Final Place: Nighttime at the Pond

5:30 p.m. Thursday, Dec. 3

It’s cold, about 40 degrees, and dark. I’ve never visited the pond before during the evening, although it may as well be nighttime. If I weren’t surrounded by nearby buildings and streets, it would be pitch black. Somehow, I think I prefer night to day. Because I cannot see well, I imagine that the ducks, birds and squirrels will not notice me in return. Of course, I know this isn’t the case. Animals have a much better sense of smell and hearing than I.

I scribble in my notebook to the illumination of street and sidewalk lamps, whose white light shimmers off the pond’s calm ripples. Even the water appears black. A single male mallard paddles slowly and steadily in no set direction, creating a few ripples of its own. Although I cannot differentiate much between his feather colors, I know he’s a male because of the dark head and lighter body.

There is no female that I can see, unless she hides in shadows. There are also no critters or birds scurrying and fluttering about. It appears that Mr. Mallard and I are alone. I wonder if he has chosen a mate for the season. During this time of year, mallards usually come in pairs in preparation for mating season. Watching him here, alone, in the dark, makes me pity him. I want the duck to have a mate, at least some sort of company other than myself. I wonder if he feels lonely, the way I do right now situated away from all the hustle and bustle of students going to and from campus events. Since tonight marks the 140th anniversary of Chatham University, more students, faculty and other people wander about than usual. From a distance, I hear them talking amongst themselves. Their voices ride a gentle breeze in my direction and blend with the sound of an airplane flying overhead, car motors rumbling down the street, and the continuous splat splat of water spurting from the pond’s fountain onto its concrete disc base. Occasionally, the mallard quacks, a noise completely inharmonious with its surroundings, which is sad. Aside from people, he creates the only other natural sound. It should be the manmade airplane, vehicles and fountain that seem out of place.

Sounds come alive in the dark. I suppose it’s because at night I rely more on hearing than vision. I hear everything that goes on around me, whereas during the day I hear less—or at least register less—because I’m preoccupied by seeing what lies in front of me. At this moment, though, I see more than passersby do walking from the campus chapel to Mellon board room. None venture in the pond’s direction. Instead they remain on pathways leading directly from one warm, lit building to another. For now—and I expect for the rest of the night—the mallard will have the pond to himself until he flies away to wherever he nests.

Final response: Class Overview

Before this class, I had never read or attempted to write a nature piece. I remember thinking to myself, what can I write about? My surroundings, what I think, the flowers, all of the above? After reading a variety of prose and poetry classified as nature writing, I have a better idea now than I did at the beginning of the semester. Briefly, I guess I can describe nature writing as non-fiction based on the natural world. Even though that definition is rather broad, nature writing in general seems to be even broader. In Mary Oliver’s poetry, for instance, it seemed to be more about observation whereas with Janisse Ray’s Ecology of a Cracker Childhood it’s about how an environment defines who we are. Then with Gretel Ehrlich in Solace of Open Spaces it’s about how nature can offer peace of mind and inspiration and how the writing itself can capture the essence of a specific place.

I still feel that I have a lot to learn about nature writing. Because of the variety we have read, I have more questions now about what can be considered nature writing and how I should approach the matter. During my weekly place blogs, I tend to just describe what I see and what’s running through my head at the time. However, I didn’t receive much insight from others and cannot offer much insight in return because I’m not sure exactly what a nature blog should be like. In the future, as Sheryl mentioned in class, I think one blog entry per week would be an excellent idea. The writer could have more time to focus on one entry and shape it into a stronger nature piece. Simultaneously the reader could have more time available to comment and help the writer improve their skills. All in all, a win-win situation.

One class requirement that I am grateful for is the chance to workshop a final essay. When I’m learning a new genre, I desperately need reader comments. I can’t say that I’ve written much non-fiction let alone nature writing. So I’m glad that I have the opportunity to revise because I learn more through revision.

Even though I still have a lot to learn about nature writing, so far what I have taken away from this class is the benefit of creating a strong sense of place. Before, I simply thought about trying to include enough details to make the reader “see” my setting. Now, though, I have begun to think in terms of creating not just a setting but a place. Gretel Ehrlich accomplished this task best, I think, in Solace of Open Spaces because, as I mentioned before, she captured the essence of Wyoming. As a result of her descriptions, I felt as if I understood her characters better because I could envision the landscape and know how it affected people’s daily lives. When I start my thesis next semester, I want to apply what I have learned about place and environment to upcoming short stories. I hope that I will be able to offer not only interesting dialogue and plot, but a strong sense of place which has been a relatively weak component in my previous work.

Place 10: Writing as a Necessity

What struck me most about Jimmy Santiago Baca’s work was the fact that for him writing was not just an interest but a necessity. I began to write as a teenager because I felt like expressing my thoughts on paper and wished to one day become an author. Baca, though, chose to write because it made him feel good about himself and provided a form of therapy while living in prison where he received anything but help. In his memoir, A Place to Stand, on page 5, he wrote, “Language gave me a way to keep the chaos of prison at bay and prevent it from devouring me; it was a resource that allowed me to confront and understand my past….” This sentence sums up his attitude toward writing and he continues to describe how learning to read poetry helped him survive prison and maintain some form of saneness in a violent, unforgiving atmosphere.

As I continued to read his other work, I noticed that his writing feels very therapeutic, particularly in Martín & Meditations on the South Valley. Published in 1987, I believe this epic semi-autobiography was Baca’s first book, which doesn’t surprise me. For someone who experienced trauma in his personal life throughout childhood and into adulthood, I was not surprised to read about his memories. Throughout the excerpt Sheryl provided from Martín & Meditations, Baca addressed various issues that affected him deeply: being abandoned as a young child by his mother; watching his mother trying to pass as white; coming to terms with his cultural identity; and struggling to make a life for himself. His cultural identity, I would argue, was the issue that affected him most. Throughout his epic poem, he continually referenced race:

--Page 16: “I was caught in the middle--/between white skinned, English speaking altar boy/at the communion railing,/ and brown skinned, Spanish speaking plains nomadic child…”
--Page 17: “Caught between Indio-Mejicano rural uncles…”
--Page 22: “You were the most beautiful girl in the pueblo,/good nature, smiling, green eyed and white skinned.”
--Page 26: “…her husband/fired four shots/ into her beautiful face,/because he felt she was going to leave him,/because she would no longer/live in his make-believe world.”
--Page 27: “A long time ago/he thought he had saved you,/from your own culture, your own language…”

His next book of poetry, Black Mesa Poems, seemed less therapeutic. Although he still referenced his roots and race, his writing is less about his personal life and instead touches upon broader topics such as his surroundings and other people.

Now that I have read some of his poetry, memoir as well as his latest novel, A Glass of Water, I sense that Baca has accepted his cultural identity. He doesn’t shy away from writing about injustice, discrimination or culture. This week, I will interview Baca for another class with a fellow student. I expect, and hope, that he will tell me more about how his culture has influenced his writing and the topics he chooses to write about. I wonder if he feels if his writing has become less personal and more about the craft he has practiced since leaving prison. Something to think about, I guess.

Place 10: Bathing Day

1:50 p.m. Friday, Nov. 13

Only two large clumps of leaves remain on the maple tree by Chatham pond. All the same shade of bright yellow, not a single green leaf. It’s amazing how a tree can transform so quickly in one week.

Six mallards, the most I have seen so far, groom themselves incessantly in the water near the pond’s edge. Three males and three females, of course. Every time I see mallards I see an even number, and so this past week I browsed some random facts about them and learned that mallards are typically monogamous. They form pairs in the fall and court one other throughout the winter until breeding season begins in the spring.

