In the Beginning

It started with a stick, a finely smoothed and varnished walking stick, knobby but (mostly) straight and (indisputably) strong, made and given to us years and years ago by the Finest of Friends, who said, This will lead you to the forest.

At long last this walking stick, and Karma the Beloved Dog (who insists upon being accompanied for all but the most impulsive of quests) led us to the Northwest Woods.

The Northwest Woods, like most forests, features, most prominently, trees (although it certainly is not limited to them). It is our opinion that each tree, like each person, has a story to tell. We have found that the trees in the Northwest Woods have been barely able to contain themselves, so eager are they to offer up their tales. Some days, in fact, it can appear as if the entire forest is babbling, and a person walking in the woods for a little peace and quiet might be well-advised to keep his or her eyes to the ground lest the trees infer there is a captive audience at hand (although just who in particular is more captive is certainly up for dispute, and may be a bit like the bad actor calling the tree wooden).

Now, where were we? Ah, in the Northwest Woods, of that we are certain, though our last paragraph does remind us that we tend to write quite like Karma the Beloved Dog tends to take a walk. There may (or may not, in our lesser moments) be a destination in mind, but certainly Karma (or evidently yours truly) does not make directly for it. 

By the way, isn’t it curious that although one hears about making a “bee” line for somewhere, or references to “as the crow flies,” there is seldom reason to recommend advancing like a dog? It may be precisely because, well, advancing is such a dubious proposition when it comes to a dog. Instead, your average dog (and here we have Beloved Karma in mind, although he is most assuredly light years Above Average) will begin even his most coveted and dearly anticipated journey by proceeding in every possible direction, coming to complete standstills for no apparent reason, followed by retracing, reversing, and reinventing his itinerary at every point on his way to Straight Ahead.

Given our attachment to Karma the Beloved Dog, you will thus understand (and, we hope, forgive) the apparent confounding of our walking and writing styles. We do begin to resemble those we love, as we’re sure you have noted.

However, to return to the Northwest Woods, we would like to point out that apart from particularly Notable Characters of an Arboreal Nature, to whom you are shortly to be introduced, the Northwest Woods offers many other unexpected pleasures. We will leap right to them, forthwith, because journeys that begin on a pleasant note are rewards in themselves (as Karma himself so notably demonstrates at the onset of each walk with the jauntiness of his gait and his gaily lifted leg).

The Heartbeam Spot

You will think we are making this up, but we promise it is absolutely true. (There may be other occasions when you have cause to doubt our word, and we pledge to alert you at the earliest possible moment when your doubting is with cause, but we trust that you will otherwise believe every word we say. Much of what we report we can verify with accompanying photographs and directions allowing you to do the same, but in the case of the Heartbeam Spot, there are particular limitations owing to phenomena we will shortly describe, and you will therefore need to take a significant leap of faith, but please do so).

Well.

On the path just beyond the trail considerately identified as “H,” but just before one gets to the turn-off at “I,” at a certain time of day and a certain time of year when the sun is, necessarily, shining and the branches and leaves are all angled just so owing to a particular breeze (or perhaps the absence thereof), a golden shaft of sunlight wends its shining way through the tangle of leaves and trees, and for reasons we cannot otherwise ascertain produces a big, fat, perfect heart-shaped patch of sun upon the ground, which we call the Heartbeam Spot.

We know this was real because two of us saw it.

Otherwise one of us would worry she was making this up.

The Heart-Shaped Stump and the Tree-That-Pierces-to-the-Core

Less testing of our credulity is the Heart-Shaped Stump. We say that since, as an artifact, it is constant in its form and not subject to the vicissitudes (we think that would make a delicious soup) of time and light and breezes. As a heart shape it is perhaps less perfectly defined than your ideal crisp and symmetrical heart, but it nonetheless qualifies, as we hope the above photograph demonstrates.

This stump serves as the ideal perch overlooking the Great Chasm, at the bottom of which McCormick Creek flows. Right in the middle of the Great Chasm is the Tree-That-Pierces-To-The-Core, a tree so tall and noble you cannot see its top, nor, because the Great Chasm is so deep, can you see its base, as is aptly demonstrated in the picture below.



We interpret this limitation as an affirmation of the Universal Truth, “As above, so below,” which we take to mean that All Things Are Necessarily Exactly As They Must Be (which is often a struggle for us to accept).

In this acceptance, however, we are given great encouragement from the source of the aforementioned Universal Truth, the great Emerald Tablet, which adds, Thus thou hast the glory of the whole world. We think that if complete acceptance of “As above, so below” vouchsafes us the “glory of the whole world,” we have made a very good bargain, indeed.

The Emerald Tablet, you ask? We can well understand your puzzlement, and we are happy to provide more in the way of information, in the form of the picture below.



For your further edification, let us add that the Emerald Tablet was set down over twenty centuries ago, and is said to contain all the secrets of the Universe. This, we feel, is no small achievement. It is purported to have been written by Hermes Trismegistus, whose name is clearly a challenge to the tongue but is quite worth the effort; just try it: Tris-muh-gist-us.

One of us likes to say it so much she would quite like to change her name. (As it happens, however, the pronunciation above has not been verified and is very likely to be incorrect. At present, however, she appears to have the upper hand.)

Here, by the way, is an illustration of Trismegistus Himself.


We like it because he has such a pleasant expression on his face, and appears to have one set of arms bearing what we imagine is The Emerald Tablet and some other proclamation, as well as a second set of arms with hands cupping his chin in what we are imagining is thoughtful pleasure at the inquiries of his guests.

And here is another illustration of him, which we can’t resist adding because it amuses us greatly. Here he appears to be reading a children’s book (or at least we think it must be, because of the pictures on the cover) to an assortment of jostling individuals, as well as to some birds who seem to be listening quite a bit more attentively than the humans. Well, sitting down and reading a book out loud in the forest sounds like a very good idea for us to do, now that we think about it, in the Northwest Woods.



Now, where were we? Ah, yes, here we are, standing on the Heart-Shaped Stump, and paying homage to the Tree-That-Pierces-To-the-Core, which also often reminds us of those hearts with swords running through them (we think they are a medieval allusion to Courage, a Useful Virtue at any juncture), but what we actually feel each time we stand on the Heart-Shaped Stump and gaze at the Tree-That-Pierces-To-the-Core is, simply, awe, and the deepest gratitude. All is accepted, all, as above, so below. Each time we are thus vastly consoled, and we bow and say thank you before we leave.

The Ancestor Tree

There are many ways to get to know a forest, but we take particular pleasure in finding and being introduced to the ancestor trees. To know one's ancestors is, we believe, to know oneself, and it is our very great honor to present the Northwest Woods' Ancestor Tree to you.

Now, you might think from the picture above that you are not seeing the Ancestor Tree in all its Original Glory, and that is quite true. As it happens, we often do not have occasion to know those we meet at their best, and we generally advise bearing in mind their greatest potential in all one's encounters, which perception considerably adds to the pleasure of every occasion.

You may reasonably wonder at how it was determined that this was the Ancestor Tree. As you will shortly discover, it often takes several (and even more) walks in the Northwest Woods before one becomes entirely receptive to the individuals therein. It's quite like the process of any encounter with the new: at first it is all unknown and anonymous, and then little by little each individual part comes to be known.

We have found in the Northwest Woods that it also helps to actually see what one, well, sees. All too often we dash headlong along with our long list of heady tasks (we rather like how that sounds) oblivious of what's around us. But if we have occasion to pause, say, in the interests of waiting for Karma the Beloved Dog, it is in those long moments that we might notice exactly where we are.

As it happens, the Ancestor Tree is so grand that it called attention all to itself, quite independent of the stops and starts of our walk. There is a further pausing, however, that is necessary if one truly wants to know what one encounters. A Frenzied Pause will simply not do, nor will a Distracted one, nor will a Closed-Door-of-the Mind Pause do. However, if one is willing to pause, and then listen with the ear of one's soul, why one would be simply enchanted with what is heard.

The Ancestor Tree of the Northwest Woods is surrounded by countless other trees in varying stages of growth. Despite having eventually doubled over in a single fell crash across the Great Chasm, its base is nonetheless so sturdy and wide it could be a home for a veritable forest unto itself. Many of the trees around it were felled at an earlier age, or struck by lightning, or afflicted with some, er, we think we can safely say, affliction, but clearly the Ancestor Tree lived long enough to have become a Magnificent Ruin.

We think to be a Magnificent Ruin is quite a respectable goal for ourselves, although we suspect that to be ancient is both harder and nobler than we might imagine.

In any woods you visit, we urge you to find the Ancestor Tree, and join it in its Silent Contemplation. We did so, and continued on, feeling quite the way we do when we have been in a Grand Cathedral.

