The Woodlands of Ivor

04/10/2026

Osprey have come back for a second year.

04/10/2026

Lessons Of The Chickadee

I was on my knees last week with my hands in some of the richest most glorious soil! The sun was throwing warmth all through the garden while titmice, crows, pine warblers goldfinches and wrens sang out a forest aria not heard since last April. For a year I have been deprived of springs dulcet melodies! I was thinking about world affairs.

A chickadee flew down to a lower branch in the peach tree I was working by and literally started scolding me in that bossy little elfin way they do when the feeder is empty or you’ve stepped too close to a nest site. Since neither was the case, I decided she was reading my mind and felt I needed a lesson on being present and grateful for the gifts at hand. She was ardent in her presentation and once again my forest garden was turned into a lecture hall. Fortunately for me, the tiny professor required only my attention and not a full understanding of the course for a passing grade. It seemed that she stayed long enough to be sure I understood the assignment, when I nodded my assurance she moved on.

I judge my garden soil not just in its ability to grow happy plants that flourish but also in the quantity and health of insects that live here. The wren that follows closely is also very interested in any insects I may uncover. She has several songs for my listening enjoyment and would be only too happy to trade one for a tasty arthropod. We have a game we play every spring. She hides her nest and I try to find it. This year she has chosen the end of a rolled-up hammock on the porch of the “Orchard House.” I checked on it today; it was part of my homework from the chickadee. The long tubular nest made from moss, leaves and grasses held one tiny egg. A priceless jewel, and assurance that our orchard and gardens are suitable sanctuary to raise a family. Her mate is a frantic little soul, skipping through the underbrush like a tiny rufous mantled Don Quixote tilting at windmills and asking “When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?”

Always a suitable question to be asked when dealing with the affairs of mankind. If only world leaders could spend some time in a forest garden under the chickadee’s tutelage.

If they could not absorb the wisdom from this diminutive scholar, at least it would be a fine place to bury them!

In the spring, there is much work to be done here for the human resident. The forest is always trying to take back the space I’ve borrowed and the deer feel that our orchard and gardens are a banquet table laid out specifically for them and the raccoons. The squirrels have found our plums much to their liking, and the crows and ravens have decided that our peaches go nicely with local roadkill. We’ve built cages over our blueberry bushes just so we could enjoy not sharing all of them with the robins and cedar waxwings. Raspberries and blackberries; well, we do get some of them. My wife gets more aggravated than I with what she perceives as thievery. My focus is on the growing, nurturing, and creating a magical place that feeds the locals and gives back something for what we ourselves have taken. It does get frustrating though. It’s a lot of work, time and expense keeping up a property like this. If you add the maintenance of a twenty-year-old log home to the list it can feel at times, overwhelming.

Here is the tradeoff; waking up in the mornings to an open window and a multitude of bird song, sitting on the porch watching a heard of deer casually cross the driveway, raccoons, opossum, and flying squirrels coming to your window after dark wondering where their snacks are, coyotes singing, barred owls barking, a night sky filled with stars, fresh clean air and water, and a certainty that you are connected to it all, and sustain a symbiotic relationship with your piece of the earth. However temporary this life may be, you’ve done and are doing your part in creating sanctuary.

The world is shrinking of late and seems to be closing in on our oasis. I’m not going down without a fight. As of today, I’ve unsubscribed to all political Substack newsletters and limited my news consumption to a couple journalists I trust. Perhaps, in time, the algorithms will have noticed and my feeds will go back to nature and essays on the environment. Limiting what I consume and put in my head to things I love and can do something about is freeing.

Last evening my wife and I sat on the porch enjoying a glass of wine and each other’s company. A whip-poor-will started up its long hypnotic chant just as the full moon rose above the trees. Its reflective light cast long silent shadows across the forest floor and illuminated this natural amphitheater like stage lighting offered for an emphatic, yet vailed soloist. It was a thrilling experience since neither of us has heard a whip-poor-will for years. When we lived in West Virginia in the early 90’s rare was a night in spring or summer that a whip-poor-wills relentless circulating song did not fill the woodlands. Whip-poor-wills time the hatching of their eggs to about ten days before a full moon, thus ensuring the brightest light for ease in hunting flying insects to feed their young. Even their impeccable timing and expert hunting abilities has not stopped a 75% decline in their populations since the 1960’s.

I was alone this morning. The forest was fully awake before I stepped outside. It was late for my inspections; the workers don’t wait, and move on without the benefit of my amity.

I thought about the whip-poor-wills song last night and it broke me. It reminded me of how quiet the woodlands and meadow spaces have become since I was a boy and all we have lost. Other voices I no longer take for granite; bobwhite, meadowlark, the thumping wing beats of a ruffed grouse, spring peepers and wood frogs, stream banks lined with croaking leopard frogs, bull frogs and so many others. While they may yet be common in some parts of the country, here in the Blue Ridge mountains of western Virginia, where our streams, meadows and forests offer a perfect habitat, their voices have gone quiet. On some days, is their loss not too great a burden to bear?