This week the ducks and I have company. A young man across the pond near the deep end observes the mallards and records their activities with a professional-grade video camera resting on a tripod. It’s no wonder the ducks have caught his attention because they are more active than usual. While grooming, they splash in the pond and rub water against their feathers. One male in particular makes a racket in the middle of the pond by flapping his wings against the water. First he repeatedly dips his head and body beneath the surface to wet himself. When he emerges he commences to stretch himself upright and flap his wings madly as if trying to fly, but instead he moves horizontally and splashes droplets in every direction. After several minutes of dipping and flapping, he joins the other five ducks near the grassy bank and preens his chest, wings and tail feathers.

I want to observe the ducks closer during their heavy preening. But instead of sitting down on my bench for a better view, I stand several yards away. If I sat in my usual spot beneath the tree I would frighten the ducks and interrupt the man’s video taping. I’m tempted to ask him why he’s filming, but he’s preoccupied with his work and seems intent on recording as much footage as possible. I hear him speak into the microphone attached to his camera but cannot understand what he says. It reminds me of nature videos in which the narrator observes animals in their natural habitats and describes their daily lives spent stalking prey, sleeping, and interacting with other animals. I assume this young man is a student at Chatham, and may possibly be filming his own nature video. However, I doubt his narration will address ducks in their natural habitat because Chatham pond is certainly not natural. The grass has been groomed, nearby plants and rocks landscaped for aesthetic reasons and for erosion control, and the atmosphere thrives with humans. Yet, unless the mallards fly away to a remote area, Chatham’s campus is about the closest they will get to a natural habitat in the middle of Pittsburgh.

Soon, three girls who appear to be undergraduates meander off a nearby sidewalk onto the grass toward the pond. They stand by the edge and follow the direction of the man’s video camera. Usually, passersby either don’t notice the ducks or don’t care. These girls didn’t see the ducks immediately, but they saw the man and after following the direction of his camera noticed the mallards. And of course, they comment as if seeing ducks for the first time.

I’m continually amazed by the fact that we never pay attention to nature unless someone else draws our interest to a specific plant or animal. Then, we stop and stare for a few minutes, marveling at the simplest critter or flower never realizing that we walk past them every day. If the young man wasn’t filming, I doubt the girls would have wandered toward the pond because they would have no reason to do so. I consider myself someone who pays attention to nature, but to be honest, I didn't realize ducks visited the campus until I started visiting the pond every week. The sad part is, is that I don't always have the time to stop and look because I'm too busy trying to finish everything else during my day: work, school, homework. Hopefully, there will come a day--and soon--when I can stop and enjoy my surroundings on a more regular basis.

Response 9: Stormwater in my cup

According to the 3 Rivers Wet Weather Demonstration Program, nearly every time it rains in Pittsburgh stormwater and raw sewage pollutes the rivers. The Allegheny County Health Department and the Allegheny County Sanitary Authority created this non-profit organization in 1998 to tackle water quality and raise awareness about stormwater and untreated sewage.

To be honest, stormwater is nothing new. Clean water and pollution is an issue everywhere I live whether it’s my small Michigan hometown or a big city such as Pittsburgh. However, stormwater is a much larger issue in a heavily populated area because of the greater number of cars and residents and the resulting contaminants. I see evidence of rainwater overflow every time it downpours in my neighborhood. Water bubbles up through storm drains along the road, gushes into ditches and runs across concrete where it will pick up more oil and dirt. Eventually, the filthy mess runs directly into a waterway or is absorbed by the ground and potentially enters ground water. I cringe just thinking about all of the contaminants that might make their way into my glass. At home in Michigan, my parents have a well. We drink water that comes directly from ground water, which is fresh and clean. In Pittsburgh, though, I am not as lucky. Considering that I live within the city limits, I wouldn’t dare drink water from a well because I worry about all of the pollution. Instead, I rely on the Pittsburgh Water & Sewer Authority to deliver treated water from the Allegheny River to my tap.

The trouble is, people rely on the city to clean their water when in fact people can provide clean water for themselves by paying more attention to how they lives their lives. Any time that we allow contaminants such as oils, chemicals, fertilizers, human or pet waste to mix with rain or ground water we are harming ourselves.

As part of their mission, the 3 Rivers program raises awareness regarding how homeowners can do their part to tackle this issue of clean water. Some recommendations include the following:

1. Limit use of herbicides, pesticides and fertilizers.
2. Mow lawns no lower than 3” inches in height to slow runoff.
3. Increase amount of nearby vegetation to absorb as much rainfall as possible and reduce stormwater runoff.
4. Install rain barrels beneath gutters to collect runoff from roof tops. (Reuse water on house and lawn plants.)
5. Keep up with vehicle maintenance to prevent leaks and reduce oil use.
6. Never dump chemicals on the ground or into a storm drain as they may enter waterways.
7. Wash cars on gravel, grass or dirt so that the ground will absorb the dirty water and filter it naturally.
8. Pick up pet waste.

There are countless other recommendations, but you get the picture. The basic idea is to prevent anything that has the potential to pollute water from entering our waterways. A non-profit environmental group in my hometown, Tip of the Mitt Watershed Council, went so far as to teach area businesses how to plant rain gardens to absorb stormwater. These gardens are a depression filled with plants—preferably native plants that are more resistant to weather-related stress—that collect rainwater runoff from roofs, driveways, sidewalks and other impermeable surfaces, thereby preventing stormwater from flowing directly into lakes or streams.

Obviously, stormwater affects me directly. When neighboring families spread fertilizer across their lawn to keep the grass nice and green or hose down their concrete steps to wash away accumulated dirt, these mindless acts increase the amount of contaminants entering storm drains and therefore my drinking water. I could confront my neighbors to explain that what they are doing is actually harming the water supply, but I don’t. I would much rather let a knowledgeable professional from a local environmental organization do it. So in that sense I am part of the water quality problem. I am also a culprit because whether or not I raise awareness about water quality, I am a source of pollution not matter how environmentally friendly I try to be. Since I live in an apartment, I may not have a yard to fertilize, but I still own a car and create waste. How I can help, though, is to keep my car maintained (which I do) and be a responsible citizen who does not litter or dump chemicals on the ground. I just wish other people would do the same because when I fill my cup before mealtime I want the water to be crystal clear and healthy, sans oil, dirt and pet waste.

Place 9: Soon to Become One Giant Ice Cube

2 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 5

Chatham’s pond water is the clearest I’ve ever seen. I can see straight through to the bottom coated with a mixture of muddy leaves and silt. Although leaves still float on the water’s surface, many have settled, becoming waterlogged and sinking. They form a thick layer at the pond’s edge, shelf-like and seemingly strong enough to support four sleeping mallards that are really floating on the water rather than standing. When sunlight shines through the maple tree, light glistens brilliantly off still water and golden leaves, which have weakened in color during the past week. For a moment, the leaves glow richly as if they never faded. If the water froze overnight, the color might be preserved temporarily and I could enjoy them throughout the winter.

I wait for the day when the pond freezes creating one giant slab of ice. Leaves are incredibly durable and will easily survive the winter, remaining intact. When the water freezes with leaves inside, I expect it will look just like a fake ice cube a neighbor once slipped into my drink when I was thirteen. During the middle of taking a sip of water, I peered down into my glass and saw a honey bee staring up at me. Of course, I shrieked, believing that a bee landed in my drink and might sting my lip any moment. But in fact it was a fake insect trapped inside a plastic ice cube. Obviously, a pond is much larger and more irregularly shaped than an ice cube, but similar nonetheless. I picture the pond’s surface rock hard and smooth like crystal, leaves temporarily distended a few inches below the surface for decoration.

The ducks finally notice my presence. They yawn with beaks open wide and stretch their wings like a child reaching arms high overhead after a long nap. This weather seems to agree with them: 40 degrees, partly cloudy sky and a brisk breeze. Wasting no time, they swim laps around the pond, pushing their bobbing bodies through thinning leaves.

