Choreographing a swallowtail ballet

Inspiration plus perspiration plus going where angels fear to tread into the thistle meadow in search of the dramatic black swallowtail photograph.  The butterfly always one more giant prickly weed beyond the range of the sun-dazed photographer with her tiny camera. Digital click click click zoom point zoom out of focus tangled on thorns wondering about snakes click click swing zoom. Percussion mostly.  Vertical stripes pink black glaring white yellow greens.  A Seventies disco floor flashing backdrop. Exaggerated prickly prancing silhouetted photographer sharp shadow dancing spiky.

Corps de ballet in pink tutus.  Male corp in shades of green-- vertically striped tights. Photographer frames shots larger and smaller circles. Lighting changes from soft to stark contrast.

Floor a glowing pink light projection.  Back a bokeh of greens and bright whites. Dancers in yellow leotards and tights with black markings, orange and blue spots on the floor.  Legs open close angle point pivot from floor. Small shifts to other pink circles of light.

Solo.  Black swallowtail prince.  Slightly battered.  Short movements between vertical green translucent banners.  Sense of confinement.  Needing nourishment.  Corps returns in front with windy shielding and frustrated photographer.

Sphinx moth interlude.  Low to floor. Two moths with three fading thistle flower dancers.  Hovering with strobe.  Rosy hues and browns.

Color invert dance.  Black light effect.  Sharp wire sculpture wings with pearls and jewels.  Neon edges glowing.  Sphinx moths, dragonflies, damselflies, hornworms, wheelbugs, tiger beetles, orb spiders, weevil, caterpillars, praying mantis.  Grand, triumphant, dark. Sousa meets Pink Floyd.

Brown.  Roly-polies.  Millipedes. Snails--how to leave a sparkling silver slime trail??  Worms slightly pink by comparison. Cicadas. Dark background and floor.

Grand finale starring fabulous black swallowtail male in dances with strong, leaping yellow swallowtail female.  Occasional entrances of small groups of female yellow swallowtails. Prolonged threesome frolic with black swallowtail and two yellows.  Exit into dark woods.

Finale--Black swallowtail emerges from shadows and flies weightlessly toward the glittering crystal sunlight on the creek.  Ode to Joy?

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

DIY mystery on the playground

Who is making this fortification out of mud balls?  And why?

Standing around staring at the mudpile at the tunnel opening we were guessing the builder was a misguided crawdad. Instead, it seems to be a cicada nymph emerging. In the second photo the critter is pushing a mud-ball into place at the top of the tunnel.

But why would an emerging cicada bother enlarging its tunnel and making a fort around the entrance?  Is it planning to flip this remodeled home? We watched the critter come to the surface many times and push a slimy mud ball into place.  Then it would disappear back down into the tunnel for a long time.


Nature is just so very weird!





© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Hairy Raindrop

This is the hairy raindrop. The project was simple flower forms for the very youngest students, the threes and fours. We use raindrop shapes often, along with baked potatoes, in our drawings.

I talked about a bud, a flower just starting to open, but the kids only remember the hairy raindrop. Tomorrow I'll have to show them some photos of flower forms. But they will probably just remember the hairy raindrop.

If they remember anything at all. What a long, discouraging school year this has been!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Titanic going down

"To Ms. Nacy [sic] from Sophia"
reads the note on the back of the drawing placed in my teacher mail box. Nothing like a seven year old's drawing of the Titanic listing at a 45 degree angle and sinking fast in red, blue, and black crayon to summarize my week. Going down with the band still playing and the lifeboats overcrowded.

Yes, teaching is so rewarding! Dang, if I don't feel as perky as Debbie Reynolds in "The Unsinkable Molly Brown". Or else not.

This has been a draining school year. My lead teacher and I have had so many major personal, life, automotive, and health stressors it is a wonder we can slap the snooze buttons on our alarm clocks, let alone get up, dressed, and to work each morning.

Four more class days, not that I'm counting.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

There was a WormMama who swallowed a fly

I've been fussing around trying to make a worm blog on WordPress just to learn a little bit about making a website with pages and categories. Silly me, I still haven't figured out the new version of Blogger with its options for multiple pages. For the moment my efforts are WormMama's Travelling Worm Show.  I've got another vermicomposting gig June seventh.

