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Tuesdays in the Tallgrass
Exploring exterior and interior landscapes through the tallgrass prairie
Tag Archives: russell kirt prairie
Spring on the Prairie
"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us." — J.R.R. Tolkien
Spring! It's here—at last—on the Chicago region's prairies.
Hiking the prairie in April is like going to a class reunion. So many friends you haven't seen for a long time. Look! Cream gentians.
You realize how much you've missed each native plant species since you last saw them a year ago in April. Ahhhh. Spring beauties.
And, like any reunion, there are a few old acquaintances you wish hadn't shown up. Oh no...garlic mustard.
After a wild week of snow and sunshine, Jeff and I left the confines of our house to explore the East Prairie at College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn. With almost 30,000 commuting students, COD is the largest community college in Illinois and a hop, skip, and a jump from our house. Its large, modern buildings and campus are set in the midst of several well-tended planted prairies, which owe a lot to the work of Russell Kirt, a now retired professor there.
The weather has taken an abrupt turn toward warmth and blue skies. It feels so good to be outdoors…and somewhere other than our backyard. Our dilemma was only — should we look up?
Those skies! Or should we look down…
…so much green growth and change. Everywhere, the life of the prairie and its adjacent wetlands offered something to marvel over. Small pollinators hummed around the willows. Try as I might, I'm not able to get a good insect ID.
Relax, I tell myself. Just enjoy the day. And so I do.
Less than a mile from COD's prairies—in my suburban backyard—the first cabbage white butterfly appeared this week, drawn to the wreath of marsh marigolds in my small pond. After two snows in the past seven days…
…the marsh marigolds were a little worse for wear, but not defeated. A cardinal soundtrack—Cheer Cheer Cheer Cheer Cheer—made Monday's sunny afternoon feel even more spring-like.
I sat on the back porch and watched the cabbage white until it was out of sight. Usually, the first butterfly I see on the marsh marigolds is the red admiral. Had it already arrived—-and I missed it? Or was it slower to emerge this season? And—where were the chorus frogs that called from my little pond last year? They didn't show up in March. My Kankakee mallow is absent from the prairie patch this April. Shouldn't it be up by now?
So many questions. What other changes will unfold? Will the bullfrogs appear this summer? What about the great spreadwing damselfly that appeared in the pond last summer? I wonder. What will the next months bring?
Every spring has a tinge of uncertainty. This April has more than its share.
Earlier this week, Jeff and I checked to see how April is progressing at St. Stephen Cemetery Prairie, a small two-acre remnant in DuPage County. It was great to see it had been burned at a time when many prescribed fire events have been postponed. Kudos to Milton Township and its volunteers! Bee balm, goldenrod and asters are visible through the chain-link fence opening.
Purple meadow rue shows off its distinctive leaf forms.
I love the history of this place. Once, there was a little community called Gretna close to Carol Stream. A Catholic church, founded in 1852, put two acres of native prairie aside to reserve them as potential cemetery plots for its members, many who had immigrated from Germany. These acres were never plowed. Never grazed.
This was the first prairie where I saw wild senna. More than 50 native species are preserved here, including Culver's root, spiderwort, and prairie dock. Nearby are the gravestones with the names: Miller, Dieter, Stark. The little community of Gretna and its church are gone, but the prairie lives on.
As we hike past the cemetery, we notice a brochure box. Being cautious, as we have to be in these times, we read as much as we can through the plexiglass. A Midwestern cholera epidemic in the 19th Century killed infants and small children. Some are buried here.
When we returned home, I read more about the cholera epidemic and the 1918 influenza epidemic in the Midwest. I found an interesting article by Dr. Walter J. Daly in 2008 in The U.S. National Library of Medicine and National Institutes of Health, which concluded:
There was an important difference in public attitude about the two epidemics, 19th Century cholera in the Midwest and 1918 influenza: in the case of cholera, the people believed the local atmosphere was at fault, consequently flight was attractive. In 1918, they knew the disease was contagious, whatever it was; they knew it was everywhere; flight would not be successful. Nevertheless, some fled. Since mid-19th Century, the people have moved ahead. Public opinion is still influenced by business interests and the editors of news distributors. Certainly, they expect more of medical science than did their ancestors. Yet some reactions are probably imbedded in human behavior: to seek explanations and accept unworldly ones if others do not satisfy, to blame strangers among us, to flee if a safer place might be available, to postpone action, and then to forget rather than to learn from it, once the disaster is past.