Clouds drift and sunrays disappear leaving me in shadow. I miss the sun’s warm rays and shiver. I’m glad that I wore thin gloves today and a light wool coat. Before, I envied the ducks for the pleasure they take in swimming, but now I’m glad to stay where I am standing on the grass beneath the tree, dry from head to toe.

I look up. Nearly naked now, the maple tree looks cold to me. Most leaves have fallen, but a few green clumps tinged with yellow hold tight. To see a tree half naked except for a few healthy green sections reminds me of a middle-aged balding man; little if any hair on top, thinning on the sides and thick on the bottom. And, like some men who can’t accept their increasing baldness, the thick sections grow long and “luxurious,” such as a lower branch overhanging the pond, the very tip nearly brushing the water. Ridiculous as it looks, I’m glad the tree hasn’t lost all of its leaves because it won’t be long until everything green will disappear until spring.

Response 8: Landscape and language

In her book, The Solace of Open Spaces, Gretel Ehrlich makes it very difficult to distinguish between nature and culture. Ehrlich describes the landscape as so much a part of westerners’ lives in a way that suggests that ranchers, cowboys and sheepherders would lose their identities if they lost their land. One of the most apparent affects the nature has on western culture is in the way the landscape affects language. Because the landscape is so vast and people so few, Ehrlich explains how and why ranchers, cowboys, sheepherders and other residents are so scattered. As a result of their solitary lives, they spend more time with animals than humans and speak very little.

After reading the first few chapters of her book, I realized that Ehrlich’s own voice—despite being an “outsider” from New York—had also been affected by the Wyoming landscape. Her writing style portrays a common characteristic of western speech: short-windedness. She writes matter-of-factly and does not waste words. Even though she fully describes settings and scenes in order to help the reader understand western life, Ehrlich is very direct. She does not embellish but provides just enough description to get the job done. For example, in the “From a Sheepherder’s Notebook” chapter, she ends with a scene between herself and John, the ranch foreman. She hints at the compassion John feels toward her as she arrives to the sheep’s summer range with cracked lips and a sunburned face. Ehrlich writes, “[John] turns away because something tender he doesn’t want me to see registers in his face,” and continues, “We stand facing each other, then embrace quickly. He holds me close, then pulls away briskly and scuffles the sandy dirt with his boot.” In both instances, Ehrlich states what happened but does not expand to describe her internal thoughts. She could have mentioned how happy or relieved she felt to see John again, or interpreted John’s feelings toward her for the reader. Instead she allows a simple statement to express the friendship and compassion she and John share. As a reader I did not feel as if I lacked detail, which I think is Ehrlich’s intention; to portray the western attitude through her own speech affected by the years she spent in Wyoming. Several chapters later, in “On Water” Ehrlich identifies this short-windedness by comparing speech to water when she writes, “Cowboys have learned not to waste words from not having wasted water, as if verbosity would create a thirst too extreme to bear.” For me, this sentence summed up the western way of speech.

The effect Wyoming’s landscape had on residents’ way of speaking makes perfect sense to me because it reminds me of the way the land in my hometown affect people’s attitudes. Since I am originally from a rural area, I can identify with a simpler lifestyle. Petoskey, my Michigan hometown, has always been surrounded by farmland and woodlands. There are no shopping malls or night clubs. For evening entertainment friends spend their time at bars and families at high school basketball or football games. A large percentage of the population participates in recreational activities such as boating, swimming or downhill skiing for the obvious fact that there aren’t many other options. Because family-friendly activities are very popular, townspeople have created a close-knit community based on friendliness. Complete strangers smile to each other on the street or help each other when in need. I remember one winter when my car slid off the icy road into a snow bank. Two men passed me in a car and stopped. Without asking whether I needed help, they grabbed a spade from their trunk and immediately began shoveling snow away from my tires. One of the men wasn’t wearing gloves despite the twenty-degree weather, so I lent him my own mittens. He wore them gladly. As soon as the two men finished, they rushed back into their car. I managed to call a quick “thank you” after them before they drove away. I never saw them again.

Of course, Northern Michigan has a completely different landscape than Wyoming. And even though Petoskey has a small population of about 6,500 people, Wyoming has significantly fewer. But, what Petoskey and Ehrlich’s Wyoming has in common is a landscape that contains more nature elements than buildings or people. As a result, people do tend to enjoy the simpler aspects of life because they have fewer distractions such as overcrowded shopping malls, extensive freeway systems, and human noise. Without these distractions, I am able to enjoy views of forests and open water, wildflowers such as white trilliums and lady slippers, wildlife such as white-tailed deer, wild turkeys and loons. Overall, the effect it has on me is that it creates a sense of peace within myself and I feel much calmer and more likely to smile to a stranger I pass on the sidewalk.

Place 8: Mallards, for now

2:15 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 29

The mallard pair is back. Although I’m not surprised to see them, I’m glad they’ve returned. Thankfully, I remembered my camera this week and immediately walked toward the pair resting undisturbed at the pond’s edge. Both have tucked their beaks deep into feathers. I crouch down, camera poised and ready, but I moved to quickly. Startled by my sudden presence, the mallards swim away, their feet paddling in sync with my camera’s click click. Unfortunately, mallards are camera shy—or at least that’s what I tell myself. But considering that the pond is approximately 22 yards long and 7 yards wide, they can’t swim far. After following the pair for another minute I let them be and return to my usual spot by the bench beneath the maple tree.

My so-called feathery friends are less tolerant of my presence today. Ever since my sudden urge to become a photographer they have remained on the opposite side of the pond near the deep end beyond the water fountain. During previous weeks, they would swim along the shallow end near my bench. Yet I suppose “my half” is no longer suitable for swimming seeing as how all the leaves have drifted to that end. Primarily yellow and light brown in color—with a few red and orange ones interspersed—the densely packed leaves cover the water in a way that resembles one of my grandmother’s tightly sewn quilts. Golden fabric sparkled with red so thick that I cannot see the goldfish beneath. Toward the pond’s middle section the quilt gradually unravels until no leaves remain. Just clear water.

Any ducks I have ever encountered prefer open water. Two winters ago I was driving through Boyne City, a small Northern Michigan town, when I passed a flock of mallards taking advantage of the only open water available: a large, shallow ditch located between an icy parking lot and a two-lane road. Dozens if not one hundred mallards flooded to this frigid paradise as we northerners would head to Florida during a ten-degree blizzard. They swam between snowy sections in clear, cold water and waddled along the ice that was still intact.

Never before had I seen such a large concentration of ducks and stopped to take a picture. I watched them for several minutes and marveled at the fact that so many ducks could be so quiet. And suddenly they left, splitting themselves into three groups. When each group left, their madly flapping wings filled the air about ten feet off the ground forming a mid-air collage of green, grey, brown and orange. For a moment, they struggled and I wondered if they could fly without a running or swimming start. But soon they gained momentum, pointed their beaks straight for Lake Charlevoix across the road from the parking lot and flew away.

Every time I see a mallard I think of that day in Boyne City, and I doubt I will see another flock of ducks as impressive. I also doubt that ducks will remain at Chatham pond throughout the winter. Even though mallards can withstand cold climates and spend their winters north rather than always migrate south, they must have open water. Considering the shallow depth of Chatham pond, I expect the water will freeze early in the winter forcing the mallards to search elsewhere for food. For now, though, I continue to enjoy their presence.

Response 7: Poets and the Natural World

Of the various poems we read for this week’s class, each poet—Rogers, Wright, Merwin, Guevara, Clifton, St. Germain and Kutchins—approached writing nature poems in their own unique way:

1. Pattiann Rogers, in “The Hummingbird: A Seduction,” used nature to tackle the most cliché topic for poetry: love. Rogers presents love in a fresh way by comparing seduction of a hummingbird to human seduction. Rather than express the love a woman feels for a man in terms of human desire, in the third stanza she describes physical intimacy as a mid-air dance performed by hummingbirds: “And if I saw your sweeping and sucking/Performance of swirling egg and semen in the air/The weaving, twisting vision of red petal/And nectar and soaring rump, the rush of your wing/In its grand confusion of arcing and splitting/Created completely out of nothing just for me…”

2. Overall, James Wright writes about the relationship between man and nature and the joy animals, plants and insects bring to humans. His characters express their pleasure during encounters with horses, milkweed and crickets and they caress a horse, release seeds from milkweed pods, and listen to the clear sounds of crickets.