I know that I have been able to teach my children a way to see into the natural world in ways that others cannot. What of my grandchildren then? There is less to see, less to know, less to become intimate with and love. Is something you do not have relationship with still worth protecting?

More than ever, the focus seems to be on the man made. How marvelous we are in our inventions and how easily those inventions manipulate us into believing the natural world offers nothing we can’t produce for ourselves. It doesn’t take a very astute observer to see that our species seems forever doomed to invent ever more sophisticated technology but never mature sufficiently to comprehend or control our own inventions.

It is not the man made that I will focus my attention on today. Springs season is here and she reminds us, time is short. There is much to be done, much to observe, and so much to learn. The forest does not give up her secrets easily. She whispers them in a language that takes a lifetime to understand. So, into the forest I will go, and pray, as Thoreau has written, “that my mind will be equal to the occasion.”

01/21/2026

The Legacy Of My Hands

With all the ugliness going on in the world it’s easy to become overwhelmed and distracted. Sometimes I take for granted all the peace and beauty that surrounds us here in the Blue Ridge mountains. Even the soothing pulse of the forest that surrounds our home and breathes incantations of enchantment can go unheeded when the outside world spills over into our Eden.

An early morning walk in the quiet company of a canine companion often helps to bring focus back to what’s important.

This morning, the steady rhythm of a wagging tail, happy panting, and crunching snow under my boots acts as a mantra that guide my mind from petty grievances and a mountain of problems, I did not help to create nor have the power of solution.

We sat for a while near the base of Chestnut Falls watching a belted kingfisher make dive after dive in his ambition; securing a slippery, scaled breakfast that would give him the energy needed to fend off the cold this frigid December morning. His efforts ended in success and a long chattering song of gratitude. I would have sat longer, but my companion is in the prime of his life, and sitting still for any longer than necessary is hard on his constitution.

We continued our walk along a trail that paralleled the stream. A startled buck exploded from his resting place and bounded across the stream causing much consternation in my young friend. But it was a dray of grey squirrels using a great naked oak as a super highway for a chattering game of tag that put him over the edge. He pulled on the leash like a Lipizzaner stallion pulling on its reins, lifting his front legs in a gallant prancing maneuver while snapping his jaws in their direction but catching only the empty space in front of him.

In between the stream and the trail stands one of the most magnificent beech trees I’ve ever seen. During the month of October, the emanation of brilliant yellow from its massive crown affects the entire area. During the rest of the year, its aura is no less noticeable and impossible to ignore when you pass by. I have always been drawn to the bark of beech trees; they remind me of an elephant’s skin. Sometimes when I come upon a beech tree in the woods, I feel compelled to put my hands on its trunk like I am feeling for a heartbeat beneath the rhytidome. Today was no different.

What was different about today however, was that it was not the bark that I found myself looking at, but my hands. They were my father’s hands. I have never spent much time thinking about growing old and have always enjoyed good health and athletic strength. I have watched my face in the mirror age with amused satisfaction, knowing I have earned every one of those lines and each one would tell a story if I ever gave them the time to listen.

I looked at my weathered hands, palms pressed up against the surrounding gray and felt a certain kind of pride mixed with gratitude for what those hands have been able to experience these past 67 years. They’ve cradled my new born children, grandchildren and now even great grandchildren, built two of our homes, stroked the heads of many dogs, nurtured and helped to heal hundreds of wild animals and held them one last time before releasing my grip to the forest, meadow spaces, or stream. And often, my hands were used to bury them. Many times, my hands were used to wipe away the tears from the faces of my children and my wife and from my own face when we buried our oldest daughter. They were used to write love letters and caress the body of the one woman I have adored for 50 years. Many times, my hands were shoved deep into my front pockets or folded over my arms in prideful defiance or resistance to wisdom that came eventually at too high a cost. And my hands have spent many thousands of hours in the soil, planting, nurturing, harvesting.

Building, creating, nurturing. These are the things I want my hands to be remembered for. They have been much better stewards of their gifts and abilities than perhaps my mouth has been. I know the words I have used may have been creative but were not always used to build or nurture.

When I die, undoubtably, some stranger will fold my hands over my chest and glue my mouth shut. The legacy of my hands and my mouth will be all I will be remembered for.

But the seeds I have planted . . . now there’s a hopeful image.

02/26/2024

The weather has been unusually warm for weeks now, it's only the end of February and today I heard the two sounds that have signaled the beginning of spring my entire life; the song of a red winged blackbird and the call of a spring peeper. I can’t remember a time when red winged blackbirds have r...

02/16/2024

Every creative person needs a space of their own where they can create. What happens when the space becomes the creation?

02/05/2024

It may seem like an odd time of year to be thinking or writing about dragon flies but I came across some photos I took last summer and it sparked my imagination.

