A Natural History of My Father

A Tribute From a Friend

2012-01-21T11:07:00.000-08:00

(Ed. note: This post is not written by Lou, but by a friend of the family. It is from a book of memoirs entitled "A Thin Slice of Sky." The author is Thomas L. Burnett)

He was part Jeremiah Johnson, part Audubon, and part soldier of fortune. Lou rented the old cabin while we spent two years in Whitewater. He holed up with his books, guns, letters, and botany collections to outlast the winters.

Bundles of dried peppermint hung from his ceiling. A burlap bag of venison jerky slumped against one of the support posts, like a laborer on siesta. The cabin was dark and warm. His bed had no pillow. "Bad for your back and neck", he asserted. He stretched and tacked animal pelts to the outside of the cabin. Crammed into the north wall, serving as cheap insulation, were envelopes from women around the world.

Dad admired Lou for living life so easily. Dad coveted his powers of observation. Lou saw the natural world acutely. Ever ready, a botanist's magnifying glass hung around his neck. He frequently flicked it open to examine rocks or plant parts.I was entranced by his jolly yodeling and tricky whistling.

Lou's mountain prowess was legendary, at least in our family. He was a real live hero, stamped from the mold of Pecos Mill and Daniel Boone. One day he squinted and gestured southwards to the bony ridge. "Biggest buck I ever saw lives up there." he said. "I was sitting up there quietly one day, when down below me what looked like a cherry tree started to move. That was no tree, that was his antlers. Never saw him when I had a gun."

In all my figure hunting, I kept a lookout for this monster, believing all the time that a mule deer pf such grandeur could really exist.

He told of meeting a bear face-to-face coming around a corner of a trail. He was alarmed but determined not to show it. "I just growled at him", he said.

The bear decided he had met his match. Ursus turned and padded away. Even now, when I hike quietly on paths paved with moist leaves, I imagine meeting a bear and wonder if my courage would ever match Lou's.

A walk with Lou was an education in ecology; he knew and told how plants, soil and climate fit together. He named the conifers, grasses, dicots and ferns. He explained the mutual lechery of algae and fungus within lichen. Stopping at a swiped anthill, a black mudhole, or a rotten log that had been ripped open, he estimated how much time had elapsed since the bear had visited. He spotted a tuft of cinnamon-bear hair on a barb or fence wire. No one else was as observant.

"This is what the ruffed grouse eats in the winter."

"A porcupine likes aspen--one's almost girdled this sapling."

"A bull elk has used this tree to scrape the velvet off his antlers."

He was a walking plant identification guide, a lecturer without a podium. Though he never attained his doctorate, due to personality clashes, he said, no professor stirred my interest in nature the way Lou did.

He suggested we gather Morel mushrooms one summer evening. It had been raining for two days. We walked through O'Connell's place, across an aged logging bridge and into a young stand of lodgepole pine. On the forest floor was a buildup of needles, springy under foot. Two or three times each year we'd make this fifteen minute hike and harvest a couple of pounds, to be sauteed with dear stakes or scrambled into eggs and bacon.

Like a playground drug pusher, Lou got my father hooked on puffballs. Compared toe Morels, one could really make some volume with puffballs as they grew to the size of grapefruit or cantaloupe. Dad would spot these freebies in the pastures of the Church Farm and bring them home, like a Viking proudly bearing his plunder from the Anglo-Saxons. Slabbed and fried in butter, their tofu-like flesh was supposedly edible, though I don't think the kids ever found out. Even mother, who normally loved any food that was free, was lukewarm about puffballs. Perhaps Dad ate them just to be macho--not to be outdone by Lou.

My own male ego was also exploited once when, with Lou we were hunting atop the Bald Mountain. We had shot a young buck and had dressed it out. Being the inordinate distance from one mile from the house, we though it best if we took some nourishment before attempting the return.

Eight inches of old snow patchily covered the ground. Near a big fir tree, where there was no snow, we built a small fire. Lou divided the liver into three pieces. We roasted them on sticks, as if roasting marshmallows. Camp Robbers hung close by in the trees. When the meat was black on the outside, we tried to eat it. It was rare inside. Lou ate his; Dad ate some of his. I tried, but after a few feeble attempts, the men said I didn't have to eat any more if I didn't want to. The troops of Napoleon retreating from Moscow didn't have it any tougher.

Another foolishness Lou forced upon my father was bathing in the creek. A thick growth of willows offered privacy from the country road. Bathing here was not a leisurely affair, even for hardy Lou. Ninety seconds usually sufficed. The procedure was as follows; yell; soap very lightly ; yell; rinse; yell; dry off. Actually, yelling was fairly uniform throughout. I tried it once as a teenager. A bath in 29 degree water sounds like a manly challenge. It sounds invigorating until you are naked and standing with one foot on a sharp rock, the other on a mossy, slippery one. The air temperature had dropped from it's afternoon high of 89 degrees to 59, and the only mosquito in 300 yards is biting the back of your thigh. At that moment, being a mountain man like Lou loses it's appeal.

Our Favorite Weeds, by Lou Jonas

2010-05-27T11:20:00.000-07:00

" A weed is a plant nobody has found a use for''. If that statement is true then there are very few weeds in the world. Many of those which the average gardener spends lots of time and money to get rid of, are regarded as favorite vegetables in other countries.

Salsify, if noticed at all by the average person, is called a dandelion with an especially strong stalk. Those hardy pioneer-type gardeners who like something new occasionally and have tried "oyster-plant" as the seed companies call salsify, realize that it is very worth-while to include this "weed" in the garden every year.

Chicory, of course, has been a favored plant in France for centuries, and the highly expensive witloof is a is a bunch of bleached chicory leaves. Chicory is mixed with coffee in Louisiana, and many people don't like coffee without it. It should be much more healthful than pure coffee.

~Chicory~

Purslane is a favorite garden vegetable in Europe, and is used in salads and for potherbs. With its rather bland taste, it is much better mixed with something like radishes or cress.

~Purslane~

Burdock is a much-esteemed garden vegetable in Asia, and seed can be bought from some seed companies in the U.S. The young, tender leaves, if boiled in two waters, are good spring greens. The young stems can be peeled and boiled, tasting much like asparagus. The roots of the first-year plants can also be boiled, then skin peeled, and served hot with butter. The root is claimed to have power to cure baldness, but we suspect that, even if it works in some caes, there would be many it would not help.

~Burdock~

In soils with a hardpan, heavy clay or silt, not many plants have the power to penetrate to the lower layers, where soil nutrients are usually in better supply. The weed roots find small cracks, or push their way through by brute force, and bring up nutrients from where many crop roots can't reach. When the plant is decomposed, as in their use for green manure, the top soil becomes much more fertile. Furthermore, the channels opened up by the weed roots can be followed by crop roots, and also by earthworms. Earthworms are perhaps the most important single factor in the formation of good soil structure, and in changing raw organic matter to humus.

One author says that weeds accumulate those nutrients in which a particular soil is deficient. For example, weeds of acid soil like sheep sorrel and ribwort, are rich in calcium and magnesium. When the weeds decompose, and the nutrients become available for crops to use.

Any plant which is easy to raise, can be depended upon to raise a good crop every year, and which is tasty, can be sure of a welcome in my garden.

For instance, pokeweed, one of the tastiest plants, and one which is good to mix with more bland greens, seems to thrive as well in a garden as along a fencerow. It is one of the best for raising a good supply of succulent sprouts in the basement in the winter. It was used in pioneer days for ink, and Euell Gibbons reported having read a letter written during the Civil War with poke juice ink, which was still perfectly legible. He states that an analysis, comparing raw with cooked poke, showed that Vitamin C, and other nutrients, are not lost during the boiling for 10 minutes, and the subsequent draining; that is, not lost to a significant event.

~Poke~

Since it makes sense to me, to save labor and costs in whatever I do, I'm not inclined to pull those good, useful vegetables like dandelions, pokeweed, pigweed, lambs' quarters, ribwort, and purslane. I just mulch them along with the other vegetables, how around them when I hoe (which is seldom), and make good use of every one of them.

"Lengthening the Harvest Season"

2010-04-07T17:35:00.000-07:00

(Ed. note~ Unfortunately the last page of this article is missing)

If I accidentally get to Heaven one day, I'm sure I'll be able to garden all year long. But none of the places in which I've lived, so far, have quite have had quite that long a growing season. So, since organic gardeners are supposed to be smarter and more independent than ordinary gardeners, I try to figure how to make the best of what we have (And actually, I like some snow and freezing weather in winter.).

Here near Idaho Falls, the winters are frigid enough to send many transplanted southerners and Californians home after one exposure. But I found I can carry many crops through the winter in good condition, even in the soil. With one decimeter (approximately four inches) of mulch (preferably of sawdust, so mice won't feel too welcome) I've harvested beets, carrots, Jerusalem artichokes, turnips, even red and potatoes! Two decimeters is better for potatoes; they don't get so sweet that way. Oak leaf lettuce, spinach, and chard wintered well under sawdust, and provided the earliest possible green vegetables. And kale! This year I've seen two gardens, including ours, where kale survived a winter which was consistently cold (only one several-day thaw in January, and below 20F, frequently, with very little or no snow to keep the soil from freezing deeply) and still looks green and fresh, and is producing some very tasty and pest-free bunches of young leaves the last of March. I'm sure it would winter better under a light mulch. So I'll use sawdust on it next winter, then wash it off about March 25, and expect some delicious early salad. And I'll tie a yellow ribbon around the two most vigorous and tastiest plants, and let them go to seed.

Mulching takes work, but the benefits are many. What satisfaction to eat the tastiest possible vegetables, when others have to patronize the "stupor" markets. Even though we store some crops in the basement, they simply don't hold their flavor like those in the good earth. I suspect there is some connection between the actinomycetes, fungi, bacteria, organic matter, and other ingredients of good soil, and good keeping qualities and taste.

Plus it's good to know the vegetables aren't as risky to eat as those with various biocides on and in them. I once bought a pack of carrots which tasted so much like DDT I threw them away, and haven't bought store carrots since. Having lived in Arkansas when plants were spraying cotton fields, homes, highways, livestock, and people heavily; and having worked for a veterinarian there who used DDT by the handful in his dog pens, I know what DDT tastes like. Research by the California Fish and Game Department showed that carrots and other drops do take up insecticides, and concentrate them.

The mulch can be spade under in the spring, if you have good organic soil, or raked off to let the soil warm early, then used again during the summer.

Some crops survive without a mulch; like chives, garlic, cornfield cress, burdock, comfrey, parsnips, horseradish, and parsley. But if you want to dig root crops throughout the winter, without resorting to dynamite, it's wise to cover some of your plants.Otherwise, the ground may be frozen down one or two decimeters when you need them. We use stakes protruding three decimeters or more above the soil surface, so we can locate the rows under whatever snow there may be.

Location has a lot to do with length of growing season. In mountains, or even in foothills, it pays to determine which area experiences the lightest, and the fewest, frosts. You'll find frost pockets in low spots, whereas up slope, or near a small canyon, the more rapidly-moving air currents may make a difference of two or three weeks in the frost-free season. And you'll length the season for such crops as Jerusalem artichokes by planting some in the sunniest, earliest-warmed part of the garden, so it will start growing sooner. But- put some in the shadiest, coolest spot also. Mulch them both heavily in late fall, and those in the cooler spot will be about two weeks later to sprout in the spring. After they are actively growing, I've never found tubers till autumn.

Companion planting makes a difference, too. By planting pokeweed and Van Buren or Beta grapes just under the dripline of elm or apple trees (because these trees hold their leaves longer than such as birch or box elder), you increase their chances of surviving early and late frosts. However, since elm trees are tough competitors with the roots of domestic grapes, you may want to dig till your energy gives out (and hope you got to three feet at least), so you can put a sheet metal barrier between the roots of the two plants. Or if you have soft soil and lots of energy, you can cut both ends from a clean steel drum, and plant the grape or pokeweed inside it.

Borage in the everbearing strawberry patch leads to a larger crop, larger berries, and probably a two-week longer bearing season; perhaps for more reasons than just frost protection. Maybe borage just likes strawberries!

Experienced gardeners learn which crops are best-suited for their area. Apples, hardy apricots, some plums, and pie cherries are most dependable for fruit trees here, but if I . . . (Ed. note- the rest of this article is missing).

The Tale of a Cat

2010-03-29T10:10:00.000-07:00

Lou Jonas
Bozeman, Mont.

In my Lone-Mountain days, in Montana, a neighbor rad the long-range weather prediction for the coming winter, and decided to spend it in Arizona. He asked me to look after his pet wildcat while he was gone. I promised to do so, thinking it would be very little trouble, and would let me get better-acquainted with wildcats, whose tracks I often saw in the timber, but seldom caught a glimpse of.

So I let the cat in the cabin once in a while to relieve her boredom, and give me a chance to psychoanalyze her. She proved to be an entertaining and friendly pet. I spent many pleasant hours relaxing, by watching Sheena prowl around the cabin and investigate every piece of furniture, every corner and "hidey-hole".

One night I felt lazy at bedtime, I left Sheena sleeping on the rug when I turned in, instead of returning her to her cage, as usual. That would have been all right if she had continued to sleep on the rug, or anywhere else, for that matter. To Sheena, night time was playtime. I was almost asleep when I sensed something whipping past my scalp. Then a set of sharp claws combed through my hair just a little too deeply for me to sleep well. That's the only night I ever slept with a blanket over my head, indoors.

Once she jumped up on my lap. The reason she got a chance to do this was that I was reading, and hadn't observed her intentions. I regarded her with a wary look, trying to fathom just what she was up to, but it's hard to brush twenty pounds of wildcat off your lap, since they have such an effective means of anchoring that they are almost irresistible, so I let her stay.

She always liked to soften cushion with her front paws before lying down. She did the same thing to my leg muscles, and I've yet to figure out how a soft cat paw can be so bruisingly hard.

The she eyed my long beard, with her head cocked first to one side, and then to the other. She must have liked it, because she smiled softly, and brushed her head against it in a loving soft of way. She patted it a little, but her claws were only partly extended, so there was very little bleeding.