3. W.S. Merwin takes a much different approach in that he includes more of an environmental theme. In “The Last One” he addresses the effect logging has on tree populations and nature’s stubbornness to persevere and fight back. Although he does not name his main subjects, man and tree, Merwin includes details such as “leaves,” “cutting,” “shadow” and “machines” to help the reader understand the poem. One characteristic that could have caused great confusion, however, is Merwin’s repetitive use of “they” which refers to both man and tree. Yet because of the specific details he attaches to each “they,” Merwin eliminates confusion. For instance, in the first stanza, “They with two leaves they whom the birds despise,” the reader knows that “they” pertains to trees because of the words “leaves” and “birds.” In the second stanza, “Well they cut everything because why not,” “they” refers to humans because humans have the ability to cut trees. Overall, Merwin creates ambiguity by refusing to name his subjects, but this choice makes the poem stronger because he blurs the line between man and tree as if to say there is no distinction between mankind and the natural world, and thus trees are as important as humans.

4. Like Merwin, Maurice Guevara does not always directly name his subject, vampire bats. Instead, he requires the reader to rely on details such as “blood vomit,” “upside down,” and “fly.” But Guevera does one thing that Merwin does not; he names the bats in the second stanza, “a craziness the bats fly from.”

5. Whereas the previous poets focused on the relationship between humans and animals, Lucille Clifton incorporates dialect into her poem, “defending my tongue,” to present a strong sense of place. She combines language with landscape descriptions in a way that her speaker identifies home with language.

6. Sheryl St. Germain often includes nature to explore human emotions such as desire and pain. Many of the poems in the selection we read use the sun, jungle, deer and other parts of nature to describe the speaker’s relationships, wants and needs.

7. The last author I want to mention is Laurie Kutchins who, in my opinion, approaches nature writing in the most appealing way. Like the other poets, she writes about the relationship between humans and nature. However, she avoids writing about love and emotions. Instead, in her poem, “Walk in Tick Season,” she focuses on one of the most basic connections a person can have with the natural world: a tick making contact with a human. Obviously, not a very pleasing topic. If someone were to ask me to read a poem about a tick crawling on human skin, I would turn down the offer because who wants to read about ticks. Yet, Kutchins is able to take a disgusting incident and make it not only interesting but beautiful.

One way in which Kutchins transforms a tick feasting on human blood into an act of beauty is to avoid naming the tick. With the exception of the first line, she does not call the tick a tick but rather “she.” As a result, she lessens the effect the word “tick” has on the reader allowing her audience to identify with a female character. The author also maintains a metaphor of the human body as a landscape full of tunnels (trousers), ravines (ears) and shaded areas (underarms), thus creating an image of a stunning but strange landscape which seems to be from another world. By describing the tick’s presence on flesh as a female taking a long stroll, Kutchins enables the reader to forget about the tick. Because of this, I am able to concentrate on the relationship between an individual and nature. And in this poem, that relationship is based on the idea that man can affect nature in a positive way by unintentionally helping even the smallest creature survive.

Place 7: Time for a swim

11:15 a.m. Friday, Oct. 23

The mallards are here again at Chatham pond: one male, one female. They paddle side by side, ducking their heads into the water in search of food among vibrant red, orange, yellow and green leaves scattered across the pond’s surface. Standing beneath the maple tree, I am close enough to the pair—eight feet—that I can see their orange webbed feet propelling them through the water swiftly and smoothly. Their movement reminds me of my own childhood, learning to dog-paddle in a small inland Michigan lake, my hands directly beneath my body pedaling frantically as my mother watched with her hawk’s eye. My hands made ungainly flippers lacking proper form and ability. Ducks are more graceful.

When the mallards reach the grassy edge, they dig their beaks roughly into damp soil intermixed with moss and leaf bits. I expect they search for bugs, lunchtime. After a moment, they give up and rinse their faces in the water. The male continues his swim whereas the female waddles out onto the grass to preen her feathers properly, scraping her beak across her back. Ducks never seem to stop grooming themselves except when in need of a swim, nap or food. Despite this, I still think that humans are far vainer.

I near the female. She ignores me completely as if she couldn’t care less about my presence. Soon, the male returns to the edge but remains in the water. He dips his head beneath the surface again, stretching his neck. When he emerges, water droplets sparkle on his shimmery green head trickling down his neck. The beads must tickle because he suddenly raises one webbed foot and scratches the area behind his eyes as a dog would scratch behind an ear. A bizarre sight, I must say, to watch a duck move in this way. I never realized ducks were so flexible, and it would have never occurred to me that they would use their feet in such a way—although it makes perfect sense. How else could they scratch their heads? (They also shake their tail feathers as a dog would shake his own tail after a bath or swim. Perhaps in another life, ducks and dogs were related.)

The ducks are not alone. They have company. More goldfish have miraculously appeared, which means that Chatham University must have restocked the pond since my last visit one week ago. Now there must be at least 100 medium-sized fish. They have split themselves into two sizeable schools: one in the middle of the pond and a second toward the shallow end furthest from the fountain. They look bored. None have moved save for a slight flapping of fins in order to stay in one place. I can’t imagine life would be very interesting living in a pond, trapped, unable to swim away to experience other creeks or lakes or even another pond. I would much rather lead the life of a duck, able to swim wherever I wish and fly away to make new friends and enjoy vast views of landscapes.

Next week I’ll have to remember my camera so I can take a picture of my feathery friends. I hope they’re still there.

Response 6: Oliver's Simple Approach to Nature

Once in a while, I come across a poet who heightens my appreciation for poetry. Unless required, I generally do not read poetry and the poems I do take pleasure in are those that have a clear message, fluid language and comfortable tone. Mary Oliver is one of the few poets I’ve enjoyed reading because her work embodies some of the traits I prefer; that same clarity and fluidity as well as simple language and passion. Her style reflects simplicity. I certainly wouldn’t describe her writing as experimental, but she is not afraid to change the organization of her poems from prose to structurally repetitive stanzas to loosely structured stanzas to even a single stanza. As a result, her poems do not become predictable in terms of organization. However, what I do expect from Oliver regularly—almost to the point of predictability—is to read about the natural world.

When writing about nature, one tendency Oliver has is to personify a plant such as sunflowers in “The Sunflowers,” goldenrod in “Old Goldenrod at Field’s Edge,” and trees in “Black Oaks.” Whenever she describes plants as having faces, hair or feelings such as exhaustion, it causes the reader, me, to identify with the plant. Thus, I care more about this specific tree or flower, about what happens to it and about how its presence affects myself and others. I think Oliver intended for the reader to feel more compassion for living things after reader her poems. Yet, I believe that she also uses nature to address deeper issues. For instance, in “The Bleeding-heart,” Oliver wrote about a woman’s longing to be more like her grandmother who loved the simple things in life and was therefore happy. Oliver’s decision to begin her poem by focusing on a long-lived bleeding-heart plant seems appropriate because the plant’s name alone draws attention to a heart bleeding, yearning for something. In the case of this poem, the speaker yearns for the same pleasure and love of life her grandmother experienced.

