Why I Love Middle Tennessee

A few years back, Richard Louv's book Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder explained why I feel better outside, why I feel more whole in natural surroundings. Important points that I took away from that reading included the knowledge that we used a requisites when hunting for a home in Tennessee. We required plenty of green space, preferably rolling or sloped, with trees and large expanses of sky.

Luckily for us, those are features that define much of Middle Tennessee. Yes, we selected a farm site on a hillside overlooking cow pastures backed by a wooded ridge, pleasing views are readily available all around this area. The rolling green expanses that make up Middle Tennessee are of the sort that make my heart ache upon beholding their beauty. Of course, the same twists and turns account for many "snow days" in the winter--when schools are forced to close because of icy road conditions, whether or not snow is actually present or even in the forecast.

The people here are open and friendly, perhaps reflective of the warm climate that encourages porch-sitting and chatting over the fence with neighbors. Even appearing on people's doorsteps as a government representative, when working with the 2010 Census, I found almost everyone very welcoming and eager to cooperate.

The landscape, the temperate climate, and the people all conspire to make me very glad to have moved here from the Northeast. Consider the studies done sometime back that took students out of the classroom and had them lie on their backs on the ground, contemplating the clouds for several minutes before returning to their studies. The kids who had time outdoors, time to drift with the clouds in their imaginations, were better prepared to focus on work after having taken their nature breaks.

Recess. Why did we ever allow it to disappear from the upper grades? Even middle age fuddy-duddies like me benefit from taking little nature breaks. Having this marvelous country all around us makes me fully appreciate living surrounded by the scenic beauty of Middle Tennessee.

Butterfly Clouds & Butterfly Flowers

One of the treats of summertime is butterflies. In Middle Tennessee the powder-winged creatures abound. Of late I have found myself walking through what could only be described as butterfly clouds, areas where butterflies flutter by and over and under and around again. Clouds generally consist of one type (species?) of butterfly, the names of which I know only a few. The other day in Macon county I encountered clouds beside streams and along dirt roads. Generally the butterflies were a smallish orange-and-brown type, although thinner clouds (those with fewer butterflies, but still flying about in a cloud formation) seemed to consist of the larger tiger swallowtails or those black-and-blue ones whose name escapes me now, but which I knew when I saw them. No matter.
 

This morning, again in Macon county, I encountered a new butterfly formation. Driving along a narrow country road I saw an oddly-shaped something in the middle of the road. It might have been the tip of a branch with wilted leaves dangling, or a bit of fallen deadwood. When I came upon it, the formation exploded into perhaps two dozen butterflies of various shapes, sizes, and colors. The car approached and they swarmed up and away. Berating my fading vision (once upon a time I might have distinguished the formation for what it actually was, without having to break it apart to identify it), I drove on. Not three miles later I hit another such formation. This one was smaller, but it exploded in a similar fashion--the butterflies swarming up from a distinct spot on the roadway where they had been huddled head-to-head in a ruffle-winged cluster.

Then I encountered such a formation while I was on foot. Walking up a long country drive, having left my vehicle behind lest any farm animals behind the gate pass through, I saw what could only be described as a butterfly flower. A gorgeous mound of the fragile creatures piled together atop something of great interest to them. As I approached, again the collection disbanded, allowing me to only capture two laggards that stayed until I could reach the pile. Having missed the photo of the butterfly flower itself, I thought I'd like to see what was of such interest to them. The object rose up a bit in the center like an Echinacea or black-eyed Susan flower, but the photograph reveals that the center of this magnificent flower, the item which drew so many butterflies to land and unfurl their long tongues, was but a small, soft dog pile.
 

The lesson here? I am unsure, but it seems to be that if one man's weed is another's flower, and one's trash is another's treasure, then it follows that one's pile of crap provides fine dining for another. Yuck.

Post Script: My 2010 Census Crew Leader (for the NRFU VDC operation) is familiar with the phenomenon of butterfly flowers. A horsewoman, she sees butterflies flocking in droves to fresh piles of horse manure on her farm. She believed the're deriving moisture from a source that is stable, unlike open bodies of water which tend to move. We have not yet experienced the phenomenon on our farm, though, as the chickens are quicker to arrive than the butterflies. And yes, they, too, arrive for the fine dining experience--in this case, a hot meal.

