Poisoned!

Our Memorial Day began pleasantly with a drive south to the Florida Keys where our aging sailboat is moored in Florida Bay. Once onboard my husband motored to a small mangrove covered island, one of our favorite photography spots.  

 

We’d visited several times in the past, exploring the depths of the red and black mangrove woods to photograph tropical birds that roost there. On previous trips we spied on great white egrets and their young tucked in stick woven nests high in the tops of waving mangrove branches.

 

 

On this visit we found at least ten active nests of double-crested cormorants. Choruses of peeping chicks greeted us. Anchoring and paddling to the prop-root covered shore in our small dingy, we began a slow and careful trek to the island’s interior. We moved quietly, respectful of the nesting birds. Climbing gingerly from root to root while hanging onto slender tree trunks or carefully stepping between the numerous pencil-like breathing tubes, or pneumatophores, of the black mangrove that protruded from the damp marl floor we finally positioned ourselves behind the cormorant’s nests. White guano covered everything: nests, branches, tree trunks, and forest floor around the rookery making our surroundings more than unpleasant. Getting a clear shot of a nesting cormorant seemed nearly impossible due to jungle like vegetation and the 18-20 foot height of the nests. Only occasionally would a tiny beak pop above a nest’s rim.

 

 

After a few captures, we proceeded inland. As I grasped a tree trunk for stability, instantly a searing pain shot through my palm, a sensation much like plucking a hot coal from the fire. “Ahh! What is that?” I cried. There on the trunk sat a seemingly innocuous hairy gray inch-long caterpillar.

 

 

 

The pain intensified. Overwhelmed by the need to get to the shoreline and plunge my hand in saltwater, I forged ahead of my husband. The water felt cool, yet brought no relief. Once back on our boat I realized that the poison had begun to spread. My palm had become red and swollen and now my thumb felt on fire. The way back home demanded patience and endurance. First, we had to ask another boat to move so we could back away from the island. The winds had picked up and become contrary, so the trip back to our mooring presented challenges. As the poison spread, finger by finger along with red trails of inflammation, I soaked my hand in a bucket of saltwater and prayed. Deciding to head home instead of seeking assistance we found the highway blocked by Memorial Day travelers and single lane traffic due to bridge construction. Meanwhile, my whole hand continued to burn with unbearable crushing pain. It felt cold, but it wasn’t, and my joints ached deeply as the intense hurting came in waves, yet I knew I would be okay.

 

By the time we reached home, about five hours after being stung, my entire hand had swelled and my wrist ached as well as the muscles of my forearm. I went straight to the Internet and learned that I had been stung by a puss caterpillar, the most poisonous caterpillar in the United States. I also discovered that immediately applying scotch tape to the wound might extract some of the poisonous spines, so I tried that even though so much time had passed. Online accounts from other victims said that a poultice of grated ginger and potato brought relief. Quickly, my husband prepared the vegetable mash and applied it to my hand. I kept that on all evening, changing it when it began to dry. All throughout the evening I felt so restless that I couldn’t sit still, so I walked around the neighborhood. About 12 hours after being stung the pain eased slightly and amazingly I fell asleep. When dawn awakened me, all of the swelling had disappeared. Although I felt bits of soreness come and go during the morning, by noon all pain had left. My hand, however, bore the brand of the caterpillar’s spines.

 

 

When reading of some of the severe symptoms that other people have suffered, such as swollen glands, shock, fever, muscle cramps, and pain lasting four to five days, I am so grateful. I know that God heard me and answered my prayers.

Mother’s Gift

 

Sweet roll dough is a living thing.  Born of ordinary ingredients, flour, milk, sugar, salt, butter, lemon rind, and a bit of yeast, it came alive in my mother’s hands.  Mom made bread for the family every week, but she dedicated Saturday mornings to making sweet roll dough.  After pulling open the stainless steel lined flour bin that Dad designed for a deep kitchen drawer, Mom repeatedly dumped cup upon cup into her huge ceramic bread bowl.  Warm scalded milk and melted butter cooled until the glass thermometer granted permission for yeast to be added.  Magically the mixture foamed and swelled.  Swish, it splashed into waiting flour mounds. Mother let me help mix the mass with a wooden spoon until my nine-year old arms grew tired. Plop, out it went, lifeless, onto the thick wood block countertop for kneading.  I wonder how many times during my growing years I watched my mother pull, fold, and push dough into being.  Under the heels of those strong hands grew a soft, warm, elastic lump.  Then, as gently as Mom held my baby brother, she placed the powdery form into oiled crockery where snuggled under clean linen it grew until doubled in size.

 

 

Meanwhile, I drifted in and out of the kitchen watching and anticipating the very moment for filling and shaping. Mom always saved me a portion of her dough.   While she crafted a pecan coffee cake ring, I selected my own fillings.  Raisins, chopped dates, walnuts, cinnamon, sugar, and cold lumps of butter lined up across the counter.  I had the freedom to create whatever Danish delight I could imagine. Pushing and stretching the resilient dough into a rectangle with a large rolling pin I scattered flavorful bits of nutty sweetness across my canvas.  Satisfied, I carefully jelly rolled my collage and then scored the top in three inch intervals.  Another rising and Mom popped it in the oven.

