Date: Wed, 8 Oct 1997 09:38:00 -0400 From: "Mellard, David" <dam7@cdc.gov> To: cp@opus.hpl.hp.com Message-Id: <aabcdefg3900$foo@default> Subject: Bog adventure
This is a cp story, full of what I hope is colorful details, inspired by
great cp writers such as Fernando and Paul. It's not about far away
places or elusive species, though; it's about my front yard. It
reminds me of the time in 8th grade when our class had to write an essay
about a bridge, any bridge. Tommy Miller, my best friend, wrote about
the Golden Gate Bridge and someone else wrote about the Cooper River
Bridge, a locally famous bridge in nearby Charleston. We all knew how
scary it was to drive over that old bridge with oncoming lane of traffic
inches away. I wrote about the board we put across the ditch behind
Sonny Padget's house so that we could play army or was it cowboys and
indians. My classmates laughed, the teacher smiled, and I thought I had
scored a victory for small town boys everywhere. I don't remember my
grade.
But back to cp's. Yesterday evening when I got home from work there was
still a bit of daylight left, so I poured a glass of wine and headed for
the smallest bog in the front yard. Reclining on a padded cushion
that's kept permanently in the front yard for just such purposes, I
sippped a nice Merlot and watched another world. I was disturbed for a
moment by a neighborhood walker who needed to chat about the cp's, not
that I really minded since it's a great way to meet the neighbors. We
talked for a few minutes, she went back to her walk, and I went back to
watching.
But then Sartuna, the former cat at the French consultate in Atlanta,
and Smokey, the other outside cat, came to visit -- as they always do.
They are establishing dominance and neither wants to give way so they
play this pouncing game with each other, breaking off occassionally to
rub against me, as if to say to the other, he's mine, not yours. Go
away. I think of it as a confused cat and mouse game.
I turned my attention back to this smallest of 5 bogs, the rubra bog.
It contains S. rubra rubra, S. rubra gulfensis, S. rubra jonesii, S.
rubra wherryi, and S. rubra alabamensis along with a spattering of D.
filiformis tracyii, D. capillaris, and swamp beauty. It was the S.
rubra gulfensis, though, that had my attention. A fruit fly with rather
large wings and a red abdomen was sitting on the rim of the pitcher, and
I thought, how lucky I was to see this drama. The fly slowly walked
around the rim. I thought, would it fly away, would it go further. At
one point, the fly fluttered it wings but stayed. I sighed. It
gradually moved from the front of the rim to the back where the hood was
attached, stoppping every few millimeters.
A jogger came by, saw me communing, and said, "Having a drink with your
plants." I laughed and said, "My way of relaxing. He jogged on
thankfully.
I turned back immediately to the drama. The fly was still there and my
hopes went up again. The fly moved ever so slightly down the pitcher's
inside wall, and I was afraid another jogger would come by, or that I
would blink and miss the drama. The fly moved even further down the
tube. I took a sip. I thought, the fly is sipping, too. And suddenly,
he fell down the pitcher. I screamed and was on my knees in a second
peering down the tube. Goner. One more insect down the tube.
I thought how lucky I was to experience this drama, to have learned that
joy can be found in watching nature (or putting a board across a ditch).
I sat back on the cushion, took another sip, and started watching again,
wondering what will happen next. Sartuna and Smokey had decided against
more exercise and were reclining casually as only cats can do a few feet
away, one eye on me, one eye on the other cat.
My next thought was writing an email to you to share this front yard,
bog adventure. I hope you enjoyed it.
David
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