She laid her head alongside mine and purred, and her beautiful white teeth closed gently over the lower part of my ear. I did some rapid calculating, trying to figure how I could disguise the loss of half an ear, in case she decided she liked the flavor. The suspense finally got to me after a long moment, and I gripped the nape of her neck, figuring I should at least try to save part of my face. She relaxed immediately, retracted her claws, and went limp. If you ever need to wrestle a tiger or lion, perhaps you should try this same hold.

I described her as gentle, with a sweet disposition. Well, she was, but remember, men, how entrancing it is to be dining with a charming, soft-voiced, liquid-eyed young lady? Imagine being out with on like that who turned into a werewolf when the waiter put a rare steak on the table! And envision her ears flattening back against her head, and her pupils narrowing, and a threatening snarl issuing from her lips. This is about the way that I was affected the first time she complained of being hungry, and I handed her a venison rib. Fortunately, she was smaller than I, and not rash enough to attack a hermit who snarled some himself, upon occasion (Maybe she just didn't like venison ribs). Should I have offered her tenderloin?

Sheena wasn't fond of dogs. Once a lost Australian shepherd came to the cabin, and poor, half-starved beast hung around for a day or so, absorbing all the grub I could rustle for him. When Sheena came near the cabin while I was feeding him, she must have become jealous, because she suddenly spit, growled and jumped all at the same time, giving the dog a solid thump in the ribs with her forepaws. The dog gave a roaring bark, apparently warning her that if she wanted trouble, that was the best way in the world to get a bellyful of it. He didn't deign to look straight at her, but continued to concentrate on making friends with me (My respect for Australian shepherds zoomed to new heights. The Aussies I had known previously had been quite timid.).

Once Sheena got loose and strayed away from home. Being domesticated, she wasn't adept at catching food for herself, and I was worried about her welfare. Next morning a neighbor half a mile away called and reported that the cat had been on his back porch. I pocketed a chunk of venison and rushed to his place. I was trailing her through the timber and talking, telling her how beautiful she was, when she recognized my voice and came running, delighted to see me, and relieved to be with her good friend again, and especially interested in the venison. Getting her home was a problem. I was skeptical about the wisdom of carrying her, so I decided to let her walk, and try to coax her along with me. We passed a neighbor's house, where the Weimaraner dog barked, and Sheena delivered a hearty wallop to my leg with both forefeet. This was probably an effort to get me to climb a tree, or to run, so we could escape what she considered our common enemy. Or she could have been rattled, and hit the closest animal she could find.

In late March, Sheena became restless, as though she had an important engagement somewhere. She escaped from her cage one night. I trailer her over the melting snow for a half mile, and then lost the trail. Since she had been traveling in a quite straight line, she must have been primed for some far traveling, with a more compatible friend driving her onward. There were plenty of mice that winter, so she had a fine chance to learn to hunt, before she starved, and I evidently had less appeal than a male bobcat.

I don't know if our paths ever crossed again, but when I see a medium-sized cat track in the timber, I can't help but wonder if Sheena was fortunate enough to escape hounds and hunters, and if perhaps she dimly remembers a human who was once a trusted friend.

Does she ever watch me as I pass by the spot where she crouches, almost completely invisible behind a small fallen limb? Does she ever have an impulse to come running up to me, only to be held back by some ancient fear?

Sheena was a good pet, but wild, and how else should a wildcat be?

Newsletter-From Virginia ,1969

2010-03-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

Broad Run, Virginia
4 Jan, 1969

Howdy,

We have a crowded schedule, as usual, so will try to write four letters at a time; perhaps that way we can write to all our friends.

The job is interesting; it is nice to get paid for doing what I used to do for fun. We are making a complete inventory of the natural areas of the U.S. and its trust territories, and helping to establish criteria for a "natural area" which we hope will be acceptable to all ecologists. We are also making a list of the research which has been, and is being done on natural areas. We will establish a system for storage and retrieval of data, sometime soon.

I have a very good boss; Gene Wallen, a real go-getter, with a background in oceanography. The other scientists in the department are first raters, also; Helmut Buechner, Lee Talbot, Ray Fosberg, to name some. Lee Talbot is now in India, working on the Gir Forest, and in Ceylon afterwards. I get out in the field often, and really admire these hardwood forests. There are quite a few species of oaks, and red maple and and pignut hickory are common. There are also several species of pine, including the Table Mountain Pine, which is not very widely distributed. It was interesting to see witch hazel blooming this fall, and interesting to see the many species of ferns. We flush wild turkey occasionally, and bob white quail, white tail deer, cottontails, and gray squirrels are common. the mockingbirds, cardinals, bluejays, and titmice stay here all winter.

We're very close to apple orchard country, as well as peach and apricot country. Christmas trees aren't so plentiful as they are in the Gallatin Valley.

Most gardeners here try to get their potatoes planted by March 17, and the rest of the garden correspondingly early. There isn't much of a selection in the supermarkets now.

We had two measurable snowfalls so far; the first was a few inches, and melted soon. The second measured about 12 inches, and then a 40 miles an hour wind blew for 2 or 3 days. It seemed ironical to be more solidly snowbound in Virginia than we ever were in any of the Rocky Mountain States. We only have one drift between us and the county road, but it is about 200 yards long, and two to five feet deep. So we borrowed a microbus, and are driving out through the field. After the plentiful fall rains, I would say that the ground water supply should have been restored; last fall many springs went dry here, and there was a very poor crop of acorns, and the black walnuts were quite small, many of them unfilled.

I didn't do any hunting this fall, and we miss the supply of venison which we normally have. However, I have made friends with a lot of good hunters, so I will probably hunt next year. I intend to use the bow for deer; I should be able to get a turkey, also.

We had a husky Kirby-style 7 lb. 6 oz. boy; that completes the team. He weights about 14 now, at almost 3 months. The other kids are doing well. Kandy is in 2nd grade, and Jamie in 1st. The schools are totally integrated, and I guess they both have colored teachers. The schools do seem rather hillbillyish, so I don't mind keeping them out of school to take them to museums and the zoo, and other interesting places. This country is about like living in a history book, with so many battles having been fought nearby, and so many important people having been born here.

I'll close here, and wish you the best.

Vaya con Dios,

Louis
Director, Center for the Study of Natural Areas

Control of the Packrat

2010-03-25T09:19:00.001-07:00

(From a school paper, written 1961)

The various species of rats included in the genus Neatoma are interesting, and some of them are quite handsome, but their business operations are usually one-sided. Their nuisance rating is high when a hunter misses his wrist watch or eye glasses, and discovers sign pointing to a "packrat", or "woodrat", as the thief.

As long as the woodrat dwells at a distance from human habitation, he is an innocuous and interesting animal. When he favors a ranch cabin with his presence, he can contaminate grain and other foods, especially if they are carelessly stored, in such containers as burlap bags. His habit of collecting such interesting objects as jewelry, silverware, and socks causes many humans to develop a definite antipathy toward him.

This rodent may be easily captured by taking advantage of his natural habits, such as his custom of traveling close to walls, and running behind objects where possible, due to his protective instinct for remaining near to cover. A length of stove-pipe laid parallel to the wall, with a size 0 or 1 steel trap set inside, is almost certain to result in a catch the first night.

Another effective location for a trap is in a flat cake pan, with rolled barley or oats completely covering the trap. The constantly-roving rat is easily caught here, also.

A different method of control is with the use of a flashlight and firearm. This can best be illustrated by relating the following anecdote.

Wes Darling is a cattle rancher in central California. On roundup one fall, he and his brother slept in the cabin which Wes maintains on his summer range. Their slumbers had been disturbed by the gnawing and rustlings of a pack rat which had his homestead under the cabin.

The second night, Wes bedded down with a flashlight and a loaded 12-gauge shotgun nearby. When the rodent entered the cabin and began its nightly investigation of the kindling pile, Wes snapped on the light and fired as he caught the rat in the beam. The rat and the charge of shot left the cabin together, boring a new hole as they went. The event was somewhat complicated by the sudden awakening of Wes' brother (who is a detective sergeant). He leaped from his bed, stumbled over the bed where Wes slept, and turned the stove over as he fell to the floor. Apart from such domestic perils, this method has more disagreable and lasting effects, if there is a woman dwelling in the building who dislikes holes in the walls of her home.

If the house is built with log walls, and replacement panes are readily available for the windows, the preceding method may be varied, as was once done on the Gros Ventres range in Wyoming. Ralph Lerocq and five other punchers were on fall roundup, and had just moved into the cabin which had been built for such use. A bushy-tailed woodrat attracted their attention through most of the night, and they decided to rid the premises of his presence. Since each carried a pistol for romantic reasons (they were no more efficient with a handgun than most other cowboys), they planned to use these to solve their rat problem. The end of a wooden apple crate was propped in such a position that it would fall and block the entrance to the rathole when the supporting stick was jerked away by means of a string, the other end of which was taken to bed by Ralph.

The "boys" retired in good spirits, having packed in enough food and drink to keep them this way. The principal actor in the scene made his entrance soon, and when assured of this by the direction of the sounds, Ralph jerked the string, and the intrepid punchers, reckless of any danger from their prey, left their beds with drawn six-shooters. They lit the lanterns and began the execution. After some near misses, the rat realized his unpopularity, and began an earnest search for exit holes. He forsook the floor in favor of the ceiling joists. Splinters flew, and shooters were more in danger than the target, because of their larger size and greater numbers.

Having found no way of leaving through the roof, the woodrat dropped to the floor once more, the jumped onto a chair and ran across the table. A full gallon can of syrup was resting there, and was centered by a .38 special slug. The eventual demise of the prey was anti-climactic. Perhaps the most important qualifications for this technique would be a fairly high intellect and a masterly skill in handgunnery.

Slowly, humanity is accepting the fact that the most efficient way to control woodrats (and all our other animal neighbors) is to use preventative measures, such as properly-constructed buildings, and vermin-proof storage. If such natural controls as gopher and bull snakes, screech and barn owls, and weasels are allowed to live in some measure of security, they are quite willing, even eager, to control rodents.

Since woodrats have proven to be adaptable to general laboratory use, and may assume great importance some day soon, it behooves mankind to act in a mature way in his "packrat" control. They may be means of conquering some vicious disease, some day very soon.

Favorite Pets in Our Family Were Blondie and Dagwood!

2010-01-19T10:29:00.000-08:00

(Ed. note~This story dates from the 1950s, with Dad's first wife Frances. I believe he was in California at the time.)

We made pets of all the farm animals and also of many of the so-called wild ones of our state, but when someone gave us us a pair of baby badgers, well. . . that was a challenge. Everyone said that a badger just couldn't be tamed.

Calling my new infants "Blondie" and "Dagwood", I took them into the house and put them down. There is no prettier animal than a wee, soft-coated badger. Two light stripes run from their nose over their head to their neck. They are most beautiful when startled, or angry. Then they seem to just "blow up" and spread out about twice their width and every hair is standing on end. The hissing sound they make at this time, seems to be a whistle.

The little fellows took off when I put them down on the kitchen floor and visited every room, looking things over. At last they decided it was nap time so, tucking their heads under their furry coats, they fell asleep in the clothes closet, a pair of old felt slippers for their bed.

We fixed a house for them out in the shade, and knowing they great diggers, placed rabbit wire under the house and pen. They would sleep most of the day, and we let them out in the evenings to play.

We could pick them up any time when they were small, but after they reached two months old, it seemed I was the only one they trusted. I could call to them and they would come as fast as their short little legs would go. Then they would come to a very quick strop, blow themselves up, and hiss. I would pick them up and stroke their soft fur, all the while talking to them, which they seemed to enjoy.

None of the others in the family could do this. If they tried, those sharp little teeth quickly put a stop to friendship between man and beast. Never once did Blondie or Dagwood bite me.

When they were about three months old, I started to shoot gophers for them. These they would shake to pieces before eating. They had been eating table scraps and cooked rolled oats, but were very particular as to just what kind of food was fir for their royal highnesses.

Take beans, for instance. These would be sniffed at, rolled about, and then a hold would be dug and the beans buried and patted down beneath a layer of dirt.

Blondie was as sweet as she could be and gave up a lot for Dagwood. He was the aggressive type, and tried to be the big shot. He was sometimes mean to her and would slap her around now and then. But once in a while, she had enough of his nonsense. Then the fur would fly. Rolling over and over, they would squeal at each other until one was winner. Then the loser would go off into a dark corner, cover up its head and sulk for a while, looking like a small brown puff-ball.

We had the pair for over a year, then having to move to the city, we knew our pets we thought so much of would have to go back to the prairies. We would not give them to anyone for fear they would be mistreated. It was spring, so we took them to the far north pasture, where the gophers were plentiful, and turned them loose.

Dagwood took off at his highest speed and started digging, but Blondie just stood by my feet. I almost cried at that, but soon she saw her "better half" almost out of sight in a hole, and curiosity got the better of her. Off she went, and when we last saw them, the dirt was flying from the new "diggin's". I hope they were happy and perhaps by now there are several little "fuzz-balls" in that little home on the prairie.

A Christmas Letter to Rose and Doug (her husband)

2009-12-14T13:47:00.000-08:00

Bozeman, MT
1964

Hi, Rose and Doug,

You certainly picked the right present for Cherie and me-our old alarm clock was about shot-we never knew if it was right or wrong. And your card was the most charming of all we received-in fact, about the most Christmasy we've seen.

We had an enjoyable Christmas, watching Kandy and Jamie with their toys. Kandy went to bed with the little doll with the hurt feelings that you sent. Of course, Cherie let the kids eat cookies and candy instead of food, so Kandy was sick all night. We all have to learn the hard way to say "no".

We had some of that terrifically cold weather here-it was 30 degrees below one morning, but the spell lasted only a few days.

We were marooned in a blizzard for several hours, in Idaho. I had visions of us all perishing. We weren't too well prepared, as far as clothing is concerned, but, fortunately, snowplows were on the job and we made it, but it took almost 11 1/2 hours to travel 218 miles. I was relieved and happy to get home, but happy to have had the experience. That was quite a feeling, to have sleet pelting me in the face so I could hardly see, and be driving through drifts, never being sure just when I'd get stuck.

