Working on Global Warming

I just heard this song and thought it might be enjoyed by some.
The song below is sung by the faerie children while at school during recess.
They sing the song while strutting like roosters, crowing to the sky, the melody is similar to, "Ring Those Bells."

From the southern tip of Florida and up north to Canada
The eastern part of North America is an ancient forest
in decline, in decline. Now do not whine
No, do not whine about this decline.

It is a great case for laughter to see what people have done
To this ancient forest as the trees have been cut and
The ground disturbed to the point of erosion. The soil is covered
with houses and businesses, roads, and parking lots.

Faerie children laugh when people yell, "Save the rain forests!"
While they destroy the environment in which they live.
They call themselves, "Wise," but, really, they are funny.
Coo-coo. Coo-coo. Coo-coo. Coo-coo.

Backyard Garden

The young girl and her father walked hand-in-hand through the back yard to a small garden along the fence line. The girl was a favorite of the house faeries who, at that moment, flitted above and around her, leaving an aura of faerie dust above her head, some of which fell into her hair and along her shoulders and arms. You would have had to be mirthless or cold-hearted to miss seeing the magic in the scene.

She had been born on the first day of Spring, three years earlier. This was to be her first garden. The father, who had his share of faerie dust falling down over his head, had sharpened the end of a stout stick, and he showed his little-one how to make a furrow in the soil. He handed her a radish seed that had been soaking in water overnight. She put the seed into the furrow, covered it with soil, and patted the soil until it was firm. They repeated the task until they had seven seeds planted in the ground. The father showed his little darling a picture of a radish from the packet of seeds, and told her, "In three weeks, we'll have radishes."

Three weeks it was; father and child were standing in front of seven radish plants. The little-one took the pointed stick and loosened the soil. She gently lifted each radish to her father's hand. All was well. The father said that he would wash the radishes, and then they would be ready to eat.

Now, if you know anything about radishes and children, you know that a three-year-old girl is not going to like the taste of a radish, and the father knew this, too. So, during the washing, he substituted ripe cherries for the radishes, and he brought seven cherries to the table. The father removed the cherry stone from a cherry, placed the seed on a plate, and placed the cherry in the little girl's hand. She popped the cherry into her mouth. They did this seven times.

The father took the packet of radish seeds from his shirt pocket and said, "You liked them. Let's plant some more radishes." He was surprised that she seemed to pause, then the little girl picked-up the seeds that he had placed on the plate and added, "Yes, and let's plant some cherries, too!"

The faeries fell all over each other laughing and cheering and throwing faerie dust into the air. That day people reported seeing rainbows in the sky, which seemed odd because the weather service reported that there had been no rain.

Police arrest Mr. and Mrs. Morgan

It was mid-morning on the second Saturday in July when a black funeral car slowly rolled down the dirt road, with the driver and the attendant looking left and right and, then, left and right again. The lettering on the side window read, King's Funeral Home. The car stopped in front of a line of mailboxes at the end of the road, raising a cloud of red dust. The men inside the car studied the names on the mailboxes. The attendant got out of the car; a half-dozen people were looking at him. He was dressed in a heavy, woollen black suit, brimmed black hat, and his shiny black shoes were collecting road dust. Heads were popping out from a couple of doorways to take in the sight. The fat man in the black suit asked nobody in particular, "Which house belongs to Mr. Morgan?", and he pointed to the third mailbox, MORGAN, as if that might help us.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan lived in a little, sunken house which was connected by a footpath to the line of mailboxes. Mr. drove a public bus, and Mrs. worked in a bar in the downtown. I pointed to the brown house at the end of the path. "Over there."

The driver got out of the car, he had on the same black suit as the first man, same brimmed black hat, shoes collecting dust. The two beefy fellows began to push and pull a narrow bed on wheels over to the Morgan's door. I had never seen one before, but I knew that this bed on wheels was used to collect dead bodies. After a few knocks on the door, Mrs. Morgan slipped through the opened door and closed it after herself. The men removed their hats and said a few words to her. Mrs. Morgan had a "nervous condition," which caused her to be excitable. We heard her raise her voice. Mrs. Morgan was pointing her finger at the men, and she took a swing at one of them. The black suited fellows started to back away from Mrs. Morgan, who was now waving her arms wildly and cursing, and the men pulled their bed on wheels as fast as they might while in retreat.

A helpful fellow named Charlie went over to Mrs. Morgan to find out if she needed any help, and that is how he got the story: Some "son-of-a-bitch" had called King's Funeral Home and asked them to pick-up the remains of Mrs. Morgan. She did not appreciate this one bit, particularly the "remains" part because she thought it referred to her big behind, which she had heard about more than a few times growing-up. You couldn't keep that kind of thing quiet while growing-up.

By this time her nervous condition had kicked-in, and she was in a full rant. Spit had dried along the corners of her mouth, and she was throwing dirty-looks at the spot vacated by the funeral car, which is why she was the first to see Taylor's Moving Van rolling down the dirt road, heading towards the mail boxes. People looked where she was looking, and a few breathed the words, "Oh, no."

Taylor and two of his sons got out and looked at the names on the mailboxes. People made a little room between Mrs. Morgan and the Taylors. Taylor asked, "Which is the Morgan's House?" All eyes turned to Mrs. Morgan, who was silenced..., for a moment. Then she let out a string of curses, some of which had never before been heard by the women and children. Some of the mothers covered their children's ears, and some mothers told Mrs. Morgan to shut her mouth. Then the squawking got really loud, like chickens when they are about to lay their eggs--cluck-cluck-CLUCK-CLUCK-CLUCK!

