I had just finished reading our club’s monthly newsletter. Inside its pages was a message from Jane and Pat telling us about a program initiated at the University of Illinois engaging citizen scientists (that would be you and me) in the gathering of information about honeybees and bumblebees. (For this posting, I will refer to both as bees)

As many of you are aware, the bee population is in rather precarious state right now. Hives are suddenly being abandoned and bee populations  have been diminishing at increasingly alarming numbers, a phenomenon known as colony collapse disorder, where all of the worker bees suddenly disappear. Gone. gone.

While this may seem like a problem only beekeepers face, it is, in reality, a problem for all of us. Hives being threatened threatens our food supply. Without these colonies of pollinators, mainly the workers bees, our vegetable crops and fruit trees are at grave risk of  being destroyed.

Scientists have been attune to this and are actively seeking answers, but, they can’t do it alone. That’s where we come in; citizen scientists with the simple task of monitoring bees. All it involves is a camera, the internet, and a little initiative to become a BeeSpotter.

If you’ve been visiting the Cutoff for even a few posts, you know that I tote my camera around most places I go, especially if I’m out in nature. The day that I captured this lone bee in the pictures,  I was merely taking one of my daily walks around the garden.

There I was, filled with glee as I spotted the first of the tree peonies opening, and there, in the very first blossom, was a very busy bee who was actively collecting pollen. He was so busy that didn’t pay me any mind, affording me the opportunity to get quite a few pictures, which I promptly downloaded and buzzed with delight when I saw I had quite a few good, clear shots.

The BeeSpotter link noted in the newsletter was quickly opened, a few clicks of the keyboard and I was logged in. Within five minutes I became a BeeSpotter by simply providing a few pictures, some basic information about where I saw the bee, time of day, date, and a click to send it. A few days later, I received an email from an expert BeeSpotter, identifying my bee, which is a Bombus impatiens (common eastern bumble bee).

BeeSpotting data is currently being collected  only in Illinois. If you are an Illinois resident, or passing through Illinois, I encourage you to visit the website and consider sending in a few photos of the bees you see. If you are not an Illinois resident, I encourage you to visit the site, see what it is all about, and be aware of the bees in your area. Similar programs may soon be in your area. To all of you, I encourage you to look at other ways you can be a citizen scientist, like keeping a gardening or birding journal, keeping  a photo journal of what you are seeing, or writing down simple observations of what is going on in nature around you.

Oh, if I’m not posting, I’m likely out Bee-ing a BeeSpotter!

The Land of Lincoln. The Prairie State. Illinois is rich in resources, both natural and human, and much of its terrain was carved from the great glaciers that cut into it long before man settled on it.

We love exploring it – and so we did this weekend as we marked our anniversary. 

Tom and I met in college toward the center of the state. Even though both of us were raised in the suburbs of Chicago; he a south suburban lad, myself a gal from the west side, we had never been to Starved Rock State Park together. Tom remembers, as a very young boy, sitting on the top of a rock, Starved Rock,  looking out across the tree tops. So, we deemed Starved Rock as our destination, booked a room at the Lodge, and headed out on the road to discovery.

Starved Rock is only about ninety minutes from our house, mostly interstate driving. We arrived on Sunday just in time to have lunch at the Lodge, check in, then wander about the park. This is the scenery from the restaurant where we ate lunch.

This lush, forested park has eighteen canyons surrounded by rock formations born out of glacial melt thousands of years ago. The canyons provide a majestic gift to the flat fields of this part of Illinois. especially when the spring rains give rise to their waterfalls. Starved Rock State Park has become the wintering over locale for eagles, drawing visitors to the park even in winter.

Throughout Starved Rock are statues; old trees repurposed as eagles and bears, settlers and dogs, and all manner of creatures carved out of wood. I am always appreciative when I see new life coming from old life.

We decided to take one of the closer and less strenuous paths, though even the path we chose through French Canyon involved plenty of climbing up and down stairs, looking down into the magnificent canyon, with the forest floor coming alive in native columbine, shooting star, bloodroot, native violet, and ferns. It is amazing how life will cling to the walls of a canyon and how trees seem to arise out of them, determined to live and grow.

Can you find our shadows looking down into the canyon? You may have to click onto the picture a time or two, but, there we are, tiny shadows in the great, big forest.

Jennifer and Jason recommended a Cajun restaurant for us to try. Yes. A Cajun restaurant. After all that climbing, we needed some nourishment, so, off we went to Ron’s Cajun Connection, not much more than a road stop diner on a country road in a town called Utica. It was loud, busy, and full of welcome mat hospitality. We devoured our gumbo; the best one will find in this neck of the cornfields. Yum. Good means are always a part of travel, don’t you agree?