The Denizens of the Northwest Woods

Now that you have met the Ancestor Tree, perhaps you are interested in being introduced to some of the other denizens of the Northwest Woods. [Although as it turns out, denizens, according to the Oxford English Dictionary (of which one anagrammatic possibility is A Stirring Holy Ox Confided) is not exactly the correct term since it refers to residents who are not natives, and the trees in the Northwest Woods are most certainly natives since it is an old-growth forest. Nonetheless, we are partial to the term (denizens sounds particularly apropos of the woods, although it does appear to limit us to forest mammals), and we are disinclined to let our flaming misappropriation of it dissuade us from nonetheless employing it. You will note, by the way, that this kind of Willful Misrepresentation is seldom encountered in the natural world, although it is difficult to say which is worse: not knowing we misused a term, or knowing and misusing it anyhow. It might be argued that it’s a case of being forced to choose between obtuseness or obstinance, and we are, in any case, choosing the latter.]

But to continue.

We have heard it inquired how it is that trees, traditionally regarded as tight-lipped, if lipped at all (although with some exceptions, see below) can be said to speak.



Well, it is our opinion the issue is not so much do trees talk, but do we listen? We are, in modern times, virtually bombarded with words and noises, and we daresay many of us have quite forgotten the virtues of silence. It is precisely in the practice of that latter virtue (for it surely deserves to be one) that we each might hear so much more than we hear.

One final point must be made as to the issue of gender (which we recognize you have not raised, but we are anticipating your objection). We have been asked how in our tree conversations we can tell the difference between a him and a her, and, quite frankly, we cannot. This, in many respects, appears to be a superior arrangement to the human, who must oblige (and/or resist) any number of mandates by virtue of a factor that quite rightly perceived would be only a minor detail on the order of where you part your hair (if in possession of same).

For that reason, we highly encourage each of you to modify the reported genders in any way you deem relevant to your own experience. We can promise the trees won’t mind in the least.

The Singing Tree, by way of the Bouncing Tree

It was a windy and, frankly, unnecessarily nippy day in the forest.

All right then, if we’re completely honest (as we’ve pledged to be), it was the throes of winter, so no surprise there, and actually we thought it was deliciously nippy. However, some of us worry we may sound a bit too treacly at times, and a little grumbling seems to be the needed antidote.

It does feel good to grumble a bit, even if it requires some exaggeration of circumstances to do so. Anyhow, we are of the opinion that Literary License itself allows for the occasional creative use of facts.

(And isn’t that, now that we think about it, an interesting concept in itself: Literary License. Do you suppose it can really be issued, and if so, by whom? What do you suppose it reads like?

LITERARY LICENSE

Effective (date), and (year), the following (name) hereby has the undersigned’s permission to:

1.  Digress from an initial proposition to such an extent that it is no longer recalled, nor is the point of its telling, and if it weren’t written down previously would be utterly lost to posterity;
2.  Use vaguely familiar but somewhat uncommon terms from other sources;
3.  Employ words of sometimes indeterminate applicability and often with excess syllables so as to lend for an air of perspicuity and a certain random ambly-ness;  
4.  Invent words on-the-spot, as needed, or if not a word itself to construct a portmanteau that would serve the purpose; 
5.  Modify representations of facts so as to address considerations beyond those of Accuracy, such as Whimsy, Necessary Discharge of Grumbliness for No Apparent Justifiable Cause, Deep Appreciation for the Paradoxical Nature of It All, and Transmission of Essential Truths that Do Not Adhere, Properly Speaking, to the So-Called Facts;
6.  Intentionally misuse common terms as long as there is forthright acknowledgement of same;
7. Make the boldest of assertions confidently and then contradict oneself with equal confidence later;
8. Offer parenthetical statements within parenthetical statements with only a cursory effort at complying with literary regulations, as per Stunk & Write's Elements of Style;
9.  Confound the personal and poetic for purposes of conveying what one most deeply and ineffably believes about both the Natural and the Unnatural World (Supernatural and Preternatural Worlds are not included in this agreement and require a different license).

Signed,

Oliver Edward Dunbar, LLD

Treacly itself, by the way, turns out to have a fascinating origin, deriving from Middle English, Old French, Latin and Greek, and meaning “antidote against poison or a poisonous bite from a wild animal.” We promise to alert you as to the presence of any Wild Animals in the Northwest Woods, some of which we do have a hint of. In the meantime we think it a bit of an irony that we need an antidote to the antidote treacly in the form of grumbly, when one would think it would be the other way around.

But where were we? Ah.

The Singing Tree, Resumed

It was a windy and nippy-of-some-sort day in the Northwest Woods, and one of us was showing her beloved visitors all her favorite places, stopping, at last, to rest at the Bouncing Tree, which feels quite like what we imagine being jostled as a toddler must have felt like during recitation of “Bambury Cross,” or some other such eminently bounceable rhyme.



The Bouncing Tree feels every bit as nice as a riding horse or a rocking horse or riding a rocking knee, with the further advantage that it is very, very strong and could probably hold an entire entourage (not that we have one). Certainly, though, it held at least two (or at least one and a half), as you can see in the photograph above.

On this particular day, as our treasured visitors sat and bounced, one of us was convinced she suddenly heard the most dismal sound one can hear in the woods: the heartless, cold, relentless rattle of a chainsaw.

No, said her brother, who himself is quite like a Tree in his deep and silent watchfulness, I don’t think it’s a chainsaw.

But one of us was quite certain that it was. Sigh, she thought (or perhaps exhaled). She hoped that if it was a chainsaw it was functioning in the service of an already felled tree, perhaps one blocking the path of some gentle elderly person who would not otherwise be able to continue his happy walk in the Northwest Woods, or some toddly Christopher Robin sort cavorting down the trail, or...

No, wait, said her brother, who had been walking around the vicinity eying the trees suspiciously. That's not a chainsaw making that sound, he announced. That's this TREE!

Ridiculous, she said. Impossible! How could a tree be making a sound like that?

Well, her brother said, come over here and put your ear up against the trunk.

She was, admittedly, cocksure and uncertain in the same breath, but she vacated her position on the Bouncing Tree to lean her ear up against the green, furry trunk. Sure enough every time the “chainsaw” was heard, there was a corresponding ringing coming from inside the tree. Within it she could hear what were positively celestial tones. The tree was singing. Truly singing. Tone after tone rang out (or in, as the case was) sometimes followed by little rapping noises, and other times by a hum. It was a veritable modern symphony! Perhaps post-modern. Certainly minimalist, in a Philip Glass sort of way. She was entranced.

Look, her brother explained. See how this tree is leaning against the one over there? When the wind starts up it causes this tree to rub against that other one, thus making the “chainsaw” noise you hear on the outside. Within the tree, however, the vibrations produce a different sound. It's physics, really, basically science, he added.

Well, it is our opinion that Science is quite the remarkable thing.

As it happens there is also a considerable literary and artistic tradition for Singing Trees. The Arabian Nights' Entertainment has a lovely chapter devoted to a Singing Tree, which is pictured below:



There is, furthermore, an astounding sculpture in the northwest of England called "The Singing, Ringing Tree" which "harnesses the energy of the prevailing winds" and can be heard to "sing" across several octaves.



But this Singing Tree in the Northwest Woods was neither literature, nor art. It was more, it seemed, miraculous. which truly is Science at its best.

Now, every time we visit the Bouncing Tree, we stop to listen to the Singing Tree. Most of the time it is silent, but on those days when we lean our ear against its green, furry bark and hear its symphony within, we are filled with such joy that tears spring to our eyes. It sings! we say in amazement. It sings!

And then we are filled with love, and gratitude, for her brother.

A Dark Wood

It has just occurred to us that we have already been midway into the Northwest Woods without ever having actually entered it. So let's retrace our steps.

Now, the main entrance to the Northwest Woods begins with a fine and winding path surrounded on both sides by sunlight and trees. Even on cloudy days there is a luminous light emanating from a source that can only be the Northwest Woods’ own true nature. However, lest you think the Northwest Woods is just too sweet for its own good, dare we say cloying, we do want to mention that we don’t have to venture far into the bright and beaming forest before we come face-to-face with its inevitable… shadow.



Those more observant might notice that on the right of the path as they ascend the first steep-ish sort of hill is a small, tiny, desperate figure frozen in flight as she rushes downhill, her arms outstretched, her panic nearly palpable. Clearly she has been caught running at some speed downhill, which should be alarm sufficient for all but the most oblivious of passers-by.

It is, actually, our first clue that not all in the Northwest Woods is sweetness and light, and for that we must breathe a sigh of relief, lest we suffocate from sheer surfeit of sweetness.



