It's shed all at one time.   Humans, on the other hand, shed approximately 1.5 MILLION dead skin cells every HOUR, and at the end of 28 days, we’ve shed our entire skin! Snakes shed their skin four to eight times during each year in response to their need to grow.


Back to John Powers: “Shed snake skins turn up in the darnedest places. Often, people are unsettled by finding an abandoned snake skin in the woods, field, garden or yard. Though unnerved, most are simply being reminded of an unpleasant fact. They know snakes are around, whether they like it or not, but they are comforted to know that the one that shed the skin in question is probably where it belongs--outside. Unnerved does not begin to describe the effect the discovery of that same dry, empty skin can have when it is found in the basement, in the attic, or, Heaven help us, in the closet, under the bed, or in the back of the sock drawer.”


Back to Elora: I had a friend whose husband when getting into bed one night in their old farmhouse, thought her feet were especially cold at the foot of the bed, under the covers. You guessed it, and I won’t go any further! Gives me the shudders every time I think about it.


But take a moment to observe the elegant design of the papery covering. It’s quite beautiful if you can free yourself from the shivers racing up and down your spine. I also was drawn to the fact that even the eyes shed! And the teeth!  What an amazing feat! Several days prior the snake isn’t able to see clearly and can become, understandably more aggressive (dangerously so in the case of poisonous snakes).


The snake will do a head-shed first, freeing its nostrils so it can breathe and then the eyes come next. Once the head is basically free, the snake finds some rough object against which to rub “out of” the rest of its soon-to-be-discarded exterior. When done, it leaves behind the odd calling card, letting us know, its been here.

The Timberdoodle

Cute name, don’t you think?! Bogsucker isn’t as appealing. Both apply to the illusive American Woodcock sometimes inaccurately called a “snipe.” I had to borrow today’s photo. As a casual, wander-about photographer, it would be nearly impossible for me to capture an image of this secretive little member of the sandpiper family of birds. I would have to “stumble across” one and at the exact moment of its terrified eruptive flight I would have to have been prepared to grab a shot “on the fly.”

Well…yesterday on my pasture hike, I did, in fact, accomplish half of that prescription: I did “stumble” across an American Woodcock, but as for being prepared to take its photograph....no way. Practically underfoot, the poor astonished bird exploded from the ground just six feet from my foot, and both of us were way too surprised for artful images! I had just enough time to catch a glimpse of that distinctive long probing beak and a blur of rusty white wings, as it made haste toward protection afforded by multi-flora rose and Russian olives.


The majority of sandpipers inhabit environs closer to the sea. But one, the American Woodcock lives in moist thickets and woodland undergrowth rather than close to the shorelines. It ranges over most of Eastern North America. Usually they can be seen close to dawn or dusk. But this one, was simply hunting for worms (presumably) in a boggy valley between two segments of pastureland. Earthworms are the Woodcock’s food of choice, using their long beak like a sewing needle to probe the wet ground. They are stubby little creatures, almost comical with short tails and big eyes. (night vision!)


They make a soft “Peent, peent” sound. It’s quite distinctive. I’ve heard it several times, and I can remember a pair that flew past our porch every evening for a couple of weeks, several years back. But, alas! The American Woodcock population has been declining (habitat loss) by about 1.2 percent each year. So, it’s especially rare –not to mention heartwarming—that we out here JOTOLR—have been honored by the bird’s presence. And, though I’ve never seen their mating ritual, it’s said to be “entertaining” as the male climbs upward in a spiraling flight as his wings make a twittering sound. He chirps as he returns to earth, trying to entice a female with whom they’ll make a household


A snipe (yes, Virginia…there is such a thing as a snipe!) and a wood cock are about the same size. The snipe is apparently thinner with an even longer bill.


So, were you ever sent out on a “snipe hunt?” I was! Gullible Elora!  That’s the old camping game in which the poor unsuspecting tenderfoot camper is sent out with a burlap sack and a stick and told to make weird noises, in order to find and capture as many (obviously non-existent) snipes as possible in a certain time frame.


Actually, the snipe is difficult to catch or to shoot. So much so that the word “sniper” is derived from it to refer to anyone skilled enough to shoot it.


I love the woodcock. And I’m elated that we rated a five-star for their choice of places to stay for this spring’s nesting season! I only hope it comes a bit closer to the house so we can hear it’s “peent, peent” and watch it swoop overhead as it takes a tour of the farm as evening falls.