I wish you could enjoy snow and cold weather as much as I and Kandy. She's getting independent-goes out and entertains herself occasionally-also tends to travel afield, which is sort of worrying.

We had mostly bare ground, but two days before Christmas it snowed several inches.

The house trailer's crowded, but little by little we are organizing and reoganizing, for more efficiency, and it is livable, now. If we are lucky, we can buy some land next year (if I find some way to ake money), and build a log structure enclosing the trailer, with room for tools, books, car and goats. I'm a dreamer, I guess.

Doug, do you think it would pay to put a straight shift in a '50 Dynaflow v8 Buick Super? It's a pretty rugged old car, but the automatic transmission gets stiff and hard to start on cold mornings. It also is hard to start when the motor is hot, sometimes, choking itself out. What do you think causes it? If we were closer, I'd liketo hire you to work over both these vehicles (my Dodge '56 pickup, too).

I hope you are both well and happy-we're so darned busy we don't have a chance to notice whether we're happy or not, so we must be.

Hope to see you somehow this year.

Love, Lou, Cherie, Kandy, and Jamie

Another Letter to Sister Rose

2009-11-13T09:39:00.000-08:00

Dec. 28

Hi, Rose,

Thanks for the radio, and the toys for the kids. They should have enough now, so we won't have to buy them any more till they're teenagers.

It was fun to hear your voice-as Cherie said, if you want to get away from there, we should be able to send you the money. I'm sure the weather wouldn't be any worse here than there, and most likely better.

Our winter camp was fun, and educational. Wasn't very cold, but I guess that's all right for this time. We saw lots of deer, and some snowshoes (rabbits).

I have to go to school and see if I have any important papers or letters. I don't know if I'll get to go duck and goose hunting, as I wanted to, but maybe I'll survive until an elk-hunting or fishing expedition comes up.

We've been doing some wiring, shelf-building, and painting. We need an electric dryer in this country, and we needed some more receptacles, too.

So long for now,

Love,

Lou

Cowboy Poetry: "Ode to a Faithful Partner"

2009-10-22T15:35:00.000-07:00

(Written in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1952)

You are speckled now with rust, but you've helped a cause that's just,
And old Samuel would be proud of you today.
For a man of skill was he, back in 1873,
Where he sent the "Hawg-leg" to the West to stay.

There's a story long an' proud, of a gun that never bowed
To a pistol, foreign-made or otherwise.
Now, your "champeen" days are done, but, you rugged son-of-a-gun,
You've set up a record which don't need no lies.

Be they red men, black, or white; were they wrong or were they right;
When they gripped your walnut butt, they fought well-armed.
You have swung at Hickock's side, you were there when Custer died,
And it weren't no fault or your'n if they were harmed.

You've beheaded willow grouse; been called upon to kill a mouse;
And with your help, I've dined right well on goose.
Where I've rode, you've been along, and I always felt so strong
That I'd argue with a grizzly or a moose.

For you meant it when you spoke; and it wasn't any joke
To the varmint who had raised when I stood pat,
Or the gambler who had won, and proved crooked when 'twas done,
For his "hide-out" couldn't start to back up that!

Someday we're gonna part, but I'll say, with all my heart,
That you have proved the truest friend I ever knew.
Through the sandstorm and the blizzard, 'gainst the snake or Gila lizard,
We have fought and won, but now we're nearly through.

We preferred a rugged life, and we had our share of strife,
Which was what we really wanted after all.
So 'til Gabriel sounds his horn, we'll be ready, every morn
To enjoy each lively fracas 'till we fall.

Lou Jonas

Family Newsletter, to Sister Rose

2009-10-20T08:32:00.000-07:00

(This letter was written as Dad was about to begin a job as Director of the Center for Study of Natural Areas at the Smithsonian Institution. He was to hold this job for one year. Thankfully, they went on to have child #5, which was me.)

Sept 21, 1969
Bear Canyon, MT
but not for long.

Dear Friends,

Speed is the watchword, as usually; we intend to pull out for Virginia Tuesday. And the thesis isn't done, but we feel that it is past the toughest part, which was getting the data organized and synthesized into efficient tables, graphs, and figures. I'm gradually getting to be more of a statistician, and more fond of this valuable tool (statistics, that is). We will probably go through North Dakota and Minnesota, to let the kids see some different sights, and to avoid some of the possible September heat (though we might be wishing for some of it, if it turns cold.).

We will be signed onto the job, just about as soon as we want to be. First, we will have to get somewhat settled. We will live in the manor house (once owned by one of the Duponts) for a while, till other housing becomes available, since the Williw house (The large stone three-story structure) will take some time to fix up.

We 're pretty excited about the possibilities for the future. It looks like I will be right in the center of the activity, and have a chance to do anything I am big enough to do. I know some of the scientists connected with the Smithsonian, and will meet all those who are concerned with ecology and conservation (most of them), in the next month or two. I should meet all the best-known and most active ecologists in this country, and several from other countries, in the next year or two, so it looks like I will have plenty of contacts for future jobs, if any come up which I want.

We are supposed to have our fourth and last child about the 6 of November. This will be a little close for traveling, but with the camper, Cherie can stand up once in a while, and move around more. We plan to take a week for the trip, also.

This is one hunting season when my guns will get a rest. In fact, I hung up my rods early in the season, too, and have been spending ten or twelve hours a day, mostly working on the thesis. It's very interesting, but it will be a great relief to have it out of the way, and the degree in my hand, so I can start contributing to the scientific store of knowledge, instead of trying to soak it all up.

The Bull run Mts. are near Plains, and Warrenton, Va. Fine hardwoods, with turkeys, mushrooms, squirrels, whitetail deer, etc.

I carboned off the first of this letter, to allow me to write to several of you, will add a personal note.

~Dear Sis;

I hesitate to say this, knowing you might expect us to come, and we might disappoint you, but maybe we will go through Iowa again, and drop in to see you.

We'll be pulling a trailer, and to save time and money, we should take as direct a route as possible.

How are you, and Doug, and his family, doing?

How much did you use that book on self-improvement, you had there? Those things really work, but they take lots of time and effort for someone like you and me, who were so throughly trained in discouragement and cynicism. however, if it hadn't been for books like that, I would probably have committed sideways many years ago, instead of being about to get all the things I want (besides what I already have).

So Love,

Love,

Lou, C, K, J, K, and ?

A Family Newsletter

2009-10-19T09:44:00.000-07:00

July 23, 1966
Bozeman, MT

Dear Friends,

I've reached the stage where I have so many friends it is hard to put aside time to write to each one of them often enough to keep our valued friendship in good repair (I'd hate to drift apart from any one of them). So I've come up with a scheme which I hope will enable me to correspond more regularly, and let each friend know just about how things are here with the Jonases.

I've decided to write a monthly newsletter to convey all general information, and then add a personal note at the end to each individual, so that you'll know I haven't put friendship on an automated and impersonal basis.

So~here begins Newsletter No. 1, of July 23, 1966. First, I'm pretty well involved in this business of doing research trying to prove myself worthy of receiving a Ph.D. I have been to the Teton National Park several times this summer, for stretches of several days at a time. I got a chance to observe the various wild flowers as they came into bloom, and to prospect for good fishing and mushroom hunting in various parts of this section of the Rockies. This year I saw several plants which I've been looking for for years; for instance, Indian Pipe (Monotropa), and broom rape (Orobanche). Out in the sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata) we found a great many caterpillars, evidently the larva of the Io moth. I brought home a couple for pets, and they have doubled in size in three weeks, so they must be doing all right.

There is an area there where violet green swallows sit on rocks and branches, and one can easily observe the beautiful combination of colors on their backs. Those are some of the most gloriously-colored birds in existence. When I was leaving the area I have selected for camping (so I can be right in the midst of my study area), I ran upon the hugest bull bison I have ever seen. The heavy growth of long wool and hair on his front legs made him look much like a woolly-chapped cowboy of the Teddy Roosevelt era. He was a little grumpy, so I let him take his time about moving away, so I could take the road back to civilization. It was a treat to see the elk out feeding in the grass-sagebrush areas, even though it was quite a warm day, and was bright and sunny, at 5:00 p.m.

It was also a surprise to see the moose out feeding in the middle of the day. Two cows were "grazing" on the algae at the bottom of beaver ponds, and evidently enjoying it greatly. One was calfless, and appeared quiet plump, at least by normal moose standards, while the one with a calf was rather gaunt. The calf wasn't yet educated enough to know how to graze with his nose underwater, so hewas wandering around samping various leaves and twigs. Willow was quite acceptable to him, and it seemed that he enjoyed the taste of cattail leaves, too.

The moose seem to have definite preference for certain willows; just why is not known yet-there is a lot to be studied in that field. There are a great many species of willows, and even the best-known willow taxonomists make many mistakes. There must be a great deal of integradation between species, as there evidently is in cottonwoods, too. Nature doesn't have much regard for taxonomists.

My thesis will consider the various factors contributing to plant succession, trying to arrive at the reasons for cottonwoods being primary colonizers on gravel bars, a certain willow species on sand bars, and a different species on silt bars. And just how the building or washing out of beaver dams affects the communities of plants in that area. I'll have quite a challenge, gathering all the evidence available there, and then organizing it in such a manner that I can make some hypotheses which will stand up against the critical appraisal they will receive from the world's ecologists. It will be great fun anyway, even without allowing for the hours of incidental bird-watching, mushroom-gathering, an dfishing. I intend to get practically all my protein from trout and whitefish. I'll also try to get a bushel or so of suckers, for canning. We discovered that suckers have a very pleasant taste, at least as good as that of trout. The bones can be softened like canned salmon bones, by including 1 or Tablespoons vinegar per quart, and canning under pressure.

The fishing here near Bozeman has been good, with trout taking dry ot wet flies, or most anything else. A brown hackle peacock with red tail, fished wet or dry, did a find job for me the other night on Rocky Creeek, with trout (rainbow and brown) up to 11 inches being harvested. Ed Oswald, a fellow ecologists, and I caught 20 or more grayling, up to 11 or 12 inches, from Heather Lake, a rather high mountain lake at the end of a 4 1/2 mile climb. That was a fine sight, also, with a great flower bed extending for a couple miles, holding patches of marsh marigold and white buttercups, beautiful Dodecatheon (shooting star), heather, and other blooms. Then there were conies to watch, and hyalite opal to pick up, and white-crowned sparrows and finches to entertain us.

The kids are at least as entertaining as the fish and the other wild animals. Cherie took them to see the pigs the other night, and mentioned something about the "mama pig", then Jamie mentioned something about the "Jamie pig", and of course, there were "Kandy pigs" and "Kirby pigs", also. Kandy likes to see her daddy return each trip, and has to find me a prsent to show how she loves me. So she gets a pan and some wrapping paper, and fixes Daddy a love gift.

Kirby is Mr. Muscles, and has learned that he can climb, so now the period of extreme watchfulness begins all over again. He gets wildly enthused over cows and horses when he sees them close up. We want to take them to the Park to see the bears and other animals this fall, maybe sooner. We counted 7 adults and 3 young, the last time we came through.

On our last trip to the Tetons, we camped in the middle of the elk's night bedgrounds, and they woke us up frequently, either bugling or barking at the tent and car. Then some exceptionally talented coyotes favored us with a concert two different times. It was a very interesting night. And we went over Teton Pass in order to avoid the "bear jams" where strings of tourist cars are parked in the highway to watch and pohotograph bears. The east side of the pass islike a great flower garden. There are great patches of exceptionally robust fireweed (Epilobium Angustifolium), then extensive areas of bright scarlet paintbrush (Castilleja), and some fine specimens of mountain hollyhock (Iliamna rivularis). It was a very worthwhile show.

I took time to go to the top of Signal Mt., where such a fine view of Jackson Hole is available, and was treated to a great musicale there, mainly furnished by hermit thrushes. Then a hummingbird put on a display of aerial acrobatics, rising 30 yards into the air, then dropping like a bullet almost tot he ground, then repeating, while its mate watched from the grand stand in a Douglas Fir. A snowshoe rabbit was trustful enough to hop around the mountaintop near me, feeding and people-watching for a while. Then a blue grouse male was displaying on top, too-according t on eornithologist, he does that about every year, or at least one grouse does.

Time for a study period again-have to memorize a general botany text, study more taxonomy, and review Spanish again, all in preparation for course work and comprehensive exams, which I am told are really a traumatic experience. So long.

~~~~~~~
Aug. 5 I'm back from the Tetons once more, and about swamped with tasks which should all be done imediately. I need to get the battery charged, perhaps fix the starter on the pickup, so we can sell it, since it is getting a little untrustworthy, and I don't have the time and the room it requires to work on old cars. We hope to get by with just one vehicle for a couple of years, and save the money we would otherwise spend on repairs taxes, antifreeze, etc. I can use a state car to traveling back and forth to the park, I guess.

My advisor and I have about decided that we need a rubber raft or a canoe to do the work most efficiently there in the park. I've been looking at several different types of plant communities there, namely, a silverberry, and a cottonwood, and a blue spruce, and various willow species, along with lodgepole pine, red osier dowgood, and some other species. I have to use the clues present, and look for other information, to make decisions as to just what is taking place, and how long it will take the blue spruce to replace the cottonwood, and the lodgepole to replace the aspen, and what will happen if beavers build new dams, or if present dams are wahed out, and so on. It's quite interesting to a naturalist like me, but it is a real challenge. Occasionally I feel overwhelmed at the magnitude of the problem, realizing that there is much that I need to know, and that I have just one more summer to come up with a proposition that will stand up under the close scrutiny and critical attitude of several experienced botanists and ecologists.

Anyway, I'm having fun and learning a little each day. I am working on Spanish every now and then, too. There is a good possibility that I can use it in the future. The South and Central american countries are interested in hring american scientists, especially if the American taxpayer will foot the bill.

The fishing is still good here, but I don't get to partake of it as often as I'd like. I stopped at the upper Gallatin and caught some plump, tasty cutthroat trout last Wednesday.

The kids have been making lots of demands on my time, so it has taken quite a while to type this section of the letter. I'm learning alittle more aobut using carbons, and also am getting used to typing, so maybe these newsletters will be more legible in the future. I guess I had better stop and read a little in the Spanish text. So long again.