 

 

 

Riding my bike back and forth by the open kitchen window, I sniffed the air for the enticing scent that said my coffee cake had baked to perfection.  Throwing down my bike, I raced inside for the first taste of freshly torn bread, steamy and sweet.  Warm as my mother’s hug, the tasty morsel more than satiated my hunger; it filled me with a sense of accomplishment and belonging.  The indelible bonding between mother and daughter achieved during those sacred Saturdays in the kitchen became a perpetual treasure. The life she gave to our sweet roll dough is mine to keep forever. Thank you, Mom.

 

Serendipity

Finally, the loggerhead shrikes have returned. I didn’t see a one all winter. An indicator species, their absence concerned me. I wondered if rampant development of mile after mile of urban sprawl wiped out some of their habitat. Now, screaming babies and busy moms fielding everything from bugs and worms to anoles can be seen once again among live oak and gumbo limbo. Sporting smartly tailored tuxedos of gray, black, and white, these diminutive predators seem to like our neighborhood park.

 

 

South Carolina Wildlife TV filmed these fascinating birds in the wild. You can watch the video here.  

 

 

I remember one day last year when I arrived home late, weary from another long day at work. According to habit, I quickly changed into shorts and started out on my daily two-mile stress relieving, reenergizing walk. Thoughts of plans, conferences, and deadlines raced through my head. Reaching the end of our street, I swung onto the winding path that traverses five acres of open lawn and shady trees at the end of our subdivision lake. Reeboks pounding, arms methodically swinging, and head held high, I purposefully powered across the damp pavement. Recently showered, the landscape glistened with tones of chartreuse and emerald. A white goose silently escorted duck companions across placid lake water as I pushed by.

 

 

Then, suddenly an explosion—two loggerhead shrikes burst from their hiding place in a mahogany just to my right. Chattering, teasing, they tumbled through the air, popcorn like, black and white tails flashing. Threading through leaf laden branches from tree to tree, twisting and turning, they danced in aerial ballet. Startled, I froze, mesmerized by the joyous symphony of their wings. Oh, the pure delight; the utter abandon of their dance.

 

A breath of wind brushed my face, a call perhaps to join. Dare I? Intentionally oblivious to the possibility of peering eyes, my feet left the predictable path and I sprinted, arms open wide, across the verdant lawn. A two-year old again, I lifted and twirled, dizzying myself with glee. Falling to the ground I sat, laughter bubbling up and bursting from within. Caving into the grass I surveyed the sky, tracking animal shaped clouds on their journey. How long I lay there, I’m not sure, but when I got up and resumed the pebbled blacktop, a new melody sang within—a song of freedom, of renewal and abundant life. Two loggerhead shrikes capped my day with a bit of serendipity as creation waited for my response.

 

Mango Madness

Our mango tree budded early this year. The first blossoms popped out in February due, no doubt, to a warm winter. White Peacock Butterflies like the one above flitted among chartreuse buds and pink blossoms in search of tropical nectar. Two more bloomings yielded a tree peppered with various sized fruit, temptingly dangling on long magenta stems.

The first fruit seem agonizingly slow in maturing. As a result, my husband and I assumed the mango watch. Each morning on arising we dash outside to examine the tree for ripe mangos. When we find one it’s rushed into the house for safe keeping. Why, you might ask, is this bizarre behavior necessary?

First, mangos take premier place as the most luscious fruit on earth. As proof of our infatuation, lunches over the past two weeks have only consisted of tall ice cold mango smoothies. There are some great mango smoothie recipes online. I like to make mine with a cold or frozen mango, a banana, the juice from a fresh orange, and 1/2 cup of plain yogurt. My husband enjoys added ice. Sometimes I include other fruit such as fresh pineapple, strawberries, or blackberries. Spin it all in your blender and you have the most delicious, nutritious drink imaginable. Chef Allen Susser, the Mango Man and spokesman for the National Mango Board, has posted a variety of gourmet mango recipes on their site.

Secondly, we’re not the only area residents who lust after mangoes’ sweet flesh. Two gangs of thieves have invaded our private property in quest of tree born treasure. Fortunately, we’ve managed to identify the ringleader of the primary gang—the Fangs. I’ve posted the scoundrel’s mug shot below. Should you spot this intruder, please notify the proper authorities.

While the Fangs usually strike in early morning hours, the Peckers operate throughout the day. Brazenly they rush in yelling, “Thief, thief, “as if we couldn’t discern their intent. They’re the strike and run, or should I say fly, type. Peck a hole in the plumpest mango on the tree and then split. That’s their M.O.

Desperation has forced my husband and me to formulate and propose various security measures including use of the power wash hose, blowguns, and painting each mango with chipolte pepper sauce. Unfortunately, each plan has its drawbacks. If you know of a better offensive tactic, please get in touch.

Note: For an update on our mango saga, see Mango Munchies.