Score One For Elmer Fudd

Remember poor Elmer? Always on the prowl for that Dwatted Wabbit? The cartoon always portrayed poor Elmer as a villain, but if you had planted those carrots and lettuce and peas……Well, call me Mrs. Fudd. A Dwatted Wabbit has been helping itself to my newly planted peas and spinach lately. One day I was proudly looking at two lush rows of green pea shoots and the next day those pretty green shoots had vanished. Overnight! Inexpicably, there were heartbreaking—now brown-- gaps in the row of gween shoots! There was only one possible conclusion: WABBIT.

And, no, I didn’t have to get out my trusty shotgun. Something beat me to it and I couldn’t be more pleased! This is a piece of Wabbit fur. You should have seen the garden. There were tufts of Wabbit fur all over it. I’ve never seen so much Wabbit fur in one place—except ON a Wabbit!

Explanation: overnight an owl had gotten a meal. One of our treasured raptors had zapped the blankety-blank, pea-eating Wabbit, and obviously had had a late dinner or early breakfast. . The carnage was evident.


And, yesterday? The remaining peas and spinach were undisturbed. I’ve replanted the rest.


Treasure your raptors! They consume vast amounts of pests that frustrate your gardening efforts.






Festival of Fragrance

Ahhhhhhh….it’s a feast! Out here, JOTOLR, we are enveloped with multi-layers of fragrances. We’ve passed out of the gluttony of splashy colors, and into a whiter, calmer selection of eye candy. On the other hand, though we’ve entered a phase of intoxicating fragrances as the locusts are in full bloom, as are the wild cherries! What an experience! This year’s fragrant blooms are simply beyond compare. A demure white they may be, but they are not shy. The trees are loaded with nose-inspiring blooms! I find myself, throughout the day, hovering close to these huge bouquets, and I give thanks for the lush generosity of these majestic offerings! What a gift!


Crop Circles

The Mayapples in our west pasture grow in a circle. Every year the circle grows larger, but never changes shape. I’m not certain it’s unusual, but the circle is – for all intents and purposes—always perfectly round.  It just gets bigger every year. Maybe we are inadvertently communicating with those aliens Stephen Hawking was talking about…without even knowing it…! I wonder what this crop circle out here JOTOLR is actually saying…a good place to land?

Here's wishing you a lovely weekend.  Here in West Virginia, it's going to be absolutely perfect! Thank you, dear readers, for all your comments this past week.  May your gardens  all be growing with vigor!  See you next week!

Mother's Day's Coming Up

May 9th is Mother’s Day here in the U. S. (UK also celebrates a day for mothers, as do many countries the world over.)



Did you know the founder of our Mother’s Day was a West Virginian? We here in the U. S. were among the last to designate a special day for moms. But, I can’t think of a state wherein the emblem of family could be more prominent. To West Virginians, mother and family are central to all communities. Moms are tops.


Here’s the short version of the story of the origin from About.com:


“In the United States, Mother's Day did not become an official holiday until 1915. Its establishment was due largely to the perseverance and love of one daughter, Anna Jarvis. Anna's mother had provided strength and support as the family made their home in West Virginia and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where her father served as a minister. As a girl, Anna had helped her mother take care of her garden, mostly filled with white carnations, her mother's favorite flower. When Mrs. Jarvis died on May 5, 1905, Anna was determined to honor her. She asked the minister at her church in West Virginia to give a sermon in her mother's memory. On the same Sunday in Philadelphia, their minister honored Mrs. Jarvis and all mothers with a special Mother's Day service. Anna Jarvis began writing to congressmen, asking them to set aside a day to honor mothers. In 1910, the governor of West Virginia proclaimed the second Sunday in May as Mother's Day and a year later every state celebrated it.”


Over the decades, motherhood has changed considerably. Here are some notable aspects taken from an article in this morning’s news, by Rachael Rettner of Life Science:


“Today’s moms are older and more educated. In fact, motherhood statistics have changed dramatically over the last couple of decades. Births to teen mothers are on the decline, while the opposite is true for women over 35. A growing percentage of mothers are not married, and single moms tend to be younger.

Other interesting notes:


• The percentage of teen moms and moms over 35 has just about flipped. In 1990, 13 percent of births were to teens while 9 percent were to women over 35. In 2008, the percentages were 10 percent to teens and 14 percent to women over 35.


