Number 85 - To see a tree asmiling.

Yes we did get snow, sumac....... About 3-4". It stopped snowing and it's all evaporating fast now. Probably be gone tomorrow.

Great clicking folks..........

We have a very cold and raw rain with temps only in the 30's again.

February 2, 2011

Chicken Vanishes, Heartbreak Ensues

By ELIZABETH GIDDENS
THE chickens of New York City, for the most part, live fairly sheltered lives, securely tucked into private backyards and padlocked community gardens. Our chickens, by contrast, are public figures — their yard faces 20 feet of busy Bedford-Stuyvesant sidewalk. The chickens themselves chose this bustling thoroughfare, decamping there even when they could have settled in our spacious, semiprivate back garden. They wanted to see and be seen — like so many New York transplants, they seemed to feed on the energy of the street.

The admirers came in droves. The neighborhood immortalized by Biggie Smalls and Billy Joel has undergone widespread gentrification, and between the trend-conscious newcomers from suburbia and the nostalgic migrants from the Caribbean and rural South, there’s an awful lot of chicken love in Bed-Stuy these days.

And what’s not to love? There’s something intrinsically happy about a chicken. The name: a little hiccup in the mouth. The shape: a jaunty upswing of feathers, a grin. The ceaseless bobbing, scratching, pecking. It’s nearly impossible to feel melancholy in the company of chickens. They are a balm for the weary urban soul.

The spirit of the chicken regularly infects the sidewalk parade down Franklin Avenue. People break out in chicken dances. They cluck. They coo. They cock-a-doodle-doo. (One toddler ventured a tentative “oink, oink” before her mother gently corrected her.) Chickens make people loose, and they make them gregarious. In fair weather, scarcely an hour passes without a motley assortment of gawkers at our gate — dog-walkers, corner guys, stroller pushers — eager to inform, or misinform, one another on the finer points of chickendom. We’ve considered posting an F.A.Q. sheet — yes, they’re hens; no, they don’t need a rooster to make eggs — but that would spoil the fun. People like working it out among themselves.

In a neighborhood fraught with the tensions of gentrification, making people talk to one another, and talk about something other than themselves, is not an insignificant accomplishment. What I’m saying is that these chickens are important in a way that chickens aren’t usually important. They are Bed-Stuy’s very own peace doves.

Imagine our dismay last June, then, when Gertrude, a Rhode Island Red and our prize layer, was stolen.

The chicken yard was a classic crime scene: Coop open. Hatch lying on the ground. T-Rex, Gertrude’s long-suffering subordinate, standing dumbfounded.

After much deliberation, we called the police, so we’d at least be alerted if her corpse turned up within their purview. They came, laughed, snapped pictures of T-Rex with their cellphones, and texted them to friends.

We decided to appeal to Gertrude’s public. We posted a big sign on the gate, letting people know what had happened, and pleading for her return, no questions asked.

As with any theft, the worst part is the blow it deals to one’s faith in humanity. The chickens were in danger of being demoted from goodwill ambassadors to harbingers of doom, canaries in the neighborhood coal mine.

The sidewalk confabs reached a fever pitch. People were devastated.

A man with a neck tattoo shook his head and tut-tutted, “What kind of person would do something like this?” A woman in a church hat encouraged us to turn to God. Neighbors posted another sign: “439 Franklin misses Gertrude!” People scribbled commiseration. (“My son is sad! Find Gertrude!”) The crime was taken as proof of the decline and fall of civilization, and we found ourselves assuming the role of the comforter far more than the comforted.

Again, this is Bed-Stuy. Not Mayberry. Yet the response was more suited to a town with less in the way of a police blotter. Such dramatic emotional outpourings for a lost chicken seemed frankly disproportionate, since you can hardly walk a block in this town without being offered some tantalizing version of dead chicken. And since your average American consumes more than 80 pounds of poultry a year, the odds were good that most of the mourners had eaten a chicken in the last few days, if not hours.

But I digress. Back to the crime scene.

Everyone had a theory. Gertrude’s theft became a blank slate onto which people projected their assumptions about the neighborhood, the city and humankind. Not all the theories reflected well on their proponents — there was a raft of confused ideas about the cultural practices of Caribbeans, and the dietary predilections of crack addicts.