10/28/2023

It’s just after dawn on a fine August morning and “Harby” the crow has just flown in from places unknown. He’s perched in a pine tree by the house announcing to the world that he is awake and ready for action. And therefore, everyone else should be as well. He is our flying alarm clock and arrives most mornings about a half hour after sunrise. He continues to call until like magic a human appears on the porch with his breakfast. Usually, an assortment of moistened cat chow, steak and hard-boiled egg yolk. He is also content to share in whatever you may be having for your own meal. He’s not fussy.
“Harby”, is a shortened version of his name “Harbinger.” He arrived here in the early part of April with an eye and upper respiratory infection. He was abandoned by his parents probably due to the illness and was found by a neighbor while walking his dogs.
Harby spent his first few weeks with us in the house. A small cage was his home and a convenient place for us to watch him while his illness was treated. In short order Harby made the transition from cage to the freedom of the great outdoors. He spent a few hours outside each day under our protective eyes strengthening his wings, gradually increasing the time until he spent his first night out alone. We were, and still are concerned about the possibility of an owl snatching him up while he sleeps. So far, he has eluded the patrolling eyes of our local barred owls. During the day he is very alert to even the smallest speck high in the sky, instinctively wary of the ever-present threat from hawks. It’s a dangerous world out there beyond the windows of our safe and comfortable houses.
We’ve had the pleasure of raising many crows and a raven over the years and each one was a challenge. With high intelligence comes curiosity, uncanny problem-solving abilities and a wicked sense of humor. (As long as the joke is on someone else.) They require copious amounts of stimulation and attention. It’s not a small matter raising a corvid.
Harby, has already become a minor celebrity locally as he visits the neighbors regularly and involves himself in their outdoor activities. But there are dangers in his lack of fear of people. A Fed Ex driver was making a delivery recently and was unaware there was an avian welcoming committee. When Harby flew down on the driver’s head to introduce himself the driver thought he was under attack and swatted poor Harby away. It could have ended badly with the bird seriously injured. We live close to the New River Trail that is used by hikers, cyclists and people riding horseback, it’s only a matter of time before Harby sees a likely candidate for a new friend and tries to introduce himself in typical “Harby” fashion. This will always be a problem when we allow a young wild animal to imprint on humans.
He’s also made friends with the crows that call this area home. In all likely hood they are his family. He disappears for hours at a time and is often seen in their company. He is easy to recognize because he is smaller than the others and has several broken tail feathers. If I pull the car over and call him, he leaves his crow friends and flies to the car and rides home in style.
His flight skills have improved dramatically over the course of a few weeks. He can dive from great heights reaching uncanny speeds before folding himself in for a double corkscrew roll and an abrupt but accurate landing on the front porch railing. He stands tall and confident while receiving gushing accolades on his performance. Like all corvids, he enjoys having his head and neck scratched and will make it known when he’s ready. If he sees me stealing a moment resting on the hammock, he’ll land on my chest put his head down and often falls asleep while I’m scratching his neck. Our German shepherd “Bosley” has a begrudging tolerance for his feathered nemesis. His nose is out of joint lately because he feels Harby gets too much attention. That’s precious time that could be spent fetching balls and going for walks. Harby does join us for walks through the woods or down our stretch of gravel road. He’ll fly from tree to tree often doing swift fly overs just millimeters above Bosley’s head, his wings grazing the dog’s ears. The rivalry between the two of them is amusing. If Bosley sees me laying on the hammock petting Harby he’ll saunter over and lay down beside us so my free hand can hang over the side and scratch his head.
The two of them have skills that are enviable. Bosley’s heightened sense of hearing and smell coupled with his ability to leave me in the dust when he runs is humbling. Harby’s eyesight is unbelievably fast and sharp. And of course, the ability to fly leaves me feeling like I would happily trade in my opposable thumbs for that option.
Harby is very concerned with cleanliness. He bathes at least once a day in the bird bath, and prefers the water is clean. This is taken very seriously. The splashing and shenanigans in the water are only half of the event. Upon leaving the water he flies to a nearby tree where he spends the next half hour preening every reachable feather.
Often, he partakes in “Anting”. This is an act few have heard of and even fewer have witnessed. Many birds position themselves on top of an ant hill allowing the ants to crawl all over their bodies. The bird will take individual ants in their beaks and rub the ants along their feathers. The ants release formic acid. The formic acid the ants release effectively acts as an insecticide, miticide or bactericide killing off parasites and bacteria the bird may have picked up in its travels. It also has the added effect of making the bird behave as though they are in a drunken state. I’ve walked up to blue jays flopping around on an ant hill and gotten only a few feet away before they seemed to snap out of it and fly off. It also leaves them smelling kind of sweet. Probably the formic acid.
There are many things we tolerate for the sake of a relationship. With people as well as with animals in our care. With Harby the cost is well worth the opportunity for a relationship with such a unique creature. Every crow or raven we’ve had the pleasure to raise for release has been bitter sweet, as the birds have always left before the first snow.
Harby is already spending less time at home every day. Where he goes and what he does while he’s gone is anybody’s guess. Our hope is that he is absorbed into the local flock and leads a full and rewarding life of a crow.

08/12/2023

August garden.

01/22/2023

12/15/2022

Talks in Montreal this month could be a big victory, or a missed opportunity, for the planet’s wildlife. We explain why, and show you some of the species losing habitat fast.

11/26/2022

11/18/2022