Kimberly Returns

For a couple of weeks now we've been wondering if Kimberly, the pretty Buff Orpington hen--and the lone survivor of the clutch of Buff Orpington chicks we acquired last April--had gotten herself et. (That's not a typo. "Et" is a colloquialism down here for eaten.) She had spent many weeks being an attentive mother hen to her brood, some nine chicks she'd hatched out back when we were hatching clutches in the office incubator. Then I noticed her adolescent brood fending for itself, with her nowhere to be seen. After I had been missing her for several days, I mentioned her absence. When the next evening she appeared as the others went to roost, I was relieved but failed to deliver the news indoors--which seemed to have been a good thing as she vanished again the next day.

 Today the mystery of Kimberly's whereabouts was solved when she appeared again in the home pasture, with a new brood of chicks--some eight or nine, I'm not yet sure--in tow. She's very attentive and works hard showing her chicks how to scratch for food. We're glad to have her back, and very glad that she's a productive and responsible bird, a true working member of the farm community.

Some of her first batch of chicks have taken to roosting atop the alpacas' hay feeder--a practice I would like to discourage because I don't like them pooping on the hay cover, or worse--in the hay.

Oceans of Sky, on and off the farm

One of the things I love about Middle Tennessee is the vast expanse of sky visible from just about anywhere. As I move about the gently-winding roads of this area, practically every turn provides a view worthy of contemplation. Stuck in traffic in town (Note: This is not "stuck" like one gets in the Northeast, rather it means stuck for the duration of a short light cycle until the two or three or four cars ahead of you move along. Here "stuck" refers to moments, not minutes or quarter-hours.) I often turn to the sky for entertainment. Endless variations of cloud formations float by on a continuous stream of air, unless of course the skies are clear, and one can study the variations on the color blue offered on the sky's palette. Driving about Middle Tennessee, I often have the urge to pull over, take up my camera, and capture the land-and-sky scene before me; generally I manage to resist the impulse.

Last December I was stuck in traffic in Brentwood, a city whose rush hour traffic patterns are slowed to a crawl by the congestion of vehicles on the road. Although I was only traveling for a long block, the trip took several minutes--and, whaddaya know, a balloon floated past beneath the scudding cloud cover, entertaining me for the cycles of two different traffic lights.

Although the pictures I compose (mentally, that is, for I see far more "pictures" that I actually record) are generally devoid of power lines and other signs of human-imposed infrastructure,  there are times when such details are unavoidable. That December afternoon was one of the times.

This week I've been touring the byways of Smith, Macon, Trousdale, and Sumner counties for the 2010 Census. The views are more magnificent than I expect my camera can begin to catch, which helps me complete my appointed rounds quickly because I do not pull off to capture and record the magnificent scenery of land and sky. Instead I drive on, my chest filled with the lightening sensations of awe and wonder at all Nature has to offer, and the repeated realization that this gorgeous part of the earth is my home. These views are mine to enjoy on a daily basis, no need to wait for an extended vacation to travel away from home for such scenery.

In those moments when I find myself thinking, "I would like to live here," to enjoy a particular meadow or ridge or hollow, I quickly stop myself. The view from my own front porch, while perhaps less stunning than some, continues to be utterly amazing to me--a gal who spent most of her life in New England, where the beautiful scenery is generally dotted with homes and neighborhoods or found outside of town, and where the sky views are markedly restricted compared to those I enjoy today.

Don't get me wrong. New England is beautiful and I loved the years I spent there. But, Middle Tennessee provides me with breathtaking scenes on a daily basis. We've been here on the farm close to two years now and Nature's scenery never seems to get old, and I do not imagine that it ever will.

For me, Middle Tennessee is the place to be.

So Cool in the Pool

The kiddie pools have proven to be a hit with the alpacas. The gals--Goldie and Van--trot right over to their pool every time they hear the hose start spurting water. So far little Lili has yet to climb into the pool, but she has taken to sidling close, taking a squirt, then lying in the cool mud about her feet.