At this late date in the school year some of the five year old students are figuring out rhyming words! Because why? fly? guy? eye? spy?

Because why I am also reading about Buzz and Fly Guy. The kids like the one fly in Lucy Micklethwait's I Spy Two Eyes, but they LOVE Can You Make a Scary Face?, by Jan Thomas.

We don't want our fly on the guy. We want the fly off the guy, and in the air. It's a positive/negative puzzle. Paul Klee does not rhyme with knee or buy, but sounds like clay, and he's our art guy!

So just a sample of our project masterpieces:

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

My three minutes in court

Having done printmaking in art class Wednesday morning I was dreading the swearing in oath part. The palms of my hands were bright magenta and orange. Do you solemnly swear that you can't get your hands any cleaner than that?!?


The reason I was coming before the county probate court judge was to be deemed sane enough to be the independent administrator of Dad's estate. Friends and family had cautioned me against mentioning my side career as a vermicomposting edu-tainer aka Worm Lady.  


The lawyer just told me, "Oh, by the way, you are sworn in now," before we ever went in the courtroom.  No raising colorful hand.  Not one bit like on Perry Mason.


Then we sat at a table with the judge, and I said yes or no (as appropriate) to questions like:  

• Did your dad have or adopt any children after 1996?
• Have you ever been found mentally incapacitated?
• Does your family still have that meth lab down in the holler?
• Will your brother Darryl or your other brother Darryl contest this will?

Raise your right hand and repeat after me ...  No, your other right hand.

I kind of wanted to stay and watch the probate judge's final hearing of the day as it was going to be a doozy. The old lady had already cussed out her court-appointed attorney in the lobby for never having contacted her, for arriving late with no necktie and no yellow legal pad, and for limping with a torn knee ligament.  She was scattershooting her disgust with the over-air conditioned courthouse. Her husband and daughter were with their attorney who had a mouth like Martha Raye trying to get some kind of guardianship over the woman so she wouldn't do something financially wacko.  


Maybe I just haven't watched Judge Judy since Dad died.

No, that is not me. That is Elena Kagan being sworn in. And Midge being sworn in to Barbie's court. And a magenta zebra puppet ready to tell the whole truth.  And some lady who is the new health commissioner of the US Virgin Islands. And an altered photo of Michelle Obama's glove on Inauguration Day.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Grocery Cart Lady

Took this snapshot through my dusty windshield.  I was struck by the sunny halo over Grocery Cart Lady when I was leaving the parking lot.

Grocery Cart Lady weighs about 105 lbs. She is somewhere between thirty and sixty years old, nationality of origin unknown. I don't remember her ever speaking, and I've probably never verbally acknowledged her presence even though I see her at least three times a week. Her eyes are dark, bright crow's eyes. Her face makes me think she was horribly burned at some time.

This grocery store is on a hill. Pushing a long train of carts up from the parking lot to the store must be extremely hard work in all kinds of weather. Sometimes she wears a plastic rain poncho.  She always wears a cloak of invisibility, existing outside the range of awareness of those she serves.

Her presence, her work has scratched my consciousness now. I have taken her picture if not her portrait. I need to be a better human!

What does Grocery Cart Lady do at the end of her shift?  Does she ride a bus to another part-time job, putting on a different shirt with a different logo to scoop ice cream cones or clean offices?  Does she have a home?  A family?  Does she save her earnings and send them to her family?  Can she walk safely down her sidewalk after dark?

What about all the other workers laboring on the hazy fringe of my consciousness?  That's the trouble with with letting that little ray of awareness in!  You get a shot of responsibility with a call to action on the side.

Call for public morality or Christian kindness.  Call suffering inevitable.  Call me with a personal arrogance foul for assuming Grocery Cart Lady is unhappy, overworked, or underpaid. Maybe her life is vastly more authentic and sublime than mine.  My house is built of flimsy cards.