 I’m off on a bit of jaunt in the jalopy with my favorite frond as we share a spot of time to celebrate our 40th anniversary.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend. If you behave, when I come back in a day or two, maybe I’ll tell you how to be a bee spotter.

Have you looked at the tips of your fingers? The underside, fleshy part? There should be oval ridges going round and round and round in a pattern unique to only you. Ruffles Potato Chips have more ridges than my fingertips, which are as round and smooth as a baby’s bottom.

The beautification committee was finally notified. We were officially sworn in, which meant we had to comply with a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) test, which is another story for another time. I stood. I raised my right hand. I swore to do my duty, then shook several sets of prints, I mean hands, and met two very fine women, from different walks of life, who would soon become my partners in dirt. The three of us had a common vision and ended up on a subcommittee together. Each brought her own set of skill to the committee we agreed to work on. Though none of us knew each other beforehand, we managed to plow ahead, set up a plan, research, write, and draw up ideas.

Last summer, we took a field trip to other communities so see what they had done. We talked to others, took pictures, formulated talking points, then shared them with the whole committee, city employees and elected officials, and finally started talking to members of our community. The city gave us a go-ahead IF we could get enough participants to fill fifteen garden plots.

We did.

On May 4, we held opening day of our community garden!  The plots were dug and tilled and plotted by city workers. Paths were laid between plots. A sign with our rules and regulations was posted, and Home Depot donated a pick-up truck filled with bagged soil.

It was a happy day for the three of us. There was a time we did not think it would happen, even though we all shared a common vision for a community garden. The seeds were sown and in the process a dozen or so folks in our town were granted a small plot of land to grow vegetables for a nominal fee. Most of these community farmers live in condos, apartments, and trailers, with little or no space to plant their own vegetables – and, of course Tom and I, who have two acres and too many deer! We took a plot, as well, and look forward to tomatoes and peppers and beans!

When you put your fingers into good, rich earth, no matter what your fingerprints look like, good things begin to grow and flourish and good will is born. I felt good,  through and through, as I watched several gardeners start to plant, work the soil, measure and look toward the sun. They were smiling and talking, enthusiastic and hopeful.

My favorite gardeners were a duo; a young woman of about thirty years and her grandmother. They were sharing a plot and came ready to work. The grandmother had sewn matching aprons with three deep pockets in each for their gardening chores. It made my heart leap for pure joy of it – for a good thing was beginning to happen. A garden was starting to grow.

Another gardener was planting a Mexican garden with corn and hot chili peppers and cilantro. Rows of lettuce have suddenly sprung up, and little  sprouts have poked through the soil. There are pinwheels in some of the patches – to scare the birds and rabbit-proof fences, one with a door.

It was really worth all the nonsense of fingerprints, for this little community garden of ours is already nurturing souls – and will soon feed them as well with the riches of the soil.

Sometimes, prints lead to paths and paths lead to gardens. Don’t you agree?

. . . a little like “lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”.

I have always felt that one should give back to one’s community in some way or another. Through most of my adult life,  I have “belonged” to some organization or other that fostered a sense of community;  PTA. Sunday School. Newcomers Club – which our Katy couldn’t pronounce and called the Cucumber Club.  I’ve been a Voter’s Registrar and I’ve helped those in need through community agencies. I’ve even run for elected office. Good citizenship begins near home.

I’m still involved in activities in the community we used to live in, and gladly do so, but, the time finally came when I felt that I really needed to do something, no matter how small, in the community we live in now.

Right about the time this little pang came about, in the winter of 2012, I noticed a blurb in our community newsletter looking for citizens to serve on the city’s beautification committee. Right up my green thumb, it was, squirming in like a worm just when I needed the prod. Gardening. Trees. Beauty. Maybe a few hours a month.

I filled out the form, drove to city hall, handed it to the clerk and and felt good about volunteering.

I waited, and waited, and finally forgot I was waiting when a phone call came; a pleasant sounding man from the city who said they were very interested in having me on the beautification committee. Next step? A background check. I just needed to call the deputy police chief to arrange to be fingerprinted.

Fingerprinted?

I set up the appointment for an April afternoon and went in to the police station, where I was eyed with caution. I said I was there to be printed and was instructed to take a seat.

After a time, Mr. Officer Friendly came up to me, rather sternly,  with his bright badge and all. He asked me what I had done. Sigh. I explained the committee I was asked to serve on and he looked at me, oddly.

Soon, a female officer came out, lead me to a little room, wiped my fingertips with some sort of “stuff”, and started taking my prints. We talked a bit as she registered all ten digits. A felon came in and out. I’m sure he was felonious as he handcuffs on.  The nice officer took more prints and fretted some, saying it was hard getting good images of my fingers on the scanner, then, off I went.