I'm struck by the predictable and the unpredictable as I hike the different prairies this week. Many of the rhythms of the prairie continue, oblivious to the unfolding chaos around them. Spring comes to the prairie as it does any other year: rattlesnake master…
…and gentians and bee balm emerging alongside shooting star.
Spring beauties and violets are in bloom. April is underway, as it has been for thousands of years in the tallgrass.
Yes, there are changes. In many places, prescribed fire has been cancelled. Some prairies are seeing an influx of hikers longing to get outside; other prairies are closed to the public for the first time for safety.
In Illinois, our shelter in place was announced March 20. As I write this on April 20, uncertainty reigns. When will life be "normal" again? Will it ever be the same? If the pandemic comes to an end, what will we have learned —as individuals, as a nation? Or, as Dr. Daly asks after recounting responses to the cholera epidemic and influenza epidemics more than 100 years ago, will we forget what we're learning once the disaster is past?
So many media articles these past weeks advise me what to do with my "sheltering in place" time. Organize a closet. Try a new recipe. Get my finances in order. The days pass so quickly, sometimes without much seemingly getting done. Some mornings I count successful if I'm up and dressed. My one priority has been to get outside and walk. Some days, it seems, that this is the main event.
I've decided that's okay. It's these wildflowers and spring birds; pollinators and cloud-painted skies that keep me searching out quiet prairies to hike, when my usual prairies are closed or unavailable to me. Each time I go for a walk, I'm reminded of the beauty of the world. After each hike, I come home refreshed. I feel more hopeful. I find renewed energy to tackle the deceptively normal demands of home and work.
There's so much we don't know. Even the "predictable" rhythms of the natural world are subjected to interruptions and change. An expected butterfly fails to show up. My pond is empty of frogs. A reliable plant fails to appear in its appointed place.
When change comes, I have my memories of past springs. The call of the chorus frogs. The contrast of the red admiral against the marsh marigolds. That Kankakee mallow bloom—wow! I remember its pink. And–as I miss the prairies and savannas I frequented that have been temporarily closed to the public, I can remember what's in bloom there now; the pasque flowers, the bloodroot in the little copse of trees…
…the first tentative flowering of wood betony, and the tiny pearls of bastard toadflax.
I miss those prairies I can no longer access, closed or inaccessible because of the pandemic, but I feel comfort in thinking about them. Because of my relationship to these prairies—mornings spent on hands and knees ID'ing plants, hours spent logging dragonfly data, hiking them in all weathers—their stories are part of my story. My absence now doesn't change that relationship.
If a time comes when I get older that I'm unable to hike anymore, I will be grateful to have these memories. I'll be hiking these prairies then in my memories and dreams.
Today, I'm grateful for the memories I have tucked away of my favorite places. Even as I find new places to hike, I follow the progress of those prairies I'm missing and know so well in my mind and my heart.
Not even a pandemic can change that.
The opening quote is from Oxford English language scholar J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973), best known for The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings series. He was also known for speaking out on environmental issues in the 1960s. His imaginary "Middle-earth" brought hours of read-aloud delight to our family.
All photos and video clip copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; invasive garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata), Glen Ellyn, IL; cream gentian (Gentiana alba), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; spring beauty (Claytonia virginica), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; bee balm (Monarda fistulosa) with some unknown bedstraw (Galium spp.), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; unknown willow (Salix sp.) and pollinators, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; marsh marigolds (Caltha palustris) under snow, author's backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; video clip of marsh marigolds (Caltha palustris), author's backyard pond, Glen Ellyn, IL; St. Stephen Cemetery and Prairie, DuPage County, IL; probably purple meadow rue (Thalictrum dasycarpum), St. Stephen Cemetery and Prairie, DuPage County, IL; St. Stephen Cemetery and Prairie, DuPage County, IL; brochure box, St. Stephen Cemetery and Prairie, DuPage County, IL; prairie dropseed (Sporobolis heterolepis), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; common blue violet (Viola sororia sororia), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; various mosses and their associates, St. Stephen Cemetery and Prairie, DuPage County, IL; box elder (Acer negundo), St. Stephen Cemetery and Prairie, DuPage County, IL; bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis) and bee fly (Bombylius sp.), Schulenberg Prairie Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL (taken in 2019); bastard toadflax (Comandra umbellata), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL (taken in 2019); red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus), College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL.