 © 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

School gardens & the future of education

On the plane back from Oregon I still got the middle seat, but my aisle neighbor was a delightful, not-too-talkative young mommy who found her own seat belt and had no service dog. My window neighbor was a large man drinking Heinekens who ate a whole can of Pringles, then snored and drooled. But the delightful mother of five had children attending Stonewall Jackson Elementary in the Dallas school district. We talked about the value of school gardens to inspire kids in studies across many subjects.

Stonewall Jackson's 20,000 square foot garden is one of the most acclaimed school gardens in the country, but in 2008 the Dallas Independent School District eliminated the position of Mark Painter, the gardener/outdoor lab science teacher. School parents and area businesses had to form a 501c nonprofit, Stonewall Gardens, to keep Painter employed and the garden going.  It figures. If something is working in our schools, cut the funding, quick!

Remembering the in-flight conversation I stopped at Wilson Middle School just down the street from home. The school already has a butterfly garden along Custer Road, but I wanted to see the new vegetable garden that's taking shape this year. All these photos are from my walk-through in the early evening last Saturday. Life Skills teacher Sharon Russell was nominated for Plano Teacher of the Year 2012.  She is obviously a woman with a passion for connecting kids with learning through gardening. Do teachers get to have passion and model creativity and problem-solving for kids? Or is it all about measurable performance?


My little Montessori school's garden is about seventy square feet if I can trust my three a.m. calculations. It's basically the same size as the dirt area next to my back patio at the condo.  In this space the kids are growing tomatoes, peppers, radishes, dill, basil, red salvia, daisies, zucchini.What are the preschoolers learning?

Plants need water and sunshine. We can take turns with the watering cans. You have to hold the watering can underwater in the big bucket to fill it. Carry a watering can so your shoes don't get all wet. We don't waste water by sprinkling the sidewalk.

We can see how plants change.  They start little and get bigger. We can draw the sequence. We can make a story about what we see. It's fun to tell our friends when we notice something different in the garden.

It tastes good to eat the fruits of our effort.We can be brave and taste new things. If you pick a green tomato your friends can't ever eat it at snack time. Food isn't always cellophane-wrapped in a styrofoam container. If you pick a green tomato your friends can't ever eat it at snack time.

It feels good to dig and take rocks out of the dirt. Worms and grubs live underground. We wash our hands after we work in the garden.

Bees help plants grow. Bees are not really interested in you. Spiders make pretty webs. Spiders and ants are not that interested or dangerous, either, and it is fun to name them. It is more fun to watch an insect than to step on it.

Caterpillars eat dill. Dill smells good! It is fun to cut dill, basil, and rosemary to feed the class pet rabbit, Norton. It feels good to think of others. We have to remember to carry the bucket of food inside!

Animals visit our garden at night! What animal stole the whole strawberry plant?

Tony Wagner, author of Creating Innovators : The Making of Young People Who Will Change the World writes about developing a culture of innovation based on collaboration, interdisciplinary problem-solving, and intrinsic motivation.  Even at the preschool level that sounds like the job description for a school garden!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

The lime tree that Jack grew

It started with the Teacher Appreciation lunch. We were being appreciated in such a creative way. The parents had brought story books to accompany their food contributions, and excerpts were read to us while we dined on fabulous veggie soup, Indian chicken, artichoke bread, spinach quiche (Green Eggs and Ham, of course), fruit salad (The Very Hungry Caterpillar), and so on through the chocolate parfaits. The centerpiece was sculptures from Play With Your Food.

Then we were each given a lime tree with a reading of a poem by a parent about nurturing children. Wow! My very own thornless key lime pie, no I meant TREE, with matching lime green gardening gloves. So I stopped at Calloways Nursery on the way home to get expert advice, a very large pot, a saucer with wheels, plus a big bag of tree/shrub soil mix. The tree has to grow in full sun outside, but be covered it if gets below forty degrees, and brought inside if it gets below thirty degrees. This is way beyond my normal gardening method of sticking plant in pot and promptly forgetting it.

When I took the trash to the dumpster I met my neighbor's son who was digging out bushes on the side of a condo building. The condo association is gradually moving to heat/drought resistant landscaping, so Knock-out roses will be planted. Plus an older woman who lives in that unit will be safer without overgrown shrubs hiding her entry. I talked to the son about removing my patio bushes. I don't know what the bushes are, except that they are prone to some kind of mite infestation and have an unruly growth pattern. Every few years I take out my frustration and prune them way back. I've only kept them because the anole lizards use them for cover.