I watched a truck as big as the moving van as it pulled in behind Taylor's. Two men dragged a stove and refrigerator onto the tail-gate before asking the directions to the Morgan's house. Just then, you could hear the WA-WA-WAs from the police cars' sirens, and those cars were throwing dust to the sky as they raced down the road. It had been reported to the police that Mrs. Morgan had shot off a pistol at a crowd of people. The police were not put-off by her cursing and slapping. After awhile they wrestled her into the back seat of one of the police cars. That, finally, brought Mr. Morgan out of the house, he hoped to make things better. The first thing he did was to try to pull Mrs. Morgan out of the police car. Things did not get any better until the police wrestled him into the back seat of the second police car. Then both police cars sped away.

The story was told and retold and improved and degraded for the rest of the day. For all the telling, nobody ever got closer to figuring out who was behind it all.

It was summertime, so we didn't go to bed until almost nine. The faeries arrived on my porch a short while later, and they were in rare form, rolling all over the place, each one talking louder than the next, like celebrators at a bartenders' picnic; those from the Morgan House were the jolliest and loudest of all, which should tell you something.

House Faeries in Rhode Island

Often we learn from the experiences of others, and sometimes we can only learn from the experiences of others. Most people have no direct knowledge, no interaction with house faeries. So, I'll take this opportunity to tell you a bit about them. Be open-minded. Yes, house faeries. Read on, and I'll tell you how I came to know about the faeries.

Well, here's the way it happened. When I was a child, in a time before ordinary people had televisions or radios or air conditioning or fans, night-time would come, and people might sit under an electric light bulb for awhile doing nothing, but it was a time of 'early-to-bed.' Adults went to bed at about the same time as children. The parents told the children, "You don't have to go to sleep, but you do have to go to bed and be quiet." The evenings were long and quiet.

My bed was on the front porch, with fly screens separating me from the outdoors, and it was from that location that I first saw, heard, and, later, played with the faeries. Perhaps, I had these opportunities because the faeries in my house were living under crowded conditions, and here is why: some years earlier, 1938 to be exact, a great hurricane whirled through Rhode Island, the State where I later lived. The surge of water raced up Narragansett Bay and washed away half of the houses that were near the shoreline, leaving only cement steps as a reminder of the people who once lived there. The people displaced by the flooding waters moved far and wide, mostly to the City of Providence, but, of course, the faeries stayed. They just moved into the nearest house occupied by people, and that was the house into which I was born. You can just imagine them slapping each other's bottoms and laughing so hard they fell to the floor, to see a baby being born in their house. I am sure that the condition of my birth caused the house faeries to make a special claim on me that invited an intimacy not shared by many other people.

If you have an ounce of goodness in you, the faeries watch over you, steering you to the good and away from the bad. The more goodness you have, the more attentive they are. In the night, when the children and other people are in bed, and there is not much need to assist the people of the house, the faeries get busy about their own business and visit one another by traveling along paths that connect the houses. Being social creatures, they flock to the house that has the largest crowd, which was my house. What do they do when they got together you might wonder. Many things, of course, but they love to tell stories.

On many an evening, the faeries would gather on the front porch of my house, and the best storytellers would tell a story or two, and they did not mind that I was lying there listening; I'm sure they felt that they had a claim on me. Years later, I came to realize that some of the tales were told specifically for my entertainment and benefit. I'd like to tell a few of those stories here, maybe others could be entertained, too.

"Plant Trees," says Guardian Angel

Once, in the past time, I was asked to speak to a church group about the environment. I am not a church goer, but I'm always ready to talk about the environment, not so much because I know a lot, but because I am interested. So, I put on my forestry uniform and walked to the church. I was prepared for everything and for nothing.
The church group asked me: "What does God think about the way people are treating Earth?" Could I know this? I have never received a special messages about the thinking of God. Yet, fortunately, I do have a Guardian Angel who is a helpful soul, given half a chance. My Guardian Angel told me to say this: Worrying about Earth does not help anyone or anything. God does not worry. God has planted many trees. If you want to improve Earth, do as God has done, plant trees."

About (the former) Bartram Forest

On September 25, 1969, Governor Lester Maddox signed an Executive Order transferring the property from the Department of Public Health to the Forestry Commission. Today it is used for timber production and Environmental Education. Students come from all around the state to learn about succession and conservation. There are many hiking and biking trails for recreational use as well. Bartram forest is maintained by prescribed burnings.

The first great naturalists in colonial America were John Bartram (1699-1777) and his son William Bartram (1739-1823). Together and separately they traveled throughout the eastern parts of America documenting native plants with drawings and written descriptions.   In his book Travels (1791) William Bartram describes crossing the Oconee River and traveling across what is now the southern part of Baldwin County, Georgia. In these travels he crossed the land of Baldwin State Forest. In deciding what to name the educational component of the Baldwin State Forest it was decided by the Georgia Forestry Commission to honor the works and history of these pioneer naturalists with hopes of continuing their spirit of exploration, learning, and sharing with others (Note:  This para is From Georgia Forestry Commission website)

Welcome!

Hello, My name is John Gormly, formerly of Rutgers University and most recently of Bartram Forest and the Georgia Forestry Commission. I have started this blog to present my ideas about our planet, Earth, and about food-crops, water, and building good soil.

While at Bartram Forest I lived the principle of No Child Left Inside. In the forest, children focus their attention on birds, wildflowers, trees as they walk our trails and visit our interactive lesson sites. Bartram Forest absorbs the excessive energy of children and leaves them in a peaceful but alertly attentive state.

Bartram Forest is also a demonstration site for university students and other adults; see Southern Pine Beetle Control and the control or elimination of Non-native Invasive Plants.

We demonstrated the replacement of invasive plants with desired plants, such as a vegetable garden in an area that had previously been invaded by privet. Although we are in a severe drought, this garden did not need watering at all this summer. I did add some lime to the area.

I hope you enjoy my blog.
John