TONIGHT: "THE NATURE OF CONSERVATION" panel discussion with Peggy Notebaert Museum. FREE!
Join me from wherever you are sheltering in place for "The Nature of Conservation," April 21, 6:30-8:30 p.m. CST.–No cost, but you must register to receive the link and additional instructions: Register Here
The next "Tallgrass Prairie Ecology" class online begins in early May through The Morton Arboretum. See more information and registration here.
Several of Cindy's classes have moved online! For updates on classes and events, please go to http://www.cindycrosby.com.
Want more prairie while you are sheltering in place? Follow Cindy on Facebook, Twitter (@phrelanzer) and Instagram (@phrelanzer). Or enjoy some virtual trips to the prairie through reading Tallgrass Conversations: In Search of the Prairie Spirit and The Tallgrass Prairie: An Introduction.
Posted in Cemetery Prairie, Prairie Restoration, tallgrass prairie, Uncategorized
Tagged backyard pond, bastard toadflax, bedstraw, bee fly, bloodroot, box elder, chicago, college of dupage, college of dupage natural areas', common blue violet, conservation, Covid-19, cream gentian, Earth Day Events, East Prairie COD, hiking, J.R.R. Tolkien, marsh marigold, mosses, native plants, nature, nature photography, online nature classes, online prairie classes, Pandemic, Peggy Notebaert Museum, pollinators, prairie dropseed, purple meadow rue, rattlesnake master, red-winged blackbird, remnant prairie, russell kirt prairie, shooting star, spring beauty, Tallgrass Prairie Ecology online, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Morton Arboretum, The Nature of Conservation, willow
Prairie Comforts
"If you can't fly, then run, if you can't run, then walk, if you can't walk, then crawl, but by all means keep moving." — Martin Luther King Jr.
A bitter wind rattles the windows. The forecast calls for a possible freeze tonight, jeopardizing my risky plantings of onions, carrots, peas, radishes, kale, and spinach in the backyard garden. Spinach has leafed out. Radishes are up in the raised beds.
Such tiny seedlings to face a freeze! Enlisting Jeff's help, I find a sheet and some old towels, then we drape the raised beds and tuck the ends in with bricks. Now, my garden is ready to face the frigid night ahead. I hope.
After we finish, I look around the yard and admire what spring has accomplished. Marsh marigolds necklace the pond. Are they blooming in the prairie wetlands right now? I wonder.
A few marsh marigolds have escaped the pond, leapt the steps leading to the patio, and are in bloom around the hose.
These enthusiastic wildflowers bring me a lot of joy. Marsh marigolds are one of the Midwest's native plants. A similar, but unwelcome yellow flower also stalks my neighborhood: the Ficaria verna, the lesser celandine. On our walks through local subdivisions, Jeff and I spy this invasive hanging out on a street corner and tucked into the edge of a copse of trees.
As a prairie steward, I keep my eyes open for this marsh marigold imposter and ruthlessly eradicate it where I can. Give it an inch and it will take over the block. Look at the leaves and flowers of lesser celandine above, then look at the marsh marigolds below. Similar. But different.
I'm grateful for the marsh marigolds this week. They're a welcome ray of sunshine. A little bit of comfort .
On Sunday, Jeff and I drive to our daughter's house for a subdued Easter celebration. In the spirit of social distancing we set up lawn chairs in a corner of their yard and they watch from the porch as the little ones hunt eggs. Afterwards, we swap holiday food in bags–my bread, their lamb and potatoes—and we head home for our duo Easter dinner. The sidewalks and neighborhoods are crowded with families riding bikes together; going for walks.
As we drive past the College of DuPage prairies, I notice something different.
Not a soul in sight.
Stop! We turn into the parking lot. The skies threaten rain, but that isn't going to stop us.
Such joy!
The prairie at this time of year is a mix of burned areas and unburned areas. The prescribed fires that keep a prairie healthy have done their work. That green! I had forgotten how intense it is.
Prairie dropseed scrub brushes are distinctive at this time of year when other plants are barely up.
Rattlesnake master is unmistakeable—one of the first prairie plants to poke its leaves out of the ground.
Look closely at those leaves above. Like yucca, aren't they? As its scientific name, Eryngium yuccifolium intimates. Over there –is that a sedge? Yes! But I'm not completely sure of its ID. Mead's sedge? Pennsylvania sedge, maybe? Hmmm. I try keying it out on my iNaturalist app, but the app isn't, either. A little mystery.