~~~~~

I've been promising the kids we'd take them to Yellowstone Park, to see bears, Rangers, and geysters, so we finally broke away long enough to doit today. Kandy was disappointed in the Rangers. In the book her little neighbor has, it portrays Rangers as sharp-nosed men who run around talking to bears, and these real-life ones seemed a little too prosaic to her, I guess. They really enjoyed the bears, though. We saw one sow with 3 cubs, and that was a nice bonus. Then when we saw some geysers from a distance with the steam arising, Jamie wanted to know if the clouds had fallen down. They were impressed with the boiling water springs, also, and the boiling mud.

While waiting for kids to go to sleep, and for the mad pace in general to taper off, at Cherie's sister's house last night, I did a lot of reading in a book called "Word Power", which I assumed was some book on vocabulary building, but it really was about the effect which our conversation has on our lives, another slant, and a very effective one, on the power of positive thinking. It made me realize that of late I've been letting negative thinking and worry creep back into my life, so I can now go back to convincing my subconscious that the "impossible" things I'd like to do are just as possible as the other "impossible" things I found I could do, if I tried.

A Letter to Rose (Dad's Sister)

2009-10-18T19:34:00.000-07:00

10 Feb, 1977

Hi, Rose,

Glad you enjoyed your Denver trip. I've been thinking of sending you bus fare to come out here, sometime next summer.

We sure would like to get some of that excess snow the East and Midwest is having such a rough time with. If we don't have a heavy snow pack in the mountains, it tends to make the summer water supply short.

We had a pretty good Christmas; the kids always enjoy it. How are Doug and Karen doing? Are you drawing unemployment pay? You should be able to get that, anyway, even if your boss wasn't paying into it.

We're always busy enough, trying to get the house fixed up, keep cars running, etc. We want to build on a utility room and greenhouse, and maybe a garage this year.

Cherie is working at French's now (they process potatoes in various ways). Marqueta stays busy, and makes a mess occasionally, or breaks something. She has lots of energy and an active mind. Jamie's becoming a very good artist. Kirby and Marq are good workers, Kandy does all right, too. She's 15 now, and has changed a lot. And Jody's still my little buddy, a nice loving kid.

Bye, with love,

Lou and Cherie, etc.

Osage Orange-Hedge Apple-Bois d'Arc is Ripe

2009-10-17T09:38:00.000-07:00

(Originally published in the Piedmont Virginian) By L. Jonas

A small tree, known to early French explorers as "Boise d'Arc," is generally called Osage orange, or hedge apple.

Its French name is well-deserved, since this is the best American wood I know of for hunting bows. Until laminated fiberglass and wood came on the scene, many archers spent long hours whittling down a strip of this hard and resilient wood, till the cast was right. The bows looked handsome, too, especially when the tips of cow's horns were used on the ends, where grooves were cut for the bowstring.

The tree was originally a native of Oklahoma and Arkansas but when the pioneers discovered what an effective hedge it made, it was widely transplanted through the Midwest and the East.

Effective is the right word for it, too! It grows quite well closely spaced, and its inch-long thorns can repel any large farm animal.

Old hedge fences can still be seen in the Piedmont, and some of them still mark the course of old Civil War roads, such as long County Road 628, near High Point, where the road was straightened some years ago.

Not only were the thorns useful for keeping animals confined, but the hedges also had their good points as far as the hunter and nature-lover were concerned.

Rabbits found them a safe refuge, especially when some of the trees had been cut, leaving a stump surrounded by living "barbed wire." Quail still parade along these hedge rows, and squirrels find much of their early winter feed in the large fruits. Birds such as the evening grosbeak apparently like the seeds, also.

These fruits also make good bowling balls for the young country boy who doesn't mind staining his hands with the milky sap. It is possible that, if it ever occurs to the medical scientists, this juice will be found to be valuable, perhaps for removing some warts, like other lactiferous plants (milkweed and others).

The thorns do present a problem where the tree sprouts up in some place where it is not needd or wanted. however, it may be that the insecticidal and insect-repelling properties of the fruit will compensate for this.

Reports are beginning to pile up of persons who put one or two of these fragrant balls in their kitchen to drive out cockroaches and other pests. Some of the social elite like to use them for the fragrance itself, just to make their old mansions attractive to the nose, as well as to the eyes.

The wood is a beautiful yellow, when not weathered, but it is as hard to chop as any wood known, and will chip a good axe blade, when dry. This hardness makes it a little tough to drive staples in, but the durability of the post makes up for this. Some of the posts, even when only two inches in diameters, will last 40 or 50 years. as firewood, it burns almost like hard coal-hot and lasting.

I've had problems with this tree, such as when cutting a staff for climbing, and chopping it out of the pasture, but it is still a very interesting member of the Piedmont flora, and like most other problems, if we understand how to use the best, and take care of the words points, we'll live a richer life.

Brewer's Blackbird

2009-10-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

By Lou Jonas

It's amazing how a Brewer's blackbird can carry three or four cabbage worms, and another insect or two, and still do an effective job of scolding an animal which is somewhere near its nest.

The nest is usually well-protected by thorns, but both male and female maintain a day-long sentry duty, and they are aggressive and active enough to put sparrow hawks and magpies to flight.

The gardener who is fortunate enough to have one or two pairs of Brewer's blackbirds nesting near his garden realizes how worthwhile it is to plant rosebushes and gooseberries for use as nesting sites. The vegetables don't begin to suffer much from insects until the young birds have matured and the family has left to take up a life of foraging in hayfields.

(Drawing by AnnaMarie Graham)

Insect Diet

A recent issue of the Montana Farmer-Stockman reported a survey of blackbirds and their foods in Winnipeg, Canada, which revealed that drop-damaging insects formed the greater part of the diet, including such as grasshoppers, beet webworms, pea and grain aphids.

The white and glossy black color of the male, along with a fairly long tail, are good clues for field identification. In strong light there are purplish reflections on the head. The song of the male is rather quiet and a little wheezy, but it comes as a welcome relief from the normal sounds of a Montana winter, such as the rattle of sleet on the window and the whining of the cold east wind.

Sociable Polygamists

This blackbird is quite sociable to its kind. Nests may be at least as close as five yard, and though females may outnumber males, seldom are there any Brewster spinsters. The male is a willing polygamist and may maintain more than one nest in his territory.

The family dog finds life more peaceful and quiet when the young have become independent. Then the parents lose their suspicious and aggressive attitude. When they have forsaken their nesting area for another year, the gardener feels sort of lonely and neglected.

"The White-Faced Hornet-a Good Country Neighbor"

2009-09-03T08:54:00.000-07:00

By Lou Jonas
(Originally published in the Piedmont Outdoors)

A teacher might envy the ease with which the white-faced hornet cant arouse immediate interest in the dullest of students.

Of course, its efficient attention-getter, the stinger, is seldom used, unless you are foolhardy enough to shake the branch of an apple tree where Vespa maculata has her nest. We have had large nests within a few feet of our door, at least two different years, and none of us except me was ever stung by a white-faced hornet (When I shook the apple branch.)

Of course, when the temperature hits 100 degrees or higher, it pays to be careful: wasps, like humans and other animals, get more short-tempered in hot weather.

This wasp has a more chunky build than most, and the white face and white stripes on a black background help to identify it.

The nest is not hard to identify, with its large size, after the colony is well-populated. Some measure as much as two feet in length in the South, where the warm season lasts longer.

In the fall, the old queen hornet in each nest has become senile, and is merely waiting for cold weather or a predator to finish her life. The young queens leave the nest, and winter under bark, or some other sheltered place, from which they emerge to begin a new colony the next spring.

Old nests are seldom used--the queen starts from scratch, chewing fibers from weather or partly-decayed wood, and builds a series of horizontal combs enclosed within a paper envelope.

Comstock said, "A small empty nest. . . is evidence of a tragedy. A queen. . . had started to found a colony. . . " but before she could rear a brood of workers to relieve her of the task of gathering food and paper, some predator such as a bird or a praying mantis had captured her.

Hornets eat spiders, caterpillars, and other insects. Wherever a farmer soaks feed for his hogs, flies are apt to gather, and there one can expect to see Vespa sitting on the edge of the barrel, revolving a fly in its "hands", nibbling around the edges like a kid with a tasty apple.

Vespa's speed is reported as 13.3 miles per hours, so a swift runner can escape the ministrations of aroused hornets, especially if his enthusiasm has been boosted by one or two injections.

Some experienced "hornet-escapers" recommend running through limber brush such as willow or hazelnut bushes, which, while swaying as a result of a man's swift passage, may whip the hornets out of the air, or cause them to ricochet and lose speed, or at least confuse them.

One article, at least, has been written about the ability of hornet venom to counteract rattlesnake venom, but the exact dosage was not specified (The best self-treatment for rattlesnake bite is still an ounce of prevention.).

Having known many veteran bee-keepers to extol the praises of bee venom (similar to that of hornets) as a preventative for arthritis and rheumatism, and knowing of experiments which were done at Montana State University, to discover the effects of wasp venom in the treatment of arthritis, one might speculate whether this readily-available medicine is not responsible, at least in part, for the good health most outdoorsmen enjoy.

Let us be properly grateful for these treatments we receive from our sharp-tailed friends.

The Valuable Elderberry

2009-08-18T08:47:00.000-07:00

The Valuable Elderberry

by L. Jonas
(Printed in the Piedmont Virginia September 29, 1971)

The common elderberry , known as Sambucus canadensis to scientists, is widely used in landscaping , and to attract birds. the multitudinous small white flowers give the bush, especially a healthy well-formed one growing in full sunlight in moist soil, the effect of a vase of white flowers.

The fruit is unusually rich in vitamin C, and other healthful nutrients. It has been a highly-regarded herbal remedy among Romany gypsies, Indians, and other herbalists for centuries. The flowers can also be used as a medicine, and are frequently used as fritters (fried after being dipped in batter).

The leaves are reputed to be an effective insecticide, and the dried leaves have been used to keep certain insects away. Cows eat the leaves, whether for food or the medicinal value, perhaps only the cows know.

Pioneers collected crocks of sun-dried elderberries and mixed them them with apples or other fruit, or by themselves, to make pie. A tea from the dried fruit, with some honey, is good for upset stomach, as well as bad colds. The juice makes a healthful drink, but is so strong, that it is much better mixed with apple juice.

Look for elderberries along small streams. It's worth getting acquainted with.

Dwarf Mistletoe

2009-06-26T10:02:00.000-07:00

From "Our Wildlife Heritage", Montana
1 May, 1962

by Lou Jonas

Here is a plant which makes it legitimate to kiss a pretty girl, furnishes a uniquely shaped wood used in Western furniture and building, and, on the scientific side, ejects a seed at about 100 times the launching speed of satellite rockets.

This is the only member of the mistletoe family known to Montana. It has been used in place of the much larger and showier American mistletoe to hang in doorways at Christmas time, but there are drawbacks. Most of these dwarfs are less conspicuous than the needles, so it may be necessary to carry a magnifying glass to prove your point.

Probably the most conspicuous sign of its presence is the "witches'-broom" which is frequently seen on evergreens. The "witches'-broom", in turn, is responsible for the peculiar malformed poles which are used in the manufacture of unusual furniture, and as supports for ceilings in many commercial places which desire a truly Western atmosphere.

A witches'-broom

The knotted Forest, extending through part of Montana and Wyoming, is a common source of this type of lodgepole log.

Scientists have timed the speed with which this plant ejects its tear-drop-shaped seed, and estimate it to be about 500 g. The initial acceleration of a typical satellite-launching rocket is between 5 and 10 g.

There are five species of dwarf mistletoe in Montana, most of them more prevalent in the western part. Each has a specific host on which is grows. The one which prefers lodgepole pine is fairly common in Bridger Canyon, near Bozeman, and, of course, in the Knotted Forest.

Another, which lives mostly on limber pine, is found only occasionally, but if one travels to the crates of the Moon, in Idaho, it came be observed on almost all the places in the monument. One species likes Ponderosa pine, another will be found on fir, and still another Western larch.

The leaves do dontain chlorophyll, so it is able to manufacture its own food, but obtains water and minerals salts from the tree. The flower is inconspicuous, and the fruits are tiny berries which cling to a limb, in case they are fortunate enough to land there, and then begin a new generation.

The Porcupine

2009-06-25T08:46:00.000-07:00

By L. Jonas
(Printed in a Montana newspaper in the early 1960s)

The blunt-nosed "quill pig" could hardly be mistaken for an "eager beaver." He moves rather aimlessly from tree to tree, and finally selects one which seems just the same as all the others.

When there is snow on the limbs to furnish drink for him, he is content to perch high above ground for weeks. He apparently is sensitive to temperature, as he seeks cover in caves or beaver holes when the temperature drops past 30 below zero.

His preferred food is the bark from all species of pine, but he will accept spruce, cottonwood or willow bark, and feeds willingly in a handy alfalfa field or corn patch, and also eats water plants.

His diet may include such delicacies as axe handles, plywood signs, aluminum pans, automobile tires and dynamite-anything, in short, which tastes even slightly of salt (Ed note: they also love rosebushes!).

Tasty Trees

Occasionally Porkie girdles young pines. Then the sugars, which are produced by the chlorophyll of the needles, are blocked above the scar by hardened pitch. This makes the area above old scars very tasty to him, as well as to squirrels and mice.

One porcupine is estimated to destroy as much as $50 worth of timber a year. In this respect, of course, he is a poor second when compared to careless hunters, with their cigarettes.

Cattle and horses sometimes attempt to investigate this creature at close range. Not fond of being handled (or nosed), Porkie wards off such unwelcome attention with a swift tail and erected body spines.