Sidewalk symposiums are one of the great pleasures of urban living, and New Yorkers are masters of the art, ready to hold forth on the most abstract or esoteric musings without so much as a how-de-do. Where I come from, you’d be obliged to at least mention the weather, if not disclose your actual name and provenance, before delving into something so intimate.

Was it hunger? Religion? Envy?

No information was forthcoming. Either no one knew or no one was talking. But one of the corner guys promised to “put the word out” and, if he found out who did it, to “put the hurt on him.” Which was comforting. Kind of.

About a week after Gertrude’s disappearance, after we’d all but given up hope, a young man stood at the gate and shouted that he had “information about the chicken.” We went downstairs, opened the front door, and whom should we find but our beloved Gertrude, very much alive and full of her signature élan, tucked under the young man’s arm.

He was in his late 20s, remarkably handsome and stylishly dressed. He sheepishly related a story of a drunken dare that led a friend of his to steal the chicken, for the promise of $100.

Maybe there was a friend. Or maybe there wasn’t. Either way, the young man said he felt compelled to return Gertrude when he saw how much the neighborhood missed her. He apologized at least 15 times. And we forgave him — we were so surprised and delighted by Gertrude’s improbable return that we hugged him warmly and thanked him profusely. Then he went on his way, apologizing again and again over his shoulder, and we never saw him again.

We put up a new sign to explain Gertrude’s sudden reappearance, and, in our jubilation, we allowed ourselves some license with the truth: “We’re not sure where she’s been, but now she speaks Russian, has a few tattoos, and insists that we call her Kiki.”

Her return rocked the neighborhood. Crowds gathered outside the gate to marvel at her resurrection. More than two dozen people wrote their congratulations on the new sign — surely one of the only comment boards in the city that didn’t garner a single negative remark, or even a vulgar one. They wrote in Spanish, in Twi (a Ghanaian language) and, of course, in Russian, in honor of Kiki. They signed “D’s Daycare,” “the Italian guys from Monroe,” “Puerto Rican from Monroe,” “Ladies of 439 Franklin,” “House of Channy” and “Snake.” Among a profusion of exclamation points, smiley faces and hearts, the good citizens of Bedford-Stuyvesant saluted the Lazarus chicken: Holla! 2 good 2 be 4 gotten. Awesome! Peace. Akwaba. Welcome Home.

I saw a news segment the other day -- a lady was hiking with her dog, the dog saw a mountain sheep and started chasing it. The sheep started up a very high cliff area and got stuck. The dog was right after it and got stuck. The lady tried to climb up to save her dog and got stuck. All three had to be rescued............

Happy tree saving all.................

Clicking is saving -------------- and a tree asmiling.

I was sick for the past two days and didn't hold up my end of the clicking. But I'm back on the job now.

Sorry to hear about your health - I hope you are feeling better now. Tis the season for all sorts of ills......... Stay warm and cozy.

Thanks for clicking.

All clicked and nothing new to report. A dusting of snow tonight.

Just another tree asmiling here. Not a drop of snow - but some cold nights ahead - then Spring like weather.

We got our dusting and have spring like temps due to arrive over the weekend. Yippee. I will bundle up a bit and go out and weed. Meanwhile I have to return to the paint brush as the doors to the two bedrooms and the bath are being done.

Aggh, working on house........ Arrggggh. There's always tomorrow. In fact I have a sign I printed many years ago = "Finish house tomorrow"
I look at it each day.

Conservation and Migration

Andrew M. Sugden


CREDIT: NAVINDER J. SINGH
Effective conservation, whether of whole habitats, ecosystem services, or individual species, is a challenge at the best of times. Under climate change, it becomes a moving target. Add migratory species to the mix, and the challenge can seem even more daunting, not least because it requires detailed knowledge of the migration patterns over wide geographical areas over many years and predictions of how these patterns might change in the future as climate and habitat change.
Singh and Milner-Gulland studied the Saiga antelope, Saiga tatarica, a migratory ungulate found in Kazakhstan. The antelope has suffered a 95% population reduction in recent decades but is now the focus of conservation efforts. Aerial monitoring data of antelope movement over the past 25 years and rainfall, temperature, and vegetation data were used to understand the factors influencing antelope spring distribution patterns (the period when calving takes place and which is therefore critical for population viability). This knowledge is then applied to predict the location of future suitable spring habitats under scenarios of further climate change and to suggest likely locations for future protected areas for the antelope.
J. Appl. Ecol. 48, 35 (2011).

