Listening to Grass & Trees

Someone down the road is cutting his grass, the not unpleasant sound of the lawnmower echoing through a wall of trees that makes man and machine impossible to see. The sound makes me wonder just how soon the same task will fall due with the very large yard I look out upon this afternoon. Do I need to ask friendly Fred to come and give me a driving lesson? Should I bring in a few gallons of gasoline for the mower? It’s all too soon for someone who has not fully moved into the house yet and sees the grass as not especially tall just now. Time enough for all that sometime next month.

A little earlier, from a vantage point in the front yard I sat doing nothing but concentrating on the mix of small sounds that make up what anyone would describe as perfect quiet. There is never outdoors the sort of dead silence that occurs inside behind thick walls and doors, for that is an artificial quiet arranged for a purpose. Each day for the past two weeks I have sat in the backyard of this Oak Hill house and marveled at the quiet, but at the same time hearing a million insects, limbs full of birds, the tap dance of a squirrel on the tin roof and the occasional thunk of small limbs falling from a height. And when for a beat of fleeting seconds there are no birds in the trees, no screaming locusts or buzzing hornets, the pause is filled with the lift of wind shifting leaves, a rustle of green bending and murmuring in the thickness of arching branches.

The drone of a plane far overhead, invisible through the network of branches and a small sound by all accounts sets the woodpecker to knocking and unsettles a basking lizard that suddenly jumps, scurrying across a bed of dried leaves setting loose a crackling rustle at ground level. I try to imagine how long it will be before this complex outdoor symphony comes to me with fuller understanding of all its instruments and players. From over by the picnic table a bird sings, but I know nothing more than ‘bird.’ There is some impatience now with my inexperienced ear, the inability to identify sounds in a way that gives more shape to the surroundings. I think maybe I want too much too soon. In the passing of a month or two these conversations in the grass and treetops will perhaps have a fuller meaning to city ears. 

Turning a Thumb Green

Watering day at the Oak Hill homestead. Last week the rain was enough to freshen everything on this new expanse of 43,560 square feet, but there’s been little of it this week and everything is sagging with the need for a soaking. I watered some three days ago but only in one area, struggling with a disagreeable hose that slithered itself into kinks at every chance, cutting off the flow of water. Neither could I get a spray nozzle attached, making do finally with a languid flow of water.

Today I used a hose on the near side of the house and made a much better job of it. Made a good job of getting dirty at the same time, but accept that dirt is a big part of yard work. Late afternoon is prescribed as the best time for watering, and on another day I will wait until the cool of the day. Read an Earth Day magazine article yesterday that said in watering outdoors during the heat of day half the water is lost to evaporation. I don’t question that wisdom but hope that some of the evaporation is ameliorated by the shade that covers a large portion of my yard, front and back.

Confederate jasmine growing on a trellis at the front door

I have a lot to learn about yard care and gardening, so the coming months will definitely be a learning experience. Still a little nervous about happening upon a pygmy rattler flashing its fangs in all these leaves and brush, my movements are probably over careful, not quite trusting that my approach will in many cases scare off a snake. A large patch of purple lantana just in front of the screened porch is in bad need of raking, leaves layered almost two inches deep, but I worry what may be sleeping or living among that comfortable nest of leaves.

Purple lantana in a thick bed of leaves

A few tomato plants and an herb garden would be a useful project to undertake and the herbs might not be difficult. Never having tried tomato plants, a bit of reading and asking questions will have to come first. Growing up in south Louisiana my father cultivated a backyard garden every year, growing tomatoes, green peppers, eggplant, squash, butter beans and string beans. How he loved that garden, working in it just about every day after work and on weekends. But he could never entice me to join him in the hoeing, weeding and coddling. I might be in a  better position today had I laid aside the football or bicycle and worked with him in those precious rows.

Yesterday I fertilized the dozen or so citrus trees on the property, but it looks like more will be needed to give the trees some bulk. Half are spindly with too few leaves but the lemon in the front yard doesn’t look all that bad. Again, the right method or fertilizer is something a beginner needs to look into. For this first time, I grabbed up a bag labeled citrus fertilizer in the hardware store and followed the directions. A nursery might be a better choice for fertilizer and advice.

One puny and struggling Meyer lemon

As for the bugs, a new accessory seems to be effective in keeping them at bay, despite the odd appearance. Running the risk of looking like the hostess in the Piccadilly Cafeteria, I pin a sheet of Bounce fabric softener to the front of my shirt where it hangs in bad imitation of a frilly handkerchief bunched like a flower.

For the Birds

Tuesday saw the wagon train of goods moving once more to the wilds of Oak Hill. Lucky me, four friends wanted to see the house and offered to load their SUVs with lamps, two tables and a big bin of miscellaneous trappings that included the last of the ink and another two stacks of books that surprised me in the back of a closet. We also squeezed in one more painting, leaving only the four largest still to be wrapped and transported. On Wednesday I brought over all the hanging clothes, with only the folded things in the chests of drawers waiting to go. The movers will wrap the chests in bubble wrap with the contents still in the drawers. What I call an easy deal.

A favorite painting on the bedroom floor

A good part of the morning was frustrated by automated telephones and their idiotic questions. “What is your first name? Please say the name and then spell it. For example, if your name is Robert, say “ROBERT” and then “R-O-B-E-R-T”. If you understand, say “OKAY.” If you don’t understand, please say, “WOULD YOU REPEAT THAT.” And God forbid you let out an unsolicited groan, or any sound of frustration escape your lips. Twice I made small noises to myself and twice the robot voice snapped, “I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND THAT. I AM RETURNING YOU TO THE MAIN MENU.” It took twenty-seven minutes to accomplish a change of address for a magazine subscription.

