This morning I heard a bit from The Wayfinders by Wade Davis, a book about the Polynesian open ocean navigators. Astonishing. Not only the volume of knowledge required to do such navigation, but the types of information used–observations in minute detail gathered over centuries–is amazing.

To all the folks complaining about how popular Halloween is among adults today, I offered this as my considered reply:

This is a good list of ideas for cleaning up your garden at the end of the growing season while also keeping the well-being of your local critters in mind.

Thinking about the research I did yesterday, what will future researchers do, given the demise of local newspapers? Even the silly society pages gave me valuable information. Now such things are on social media sites, behind subscriptions, with terrible search capabilities.

Rachel and I are continuing to research the lives of our ancestors of place. Today we looked into the Schroer family, who were the second family to live here (1939-1971). Dr. William Schroer was a chiropractor who moved to Bedford from Poland, Indiana, in 1927 to open a practice. He and his wife Delzena had one daughter Florine.

Dr. Schroer was a deacon of First Presbyterian here in Bedford. The family seem to have been socialites: very active in various clubs and committees. Dr. Schroer was a Mason and his daughter was a member of the Order of the Eastern Star.

We also visited their graves in Poland, Indiana, a little over an hour from here. They seem to have had deep roots in that little community, which was heavily populated with German immigrants.

This is just a sketch for the moment. I plan to write a more complete history of the house after I gather more information. Rachel and I were saying today that we have thought so much about our house and its history and people that it’s beginning to feel like a person in itself.

Young Schroers:

Older Schroers:

Rachel continues to do great work on the floors. The living room is now done; we can start moving furniture back in by Monday. The floor is pine, which is notorious for rough grain and not taking stain evenly. Some people say it’s a mistake to stain pine but I think it looks great. Another thing about pine: it turns orange as it ages. In our case that means our stain—Minwax “early American” which is brown—actually ended up looking more red. Two coats of polyurethane as a finish.

Had breakfast with the distinguished author today.

Gave blood today at a drive across the street. Thanks to @JohnBrady for posting that one article that one time that encouraged me to set up the appointment. I’d link it but I can’t find it now because of his sand mandala blogging model. 😂

I hope you’ve had the experience of listening to someone recall people and places as you pass through the countryside. I also hope you were not bored or impatient with the experience–because you were experiencing the conjuring of a living landscape through the magic of memory.

For all of our society’s embrace of a mobile workforce, its stereotyping of those who never move away from their hometown, and its elevation of travel to the sacramental, there are certain experiences only available to those who have settled into a place long-term. One such is the perception of a landscape spread across space and time. Beautiful places become such through the infusion of a place with the awe and gratitude of a thousand generations. Houses become projects undertaken by hands that never shook in greeting but meet in the intimacy of shared work. Maybe we have ceased to believe in an enspirited universe because we so rarely remain in a place long enough to meet the neighbors.

When we first began our garden in 2020, we intended it not only as a collection of pretty flowers and vegetables but as a flourishing habitat. One of the keystones of that habitat is our tiny wildlife pond. We were amazed at how quickly life starting showing up in it; even larger critters started drinking from it regularly.

This is Morty. He’s a raggedy neighborhood cat who first showed up last winter to drink from our pond. He disappeared by the spring and then returned a few weeks ago, again to drink from the pond during the late summer drought. This time, though, he seems to have decided to stay.  

Rachel was the first to notice that he is blind in one eye and hard of hearing. That combined with his shagginess makes us think he’s pretty old. After he started showing up every day and laying by the pond, Rachel named him Morty and started feeding him. While he never lets us get near him, he has stopped running every time we go outside.

He’s almost always by the pond, either napping or watching whatever is going on in it. At first we were concerned he would kill a bird, but he doesn’t seem to have enough energy for that.

Our garden is only peaceful if you’re an apex predator—but that cycle of life and death is part of the deal when you’re trying to build a flourishing habitat. I’m glad Morty is spending some part of that cycle in our backyard.