Wild Oysters Face Extinction amid Environmental Decline

By JOSH OZERSKY
1 hr 37 mins ago

You know that list of vanishing species you keep hearing about? The one full of species that have been on the earth for millions of years, but that have recently become as scarce as liberal op-ed columnists? Well, you can now add wild oysters to the list, simple bivalves that go back nearly 250 million years, to the Triassic period. (Something that looked, and probably tasted, much like oysters probably goes back a lot farther.)
According to a study published in the February issue of BioScience, 85% percent of the world's native oyster reefs have been destroyed. Three-quarters of the wild oysters left in the world, the study says, now live in North America - and they aren't all doing that great, either. Many of the native reefs that still exist are "functionally extinct," meaning they no longer play a significant role in the ecosystem, which is a big deal since these rugged little buggers used to do such things as create habitats for other species, keep the water clean and shore up coastlines. One of the last major areas to harbor native oyster reefs is the Gulf of Mexico, and at least half of the ones there were destroyed by the BP oil spill - or the subsequent attempts to clean it up. (Read "Gulf Oil Spill Threatens Local Seafood Industry.")
Oysters aren't delicate creatures. In fact, you have to go out of your way to make life difficult for these animals, which happen to be the most efficient water filters in the world. For centuries, they kept the English Channel from choking itself on sewage and industrial sludge; a few beds can clean the entire New York City harbor in a matter of months, according to Mark Kurlansky's admirable book, The Big Oyster. In it, he notes that the creatures just a hundred years ago were so common and copious that you could buy a big jar of them, shelled, for a quarter. The indigenous peoples of Manhattan ate so many oysters that the leftover shells formed mountains that could be used as landmarks. More recently, their shells have been turned into calcium supplements and construction materials. But alas, out of pure shortsightedness, these incredibly beneficial animals have been driven to functional extinction. How did this happen?
It happened the same way bluefin overfishing happened - and the same way wild salmon is about to happen. Small-scale fishermen don't worry about the big picture because, for the most part, they are barely making a living. The managers of big commercial fleets don't worry because their competitors don't and because, in a market where they make less every year, the idea of trading short-term profits for an actual future has no tangible payoff. As with global warming, there are any number of paid stooges and lobbyists willing to dispute the science and muddy the waters, further exacerbating the situation. Nor are progressives free from blame: with their reflexive abhorrence of farmed seafood and their equally thoughtless embrace of wild seafood, they are only hastening the end of the latter and the necessity of the former. (See how Europe's top chefs are pushing for sustainable seafood.)
Oysters are an excellent case in point. Right now, nearly all the ones we eat are farmed. Oysters, like cattle, today exist essentially for the sole purpose of being eaten by people. So all you foodies can rest easy - you'll still be able to go to fancy restaurants and pay $3.50 to slurp down a mindless sea stomach. But that continuing convenience doesn't minimize the tawdry demise of a wild animal that has thrived on this planet for a quarter of a billion years. (Comment on this story.)
It's not too late to restore native oyster reefs. But to succeed on a mass scale, we'd need a powerful and incorruptible superstate that has the ability to police the world's best interests, to incentivize conservation efforts and, in the meantime, promote safe aquaculture. But my dreams of living in such a benevolent technocracy vanished when I found out I wasn't Norwegian. No, in most places it's still every man for himself, and the animal world be damned. That attitude will likely persist until we all starve to death, and periodic expressions of sorrow and anger won't do much to change it. And that's a fact that doesn't go down easy.
Ozersky is a James Beard Award–winning food writer and the author of The Hamburger: A History. His food video site, Ozersky.TV, is updated daily. He is currently at work on a biography of Colonel Sanders. Taste of America, Ozersky's food column for TIME.com, usually appears every Wednesday.

February 10, 2011
U.S. Proposes New Forest Management Plan
By LESLIE KAUFMAN
The federal Department of Agriculture unveiled a new plan on Thursday to manage the national forest system that government officials said would give them more flexibility in responding to modern stresses like climate change while also heading off lawsuits.

The 97-page plan, which could potentially guide mining, logging and wildlife protection in 155 national forests across nearly 200 million acres, is only a proposal and is likely to face fierce scrutiny and undergo many changes before it goes into effect.

