I’m closed into my study, air-conditioner purring, sun trying to poke through dense gray skies and break up the muggy air. My older son is crafting a new song in the room at my back and, me, I’m hoping to find enough time to mow later, wondering where this weekly writing journey will take me.

It’s interesting how stories develop, how there are days when you sit down and try to come up with something, consider taking the week off, rarely find a good enough excuse. Maybe this week I had one. Son Gary II’s family of four has shared my home for the last couple of weeks, which has given me an extended period to spend with grandsons Jordie, 4, and Arie, 10 months. Usually, I spend a day here, a day there, maybe even a weekend with them, but never have they actually lived with me this long, Jordie eagerly tailing along on my daily travels, which can get interesting, sometimes maybe even “inappropriate” for kids, depending on who’s passing judgment. So, yes, this was a first. Fun. Brought me back to parenting. Gave me a chance to teach Jordie in a non-threatening environment, a far cry from what he’ll likely soon discover in some breathless schoolhouse, where, unfortunately, he’s bound to encounter some bored “educator” standing at the chalkboard for a paycheck, not the love of teaching. Then it’ll be all about raising your hand before speaking, sitting still and memorizing lists of words that mean little but must be spelled correctly to succeed. It doesn’t matter if you understand and know how to use these words, just spell them right, Sonny, if you want to pass. Ah, yes, the sad state of education and standardized testing. Peee-U.

It’s sad when you think about it, which I find myself occasionally doing, especially when I’m getting a daily dose of inquisitive, youthful eyes aching for new information and concepts, fresh words for an expanding vocabulary, new ideas to meld with the old and form perspective. The questions are intuitive, fascinating, often surprising, never boring. They come at you from all angles: in the barn, by the brook, in the car, at the supper table, on our daily walks through Sunken Meadow. Basic stuff like who, what, where and why? Maybe when. Constant questions; answers often requiring finesse, the ability to drop to a juvenile level that can be easily comprehended, comparison and analogy helping along the way.

Take for example the concept of a swollen river, which I tried to impress upon Jordie on our walks along the Green River, our trips to the backyard brook. The first time I used that description we were headed toward a section of the Green where he daily picks his way down an undercut back near an apple tree to play in the water. As we approached the familiar site along a grassy farm road, I pondered aloud if the river would be swollen following the rain. Jordie looked at me inquisitively, like, “Huh, what do you mean, Grampy, swollen river?” I asked him if he ever noticed how after a tumble on his knee, elbow or hand, it hurts and gets bigger. Well, that’s called swollen: bigger. Same is true for a river or stream. Rain makes them bigger, or swollen. I wasn’t certain he got it, but thought he did. Then, Wednesday morning, I knew the lesson had registered when, on an alternate route to the same spot, he asked, “Grampie, do you think the river is swollen?” Instant gratification. More, please. And, yes, more was on the agenda.

When we got to our spot where the dogs always jump in, swim across, get a drink, we sat on a red-stained picnic table overlooking the river and I pointed out the murky water below. I told him the river was riled up, dirty, that it would be a good day to catch fish because fish feel invisible in dirty water, come out to feed on the many insects and worms that have been swept off the bank or trees and bushes and into the stream. He seemed to get it, will someday probably ask to go fishing during a rain. I hope so, would love to teach him to fish for trout on a rainy summer day, perhaps someday pass on all my expensive rods, reels and accessories that have sat idle far too long.

Jordie’s learning experience at Sunken Meadow was not limited to the river. No, much more. He learned about the dogs, hunting dogs, all nose and tail, boundless energy. I’d park and release them from their porta-kennels daily and then watch as they enthusiastically jumped down off the bed of my truck, sprinting down the rows of young Christmas trees, bounding, springing off their back legs, front legs curled underneath at the elbows, bursting through the dense brush along the perimeter, then popping back out, excited. Pure joy. From this he learned a couple of lessons. First, the dogs were looking for cottontail rabbits that had left their scent behind while eating clover, white and red, lots off it. Perhaps they also smelled deer and ducks or geese or wild turkeys, maybe squirrels, all of which will come to a fertile wetland like that to feed and nest and romp. Second, he learned to read the dogs by focusing on their tails, the faster they wagged the hotter the scent. After a few days, he understood and pointed it out to me when either Lily or Buddy, “were on a fresh scent,” a phrase he heard me use often, new to him, a new concept that he won’t soon forget. It’s ingrained.

