Deseret news service submission

A Weekly Chronicle of the Changing Seasons and the Wonders of the Natural World

C o l u mn s In This S u b mi s s i o n : 

Screech Owl

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First Snow

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Ebb Tide

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Zinnia

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Isquoutersquash

CONTACT INFORMATION: Email: luciaalexis @sbcglobal.net Phone: 559.229.5499

The Winding Road Lucia Alexis Gainer

From her vantage point in the heart of California's San Joaquin Valley, Lucia Alexis Gainer gives readers of her weekly column, The Winding Road, a unique look at the wonders of the natural world and the simple, enduring satisfactions of a life lived close to the land. Every week The Winding Road takes an intimate look at the latest news from nature and the timeless lessons it contains. "The world rushes on at a feverish pace," writes Ms. Gainer, "but here in the Valley you still sense the enduring rhythms of nature - in the leaf and bud, in summer sunlight and winter snows. They give a sense of assurance that life goes on and will always endure." Whether she is writing about a Western screech owl, the fall color, a Pilgrim recipe for Pumpkin Pudding or the beauty of a century-old quilt, there is a sense of wonder and serenity in Ms. Gainer’s home and outdoor editorials. Readers will find in them a welcome respite from the problems of today's hectic world and an entertaining chronicle of the delights, rhythms and enduring beauty of a Valley filled with Winding Roads.

About Lucia Alexis Gainer Lucia Alexis Gainer started her writing career as a newspaper reporter and magazine feature editor before becoming a contributor to such national publications as America's Civil War, Decision, Today's Christian Woman and Live Magazine.

A former columnist for Air California Magazine, she is the author of two inspirational books, The Hidden Garden and Songs From the Summit, the latter published in 2011, and available at Amazon.com and major bookstores. Her work was included in Cook Communication's Women of Truth & Grace CD series and Thomas Nelson's The Bible for Today's Christian Woman. She resides in the San Joaquin Valley with her husband and son.

WESTERN SCREECH OWL Our little Western screech owl is calling again after a long silence. We can hear him in one of the junipers up the road. I was concerned he might have left us for the bountiful hunting grounds among the orchards east of here but he was probably just keeping quiet, as owls often do once the mating season is past. I was glad to hear him but I noticed his call is different now. Gone was the rapid trill we heard all through the spring. Now his voice has in it the mellowness of autumn, the golden glow of the Hunter’s Moon. It is a sound that makes you want to put a log on the fire and a winter quilt on the bed.

Contrary to what his name would imply, the screech owl’s call is seldom a screech. The barn owl is your best bet if it’s screeching you want. His high pitched shriek could put curl in your hair. Our owl’s voice is a soft, repetitive trill: too, too, too-too-too-too-too. I am sure I could listen to it all night long.

Screech owls usually roost in deciduous trees like oaks or cottonwoods, but ours seems to prefer the junipers by the canal. Their dense branches no doubt provide excellent protection from the hawks and other predators that live nearby.

The Western screech owl is not exactly a sociable bird. We have only seen ours a couple of times. Once was when we were all sitting on the patio just before dusk. I looked up and there he was, perched on the branch of an oak tree just beyond the roof of the house, clearly aware of our presence but intently focused on something at the back of the yard. I put the glasses on him and marveled at what I saw.

He was small and squat, about ten inches tall, with plumage in various shades of gray, sable and mahogany brown. It was almost mink-like in its richness. His facial disk was dusky white and gray, rimmed with black. His wings and tail were barred. But his most striking features were his eyes: mesmerizing, alert, a bright yellow-gold. I watched him for several minutes until he lifted noiselessly from his branch, glided across the lawn and disappeared into the brush.

Western screech owls usually nest in tree cavities. They prefer holes that have been vacated by Pileated Woodpeckers or Northern Flickers but will settle for other nesting sites if these aren’t available. During courtship the males and females will call to each other in a kind of duet and once they come together they will nibble at each other’s heads and beaks. Two to five eggs are laid and pairs usually mate for life, though a new mate may be accepted if the previous one is lost. The female incubates the eggs and tends the young while the male takes care of bringing food to the nest. Adults tend to remain near their breeding areas year round while the juveniles disperse once autumn arrives.

I can hear our little owl now, calling into the night: too, too, too-too-too-too.

I can almost see the dusky white face, the mahogany wings, the glow of the golden moon in his eyes. I am grateful he is still around, the little owl with the nighttime call as gentle as the autumn wind.

(560 words)

FIRST SNOW The first storm of the season swept across the Valley last night and with it came the first snowfall in the Sierra Nevada Mountains east of here. We know we shouldn’t. Today is Saturday and there’s work to do. The shed needs cleaning.

There’s firewood to stack. Gallivanting around is out of the question. But oh, there is something special about the first snow. Before we know it we are on our way.

It only takes ninety minutes to get to Fish Camp, elevation 5,000 feet.

When we arrive we discover half a foot of snow on the ground, tourists everywhere and children careening down the hillsides on snow dishes and sleds. The roads are icy but we decide to press on. Twenty-minutes later we come to Wawona, a tiny village just inside Yosemite National Park. Its name means “big tree” in the language of the Miwoks, the Native Americans who populated Yosemite before the first white settlers arrived. It’s on the sunny side of the mountain so there is less snow here. There are hardly any tourists. The air is crisp and still.

We stop by the Merced River, take our old wool blanket out of the trunk and find a table nearby. The water is splashing over the rocks far below. We have to clap our mittened hands together and drink hot coffee to keep warm but nobody minds. Lunch is cold cuts and French bread, apples and a chocolate bar. We are alone except for four crows who study us from the lower branches of the redwood trees. They are elegant in their black winter plumage. They are also loud. They squawk at each other in a raucous, familial way.

After lunch we cross the river by way of the old Wawona covered bridge, marveling at the massive pine beams forming the truss. We peek through the floor planks at the rushing water beneath our feet. On the other side of the river is a cluster of log cabins preserved as an historical exhibit. We press our noses against the bubbly panes of glass and walk through the dark, low-ceilinged rooms. I come away grateful my own house is filled with light.

We walk and walk, past the old stone jail, a sun-filled meadow, the massive stable, deserted now that the pack horses have been relocated to lower ground until spring. The only sign of life is a grey squirrel who scampers under one of the padlocked doors. We hike up the hill to the Wawona Hotel, a sprawling, Victorian-era lodge that seems, in the fading sunlight, like a rustic star shining in a sky of velvety incense-cedar and ponderosa pine.

Finally we fold up the blanket, gather our gear and head back to the car.

A full moon rises to float above the trees. It makes the leaves glow in shades of cinnamon and honey, crimson and chestnut brown. And here and there, between the pines, we see the little flakes of pink that indicate autumn has arrived among the dogwood trees.

As we make our way along the darkening road all conversation comes to an end. Each of us is thinking about the events of the day. We’d like to have stayed longer, but we have found what we came for. In this corner of the Sierras we have left behind the feverishness of the world and listened to the deep silence.

We have talked and laughed and watched the falling leaves. And, as always, the proximity to Nature has revived our hearts.

(588 words)

EBB TIDE Just as the tides of the ocean ebb and flow, so do those seasonal tides that wash over our Valley each year. Now that the waves of summer warmth are withdrawing from the land, the tides of life are also receding, especially those of the insect world.

Though our Valley’s temperate climate permits some of the hardier insects to overwinter, the majority of them are nearing the end of their cycles now. The waves of life and energy are ebbing away.

The bumblebees, which used to hover like purring dirigibles among the four o’clocks and trumpet vines, are barely moving now. Some drift so slowly through the air you could scoop them into your hand. Others sit motionless on sunny leaves, trying to soak up a little warmth. The bumblebee queens will not die. In fact, they are out now, searching for places in which to spend the winter. If you should discover one near the base of a building or in a hole beneath the root of a tree, don’t disturb her. She isn’t dead; she’s just hibernating until spring. But the other bumblebees, the female workers and the males, will come to the end of their life cycles once winter arrives.

The praying mantises are also slowing down. One crawled up onto my boot this morning as I weeded the flower bed, tottering like an old man. Not wanting to hurt him, I gave him a little nudge. It didn’t budge him. Nor did a more insistent push. Finally I had to put my thumb under him and give him a good shove before he got the hint and flew away.

The ant world is even more lethargic. In one hundred degree heat there are few things more energetic than an ant colony. Some experts estimate an ant can cover fifty yards an hour on such days and during hot weather I’ve watched an ant colony dismantle a dead beetle and carry it back to the nest in a matter of minutes. Not anymore. Now the ants around here are good for nothing. They move at a snail’s pace, circling aimlessly, captive to the crippling cold that is settling over the land.

The most noticeable decrease in activity, however, is among the cricket population. Gone are those melodious scratchings we heard all summer long. Now the cricket chirps are faint and intermittent at best. Crickets are known to be indicators of climate.

Their activity increases or decreases according to the temperature. One countryman’s proverb has it that you can actually tell the temperature by the number of chirps a cricket makes. The formula calls for counting the number of chirps during one minute. Divide this number by four, then add 40. The resultant number should equal the current outside temperature. I experimented with this formula last night. A cricket in the north section of the garden chirped 61 times in one minute. Divided by four, that’s 15. Add forty and you get 55 degrees. I checked the thermometer we keep hanging on the screen of a window facing that section of the garden. It said 55, exactly. I’ll not vouch for the accuracy of the formula, but I can vouch for what our thermometer said last night. And that I will savor every cricket scratching I hear from now on, for soon the great autumn silence will descend and there will be no more chirping until next spring.

(570 words)

ZINNIA Sad to say, it isn’t very hard to take a zinnia for granted. Probably because it’s a flower that hardly asks for anything at all. A little sun. A pinch now and then. And in exchange it blooms its heart out for you, week after week, from the middle of summer until the first black frost. Maybe that’s the problem. If it were more demanding it might get noticed, like its cousins in the Asteraceae family, the Shasta daisy and the sunflower. Nobody takes them for granted. The daisy is prized for its white delicacy, the sunflower for its size and profusion of edible seeds. But I’ll take the zinnia any time. I’ll take it for its old fashioned charm and the fact that it makes the garden look like it’s been filled in with colors straight out of a crayon box. A few zinnia seeds sown in spring will give you an autumn garden that will brighten even the cloudiest day.

The zinnia is a plant indigenous to the American Southwest, Mexico and South America. Cortez discovered the flower blooming in Montezuma's garden when he arrived there in the 1500’s. The variety he found was a small, single, lilac -colored flower, humble compared to the lavish varieties of today. Zinnias now come in almost every color, from mustard yellow and flaming red to mahogany brown and orange-orange. There are even bi-colored zinnias that look like candy canes, and one, known as Envy, which is the color of a key lime pie.

Zinnias are especially popular in our Valley because they do so well in our hot summers. Give them an inch of water a week, deadhead them after they’ve faded and you will have blooms in your garden well past Halloween unless a hard frost strikes. Gardeners here put them into what are often called “hell strips,” those areas alongside parking lots, sidewalks and curbs where pavement heat often fries less hardy plants.

Fortunately for those of us who like old-fashioned gardens, many of the classic zinnia varieties are still available. A number of these are excellent at attracting butterflies. Z. linearis, an ancestor of the original Aztec flower, is a plant that will blossom in profusion all season long. It grows about twelve inches high and is available in shades of yellow, orange and white. Another old timer, Z. peruviana, known as the Peruvian zinnia, was a favorite flower of Thomas Jefferson. It is a poppy-red flower, about one inch across, that fades with age to a lovely brick shade. A yellow variation, called “Yellow Peruvian,” fades in color to a tawny gold. Two other classic favorites are “Old Mexico,” a double flower in shades of bronze, and “Chippendale,” a single variety available in a wide spectrum of colors which grows to about 18 inches tall.

I pulled out the last of the zinnias this week to make way for the snaps and bulbs and stock that require autumn planting if they are to bloom properly next spring. Now the garden is without those bright, Crayola colors. It is lovely, certainly, full of leaves and vines and chrysanthemums in varying shades of copper and hickory and gold. But I can’t help missing the zinnias. I’m already looking forward to next summer, when their Crayola colors will splash the garden with bright splotches of cheer.

(555 words)

Isquoutersquash No one knows for sure if the Pilgrims were familiar with “isquoutersquash,” or squash as we call it today, when they arrived in the New World in 1620. They might have known about it because the Spanish, who had been on the North American continent since the 1500’s, would have had plenty of time by then to introduce it to Europe. But the fact that the newcomers called it “squash,” a shortening of the Native American word, seems to indicate it may have been new to them. Whatever the case, the Pilgrims ate a lot of winter squash, especially sugar pumpkins. In fact, they ate so many of them the vegetable became the object of a 17th Century rhyme: We have pumpkins at morning, Pumpkins at noon.

If it were not for pumpkins We should be undoon.

Today we still love pumpkins, not only as the main ingredient in millions of holiday pies but as the source of all those frightening jack o’lanterns we see every Halloween. But pumpkins aren’t the only winter squashes that are lovely to look at and a source of good eating. Some other varieties of isquoutersquash are just as interesting to look at and just as delicious to eat.

One of these is the Boston marrow, a bright orange, irregular-shaped squash that is still available to home gardeners from vintage seed companies.

The marrow can grow to a foot in length and weigh up to fifteen pounds. Its inner flesh is orange and has a custard-like, buttery taste when cooked.

Another old-timer is the giant Hubbard squash, which can reach upwards of fifteen pounds and measure 18 inches long. Primarily grown in eastern states, it does very well here in our Valley. It has a wonderful, gnarled, bluegreen exterior with orange flesh that makes fine eating when baked.

If you prefer a “newer” variety of squash, you might try the “Rouge Vif d’Etampes,” a French heirloom pumpkin that didn’t arrive in America until 1883. Known as the Cinderella pumpkin, because of its resemblance to the pumpkin that was turned into a coach in the classic fairytale, it has a slightly flattened shape and bright orange flesh that is excellent for pies. I’ve grown this pumpkin the last three years and love the wild green and orange streaks that appear in varying degrees on the rind. I always use one as a centerpiece on our patio table during the autumn months.

Of course pie is what most people are thinking of now where pumpkins are concerned, since Thanksgiving is upon us, but I’ve discovered another dish that is just as delicious and doesn’t contain all those calories. It is Pumpkin Pudding, a rich, flavor-packed dessert that is perfect on a cold autumn night.

The following directions have been adapted from a Pilgrim-era recipe.

Pilgrim Pumpkin Pudding Butter a 1 ½ qt. casserole. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix together with wire whisk: 2 c. canned pumpkin 1 t. cinnamon 2/3 c. firmly packed brown sugar ¼ t. salt ¼ c. molasses 1/8 t. cloves ¼ t. nutmeg Blend together and add to pumpkin mixture: ½ c. half & half ¾ c. milk 3 eggs Mix well; pour mixture into casserole. Bake 45 min. to 1 hour or until silver knife inserted three inches from edge of dish comes out clean. Let stand 20 minutes before serving. Serve, if desired, with sweetened whipped cream, vanilla ice cream or hard sauce.

(573 words)