While mining and timber industry groups seemed to take a wait-and-see attitude, several environmental advocacy groups quickly expressed deep disappointment over what they saw as setbacks for conservation.

“The bottom line is that this is a significant rollback of required protections for wildlife and habitat compared to what currently exists,” said Rodger Schlickeisen, president of Defenders of Wildlife, an advocacy group that through litigation halted two forest management plans proposed by the administration of President George W. Bush. “It is amazing. The public had the right to expect more from the Obama administration.”

At a news conference, Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack said his department was trying to put a new emphasis on maintaining “forest resiliency.” He also said he hoped that if the process of forestry management was made much more open to the public for comment at earlier stages, a consensus could develop that would make litigation less likely.

Because of lawsuits and other hurdles, it now generally takes five to eight years for a plan for an individual forest to go forward, from carving out protections for wildlife to granting permission for logging or mining. But that could be reduced to three years under the proposed framework, Mr. Vilsack said.

“We want less time in the courts and more in forest,” he said.

But environmental groups said that while the new rule was full of solicitous language about scientific standards and concern about biological diversity, it was short on the kinds of minimum standards that would protect animals and watershed areas from harm.

For example, the groups said, the current forest rules, put in place in 1982, require that the forest be managed to maintain “viable populations” of all native fish and wildlife. Under the proposed rule, local managers could choose which species would be of “conservation concern” beyond those already receiving mandatory protections under the Endangered Species Act.

The proposed rule also requires buffer areas around stream and river areas critical to drinking water but it does not specify the size of those areas or what activities could be precluded there, the groups said.

“There are lots of ‘mays’ and not very many ‘musts,’ ” said Jane Danowitz, public lands program director for the Pew Environment Group.

Forest Service officials said that by using the best available science and drawing on their knowledge of local circumstances, local managers could work out the details on the watershed areas and wildlife species to be protected in individual forests.

Interesting articles and good stuff, sumac....... Even though it's tragic. I feel the world could do without more human animals. Could be war is the only relief the world will get --- fewer humans.

Proposed Republican cuts:

"Republicans take aim at some of their favorite targets in the measure, reducing financing to the Environmental Protection Agency by $3 billion — an almost 30 percent cut from current levels. The measure would also block the agency from implementing new emissions regulations, and it would cut more than $100 million in spending on climate change programs.

Housing, energy and transportation spending is also trimmed substantially. Dozens of programs, including the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, are eliminated."

We are entering a period of relative warmth during the day - our January thaw in early February?

Tha Woodchuck said it will be an early Spring............ I shall wait and see.
I saw the EPA thingy on the Nat'l news........... Even if the world is going to pot - that's a crazy thing to do these days. People animals will destroy all they can.

Thanks for the clicks all.

February 12, 2011
The Mob at the Feeders
By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
Most days I see a male cardinal in the hickory tree behind the house, waiting to forage beneath the bird feeders. You don’t really “see” a male cardinal. The world collapses to a carmine point that puts everything else out of focus — the hickory, the snow, the woodsmoke from the village. For its character, modest and cautious, the cardinal is overdressed. But then what would living up to that plumage mean?

It would be nice if starlings came in ones and twos and were more like the cardinal in demeanor. We would see the ornateness of their feathering, which reminds me of the marbled endpapers of well-bound books. I’ve used starling hackle feathers for tying trout flies, and each one is a bit of the night sky with an iridescent galaxy shining near the tip.

Starlings come in gangs and mobs and hordes. They mug the suet and bicker over the oil-seed feeders. They fight all the time, yet only with one another. The other birds look on like hosts watching their dinner guests brawling across the table.

I find myself reflecting on the fact that there are 200 million starlings in this country, all descended from a few dozen birds released in 1890 by the American Acclimatization Society, which was devoted to introducing European species to America. Starlings are good intentions in the flesh, which says nearly everything about good intentions.

But they’re here, and I look for a reason to admire them, apart from their feathers. They waddle, duck-like, and this makes them seem less leather-jacketed. But it’s no use. They have de-nested billions of birds, and the porch where the feeders hang looks like a scene from Hitchcock.

Then one morning they’re gone. The cardinal sits in the hickory. The chickadees take a seed, then pivot for a glance around. The woodpeckers are on the suet, probing quizzically. The house sparrows — 19th-century imports themselves — move civilly among the fallen seeds as if to show they belong.