Another time, we were down in that same quiet slice of Connecticut Valley paradise and the owner came through in her blue station wagon. She stopped to talk, told me she heard I had written more about her property, seemed cool with it, then told us the tale of her clover field. She plants red and white clover there to save her Christmas trees from deer, which will eat evergreens when hard-up but won’t touch them when the rows between the young trees contain tasty clover undergrowth. “Some people shoot the deer when they destroy their crops,” I later told Jordie. “The lady uses a creative approach to save her trees, and the deer.” His response? “She’s a nice lady, Grampy.” Indeed. He got it. More than one way to skin a cat. Someday I’ll teach him that saying, too. Bet on it. In the right situation, when I know he’ll understand. Someday I may even use the old “closer the bone, sweeter the meat” saying, then explain it’s meaning. When he uses it, someone, somewhere will probably emit a sinister chuckle and he’ll wonder why. He’ll soon understand that, too, probably sooner than I did, and I was far from sheltered.

We also touched on the killing concept. Jordie knows I hunt, am capable of killing. He often asks me about it, stuff like: “Grampy, you can’t kill mommy deer or baby deer;” or “Would a hunter kill a mother duck with babies?” No, I tell him, laws are in place to protect babies from being orphaned. Hunting occurs in the fall when immature creatures can fly and run and fend for themselves with others of their species to help. It’s never easy for a child to comprehend because a child relates wildlife directly to human beings and it’s difficult to justify hunting and killing on those terms. But the fact is that human beings are predators, and birds and animals and fish are not human. Case closed. Once again it takes finesse to explain the difference, one “animal lovers” — you know, the ones who hang up their lambskin coats before sitting down to a medium-rare, Whately Inn rack of lamb — can’t seem to get their heads around. Jordie will understand. I’ll teach him not to be a hypocrite, to be tolerant of all types of folks as long as they don’t try to impose their will and lifestyle on him. Value your independence, your freedom: that’s what I’ll teach him. Don’t try to fit under that cookie-cutter they’ll try to squish you into. Fight back. Be an individual, maybe even “eccentric” if that’s what they want to call you. I hope he listens.

Jordie is gone now. He went back to Vermont Wednesday. I’ll miss him. I hope “the authorities” don’t ruin him, suffocate his curiosity, his spontaneity. He has a chance in Vermont, I guess, where they seem to have a clue. But one bad experience can do irreparable damage to a young lad, send him off on a defiant ride that can make life miserable. I know. I lived it. To be honest, loved every minute of it.

It’s true that it’s safer to play the game by the rules. True, indeed. Less trouble. But it’s also true that independence nurtures wisdom.

With more than a week to digest Greenfield’s June 8 biomass vote, I must admit to finding it encouraging on a couple of levels.

First, the people have spoken loud and clear. How else to describe a 3,300-700 mandate, one that would have likely been more overwhelming had neighboring towns voted? Second, this may be the beginning of the end for that reactionary old-Greenfield gang that seems to be pushing hardest for the project; not because it’s good for Greenfield or Franklin County, but because the good old boys identify their opposition as dangerous, tie-dyed progressives. Well, this time, they’re dead wrong. Most citizens who’ve spent any time objectively investigating biomass plants the size of the one proposed for Greenfield come away with reservations, and that’s exactly what was felt at the polls: citizens pumping their brakes. Whoa! they shouted, we don’t want this “clean-energy” con job jammed down our throats before we know more, which is exactly what the people with the most to gain feared. Time is their enemy.

It appears that the worm has turned in Greenfield. Voters are tired of being ignored by elected officials. A friend of mine — no liberal by any stretch; quite the contrary, a proud, card-carrying Republican — attended a biomass public hearing at Greenfield High School last year and came away angry and dismayed. He phoned me the next morning and said that, given what he had witnessed, the entire town board should have been removed by the mayor and replaced by special election. Why? “Because they’re elected to listen, and they were not listening, didn’t even pretend to be.” In fact, he characterized them as smug, rude and pig-headed, their minds made up before the meeting, in no mood to listen. Obviously, that’s just one man’s opinion, but I respect him, and respect goes a long way in my world.

It seems that nothing has changed with proponents following last week’s lopsided vote, which they now spin as “misleading” and “one-sided.” Their position is that only opponents marched to the polls, thus the landslide. Had those in favor spent as much time organizing support as the antis, they reason, the results would have been different. Yeah, they admit, the election drew a 35-percent turnout, a big number for an off-year election. They aren’t denying that. How can they? But they’re still trying their best to downplay the mandate as one generated by a committed opposition that makes up less than half the registered voters. What about the other 65 percent? That’s their battle cry — one that really irks the rapidly growing opposition. So, once again, it seems that the town is not listening; and if the powers that be continue to ignore and dismiss this vote, future voters will likely banish them to the sidelines.