Those who continue past the frightened little figure (and we imagine some do turn about in their tracks) are thus not entirely taken by surprise when, at the crest of the path, suddenly all golden vistas give way, and we are in a Dark Wood.

The Dark Wood is not terribly long a stretch of the path, but it is significantly darker, and more closed in on either side, and it does seem that the birds suddenly stop chattering, and everything else gets very, very quiet. In the silence, if one stands still (which one is not at all inclined to do), one hears vague rustlings and muffled snaps and other surreptitious scurrying about.

“Scurry” does indeed seem to be the order of the moment, and we won’t think the less of you were you to yield to that impulse.

Now sometimes it is fun to be scared, and sometimes it is scary to be scared, and it is useful to know just when one becomes the other. It is our conviction that the moment one no longer feels safe alone is the crucial divide, so we recommend that you are accompanied at this juncture of your explorations (Beloved Dogs are strongly advised).

If, however, you do screw your courage to the sticking point and manage not to turn yourself Right Back Around and go rushing down the path with your arms outstretched quite like a certain previously encountered figure, then right toward the middle end of the Dark Wood, off to the side, is a very nicely positioned log carefully propped up on two smaller pieces at either end, all but pleading Sit Here. However improbably, we absolutely recommend that you do so.



It may be while sitting there that you belatedly recognize the madly rushing figure you had previously encountered is not, in fact, fleeing in terror, but is a remnant of a moss-covered stump (though it does nonetheless leave one of us to wonder if, in an instant, we, too, can be transformed from our big, confident selves to a small scrap of ancient, immobile, mossy wood, and how, indeed, those circumstances would arise).

More about that later.

All the same, such a pleasant little respite seems utterly contrary to one’s previous biases about a Dark Wood, and we have found that when we sit in that quiet, shaded little spot we begin to feel remarkably brave and strong.

There’s nothing quite like sitting calmly with one’s fears, after all; we often note how when we do so, the fears seem to fade, and oddly enough the birds begin their sweet chatter once again.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Thus fortified, we believe you are ready for a discussion of some of the other perils of the Northwest Woods. We believe that fears anticipated are fears prepared for, and we always prefer a Thorough Rehearsal of any Potentially Difficult Moments, as suggested in the illustration above.

Contrary to this chapter’s title, however, you do not have to fruzzle yourselves about Lions and Tigers and Bears in our particular Northwest Woods. We rather wish we did, actually, since we do wonder what has become of all of them, and worry our presence has discouraged theirs.

Thankfully, there are dangers enough nonetheless (of a tamer sort, most agreeably) and we would like you to be prepared as you wend your way through the Northwest Woods.

First of all, we highly recommend that you Take Note. Many people, on their daily constitutional, plow along the path with all the sensitivity of a large, yellow bulldozer.



As it happens, we are particularly partial to large, yellow bulldozers, as beautifully demonstrated in the painting by our wonderful friend, Mary Stroeing, of our son as a young boy.



Nonetheless, bulldozers of any description, no matter how fetching, are not welcome in the Northwest Woods. We urge you, instead, to make yourself invisible when you are in the Northwest Woods. This, you might believe, is hindered by the fact that you can see yourself, and your Beloved Dog, but in the forest your Beloved Dog is invisible, and so should you be.

To that end, may we recommend drinking Peach Blossom White Tea from China's Fujian province, which in our experience is a brew so subtle you will progressively evanesce with each sip, and slender sorts may well vanish altogether before finishing the first cup.

If you do not happen to have that particular phantasmal tea on hand, to be invisible only requires that you move very quietly, and slowly, and carefully, noting every detail your tender mind can wrap itself around. Pay particular attention to the things you never otherwise notice. In so doing, we are certain that you will discover all the guidance you require as you proceed, for the Northwest Woods and other forests are the most generous of hosts and happy to supply you with every wish and need.

For instance, you may come to certain junctures in the Northwest Woods in which decisions about which way to proceed are at stake. The forest can help you. We, for instance, could not choose between taking the “S” path or the “R” path, but fortunately discovered this little fellow clearly pointing the way, and he was quite right: it was the perfect path.



Now, had we been in our usual bulldozer mode we may well have failed to have taken note of such a random bit of bark [Madrone, as it turns out, which is inclined anyhow to peel in such satisfying shapes, revealing underneath a lovely lime-yellow-green trunk (dare we say chartreuse?) so smooth and radiant that we have found ourselves very much wishing to be that color. Or at least one of us has.].



(Editors Note: We hastily retract any subsequent disparaging remarks about the color chartreuse, and wish to attribute such comments to Willful Indulgence in Contradicting Oneself, fully subscribing to Oscar Wilde's assertion that, "The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves." We would like to believe that we are thus, arguably, in possession of said wisdom, but at least one of us knows better.)

At other moments, one might be proceeding blithely on and encounter something like the figure below, who very much seems to suggest surprise and a thoughtful caution about continuing.



We did, in fact, reconsider our route, and felt much the safer.

Or, the forest might present to you a figure such as the following one, who clearly appeared to communicate a plaintive alarm, although we chose to ignore it (with good results) since it struck as unnecessarily over-anxious.



Similarly, the figure below, who manages to suggest caution without necessarily urging that any plans for proceeding be changed.



In sum, to those who will be attentive, the Northwest Woods can offer every bit as much in the way of reassurance and redirection (and quite a bit is necessary in our case, for we are geographically-challenged in both our two- and four-legged incarnations, contrary, with regard to the latter, to canine lore) as it does chills and thrills.

Addendum: Were you to need to reverse your condition of invisibility, may we recommend a strong cup of Lapsang Souchong (also from the Fujian province, by delightful coincidence), which is itself capable not only of restoring you to robust corporeal condition but will put hair on your chest. Although we personally enjoy it, we have heard it described as only "generally palatable," which is as tentative an endorsement as one is likely to get from a substance that the FDA has not already banned.

The Menacing Lizard, a Dinosaur, and Some Dubious Snakes

While it is true there are no Lions and Tigers and Bears in our particular Northwest Woods, there are, nonetheless, other creatures of a dubious and possibly troubling nature, such as this fellow above. Our tolerance for his fairly menacing posture is greatly facilitated by the fact that he is quite (it could be said even altogether) immobile.

That said, he is nonetheless capable of inspiring a certain frisson, as the French say, which we take to mean a shuddery little chill in this particular case (perhaps owing to our diminishing linguistic skills and our (probable) corresponding mispronunciation as freeze-on).

But if you need any further urging in the department of Taking Note, we suspect the figure below may serve as the Ultimate Cautionary Figure (or the Northwest Woods' pièce de résistance, to engage in a bit of Francophilia again, resistance being the particularly pertinent term since it appears that is the limit of its offensive capabilities):



You will be reassured to note that it is of the species Dinosaurus ineffectus, owing, most certainly, to its (happily noted, again) immobile condition, although to the hasty eye it may well induce a touch of apoplexy if unprepared. (By the way, we urge you not to confuse Karma the Beloved Dog's evident intrepidness for Oblivion to Danger, which he most certainly is not subject to.)

It is with some relief, then, that further threats to our well-being appear to have even less in the way of mobility, what with only their claws being exposed and the rest of them being (evidently) underground.



And then there are those who are patently incapable of damage but who nonetheless effect as threatening a posture as they can muster,



which even we recognize is as about as threatening a menace as a stuffed piranha (which, by the way, we do have a picture of).



(Thereby begging, of course, the questions of just who in the world would seek a stuffed toy in the form of a piranha, and could we arrange a meeting?)

Ah, and snakes. Now, we should probably clarify that although we don’t dislike snakes, and even on one occasion could be said to have petted one, and another to have rescued one (with fairly powerful results, but that’s for another telling), we don’t feel altogether comfortable knowing they are out and about (which, as it happens, they are not, in the Northwest Woods), with fangs, and with possibly accompanying venom (which, we hasten to add, they don't have in the Northwest Woods because there aren't any).  We do think snakes are very interesting, and mysterious, and we have great respect for them, but it gives our feet great comfort to know in scuffling about the forest leaves we are not at risk of venomous nips to our toes.

Even though it is true that there are no poisonous snakes in our particular Northwest Woods (we know we've said that before but it gives us great confidence to repeat it) there are, nonetheless, enough what-appear-to-be snakes to fill a Medusa’s head.









Here, by the way, is a picture of Medusa, about whom you may have previously heard, and who looks quite like one of us feels now and then on a particularly disagreeable day, of which we are grateful to have very few.



Here is another picture of her in which she appears just as confused about why she is behaving so poorly as, we presume, those around her are:



Medusa, as you might know, is a goddess whose beautiful head was turned into snakes, which in turn caused anyone who looked (and how could one not? Certainly were we to encounter a woman whose head was seething with reptiles we would most certainly take a second, and possibly third, look)

But where are we now? Ah, yes. To look would cause the looker to turn to stone.

We do feel Medusa has been rather misunderstood, and certainly snakes have been given short shrift (we think that can be redressed by lowering the hems), but she is a very important goddess to know about for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that we each must be on the alert for those moments when our own anger is such that it can turn others to stone.

In the event of a future occasion in which we find ourselves impossibly, steam-blowingly, angry, we have, fortunately, discovered that we can order our own Medusa wig:



We are hopeful that, instead of cussing and fussing and fuming, we might divert our attentions by donning it. In the very least it will alert those around us that We Are Not To Be Messed With, which is always useful to let others know in advance. We are guessing that it will also make us laugh, which is one of the most reliable antidotes to anger.

This may not, however, prevent you from feeling the tiniest bit apprehensive now and then, what with the puzzling transformation of snakes, lizards and (evidently) dinosaurs into wood, and the suspicion that there must be Some Thing Responsible.

We are guessing there is some figure of a Medusa sort in the Northwest Woods capable of becoming in the very least Very Annoyed, and perhaps it is the Menacing Lizard, above. We can’t say for certain.

The Two Trees That Are Happy Together

We continue to suspect that there is Some Thing Responsible for the evident transformation of various fauna into wooden caricatures, but sometimes it is better to Set a Challenge Aside (particularly the frightening ones), the better to recoup one's energies for another go at a decidedly more salutary moment. In any event, often the antidote to fear is, curiously enough, gratitude, for certainly there are few fears for which there is not a Greater Threat from which one is being spared. We have learned, in our fast-fleeting lifetimes, that just about anything we face could always be worse, which strikes us as one of the more useful employments of Relativity Theory.

As it happens, among the things we ourselves are most grateful for are the The Two Trees That Are Happy Together. As you can see from the photograph above, they are so much alike you would think they are identical twins, and perhaps after all this time they are. It is said, after all, that that you begin to resemble what you love (which possibility urges considerable caution in the choice of love objects).

We in the forest are certain they are an actual couple because they share the same solid base, as if all their life’s experiences together have pooled and joined them into one sturdy unit.

Everyone in the Northwest Woods wonders how they could have stayed together for so long, in such apparent peace and civility. It is indeed a very great puzzle, how happiness can be found together for more than a few years, and it is very rare, in fact, for that to happen.

The Two Trees That Are Happy Together are very modest about their success (which is perhaps another way of saying they aren’t very helpful in explaining it). They aren’t happy all the time, they cheerfully admit, and they have their share of Fractious Moments. The most they would say to account for their agreeableness is that they simply have certain jobs to do, and they do them. Each could do the jobs on his or her own, but they choose to work together. (We do think individual choice is a crucial dimension in successful relationship, as opposed to legal contract, obligation, social pressure, desperation, abject loneliness, and binding agreements in the eyes of a deity).

The Two Trees That Are Happy Together do insist that despite appearances, they really are very different from each other.

Perhaps they are, but what has struck us is that they are in every way each other’s equal: the same height, the same girth, the same straight and noble trunks.

The same quiet and thoughtful way of listening to each other.

The Wanna-Be Tree

As peaceably devoted as the Two Trees That Are Happy Together Are, we nonetheless know full well love does not always result in such contentment. As a matter of fact, it seems more so to be the exception, and a broken heart (or two, or three, or even more) is, inevitably, the lot of most two-legged creatures with whom we are associated.

Here is Wanna-Be Tree's tale.

She loved him, and maybe even wished that she was him. As soon as she met him, she wrapped her red, silky root around the base of his trunk, and planned how he would love her in return.

What he loved, on the other hand (or is it branch?), was being loved. Many other trees had envied him (or so he thought), so he was quite used to their admiring attentions. Wanna-Be Tree’s complete and utter adoration was quite his due, in his estimation.

At first he enjoyed her devoted attention, and didn’t altogether mind that she had planted herself so close beside him. All too soon, however, he began to feel a bit cramped by her proximity, and in fact her presence slowed his own growth considerably.

The Wanna-Be Tree, likewise, never grew as tall and strong as she might have if she had only loved herself a bit more, and him a bit less.

This, of course, was rather a shame for both of them, but to this day her red, silky root is wrapped around the base of his silent trunk.

It is a beautiful root.

The Solitary Foxglove

We regret to report that as beautiful as the Northwest Woods are, there are very few flowers (at least whose names we know) but as it happens foxglove is one of them.

You’ll note the double significance of Solitary Foxglove then, both in the fact of its being the only foxglove in the picture and the only flower we seem to know the name of.

The Solitary Foxglove is notable for its (sometimes) being quite pink, which would not under ordinary circumstances be a disadvantage, but in this case induces a great deal of self-consciousness. As it happens, there has been considerable discussion among certain forest individuals regarding the advisability of being quite so pink. Many seem to believe that by virtue of color alone one is either lesser or better than certain others, which sounds to us at the outset like a frankly illogical proposition. We wonder, what exactly could be the significance of something so arbitrary as... color? With the exception of puce, which has to be one of the more unfortunately named colors we know of, reminding us, as it does, of certain unfortunate rumbly tummy moments, there is no conceivably wrong color. And the color puce itself is actually quite lovely, unlike the ironically beautifully named chartreuse, which actual color makes us want, well, to puce.

The further absurdity of having been demeaned for his pinkness is aptly demonstrated in the photograph below of one of his fellow flowers.



As you can clearly discern (if you were any closer you would be living there) white foxglove is hardly in a position to disparage others of a Different Stripe, what with its own predilection for purple freckles. We view this as a sensible reminder that one must always Consider the Source before taking to heart a Castigating Remark. In our experience, Fine Fellows of either a flora or fauna variety tend not to make the latter, or to take Full Responsibility for insensitivity if such a remark happens to issue forth.

In any event, the Solitary Foxglove got wind of all the prejudice, and, added to his sense of solitariness, was his fear that he was Not Quite Right. This is a condition that is singularly demoralizing for any number of individuals, and not one we would wish upon our Worst Enemies (although we cannot think of any at the moment). Every time we passed the Solitary Foxglove he would hang his many heads in what appeared to be a Certain Despair, or perhaps a Modest Disillusionment, and we would feel quite badly on his behalf.

Most often it is wise to let Nature Take Its Course, but there are those moments when we feel it is necessary to step in and have a Conversation. This was one of them. If we had our druthers (not that we would know them if we met them at breakfast since we have no idea what druthers are and think that they sound particularly in need of a little milk and sugar) we would most certainly have arranged that the Solitary Foxglove immediately be transported to one of the lovely other foxglove patches we would have happily gone to great effort to discover. We could not have done so, however, without removing him from his roots, or “picking” him (not a very felicitous image since noses immediately come to mind) and, anyhow, it is always useful to keep one’s roots in one’s purview, the better to note when said roots are interfering in one’s Inalienable Right to Be Oneself.

So, picking and transporting the Solitary Foxglove to another neck of the woods (do woods really have necks, we wonder?) where he would find company galore, was, of course, out of the question for the reasons above and the fact that it would have resulted in his eventual (if not prompt) demise, which consequence is another useful caution about proceeding with entirely too much dispatch, since wanting to Fix Things without fully thinking them through quite often results in more trouble, if not a visit from the Grim Reaper.



More from him later.

(Just kidding.)

Having discarded that idea then, we were left with what was our original resolve, which was to have a Conversation. Certainly we couldn’t move the Solitary Foxglove, but perhaps we could move him, in the sense of emotionally reassure.

We do not recall all the specifics of the conversation (and it was rather one-sided), but in the main what we urged was that he take Pride in his Pinkness. Pink, though not the manliest of shades, is one of the kindest, and we have boundless appreciation for kindness. It’s quite like our old friend Dennis said, too much is never enough.

Plus, we added, there were others just like him in other necks of the woods (how many necks would a woods need, we wonder?) and although he couldn’t actually see them at present, we hoped he would take some reassurance in knowing of their presence. Then we described to him how wonderful it would be to be surrounded by those who completely understood you (not that anyone ever really completely does) and who, in the very least, would claim you as their own and perhaps even invite you to join in some celebratory activities, such as a parade, or sky-diving, or trips to the aquarium, or… well, perhaps we are getting carried away with ourselves here.



In any event, we said that sometimes, in our experience, there is considerable satisfaction to be had in utterly giving oneself over to imagining in specific detail how wonderful things might be at Another Point.

Well, he did appear to be mildly reassured, as evidenced by a little twitching of his pink, showy, tubular, pendant, and elongated heads (or perhaps that was the wind) and in any event Nature did Take Its Course shortly thereafter, when scores of tiny foxglove seeds were escorted by the wind to what we are certain was soon to be a foxglove-populous elbow of the woods. Solitary ones always find each other, if they seek to.

The Celebration Tree

Chances are you have passed under him yourself and have barely made note. Rather than aspire to the conventional, upright role, the Celebration Tree resolved instead to move laterally in the world, curving in a graceful rainbow arc across the forest path. In this way anyone who traverses that particular path passes under this smoothly arched gate.

In many cultures it is believed that a doorway or a gate is a sacred passage from one space to another. The groom often carries the bride through the doorway to their first home in honor of the transition into marriage. In Japan, Torii Gates,



sometimes simply sitting in the middle of the bay, are much revered, and in many cultures the occasional arched and arbored trellis can be found planted in the random backyard, a gate from nowhere in particular to nowhere in particular, but magical all the same, as shown here,



and here (although we do feel that this one looks rather more like a bus stop).



The Celebration Tree fancies himself as having a similarly resplendent role. As each person (or critter) passes underneath him he cheerfully celebrates the occasion.

Good job, he’ll say. Or, Congratulations, old chap. Or, Nicely done. Couldn’t be prouder.

It doesn’t appear to bother him in the least that his good wishes are never acknowledged in any way by their intended audience. He is simply delighted to have yet another lucky traveler cross the threshold he so gracefully demarcates. The pleasure he feels in their passage is matched only by his own pleasure in his assistance. We think that is what is truly meant by taking pride in one's work, and we seek accordingly to do so as well.

The Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree

As you can plainly see, there is a Huckleberry Bush living at the top of this Snag. (A Snag, as you might know, is a (mostly) dead tree, often missing a top or many if not all of its branches, and serving to support many forest creatures with a place to live or something to eat, as is their wont). It could be easily mistaken for a Decomposing Log, as the sign below explains, but we think the principle difference is in the degree of Verticality, Decomposing Logs being more of a horizontal inclination. For the mathematically-minded, we believe this relationship between Snags and Decomposing Logs could be usefully expressed as an equation, to wit: S = DL + V, or DL = S - V.

Anyhow, we find it particularly gratifying that in the Northwest Woods even Decomposing Logs have their Day in the Sun, at least insofar as a plaque recognizing their services is such.



By the way, the moment when we recognized that a Snag is actually a Decomposing Log standing upright was an epiphany nearly on the order of the moment when we recognized that "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," "Baa-Baa Black Sheep," and "The Alphabet Song" are the exact same melody. How, for nearly half a century, we did not realize that before we cannot say. It reminds us once again how easily desensitized to the Extraordinary we all too often are, and serves to urge us to approach each experience as if it were a new and quite surprising moment. (Although that latter may be why we never saw the connection before this. Hmm, now what do we recommend?)

But to return, this particular Huckleberry Bush thought he was absolutely the Cat’s Pajamas. (Regrettably, we are not sure of the derivation of this phrase, nor can we say with confidence it is a good metaphor. We do, however, very much like the vision below of a particularly high-struttin' feline, and quite imagine the Huckleberry Bush imagines himself equally dashing.)



In a word (not that we have ever limited ourselves to that) the Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree clearly believed he was quite above all other huckleberry bushes, and certainly by virtue of his great height alone he had reason to believe that was true. Other huckleberry bushes in the Northwest Woods grow to be about the height of an average (rather tall) adult person, but this huckleberry bush loomed over even other bona fide trees, and thus convinced himself that he was no ordinary bush: he was a... Tree.

This fact, however, brought him very little joy. It did occur to him that for all his impressive presence his life was quite lonely. Furthermore, he did not have the distinct impression that other huckleberry bushes looked up to him with any appreciable deference or recognition. Even if they had, it would not have been altogether that much consolation in either the best or worst of times, because who wants to be Fabulously Admired but Altogether Alone?

His hubris and his sadness were such that we felt obliged finally, after much discussion among ourselves, to inform him that in fact he was not a tree, and was only towering in his present state owing to the devoted service of the snag beneath him (who, evidently, had “snagged” an errant seed or berry at some point which grew to be the Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree).

It is to the Huckleberry Bush’s credit that rather than being dismayed to discover he was not, nor ever would be, a Legitimate Tree, he was instead greatly cheered by this disclosure. What a coup, he exclaimed, to have landed on that snag. What a gracious offering for such a noble tree as the snag had once been! The Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree was suddenly filled with over-flowing gratitude toward the snag. The snag, in turn, felt deeply gratified to have been, at long last, acknowledged for its service (beyond the requisite plaque, as above, and the standard watch offered upon retirement).

As it happens, to be thought Other Than One Truly Is, no matter how flattering the attributions, can be seriously demoralizing in its own right. Far better, we believe, to face and accept the limitations of one's competencies and to acknowledge gratitude for those whose lives we share.

The Knobbly Tree

The Knobbly Tree started out with one or two bumps, but before long the bumps appeared to have run amok. There were bumps up the front, and bumps down the back, and bumps on the sides, and in every way he was undeniably, knobbly, and quite different from the other trees in the Northwest Woods.

This difference was not lost on the surrounding trees, some of whom took to what we can only describe as a mean-spirited approach to the encroaching knobblies. They were heard to make any number of disparaging remarks to the Knobbly Tree, and certain other of the more Sensitive Souls began to worry about the effect on him.

Worried unnecessarily, as it turns out. Knobbly Tree never, ever took offense, but seemed, merely, curious. Oh, you don’t like my knobblies, do you? he would ask in surprise. It seems to upset you an awful lot if something is in the least bit different, he concluded, sympathetically. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? he would solicitously inquire. No matter what the others said, Knobbly Tree never responded in kind, and never seemed to feel in the least bit diminished by the teasing.

The teasing, of course, eventually stopped, because no one had a reasonable answer for Knobbly Tree’s gentle inquiries, and Knobbly Tree grew and flourished in the Northwest Woods.

The Cross Your Fingers Tree

When one of us was a young girl (and, now that we think about it, only one of us could have been, issues of species and gender being what they are) declarations of truthfulness could be vouchsafed by swearing, “Cross my heart and hope the devil plucks my eye out.”

This seems to us now in its consequence to be a trifle Draconian (which phrase, now that we think about it, is a bit of an oxymoron). It isn’t having one’s eye plucked out that is so disorienting (although we can't imagine we would enjoy it), but claiming to hope it occurs that confounds us.

And just what do we mean by Draconian? We are so pleased that you asked. Draconian, as it happens, refers to an ancient Greek lawgiver who advocated the punishment of death for violations of just about any law whatsoever. Since his name means "dragon" in Greek, we think that adds an interesting twist to the contemporary association between lawyers and sharks. We are guessing the only worse thing than being compared to a shark is to be compared to a dragon, and for the former association we now have considerable appreciation. Injury is always relative.

Draco is also a reference to a lovely constellation, as shown below.



But where were we? Ah, yes: promising to tell the truth or risk a Cyclopean outcome.

Very well, then. I will explain. Cyclops was a Greek monster with one (very large) eye in the middle of his forehead (a singularly disagreeable feature, if you ask us, and we will spare you any visual representations since we have yet to find one we could view without requiring the presence of Karma the Beloved Dog beside us).

Oops. We stand corrected. We are gratified to note that it is possible to order kits that permit one to knit both a Medusa and a Cyclops, as shown below.



It is our opinion that there is nothing like knitting away one's monsters (drawing, painting, and sculpting are equally reassuring), and if we were in possession of a single useful domestic skill, we might well have attempted to knit one of the above, but our knitting needles have been put to better use as hair pins.

We do think it is particularly interesting that, while we feel considerable repugnance for a single eye, the notion of a third eye is much-esteemed.

You might be gratified to learn that you and everyone else you know has access to the third, or inner eye, which is that aspect of ourselves that allows us to see and hear in the deepest sort of way. This capacity, we believe, greatly facilitates any communication with presences that are otherwise disinclined (or anatomically unable) to communicate in the usual fashions.

We think the third eye is pictured very sweetly in the illustration below.



We are further gratified to note that those with sun-sensitive eyes need not risk damage to their third eyes, thanks to the (fairly improbable, but true) offer of the sunglasses below.



Finally, although for most of us access to our third eye is best achieved as a mental and spiritual exercise, for those of a more literal bent the following might be of interest.



While it is true that, as a necklace, it is not precisely situated where the third eye is usefully believed to be, it nevertheless serves the purpose of reminding one of its use.

Well, we are quite certain we were making a point, and the knitting needles, while clearly pointed, seem not to have helped at all. Ah, yes: we were discussing the strategies of truth-telling by avowing the very puzzling offer of having our eyes plucked out, on our way to the Cross Your Fingers Tree.

It is a common notion, derived, we have learned, from sixteenth-century England, that a wish is facilitated by crossing one's fingers. Paradoxically enough (to our great delight), crossing one's fingers is also a way to, um, dissimulate, if one were so inclined (we do prefer that term so much more than lie, which sounds, actually, like the very transgression it is). So if, for instance, one merely wanted to appear to be telling the truth, while not entirely doing so, all one needed to do was cross one's fingers (preferably behind one's back, where they couldn't be seen).

In our day this lent for some fairly demanding cross-examinations in certain circumstances when trust was at issue, and many an argument ensued once it was determined there was a slip ‘twixt the hand and the lip, necessitating either a full circuit of the pledging person or a deft transfer of the betraying hand. Those with more prehensile toes and a looser shoe could sometimes be found to have crossed toes, but as a general rule that was a defense less to be suspected for your average adversary.

By the way, we rather think these shoes might have done quite well with the above objective in mind and a couple of toes of the prehensile variety.



In any event, you can then perhaps thus imagine our constellation (we may mean consternation) when we came across the Cross Your Fingers Tree. Is it offering the promise of a wish come true, or pretending to promise and boldly declaring its deception?

We do believe as a general rule it is wise to be suspect of any promise, per se (unless, of course, you yourself are in a position to effect that outcome).

We have learned, however, that there is one wish the Cross Your Fingers Tree can happily agree to. If you stand before it and ask, "May I accept what is," you will most certainly discover it has been granted, by the very effort of your appeal.

The Two-Dimensional Tree

Most trees are round, as you know, and thus in possession of a full three dimensions, although sometimes when trees are very old they might appear more stodgy and oblong and sometimes even square (a fate befalling most of us over thirty). But in the main, your average tree is round, or at least round-ish, and most of us do come ‘round when discussing the all-around virtues of being… well, you know, well-rounded. (We don’t know about you, but we are getting dizzy, what with all this roundabouting.)

In the Northwest Woods, however, there is a Two-Dimensional Tree. It is utterly flat, quite like your basic 2x4 board with a couple of short, scrappy branches perched on the top. We haven’t a clue what happened to the third dimension. It simply isn’t there, and we have instead only a board standing upright with a couple of branches on top, as you can see from the above photograph.

These branches have a few spotty, rusted, and (to be painfully frank) bedraggled leaves. Admittedly this kind of leaf appears to be the fate of many a Madrone tree in the Northwest Woods, and perhaps all Madrones everywhere (not having been there we’re not entirely certain). Unlike other Madrones, however, the Two-Dimensional Tree never grows any new branches, or appears to add any leaves. By early springtime it looks so impossibly moribund that each year we are certain it is "curtains" for the Two-Dimensional Tree, which seems rather inevitable for a tree so sorely lacking in the usual dimensions.



We think the Two-Dimensional Tree is very much like certain shallow people we know who think rather highly of themselves and rather less of us. These are the sorts we regard as deeply superficial, and it is wise to know when one has found oneself in the inadvertent company of such a sort.

In other more enlightened moments, however, we think the Two-Dimensional Tree is a lesson in Narrow-Mindedness. When we find ourselves thinking in a Too This-or-That, Black-or-White, Either-Or Way we remind ourselves how little complexity is therein allowed.

And now that we think about it, quite like those deeply superficial sorts (see above) we too have our moments of a Patronizing Air, or Untoward Judgment, or a Not-Well-Considered Response, and we stand in fond hope that these occasional lapses will be duly noted, and thoroughly overlooked (which latter, truly, should easily be the case in particular with shortcomings).

This is perhaps why we seem to take such delight in early summer when, against all odds, the Two-Dimensional Tree begins to shed its wretched, brittle, spotty, rusty, mordant leaves and replace them with fresh, shiny, new, green ones. It’s back again this year, we say happily. It’s still around!

That latter, of course, is not entirely accurate, what with its Dimensional Challenge, but here it might be finally advised to Bite One's Tongue, in the interests of not being the very sort we earlier disclaimed.

Addendum. As it happens, were one in need of reminder to do the above, one need look no further than Bags That Bite, handmade bags that "can replace your normal non-biting handbag, or function as a special occasions bag." Although we are having some difficulty imagining just what those occasions might be, we must admit we rather like the handbag below.

The Glum Tree

The Glum tree, as perhaps you can see, does have considerable reason to be glum. First of all, he appears to be only half a tree, and not the more flattering half, we regret to note. (Although how he could have been only the upper half is subject to some debate.)

In any event, being the (admittedly) less-attractive half, he is utterly without branches, or leaves, and is thus quite short, which is often a frustration in itself. You can see from his expression that he is not at all happy with his condition, although there are surely other trees quite like him of a more salutary disposition if he would only just look around.

In an effort to cheer him up, we have regularly placed small branches of huckleberry and spruce and cedar upon his head, hoping thereby to give him a semblance of hearty flourishing, or in the very least, a hint of a full head of leaves, which in some circles is regarded as a desirable thing. However, no matter what we do, his expression never changes. We’ve tried adding berries, and feathers, and moss, as you see below. We have punked him out with zany twigs and fanciful sticks, as you see above. We’ve stood and talked with him for minutes at a time, trying to jolly him out of his funk, but he is impervious to our efforts.



Perhaps it's simply a matter of the Right Hat. Perhaps what the Glum Tree needs is a topper of a more dignified nature, such as Kaiser Wilhelm II's hat below.



As it happens, Kaiser Wilhelm II was such a thoughtless, unkind fellow capable of such brutal sentiments (the details of which we will spare you, since even bad press is more press than he deserves, but which include the deforestation of his entire estate) that we don't entirely regret his evident infelicity. The illustration below offers the most vivid expression of how he was popularly regarded.



Glum sorts of that order simply are not deserving of our ministrations, and should be prepared to be made sport of, but the Glum Tree is of a very different type.

Sometimes all you can do with a tree like that is just wish him well. To be sure, we will keep refreshing his “head,” adding the occasional branch or moss as we pass, but we have at last concluded if he is ever to be happier, he will have to change his expression.

The Insect World, Being Largely Limited to the Tale of an Errant Bumblebee,

(Title above, continued): Prevailed upon for the Occasion of Commemorating and Dramatizing a (Possible) Forebear Found Bouncing on a Blackberry Blossom, But Not Exclusive of Some Serious Considerations Regarding the Fate of Anthills

About the insect world in the Northwest Woods there is very little, ahem, to write, we regret to say, perhaps owing to that very size consideration in all but the most Intimidating of insect species (all of whom, we dare hope, live on Faraway Continents in remote destinations we cannot imagine Karma the Beloved Dog might feel compelled to visit, such as the Parque Chipinque in Monterrey, Mexico, below).



However, that does not explain the fact that one of us once spent her entire lunch break trying to extricate and restore to flying condition an all-but-infinitesimal gnat that had misguidedly landed in her blueberry yoghurt. What the lesson was in that we can only guess. We think it has something to do with not eating blueberry yoghurt outdoors on patios adjacent to one’s workplace, although for obvious reasons we find it difficult to believe there is any universal applicability to that particular insight.

Which may ultimately be true, we hasten to acknowledge, of the following report (although we are nonetheless compelled to tell the story).

It began one day nearly exactly a year ago when, in our passage through the virtual thickets of blackberry bushes (the non-native kind) which grace our Northwest Woods (we may mean infest), our eye was suddenly caught by the unexpected oscillations of a blackberry blossom, which we quickly realized was owing to the presence of a Bumblebee on one of the petals. To the untutored eye it looked quite like the dear bee was using the petal as a bit of a trampoline, which we found both memorable and amusing. As we did not have our camera on hand, we did not photograph the event, but instead commemorated it with the following (sort of) haiku:

Blackberry blossom 

lightly bounces

as Bumblebee alights.

Now (to this more recent occasion nearly exactly a year later) we were particularly conscientious about proceeding on our path at Mallard’s Landing, our reserve largely owing to the ant metropolises that seem to have sprung up determinedly yet again this year. Because of this avid attention to where we placed our feet (although one of us was certainly a tad more oblivious, and we think you know whom we mean) it will come as no surprise that we shortly espied a Bumblebee on the path.

This would ordinarily lead us to proceed with caution, but we quickly concluded that this particular bumblebee was going Nowhere Fast. He appeared to move in the general direction of the right side of the path, and his little wings were flapping wildly, but he could not seem to navigate the twigs or leaves in his path, and he certainly wasn’t producing an airborne effect.