Only the fisher and big cats seem able to kill him with impunity, and they are his only serious enemies among the forest dwellers. When these predators are removed by trapping or poison, the numbers of porcupines increase greatly, and they become a threat to timber production.

One winter in Jackson Hole, from November till April, I shot 19 porcupines, in order to relieve the pressure on the pines and spruce in our area. Montana forestry officials have imported fishers to release in the north-western part of the state, to control the porcupines there.

Porcupine Meat

Woodsmen find porcupine meat a welcome change from the steady diet of venison, especially if Porkie has had access to alfalfa hay, or green water plants. If he has lived in deep timber, and eaten nothing but spruce bark, he tastes much like the tree itself, but he is still far from inedible, especially if the eater has been travelling on snowshoes all day long.

"The Value of Quiet Lands"

2009-06-06T13:30:00.000-07:00

By L. Jonas

Many people regard land as wasted if it isn't producing farm crops, or doesn't have factories or homes on it. One lady, in a letter to the editor of one paper, suggested that we clear all wilderness and other forest land, and plow them to feed the world's hungry people. Since we're not very efficient yet at growing crops on slopes, or at preserving topsoil, it would be more logical to spend the time, energy, and money on plowing up our level lawns and flower beds. If each one-or-two family dwelling was torn down, and the rosebushes, bluegrass, tulips, and flowering dogwoods were thrown away, then grain or vegetables could be planted. We'd then have more food to give to the Indians and Pakistanians, who are increasing so rapidly that they can't possibly keep up with the demand for food (It took Pakistan just 35 days to make up for the loss of the half million people who were lost in the big tidal wave of 1970. There are also persistent reports of the sewers in Pakistan being clogged with the corpses of unwanted babies.).

Of course, the greater size of fields under monoculture (The raising of one crop only) would lead to a greater probability of serious plant epidemics, such as the Southern corn blight. Since that blight has been known to attack other grain crops besides corn, it could easily be that a super-strain could mutate and wipe out ALL grain crops. In that case, we hope the Indians, Russians, and Chinese will have enough extra grain in storage to tide us over until we can switch to eating potatoes, rutabagas, or whatever plant isn't affected by the epidemic.

Are quiet lands of any value? By quiet lands, we mean a spot where a person can go to get away from city traffic, the roar of jets, and other such afflictions. How important is a white oak, a magnolia tree, or a mountainside full of rhododendron in bloom? Are they of less importance than the Louvre, and the art galleries of Washington, D.C.? Or less important than the Smithsonian?

It depends upon whom you ask.I don't mind supporting art galleries with part of my taxes, even though I've been in one only twice in my life, and could have been quite happy if I had skipped those times. I'm willing to support the art galleries and the museums, because I'm convinced that culture is the big difference between humans and other animals. I'm happy to support parks, wilderness, and quiet country roads, because they are also needed by the truly cultured person. As Justice Wm Douglas said about wilderness, "Roadless areas are one pledge to freedom. . .The logistics of abundance call for mass production. This means the ascendancy of the machine. The risks of man's becoming subservient to it are great." We agree, that men and women are more important than the technology they have created.

(Ed. note: The rest of this unpublished article seems to be missing. Dad certainly had some interesting ideas on things!)

Serviceberry Worth "Taming"

2009-06-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

By Lou Jonas, Bozeman
(Printed August 19, 1965)

The serviceberry, alias sarviceberry, alias juneberry, alias shadbush, has been a friend of man through many centuries. Indians dried the berries for winter use, and crushed them to form a cake, from which they broke off pieces to add to soup or vegetables.

Pemmican was made of ground-up berries and dried meat, with animal fat added. If a backpacker wants a nourishing, lightweight food, there's probably nothing which can beat this. Indians are also said to have made an eyewash from the boiled green, inner bark.

The white man has made much use of the berries in pies and puddings. In our family, we can as many quarts of serviceberries as we can pick each year, alawys hoping to get 100 before the season is over. Our two little children prefer them, with cream and honey, over most other fruits. Their daddy has gained energy enough to travel over a great many miles of the Rocky Mountains by eating these juicy black berries.

Lou's grandchildren enjoy serviceberries, too!

Moose, Deer, Elk, and domestic goats, and probably most other herbivores, relish the twigs, buds, and bark of the serviceberry, and ruffed grouse seem to feed on the buds more than on any other food, in winter, at least. The moose wintered so low here in our area and fed in the serviceberry patches to such an extent that it will be a pleasant surprise if there is any crop at all this summer.

Serviceberries are easy to recognize, growing as a shrub of three to twelve feet high in most of the Rockies, with an oval leaf with slightly serrate edges. The rounded mass of white flowers bloom some time in May, in Montana, a week or two ahead of the chokecherries.

There is a great difference in the sweetness and size of the serviceberry fruit, due partly to location, but also due to a difference in varieties. It would appear sensible for some horticulturist to choose the best of these varieties and develop them commercially.

A trim, attractively-flowering plant like this, with its healthful fruits, appeals much more to many of us pragmatists than a privet hedge which yields mostly exercise, and a place to spend one's leisure hours, with pruning shears in hand.

If I were going to develop the serviceberry for commercial purposes, I would investigate the patches which grow in various canyons near Bozeman, and also those growing in the Flathead Valley, along some of the gravel roads which run from Montana to Idaho. On one road there we saw the prettiest and most plentiful crop of serviceberries we have ever been fortunate enough to observe.

Comfrey-Man's Best Friend?

2009-06-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

By L. Jonas
(First printed in the Piedmont Virginian)

What plant will heal colds, infected sores, and other ailments; is good food for humans, chickens, and livestock; is insect and disease-resistant; can stand hot weather, and weather down to -40F.; is drought-resistant, and can compete well with weeds, growing well in full sun or semi-shade?

Apparently the best candidate for this position is the comfrey, also called Russian comfrey, which has been raised for human food, as well as stock food, for hundreds of years.

It produces prolific growth and needs to be cut several times per growing season in Virginia, to prevent it from going to seed.

It is rather bland, so that it is best used for mixed salads or as a pot herb, mixed with something like beet greens, spinach or poke salad. It pays to separate the roots each year, since the younger plants have more tender leaves; the older plants tend to have rather stiff bristles on them, which greatly detracts from its appeal in a fresh salad.

I had been interested in comfrey for a long time, having read of it in many places. I finally got some from C. E. Ellwanger, near New Baltimore, who has raised it for quite a few years. The roots grew amazingly well, so that it didn't take long before I had a lot of salad material.

But the thing which most impressed me was its great healing powers. Last winter, our family had more skin infections and respiratory ailments than we had in the entire nine preceding years. One severe burn on my son's hand refused to heal, though we had every salve we could buy, including triple-antibiotic ointment.

In desperation, I decided to try the old ways, so I dug up a root (no leaves were available in February), crushed it and poulticed the sore. In one day the improvement was noticeable, and the sore was well-healed in a few days.

Then, since we had bad coughs most of the winter, I began to pick the tender comfrey sprouts as soon as they appeared in early spring, and divided them up among those of us with the worse coughs. In a few days, the persistent coughs had almost stopped.

Now, this is not enough proof as yet for me to say that comfrey is the greatest herb of all, but it is good enough evidence for me to pay almost any price to keep comfrey growing around the place.

Comfrey has been analyzed, and apparently it is the allantoin in it which is such a good healing agent. The herbalists are said to use comfrey in case all other treatments fail.

Comfrey-man's best friend?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ed. note: I well remember being fed pureed apricots and comfrey as a child, as well as lots of comfrey "Orange Julius". Comfrey is one of the first things we put in the ground, whenever we move into a new home.

A Letter to Lib (Sister) and Bill (Brother-in-Law)

2009-05-03T15:37:00.000-07:00

Shelley, ID

July 25, 1971

Dear Lib and Bill,

Here goes another form letter, to let us write to everyone we wish. We had a long 7-day trip, and had to shift to low, and travel 5 to 10 miles in hour in some places, but we just had one flat, and made it reasonably well. The weather wasn't too bad; a little hot in Arkansas and Oklahoma, in the dreary parts where you don't see much except highways, traffic, and lots of people. You don't see much except highways, traffic, and lots of people. Then when you add the 30% higher prices on groceries in every state except Idaho, and some parts of Montana, it makes one even happier to get home. Northwestern Arkansas was nice, and parts of Nebraska were interesting, and they do have good parks in parts of Kansas and Nebraska. The blaze-orange butterfly-milkweed, and the elderberries and black-eyed Susans were common most of the way, and there was enough variety in the plants and crops and birds so it wasn't too much drudgery.

Kirby spent quite a bit of time up in the cab with me, naming the different birds and animals we saw, and we played an occasional game. Jody was a pest, of course, like all kids of that age, I guess, and Cherie had to stay in the camper with him most of the time. We left Kirby at one station and had to turn around, then wait till the station owner caught up with us (He had taken him in a car to catch us and we had just missed each other.

I sure don't want to make another trip like that. Twice across the country with a big overloaded trailer and camper is rough on my nerves. We moved into Cherie's old home for a while, and I am now looking for a job. Most teaching positions are filled of course, but there is one in Council, which looks like it could be a really nice one.

Then there are some state jobs, such as environmentalist, chemist, or microbiologist, which I might land if I have patience enough, and if we can find something else to keep the pot boiling till they open up (Like learning new edible weeds, and new places to find them.). I'm writing some articles, and getting my books and magazines straightened up and organized so I can find things at least occasionally.

We have two pickup loads of books, jars, sports equipment, clothes, etc., stored at Bozeman; we picked up one load and have to go back after the other. In the meantime, on that trip, maybe I can get some good fishing in Yellowstone Park. Then we have to try to get a few bushels of those prime mushrooms in Yellowstone, and go to a friend's orchard at Shoup to get fruit, if he has some unsprayed. In the meantime I'm laying a little linoleum, meeting organic gardeners, and others who are interested in preventing pollution and maintaining good health.

Out here there are drug problems, and teenage pregnancies, and other problems, as one would expect, since people are pretty much the same all over the world, and since our communication systems help the people in one place to know what every other place is like, so the resulting conformity makes on place in the U.S. much like other places, except for climate and degree of pollution. The mayor of Idaho Falls doesn't like to make any voters mad, so the only reason there isn't lots more pollution here is that there aren't so many people or factories.

I guess I'll manage, and start buying a linoleum shop, and we hope to buy a house soon. And herbs or flower seeds you want to part with? The aloe vera is still withus; how much sun do they need? How high do they get? Come out and visit; we'll try to line up some good fishing, or whatever you want. Would love to see you both again, to talk for a while. I want to organize an organic gardener's club and buyer's coop, soon as possible.

Love,

Louis and Cherie

Morels

2009-04-23T09:48:00.000-07:00

(This was published in the "Piedmont Virginian, Wednesday, April 21, 1971)

When can you find morels, the "sponge" mushrooms which are much loved by connoisseurs of good foods? Around here, the fruiting season (when the edible part appears) begins about the third week of April (depending upon how late the spring is.). The redbuds will have just begun to open, and the towhees will be singing loudly.

Bird Cherry

Bird cherries will also be in flower, as will the common meadow violet. Where can you find morels? In mixed hardwood forests, with a generally thick cover of dead leaves, and a lot of humus on top of the soil. The earliest morels will be in the more open sites, where the sun's rays have been striking with more force. The most common morels in the forest where I've hunted mushrooms are the narrow-headed morels (Morchella angusticeps). It is sometimes called the black morel. These may vary greatly in size, from as small as your little finger, to two inches in diameter, and up to four inches tall.

Yellow Morel

The size depends upon weather and soil conditions. If the minimum temperature the night before was 45 degrees F or more, and there has been a soaking rain one or two days ago, and if the relative humidity is quite high, there may be bushels of morels, large and tender.

Of course, the soil temperature in the upper inch should be 40 or 45 degrees F. If the minimum temperature dropped close to freezing, with perhaps a light frost, the morels will be small and distorted, and some may have the tops blackened by frost.

You may have decided, from this information, that morels are very sensitive to their environment, and this is true. The fruiting season will be very short if there is a late spring.

In 1970, by May 5, even though conditions were apparently perfect, there were no Morchella angusticeps to be found, and only one of the larger morels, the yellow one. This one generally fruits a week or so later than the black morel.

Black Morel

All the "spawn" in a certain site produces mushrooms within a two-week period or so. However, as you move to the north slopes, or go to higher elevations, the morels in those sites may still be fruiting. At 5,500 feet elevation in the Montana Rockies I've found good crops of the same species on July 4. And in the Crazy Mountains at 9,500 feet, I've picked them on September 15.

The black morel is a tan color when it first fruits, but soon turns black, especially if a warm sun strikes it during the day.

Look carefully at pictures of morels, so you will be absolutely sure that you have a morel, before you eat any. The surface is covered with pits, also, and not folds as in the Helvellas, which have some poisonous members in the family, and are not recommend for amateur mushroom hunters.

You may have walked past thousands of morels in the woods and never have noticed them. It's easy to do; they don't show up like wildflowers. Training in observation pays off here. Have someone point one out to you in its natural habitat, and study it carefully; as you find one and then another, you'll be surprised how easy they are to spot.

If you like mushrooms, you'd better out there while they're fresh, because insects and slugs love them, also. If they are several days old, they'll be loaded with fungus flies, maybe ants or slugs. Although a soaking in cold water will bring the pests to the top, so you can skim them off, I prefer to just admire these older ones, and then go looking for an area where young ones have just emerged that morning.

Mushrooms grow little or not at all, after the first night, so there's no point in leaving the little ones to grow.

The tastiness depends a great deal upon the preparation. As soon as possible after they're picked, put them in cold water, and leave overnight (This fills the cells with moisture, so the heat of cooking will "explode" the cell walls and make them tender.).

Next morning, drain the water thoroughly, slice lengthwise, dip in egg batter and fry.

The tastiness can best be judged by how my daughter, a mannerly little lady, reacted to it. A friend brought out a dish for us to snack on. After she tasted one, she began grabbing frenziedly with both hands and cramming them in her mouth, evidently not wanting to share them.