The boys are less predictable. Perhaps because all five of them share one pool they share less and challenge one another more. It seems that only one will settle into the cool water on these hot days. Although the others may step in to be hosed down, more often than not they will collect about the edge of the pool and jockey for position without going so far as to climb in and luxuriate in the cool water. [In the photo, Spencer has claimed the pool for himself, as three other boys debate each other around the pool's edge.]

Silly boys. They're missing out.

Boys Corralled

When we began to sort this year's bucklings into a corral to keep them from trying to breed the does, they immediately displayed the classic head-butting behavior of goats. If anyone questions the etymology of the phrase "hard headed," one needs to do little more than spend a few minutes around sparring goats. After witnessing the resounding, skull-shaking, head butting behavior there can be little doubt that goats are the original hard headed creatures.

With or without horns the connections can be brutal. The ferocious energy channeled into every head butt is impressive. True, the butting behavior can be merely formal--as when two does cross paths and stop for feint and charge--and backed by little power; however, the behavior is often accompanied by a loud thwonk as heads collide.

Most frequently the heads meet cleanly, forehead-to-forehead and the challenge becomes a test of might as each goat tries to force the other to back down. When the boys began collecting in the raised-bed pen (it has served as a garden plot in past incarnations), the challenges were immediate and unceasing. I hung around to take a few photos, then got bored with the young fellows' antics and continued with my chores.

What I dislike is when the head-butting continues to the point of drawing blood. It is not that horns stab into other goats' skulls, but more that the continued, repeated, sudden pressure of butting over and over again splits the scalp. On horned goats this happens at the base of the horns. On polled goats, I've seen the spots where horns would have been split and bloodied.

This battling to the point of drawing blood is unique to the bucks. While the does and doelings will challenge one another, and crack skulls together with resounding crashes, they do not continue the behavior past a few minutes worth of challenges.

Also, the bloody battles occur among the younger males. Perhaps those are the ones with something to prove. Last year Sting and Brad battled ferociously, sometimes including young Joshua (who is polled) in their skirmishes. This year those three are coexisting quietly and its the 2010 bucklings who are knocking themselves silly.

The photos show Will and Ted, and Gene and Graham. That's Will--a product of the season's first kidding--sporting a bloodied scalp and readying for further battle. The good news is that the behavior falls off after a bloody evening or two. When the challenges are no longer constant, the little heads have a chance to heal.

Denise's Softball

Last year Miss Denise gave us a scare one day when she stayed down in the pen beneath the hay storage trailer and allowed the rest of the herd to leave for the day without her. Our good neighbor Tony spent time with me crouched beneath the trailer trying to see what we could do for the gal. At the time she seemed to be showing signs of bloat with one problem: her distended side was not on the left (where the rumen is located) but on the right. On that day when I spoke with Dr. Kinslow by phone, he made some suggestions including adding whiskey to the baking-soda-and-water drench I was already giving her. When I expressed concern about pouring the mixture down the wrong side of her throat he said something to the effect that I should not be trying to drown her, just to make her comfortable and, heck, she was going to die anyway. On that day the whiskey did seem to help her care less about her situation, and soon she was out and about with her pals again.

When this spring I saw Dr. Kinslow, on an occasion when I'd chauffeured a neighbor goat to his clinic, I mentioned our previous conversation and remarked that he had neglected to predict when Denise would die. (I exercised restraint and left out Phyllis's theory, that Denise liked the whiskey so much that she's just hanging on waiting for another belt.) The goat is still with the herd, and she still has the bulge on her right side that makes her appear as if she'd swallowed a softball.

The good doctor explained that there are only three causes of illness in animals: biological, reproductive, or mechanical. Since Denise's difficulties did not appear to be either biological or reproductive, the problem must then be mechanical. She could have a rupture or a hernia, he explained, that is causing the strange bulge in her side. Perhaps a tear in her musculature has allowed a bit of intestine to pop through the opening and bulge oddly just under her hide.

Armed with that interesting tidbit, I returned to our farm and looked again at the gentle doe. Miss Denise does not appear to be in any distress, although the bulge in her side distresses me when I look at it. We'll keep an eye on the gal. In the meantime, she can go about the business of being a momma to her 2010 kid, Costa.