Ants

We live in a home built the same year Star Wars released, and it's slanting toward winter in the Northern Hemisphere, so that means one thing: ant season.

Say hello to our leetle "friends"

If you've ever had to deal with ants in your living space, you know they get into everything and can be nearly impossible to eradicate. Most other insects you can just swat, spray or trap and be done, but ants are different. They live in large underground colonies; the ants you see are merely advance food scouts for the entire colony. If you kill them, the colony just sends more scouts. Further, as it gets colder outside, the colony sends scouts into warm human homes where food is always plentiful.

We think the ants are coming up from the crawl space under our home, but we can't figure out where the colony is, and at the moment we can't afford to pay an exterminator.

So it's time to use some strategy. And bait.

Fast-acting poison isn't the best choice against ants -- as mentioned, if you kill the scouts, the colony just sends more -- so it's more effective to use ant bait. Ideally, if you have sugar ants, you need a sweet bait that contains borax, a slow-acting poison. When the scouts find this bait, they can't get enough of it. (A few actually climb into the bait station and drown in the stuff, it's so good.) Then they take their hoard of delicious poison back to the colony. They feed it to other ants. They feed it to ant larvae. And eventually, if we're lucky, they feed a lot of it to their queen.

At first it seems like you're just giving the ants free lunch, because the number of scouts actually increases as everyone goes to the bait station to fill up on the new food source for the colony. But then things start to shift in the anthill. You see, borax makes it impossible for ants to digest food, so they eat and eat and eat and are still constantly hungry. Eventually, when the queen has been fed enough poison, she starves to death -- and the entire colony dies with her.

So, to reiterate: the best way to destroy a colony is to freely offer a substance that tastes like real nourishment, is delicious and plentiful, and is perniciously toxic, slowly making it impossible for the colony to digest anything that's good. And if you can successfully poison the colony's leader, everything else dies.

I can't help but think there's an analogy to be found there somewhere.

GROW, my pretties!

Got a minute? I gotta share with you this thing I've got going on my back porch.

(No, nothing like that, don't make it weird.)

I can hear some of you now saying, "Okaaaay, Sooz, you have a veggie and two herbs growing in cut-down gallon milk jugs. Yippee. Whaddyawant, a gold star?"

Listen, I can't properly explain how nuts this is. Ordinarily, I'm Plant Medusa. All I need to do is glance their way and plants shrivel and die. I haven't had real house plants in my place for ages because I forget to care for them and they perish and then I feel guilty about it.

And yet. Chard and coriander and basil are starting to FLOURISH on my back porch. (Not to mention the mysterious air plant at the upper right.) I mean, the chard's getting to a point where I'll need to chop it into quarters soon and give each quarter its own, more spacious pot.

Which leads me to ask: What in tarnation's goin' on hyar?

All I can figure is that the fairy who moved in here around the same time we did has a green thumb and a fondness for culinary herbs.

She also has a thing for Tolkien

Thanks, good neighbor! Take as much as you want!

The trail to the tree

When I was a kid, growing up in California and Utah, I quickly learned to hate going on hikes.

And today I took a hike -- and loved it.

Frankly, if you'd told 2015 me that I would eventually choose to hike, of my own volition, without a gun to my back, I would have laughed and told you to up your dosage. But I'm starting to come around for a number of reasons.

Last week I had the pleasure of dogsitting a very good and well-behaved boy named Eddie. When family is away, sticking to a pet's everyday schedule helps foster a feeling of calm and reassurance, so I made sure to take Eddie on his usual twice-daily walks. While there were a few times when it felt like he was dragging me up and down hills at the end of a leash, most of the time I didn't have trouble keeping up with him. And when I took him to off-leash parks, I didn't even have to do that -- he could snuff around in the underbrush looking for squirrels to harass, and I could walk along the trail nearby, keeping an eye on him without having to run to catch up. It didn't feel difficult because I had plenty of chances to stop and rest, and it was genuinely pleasant walking in the woods and along the beaches of Puget Sound. So at the end of the first day, I was shocked to discover that I'd hit my 10,000 daily step goal for the first time since the thoroughly exhausting day we packed up and moved out of our Redmond house. Because of those daily walks, I continued to meet or exceed that goal pretty much effortlessly every day I took care of Eddie. I wasn't even waking up sore the next morning.