The larger yellow morel is better eating, in my opinion, but the black one is good enough to keep. By the way, there is a great market potential for morels. Mushroom eaters and dealers in the know agrer that the man who first learns how to raise them commercially will be able to make several million dollars, just selling the information.

Even One Moose is One Too Many

2009-04-16T08:26:00.000-07:00

(This was written in the early 1960s for a newspaper in Montana. Dad and Mom lived in a cabin in Bear Canyon, outside of Bozeman.)

By Lou Jonas

A "mad" moose can create a lasting impression-an impression of distaste which can make a man feel like shooting every one he sees.

A bull once kept me in the house for half a day in the Jackson Hole country. Each time I opened the door, he would lunge at me. When he wasn't lunging, he was running his tongue out a foot or so (it seemed) like a disturbed snake, or grinding his teeth. His eyes showed more bloodshot white than any mean bronc I've encountered.

I had been told that any moose in the world can be driven away by a man with a club, and I wanted the man who told me that to come over and prove it, but he was too busy that day.

I had a very good alibi for not trying that stunt myself. I had 54 head of horses to feed, and there was no one else to take over the job in case I became disabled. My wife suspected cowardice, and maybe she was right. It's a very thin line between caution and coward, I've found.

I was reluctant to shoot the moose, even though he was thin and old and was almost certain to die before spring, anyway. The main reason I was reluctant to shoot him was that the only trail I had on which I could drive the sled through the deep snow, was the trail the moose was claiming as his own. I had work enough to satisfy me without chopping a bull moose up in quarters, so I could drag him off the road.

The herd wasn't suffering from lack of hay, so I waited. Finally, about noon, the potential troublemaker wandered off the trailer to feed on some spruce branches. I decided that the most humane thing for all concerned was to end its misery, and this I did with a .30-.60 rifle bullet.

Once more that winter I had trouble with moose. This one, too, figured the road belonged to him alone, and it refused to let the team pass. Worse yet, it began dashing up to the horses and rearing, trying to bluff them into turning around. I consider turning a team and sled on a narrow track, through deep snow, next to impossible, so I looked for another solution.

I wasn't sure just when the bluffing would cease and the damage to the horses would begin. I warned him in every language I could think of, that I was a dangerous opponent, but he didn't seem to understand. I carefully ricocheted a .45 slug off the top of his head, and he finally understood the message I was trying to convey. He went hastily and willingly off through the deep snow, which it had been so eager to avoid just a little while before. It stopped in an aspen grove and stood there for some time, like a man scratching his head and trying to figure out what had happened.

I've heard of people having trouble with mother moose, but so far every one I've seen has dashed off in greast haste, with her little brown baby making every effort to keep up with her. However, if a calf had been too young and wobbly to run, the cow's reaction might have been different. Maybe I'll still have a chance some day to see if the "club-wielding" approach really works.

Moose have no upper incisors, but they still do an expert job of de-barking willows, aspens, maple, serviceberries and alder with their lower plate and an efficient and firm maxillary pad on top. Chokecherries, serviceberries and bed-barked dogwood appear to be much preferred, and a few moose can raise hob with a serviceberry patch, if they stay around long.

Olaus Murie, pretty much of an authority on large deer, state the willows were the "staff ofl ife" for moose. They also browse the twigs and needles off fir as high as they can reach, which is a considerable height, since they may run from six to seven feet high at the shoulders.

This winter just ended has seen a very deep accumulation of snow, and the moose are especially companionable with humans, often feeding by the house here of a night and early morning, and bedding down within one or two hundred yards. Evidently traveling is difficult in their more normal range. However, moose can winter in much deeper snow than elk.

In summer, moose feed on the lush, succulent vegetation which grows in and near marshes and ponds. They graze some, but usually have to drop to their knees to do so, because of their relatively short necks.

A moose is a find swimmer and a fair runner. He gallops only in an emergency but prefers to trot. He covers miles swiftly and for a great distance, if he realizes a hunter is on his trail.

Moose are great tourist attractions, and the meat is as good or better than elk, although there are hunters who will disagree is this. It depends partly upon the age and condition of the animal and how long it is before the moose is dressed after being killed.

Also, the moose meat I've eaten tasted much better if it was fried, then allowed to cool before eating.

Moose are interesting to watch and to hunt, and there is plenty of terrain and food well-suited for them in the northern Rockies, but they need to be carefully managed.

Overpopulaton is a relative matter, but, as you might have gathered, there have been times when I figured that even one moose constituted an overpopulation.

MotherWort , Herb of life

2009-04-06T07:30:00.001-07:00

Motherwort, Herb of Life

by Lou Jonas

Motherwort (Leonurus Cardiaca) was a favored herb among the pioneers in the Piedmont, and its hardiness is indicated by the fact that it is still found growing wild around many old houses, where the soil stays somewhat moist all the growing season, and especially where it is fertile. It is also found along gthe road which parallels the C & O Canal, but the best, most luxurious example of the plant I have seen is growing under Mr. C. A. Ellwanger's plum tree, near New Baltimore ( the same organic gardener featured in an article in the Aug. 18 issue of the Piedmont Virginian.) I gave him the start a year or more ago, and it has really appreciated that good organic soil.

The " cardiaca" part of its scientific name refers to its use by herbalists to strengthen the heart. It has long been called the "herb of life", and Richard Lucas qoutes an old proverb, " Drink motherwort and live to be a source of continual astonishment and grief to waiting heirs!" Lucas says the Japanese dedicate one of their four great festivals to this herb, probably in memory of an emperor who wasn't expected to be 15 years old, but after drinking a daily cup of motherwort flower tea, lived to be 70.

Scientists have been reported to have found much calcium chloride in this plant, and that amy account for its effectiveness, since that compound is necessary for muscle strength, and the heart is, after all, mostly muscle.

The taste of the raw leaf is so strong and so bitter that I can well believe it will kill worms in the digestive system, as it is credited with doing. A tea made from the leaves or flowers can be diluted, of course, to a strength more to one's liking.

I have been troubled occasionally during the last 25 years, with a low backache. I discovered long ago that, if I drank a cup of tea made from dandelion roots or leves, plus motherwort leaves or flowers, the backache stops within a few hours. These backaches may be caused by infected kidneys or prostate gland, and both these herbs are considered good for these ailments. Whenever I have been using the tea as a usual morning drink, I have never been bothered with the ache.

Motherwort is just one of the many interesting plants now considered "weeds" by most people. things have changed greatly since country folks had to rely upon themselves or a wise neighbor to stay healthy. Interest has been increasing tremendously in the last ten years, as anyone can see if he stops in a large book store, and looks at the stock. In fact, I have seen many books related to ecology and natural health, in the drug stores of the Piedmont.

(This was presumably written for the Piedmont Virginian newspaper, although the date is unclear. We have been drinking motherwort tea mixed with peppermint and stevia, which help to cut the extreme bitterness. We don't know how effective it will be in the long run, but it does seem to impart an overall feeling of well-being.)

"Daddy, Are All Those Men Cowboys?"

2009-04-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

(This image from http://www.cowboyway.com/CowboyPictures1.htm)

Lou Jonas

Well, honey, m-m-m, there's lots of different kinds of cowboys. There are tv and movie cowboys, rodeo cowboys, cowboys who WORK and drugstore cowboys who say, "Aw, y'all kin jist call me 'Tex'."

The ordinary tv cowboy is sort of a ringtailed curly wolf who uses his sixshooter to unlock doors, turn out lights, tenderize the skulls of badmen, and even though he misses lots of shots at close range (So the show won't end too soon), when the bad buy is about to go over the last ridge and escape jusice, he can shoot him out of the saddle.

Many movie and radio cowboys can play the guitar and some can sing; others sing whether they can or not. One was called the "King of the Cowboys", but most cowboys refused to kneel and bow to him, so they probably had no hand in crowning him.

Rodeo cowboys are ringtailed curly wolves who can prove it, and do, every time they make a good ride, or throw a fast and powerful steer. They might be veterinarians or ranch kids who go to college, but their reputation and status don't do much to impress the bulls, broncs, and calves-something more is required.

Sometimes the rodeo cowboy is actually a working cowboy in his spare time. Of course, some of them get fired for making the whiteface calves manshy, or for teaching the boss' hot-blooded parade horse to buck. but others can toss a bale of hay higher than anyone else on the ranch, and rodeo just because they are young, tough, and fun-loving (They need fun, too, if they get up before daylight every day of the year to irrigate, or start a tractor, or get out to feed stock in a blizzard.) And it could be, like your uncle Rube Moss used to do, that the winnings will go to pay the hospital bill when the next son or daughter is born. When a man has lots of kids, he has to figure out all the possible ways to make extra money.

Beginning rodeo hands, or young cowboys of most types, for that matter, look down upon dudes, and these city slickers retaliate by calling cowboys "hicks" and "farmers", but it seldom comes to more than that, except perhaps in the vicinity of some bar on a Saturday night.

Some working cowboys don't care for bronc-busting- they avoid it if possible, like your daddy used to do. It might be that the only time they do a first-class job of bronc-twisting is when there are so many yucca plants, or boulers, that it's just not smart to get thrown. when they become good ropers or wild cow milkers, it's because it was in the line of duty. Sometimes a man has to learn to rope, if he isn't fast enough to outrun a horse or calf, and get a halter on it.

The drugstore cowboys knows big hats and high-heeled boots carry a certain romance with them, so he buys the best he can afford, and hangs around western bars and rodeos and sales barns and livery stables until he learns the ling-occasionally, one of these learns to ride and rope amazingly well, and perhaps even play the guitar.

Many cowboys wear big, heavy, hot hats, along with pointed-toed, high-heeled boots. Of course, these hats are darned practical in a rainstorm, and do furnish protection against the hot sun, too. And the high heels keep a man's foot from getting caught in the stirrup, on a bucking horse (Some ranchers do blame their baldness and stacked-up "hammer toes" on this gear.). Actually, on a working ranch, you might find the men wearing work shoes and baseball-style caps more often the the traditional dress, and they wait till their day off to dress up.

So, honey, if you want to tell what kind of a cowboy a man is, you'll have to watch him working. Another fair way, and pretty accurate, is to remember that if a man is really a cowboy, he doesn't spend much time bragging about it.

(I imagine that this imaginary conversation was thought up in response to my cowboy-loving brothers Jamie and Kirby, both of whom have grown up learning everything "cowboy", and have published western novels together.)

In Defence of Open Space

2009-03-31T09:42:00.000-07:00

(This one was written for a college writing class, where Dad waxed philosophical.)

"Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles." This is how one city-reared woman described parts of the west. This is a typical attitude of those people who have been reared in a completely machine-dependent environment, and are machine-dominated to to the extent that they feel vulnerable and helpless when isolated from their mechanical master, and are far away from the place where they will be fed and housed with little effort on their parts, even those who are not self-reliant enough to provide for themselves. These people bring to mind a story by Frederick Brown, in which the world's greatest mechanics (called scientists by the people) had managed to connect all of the greatest electronic brains by a world-wide electrical circuit. When the circuit and feedbacks were all completed, the first question the head mechanic asked was,

"Is there a God?"

"There is now," was the reply. A sudden fear chilled the spine of the scientist, and he reached for the switch to break the connection. However, a bolt of lightning instantly fused the switch permanently closed.

It appears that man moves ever closer to an idol worship of his one-time mechanical slaves. The great leaders of the human race, even as early as Biblical times, recognized the danger of placing one's dependence upon a blind trust in some unseen power of a detached, inanimate force. Whether one feels that the guiding force of humanity arises from within, is a universal force embracing all mankind, or emanates from an all-wise and all-powerful Super-being to us, most thinkers recognize a danger of detioration when mankind entirely loses its self-reliance.

How else can one develop self-reliance, without being placed in a situation where one is dependent upon himself at least for entertainment and moral strength. A retreat from the pressures exerted by fellowmen has been recognized as valuable by many great leaders. Some of them, of course, emulated Pascal, who liked a quiet room in which to think and grow mentally and morally. Others, like Christ, preferred to get out where the very force of life is evidenced in a quiet and forceful way.

This impression of sagebrush and grasslands being miles and miles of nothing, demonstrates the ignorance and poor observation ability of most city dwellers (And I speak from my own past.) Since one need not worry about danger as long as he faithfully obeys traffic laws and other ordinances, and pays large taxes to support an efficient police department, he is enabled to walk through life with his thoughts withdrawn into himself, and brood about his own ill fortune, seldom noticing the worse plight of others. With head bowed and eyes perpetually downcast (Perhaps in the hope of finding a billfold of good living), if it weren't for the summer heat, he might not even realize that the sun still shines.

Even most deserts have something besides "miles and miles." I once thought of the Mojave desert as a place where life was improbable, if not almost impossible. After I saw an eagle flying away with a jack rabbit, and found that there were great numbers of kangaroo rats, pocket mice, bobcats, owls, songbirds, coyotes, insects, and snakes which are well adapted to desert life, and began noticing the various forms of well-adapted plant life, such as tiny annuals which bloom after a shower, produce seed, and die, all in a span of a few days, I gained some realization of the toughness of life, and also gained inspiration and courage to face and solve problems in my own life, instead of regarding myself as the pawn in a game between two gigantic forces called Good and Evil, each of which was so tyrannical there was little to choose from between them.

I have learned to love sagebrush county since I have become acquainted with some of the "citizens" of this type of country. Unlike some farmers who feel an urge to bulldoze out all brush of whatever description in order to make a quick fortune, regardless of the welfare of America (Which suffers every time good topsoil is blown or washed away), I feel that there is much to be learned by the study of every type of terrain in the world. Mankind is still too immature to build a brave new world, although we have the tools now which would make it only too easy to do. At least, we could build a new world, perhaps comparable to what the earth look at its beginning.

It is possible that all of us, even the most self-reliant and individualistic, could be brainwashed to the extend that we could live uncomplainingly in a bare town of brick and concrete, and even do away with trees and grass in order to make room for more people and more hydroponic gardens to feed them, but I have a feeling, perhaps a premonition, that the decline and fall of the human race would soon follow.

