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.