• The percentage of single moms grew from 28 percent in 1990 to a record 41 percent in 2008.


• More than half of moms, 54 percent, had at least some college-level education in 2006, up from 41 percent in 1990.


• Birth rates for women aged 35 to 39 increased by 47 percent, and rates for women aged 40 to 44 increased by 80 percent over the time period.


• The overall number of babies born has remained relatively stable, rising from 4.2 million in 1990 to 4.3 million in 2008. The country saw a dip in the total number of births coinciding with the recent recession.


The changing demographics are likely influenced by a number of factors, the researchers write. For instance, the higher percentage of single moms could result from a rise in births to this group as well as a drop in overall marriages in the country and the fact that women are marrying later."

I am not a mom.  The closest I've been to motherhood, was teaching school.  As a teacher, though,  I cherished not just working with students, but more to the point, working with parents--mothers mostly--who took the time and the effort to be the bridge between school and home.  Parenting--mothering--is key to a child's success. 


Happy Mother’s Day to all this coming Sunday!

Miners, Mountains and Marbles -- Part Two

Can you remember playing marbles as a kid? I don’t. I remember WATCHING the BOYS play marbles. I don’t know why, but girls, when I was growing up, were not even considered to be credible or capable mibsters (someone who plays marbles). As girls, we never even broached the possibility that we might be good at it.  Girls "back then" were the watchers, the cheerers. The circle on the playground seemed drawn to exclude girls.. Maybe that’s why I chose this photo. Contrary to that accepted norm, this Life Magazine photo below is of 11-year-old Emma Miller from Canton, OH, who was Amish and won the girls’ 1949 championship.

The game of marbles has been around ever since …well, no one really knows…but let’s just say “forever.” Small clay balls have been found in burial mounds of Native Americans, some 2000 years old. The Aztecs had marbles, as did the Romans who played marbles as a game. The glassblowers of Venice made small glass balls around 900 A.D.


And, marbles were made from all kinds of materials other than glass. I remember when we first moved here JOTOLR, a former resident of our old farmhouse came by for an historical walk down memory lane. For whatever reason (I don’t recall) he talked about making marbles by taking a chunk of shale, finding a hole in a rock in the river, and letting it churn in the hole for some time, to make it round, and then returning to retrieve it. Sounds a bit apocryphal, especially if one considers how long it would take to build a pouchful of useable marbles! But he seemed serious.  I do have a wooden marble, as well as a marble marble.

For me, though, I’ve always been fascinated with glass—whether it’s Steubin lead crystal, Tiffany’s lamps, Millifiore paperweights, or marbles. West Virginia, at one time, was home to many glass factories, and the quality of the glass made here was recognized far and wide. Of course, glass manufacturing included production of marbles, which are used for many things other than games. But, as with many such traditional industries, it is largely silent today.  Nonetheless, the game of marbles lives on.


There are over 50 different games commonly played with marbles. The language of marbles is rich with names and moves. There are bombsies, commoneys, corkscrews clearies, steelies, alleys, and aggies, bumboozers , immies and peewees, milkies, and more…the beat goes on. A mibster can play for keepsies or for fair; or fudge, or hunch; knuckling down is the right way to shoot, but a shooter will probably lag, as well.

What’s neat about the game of marbles is that the “equipment” is so simple, it can be carried easily in a pocket, set up quickly, and provides endless entertainment. It can be played in the city, in the country, in the house or out of doors. All that’s needed is a smooth, flat surface and marbles. In 1922 the Scripps-Howard newspaper company sponsored the first National Marbles Tournament for kids 14 and under. As I mentioned in yesterday's post, Raymond Jarrell (among other West Virginia kids over the years) won the tournament in 1972. 

I have not been able to learn whether it will be held again this year, but it did happen last year. Nor have I been able to determine whether the marble factory Marble King, here in Paden City, West Virginia, is still in business. I traveled to Marble King years ago, and after the factory tour was told to go out by the railroad tracks and comb the grounds for forgotten marbles. Among the treasures I found was a black and yellow bumblebee, a not-altogether-rare marble, but on the rare side, anyway!

Remember when those cat’s eyes came out in the 1950’s? The ones with the various-colored swirls inside? They were made in Japan, and apparently, according to Richie Chevat’s Marble Book, nearly “sank the U. S. marbles industry” because marble manufacturers hadn’t caught up with the techniques for producing these kinds of marbles. Everyone here wanted them. I remember finding one and considered it precious at the time.