Along the path, the bee balm, Monarda fistulosa, spreads its tender growth like a throw rug. I crush a tiny leaf and inhale. Mmmm. Like minty oregano.
The prescribed burn has cleared most of last year's grasses from the prairie, blackened the earth. Despite the blustery weather, the prairie will warm up quickly.
Already, the fringed clamshells of compass plants hold promise. Although the shoots are only a bit taller than my index finger, I'll see blooms this summer on stalks up to 12 feet high.
What will I be thinking in late July when it blooms? What will the world be like? After experiencing this pandemic, and the closure of so many natural areas—and crowds in others—I doubt I will ever take a prairie hike like this one for granted again.
A killdeer calls, then scrabbles across the prairie. Looking for a nest site? Perhaps. I feel my spirits lift. Killdeer are always one of the first signs of spring on the prairie.
The College of DuPage prairies offer Jeff and myself some much needed solace. You may have felt, as I felt at first, that it is selfish in these times to grieve such things as the loss of a regular walk in a familiar place, or the disappointment of missing a particular patch of hepatica in bloom…
…or the loss of missing the arrival of spring migrants to a patch of woodland you visit. Perhaps you are unable to go into the field to do your science research; work you've planned and received funding for this season at great personal outpouring of energy. Or maybe you mourn the disappearance of the simple rhythms of being a natural areas volunteer and the companionship of others working with you to to restore a prairie, woodland, or wetland. You wonder what's happening in the places you love—-some now closed off to you for the safety and well-being of all. A good thing. But difficult.
These losses—of course!—are small when weighed against the loss of a job; the loss of our health, the loss of a beloved friend or family member. The sadness when we can't hug our grandchildren. The fear we feel over something as simple as grocery shopping. I've felt small-minded for even fussing over a prairie closed; a crowded natural area. What are these losses, really? And yet, I've come to realize they are important losses, none-the-less. These places are part of us. These ordinary rituals, these rhythms of our lives, when lost, un-moor us, unsettle us, shake us. They come at a time when other rituals and rhythms of life are also upended. We long for the simple comforts of our familiar places and routines. Many of them will be unavailable to us for a while.
My sister, a therapist, tells me we are experiencing trauma, and all of us will respond differently to it. And without some of our prairie walks and work in the places we know and love, we are forced to find new rituals and rhythms. Even as we do so, each of our losses must be acknowledged and grieved.
I'm establishing new rituals and reacquainting myself with some older ones I've neglected over the past few years. A neighborhood walk each morning and evening. A little sketching. Planting my garden. Putting more thought into meals. Eating breakfast together every morning with Jeff, instead of rushing off to work. Restarting my journal, which had gone through a period of neglect.
Watching the rhubarb and other perennials in my yard emerge. I planted rhubarb several times in my garden, and it was never happy. But at last, its seems, I've found a spot it likes. I think of rhubarb pie in a few weeks. Something to anticipate.
I'm enjoying the pleasures of clearing my prairie patch and backyard borders of last year's dead growth. Watching the crinkled shell-shaped leaves of alum root emerge.
I pay closer attention to my backyard these days on a daily basis. Each day, my backyard prairie patch—and the prairies in my community—offers surprises. Cup plant leaves appear. Birds return. Forgotten onion bulbs sprout in the vegetable garden. This week, I spotted my first dragonfly—a common green darner. These natural rhythms continue, even when so much seems in disarray.
I'm learning to live with greater ambiguity. Becoming more comfortable with being uncomfortable. Instead of planning my year, I try to plan a single day. It's about as far ahead as I can think. Sometimes, I realize, not much will be accomplished. And that's okay.
There are new glories in the natural world to appreciate each morning. I only have to remember to look. To pay attention. In a world full of uncertainty, I may not be able to "fly," as Martin Luther King, Jr, said in the opening quote. But I can keep moving forward, a little bit at a time.
The emerging prairie shows the way.
Martin Luther King, Jr., (1929-68) was a civil rights activist who advocated non-violence. King won the Noble Peace Prize for his work for racial equality, and was assassinated because of this work in 1968. Listen to his most famous speech, "I Have A Dream." given on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963.