One thing led to another and I started sawing the bushes. It was therapeutic. Got four out of five down to the stumps before the rain started. I'll get the son to remove the stumps. I'm hoping to move all my cannas right next to the fence so the lizards will have their shaded hiding places back. Then there will be room to transplant some of my other plants in front of the cannas and reclaim most of the paved patio for humans, chairs, and grill. The hardy mint, mums, and giant sedum might be able to fight back against the aggressive myrtle.

I get volunteer plants sprouting from the vermicompost I add to the pots. Some sort of surprise squash plant was already growing up and over the ugly bushes and blooming.  It might not survive transplanting. And then there's the volunteer tomato that is doing better than the intentional tomatoes of last summer. Add a hummingbird feeder, and let the wild rumpus start!.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Sitting in the Chinese fire drill row

It's so my colors!  Received this Dakine beach/tote bag as a birthday gift from a dear friend to use on my trip to meet Grandbaby O.  I could put everything in it--purse, notebook computer, Kindle, progress reports to be written, snacks, Simon the Genius in My Basement even. When the fellow passenger on the shuttle from Park 'N' Fly going to the terminal realized he'd forgotten his wallet at home, I could give him a sad, commiserating little smile and hug my perfect bag a bit closer.

My wheelie suitcase slid nicely into the overhead bin for row 12, and I settled into the skinny middle E seat.  A pleasant fellow had the aisle seat.  For a long time it seemed the window seat might stay empty.  Ah, wouldn't that be a treat?

The last minute passengers arrived to take the A and B seats across the aisle.  The petite pretty hippie chick sat by that window.  Her boyfriend, a 6'6" blond guy with rasta hair and a black Labrador service dog folded into the B seat.  The dog's head hung over the seat in front, just an inch above the pony-tail of a young Barbie coed. The dreadlocks hung over the seat in back.

Finally boarding is an AARP couple.  The woman wants to wedge a large piece of luggage up into the overhead bin, but is too short to see the bin is already overflowing.  A chorus of frustrated passengers who got up at four a.m. chants, "It won't fit, it won't fit, it won't..."  She squeezes into the middle E seat in the row in front of me after taking her carry-on to the back of the plane. Then she pantomimes instructions for her spouse to sit in the window F seat next to me.  His hearing aid isn't working.  The pleasant man and I exit row 12 so the elderly fellow can enter the row.

Two flight attendants have arrived to arrange a move for the rasta and his dog.  No, he's fine.

"Well, I've never seen the airline seat a service dog in this row."

No, he's fine.

"The service dog cannot sit in the aisle."

No, he's fine.

"The service dog will block the beverage cart."

No, he's fine.  The dog will sit on the rasta master's lap.

"No, I've NEVER seen the airline seat a service dog in this row."

The pony-tail is rolling her eyes.  The AARP man is searching for his seatbelt.

A trade is arranged so the rasta and his dog can sit in the bulkhead aisle, but he won't go without the hippie chick.  Another trade is arranged.

Meanwhile, the AARP man is waving the head end of his seatbelt in the air like a snake-charmer's puppet show, but cannot locate the tail end.  The flight attendants want the AARP man to move across the aisle to the seat vacated by the rasta dog since the plane has pushed away from the terminal.  That means the pleasant man and I will have to get out for AARP man to exit.  He stands up, and I reach under his butt to fish the tail end of the seatbelt from beside his seat.  Why, just lookie here!  We can strap you in now, sir!

"This must be the Chinese fire drill row," says one attendant, with a barely perceptible strain to her smile.

The first beverages are served without rolling over the service dog.  The AARP man is proud that his wife found this better flight to speed them toward Boise, you know where the football field is blue, where their daughter is expecting twins, but they may have an eight-hour layover in Portland.  This is an improvement?  PDX is a nice airport, but I wouldn't want to camp there.