This latest battle is an extension of the long, drawn-out big-box dispute, on many levels a culture war, with several of the same players on both sides working in full view and behind the scenes; but the difference is that many residents who were indifferent or even in favor of Wal-Mart are vehemently opposed to this biomass monstrosity targeted for northeastern Greenfield. At least that’s the impression I’ve gotten in my travels, and I’m not new around here. Far from it. Frankly, I was stunned by some of the people writing critical letters to the editor and sporting “Biomass? No Thanks!” and “Vote No on Questions 1, 2 and 3” lawn signs. It told me people were feeling insulted and ignored, like the state, then the town were sold a bill of goods by  some snake-oil salesman behind closed doors, then attempted to slip biomass through before it could be scrutinized. All for a buck. When, to their horror, the questions did start, Matt Wolfe and Pioneer Renewable Energy had all the quick answers and diversions that any salesmen worth their salt have up their sleeves.

The proposal to use Greenfield wastewater as a coolant wasn’t abandoned at the 11th hour because of any altruistic change of heart; it was tossed aside because the proponents had correctly read Greenfield’s political winds and hoped they could keep the voters home. Not only that but a statewide movement opposing biomass was gathering momentum. Finally, questions were being asked and the state government was getting nervous, not nearly as fidgety of the PRE people who were hoping to rake in a lot of dough before people were fully informed about their supposed “clean-energy” alternative, clean and green. Yeah, right! Sounds good … until you explore it, which, thankfully, many in Greenfield and the surrounding communities did. The more they learned, the more they fought. Then, for good reason, the state got nervous about supporting large-scale biomass, wasn’t so sure it wanted to line up behind it. Too many difficult questions to answer, the salient ones being: 1.) Is supplying biomass plants acceptable use of our forests? 2.) Is there enough fuel to make biomass feasible and sustainable for the long run? and 3.) Do we really want to belch more smoke into our atmosphere to make energy for some faraway place? More and more folks are answering those question the same way voters in Greenfield responded to Questions 1, 2 and 3: No way!

I suspect that last week’s vote was the beginning of the end for biomass in Greenfield. Maybe I’m wrong. We’ll see. But that’s my instinct, and I couldn’t be happier. Better days may well be ahead for Greenfield. The
signs of positive change are blooming downtown and elsewhere. Now what we need are agents of change who are willing to listen and learn while transitioning a stagnant town, one that knew glory days, into the 21st century. What we don’t need is an energy company trying to profit from a town’s economic woes.

In case you haven’t noticed, the Cambridge Wolfe is sporting new clothes, and he’s looking more and more like the emperor every freakin’ day.

The Friday of Memorial Day Weekend turned into an eventful day around my Upper Meadows home in Greenfield. First, while taking a leisurely morning walk with my wife through the sunken meadow down the road, I lost the Tri-Tronics remote-control for my dog collars. Then, upon returning home after a quick, once-around search mission, I was confronted with a nest of five helpless baby Eastern phoebes on my backyard cook-shed floor. Two problems to disrupt a holiday and keep my wheels spinning.

My remote sends signals to two battery-operated collars I often use for training purposes and to keep my dogs out of harm’s way. When bird hunting, I keep the contraption in a special pocket at the bottom of my Filson nest, lanyard secured around my belt just in case it gets tangled and pulled free. Although that’s never occurred, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Tri-Tronics doesn’t give away its collars. On my daily rounds I usually slip the remote’s lanyard around my neck, convenient for leisurely walks but potentially in the way when hunting. For some reason on this day, wearing multi-pocketed Orvis shorts, I dropped the unit into an open pocket on my left quadriceps, lanyard dangling out. I wasn’t concerned. Figured I’d be walking the tangle-free perimeter of an open field in sandals, nothing challenging.

About halfway along our walk, skirting a riverside strip of woods shading us from the morning sun, dogs romping through dense, high orchard grass between rows of Christmas trees, we rounded a gentle bend toward a camper on the riverbank when a red-tailed hawk flew off the ground 80 yards in front of us. Lily saw the big bird and ran toward it, sticking her face into the spot from which it had flushed and returning with a freshly killed cottontail rabbit, still warm and limp, Buddy playfully trying to grab it, Lily objecting. I called Lily. She came and handed me the rabbit, which I carried by the hind legs and temporarily placed in the crotch of an apple tree to keep it away from the dogs. I distracted them by tossing a stick into the Green River. They chased it, took a swim, shook off and started running the field, giving me a chance to put the rabbit back where it came from before continuing along our circuitous route back to the truck. The dogs were off on other adventures, ignoring the rabbit. I was afraid they’d take a wide sweep toward the river and rediscover the bunny, but it didn’t happen, so the final leg of our loop went without incident.