A month passed. Another. Then few weeks, when I got a call from Mr. Officer Friendly, apologizing. It seems my prints were rejected. Rejected? My prints were rejected! Could I come in again? Soon? Well, it happened I was heading that way, so, in I went, a printless citizen.

They were waiting for me, I’m sure of it, for I was briskly escorted into “the room” and the process started all over again, only this time a male officer took my paw, er fingerprints, asking me why I needed to do this. I said I was a tree hugger and it appeared that tree huggers need to be printed to beautify their city. We chuckled a bit. I asked if the elected officials had their prints taken. Of course not.

My prints were vague, without the typical grooves and ridges. Bald fingertips, it seems. It was concluded that I just had planted the prints right off of my fingers. Just in case I was a hardened criminal and not the tree hugger I claimed to be, they took a mug shot as well. Turn left. Turn right. Look straight ahead, Ma’am. Actually, the mug shot was much nicer than the one on my driver’s license.

Do you want to know what happened next?

I’ll tell you tomorrow.

Really, I think the librarians wait, lurking around the stacks, just for me to come in and be dazzled by the brightest new covers in the entranceway displays. “Here she comes” they must whisper. ” Here. Put this in front. Oh, it’s okay. Don’t worry. I know it is a seven day loan, but, she’ll bring it back a few days late, pay her fine, and then check out another”.

So I did.

There on the shelf was a book I’d been hearing a buzz about for several months. I think I first heard of it from Claire at The Captive Reader, then Belle, of Belle, Book, and Candle wrote a review, compelling me to place it in my TBR list, where it languished until two weeks ago when “Mrs. Queen Takes the Train” hopped off of the shelf and into my hands.

It’s been a good deal of fun to follow a fictionalized Queen Elizabeth as she deals with a bit of despair in her later years, wondering what good she has been, fiddling around with a computer, feeling, well, feeling as many of us do as we enter our later years of life.

One day, Mrs. Queen, as her staff calls her, wanders out to the stables to bring a favorite horse, Elizabeth, a few chunks of cheddar cheese. It is sleeting, and the Queen is unprepared for the weather. One thing leads to another, until Mrs. Queen finds herself suddenly off of the grounds of Windsor Castle, unrecognizable in a hoodie with a cross and skullbones on her back, and, well, off she goes . . .

You will have to read William Kuhn’s book to find out what happens to Mrs. Queen, and learn a bit about the royal staff; what their royal duties are, how they relate to The Queen, to each other, their duties, how things stay the same in royal life – and how they change as well. I promise you, it will be a fun read. As others have said in their reviews of “Mrs. Queen Takes the Train”, settle into a comfy chair with a cup of tea, and enjoy a jolly good romp with the Queen.

On Saturday, I read an evocative poem by Li-Young Lee  on Teresa Evengeline’s blog. It not only had me longing for fresh peaches, but yearning to read more of Lee’s poems. This morning, another of Lee’s poems appeared in my inbox. I truly enjoy my daily messages from The Writer’s Almanac and include this second poem below, which I have copied directly from the posting. If you click onto Li-Young Lee’s name, you will be linked to other poems by Lee.

Isn’t it grand when these wonderful awakenings come in pairs, or trios, or whole tribes to awaken our senses, introduce us to someone or something new, challenge us to learn more? I’m excited to learn more about this poet who is new to me and hope you will enjoy this poem as well as we celebrate Mother’s Day here in the States.

On a recent walk around Lake Katherine, one of Kermit’s relatives was splashing in the mud,

and a pair of Mallards became mighty friendly as they waddled over to where Tom and I were bench sitting, begging for a handout. Mrs. Mallard came a-quacking right over to our knees. As tempting as it is, I do not bring morsels of bread to feed geese and ducks as it is not good for them to take food from strangers now, is it?

Well, I have a bit of list a mile long today, so, I’d best get off of this log I’ve been sitting upon, and get out and about with the day before me, which includes finishing up “Mrs. Queen Takes the Train”, composing the minutes from a meeting I’m charged to do, give the basil sitting on the countertop a home in a pot on the deck, and maybe sit for a spell in the arbor and count my blessings.

In the Orthodox tradition, there is a moving service that is held at midnight rejoicing in the empty tomb of Christ. Most churches are packed to overflowing as chants and prayers are intoned. Just before midnight, all the lights in the sanctuary are turned off. It is a solemn, sacred moment to believers, and one of palpable anticipation. It is utterly silent and dark. As the new day is born, Easter morning, the bells ring and the priest rejoices with the words “Christos Anesti”, holding one lit candle, which lights another, then another, until the entire church is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight and song. A liturgy is then celebrated, lasting until well after 1:30 am.

There is, of course, much more to this religious celebration that I am expressing here, but, I hope it gives you a feel for the anticipation my sister and I had when we were allowed to attend this Easter resurrection service for the first time. It was a rite of passage, allowing us into an adult time of worship and I will never, ever forget it.

In those years, the early 1960′s, our church was a fledging parish, set off on its own from an established church in Chicago. It was founded by first generation Greek Americans, the children of immigrants, who were slowly, gradually, purposefully moving out to the suburbs, buying mostly new houses in subdivisions with new schools named Nixon and Eisenhower. These new schools rented gymnasiums and classrooms to newly formed churches to use until they could raise the money to build their own. Our small band of parishioners and a priest with a vision did the same, first using public schools, then buying a small, older church, finally building a new one that has stood now for nearly five decades.

It was in the “used” church that my fondest memories dwell. It was walking distance from our house and situated across the street from my grade school. Roosevelt Elementary School and Holy Apostles Greek Orthodox Church, in Broadview, Illinois, blocks from the Eisenhower Expressway, seven blocks from our house. It was in Roosevelt School that I first learned of the assassination of John Kennedy, and then, a few days later, on the steps of Holy Apostles,  that Lee Harvey Oswald was shot. It was in Roosevelt School where I watched an American launched into space and in Holy Apostles basement that I learned the Greek alphabet. It was in that school that I was a seal in the circus and  it was in that church that I was a fallen angel of the Lord in the Christmas pageant. It was in the church where my sister managed to roll her quarter “offering” down the aisle at a most solemn moment. I can still hear the sound as it seemed to roll on and on and on, trying hard not to giggle. It was during Greek School lessons in the church basement where we all sat giggling beyond control as we saw a man enter the ladies’ restroom (the man, we later learned, couldn’t read English). I remember one of the boys raising his hand, shouting in Greek, “barroe na pao sto meros”, loosely meaning I have to go the bathroom and twenty or so children bursting into fits of laughter.

It was in this humble church that I attended my first midnight service and in the church basement afterwards that my sister and I were first allowed to partake in the celebratory feast. There was lamb and potatoes, Greek yogurt (what? you thought it was just invented now?) , bread and salad and sweets – and red Easter eggs, which would take me on a path of Olympic glory. Okay. Not exactly Olympic glory, but rather a mini-moment of fame.

Greek Easter eggs are traditionally dyed red, representing the blood of Christ. They are really quite beautiful in a basket or nestled into a big round loaf of Greek Easter bread. They are also employed in a game of seeing who can crack the most eggs without having their own crack.

I sat, primly, in my Easter dress and bonnet, enjoying the food and the sense of community as folks ate, chatted in two different languages, the priest prayed and spoke, women served food. My mother helped with the serving. My dad was often interrupted to shake this person’s hand, or got up to say hello to someone.

Then, the boys started cracking eggs. I was a shy child and was about 12 years old at the time. That awkward age for most girls, made more so by masses of boys with red egg-shell weapons in their hands. One of the boys came over to try to crack my egg. I’m sure he thought that quiet Penny would be an easy target. Not so, for he hit mine with his pointed end and his cracked! He used the other end, and it cracked as well. I felt pretty swell, sitting there, having spent not a whit of energy on the exchange. Another boy came up with the same results. Daddy saw his opportunity and stood up. Having two daughters, one painfully shy, does not give a father too many moments of this kind of pride. He went over to one of the men. I’m sure he said something to the effect of “none of the boys can crack my daughter’s Easter egg”. Of course, a few more boys came over and tried, their Easter eggs turning into masses of red shell. At some point, my dad looked concerned. Two many boys around his older daughter, I’m sure.

I won that  year. Nary a dent in my Easter egg. I proudly brought it home. Yia Yia put it in an old, chipped cup and it was on display, then it went into a cabinet above the stove, where it sat, for many years. Ma would take it out for me to look at, then carefully place it back into its tomb. She would let me gently shake it so I could hear the yolk rattle, with strong warning to be careful, for, if dropped, well, imagine the smell.

I don’t know what happened to that Easter egg. It was likely thrown away when we moved from the house. I do know what happened to my memories of that first Easter service. It sits awesomely in my memory and I take it out each year.

Image source and more information about Greek Easter eggs and game can be found by clicking here and here.

 May, and among the miles of leafing,

blossoms storm out of the darkness -

windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees

dive into them and I too, to gather

their spiritual honey. Mute and meek, yet theirs

is the deepest certainty that this existence too -

this sense of well-being, the flourishing

of the physical body – rides

near the hub of the miracle that everything

is a part of, is as good

as a poem or a prayer, can also make

luminous any dark place on earth.