Once the immediate path before him was cleared of twigs and leaves, etc., he simply spun about in largish circles as if he were very much disoriented by the abrupt removal of what apparently were Significant Landmarks. It was at this point we realized we had on our hands (as it were, though not advisable in the literal sense) a Bumblebee in Distress, unable to escort himself off the path, and very likely to be flattened by the next passer-by.

Well, we are nothing if not helpful, and using a tiny stick we edged him onto a leaf, to which he clung gratefully (or so it appeared), and set him down on the side of the path in whose direction he seemed to be heading, where we fondly hoped he would find sustenance and safe haven, if not some first aid assistance. We then continued on our way, aiming to take photographs of the rush of blackberry blossoms as evidence of the Northwest Woods’ (rather slim, we do feel) selection of flora of a flowery sort.



Four photographs later (only one of which we have included above, since they all look exactly the same despite the different angles from which we took them) we recalled the moment in the year previous of the bumblebee bouncing on the blackberry blossom, and we wished (again) we had had our camera at that time, although we remembered (again) how unlikely it would have been anyhow to successfully capture the occasion, what with the general disinclination of insects to do what they’re asked, and their evident impulsiveness. It was at that moment that a light bulb went off in one of our heads. Aha! we thought. Why, we could create a repeat performance of that charming moment in a dramatic (though admittedly staged) performance employing the services of the Bumblebee we just met and rescued, who, regrettably (but fortuitously), wasn’t in a position to take flight without notice. Moreover, was probably right where we left it.

If only we could remember where that was.

Well, we retraced our steps, peering closely along the side of the path, and sure enough, there he was, stumbling about the leaves and twigs (still rather aimlessly, we thought) and seeming to be willing enough to play the role we sought. There was a bit of a setback trying to pick him up since we were (wisely, we think) aware that he, though Unable to Fly, might nonetheless still have the Capacity to Sting. As it happens he still evinced a respectable capacity to move with dispatch, which left us uneasy at the prospect of carrying him for any distance on a leaf, the edge of which would necessarily abut our very own tender flesh. However, just in time we had yet another Ingenious Idea, and found a rolled up sort of last year’s leaf, into which we wedged him, and walked to the very nearest satisfactory blackberry blossom, setting him on the petal, as seen in the very first photograph at the top, if you look very, very closely.

You might need to click on the picture to enlarge it. Or a magnifying glass. Or simply a leap of faith.

In truth the photograph does not quite capture the magic of the previous occasion, the gentle bouncing of the blackberry blossom not being a capacity of still photography to display, and our role-playing Bumblebee not sitting quite where we recall the other one to have done, but both we and the bee were, we believe, gratified. He, for his part, certainly made haste to avail himself of the blossom’s nectar, nigh unto burying himself in the blossom’s tiny bush of little pistils and stamens and antlers and potholes, and we, of course, had a photograph to accompany the (sort of) haiku.

We were hoping this performance would so restore him he would then be capable of flight (we preferred it be a direction other than our own) but he still did not appear to have the necessary wherewithal to take off. We pondered a bit about the pointlessness of wishing there were such a thing as a bee veterinarian (a beeterinarian?), and watched him tumble gently from blossom to blossom, righting himself each time with a little shake of his furry abdomen, but clearly it would take more than a little nectar and a Starring Role to restore him to his former mobility.

Then, Karma the Beloved Dog, nipped our heel in some frustration, so we thanked the Bumblebee for his stage services (we were remiss in checking whether he was a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild), and wished him well.

Be well, dear Bee.

A Tale of Two Kings

In our walks in the Northwest Woods we have encountered quite a number of delightful personages (although we hesitate to anthropomorphize any more than we have already done, and prefer the term, arborescences) but none took us by quite so much surprise as King Edward VII, as pictured above.

Very well, to be precise, the above illustration is not of the King himself, but the flowering shrub named in his honor, Ribes sanguineum, or King Edward VII Flowering Currant, pink variety.

It was a fortuitous encounter since, until that moment, we had believed that the only King of the Forest was the hapless fellow pictured below.



Here is his story.

The King of the Forest had stood at the highest point of the Northwest Woods, tall upon the particular slope of woods of which he was King. He was vastly proud, and partly for good reason. He was the tallest of the many trees in the Northwest Woods, and he was quite old and wide of trunk, though not The Oldest, nor Largest, nor Wisest (this was Ancestor Tree’s distinction). Still, for a while, the King ruled, and took great pleasure in his superiority.

His tree subjects down below him grew and sometimes even flourished in his company. Many of his subjects believed that his tall, strong trunk provided protection against the powerful storms that now and then struck the Northwest Woods, and even though there were trees who grumbled that he took up a disproportionate share of the sun and water and nutrients in their forest, mostly his subjects just hoped to make do themselves and grow to their fullest.

The King, actually, paid very little attention to what his subjects thought, mostly because he didn’t have to. Kings of that sort (and others less blue-blooded) tend to live in their own little worlds, and it usually doesn’t much matter to them what others think.

Time, however, has a mind of its own, and one day, assailed by a Storm unlike any other that had descended upon the Northwest Woods, the King was utterly uprooted and blown over.

As he fell, he crashed upon his tree subjects below, which in turn caused them to fall, and they in turn crashed upon others, until the entire kingdom was uprooted and the slope was nothing but broken, battered trunks, piled atop each other.



We cannot help but wonder if perhaps the King had lived among his subjects, rather than above and apart from them, he would not have destroyed them all when he fell, but that is for those wiser than we to say. Certainly he could have benefited from the example of King Edward VII, after whom the Edwardian period is named and who is pictured most charmingly below as a young boy.



It turns out this Edward VII was quite the dashing figure, having romanced many of the most prominent lovelies of the time, and more importantly, having been (haplessly, as it turns out) so committed to preventing World War I that he was called the "Peacemaker," thereby proving that "Make love, not war" has been espoused much longer than we assumed.

Incidentally, for all of you whose appendix (the non-literary sort) has been removed, it turns out you have none other than Edward VII to thank. The good King was stricken with appendicitis two days before his marriage to the lovely (but evidently insufficient) Princess Alexandra of Denmark (see picture below).


and was among the first beneficiaries of surgery for the condition (the medical one, not the marital). At that time appendicitis was not treated surgically and was frequently fatal, but his surgeon, Sir. Frederick Treves, made a small incision and successfully drained Edward's appendix, forging the way for future treatment.

Now that we think about it, for that bit of trivia we probably have more reason to thank his surgeon than Edward himself (thereby making it a bit of Treve-ia, we wonder?).

As a final tribute to a figure we have otherwise lived a lifetime ignorant of, but whom we now admire considerably, those of us who are musicians of a Marxist bent will appreciate that he was a founder of the Royal College of Music, affirming, "Class can no longer stand apart from class ... I claim for music that it produces that union of feeling which I much desire to promote."

We think our heretofore King of the Forest might have learned wisely from this sentiment, were he so disposed.

Trillium, and an Urgent Caution

Although it appears we previously declared that the foxglove was the only flora of a flowery sort we could identify, as it turns out there may be one or two others (if we include the lovely trillium, above). Math has never been our strong suit (although we had thought single digit calculations were within our grasp, which appears not to be the case).

If, however, you are seeking said suit, we believe the one below will do nicely.



Conversely, perhaps our "floral" problem (and what a felicitous problem to have, indeed) is moreso a case of Poor Organization, since we previously seemed to have identified another bit of flora, King Edward VII Flowering Currant, pink variety, or Rubes sanguineum, as you may no doubt recall. (We are, in fact, quite proud of ourselves whenever we can correctly cite botanical names. It seems to suggest a certain level of expertise which we are otherwise Notably Lacking in.)

But back to the trillium. One would think if ever there was a flower whose name one could easily recall it would be this, in that its very appellation describes its features, which is to say that tri (connoting, as you surely know, three) describes its number of petals, leaves, and, some sources say, its number of, ahem, stigmas (about which we will say no more since we are having great difficulty grasping their botanical role).



This appellative congruence on the part of trillium is very much in contrast to, say, the hyacinth (see above) which cannot be found growing wild in the Northwest Woods and which does not look in any way at all like what it is. In fact, in mythology Hyacinth (from which the name of the flower is derived) is actually a Divine Hero (to be distinguished from a deity) who, as it happens, was struck and killed by a discus thrown by Apollo (as shown in the painting below by Giovanni Tiepolo).

We have heard of getting "disced," but it seldom results in such mortal consequences. Then again, only the gods are immortal.



While not wanting to make light of such an unfortunate event, we cannot help but be a bit curious about the presence of the armless (and surprisingly rotund) Satyr who appears to be looking down with some amusement at Hyacinth's demise and Apollo's, um, disc-omfiture. There also appears to be what looks like a badminton racket and some idle balls lying about, which further confuses us since we thought there was a discus involved.