Next on the agenda was the same chore at the DMV. I had been warned to check the website for the necessary documents in changing the address on a driver’s license and now I suspect it is easier to cross the border into North Korea. They wanted my birth certificate or a valid passport, my social security card and two documents showing the new address with my name included. Then I had to hand over $25 to proceed to queries asking if I were a drug addict, a convicted felon and if I suffered from either epilepsy or insanity. Last, the woman wanted to know how many times my license had been suspended for either DUI or hit and run. I was sorely tempted to ask if the big screen on her desk was a computer and did it show any of these descriptions under my name and license number. However, it is best not to antagonize a bureaucrat. I walked out with a new license showing a loopy picture that suggests an insane epileptic with a drug problem.

The friends who came to see the place yesterday brought an excellent housewarming gift. I have mentioned before all the birds, and now there is a bright red octagonal bird feeder hanging from a limb of the elm tree outside the back screened porch. For now, it hangs there empty of any seed and swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. It came with a big bag of seed—a mix of sunflower seeds, thistle, millet and sunflower chips—but I am saving it for the time when I move out here to stay. No fun in putting seed out, going away and missing the action. Pretty sure if I filled the feeder today half would be gone before I next return.

Today I’ve seen two cardinals, a male and a female, and a solitary woodpecker. There is a steady chorus of birdsong out there beyond the screen, but today I’ve had only fleeting glimpses of anything other than cardinal and woodpecker. Birds aside, I did see a fox crossing the road as I drove up to my gate.

On Old Dixie Lane

Today’s carload of items going from beach to country filled both trunk and backseat, a few bucket loads more than usual. As always were the books, doubled this time, a bunch of kitchen things like plates, bowls and glasses, the hi-fi system, fountain pen washing machine, an outdoor chair, bottled water and clothespins, the wooden kind 50 for a dollar at the Dollar Store. And for all that the house now has the tinge of being inhabited—or at least part-time since there is still no bed anywhere.

An hour after getting everything unpacked and put away, I saw some specks on one of the windows and ended up washing all the windows and the glass doors going out to the screened porch. Who doesn’t love newly washed windows? Still buzzing with energy, I started with the cobwebs on the porch and didn’t stop until I had brushed the majority away, say five pounds. Couldn’t stop there so swept the concrete floor of the porch, but what felt like only the first layer. I will have to go back to that a couple more times. What I would really like to do is put outdoor green carpet over the whole floor.

A tile just outside the screened porch

Manny stopped by and asked if I would run him up to the small store in Scottsmoor five minutes south on US 1. He showed me a back way that I was unaware of and gave me a good look at some of the land around my house. A half mile down from me someone has what looks like a farm with a herd of goats mixing and mingling with the cows. The second surprise was learning of the small store so near to home, which includes the sale of gasoline cheaper than anywhere else within fifty miles or more. Finding this was good timing because a friend with a truck is helping me move stuff on Saturday and I can fill his tank for a good price before he heads home.

Seems cooler on Old Dixie Lane today. Cooler than yesterday and the mosquitoes don’t seem as bad either. But then, I’m wearing my poison wristband guaranteed to ward off winged pests. Maybe it’s working better today than yesterday. My sister suggested tucking a sheet of Bounce fabric softener, half in-half out of a pocket, that it would send to all bugs the scent of death. What a thing, to be conjuring death in this green paradise.

Blue for Green

Okay, so I’m trading a house at the beach for one in the country. My first thought was, “How does that work?” What will replace the constant background murmur of surf tumbling to spill itself on the beach, the slushy rumble of collapsing waves? In place of the blue and white outside my windows now what will greet my good morning eyes in this new home twenty-one miles south and marginally inland?

Oak Hill, on the Atlantic and southern edge of Volusia County is home to barely 1,800 souls. An early sixteenth-century map shows it as the site of an Indian village called Surruque el Viejo. Before the long-running Seminole Wars starting in 1814, northern timber cutters arrived and named their camp Oak Hill. The name stuck but the timber cutters were eventually driven off by the Seminole. At one time commercial fishermen and citrus growers found the area promising but these days most residents of the town commute either north or south for work.

My current knowledge of the area is slim, but it doesn’t take a whole lot of study to see that Oak Hill’s biggest draw nowadays is fishing. Looking for a grocery store, or God forbid a bookstore, Starbuck’s or McDonald’s is a waste of time in a town no more than a blink along the side of US 1. On my first visit there I spotted the local library, a quaint little building along an oak-shaded lane, but it didn’t require a look inside to tell me that it likely houses fewer books than my at-home library. But there is a hardware store and a weekend flea market, along with a Dollar General and the Country Kitchen Family Restaurant. Among the scatter of bait shops and fish camps is another restaurant named Goodrich’s Seafood & Oyster House. This one has a good reputation and attracts diners from areas outside of Oak Hill. Uncertain if it is still the case, but at one time the restaurant was owned and operated by Larry Csonka, a well-known ex-fullback for the Miami Dolphins football team.

The thing is, I am not exactly moving to the Oak Hill described above. Leave all the excitement behind, head south for another seven miles and at the bottom edge of the county make a left onto a dirt road leading off into nowhere. Somewhere down that road is another left turn and another dirt road leading to Indian River Lagoon. A few hundred feet shy of the lagoon is the place I will soon be calling home sweet home.