Once I returned home, I did a little thinking and realized I didn't have to take Eddie with me to achieve that step goal (or at least get close to it), as long as I was willing to find a local park, beach, or trail and do the walking on my own.

So why is this a big deal?

Well, today I realized that I still do hate hikes, but -- and this is the big breakthrough -- only specific KINDS of hikes. I hated the double-digit-miles, strenuous group hikes that were part of my childhood in both the Camp Fire Girls and the church-sponsored camping trips for young women. Such hikes were usually conducted during the hottest part of the day, so we'd have to carry metal canteens with us, which were heavy, unwieldy, clanked against our hip bones and often leaked all over our clothes. The fastest hikers in the group were usually allowed to set the pace, which meant that the slowest of us (it meeee) never got a breather. The folks in front were told to stop every now and then to rest and let the slower hikers catch up, but as soon as the last person caught up with the group, everyone would immediately start off again. (And the unspoken idea among the adult leaders, I think, was that the slower hikers could stand to lose some weight anyway, so why should they get a break?) The parts of California and Utah where I grew up were arid, with little shade along the average hike, meaning that it was a deeply uncomfortable experience for anyone who was slow, fat, and sweated heavily. These hikes sucked all the fun out of the experience for me, and the minute I could avoid them, I stopped going.

This was a shame, because there were many things about nature hikes that I loved. I loved coming across small creatures in their own habitats. I loved seeing all the different plants growing and the spicy smell of the red earth and the graceful shape and movement of the trees. And, frankly, I often made no effort to catch up with the group because I liked taking things at my own pace and enjoyed feeling like I was alone in nature.

Today it occurred to me that if I hiked by myself, I wouldn't have to worry about keeping up with the group because there wouldn't be one.

I wouldn't have to worry about getting sweaty and muggy because this is the Pacific Northwest and even in the heat of the day, there's plentiful shade from large trees on most hiking trails. I wouldn't even have to carry water with me on the short trails; I could tackle them without getting dehydrated. And although I'm still obese, I weigh about 100 pounds less than I did a decade ago, so moving my body isn't as difficult or painful as it was back then.

Further, because every trail and park and beach and green space on this peninsula is new to me, it feels like an adventure to be exploring each one for the first time.

It feels like I could be going anywhere. And that's the thing I enjoyed most about hiking when I was a child: that sense of adventure, of stepping into unknown territory, what I would later call liminal space, where anything could happen.

I had the trail all to myself today. Literally, I didn't see another human being on the entire hike.

In fact, the trail was infrequently traversed enough that I kept having to hold my hand up in front of me so I didn't accidentally walk face-first into a spiderweb crisscrossing the space.

At one point a little garter snake crossed my path. He slipped away as quickly as he could, so I didn't take his picture, but he was a beautiful deep brown with lengthwise yellow bands.

Seeing a lot of these plants put me in mind of Stephan Seable. When I was growing up in California, he taught us kids about which local plants were safe and good to eat. I recognized a few of these, things like fiddleheads and so forth, but for the most part everything was new to me.

Oh hey, wild bleeding hearts!

As I continued down the trail I began to hear the sound of running water, which always makes my heart happy.

But the original trail bridge over the creek (as seen here) was permanently closed.

So instead I took this one! Built like (and possibly by) a truck!

I made like a Billy Goat Gruff and trip-trapped over this thing in no time.

Made it to the big tree after which the trail is named (in this case, it's a Douglas fir), and it is indeed big.

While I have seen larger trees in Big Trees State Park and in Sequoia National Park in California, the difference is that this tree is notably larger than all the other trees around it.

It is singular.

