TRAILBLAZER

Someone has to be the first, set the trend, lead the way. Of course those who never miss an opportunity to voice their opinions will weigh in on whether you're an astute early-bird or just an overly eager jump-the-gunner. 

Not that anyone with pioneer spirit pays much attention. Trailblazers tend to follow their own whims, choose their own paths and timing.

If you're a tree—perhaps an oak or maple, maybe a walnut or willow—being the autumnal torchbearer means donning the seasonal dress of orange or red or yellow while everyone else is still decked out in that same old been-there, done-that summer green. 

Yup, somebody always has to step up and get things rollin'…

JEWELWEED

I learned to recognize jewelweed as a kid for two reasons…the first being its folksy entertainment value, and secondly its usefulness. 

The entertainment part came from the fact the plants produce what's called "projectile" seeds. From late summer onward, when things have matured, a mere touch to the pendant seed pods causes them to burst open, flinging out the ripe seeds contained inside. To this day, I still find it amusing to act as the catalyst for this delightfully explosive moment of reproductive scattering. 

It's also the reason another name for jewelweed is touch-me-not.

Jewelweed's useful-ness arises from its long history and scientifically proven efficacy (sources which claim otherwise simply aren't up on the latest research) in treating all sorts of skin irritations, including poison ivy dermatitis. It's especially valuable to anglers and anyone who regularly visits stream-banks and moist woodland paths where stinging nettles are regularly found.

Should you inadvertently brush your bare legs or arms through a nettle patch and subsequently start to feel their burning stings, quickly look around for a bed of jewelweed, which—nine times out of ten—can be found growing nearby. Then, pull off a handful of jewelweed—leaves and stems, even flowers—crush them a bit to extract their juice, and rub the pulpy mash on the affected area. Instant relief.

The most common species is orange jewelweed, Impatiens capensis, though around these parts, I routinely find yellow jewelweed, Impatiens pallida. Both will often grow in the same patch.

In addition to being entertaining and useful, jewelweed is also quite pretty. A gem of a plant, if you will…aptly named.

A NEW WEEK…THANK GOODNESS!

Just up the road from the cottage, Heath Aster blooms in palest lavender.

Ever have one of those weeks you're glad to see fading in the rearview mirror? That's how I feel about last week.

First off, I managed another leg injury…this time a wound about the size and shape of a cell phone. Fairly substantial. The doc's best guess is 6–8 weeks healing time, providing the new round of prescription antibiotics prevents infection long enough to give things a running start. So I've restocked my first-aid drawer with several packages of appropriate-size non-stick pads, plenty of gauze and tape, and antibiotic cream to apply afresh with each dressing change.

Second, I had several long writing projects to finish and get off, in addition to my usual columns. Plus, being a Board member of our community health centers, I had to attend two Strategic Planning meetings, each four hours long, on subsequent evenings. This is a once-every-three-years affair where we hammer out the focus and health-care service goals for our six county-wide facilities. All this in addition to the usual running around, chores, luncheons, and such that generally manage to eat up half my available time during a good week.  

Finally, Moon-the-Dog hasn't been doing too well. I've spent every night for maybe the past two weeks "sleeping" in the recliner in the great room because she seems more comfortable bedding down out there—plus her restlessness and occasional whining doesn't keep Myladylove awake. Moon won't sleep in one room if I'm in the other. She's doing a bit better now that temperatures have dropped from highs over 90˚F to more September-ish 70˚s, so perhaps I'll manage to sleep in a real bed soon.

Yep, some week's are best forgotten. 

FLY & CURLYCUE

I don't pretend to know the identity of this colorful fly—and I don't have it in me this morning to flip through a gazillion images on BugGuide.Net—the best insect ID-ing resource I know—in an exasperating attempt to key it down as to exact species. I suspect it's a member of the Calliphoridae (Blow Flies) family, also known as Bluebottles and Greenbottles.

Calliphoridae comes from the Greek: callos, "beautiful," plus phor, "bearing." A fly bearing beauty. Which is certainly the case. For it was indeed the small fly's dazzling metallic coloring that first caught my eye—turquoise and emerald and ruby-red, shimmering like a jewel in the sunlight. 

