The Spider in My Mailbox

There is a housing shortage in the Ozarks and millions of potential home-owners have fanned out across the hills, looking for suitable places to build. These potential home-owners are not of the people variety, they are of the wasp variety. It seems everywhere I go these days, I seem to be bumping into every kind of wasp or they are bumping into me. As they do not yet have nests and brood to protect, they do not appear to be aggressive but sometimes a wasp buzzing two inches from the end of your nose can be unsettling. There always seem to be two or three inside my cabin, and a small army of the homeless seem to continually swarm around the eves of the roof outside. Everytime I get into my truck I seem to have company of the winged variety (I am convinced there are a couple that just use me to bum rides to town and back) and I always double check the steering wheel to make sure I don't put my hand directly down upon one. It is clear that the search for housing has begun in earnest and apparently, almost any shelter will do.

I am reminded of last year when a similar situation arose. One warm and gentle Spring morning I opened my mailbox only to find it infested with ants, a LOT of ants. In fact, it appeared that my mailbox had been taken over by an entire colony of the small black insects! Normally I would not be taken aback by the sight of ants but seeing them amassed in such huge numbers in such an unexpected place startled me. Being somewhat new to country life and not exactly knowing how to deal with this first-in-my-lifetime situation, I simply closed the door and walked away feeling somewhat relieved to have a sheet of metal between myself and the thousands of unexpected tenants in my mailbox. Convinced this sort of thing must not be unusual out here, I consulted my across the creek neighbor, Jacob. He is an indespensible resource of local country lore, wisdom, and practical tips. Rarely a week goes by that my new country life does not require asking his advice. With his knowledge of the trees and plants in the area, I was sure he could direct me to some strange herb that would send the litlle squatters packing. I was a bit dismayed to be advised to use a poison, "they sell it at Wal-Mart", for just that purpose. That did not set well with my organic, back-to-the-land, Mother Earth News sensibilities so I did nothing and everyday the ant colony grew larger. I noticed however, that every time I opened the mailbox, the ants would scatter. Perhaps leaving the door open would create an environment not at all to their liking. I did just that and the next day there was not an ant in sight, success! Full of self-satisfation and triumph, I closed the door, problem solved. Until the next day. Again the ants had returned in what seemed to be an ever growing colony! Now I was downright perplexed. Again I left the door open and again, the following day they were gone. "Whew" but I knew I couldn't continue to play hide-and-seek with a bunch of insects that seemed to have the upper hand, and I couldn't leave the mailbox door open all the time with the Spring rains we'd been having. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. The following day I went to check the mail and half expected to see the entire mailbox engulfed in a black mass of teaming ants. What I found instead was, well, just my mail and I soon discovered why the mailbox was surprisingly ant-free. As I reached inside, I noticed a flicker of movement in one corner of the box. Looking closer, I saw what appeared to be the silk cocoon of a caterpillar but then realized it belonged to a small spider that had woven a compact, little web as its home. The sight of my hand startled it and it crouched in fear. Having been raised to fear spiders, I still usually give them a wide berth but the little spider in her web house was the most beautiful thing I had seen in a while. With a sigh of relief I realized that time and nature had solved the ant problem for me. As a major predator of the insect world, the spider would survive quite nicely by picking off the steady supply of "scout" ants the colony would send back each day to the mailbox to see if the coast was clear. Each day I would pick up my mail, I would acknowledge the spider with an appreciative nod and words of encouragement. Visiting the mailbox became a fun part of my daily ritual and I was always eager to check to make sure the spider was still there, which of course, she always was. I mean why would she bow out on such a cushy deal? This little spider had it made. It had the use of a weather tight condo with meals delivered daily. What a set up! For the rest of the Summer and into the Fall my little eight-legged sentry kept my mailbox free of pests.

Given time, nature was allowed to bring the situation into balance. The same is true with the wasps this Spring. I know that in a few days or weeks, most will have found places in which to carry out their main function in life, rearing a new generation. Everything in nature has its place as I am continually finding mine in this beautiful valley I have taken as my home.