Sat for a while on the flip-top bench near the big tree and just listened to the creek running by. There were a few birds piping in the trees, the sound of what was probably a diurnal owl, squirrels chittering at each other, and probably if I waited there long enough another snake (or the same snake) would show up.

A single white butterfly floated around the ferns and bracken. It occurred to me that it's been a long time since I've seen a butterfly in the wild. 50-odd years ago when I was little, you could find monarch caterpillars and butterflies everywhere there was open space and milkweed growing. But now a lot of those open spaces have been plowed over and turned into houses and condominiums, and no one grows milkweed. So a lot of the places where the monarchs used to grow up are gone. These days if you choose to plant milkweed in your yard there's a good chance you will become part of the monarchs' migration path every year, because there is so little wild space left for them to exist in.

This forest was exactly the kind I would have adored when I was a child. Frankly, I still do. It felt like the kind of spot a fairy tale would take place in.

You could easily imagine a slightly anthropomorphic wolf stepping from behind a tree to convince a little girl to pick trilliums by the side of the path.

Or a hollow tree where six princes in exile are living, until such time as it is safe for them to return to their kingdom.

Or maybe some kind of forest wizard.

Perhaps a nixy might rise up out of the water and offer a challenge or request a favor.

Or, you know, you could even find Piglet's house.

That's what liminal spaces are -- places where the unlikely or the unusual are much more willing to happen. A liminal space is a place that humans have not yet pegged down, squared off, and gentrified in some way.

Or it's a place that refuses to be tamed. It's where the human notions of cause and effect, of what they expect to happen, do not apply.

I realize that going on a hike by oneself is potentially dangerous. (At the time I write this, actor Julian Sands is missing and presumed dead after having gone on a hike alone in midwinter.) But the advantage to hiking solo in a relatively safe place is that you can walk at the best pace for you.

If you're heading up along a steep switchback and you feel tired, you can stop and rest until you're ready to continue, and no one will be tapping a foot or looking meaningfully at a watch.

If you want to take a closer look at a tree, a flower, a bush, a spiderweb, a squirrel, a snake, or even a cougar from a safe distance, you can stop and take all the time you need. (It's probably worth noting that even though this is cougar territory, I'm not particularly afraid of meeting one out here. Cougars are not highly aggressive toward humans; they tend to be far more scared of us than we are of them.)

At the top of the trailhead there were several human-made artworks, most attempting to bring some whimsy or magical quality to the area.

But honestly, they didn't hold a candle to the real thing.

I'll be looking for more trails around here very soon.

Notes from the Oak Table Cafe

HERE'S a place in Silverdale at the top of a hill, overlooking the valley and Dyes Inlet, called the Oak Table Cafe. It serves only breakfast and lunch, and it usually has a long wait time because the food is fantastic. Anyway, since my brother was in town and since we were all hungry, we went to Oak Table for some delicious brunch (if you're interested, I had the eggs Casey; Captain Midnight and Tim-my-brother opted for corned beef hash).

It had been a very long time since I entered the dining area of a restaurant; I've been very careful during the pandemic to stay masked in public and not to linger too close to strangers for very long. Looking around the room, I noticed literally no one in the very busy dining area was wearing masks or social distancing, which gave me the willies.

When CM and I first moved to Seattle, I learned some history about the city. In 1889, there was a huge fire that destroyed practically all of the central business district. After the ashes and rubble were cleared away, the city fathers urged business leaders to build back higher than the shoreline so there would be less trouble with flooding and sewage issues (the tides had a tendency to back up all the city's toilets), but as soon as they could, people began rebuilding right back on the flat again. Nothing would convince them to work in the best interest of all Seattleites; they wanted to get back to making money immediately.

At the time I couldn't understand why so many people would act in such a short-sighted fashion. But now I get it. All these places across the United States are reopening without Corsi-Rosenthal boxes or any other kind of viral mitigation measures, as the Covid pandemic continues and as we prepare for a potential H5N1 pandemic. No one will take even basic measures to guard against more people falling ill. Because it's been a few very lean years and damn it, they want their money.