There aren’t many mibsters, today. Computers and electronic games have largely replaced games like marbles. Pinball machines still use marbles. Some other uses include reflectors in road signs, spawning beds in fish hatcheries, agitators in aerosol cans, and as rollers to slide coffins into crypts.


There is so much marble lore on the web and well worth a short stroll down memory lane. Here is a particularly engaging site:  MARBLE CONNECTION. Also, if you want a compendium on marble lore, including how to play over 50 marbles games, splurge a little and buy The Marble Book by Richie Chevat. You can get it for a penny on Amazon.com. What a great way to spend a spring afternoon or two with your kids or your grandkids….learning (and teaching) the skills of knuckling down! Who knows? Maybe they’ll learn enough, themselves, to take home all the money, marbles and chalk and revive the game(s) of marbles once again!

Miners, Mountains and Marbles -- Part One

Dirty knees, a sore thumb, a piece of chalk (or even a shoelace) and keepsies marbles (maybe along with a few pennies) bulging in a boy’s (or a girl’s) pocket are every bit as much sure signs of spring here as are vibrant green leaves. Or at least, they used to be! That was especially true for Southern West Virginia, where the game of marbles became a ticket to fame, if not great fortune.


I mention miners and mountains in the context of the game of marbles because of several things. West Virginia is marble country. Hard scrabble kids with little money to spend for gear to play with, looked to the simple game(s) of marbles for entertainment in the spring. They found a way to compete and take their show on the road, so to speak, as they headed for the National Marbles Tournament in Wildwood, NJ each year in June.


The marbles you see in the photo were given to me by none other than Raymond Jarrell of Naoma , (some say Whitesville), West Virginia, years ago when I interviewed him for a story I decided to pursue when I learned that Raymond was the 1972 National Marbles Champion—the very best in the country. I drove quite a way in 1976 when I did the interview. It’s a long drive from here JOTOLR to Raymond’s neck of the woods. He’d won the national championship as a 13-year-old. Beyond that, growing up, he’d given a lot of time to coaching several local aspiring mibsters toward their championship quests, teaching them the skills of knuckling down.


I remember Raymond as very soft-spoken and not much for beating his own drum. Mostly I remember the 20-gallon garbage can filled with marbles he’d won over the years, occupying a corner of the service station, owned by his family, where he worked. When I peered into the trash can, nearly filled to the top with colorful glass orbs of every stripe and swirl, he said, “Here. Help yourself!” So, I did. He must have given me a carry-out container because I certainly had not brought my own! Today, a half-gallon Kerr-Mason jar sits on the shelf in my office, and represents a precious memory for me, of the day I interviewed the National Marbles Champion of America, right here in the mountains of West Virginia.


The thing is, Naoma and Whitesville are tiny towns in Coal Country, tiny, in the sense of numbers, but peopled by big hearts of hard-working, God-fearing, kindly—even gentle—folks. Just before I retired, I worked eight years for The Pampered Chef and I did many “kitchen shows” for miners’ wives right around Whitesville and Naoma. These are tightly bonded communities, supportive of one another and unexpectedly warm and welcoming of strangers.


I’m sure you’ll remember hearing the names of these townships most recently in connection with the Upper Big Branch Mine explosion, where 29 miners lost their lives. Yes, that’s the place. It’s where families gathered to await news of the ultimate fates of their loved ones. It’s where media and law enforcement, rescuers and regulators were all made to feel right at home.

Raymond Jarrell still owns and runs the service station in Naoma. I have to confess I haven’t been back. Life travels on. Nobody plays marbles much any more. On the other hand, some things do stay the same…mining disasters continue and we’re told by industry that we should simply accept this as a fact of life and a part of doing business. The powerful manage the media to ensure a favorable light on their stories and offer $3-million to each family who lost one of the 29—probably in return for their silence. The public soon forgets, as focus shifts daily from 29 lost miners to a catastrophic oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, a bomb in Times Square, another too-big-to-fail bank fighting against regulation and possible criminal fraud charges, defended by one of the richest men in the world, Warren Buffet. What’s new? And, of course, there is the busyness of daily living for the rest of us. As the saying goes, “Life moves on.’ 

Tomorrow, on a much lighter note, I’ll tell you all about the game of marbles as it was played, right here, deep in the Appalachians, just off another one-lane road.   For today, I continue to mourn the loss of so many things...lives, the environment, and simpler times when games of marbles were a source of joy, excitement and challenge. 