After my nap things are surreal and groggy.  The AARP man's wife pantomimes emphatically that he should get out and walk in the aisle so he won't be stiff.  Swell.  The pleasant man and I exit the row so he can go on a march.  The flight attendants take our beverage orders.  This time the pleasant man and I both ask for coffee,  fresh, steaming coffee.  No sooner are the cups on our tray tables than AARP man wants back in.  We put our tray tables up, and pleasant man steps up.  I burn my tongue on the coffee and spill on my fabulous new tote bag.  My shoulder tremor is acting up.  I stand up and bump my head on the overhead bin, spilling coffee all over me.  Fresh, steaming, black coffee, but at least I'm going to Portland where coffee is major and attire is minor.

AARP man is back in his seat waving his seatbelt puppet.  He is reaching down beside his seat against the window wall for the other end.  He comes up with a very scraped wrist bleeding profusely onto his shirt cuff, and still no seat belt.  His wife freaks and pushes her aisle neighbor out of the way to go running down the aisle for assistance.  I push the Call button.  The flight attendants come.  One goes to get the first aid kit.  She returns with iodine wipes, and warns AARP man that the iodine stains.  We get the wipe package torn open and the wound cleaned with AARP's wife supervising from the next row.  The wipe goes into my coffee cup along with two bandaid wrappers.  I buckle AARP man into his seat and tell him to run cold water on his cuff before it goes into the washing machine.

Swaddling and bouncing a fussy Grandbaby O is going to be a piece of cake by comparison to the flight.  And, true, "Chinese fire drill" wasn't the most P.C. thing for a flight attendant to say.  Maybe Keystone Kops would have been better.





© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Looking out my back door at the big moon on the rise

Watching the big moon rise over the neighbor's shed roof where the tiny bluejay figured out how to fly.  It's been a busy few hours on the patio, and the dish hasn't even run away with the spoon yet.

Got home from work to find a patio soap opera unfolding on the fence.  A very scruffy young and clueless bluejay was parked on the top of the gate. That's just where the green anole like to sit and show off his pink neck fan, so he was turning yellowish in aggravation. The baby bird's eyes were going bubby-agoggy.  Please don't let it go humpty-dumptying splat on the concrete!

The anole finale left in disgust, and the baby bird sat down and drowsed on the gate.  It woke up and stretched, then a parent flew in with a nutritious snack and a pep talk. Reenergized, the baby started looking all around for a close destination, then hopped down the fence top.  It made the flight across the alley to the neighbor's shed roof and did a victory hopping dance.  After another little rest it flew to the roof of my condo and out of sight.  The anole returned to do its own victory performance, once again the master of the fence top.  I was  ready for a victory snack of hummus myself.

Who said "fledge"?

Pathetic and woe-begone

Better after a feeding and pep-talk

Yee-haw!  This might be fun!

Cue the "Rocky" theme song!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Doctor, doctor, doctor give me the news

DR3 starts my new license plate (aka "tag" in Texas). Time to learn the number using mem nonic devices. Or pneumonic. Pneumatic?  I get confused, and having Wild Bill on the phone while I'm searching for a large Phillips screwdriver doesn't aid my concentration.  I need the screwdriver to put my tags on the new Buick. Wild Bill lives in the condo next door and is nearing 89 years of age. He and his little-dog-not-named-Toto are watching me out the doggy-peek window. A WWII vet whose airplane went down in the Pacific, Wild Bill is a frequent reminder of my dad.  And Dad's veterans life insurance paid for my new/old car.  Dad played complex games with himself to remember names and nouns in the last five years of his life.  So this is the circle of life.

Just returned from meeting my grandbaby in Oregon, so I'm aswirl in  baby fabulousity and grandparent love. Earth's axis has shifted. Most of the things I can't remember just aren't that important at the moment.

Still, it might be good to know my tag number. Doctor Three, Doctor Three, Doctor Three .... paging DR3. Mnemonic device needed STAT. ("Stat" in medical parlance is actually not an acronym; it's short for statim, the Latin word for immediately.)
"Mnemonic" trips me up and makes me seem really clueless because I always say it wrong. The m is silent. ( Everybody is silent if and when the grandbaby goes to sleep!)  