Another Letter to Rose

2009-03-23T08:35:00.000-07:00

June 7, 1964

Hi, Dear Sis,

We got your letter, and the card from Greenes. This is a late spring - the lilacs bloom a little, and then the weather gets cool, and stops further development for a while. The same thing happens with the apple trees, so some of these plants look rather shaggy, and unkempt. Of course, after bearing so heavily last year, we didn't expect them to repeat so soon. It looks as though the serviceberries might produce a bumper crop this year, and maybe the choke cherries, also. The Hansen's bush cherry is loaded with blossom, and also the mountain ash and wild plums. I want to look for gaint puffballs as soon as I can - there should be quite a few. I found some good messes of sponge mushrooms, or Morchellas, in our neighbors cottonwood grove. There are many, many birds around this spring - it makes it very enjoyable, and also profitable, as far as the garden is concerned.

We've planted quite a bit of garden, but some of the seeds appear to be defective. We'll have to be sure and buy from someone else next year.

*Kandy just brought me a Raggedy Anne and a Raggedy Andy doll-I'm not sure why-maybe they are a present, to show how much she loves me. She is a little interrupter, but it is nice to have her around, and very interesting. If we didn't have any kids, I would work with Scouts, just so I could maintain contact with the only humans who still retain the natural honesty of our ancestors, to a great extent. Older people become afraid of being childish if they still play with dolls, or marbles, around the hills wondering what makes the world works as it does.

Children are the most natural philosophers of all-everything is interesting to them. They don't take so many things for granted as we do, when we become blase, as most of us do. I'm glad I went back to college-it has really rejuvenated my outlook on life.

I hope things have worked out for the best for you-I almost welcome slow times here-its gives me a chance to fish, dig cattails, and write and draw. Many things which I don't take much time for, as long as there is work available.

Love to you, from all of us-

Lou

(*Kandy is my sister, and the oldest child of the family.
I love his comments on children; how true it is!)

Barn Swallows and Chimney Swifts:Ecological Indicators.

2009-03-19T08:37:00.000-07:00

"Barn Swallows and Chimney Swifts:Ecological Indicators"

by Lou Jonas

If you're the type of person who does a lot of observing and thinking as you drive across the country on vacation, here's a question you can spend quite a lot of time on. "Why are there so many different kinds of swallows? Why can't one species do everything all other swallows do?"

If your experiences are similar to mine, you will see that in country areas like the Piedmont, where the air is less polluted, and buildings farther apart, as well as there being a few barns here and there, and some banks along road cuts or along streams, the air is divided up into something like "precincts", with each species having a niche fairly well separated from those of other kinds. The layer next to the ground and up to a little above treetop level, is generally patrolled by barn swallows, and by bank and rough-winged swallows when they are present, near banks or gravel pits.

Chimney swifts will generally be higher, quite a distance above the treetops, in this sort of environment.

However, when you near one of the cities with a great deal of pollution, such as Knoxville and other Tennessee cities, you seldom see a barn swallow, and I can't ever remember having seen them in smaller cities with cleaner air, where they sometimes build their nests in sheds, or on a porch ceiling.

In the cities, the chimney swift will work close to the ground as well as higher in the air. Why this change? As near as I can figure, it is due to the barn swallow being more efficient at the fast maneuvering required close to the ground, where there are more objects to run into; yet, when the barn swallow finds it impossible to exist, as it evidently does in dirty air, and is absent, the swift can and does take over the barn swallow's "job".

Where homes are provided for the purple martin, they are apt to become established, but they, too, seem unable to endure the sooty air as well as the swift. They seem to spend most of their flying time at a fair distance from the ground, perhaps because their soaring flight adapts them well to more open spaces.

In hot, dry weather, chimney swifts tend to move out of an area, probably because insects are more numerous in times of occasional rainfall. It was interesting to see the different in Warrenton and Culpeper in the fall of 1970. Culpeper had a good heavy rain, while Warrenton and surrounding areas had been missed for weeks. There were numerous swifts over Culpeper, while they had all apparently moved from the Warrenton area.

Thus the swallows of various sorts serve as good ecological indicators. They indicate habitat conditions. Are the barn swallows getting scarcer, and the swifts flying close to the ground much of the time, around your home? Then ask yourself, "Why?" and "When will I begin to suffer from bad air?".

**************************************************

(We do have an awful lot of mosquitoes, and not very many swallows for a rural area. Could it be all the spraying the farmers do to their crops?)

The Prospector, a Poem

2009-03-15T12:40:00.000-07:00

"The Prospector"

By Lou Jonas

A brand new day's at a virgin mountain stream
Where every minute corresponds to sand, or treasure's gleam.
I operate, so patiently, the gold-pan of my mind
To wash out worthless particles, until the prize I find.

And when the stream's completely worked,and I retire once more
The glowing memories increase my happy store.
And thus I find a peace of mind, though I'm hardened miser-
My hoard of of gold will not be stolen, and I'm happier and wiser.
******************************************************

(Dad actually was a prospector for a bit, while trying his hand at being a mountain man in northern California. He lived in a friend's cabin and trapped furs. This poem makes me think of the Lord as a prospector, and each of us a panful of silt. He swishes us around with the waters of life, to see if any gold may appear. Some of us may prove to have no gold in us at all, and we'll be cast back into the stream of judgment. The good Lord knows that He has swished me around for quite some time! I hope He finds a few nuggets worth keeping.)

Organic Gardening

2009-03-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

(This was presumably written for the Piedmont Virginian newspaper.)

L.Jonas

Herbert Spencer said, "There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is a proof against all argument, and which cannot fail to keep a man in ever-lasting ignorance; this principle is contempt prior to investigation ." Many people who live by this principle scoff at organic gardening and farming being impractical, and regard the organic gardener as somewhat of a fanatic. But the thinkers are slow to condemn; they wait until they have a chance to compare the taste and looks of organic produce, and to if it really does appear to be impractical in this modern age.

The best turnips, radishes, carrots, sunflowers, and most other vegetables and fruits I have seen were those produced in a garden where the soil was good, and where there was a plenitude of natural nutrients. A good organic grower is smart, educated person, and one who is willing to work at it. He needs to understand the life cycles of pests and beneficial insects, and crop plants. For example, he knows that aphids have wings during part of the year, and during this time can invade a garden in great numbers literally overnight.

Organic gardening includes using natural fertilizers and such organic matter as lawn clippings, rather than burning them to pollute the air, or letting them wash into a stream, to cause water pollution. Of especial concern is the amount of humus in the soil. This humus is created largely by earthworms, which also, by their burrowing, help to let air and water into the soil, to keep plant roots healthy. Humus and the activity of soil creatures have a great deal to do with soil structure (And your county agent how important good soil structure is.).

The recycling of manures and vegetable waste, by returning them to the soil is part of the philosophy of the organic gardener; he gets so he realizes the important economic benefits to himself, as well as to the country, of wasting nothing, including glass and paper, and usually is most cooperative in the matter of keeping the highways clean. Chicago, and some other communities, have solved part of their disposal and pollution problems by selling the treated sewage to farmers, thereby helping the farmers also. New Jersey has gone a step further, by hauling the silt, dredged from rivers, onto farms where the sandy soils benefit greatly from it.

As the county agent in warrenton said in 1969, "A two to four-inch sawdust mulch will make a 100% difference in the productivity and ease of working, in your garden." This mulch preserves moisture, discourages slugs, sowbugs, and some other pests, keeps down many weeds, makes the soil more suitable for earthworms, which are the "soil builders" and adds nutrients to the soil as it decays.

Marigolds are planted with garden vegetables to kill soil pests, and keep many above-ground pets away also. Horseradish planted with potatoes keeps away the potato beetle. A band of sand or wood ashes around plants will keep slugs away from them. Predatory insects such as praying mantises, lacewings, and lady beetles are encouraged, and sometimes in emergencies are bought by the pint or gallon, to release where needed (However, if conditions aren't suitable for them, they may just migrate to the surrounding countryside, so here again is pointed out the need for knowing life cycles of insects.).

Now; is organic gardening really a fad, something engaged in by a bunch of health nuts who are fantatics about eating insecticides, and plants grown on deficient soils? Is it impractical? Some of the answers to those questions are beginning to come out now, through the reseasrch of various soil and plant scientists. It has been discovered that there really is a difference in the vitamin and mineral content of vegetables grown on different soils.

And when you read in the agricultural research bulletin, issued by the U.S. Dept. of Agriculture, about how the farmers in Canete Valley, Peru, had a total loss due to insect pests after having too freely used insecticides, for several years. Then, after calling in ecologists to recommend natural controls, they went back to making profits. You then begin to realize that organic farming might simply be the newest of the sciences; there is a great deal to be learned, but the rewards are great (Life, health, prosperity, and peace of mind could be some of them.).

When you further learn that a number of California farmers have turned to Dietrich (The best known supplier of predatory insects), because they couldn't afford the spraying costs, it strengthens your ideas.

Many people like organic gardening because, after building up the soil, it's easy to raise tasty vegetables, and the labor-saving makes it possible to spend more time at their hobbies, and still have the best foods. Can you think of a better reason?

(No, Dad, I sure can't!)

A Letter to Rose

2009-03-07T08:35:00.000-08:00

(This is a short letter that Dad wrote to his sister, Rose. It shows how much his love of nature permeated every aspect of his life.)

28 May, 1978

Hi, Sweet Sister,

Should have tried to get this letter and gift off before now, so you would be sure you're not forgotten on your birthday. Sounds like you're really working at dress-making.

Best wishes for happiness on your trip to Ottumwa. How's the bus service there?

It's interesting to read of those childhood memories. You know, I've come to believe fully in a life after this one; sort of looking forward to it. One more chance to begin over, and learn and progress more. It seems to me that you and Lucile and I have tried hard enough, this THIS life, that we deserve a reward, next time around.

The backpacking trip was very interesting; sure had a lot of rain there. lots of sandstone, and lots of caves to sleep in, in storms. Had to wade creeks a lot to get anywhere, so I finally went barefoot, for three or four days. mostly sandy surface, no broken glass or sand burs. Saw only ONE rattlesnake, in the whole area; diamondback, I guess; was only a foot long, with just a button.

More Pictures of desert critters

Had lots of different plants there; we made lots of tea, from wild plants. Snowed some on our way out; cold feet for a while, but I got used to it.

Have to close, leave for Challis.

Much love,

Lou

(My mother has told me that Dad used to go out and get wood for the fire in his bare feet, in the snow. He said it made his immune system strong. I tried going out once barefoot in snow, and lasted two seconds!)

The Pocket Gopher

2009-03-04T07:52:00.000-08:00

(From the Piedmont Virginian)

by Lou Jonas

The pocket gopher is an interesting animal, with a tail which acts like a guide, so that the rodent can run as fast backward as forward, and four yellow incisors which grow about four inches per month. But since he is such stiff competition, when he establishes an intimate relationship with a gardener or alfalfa farmer, the situation becomes worse than embarrassing .

If your children rush to the house screaming, "Mama! Mama! A big mouse came up out of the ground and got a pea vine!", you can be pretty sure the "mouse" was a pocket gopher. In early summer, perhaps about the first of July, you might notice a disturbance in your alfalfa field. If you watch closely, you may see a brown head appear, clip off an alfalfa stem, and drag it down a hole. If a man is fast enough and accurate enough he can dispatch his competitor with a .22 rifle. These opportunities are rare, however, however, unless one has as much time on his hands as the family cat.

Young gophers become independent of their parents in early summer and spread out to establish their own territories. Pocket gophers are called "moles" by many westerners, although a mole is much different, being insectivorous instead of a Plant-eater. The mole's fur is soft and fine, whereas the pocket gopher has a rather ordinary, coarse coat of hair.

The name is not as important as the damage he does. The two reversible, fur-lined, roomy, external cheek pouches make it easy to carry a large supply of carrots, pea vines, parsnips, and other roots and stems (as well as buds and grass) to his underground cache.

The presence of gophers is a very good reason for not leaving carrots or parsnips in the ground over winter. The gopher works all winter - he has to, keep his teeth from growing too long. The evidence of his winter's work comes to view when the snows melt. Then "ropes of dirt" show up where the gopher has disposed of it by packing it into a snow tunnel.

The long, overhanging front teeth and the long claws on wide front feet, together with the large, strong shoulders, enable the gopher to dig about three hundred feet of tunnels in one night. Many tunnels are used only once. The short hairless tail serves much like a blind man's cane, being a tactile organ which makes it possible to travel rapidly in reverse. This ability is especially desirable from the gopher's position, since he can't turn around until he reaches a junction of the tunnel.

The pocket gopher seldom stays above ground any longer than it takes to dump his dirt-filled pouches, or to steal some bit of herbiage, but in a heavy rain or during a fast spring thaw, he will have a water-filled burrow and travel on the surface to higher ground.

Geomys (earth mouse) and his western cousin, Thomomys, who are well-fitted for their niche in the ecology of America. He seems easily trapped in the midwest, but not so easily in Idaho and Montana. The most practical way to remove him seems to be with poisoned grain, dropped into small holes in the roof of the tunnels. The tunnels are located with a pointed steel rod (This of course would not be wise around pets or small children).

The Mourning Dove

2009-03-03T08:54:00.000-08:00

Here is another article from the Piedmont Virginian newspaper.

"Hunting of Doves Bothers Many"
by Lou Jonas

Is the dove a songbird or a gamebird? Grain thief or weed seed eater? The dove has been a subject of controversy for many years. Many bird-lovers would like to see dove-hunting outlawed forever, but the sportsmen dislike having to sit by and rest their guns while about 90 percent of each year's crop of birds is taken by disease, parasites, and predators.

Much research has been done on the dove by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and many state Fish and Game Departments, including that of the state of Idaho. It was found that, under usual conditions, hunting has little effect on the dove population. Doves usually live about twoyears and have a high mortality rate.

Whether hunted or not, the carryover of breeding birds will be about the same. The number of doves in any area depends upon the amount and type of food available and cover available.

The mourning dove (or turtle dove) is easily recognized by its distinctive dihouette, with pigeonlike head and pointed tail. Specialists call it a small brown pigeon, which makes it sound like a very dull bird, indeed. Actually, the irridescence of its plumage makes it one of the most beautiful.

Its voice is also distinctive, though many city boys call it a "hoot owl". Its mournful cry has a faraway effect, even though it may be perched directly over one's head.

Another "trademark" is the loudly whistling wings oas they flush from a weedpatch or perch, or as they fly overhead. Besides, the white feathers on each side of the tail are very noticeable as the bird flushes.

The corkscrew flight which the dove resorts to when in dangers is a fine defense against gunners as well as against the praire falcon and duck hawk. Few bird-hunters can hit one.

The doves eat pine nuts occasionally and also ripe grain which has fallen to the ground, but the craws are more often stuffed with seed seeds, even when they have been feeding in grain fields. Almost 50 percent of the diet of 57 doves examined in New York was found to be foxtail seeds. They occasionally also eat snails.

Most doves leave this region for warmer climes long before fall is officially over, and the ones which get caught in an early snowstorm seem rather miserable and confused. However, a few do winter in areas where snow seldom covers their food.

Life with "Flash" the Lively German Shepherd

2009-03-02T09:40:00.000-08:00

(This paper was written for a writing class at Montana State University; I love the humor!)

A friend asked us to harbor her German Shepherd pup until she could find a place for rent in the suburbs, since the pup was terrorizing the surrounding city neighborhood to the extend that the worried owner could feel the general hostility increasing daily. Many people, you see, find it difficult to tell whether a charging, loudly-growling and barking German Shepherd is joking or in earnest. And even if a person likes dogs, a pair of big dusty or muddy paws planted on his chest can be irritating.

She apologized for its name, "Sassy", saying that her little daughter had hung that tag upon the dog. We couldn't quite accept that name, and though we felt that "Savage" might have been appropriate, we compromised on "Flash", knowing that it sounded enough like "Sassy" so that the dog was not apt to become confused when her owners came to visit. Little did we know how handy this name, and its easy rhyming, was to prove.

This is not Flash, but a fitting substitute!

Flash soon established a "play pen" and "crib" on the sofa which sat on our front porch. She really preferred being inside, but she has the biggest muddiest feet of any dog we've known. Besides, where an ordinary dog would affectionately greet you with slobbering kisses, Flash chews. If she likes you, she bites you: I would think she was cutting teeth, if she didn't already have such a find complete set at seven months of age. When she affectionately raked her big fangs over our baby's skull, we refrained from using the rifle, since my wife detests blood-stained floors and walls. Instead, we exiled her permanently, except in the event of a fire, when she will be allowed to come in and rescue us.

Like any immature animal, Flash likes toys, so she scrounged the entire farm, selecting the best. The "best" includes old dirty gunny sacks, an old throw rug, any gloves or shoes carelessly laid within reach for a few minutes, tree limbs of various sizes, horseshoes, pieces of clay tile, meadow mice, and a full-grown pigeon. I can't say how she obtained the pigeon, but I saw her crouching and creeping like a coyote toward our pet magpie, so I do have a hypothesis. I suppose she would have "played" with the magpie, eventually, if our pet fox hadn't scored first. Perhaps a full-grown eagle or ostrich would be safe around here, but I don't feel that any lesser bird would long survive. Flash's choice of toys caused us to change her name to "Trash".

Later, my wife decided that "Splash" would be more suitable. We have never known a retriever or water spaniel who likes water any better. Usually, instead of traveling the path beside the irrigation ditch, she walks IN the ditch, and when we irrigate, and the lawn has two inches or more water on it, Splash is exhilarated. She would probably be very sad in an arid environment, since she seems to need a drink and a foot bath every few minutes. The result is that whenever we pet her, we get wet or muddy.

"Clash" is a fitting name, also, since it describes the reaction between her and the skunks who formerly found security under the house. The odor seems to be much weaker nowadays, so I assume that either Clash or Fire-eye, the fox, or both, have driven the skunks from their home. She also clashes with OUR personalities when she scratches on the glass of the front door with her claws, begging to be let in. This is much like the screeching of hard chalk when it is dragged across a slate. Clash is also a garden-trotter, and since we have spent so much time and energy combating a solid blanket of Canadian thistles, and feel we are winning, we are unsympathetic to big-footed, careless trespassers, especially when the trespasser carries away the bean poles. Worse yet, when she gets on the trail of a pocket gopher, she travels mostly
underground, so there isn't much choice between her efforts and those of the gopher. We do feel rather sad about scolding her, when she is only trying to help.

"Brash" makes potential company hesitate and consider, before leaving the safety of their car. One friend told me, "I'm not going in that house unless you carry me." So maybe we don't have as many visitors as if Brash were not her, but the song which says, "When you live in the country, everybody is your neighbor. . ." isn't entirely wrong, so we still have enough company to satisfy our social instincts.

Flash is a handsome dog, big, rugged, but with a vivid imagination. When she first arrived, a screen door banging in the wind signified the beginning of the end of the world. A coat hanging on the fence kept her busy barking for hours, trying to scare it away.

The reader who has had experience with working dogs knows that all these trying habits could be sublimated by giving Flash a lot of hard work. Like humans, an idle dog has to find some way of burning excess energy and developing muscles. Even though we have little time, we will have to get a strong leash and training collar, and begin obedience training so she will be well-enough behaved that we can take her on hikes, and use her as a pack animal. This winter, she will make a fine substitute for a Malemute-Why deprive her of the pleasure of hauling in wood?

Life with Flash, Trash, Splash, Clash, and Brash has been much different than it was without her, but when she is gone, we will miss the big, rough and tough mischief-maker. For one thing, she likes our little girl, and it would be worth a lifetime of putting up with an energetic dog's mischief, if she saved Kandy (our daughter) from drowning in a creek or irrigation ditch.

Panacea

2009-02-27T09:25:00.001-08:00

(This undated poem was written when Dad lived in Arkansas; perhaps the 1950s?)

Panacea

While I'm searchin' for the cottontail on misty autumn morns,
Or list'nin' for a coon-dog's bawl where varmints steal the corn,
I'm feelin' so forgetful of a world that's full of woe,
That it's better than a "super-drug" which "heals you, head to toe."

When that Bushy-tail is teasin' from the highest red-oak branch,
Or I'm trav'lin' on a Quarter Horse on some Wyoming ranch,
I can never keep my mind on all the "dirty politics"
That seem to be the fuel on which the av'rage gov'ment clicks.

When the lunker spanks th' water with a sort of crashin' splash,
Or I'm searchin' for a pa'tridge up in some old loggin' slash,
Then I get a sort of feelin' that I can't find nowhere else,
It's the kind of restful happiness that whips the gloomy spells.

So take your thirty-thirty, or your fly-rod; call your dogs-
And come with me to find the bucks, or wall-eyed pike, or hogs.
I guarantee that you will be the healthiest man alive,
For old Doctor Mother Nature has the "dope" to make you thrive.

The Black Rat Snake

2009-02-26T11:59:00.000-08:00

"The Black Rat Snake"
by L. Jonas
The Piedmont Virginian

The climbing abilities of this snake are almost unbelievable. George and Meg Coleman, who live near a timbered hill west of Marshall, told of watching one climb the side of their home, by pressing its body against the angle where one piece of siding overlapped the one lower down, and move horizontally for a foot or so, then move up to the next one. This was smooth, painted aluminum siding!

You might get an idea of how highly I regard the Coleman's honesty, when I say that if most other people had told me of that, I wouldn't have believed it.

Photo courtesy of Lynn Wilson, A Mother's Journal

However, I have seen black rat snakes, or pilot black snakes, as they are also called, about as frequently up in the rafters, as on the ground. they are reported as sometimes "establishing residence in cavities high up in hollow trees."

The black rat snake might be confused with the black snake, or black racer, which is much slimmer, and faster. The rat snakes are shaped like a loaf of bread in cross section, while the black racers are round.

This snake has a peculiar habit of "freezing" with its body bent at such sharp angles, that it looks like a car had run over it. This is especially noticeable when you surprise one on the road.

This snake has some enemies, of course, besides the farmer who might kill it because he thinks it is after his chickens, when it is really more apt to be catching rats and mice.

Foxes eat it, and red-tailed hawks are perhaps its greatest peril. It is amusing to see farmers kill hawks of all kinds to "protect the quail," when the hawk could easily be benefiting them, by keeping the snake population down where it isn't much of a menace to nesting quail.

Snakes play an important part in the ecology of the Piedmont, but when the balance is disturbed too severely, they might multiply to the point where they keep the bluebird population too low. It is interesting to watch rat snakes, and they do a real service in keeping the mouse population down, but it would be great to also have some bluebirds around.

There is a superstition we've heard emanating from those persons who feel that every wild animal is a menace. This story says that black rat snakes should be killed, because "they cross with copperheads, and then their babies are poisonous!" I will pay $100 to any person who can bring me a hybrid ratsnake-and-copperhead. If they cross, what do the offspring look like?

The long, black forked tongue of snakes is one of the reasons many people fear them. They even call it the snake's "fangs." The reason for the thrusting out of the tongue is that this is the way the snake picks up molecules of scent. Then the tongue is thrust into special organs inside the mouth, where the information is received.

Snakes don't hear well; they get vibrations from the ground instead. Most of the see fairly well when close up. They see, and smell, well enough so that Black rat snakes mate with their own kind, and if they hybridize, it is with other species of rat snakes, where their ranges cross.

What is Ecology?

2009-02-25T08:51:00.000-08:00

"What is Ecology?"
-from The Piedmont Virginian Newspaper, 7 July, 1971

By L. Jonas

Have you asked yourself any questions like these:

Why were there lots of bobolinks singing around the place last year, but none this year?

Why is it that one day my roses will be free of aphids, and the next day there are dozens on them?

Why was it that I saw no deer at all on opening day, when the week before in the same places where I hunted, there were many of them?

If you've ever wondered about such things, and if you've even farther and and figured out some satisfactory answers once in a while, you're an ecologist, whether you can define the term or not.

What is an ecologist? What is ecology? Ecology is the name given to a science which studies living things "at home", that is, in the place where they normally occur.

For example, what effect does a gray squirrel have on oak forests, and on farmers? What effect does the farmer have on the oak tree , and on the squirrel?

A good hunter knows that deer will be in different places on a cold, windy day than on a warm, quiet day. He also knows that deer eat different foods at different times of year, as do grouse.

Grouse, for instance, eat a lot of buds in the winter, while during hunting season, they are looking for wild grapes, and other fruits. Furthermore, he knows grouse won't be far from water, since they do most of their traveling on the ground and like everything (food, water, and shelter, as well as a bed for the night) within easy walking distance. The hunter is, therefore, an ecologist. The good fisherman knows that trout lie facing the current, and usually in a relatively quit spot, so he walks upstream and casts his fly so it drifts behind rocks, logs, and other obstructions which slow the current down.

The good gardener knows that, at certain times of the year, aphids have wings and migrate, so that they can suddenly appear in sizable numbers. He also knows that if he spades up some sod, annual weeds will usually appear in great numbers (Seeds of pigweed and many other common weeds will lie dormant in the soil for 10 to 20 years until the conditions become favorable for germination.).

The nature-lover may wonder why bobolinks are so plentiful one spring, and are not around at all the next spring. Part of the answer lies in the weather. If a late spring keeps things so cold that birds can't find food in the northern part of their range at the normal time, when the weather does warm up, they migrate at a much faster speed than in other years.

And then there are fluctuations from year to year in the population of different animals, from disease or lack of food, or other unfavorable factors which limit the number of young raised.

For example, in the autumn of 1969, when I walked through the woods in the Bull Run Mountains, with our dog accompanying me, I could count almost every chipmunk there, because wherever the dog went there was a circle of protesting chipmunks.

In 1970, there were very few chipmunks; I seldom saw one crossing the road, and seldom did one scold when I walked through the woods. Now, this summer we are seeing young and old chipmunks quite frequently. What accounted for the great different in numbers?

One good explanation is that the acorns in 1969 were practically nonexistent, as was most other food, evidently this being due to the past few dry years, which have affected the vigor of all trees and shrubs, even the tough chestnut oaks and hickories.

The year 1970 wasn't very good for mast (The nuts of forest trees which accumulate on the ground.), either, but there was evidently enough to see the chipmunks through the winter.

However, 1970 was the poorest squirrel-hunting season I have ever seen or heard of. Two years of little or no mast has evidently affected the squirrel population. Since the grey squirrel is quite a migrator, if food is plentiful this year, they could move back in, if populations are high in other areas not many miles away.

How true is it that quail and hawks cannot co-exist? There are still many hunters who shoot every hawk they see, claiming that the redtail hawk never misses a quail which he tries for.

I'd like to see some proof of this. From what I've seen of quail, if you give him good cover and plenty of feed, he will be there, with a goodly number of descendants. Anyone who has hunted quail much in good quail country should know very well that it isn't easy to hunt out quail, unless you trail them in the snow and covey-shoot them.

By good quail country, I mean an area where there is plenty of protection, such as bushes and scattered trees, and especially plenty of nutritious feed during the tough season, especially winter.

The same goes for any game species, of course. Many studies have shown that it isn't predators which make the difference (except for man); it is the question of suitable habitat, ALL YEAR LONG.

An ecologist is a man who likes to face questions, and then find the answers.

Those amateur (or professional) ecologists I have known never wasted away after retiring from their jobs; they just had more time to spend finding out answers.

An ecologist never runs out of things to do!

Welcome

2009-02-24T19:39:00.001-08:00

Dear Reader,

I hope you will enjoy this new journal of my late father's writings; these writings mean a lot to me, since he died when I was young, and I have no real memories of him.
His words have helped me to know him better.

He wrote articles, cowboy poetry, and wonderful family newsletters, which are just too good to keep to myself!

My dad's the one on the left~ He served in the Army during World War II.

I will add to them as time allows, in no particular order.

May they be a blessing to you.

Love,

Marqueta