Although I enjoyed reading a great many of Oliver’s poems, “The Bleeding-heart” was one which spoke to me the most. Rather than simply write about nature in a way that causes the reader to appreciate a certain plant, she connected a specific flower perfectly with a personal story. I sense a greater human presence in “The Bleeding-heart” than I did in “The Sunflowers” or “Black Oaks.” Also, she connects herself to the reader by posing questions or thoughts to her audience such as, “Don’t you think that deserves a little thought?” and “Most things that are important, have you noticed, lack a certain neatness.” Because Oliver links nature to herself and to the reader, I felt more included in her work. Overall, she continually practices her ability to draw the reader into poems by making them accessible in terms of their content and theme as well as simple language.

In response to Oliver’s style, I wrote a short lyric paragraph based on lilies, more specifically blackberry lilies:

Unexpected snowfall creates an even surface of white fluff coating chrysanthemums, overgrown asparagus and acorn squash. Bright greens, oranges and reds poke their colors through the whiteness. But it’s the blackberry lilies that draw my attention. Their black, berry-shaped seed clusters make a stark contrast to pure white snowflakes. I pick them; their endurance inspires me to preserve their hardy stems. For months a blackberry bouquet rests in a waterless vase on my countertop, drying gradually until stems become so brittle and delicate that I dare not blow the dust gathered on shriveled brown petals. But their seeds have not changed, deeply black as ever, and I store them safely until the next fall when I shall harvest more

Place 6: Visitors

11:30 a.m. Saturday, Oct. 17

Two happy sights awaited me at the pond today. The first was the water level, which reached its highest point yet thanks to recent rain. Reaching all the way up to the grass/moss line, the water is now several feet deep. I estimate four feet in the middle. As a result, the fountain has righted itself and no longer spews water from an awkward forty-five degree angle.

No longer murky brown, the pond is a dull blue-green and relatively clear. I can see nearly to the bottom of the pond. Amazingly, deep down swim large goldfish. A quick count suggests that at least seventeen goldfish the length of my hand if not longer live in the pond.

The second surprise is four mallard ducks, two males and two females, taking a brisk swim and walk. It’s very easy to tell the difference between males and females. Males have bright shimmery green heads; grey, white and black feathers on their bodies; and yellow beaks. Females, however, are covered from head to tail in brown feathers and have dull orange beaks. The most vibrant colors on a female can be found on the feathers beneath their wings which are bright blue or purple. Depending on the angle, a mallard’s feathers shimmer and almost appear to change color depending on the light. Sometimes, purple feathers appear black.

It’s been a long time since I have seen a duck, ever since I moved to Pittsburgh one year ago. And I realize that I’ve missed them. They have such strange quirks. For instance, the two male-female pairs at the pond stick side by side in the same way that human couples stay together. The first pair to my left spends their time bobbing in the water, motionless except for an occasional twisting of their heads to tuck beaks deep into feathers covering their backs. The female eyes me, unblinking.

The second pair to my right I have taken to calling the vain pair. Since I arrived, they have preened their feathers—particularly the male who scrapes his beak against his chest, ruffling the feathers. Afterward, he tends to his wings, lifting them slightly to poke his beak beneath. As his grand finale, he shakes his tail like a dog shaking about after a long swim, entire body involved. Soon, the vain female stops preening and stands quietly on the pond’s edge and tucks her beak into her back feathers. After another minute, the male joins her. It’s not as if she’s paying him much attention anyway. But his break doesn’t last long and he begins primping once again putting on a show of fluffing and strutting his stuff. Ducks are silly creatures.

Slowly, I tread softly toward the ducks. The first female bobbing in the water continues to watch me with the black of her eye, whereas the vain female and the males couldn’t care less. Nevertheless, I stop about six feet away and kneel. I wish I had a camera, but it’s best that I haven’t brought one with me. Cameras tend to distract me from what I am actually observing. Rather than pay attention to nature, when holding a camera I focus more on the lens in front of my eye and my desire to take a top-notch picture to show off to friends and family. I find that I observe nature best without a barrier.

After another minute of kneeling, I stand up and walk away. I would rather not disturb their morning naps.

Response 5: Working on the Farm

Working on Eden Hall Farm, I felt right at home shoveling dirt, pushing wheelbarrows and enjoying a country view. Throughout my childhood, I lived near farmland on which farmers raised cows, sweet corn, alfalfa and various crops, so visiting a farm again felt like a typical day. And at my own home, I assisted my parents with their own vegetable garden and flower beds. My mother jumpstarted our gardens. As the eldest daughter of a farmer, she knew how to cultivate vegetables from seeds, plant fruit trees, and tend to flowers. By age four, when we planted our first garden, I helped cover seeds lightly with freshly tilled soil. First, we grew rows of strawberries, rutabagas, peas, tomatoes, green peppers, rhubarb, green beans, sweet corn, carrots, broccoli, and red potatoes. Years later, we added zucchini, yellow squash, cantaloupes, watermelons, cauliflower, snow peas, dill, basil, asparagus, red raspberries and fruits trees including apples, pears, peaches and sour cherries.

Needless to say, summer was a busy time of year. My sister and I were required to pick produce, the most consuming of which were green beans. Early in the season when plants were still small, picking beans was a relatively quick chore because pods were more visible. Toward the end of the bean season, though, as plants grew taller, pods blended in with thick stems and were difficult to see beneath large leaves of the same green hue.

Because gardening meant work, as a young child I didn’t always appreciate my garden. It wasn’t until I entered high school, after we built raised beds, that I assigned chores to myself. I would like to claim that I finally understood the importance of pesticide-free food. However, the reason for my renewed interest was based on the fact that raised beds resulted in fewer weeds and less crouching. All in all, a more positive and comfortable harvesting experience. As a result, I also took greater interest in my parents’ flowers. I volunteered to water all of the native and non-native varieties bordering our one-acre plot using water we collected in rain barrels. Roses, lavender, tulips, ferns, yellow lady slippers, blackberry lilies, black-eyed Susan’s, jack-in-the-pulpits, daffodils, hibiscus, and dozens more bloomed at various intervals through late fall. I could easily spend an hour watering, which allowed me to develop a type of relationship with flowers. When you spend that much time on a specific activity repeatedly, you begin to remember which plant grows in which location, where it thrives best, and how it changes from spring to fall. You create an intimacy caused by close contact rather than simply admiring blossoms from a distance. I took joy in hauling buckets and watering cans, a feeling I felt again at Eden Hall Farm holding a spade in my hands.

I have always admired my parents’ yard, and admire it more every year. They strive for diversity and organize plants in a way that works with the existing landscape as much as possible. The resulting effect is a colorful yard that appears semi-natural; not fully wild, but not so tame as to seem landscaped. My ideal garden would be very similar. I prefer an assorted combination of vegetables, fruits, flowers, shrubs and trees that are primarily native to the area; preferably plants that support butterfly and honeybee populations as well as attract beneficial insects in order to control destructive pests naturally. Unfortunately, considering that I currently do not own my own land or have space available, I will not plant this garden for several years. The class trip to Eden Hall Farm has been the most gardening I have done in a year. Hopefully, our efforts will prove successful and next summer I will have the opportunity to see flowers in full bloom.

Place 5: Harvest Time

2:10 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 8

Normally, I don’t see much difference in the pond from week to week. However, today I noticed one main change: the water level dropped dramatically since my last visit two weeks ago. Before I even sat down on my bench to begin writing, I noted that the fountain’s small, flat, concrete disk lay fully exposed at an angle rather than to seemingly float on top of the water. Pitiful is the only word to describe the fountain’s appearance. Beneath the disk, a thin, dead branch sticks out awkwardly as if causing the tilt. Water spews from the spout at an impressive forty-five degree angle. I’m not sure if the stray branch is a recent occurrence or if it has been there all along. Either way, I think the time has come for Chatham to remove or replace the fountain. Since I enjoy the sound of running water, whether natural or man-made, I opt for replacement.