Poison Iiiiiii-vy! Yikes!

Yup. It’s that time of year again when that dreaded vine sneaks its way into picnics and foraging expeditions. In reality, poison ivy can be a nuisance any time throughout the year, but this is the season when the leaves spring back to life, so what was once a fibrous “rope” masquerading as a rather inconspicuous, harmless albeit hairy vine hugging the trunk of a tree (which can be the size of an arm) turns into a lush leafy structure that pops up in unexpected locations—even urban gardens—this time of year. Poison Ivy is widely adaptable and can be found growing as a trailing vine across the ground, over buildings, and sneaks its way into flowerbeds and shrubbery. It may grow close to the ground, but can also be found trailing overhead. It will happily grow right next to the harmless Virginia Creeper.

Anywhere from 8 to 48 hours after coming into contact with any part of the poison ivy, you’ll know whether you’re sensitive to this plant or not. Some lucky folks aren’t. MM, for example, seems to lack the PI-sensitive gene. Unfortunately, I fall into the other camp, and within a few hours of encountering even the least little contact with it, I break out in that characteristic rash that simply drives me wild! The itch lasts for days. Little relief comes from commercial “stop-the-itch” creams, or at least relief doesn’t last very long.. Best antidote I’ve found is to apply an aloe leaf to the affected area. It takes about 20 minutes for the aloe’s soothing affect to kick in, but once the itchy “fire” is put out, relief lasts for several hours.


Here is a wonderfully informative website on POISON IVY Poison Ivy is a member of the Cashew family (I definitely prefer the nut!)


The Itch is caused by a component called Urushiol oil. Only one nanogram (billionth of a gram) is needed to cause a rash. The average exposure is 100 nanogams.


Five hundred people could itch from the amount covering the head of a pin, while one-quarter ounce would cause a reaction in every person on earth. Specimens of Urushiol several centuries old have been found to cause dermatitis in sensitive people. The name "Urushiol is derived from the Japanese name for lacquer. When the Japanese restored the gold leaf on the Temple of Kyoto, they painted the Urushiol lacquer on it to preserve and maintain the gold. (It could have been a good deterrent against thievery, too!)


According to experts, Urushiol reactions are the most common form of allergy in the U.S.


Out here, JOTOLR, I seem to manage at least one careless encounter with poison ivy every year! I’ve had my one encounter for this season already.  So, I can see where this season is heading already. 


During the summer months poison ivy produces grapelike clusters of tiny white, pumpkin-like seeds with an off-white or pale yellow rind. Eventually, the rind flakes off and exposes the seed. Well before this happens, however, the rind-bound seeds are feasted upon by a variety of birds, including flickers and woodpeckers, sapsuckers, thrushes, pheasants and quail. Songbirds also eat the fruit during their fall migrations and during the winter when other foods are scarce. The rind provides the birds with nourishment, while the seeds usually pass through the birds’ gut unharmed. In this way, birds act as agents in the spread of poison ivy.


Identifying Poison Ivy isn’t difficult. What is difficult is to REMEMBER to identify it before you sit down in its midst or weed the flower garden with abandon. If you are a “sensitive” ALWAYS LOOK FIRST! Poison Ivy resembles Virginia Creeper. They often grow in direct proximity to each other.   Here’s the motto, along with photos:

Leaves of five (Virginia Creeper) leave alive

(meaning, count the five lobes, identify as Virginia Creeper)

Leaves of three (Poison Ivy) don’t touch me!

(Count those three lobes and know it's that diabolical Poison Ivy).

 There are also many myths associated with Poison Ivy concerning remedies. Most I’ve tried have turned out to be less than effective. One I’ve not tried is rubbing the affected area with the inside of a banana peel. On the other hand, I have found rubbing alcohol, if applied within 20 minutes of exposure, to be effective. Some say dishwashing detergent works, too. Again, the link I’ve provided here has lots of good information, including pictures of the rash and other remedies. The author of this website offers many tips and methods for determining whether or not exposure has occurred.

Finally, the danger is not past with the passage of summer. In the fall, Poison Ivy leaves are particularly beguiling. They invite the uninformed to gather those brilliant leaves and put them in a vase on the table. Know your plants, dear reader! Pay attention to the flora in your backyard, and be aware of the ramifications of a chance brush-up with this fiendish trickster.