As I held the camera to my eye and adjusted the fine focus of the lens, I noticed the tiny twisting green vine—scarcely larger in diameter than a human hair—off to the right and adjusted my framing to include it in the photo. And no, I don't know what it is, either.

Ignorance can still be bliss. I do know I like the juxtaposition of the vivid fly and curlycued vine. A bit of mystery only enhances their beauty.

WAS IT SOMETHING I SAID?

I hadn't spotted my local Cooper's hawk lately, until yesterday. When some survival-related uneasiness niggled in a dark corner of my brain, I looked up from my writing desk and saw one fiercely glaring at me from a leafy hideout in the nearby box elder.

"What," I said, staring back, "little ol' you is sitting there considering big ol' me as potential lunch? Doesn't that strike you as foolishly optimistic?" 

My remarks must have offended the raptor, for it abruptly shook its feathers before turning its head, never deigning to look my way again. After perhaps five minutes of inspecting, studying, scrutinizing, and what might have been a hawk-version of intense gaping, at all manner of objects in every viewable direction except towards my workroom window, the miffed Cooper's flew off.

Nobody likes sassy prey.  

URSUS TEMPUS…BAHHHH!

The enchantingly saturated colors of this morning's natural abstract view of the Cottage Pool, just below the front deck…which I confess I snuck outdoors to photograph.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been trying to quash a persistent infection. The first cycle of antibiotics proved insufficient, though it took a day or two after I'd finished the medication to realize the infection—which quickly flared back up with a vengeance—had not been resolved. Because things had the potential of becoming serious, I began a second round of antibiotics…which I'll complete in a day or two.

The upshot is that I've spent little time working and no time galavanting around armed with a camera. I wrote those columns whose deadline loomed, answered a handful of blog comments, and otherwise minded doctor's orders to do nothing other than take it easy…which hasn't been at all easy. 

I feel pretty good, and maybe that's the problem. Not that I want to feel bad. But forcing myself to be inactive is tough—even when I know it's for my own good.  Especially now, in late summer.

As Ecclesiastes so wisely notes, "To everything there is a season." This is certainly true for me. Different seasons call for different activities, which in turn cultivate different moods and mindsets. Spring prompts renewed vigor, activity-filled days of eager, vernal rediscovery. Autumn means preparedness, taking stock, reaping the harvest, getting ready, saying your long farewell. And summer? Well summer is for languidly savoring the slow lush turn, finding the honey tree and sipping its sweet nectar. 

Forced inactivity, taking it easy indoors, is reserved for winter. For what I like to think of as Ursus Tempus, Bear Time. 

I can do Bear Time. Even enjoy it. I just can't do it in summer.  

COLD & CONFUSED

I'm confused. If we're now experiencing global warming, how come it was 56˚F when I got up this morning? Have I fallen through a time warp? Is it not now mid-August? The leaves are green, so it can't be October. Did aliens zap me in my sleep and spirit me off to Canada? 

Naaahhh, I just checked—I'm still in Ohio. Huh! And I was just about to get in the mood to go walleye fishing and maybe pick some wild blueberries for my pancakes.  

By rights, and past history, it ought to be in the sweltering mid-80˚s already, well on its way to heading somewhere north of the 90˚F mark by noon. I should have beads of sweat on my arms instead of goose bumps. And be dressed in shorts and flip-flops rather than long pants and a pullover. 

Cicadas should be ratcheting from the sycamores. Turtles ought to be sunning atop the riffle stones. And I'd expect the zinnias to be alive with flittering butterflies.

But no…just me and a great blue heron skulking the far side of the Cottage Pool. We seem to be the only living creatures braving the unseasonably chilly morning. Even Moon-the-Dog, after taking care of necessary business, gave her usual sprawling spot in the driveway a brief trial, then decided she'd rather sprawl inside the open doorway and keep watch over my outdoor goings-on from a more comfortable venue.

I'm seriously thinking of gathering an armload of sticks and building a fire in the woodstove.