Turns out Henry F. Phillips started the Phillips Screw Company in Portland, Oregon, and I have  three Phillips screwdrivers too small for this job.  My shoulder still hurts from lifting my carry-on into the overhead bin at PDX. It doesn't want to torque: 


Torque is a measure of how much a force acting on an object causes that object to rotate. The object rotates about an axis, which we will call the pivot point, and will label 'O'. We will call the force 'F'. 


We will call the grandbaby "O".  We may call the whole screw project "F" if I can't get Wild Bill off the phone and the license plates onto the car!  DR3 give me the news.  I've got a bad case of Phillips screwdrivers!

Dr. J wrote out prescriptions at my appointment, and I went straight to my WalMart pharmacy to get them filled.  I was down to my last blood pressure pill.  Standing in the line at the Drop-Off window, I was fascinated by the pharmacy tech's nametag.  It was on backwards, and showed a grid of emergency situations and store code words:

•  Lose your child at WalMart?  Code Adam.  
• Fire?  Code Red..  
• Bomb in the store?  Code Blue.
• Chemical spill?  Code Orange.
• Accident?  White.
• Hostage situation?  Code Green.
• Tornado about to blow the roof down?  Code Black.
• Terrorist or shooting?  I forget because I drifted into a scary daydream.  That would be the pits to be waiting for a Zoloft refill when terrorists take over the WalMart!  

As a preschool teacher I suspect Code Yellow would mean somebody peed in their pants while driving around on a motorized shopping cart in the Twinkie aisle.

Way back in my hospital kitchen hairnet days we were always agog about "Dr. Red" and "Code Blue" alerts on the PA.  Code Blue was a cardiac arrest call for the crash cart.

Remembering to say the tags are successfully attached to the vehicle.  The Grancy is totally bonded to the grandbaby.  Holding said infant reduces blood pressure significantly and causes euphoria. Wild Bill and his little dog are good for right now.  Can't lift the toolbox back up on the shelf...

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Breathing easier tonight

Twenty-four hours ago I was a nervous wreck.  I'd received a phone message from a Brandon Callahan claiming to be the Director of Litigation for Attorneys Network preparing to take action on a case "connected to the names and Social Security numbers" for myself and my ex. My waking brain was scrolling through every possible scenario from my past life that could lead to any sort of litigation in my county, mentioned by name in the phone message.  Think there's nothing possible? You haven't had a good scare and some time alone stewing with your wild imagination.

"Don't lose any sleep over it."  That was Danger Baby's advice.  "It has to be a mistake.  You have been divorced sixteen years".  Happily divorced, I might add.

Okay, but Dad's estate administrator application was just filed, plus my ex seems to be in foreclosure.  It's pretty amazing what info you can find at your county's case search website.  More fuel for the fevered imagination!

Alas, I had wild, wild nightmares that included plumbing leaks, huge piles of dirty laundry, my former in-laws, Jackie Onassis, marathon runners at a church for the deaf, and a reception for the fashionably late  members of an opera board of directors!  The hors d'oeurves looked really appetizing but we never got to eat.  Welcome to the Hotel California...

Tonight we have determined that this is an obnoxious and ridiculous scam.  If you get a call, don't return it or leave any personal information on the voice mail.  I'm putting these terms in this post so future victims will be able to search them:

http://knowncaller.com/ReversePhone/866-410.php

http://whocallsme.com/Phone-Number.aspx/8889593802

Brandon Callahan

Brendan Callahan

James Newkirk

Zimmerman, Young & Associates

Attorneys Network

Kenneth Weinberg Grayson

888-959-3802,


866-410-8063


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Take a walk on the white side

Fritillary

This is not anything racist!  Heavens no.

Snout

I've been walking the Richardson trail and seeing so much capital N nature happening before my very eyes.

These white-flowered weeds/wildflowers line the trail. The plants are umbrels similar to what I consider Queen Anne's Lace.

After much searching I am going to guess they are Anthriscus, known as  Cow's Parsley or Queen Anne's Lace.  The visitors should sign in.

Some are visitors are shiny.

Others fuzzy.

One ghostly predator, a man-in-the-moon spider.. 

Mystery guest, please sign in.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder