�ݬ� �� A Country Mile

July 10, 1995

�ݬ� �� By Jean Hughes

��My big elderberry bush is in bloom. Its perfume fills my back yard. This summer, I feel as if I am living in a jungle.

This fall I am going to have to cut some things down or the multiflora roses and the sassafras trees will take over.

��I asked an expert in these matters and he said to keep a land in prairie, which is very much like my small wild plot, they

burn it off every couple of years. Since I cannot do that, I'll have to cut, but it will be selectively. I am pouring salt on

the poison ivy. I hope that works.

��I have lived on my hill for seven years. The Bible recommends that every seven years everything go back to its original

owner. Since the original owner has my land all the time, perhaps every seven years I should give it a new beginning,

too.

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��I saw a wonderful program on TV last Friday called "The Well-Placed Weed." Ryan Gainey, a gentleman from

Georgia, has his yard all in weeds, but he has civilized his plants into beautiful arrangements. He shares starts of his

weeds and uses them to decorate his home. He dries wildflowers and leaves, and uses them in most unusual ways. Making

lamp shades out of dried lily pads, and using dried leaves and flowers in ceiling arrangements are two of his specialties.

��My weeds are anything but well placed. They grow where they are planted by birds and wind. They crowd each other,

trying to find their place in the sun. Each year, I find great joy in discovering the new species that have come to make

their home with me.

��Someday, I might try to civilize my yard, but I doubt it. We all have to make choices of how we spend our time. As

long as I write, my wildflowers will just have to be content with making their own beds.

��It is twilight and my neighbor boys and I stand with the farm owner, and other bird watchers, along a roadside about

five miles from home. We have come to hear the calling of a chuck-will's-widow.

��This bird is not usually found so far north, but birds sometimes stray out of their normal territories.

��At 9:00 p.m. we hear its call from very close by. What a thrill! We can hear the little chuck before the bird calls the

rest of its name. Unlike its more common and smaller relative, the whippoorwill, it rests between calls. It also makes

quacking sounds and grunts, which we hear quite clearly. It calls, intermittently, for 25 minutes.

��We wait until dark to see if the bird will fly across the road to another field, but it does not.

��The boys and I learned a fantastic lesson from our farmer friend. When the bird flew farther away, and its call was not

so clear, if we cupped our hands around our ears the call would become as loud as when the bird was near.

��Does this work with all bird calls? If so, I think I'll make a pair of ear flaps to put on when I am birding. How could

I have missed knowing about this for 20 years?

��My son has suggested that birding is a part of man's instinct to hunt for food. Perhaps it satisfies that predisposition

for�� chasing game, but has been modified into a chase for beauty.��

��For me, the pursuit of nature's beauty secrets never grows old. I have learned what it means when the 23 Psalm says,

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul."

�ݬ� �� 1995 Jean Hughes

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