Prompt Entry #4: The Black Squirrel

Though squirrels are a common sight, I have always liked to stop and watch them. I used to watch the brave squirrels taunt the dogs in my mom's backyard. They would run along the top of the fence, stop, stare at the barking dogs, and run away. They would run back, but this time, they would edge a little closer to the dogs. The squirrels played games. I felt they mocked the dogs with their freedom, their lack of collar and fence.

I knew there were red squirrels and white squirrels, but I didn't know a black variety existed. When I  moved to the East, I quickly spotted my first black squirrel. I saw the bushy tail from the corner of my vision. The small, pointed face looked at me. I stared at it in awe.  Were they rare? Was this one just a really dark shade of grey? I spent several walking trips looking for them, and I quickly discovered they thrived. One black squirrel seemed to appear for every five or six grey squirrels I spotted.

Black squirrels are a subgroup of the eastern grey squirrel. They contain a high concentration of melanin, which gives them their dark coloring. The black squirrels thrive in Ontario, Canada, and they are present in northern and eastern parts of the United States. The black squirrels do well in cold temperatures, since they retain more heat than grey squirrels. Prior to the 16th century, it is believed there were larger populations of black squirrels. Their dark color gave them a perfect camouflage for the dark forests; as forests declined, the black squirrels' darkness became a weakness. They were easier to spot without the shade of the trees. The grey squirrels dominated.

Black squirrels were brought into several locations that resulted in those cities' current black squirrel populations. For example, ten black squirrels were brought to Kent State University from Canada in 1961. They continued to populate on the campus and the surrounding areas.

Other than their coloring, black squirrels are no different than grey squirrels. They have the same bristly tails and body shapes and sizes. Their diet consists of the same nuts, seeds, acorns, and tree bark. They can mate with one another and produce grey or black offspring.

Though my squirrel sightings faded with the winter, I  have seen a few black squirrels this weekend. The shiny darkness of their coat looks beautiful against the snow. They still remind me of that sense of wonder I felt when first spotting one. They remind me of new places. They remind me of all the things I haven't seen. They remind me how little I know about the world I live in, but like the grey squirrels, they remind me to relax and enjoy my surroundings. I admire their spirited attitudes, their bravery, and their ability to prosper when their world is cut away. Squirrels still find the places and time to play.

Sources:
http://blog.cleveland.com/metro/2011/01/kent_state_university_celebrat.html
http://www.websters-online-dictionary.org/definitions/Black%20Squirrel?cx=partner-pub-0939450753529744:v0qd01-tdlq&cof=FORID:9&ie=UTF-8&q=Black%20Squirrel&sa=Search#922

Place Entry #4: Bitterness

Saturday, February 19th

4:12 PM

17°

I think I've done well this winter. I've adjusted to living in a place that gets a lot of snow. Though I've grown tired of the cold, I have still enjoyed the beauty of the snowflakes, the icicles, and the frozen bodies of water. Friends here have informed me that Syracuse's snowstorms can last until May. Learning that piece of knowledge lowered my spirits a little, but I knew I would appreciate the warm months more than I ever have before. 

Yesterday, Syracuse was 52°. My husband and I have one car, so it can be difficult to make my trips to Clark Reservation during the week. I figured the warmth would linger for today. I didn't check the weather, which is typically wrong anyways. A lot of snow melted. The ice in the parking lots cracked. Rivers of water flowed under and over the ice. The air felt wonderful. I managed to stand outside without putting on a thick coat and gloves. The air rejuvenated me. I laughed. 

Like I said, I was doing okay with the winter, but to get a taste of spring followed by a heavy snowstorm felt cruel. This morning, the snow and wind created thick, white flurries that severely limited visibility, so I waited until it calmed to leave for Clark Reservation. By late afternoon, the thick snowfall had turned light and gentle. I took the break in the storm to head out. 

Again, nobody was at the park. I've liked being the only person there in the past. Today, it added to my bitterness. I kept thinking, "I wish I had gone yesterday." Perhaps I would have seen some animals. I could have seen patches of the ground. I had missed the opportunity. 

I decided to take the Mildred Faust Trail. The park's information boards gave me some background on Dr. Mildred E. Faust. For 39 years, she was a professor of botany at Syracuse University. She created a large flora list for Onondaga County, and she contributed a large amount of data about New York State flora. She used to bring her students to Clark Reservation to indulge their botanical experiences. 

After learning about Dr. Faust, I felt better. I imagined walking around as one of her students as she pointed out the different trees by their bark. Her passion lingered in this place. I wrapped my scarf around my face and walked along the trail, her trail. The snowy lane was bordered by brittle trees. The wind howled and battered their limbs. Their branches swayed and squeaked. 

I ended up cutting through the trees to end up on a trail that looped around back to the parking lot. I passed the caves where the thick pillars of ice had been three weeks ago. The thick pillars were gone. They melted in yesterday's sunshine. Today, new little icicles hung from the top of the cliffs. I had seen patches of muddy, green grass emerge yesterday. Birds had chirped excitedly, but I was back to the cold and the silence. The water had sprung to life only to freeze once again. 

As I walked, I came across a group of cedar trees. One was broken and covered in a sheet of snow, but the others stood tall. After passing all the empty, brittle trees, this little cluster of trees brightened my mood. They looked alive. The green needles were high; I wanted to reach them, so I could breath in their scent. The other trees would brighten with color again. Their display of life would return. For now, they continued to crack and groan against the biting wind. The day of warmth had not fooled them. I erased the last of my bitterness in the presence of the cedars. 

As I entered the parking lot, six white gulls flew across the sky. I left in a far better mood than when I arrived. 