When we got back to the truck, I wasn’t happy to discover my remote missing. I was puzzled. Had I pulled it from my pocket to bring Lily back with the rabbit? Maybe. Couldn’t recall. If so, I must have left it on the picnic table under the apple tree. So off we went, all four of us, to retrace our steps and find the missing remote, which, as it turned out, was nowhere to be found. Hmmmmmm? Should have turned up somewhere with four eyes searching. I thought about taking another trip around the field but figured I’d first return home to rule out the possibility of it dropping in my backyard, or maybe I had left it in the carriage-shed or on the kitchen counter. Predictably, it didn’t turn up on the home front. Then, it really started bugging me. Could Buddy have picked it up, run off with it and dropped it somewhere in the field, maybe between a row of Christmas trees? Possible, but I didn’t think so. Perplexed, my wheels were spinning to the scream of a dentist’s drill, shrill and annoying.

Later that day, still pondering, I took another walk through the meadow with the dogs, again retracing my steps, this time focusing special attention on the area near the apple tree and the spot where I had dropped the rabbit. No trace of the remote. The more I searched, the more it bugged me. What could have happened to it? By then, I was convinced the dog must have picked it up, run off and dropped it, complicating my hunt, making it near hopeless, real needle-in-a-haystack stuff. But where else could it be?

The recurring questions kept me awake that night and woke me early the next morning, pulling me from bed before 7. I went outside into the refreshing morning air, loaded the dogs in the truck and headed back to the sunken meadow, planning on a thorough search up and down the rows of Christmas trees if necessary, secretly fanaticizing that maybe Buddy or Lily would locate the damn thing and pick it up along the way. As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary because, as I walked around the high galvanized gate into the field, something caught my eye in a place I had twice searched the previous day. It must have been the soft morning sunlight that illuminated it, but there it was, my black remote with two buttons, green and red, facing me. It was resting atop vines more than a foot off the ground, black lanyard stretched out straight. I reached down, picked it up, slipped it around my neck and, relieved, walked the dogs joy
fully along my normal route, no intensive search required. A great start to the new day. Took the pressure off on a holiday weekend.

But that remote was just one of my issues. The other was the baby birds. Yes, back to those pathetic phoebes on the cook-shed floor. They hadn’t been there when I left for the fateful walk that had consumed me for a day, but there they were when we returned, a nest and five fledglings, three larger and more mobile than the others, all unable to fly. Buddy drew my attention to the nest by picking up his head alertly, freezing momentarily and following his nose to the base of the chimney ascending from the shed’s cement floor. I could see something there. Buddy picked it up and ran a short distance into the yard with it. He gave it a couple of playful shakes and tossed it into the air, a bird’s nest. It landed and he ran back into the small building. I quickly called him off and secured him and Lily in the kennel before investigating. That’s when I found the five baby birds huddled in what was left of their flimsy nest on the shed floor.
I was aware of the nest nestled into the crotch of a joist and crossbeam below the peak of the shed roof, but couldn’t understand what had brought it down. Perhaps the windstorm two days earlier had loosened it, then nesting activity had dropped it. Knowing I couldn’t reconstruct it, I decided to leave it where it lay to see if the parents would move their young to safety. But by 3 that afternoon, the pathetic little birds were still exposed on the cold floor, waiting for a cat or my dogs to grab them, parents chipping nervously from the nearby bass tree. I knew it was time to put on my thinking cap. Maybe I could find a small board and fasten it like a shelf to the spot from which the nest had fallen. That might work. So off to the barn I went, searching for the right board. In the process of searching through the stable, I discovered a handled, rectangular, wooden fruit basket and knew I had a found a solution. I’d put what was left of the nest and the baby birds in the basket, screw it through the handle to the 45-degree joist-and-crossbeam angle and see what happened. Hopefully, the parents would feed their young in the basket. I was confident they would. Then, once they could fly, I’d remove the basket and let them go their own way.

The plan worked to perfection. On Monday morning I went to the dogs and let them out of the kennel. Buddy ran directly into the cook-shed and out flew an immature phoebe, not a great flier but good enough to get away and land in a tree 50 or 60 feet away. The next afternoon while feeding the dogs, I inspected the nest from the aluminum ladder I had left in place. All that remained was the nest and one dead baby phoebe that must have been injured by the fall. It’s surviving nest-mates were gone. Likely they’ll return next year to build nests nearby or in the same building, a popular site for phoebes.

The new nest will probably stay in place better than that old one. If it ever again comes down, I’ll be prepared. The basket is resting on a box next to a stack of fruit crates just inside the barn door facing the cook-shed. Figured I better keep it handy. So now things on the home front are back to normal: remote recovered, birds rescued. Missions accomplished.