Acorn Follies

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 25

 

Acorn season has begun here in the Bluegrass. Soon enough, the nuts will have fallen in such abundance to the streets and sidewalks that crushing them will be unavoidable.* Pavement will turn school-bus yellow from their innards.

Park anywhere near an oak tree and you risk damaging your vehicle. Acorns fall so frequently at such a speed that you’d swear someone is high in the oaks taking aim. Take a walk at night in my neighborhood and you risk breaking an ankle on the little buggers.

Just last week on a bicycle ride to the library—as I was gliding downhill and coming around to thinking that the long, hot trek wasn’t so bad—THWACK! Something hit the front of my prescription sunglasses, violently, and bounced away. Worried, I stopped to check the damage. I imagined having to return to Chicago for repairs or replacements, but I got off lucky. No cracks, yet the single acorn had scratched my lenses.

A serious aversion to acorns started to germinate in me at that moment. Thugs! That’s how I was beginning to see the little devils.

After taking a deep breath, though, I countered this irritation by considering the natural beauty of acorns (their color variations, their contrast in texture) and their inspiration for artists. I thought about the potential of acorns to grow into majestic oaks and how squirrels, birds, and some human populations rely on them as a food source. The little devils weren’t so bad after all. With so much to offer, how can I not appreciate and embrace such a gift from Nature?

* Assuming this year’s crop will replicate last year’s, though with the extreme weather conditions of 2012, this may not be the case.
 
[Squirrel photo by Marko Kivelä; felted acorns from lil fish studios. Check out acorn recipes on hunter angler gardener cook.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Paying the Squirrel Tax—Again

Back in the Windy City, where we took recreational gardening quite seriously, we learned (too slowly) that our original calculations used to determine the number of bulbs and seeds and plants to purchase each season were wrong. Fell short. FAR short. We had failed to figure in the number of bulbs and seeds and plants that our neighborhood squirrels would exact as their own.

We tried to keep the squirrels out of the garden with various home remedies. None worked.

We encouraged the pooch to shoo them away. To her credit, over several years’ time, our beloved canine graduated from simply giving squirrels “the eye”—about which I’m pretty sure some squirrel said, “What’s wrong with that dog? Is she stuck?”—to trotting a few steps toward them, neck out, back down, crazy eye full-bore. It worked at first. But word got around fast and the squirrels soon shrugged off the pooch’s advances.

Finally, we surrendered to the extortion and paid the squirrels’ tax: For every two or three bulbs/seeds/plants we intended to thrive, we needed to plant one or two for the squirrels.

Here in the Bluegrass, where we’ve switched from gardening to feeding birds, squirrels still rule. Last week, one was trying to pull his fair share of seeds from our ceramic feeder. It was a daring feat and we worried that his weight would cause damage; we also grew irritated that the squirrel’s mere presence warded away the birds. So my husband threw a handful of peanuts (in shells) onto the window ledge to entice the squirrel away from the feeder.

It worked, but not quite as my husband had envisioned. He assumed the squirrel would grab a peanut and take off. Instead, as you can see in the photo, the squirrel made himself comfortable on the ledge and gorged himself. What he didn’t eat, he guardedly transported—one by one—to some secret storehouse. Yes, the squirrel stayed off the feeder, but he came back for more once he’d successfully carried off the first handful. Now he seemed to feel entitled to handfuls of peanuts on the window’s ledge.

Trained as we were by the Windy City’s bushy-tailed, we dutifully obliged the demands of their Bluegrass counterparts. My husband once again filled the ledge with peanuts. And one by one they disappeared.

I worried: Were we going to have to continue this? Would the squirrel try to come into the apartment if he found an empty ledge? Would he tell his friends about the bounty? Would I have to start ordering peanuts in bulk?

Nope. So far, our two-installment payment has satisfied the little critter. I just hope he’s lean on memory and doesn’t return when his storehouse needs replenishing.

In Case the Groundhog Is Right…

I’ve been under the spell of Springlike temperatures and bursts of color here in the Bluegrass.

Crocuses have popped up everywhere and honeysuckle bushes have bloomed. Taller bulb flowers—jonquils, daffodils, tulips—have been ever-so-slowly pushing their way toward the sun since December. The bees seem as thrilled as I am about the early blooms.

I realize none of this guarantees Old Man Winter’s departure, so I’ve been making the most of the interim. Yesterday, my husband and I ate an early picnic dinner in a nearby park filled with towering old trees and alive with tennis players, skateboarders, dog walkers, and toddlers on swings. And squirrels, one who discovered a special fondness for our malt vinegar chips.

The whole scene was scrumptious.