Prompt Entry #3: Sunset Cliffs

In San Diego, California, a peninsula points into the Pacific Ocean. That area within San Diego is known as Point Loma, and I went to college at Point Loma Nazarene University (PLNU), a school embracing the sea. Sunset Cliffs provide the meeting point between land and sea. Sidewalks neatly run alongside the coastline, while dusty walking trails on the cliffs allow viewers to seek the very edge of the meeting point. The cliffs continued on PLNU's property. I could hike down a steep hill to pass two dormitories to find paths winding through the sandy cliffs that hung over the dark gray-blue waters. If the days were hot, the salty breeze rarely failed to air condition my body and tangle my hair.

During my time at Point Loma, sections of Sunset Cliffs tumbled into the ocean. After a chunk of land crumbled away, yellow tape would stretch in a large triangle across the open air and the surrounding danger zone. My favorite spot, an area below Young Hall on PLNU's campus, remained strong during my four years in San Diego. When I first walked down to that spot with a group of people touring the campus, I stood in appreciation of the beauty, but I had no idea how much healing and peace that spot would bring me in the upcoming years.

There were days when homework piles grew and deadlines drew near. The stress mounted, and I would find myself seeking the cliffs. The dust would swirl around my feet as I left footprints in the dirt. The ocean roared and splashed against the rocks. I sat on the edge of the cliffs and let my feet dangle into air. The waves drew back only to rush forward again and slap the cliff face below me. A handful of surfers typically dotted the ocean, but other than their black silhouettes and the occasional gulls, it was just the reddish brown cliffs and the water, sometimes calm and blue, sometimes angry and dark.

Alcoholism raged in my immediate family back in Sacramento. My step-dad was diagnosed with colon cancer. My mom's depression and drinking problems mounted. My phone started ringing every night with more bad news and more problems. Family members called me with differing opinions. They all wanted me to listen to their side of the story. They wanted me to take action. How? What was I supposed to do from San Diego? What did they expect? The calls, the ongoing problems, ate at me like parasites. They fed on my energy, patience, and time.

I found the ocean. The air surrounding my dangling legs gave me freedom from the burdens pressing heavily on my heart. The salty breeze on my face was a dash of relief. The dust covered my hands and jeans in a chalky layer. The waves were alive. They carried emotion. I felt my emotion in them. When the waters churned angrily, spitting white foam into the air, I felt my own anger stir and spit. The thunderous crash of wave against rock reminded me how powerless I was sitting on the edge of a cliff over a mighty ocean. Gulls would shriek and land near me. They never seemed to fear me. I was always drawn to the little orange spot on their beaks.

When I left the cliffs, I always felt better. The waves  receded, pulling away after slapping the cliffs. My stress, sadness, and anger pulled away with the waters. Once I reached my apartment, my ringing phone no longer threatened or annoyed me.

"How are you doing, Mom? How is Mark?" I was sincere. My mom answered, and her emotions were audible. She, like the waves, could be calm and mellow. She was, at times, hopeful and healing. Other times, she churned and bubbled inside, and she didn't know how to escape other than the method she was addicted to.

She pulled back.
She crashed forward.
She pulled back.
She crashed forward.

Sometimes, my roommate and close friend would join me on the walk from our apartment to the cliffs, and we would sit silently over the water, each respecting one another's time connecting to the land and sea. I love those cliffs. They were a close friend, and I miss them.

Place Entry #3: A Scar in the Park

Saturday, February 12th
5:14 PM
27°

A link to a trail map of Clark Reservation can be found
here.

I stayed inside most of the day. Whenever I looked out the window, the snow fell sideways from the sky. The sun peeped between the clouds around 4:30 PM, so I prepared to leave for Clark Reservation. When I arrived a little after 5PM, the one car in the parking lot was leaving. The trails wove visibly through the trees.  The snow was packed down from the many footsteps that must have traveled the trails today. As I walked along Cliff Trail, I heard the occasional groan of wood as a gust of wind shook the piles of snow from the heavy limbs. Chunks of snow dropped while little snowflakes drifted into the breeze and melted against my face.

The trail forked at Long Trail and later at Saddle Back Trail, but I remained on Cliff Trail until it ended. The trail ended. The trees ended. The shrubs ended. I could see where the trees started again, but I knew the trail didn't pick back up. A large space of forest had been cleared to allow power lines to cut through the state park.

When I visited the park last September, I had walked to this spot. The winter blankets the scar. When the trees were green, the cleared area looked dead and burnt. The brown nakedness stood in sharp contrast to the bushy greenery hugging the land on both sides. Still, the power lines looked wrong in the snowy landscape. The buzzing of the electricity seemed to grow louder the longer I lingered in the open.

The darkness sank into the trees as I hurried back. The snow became a faint shade of gray. Snow pelted from the sky like thick mist. I had kept warm, but now the cold started reaching its way from my face down my neck. Goosebumps rose on my arms. I could see the twinkling lights from civilization beyond the park. I welcomed the thought of those places, warm against the cold and bright against the darkness. Minutes ago, I had felt saddened by the sight and sounds of the power lines, yet I was already thinking happily of the things electricity would bring me: light, the washer and dryer (which I needed to use), the stove, and my laptop. My own thoughts were a contradiction. How can I hate what I love?

On my way out I noticed some holes on tree trunks gathering a deeper darkness than the sky. I stopped at the information boards at the end of the trail and looked for any information on woodpeckers in the area. The pileated woodpecker is among 140 species of birds that make their home in the park. This particular bird is the largest woodpecker in North America. I hope I'll spot the triangular, red blaze atop their head in the future. As I left to head back to my home filled with the marvels of electricity, I wondered how many woodpeckers had lost their homes when that strip of forest was skinned for the power lines.