Blackberry Therapy

I was hiking in my woods the other day, looking for a suitable site on which to build a cabin. The weather was unseasonably pleasant thanks to the low humidity and a gentle northwest breeze. I had remembered a knob that seemed to project out from the surrounding slope. I had first noticed it early last winter when the leaves had fallen making it easy to view the surrounding topography. I decided today was the perfect day to give it a close inspection. I seemed to recall that this particular hill seemed fairly covered in thick brambles so I grabbed the machete from behind the seat in my truck and headed into the hollow and up a deer path that eventually led to the top of the hill and into a small field in dire need of brushhogging. I started across the field to where I thought the knob should be; about a quarter of the way down the slope on the other side of the hill as I'd remembered it. Suddenly, I found myself waist high in brambles that were armed with no-nonsense thorns sharp enough to penetrate denim jeans and human skin. Undaunted, I took out the machete and prepared to hack my way through when my eye caught glimpses of bright red and shiny black. All around me I began seeing bits of color peeking out from beyond the green leaves. What I thought was a thicket of brambles turned out to the motherlode of blackberry patches and I had stumbled right into the middle of it. Hmmm, of course I had picked blackberries when I was a kid but that was decades ago. Then one particularly plump berry seemed to beckon. I instinctively reached out to pick it and it easily separated from the stem. I plopped the soft ripe fruit into my mouth and easily crushed it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The resulting taste sensation sent me back to my childhood and back to my truck. Priorities in life can change when new information comes to light and suddenly, looking for a cabin site didn't seem nearly as important as looking for a bowl to fill with Missouri's own black gold.
I made it back across the field, down the deer path, out of the hollow and up to the truck hoping to find something, anything in which to collect the succulent morsels that awaited me on top of the hill. Like most folks, the area behind the driver's seat of the pick-up is filled with more things than logic or physics would ever say is possible. I was hoping to find any suitable receptacle, even an empty fast food soda cup. Imagine my delight in finding three medium sized Tupperware bowls, nested within each other, along with their lids! Incredible. I raced back up the hill as fast as I could to begin filling my bowls with the sweet fruit. The berries were plentiful and came off the canes easily. I was sometimes able to grab three or even four at a time. As I moved quickly along I spooked a fawn just yards away at the edge of the field. It broke cover and dashed away. It was the same one I had seen a week earlier on top of the hill. It seemed too large to still have its spots, but there they were. The mother moves it around a bit but always hides it in the same field. Any predator could figure that out soon enough, but the coyotes usually don't make it this far up the hill. They seem content to wander the bottom of the valley along Beaver Creek, hunting and howling by moonlight.
As I pick, it suddenly dawns on me that I am not in a race. I've been picking these berries like I seem to do everything in life these days, in too much of a hurry to ever enjoy it. I decide to savor the moment. I slow down. The sun feels good on my shoulders. After a time, sounds begin to drift in as meadow larks call to one another, crows in the distance crack jokes and laugh at each other. Bees hum all around and work right along side, visiting blossoms while ignoring me, as we all go, collectively, about our own business. Turkey buzzards glide silently overhead, then swoop and hover a bit as their wings catch air. Finally, they angle downward and they swoop again as the wind spills over their wings. My mind tends to wander as my fingers seem to fall into a natural rhythm. I begin to think about the indigenous people who lived here before me. I wonder if there were blackberry canes on this hill 200 or 300 years ago. Could I be picking from later generations of the same canes they picked from? Could I be carrying on the proud tradition of all hunter/gatherers throughout time? It made me smile to think so and I suddenly felt somehow connected to them. I spontaneously began to thank each plant for its contribution to my bowl.
It's been so dry, up until this year, the only place the berries were "making" was on top of this hill. A thin impermeable layer of dense gray clay underlays the soil up here and any water that hits the top of the hill soaks through the topsoil and flows along that layer of gray clay down to this field which, at points, forms a natural bowl. On state soil maps, it is officially designated as "Farm Land of Statewide Importance." I don't know exactly what that means but am sure it has something to do with the fact that this seemed to be the only place there was enough water for the berries. All the patches down below would either lie barren or the tiny green berries would have failed to develop, but this year is different. Abundant and well-timed Spring and Summer rains have given even the smaller species of berries some extra bulk. The berries in my bowl, that is, the ones that miss my mouth, are plump and sweet and it doesn't take long to fill three containers. I mentally thank myself for taking a break and re-establishing my connection to this land through the primordial act of berry picking. I couldn't believe the amount of relaxation and calm that came with this simple act.
Later that day, I visited friends who live on a hill above the Gasconade River near a town called Competition. Now, they usually seem happy to see me but I also know that, as a form of currency, blackberries carry a lot of weight. I knew that my arrival would be welcomed with an extra degree of appreciation and fanfare with a container of freshly picked blackberries in my hand. As they grow much of their own food, my friends understand the amount of work that goes into being self-sufficient. They could appreciate the time, effort, and sweat that a bowl of blackberries represented as well as the perfect balance the fruit would provide to the fresh vegetables from their garden. As it turned out, the berries had the desired effect and I was immediately invited to stay for supper. Our conversations that early evening wandered from the weather to the floods last Spring, and finally to the meal we were to share. Fresh sweet cream, it was finally decided, would be the only way to improve upon what Nature had already provided by way of the delicious fruit. The moon rose over the river that night as prayers were offered over a bountiful table in these Ozark hills.