Soothing Savage Beasts, or Why I Was Late to Class

You don’t always get to choose the theme of your life. Sometimes it chooses you. So it has seemed for me this past year, which I have dubbed The Year of the Squirrel.

Upon reflection, I have a surprising number of memories over my lifetime involving squirrels—the black ones, the white ones, the red ones. Now it seems they’re all grey, like Stubby.

When I was a kid, my grandfather “talked” to squirrels, who would trot right up to him to be handfed a tasty snack. My grandfather seemed part Dr. Dolittle to me, and I dreamed I’d be just like him one day. Of course, the Universe had other plans.

Years on, when I lived in the Windy City, I was racing against the clock one day to get to a class. The college was downtown and after parking my car, I knew I could make it if I took the shortcut bridge that arced over the expansive park standing between me and music theory. I was on edge about this plan, though, because the park was full of panhandlers and ne’er-do-wells, either of which could easily waylay me. (I’m a sucker for sob stories and when in danger, my fight-or-flight response goes dormant—I freeze.)

I started across the bridge at a brisk pace, my eyes scanning the horizon for potential trouble ahead. As I reached the top of the arc—halfway across, another half to go—I started to relax a bit. It looked like my plan was going to work.

Then I saw them. I thought trouble would come at about my height; I’d failed to consider ankle-high trouble.

There were five of them, maybe more, and they stood in a semicircle in front of me, blocking my route across the bridge. True to their Windy City roots (Al Capone territory, you know) they were the definitive gang—a gang of bushy-tailed squirrels.

Now you may have read, as I have, that squirrels are solitary creatures—they don’t colonize or have a social structure. But I know what I saw and I saw a GANG.

“Hello, everyone,” I squeaked out. “I’m afraid I haven’t time to chat with you today. I have to hurry to class.”

They didn’t budge. The gang wanted something and I knew that if I didn’t come through fast enough, they’d think nothing of leaping onto my shoulders or head to “encourage” my compliance.

I opened my purse, hoping to see a granola bar or maybe a package of crackers from a restaurant. Nothing. I had nothing for them.

“Shoo, please,” I ordered, unconvincingly even to me.

They shuffled a bit, closing in on me. I dug deeper into my purse. Desperate, I brought out the only edible thing in my possession: a mentholyptus cough drop.

“I’m sorry, but this is all I have.” I unwrapped it and set it on the ground.

A scramble for the treasure ensued. A couple of the squirrels gave up quickly, probably because after one sniff, they didn’t want to waste their time.

It came down to one squirrel, with two of his buddies intently watching. He (she?) took one lick and vigorously shook his head. He tried it again and then set it down, bewildered, it seemed, about how best to eat the thing. He circled it, picked it up and, finally, popped it into his mouth.

His friends craned their necks in anticipation of what would happen next. The squirrel drew the cough drop from his mouth and shook all over.

At this point, of course, I was not only late to class, but also worried that I’d caused the squirrel to have seizures and I didn’t know the first thing about squirrel first aid. The squirrel’s buddies, on the other hand, weren’t so concerned. They scampered off to catch up with the other gang members.

But the lone squirrel persisted. Once he got past the unusual nature of the cough drop, he began licking it in earnest. It made him giddy, maybe even a bit high. He seemed to enjoy it.

I stayed with him until I was convinced he would survive the ordeal. I may not have been Dr. Dolittle, but I wasn’t heartless.

When I at last reached my class, I didn’t reveal why I was late. The experience still felt mystical to me—something to be protected. And I was pretty sure no one would buy the gang-of-squirrels story.

[Photo of Red Squirrel adopting a baby by Ryan W. Taylor from The Nature Files. Black Squirrel photo by James Marvin Phelps. I’ve not been able to identify the photographer of the other photos.]

Tired of the usual Christmas film fare?

Most of us have a favorite Christmas film classic we have to watch each year—Holiday, Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Carol (my husband is partial to the 1951 version with Alastair Sim), It’s A Wonderful Life.

My list is influenced by the fact that A) I’ve never had cable or satellite service, B) Every place I’ve lived has had poor television reception, and C) I’ve not seen many other Christmas movies. Until this week.



Double-click on the video for full view.

Our public station here broadcast an old black-and-white film I’d never heard of: The Great Rupert. It features Jimmy Durante and a philanthropic vaudevillian dancing squirrel. The film (now in the public domain) captures an era not unlike the one we’re currently in—people losing their life savings, old industries giving way to new ones, families struggling to make ends meet. The difference is Rupert, the squirrel.

I’m not sure The Great Rupert will make it onto my perennial must-see list, but it held my interest from an historical perspective. It’s worth watching just to see the filmmaking (i.e., the squirrel-making) of 1950. Plus it’s sweet and nonviolent and stars an animal. All good.