As it happens, when he was eleven years old Mozart composed a three-act comedic opera (of sorts) called Apollo et Hyacinthus, K.38. If he had occasion to have seen the Tiepolo painting we can imagine why he might have found such humor in the event.

But, we dally (daily, we do, as a matter of fact, and gaily as well). We don't tally very well, however, as you have learned.



Now that we have your attention, it is essential that you make note of the following: DO NOT PICK THE TRILLIUM'S FLOWERS.

Nor, for that matter, its leaves (although that is a rarer impulse).

As it happens, to do so is to inhibit the trillium from blooming again for seven years, which is a terribly long time to wait to be at one's best. We are heartbroken that there aren't greater efforts to communicate that fact in the Northwest Woods, and may well take it upon ourselves to post small signs near the trillium to that effect.

Still, the threat of seven years of bad pluck is not enough to deter Certain Sorts. Perhaps we will have to resort to discing them.

Does Skunk Cabbage Count?

While we are declaiming the flowers who either 1) cannot be found in the Northwest Woods, 2) whose names we do not know, or 3) whose names we do know but our organizational skills are such that we have lost specific count, we must surely include the Western Skunk Cabbage, Lysichiton americanus.

But is it a flower? How can something that smells so foul it virtually melts the snow around it and, further, is used as a laxative by bears (we are reporting Scientific Facts) truly be regarded as a... flower? And if so, do we not have to revise every single bias we might have had heretofore about the delicacy of flowers?

Earth laughs in flowers, Emerson said, but if we must include Skunk Cabbage as an example, it surely must sound quite like that of a six-year-old cracking up at bathroom humor.

Which, now that we think about it, would be a fine guffaw.

Speaking of Love, and We Certainly Were Offended

Speaking of love (which technically we weren't, but in another sense that is really all we have been speaking of), it was soon evidently the case that, our having been so overjoyed at the Heartbeam Spot and the Heart-Shaped Stump, the Northwest Woods independently determined to virtually deluge us with hearts.

At first we were quite charmed. We began finding heart-shaped rocks on every trail.











And then before we knew it we were finding heart-shaped leaves,





and heart-shaped holes in trees,





and heart-shaped places where branches were cut,



and heart-shaped pieces of bark.





We even found twigs that had dropped in (improbably) heart-shaped relation,



and alder catkins that dropped (most improbably) into a heart-shape in the mud!



After awhile it seemed we couldn't step outdoors without finding something heart-shaped. We collected so many heart-shaped rocks we began to make hearts of them,



and to line them up in order of size.



It was quite an embarrassment of riches.

But then, when we began to find heart-shaped pieces of foil in the parking lot,



and heart-shaped scraps of paper from someone's water bottle,



and even heart-shaped puddles of water from someone's water bottle,



well, we began to be a bit... suspicious.

We began, in fact, to suspect that the Northwest Woods were having a bit of fun at Our Expense.

Being assaulted with heart-shaped figures in the woods was one thing, but when we were (evidently) followed home and met with a heart-shaped petal when we washed out the flower vase, we decided we had had altogether Too Much.



This was clearly a mockery, and we were offended.

It is one thing to be of a Cheerful and Largely Salubrious Disposition. It is quite another Not to be Appreciated for It, or, worse, to be publicly (insofar as that could be construed in the middle of the forest or the bowels of one's home) mocked for it. Admittedly we may have waxed a trifle too gushingly over our heart-shaped discoveries, and clearly we dance treacherously on the Edge of Treacly at times, but to be mocked, to be disdained... well!

(Here, by the way, speaking of waxing, is a Waxing Monkey Tree Frog from Brazil that quite captures our mood of the moment.)



We were, to put it baldly, in a Major Snit, and seriously considering ordering that Medusa wig.

Finally, it was Karma the Beloved Dog who at last suggested that perhaps we were merely Being Teased, in a loving sort of way.

Well, it does seem that we each have a tendency to see what we are looking for, which, like choice of love objects, urges considerable caution in one's expectations. And gradually we began to be persuaded we had Taken Offense where None Was Intended. We hope you will learn from our experience.

Ghost Flowers, and Other Fungis and Fungals

For several days we were utterly captivated by these two Ghost Flowers (not, we hasten to assure, in a ball and chains sort of way). We had never set eyes on such improbable plants before, and felt quite like we had stumbled upon Another World. Although they appeared to be flowers, however, our Rational Minds told us they were surely some sort of Fungi (or Fungal), and we made haste to arrange to attend the very next meeting of the Northwest Mycological Association in eager hope of having the particular species identified.

By that time we had a very nice selection of photographs of various other mushroom types (more to follow), and we had even found a very helpful field guide for identification. It could not, however, give a clue as to the true identity of our Ghost Flowers, and we began to despair that we had made them up since by that time they had gone by, as our friend's former boyfriend used to so pleasantly put it.

You can imagine our surprise at the aforementioned upcoming meeting, then, when we were informed our Ghost Flowers were not in the mushroom family at all, and were instead a type of flower called... Ghost Flower! They are also known as Indian Pipe, Corpse Plant (we'll spare you the specifics on the reasons for that particular designation), and Dutchman's Pipe, or, botanically, Monotropa uniflora.

Adding to our general sense of elation was the subsequent discovery that our two flowers had left a lovely legacy behind them, a multitude of offspring. As a general rule we don't recommend being outnumbered by one's offspring (we have always heard one is not enough and two is too many), but here, as in other cases, we are pleased to witness the exceptions.



By the way, the fact of our having made up a name that in fact turned out to be an actual name for the plant we discovered has lent for some Significant Hubris Enlargement on the part of one of us (contact us if you would like further information emailed to you), and we do believe it thus gives credibility to absolutely Every Other Statement we have made heretofore.

We hope you believe the same.

Some Other Fungis and Fungals, as Previously Mentioned

You would be forgiven for thinking that surely the above mushrooms are themselves flowers as well.

And, we smugly report, you would be wrong.

Although they look quite like a first grade construction paper project (we mean that in the nicest way), they are, in fact, Certifiable Fungi, Earthstar Mushrooms, to be exact. We particularly like that they feature prominently in a popular book from the sixties, pictured below, in which their capacities to transport are highly touted.



We cannot help but wonder if there was a subtext in this junior fiction that encouraged the need for "Just Say No" in future generations, but then, we have also heard (from Peter Yarrow himself) that Puff the Magic Dragon truly was about its eponymous character. Well, sometimes, to paraphrase Freud, a dragon is just a dragon.

As it happens, by the way, Ghost Flowers also take on a starring role in the book below.



While we cannot altogether explain it, we clearly have developed a great attachment to members of the mushroom family. In a metaphorical sort of way we especially like the notion of something so vulnerable and delicate pushing its way through the tough soil of the forest floor, and we feel a particular tenderness for figures such as the one below, Short-Stemmed Russula, what with its broad cup dusted with the very soil it has so effortfully pushed through, and not even having the advantage of a pointy dome to assist its emergence. How does it do it, we wonder?



When we are in a particularly Troubling Fix, and Not at All Certain we have the Necessary Wherewithal to cope, we are fond of reminding ourselves of (what we think is) Short-Stemmed Russula's ability to persist without any of the usual advantages of physics in terms of form or content, and we remind ourselves if it can do it, so can we.

The fact that we cannot be entirely certain what the above mushroom actually is, however profound its metaphorical instructiveness, leads us to one of the Great Difficulties in making any culinary recommendations. Although we are in possession of a very fine resource which represents itself as a guide to the "Savory" Wild Mushroom, statements such as "Edible, but should be tried cautiously, as some persons are made very ill by it," or "Never eat large quantities; do not eat several days in succession," do not inspire the necessary confidence, and we hope you will likewise use caution.

On a more frivolous note, we have the mushroom below.



This, as we're sure you know, is your Classic Toadstool, and in mopey moments we take great comfort in imagining seeking its shelter. A red polka-dotted retreat could only cheer a person up. We are very gratified, by the way, to discover that our picture could be taken by a studio in England that permits the conceit we so seek, as shown most delightfully below.



Let us make haste to note the above photo is of neither of us, but we like that, if we so desired, it could be. Karma the Beloved Dog in particular fancies the opportunity to wear a pink tutu, which it is our deep conviction is a laudable goal for any individuals of the male gender, and we particularly see the possibilities of world peace being furthered if all world leaders would only be willing to arrive at crucial summits in ballerina drag.

As a final note, we have discovered yet another apparent flower, this one of a lovely blue tulle sort such as a ballerina might wear, so once again we are on a quest. Is it a flower? Is it a mushroom? We are of the fond hope that one of our readers will let us know, although, to tell the truth, it seems to be the Quest itself which brings such pleasure.