It makes me wonder whether cities that want serious viral mitigation should do what the city of Seattle did to fix their problem. Since they couldn't force shop owners to rebuild higher than their original storefronts, they chose to rebuild the infrastructure--namely, the streets--twelve feet above the front doors of the new shops, requiring pedestrians to use ladders to cross the streets. This situation was so awkward that it soon became evident to shop owners that they had better do what the city government had asked for in the first place. Maybe, if you couldn't reopen your business without several Corsi-Rosenthal boxes in place and running, you would do what you needed to do to get back to serving customers. Because clearly, most people aren't going to do what's right unless it's making them money, they're being legally dragged to it, or they're shamed into doing it.

Fun and games at the Elfhame Wash & Dash

Laundry day! And since our washer is on the fritz again, I am off to a new-to-me local laundromat (the Elfhame Wash & Dash) to justify my epithet of  "Laundry Faerie." We'll see how it goes.

3:51 p.m.
Just chillin' and sudsin' at the laundromat. As you do.

4:18 p.m.
The handsome fae attendant has twice had to forbid a young vampire from playing in the extra-large-capacity dryers. "One more time and I uninvite you from the premises," he warns. A couple of elderly banshee customers nod and tut in agreement.

The vampire is now sulking punkishly in the darkest corner of the place. He's spotted a rolling laundry cart and it doesn't take an Einstein to figure out what he's planning to do next.

4:19 p.m.
Young punk vampire has now grabbed the cart and is merrily rolling up and down the aisles yelling "I'm Batman!" This won't end well.

4:22 p.m.
Well, Count Suckpunk just ran over several tomtar, who are now yelling at him and cursing rather violently in Swedish. The attendant, looking weary despite his immortal beauty, wades into the fray. Meanwhile I'm loading a dryer and minding my bidness.

4:25 p.m.
The attendant is making the vampire apologize to the tomtar. "I wasn't trying to hurt anyone, I was just bored," he mumbles.

The eldest tomten isn't having it. "I don't care if yer undead, yer cruisin' for a bruisin'!" he says in a carrying voice.

The attendant sighs. He seems to be rethinking his career choices.

4:29 p.m.
Oh hey, one of Santa's elves just showed up. With one of the biggest red loads I've ever seen.

4:35 p.m.
The elf was listening in on the vampire-tomtar brouhaha as he loaded an extra-high-capacity washer.

He is now making a list. And checking it twice.

4:41 p.m.
Wup, the attendant just dropped a roll of quarters. They scattered everywhere and now the young vampire is searching for and counting every single one.

The elf looks over, pulls out his list and makes a few amendments.

4:42 p.m.
"Forty! Forty quarters! Ah ah ah ah" *BOOOOOM*

5:11 p.m.
Welp, my load is dry and I think I'm going to fold this at home, just in case things get any crazier and someone calls the chupacopras. Thanks for coming with me!

A visit to a hobbit house

I'm still exploring the edges of the new county in which we find ourselves, and several local folks have suggested I visit "the hobbit house." Turns out there are at least two places in the county that qualify as hobbit houses -- one at a local greenhouse, and one on Bainbridge Island.

Today I went to the Bainbridge hobbit house.

With seasonally appropriate decor!

Turns out it's a little business. And a cute little business it is too.

The legend of founder Perky Paul

Perky Paul's Gourmet has recently (well, within the last five years) relocated to the Pacific Northwest and is now serving up his home-canned goodness from a cute tiny house just across from his front door.

It's even cuter on the inside!

Paul sells jams, pickles, chutneys, sauces, and all sorts of tasty goodies, from teeny trial sizes to full quarts.

A wizard would never steal, right?

Everything here is sold on the honor system. THIS MEANS YOU, GANDALF.

They're so cute

After perusing all the contents of the shop, I chose a half-dozen little tasting jars and absconded with them (yes, OF COURSE after paying for them). We've already opened up some jam, and tell you what, Perky Paul knows what he's doing! This stuff is fantastic.