Shallow water also reveals pond features that weren’t fully visible in the past: rocks bordering the edge; a wire cable holding the fountain in position; scum-coated bricks; and a foot-tall drain at the opposite end furthest from the fountain. Nature, it seems, shares my opinion about the pond’s appearance because maple leaves and hemlock needles skim the water’s surface as if to distract observers. I must admit, I’m not entirely distracted. Slightly, though, enough so that I glimpse a nearby Eastern Hemlock tree that I have ignored for weeks. Growing up surrounded by white pine trees, I’m used to long needles and large, sturdy pine cones unlike the short needles—a mere half inch long—and tiny cones of hemlocks. I can’t help myself and pluck a cone from a low branch. It feels incredibly light and paper thin, almost soft. Gently, I place it in my pocket to take home.

As usual, fish school beneath the pond’s surface. I wonder if the leaves and needles bother them. If not, at least other animals in the area appear happy. All the squirrels and chipmunks have been very active today. I’ve seen at least one chipmunk, two grey squirrels and two black squirrels scampering about as if on a mission. I think they are gathering food for winter because they carry nuts in their mouths—although I can’t tell which kinds of nuts because rodents run so quickly. One squirrel, a black variation of the Eastern grey, skitters from grassy area to another, scratching the ground briefly before moving to the next spot. At first, I thought he might be searching for a place to store his nuts. But this I doubt because he would more likely store food in his nest in preparation for winter. Considering that Eastern grey squirrels don’t hibernate, I will probably continue seeing squirrels harvesting nuts and seeds so that they have enough to eat during the upcoming months. When I think about squirrels and other animals trying to survive cold weather, I’m glad to be human with a warm bed and grocery stores full of food at my disposal.

Response 4: Nature's Influence on Identity

Reading Janisse Ray’s Ecology of a Cracker Childhood, I was much more intrigued by her nature writing than by either Nancy Gift or Edward Abbey. Throughout her childhood and adulthood, Ray presented herself as not only an observer of nature but as part of nature. Because she equally balanced personal history with natural history, her writing flowed in a way that Gift’s and Abbey’s did not. As a result, Ray’s approach was much more successful because she included personal stories as they related to nature in order to portray her connection with the land, plants and animals and how this connection influenced her identity.

Ray’s style shares many skillful qualities I associate with Gift and Abbey in their books, respectively, A Weed by Any Other Name and Desert Solitaire: Gift’s ability to identify plants and Abbey’s strong voice that effectively portrays his personality, thus captivating the reader. However, unlike Gift, Ray writes less from an academic standpoint and more from personal experience. She pushes the family element more so than Gift to describe how nature has played a role in her life and that of her relatives and ancestors. And unlike Abbey, Ray maintained her focus on family rather than digress onto long rants related to environments, among other, issues. As a reader, I felt alienated during Abbey’s rants. His fierce opinions—whether agreeable or not—created a distance between myself and his experiences with nature. Ray, however, kept her reader close by using the following techniques:

1. She included rich, descriptive moments from her childhood to draw the reader into her love of nature and create strong characterization of both herself and her relatives, thereby helping the reader to identify with characters.

2. She wrote short, concise chapters to maintain a quick pace, yet interspersed them with longer chapters containing more complex plotlines to add some variation.

3. Some chapters were solely composed of personal history (Clyo), some natural history (Built by Fire, Longleaf Clan), whereas others were a combination of personal and natural (Iron Man, Timber).

4. Combined academic voice with the local dialect of her hometown. The resulting effect is an informative narrative that is also very comfortable, personable and relatable.

In general, Ray created a consistent narrative both in terms of voice and content, which allowed the storyline to flow from one chapter to the next. If I were to write about my own childhood, I would follow Ray’s example and write primarily from a personal perspective while simultaneously intermixing it with nature elements. Where I might lack, though, compared to Ray would be in my characters’ history with the land. Ray’s family had a long history with South Georgia, whereas my family does not have a longstanding relationship with Northern Michigan. But location does play a large role in shaping lives. As a child, I lived in an old school house surrounded by countryside near a small town. During my adult years, I moved to larger cities. So if I were to write about childhood and nature, I would focus heavily on the effect a rural area had in influencing my appreciation for plants, animals and landscapes. Gardening, canoeing, outdoor sports, smelt fishing and morel hunting were a regular part of my childhood. And I have discovered that when I speak to people who have spent their entire lives in urban areas, their attitudes toward nature and life in general is very different from my own.

Place 4: Finally Welcome at the Pond

4:50 p.m. Thursday, Sept. 24

I’m waiting for the rain. A grey sky looms overhead as I sit beside the pond, the water still slightly murky like a brownish pea soup. The temperature has dropped slightly and I smell moisture in the air from some distant place. Fall apparently hasn’t arrived yet as I anticipated two weeks ago. The leaves are still green and no more have fallen from the nearby tree, which I discovered is a maple tree. A Norway maple to be exact. During my first week here, I suspected that it might be a maple because of the five-pointed leaves. Knowing that I am correct boosts my ego, which I must admit lives like a little sulky gnome inside my chest waiting to unearth itself when the moment finally arrives to say, “Aha! I was right.” At the same time, though, I feel a little sheepish. I should have known without a doubt that the tree was a maple because it’s just like the one that used to grow in my yard in Northern Michigan. I recognized the two-winged seed pods that have now lost their vibrant pale green hue, becoming a dull light brown. They litter the ground beneath my feet, along with a few cigarette butts. At first I didn’t notice the butts because their brownish color resembles the pods closely.

Four weeks have passed since my first visit to the pond and I’m starting to feel welcome. One of the squirrels, which I incorrectly assumed to be a brown squirrel but is actually an Eastern grey squirrel, greeted me soon after arrival. There I was sitting on my little bench beside the pond feeling irritable about the cigarette butts, when a gray squirrel approached me. Before, I could only see him at a distance. Once closer, I noticed that this little guy does have more grey in his coat than brown, as well as grey tipped fur on his tail. When he greets me, he stands on his hind legs, front paws pressed against his chest, revealing a creamy white underbelly. His nose quivers. Perhaps he smells the soap I used during my shower earlier. He continues to stand, reminding me of my gerbil, Vertumnus, who assumes the same position whenever curious about something. Whether they are large or small, I’m always amazed by the similarities between rodents.

Soon, the squirrel runs away only to be replaced by another grey squirrel with a less bushy tail. Now a third, a black squirrel that happens to be a darker variation of the Eastern grey, shoots me a quizzical look. While the black one nears my bench to take a closer look, a sparrow with dull brown feathers flies beneath my seat. Either I’m sitting over a pile of seeds and nuts, or I’m a popular human today. By now, though, I hope the animals have grown accustomed to my presence. With any luck they may even like me—and I expect much more than the litterbug smoker, whoever he or she may be.

Although I consider myself to be excellent company, somehow I don’t think I’m the reason the animals are attracted to the pond today. Several squirrels scurry to and fro, a flock of house sparrows flutters a few yards away pecking at the moss edging the pond, and dozens of tiny to medium-sized goldfish skim the water’s surface. I’ve noticed that more insects buzz through the air today than usual. Most likely, the generous combination of insects and seeds is the reason for all the activity. Squirrels eat seeds as well as sparrows that also consume insects. And like sparrows, fish also enjoy an insect or two. I’m glad someone can make use of insects, because I personally do not enjoy the company of flies and gnats. So when the time came to depart for home, I didn’t mind escaping the flies, leaving them to their fate with the fish and birds.

Response 3: In-tune With Nature

In every chapter of his book, Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey comes across as incredibly in-tune with nature. I sense his love of the outdoors in the way that he beautifies the natural world, describing harsh almost unforgiving surroundings as lovely and majestic. The tone behind his writing feels very comfortable and relaxed, even when learning something new about the desert. Perhaps the chapters I enjoyed the most because of his connection with the land were “The Serpents of Paradise” and “Cliffrose and Bayonets.” In the latter, he provides readers with a gorgeous tour-like description of desert animals, plants and insects. He’s able to find beauty in coarseness, which I find admirable. Abbey sums up his feelings toward the Arches and surrounding landscape best in the middle of the “Cliffrose…” chapter when he wrote:

"Strolling on, it seems to me that the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and barren rock."