“Squirrelly Saturday”: Need a 2012 Calendar?

While shopping for birdseed yesterday, I noticed a calendar that made me do a doubletake.

It was the 2012 Squirrel Stuff Calendar: The Official Field Guide to Undiscovered Squirrels published by Arundale Products. You can purchase the calendar, read the history of these unique squirrels (i.e., how the artist created them), or report your own sighting of an undiscovered squirrel (i.e., give the artist a new idea for the 2013 calendar) by clicking through the links.

These rare critters are almost as cute as my Stubby!

I’m No Jane Goodall

I just broke up a squirrel fight.

I’ve seen squirrels fuss at each other before and give serious chase to an offender. But this was the first time I’ve witnessed two squirrels standing on their hind legs, face-to-face, while punching, clawing and biting each other. I yelled at them. Rather, I yelled at one to “Leave Stubby alone!”

Stubby, or The Stubster, is the gray squirrel I’ve been watching since Spring, so named because of his unusually short tail. He lives on the street’s edge in the canopy of an old oak tree next door to us. I’ve seen him IN the street once, but I don’t think he ever crosses it.

He started coming to our yard when we installed the bird feeders. Stubby’s never attempted to take seed from the feeders, a typical squirrel behavior that infuriates birders. He’s content to eat what the birds toss to the ground. Two or three Mourning Doves often join him for his repast.

I enjoy watching stubby “run” across the yard. He doesn’t move the way normal squirrels do. He’s more bunnyish—his stride is a little hoppy, his walk a little wobbly. He traverses almost as much vertical space as he does horizontal. The overall effect is Adorable x 10.

Except things have changed with the onset of Autumn. The neighborhood is FILLED with squirrels. Granted, the neighborhood is also filled with oak trees, but we seem to have a critical population explosion of the bushy-tailed. And a number of them have taken up residence in The Stubster’s tree.

I may not see him for days at a time now.

Last week a squirrel was hit by a car not far from Stubby’s home base. I panicked when I first noticed the body on the pavement. I moved closer for a better look: The tail attached to the unfortunate creature was long and full and not Stubby’s unique diminutive tail. Relief! (Then guilt for feeling relief.)

I’ve seen The Stubster behind our building twice now—well beyond his usual territory. What’s more, I spotted him on a telephone wire the other day. Typical for squirrels, right? But not for The Stubster. He had a terrible time keeping his balance up there. With each move forward, his rump would sway left or right and off the cable. I could hardly watch.

I know nothing about squirrel society, yet I suspect Stubby catches some flak for being different. In turn, he behaves oddly. This afternoon while other squirrels were industriously secreting away one acorn after another, Stubby would start to bury his single acorn, then think better of it. He repeated this digging-abandoning all over the yard, then along the driveway, next under three different bushes, and finally in the backyard where I lost track of him. I presume he was taking extra safety precautions to protect his treasures, but if he gives this treatment to each acorn, Stubby’s going to starve before Winter takes hold.

My concern for Stubby’s woes proves once again to me that I would fail miserably at field research. I have the observation skills, but not the objectivity. I can’t not intervene whenever trouble rises. I will always champion the voiceless and the underdog.

Or, as in the case of The Stubster, the undersquirrel.

[Pics are from Etsy, where you may find a gray squirrel of your own.]

Four Firsts for a Friend

We welcomed a friend here a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately for her, we were still emptying my father’s barn and exhausted from our efforts. We made lousy hosts, hardly up to showing her the highlights of the Horse Capital of the World. But surprisingly, she managed to experience some personal firsts anyway:

1. She ate her first Girl Scout Cookie—the classic Thin Mint.

2. She watched the Oscars on television with us.

3. She visited a humane society. The fact that said friend had a French upbringing doesn’t explain why she’s missed Thin Mints and the Oscars in her lifetime—especially since she’s lived in the States for a number of years now. However, her supersensitive allergic reactions to all things animal do justify her avoidance of animal shelters. She did fine, though. Even toured the dog kennels after we donated some bedding to the place.

4. When she called an acquaintance who currently resides in the Bluegrass, he couldn’t talk at that moment. He was hunting squirrels for dinner. (Do I really need to explain why this would be a first for most of us?)

In spite of her hosts, our houseguest had a memorable weekend here in what H. L. Mencken named the Bible Belt (now also dubbed the Diabetes Belt by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention), proof that adventure awaits us no matter where we are. We only have to recognize it.

[Vintage Girl Scout cookie tin bank courtesy of Girl Scouts Make History; armed squirrel photo from Treehugger.]