I must agree that there is something appealing in the way he explains spareness, in the ability to appreciate something small rather than something great. Today, people tend to focus more on quantity rather than quality, and as a result I think they miss out on the simple things in life. Although, if I were in the middle of a hot desert, alone, I’m not sure I would find it so attractive. But the way Abbey weaves his thoughts and feelings into his comfortable tone makes me believe that the desert is truly beautiful because it doesn’t require a lush, green, overly decorative lawn or garden. It’s pleasing in its natural state.

Because Abbey seems so at ease with his position in Utah, I found it surprising that he felt isolated from the desert. In “The Serpents of Paradise” chapter he portrays a lovely moment when he observes the gopher snakes’ dance ritual. He is mesmerized by these snakes, wondering if one happens to be his former pet. And yet in the following chapter, “Cliffrose…,” he mentions isolation because he doesn’t fit in with the desert. When he kills the rabbit, I understand how he transforms into a predator and gains a sense in pride knowing that he could survive using his bare hands. At the same time I am disgusted by his indifference. How natural is it to kill an animal for sport or experiment than out of necessity? It wasn’t necessary to kill the rabbit, yet he did and considered his experiment a success.

During the rabbit scene, I questioned Abbey’s actions because he disrupts the natural order of the land he claims to love. His behavior differs greatly from weeks prior when he formed a bond with the gopher snake, which we learn about in “The Serpents of Paradise.” Throughout his brief attachment to the snake, he gave me the impression of closeness; closeness with creatures and therefore the landscape. As he wrote regarding the snake, “We are compatible. From my point of view, friends.” However, this sense of friendship disappears with the snake, and somehow I feel cheated when he later writes how separate he feels from way of life in the desert.

Place 3: Northern Lights in leaves

2:45 p.m. Friday, Sept. 18

Today is a quiet day at the pond. Few people are about, and few animals. A lone black squirrel pops his head out from time to time, probably the same one I’ve seen during the past few weeks. Since little about this area has changed during the past week, I made a change myself and abandoned my bench beneath the tree. Instead, I’m sitting on soft grass on the opposite side of the pond facing the bench. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the perfect spot for a seventy degrees Fahrenheit day with a cloudless sky and little wind. Since I have had a cold for the past few days, the sun feels especially comforting.

Sadly, the pond looks worse than before. The water level—which seemed higher than usual last week—has dropped slightly. Also, the water appears muddier. However, the area around the pond remains as attractive and maintained as ever. Someone must have mowed recently because the grass is even and short. If Nancy Gift were here I’m sure she would strike up a conversation about the clover mixed in with the grass. If I set down my pen and paper and sifted through the clover, I’m sure I could find a four-leaf one. However, I think I will resist the temptation. I have far too many other things to finish today.

Aside from the occasional passerby, I’m alone. A typical house fly, yellow jacket and moth hover above the grass but they don’t stay long. The squirrel returned again, carrying something green in his mouth, I’m guessing a seed pod from the tree. He’s perched on a rock next to the bench chewing. I doubt he would be sitting there right now if I hadn’t moved. Although urban squirrels tolerate humans very well, they still keep their distance—unless, of course, you have food. When I was little, I camped with my parents in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I remember one trip when my sister and I befriended a chipmunk—who we cleverly called Chippy—and fed him bits of graham crackers from our hands. We made clucking noises with our tongues, which he seemed to enjoy, and held our hands low to the ground. Once, he grabbed the cracker from my hand, but more often he kept his distance until we dropped the food onto the ground. Now, as an adult, I certainly wouldn’t feed any wild animal a graham cracker.

A woman and her yellow lab appear near the pond’s edge, which means that the squirrel has disappeared again. The woman and her dog leave as quickly as they arrived; the dog without any hesitation, which surprises me because he should have smelled the squirrel’s scent. A squirrel would make a tasty afternoon treat, but I imagine the woman has plenty of dog treats at home that he can enjoy using minimal effort.

Because the weather is crystal clear, sunlight reflects off every surface, particularly the water. When I gaze up at the tree, the underside of the leaves change repeatedly from light green to dark green as light reflects off of the ripples below. It’s mesmerizing and reminds me of watching a subtle show of the Northern Lights as they ripple up the sky, a faint wave of white against black. Only with the leaves it’s a yellow glow against green.

Response 2: Putting Weeds Back On My "Good" List

As I read Nancy Gift’s book, A Weed By Any Other Name, whenever I walked down the street or drove on a freeway, I found myself eying the plants. And I wondered what their names were and if Gift wrote about them in her book. Certain weeds I was already familiar with such as Indian paintbrush, thistles, and, of course, dandelions. I have always considered Indian paintbrush to be a pretty and colorful weed, and I can’t say that I have any hard feelings toward dandelions. As a child, I remember making dandelion chains on the playground with my friends.

When Gift explained how she used to play with plants at school—not only dandelions, but plants in general—I could relate. In elementary school, I also had free reign on school grounds where we had open green spaces bordered by trees, rocks and various plants. Although students weren’t allowed to wander off school property, we tested the limits playing beneath the trees with sticks. I do agree with Gift that kids today are missing out if they don’t have the opportunity to interact with weeds. Children are curious beings and nature feeds their imaginations. Yet, if all they have to play with is mulch and man-made structures, how much are they really going to learn about the outdoors?

Even though I spend time outside hiking, gardening and being active in general, I have always treated weeds as a nuisance. I tolerate, even enjoy, flowering weeds because they are attractive. But anything that doesn’t fit in with its surroundings or invades a garden or flower bed automatically makes it to my bad list. Gift, however, raised some interesting points when she described how weeds can also be beneficial: providing food for animals and insects; controlling erosion; offering color during dreary months; and acting as an indicator of soil health. Her book has changed my opinion of weeds, perhaps not permanently but certainly temporarily.

Unfortunately, I thought she seemed too relaxed toward invasive species. On page 165 she admits, “Much of this book is about weeds I love, or love sometimes, and why I think we should tolerate them in our yards.” I applaud her for presenting weeds in an attractive light. Yet, even though she explained that invasive species are a problem, for once I thought she should focus more on the negative than the positive. I once wrote an article about purple loosestrife for my hometown newspaper because a local non-profit environmental organization was releasing the same beetles Gift mentioned on page 163. The purple loosestrife infested area swamps and wetlands, choking out native plants. Although these beetles don’t kill purple loosestrife, they damage it to the point that the plant cannot reproduce. Purple loosestrife is attractive, I’ll admit, but when something attractive has the ability to change the ecology of a wetland, it should be treated as a dangerous weed.

Despite my disappointment in her attitude toward invasive species, I thought Gift did an excellent job highlighting the benefits of weeds while still acknowledging the downsides. She doesn’t glorify weeds to the degree that she treats them as harmless and perfectly acceptable. But she does paint them in a new light so that by the end of her book readers appreciate the raw beauty of nature free of herbicides, and perhaps even welcome the occasional if not regular weed.

Questions for Gift:
1. Were you ever tempted to present certain plants in a different light?
2. Was it difficult to come up with plants to write about for every season? If so, which ones and why?
3. Are there any weeds that are completely useless or harmful. Are there weeds that you truly distaste?

Place 2: Seed pods

11:50 a.m. Friday, Sept. 11 at Chatham Pond

On the other side of the pond three robins are still searching for worms. Generally, I picture birds hunting for food in the morning, most likely because of the common phrase, “The early bird catches the worm.” But no, late birds can also catch a worm, although I have yet to see one of my robins grasping a squiggling worm between their beaks. Even now and then, one of them pecks at the ground, but mostly they just stand and stare, their heads twitching from side to side.

I imagine that it’s a good day for hunting worms. There’s more moisture in the air, which makes the ground soft. To the best of my knowledge it didn’t rain the night before, but even the pond’s water level appears higher than the week before. Perhaps the cooler weather lately has decreased the amount of evaporation. As a native of Northern Michigan, I cannot help noticing the water level wherever I go. For nearly my entire life I lived within one mile of Lake Michigan. For several years, the declining water levels of all the Great Lakes have remained a concern not only for environmental reasons but for economic reasons as well. Water and sporting activities are part of Michigan’s tourism. People come to enjoy sailing, canoeing/kayaking/tubing down narrow rivers, and the view of a sunset setting over fresh open water. When I still lived "up north" as we call it, I walked along Lake Michigan's waterfront and saw wavering lines stretching horizontally across large rocks indicating how high the water used to reach. And every time it rains, I hope it pours and that the rainwater will find its way back to the Great Lakes.

Chatham pond isn’t exactly Lake Michigan, but after twenty years of living near a large body of water, I can’t help thinking about it whenever I see a river or pond or another lake. Although I consider Pittsburgh to be a polluted city with dirty rivers and over-developed shorelines, I’m glad I have to chance to experience water in nature on a daily basis. Chatham’s pond is no exception. It makes me feel as if a small piece of Michigan has traveled with me, no matter how small it may be.

Soon I expect that the pond will also become polluted, not with chemicals but with leaves. Leaves, although natural, make ponds and pools seem dirty and neglected. Already, leaves and seed pods have begun to fall from a nearby tree, sprinkling the surface and clumping together at the pond’s edge. Sometimes they float gently downward and sometimes they plummet until they hit the water with a plot. This plop I’ve just realized has been caused by a squirrel hanging upside down from a branch where he picks seeds pods, eats them and then discards the shell. I have never thought of these pods before as food. I wonder if they have much flavor. If a squirrel can eat them I imagine a human can as well, yet I’m not feeling a craving for seed pods this morning.

Apparently, the pond also attracts dogs. Someone’s unmonitored pet has wandered in my direction. A mutt, I believe, with stocky legs and a golden coat. He wades into the pond for a drink. As gross as the pond may appear with its murky water and littered surface, it must be clean if a dog can drink happily from it. However, I’m not about to cup my hands for an early afternoon sip. Dogs have a much more tolerable stomach than I.

Place 1: Sitting Beside Chatham Pond

It is 2:40 p.m. Thursday, Sept. 4 and I am sitting on a small bench by the pond near Lindsay House at Chatham University. A cool breeze brushes my cheeks, a pleasant feeling on a warm day as I enjoy a shaded spot beneath a tree. What type of tree this is, I cannot say. But the leaves remind me of maple leaves, so perhaps I sit beneath a very large maple tree. Whether maple or another type, I find this tree to be very attractive with a knotted trunk, sturdy branches and plenty of room for birds to build nests.

Sitting here at the pond’s edge, I cannot ignore the sound of the fountain spewing water pitifully from its spout. I expect that the fountain must be very old and in need of minor repair since its ability to send water soaring in a wide arc remains nonexistent. However, I welcome the sound of droplets smacking the water’s surface, creating ripples that shimmer above tiny fish. Some fish are as small as minnows and others slightly larger and orange as goldfish. I must admit, I would not like to be a fish in this pond. Murky water dotted with leaf bits, twigs and bubbles is not my idea of a nice home. In fact, the pond water disgusts me. If I stuck my head deep into the middle—wearing goggles and a swimming cap, of course—I doubt I would be able to see one foot away from myself.

Although the water appears disgusting, it actually comforts me somewhat. It reminds me of my grandfather’s pond in Michigan. As a child, I used to visit my grandparents regularly every summer. They owned about eight acres of land on which they grew gardens full of vegetables, fruits, flowers as well as a small orchard. Beyond the gardens was a large pond, about four times the size of Chatham’s pond. My grandfather’s pond was also murky and dyed a strange blue-green caused by the chemicals he used to control weeds. My mother told me stories about how when she was young she used to swim in the pond on hot summer days and ice skate on its icy surface on cold winter days. Once, when I was about ten-years-old, I dipped my foot into the water near a shallow edge. I felt something silty caress my toes. I descended my foot further, searching for a firm bottom, but could not find it. Instead, my foot sank deeply into a squishy substance that felt nothing like mud. That was the last time I set foot or toe in my grandfather’s pond.

A clock somewhere just chimed three times. It must be 3 p.m. Since I rarely spend much time sitting outside on campus grounds, I never realized that Chatham has a chiming clock. I imagine that it is located in the chapel. When I lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan, I used to hear the clock tower chime every hour as I walked through the university. At noon, it would play music briefly, nothing very unusual but I always thought the tunes were pretty. I wonder if Chatham’s clock plays music. I have a feeling it merely chimes, but the birds that have started chirping just now near the pond are music enough for now.

Just as I am about to pack up my things to head home, a pair of squirrels—one black, one brown—ran alongside my seat and up the base of the tree. I am not sure if they are playing tag or expressing their anger toward one another. But I think they might be friends. They chase each other to the very tips of branches where they wait for their next move as they continue a staring contest. They linger with a steady patience seemingly content, and I wish more people were like that.

Response 1: Defining Nature

True nature, in my opinion, is that which has been unaltered by mankind and remains in its pure state—or at least as close as possible: untamed woods; forests full of trees; wildflowers; mushrooms; and animals running freely. Although nature can be defined as the entire physical universe, I disagree with Pattiann Rogers’ definition in This Nature that “Nature is what is, everything that is, everything that has been, and everything that is possible, including human actions, inventions, creations, and imaginations." Rogers’ definition begs the question, What is not nature? In order for an “is” to exist there must also be an “is not,” so for something to be labeled as nature there must also be something labeled as not nature.

When I hear the word “nature” I immediately think of air, water, land and the environment as a whole. Unlike Rogers, I draw the line at what has been affected and created by man. Although mankind, I believe, originally belonged to nature, we have become so advanced that we have drifted from our primitive selves and as a result away from nature itself. Much of what man has created remains destructive. Animals’ habitats and views of open land and water have been replaced by skyscrapers, strip malls, stretches of concrete and the occasional park that appears to be this thing called nature. And yet, none of this so-called nature, as Rogers’ claims, is natural. When Rogers stated, “Nature is everything that is. We are not and cannot be ‘unnatural,’” I wonder where we draw the line between what is and is not natural.

It is my opinion that Rogers’ definition goes too far in that it encompasses too much: both the wild and the tame, the noble and the despicable. Despite hearing various opinions regarding this idea of what can be considered nature, I stick true to my belief that nature has and always will be wild and noble, such as the animals, plants and landscapes that remain free to grow and behave as they desire without interference. As Henry Thoreau wrote in his piece, Walking, “Life consists with wildness. The most alive is the wildest.” One of the moments when I feel most alive is when I am outside in the midst nature, perhaps when hiking or hunting for morel mushrooms, because I am surrounded by living plants. I can breath fresh air and enjoy silence save for birds chirping or water trickling down a stream without feeling constricted by tall buildings and concrete which block my view of land and air. When I encounter animals living in urban areas I cannot help but pity them. Pigeons taking shelter beneath sections of highways rather than an old, gnarled tree seem out of place because concrete and steel are not their natural habitats. Likewise, trees planted snugly along sidewalks appear unhealthy and in dire need of real earth away from cigarette butts and road pollution.

As I continue to ponder my own definition of nature, I imagine that my ideas will change. Simply hearing others’ thoughts about this topic during the first week of class has already caused me to reconsider my views. Throughout the upcoming months, I expect to question my initial opinions as they pertain to nature and incorporate such changes into my writing. However, the challenge will be to become more inventive and create new ways to approach nature when writing. In my own stories, I would like to experiment more with characters’ interaction with nature and how the natural world, whether wild or tame, affects them and also my audience.