All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): radish (Raphanus raphanistrum subsp. sativus) seedlings, author's backyard garden, Glen Ellyn, IL; marsh marigold (Caltha palustris), author's backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; marsh marigold (Caltha palustris), author's backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; invasive lesser celandine (Ficaria verna), neighborhood side of Willowbrook Wildlife Forest Preserve, Glen Ellyn, IL; marsh marigold, author's backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; street signs, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; bur oak (Quercus macrocarpa) overlooking the Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; pond on the Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; College of DuPage Prairie in early April; prairie dropseed (Sporabolus heterolepis); Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL: rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium), Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas , Glen Ellyn, IL; unknown sedge in the Carex family (possibly Mead's or Pennsylvania), Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; compass plants (Silphium laciniatum), Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; compass plant flower (Silphium laciniatum), Fermilab Natural Areas, Batavia, IL; killdeer (Charadrius vociferus), Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; sharp-lobed hepatica (Hepatica nobilis acuta), Schulenberg Prairie Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL (archival photo); Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL; red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus), College of DuPage Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; rhubarb (Rheum rhabarbarum) emerging, author's backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; prairie alum root (Heuchera richardsonii), author's backyard, Glen Ellyn, IL; cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum), author's backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; East Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL.
Thank you to Paul Marcum who helped me narrow down the sedge ID.
THIS WEEK: Join me for a free spring wildflower webinar through the Morton Arboretum from wherever you are sheltering in place! "Illinois' Wild and Wonderful Wildflowers," April 17, 1-2:30 p.m. CST.–No cost, but you must register to receive the link and additional instructions: Register Here.
The next "Tallgrass Prairie Ecology" class online begins in early May through The Morton Arboretum. See more information and registration here. The website is updated to reflect current conditions. A free spring wildflower webinar is also in the works! Watch for a link on Cindy's website, coming soon.
Posted in backyard prairie, college of dupage natural areas', tallgrass prairie, Uncategorized
Tagged backyard pond, backyard prairie, bur oak, college of dupage natural areas', compass plant, East Prairie, glen ellyn, Illinois, killdeer, lesser celandine, marsh marigold, native plants, Pandemic, pond plant, prairie alum root, radish, raised bed gardening, rattlesnake master, red-winged blackbird, rhubarb, russell kirt prairie, seedlings, sharp-lobed hepatica
The Peace of Prairie
"Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid." — Frederick Buechner
Let's go to the prairie.
Look around.
The natural world goes on. The sandhill cranes scrawl their way north, their annual aerial ballet and vocalizations announcing spring.
In the tallgrass this week, some of the prescribed burns may be delayed, but the warmth and light invite the first shoots out of the soil.
The last seeds cling to their pods…
…then drop to the ground, pummeled by March's rain and snow-sleet.
I walk the paths, pausing to check for new growth of the pasque flowers. None up yet. Or are they camouflaged? Pasque flowers are notoriously difficult to find at any stage of growth. But I enjoy the blush of little bluestem that lends its color to the sandier areas of the March prairie;…
…and the tubed bee balm flowerheads waving in the wind.
I remember walking this same prairie on 9/11. Quiet. So quiet! Later that frightening week, no contrails crisscrossed the sky as jet travel ground to a halt.
Today, as I hike, I wonder. What will happen tomorrow? The next week?
There's no way to know what direction events will take.
Nothing to do, really, but look out for each other. Keep walking. Move forward.
Everywhere, the flattened prairie seems defeated.
Underneath the dry grasses and battered wildflowers…
…new life is waiting. Mostly invisible. But there.
In a time when much of our normal routine is closed off to many of us—our work, the coffee shop, the banality of "normal"—we have the sky…
…the beauty of clouds…
…the sound of a stream running…
…and the return of birds.
I feel a renewed sense of gratitude for what we have. Our families.
Our friends, even when we don't see them face to face. The joys of a sunrise. Longer daylight hours. The delights of the natural world, coming to life. Greening up.
Each day is a gift. The days have never seemed more precious than now.
The opening blog quote is from American writer and theologian Frederick Buechner (1926-). His books include Whistling in the Dark, and Telling Secrets. Thank you to my sister, Sherry, who shares this quote frequently. (Love you, sis.)
All photos and videos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Sunset after the burn, College of DuPage Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Elllyn, IL; Willoway Brook, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis), The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; new plant shoots on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Illinois bundleflower (Desmanthus illinoensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bee balm (Monarda fistulosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; skies over the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; hiking the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie dropseed (Sporobolus heterolepis); Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; evening primrose (Oenothera clelandii), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pale prairie plantain (Arnoglossum atriplicifolium), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Willoway Brook and prairie skies, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Willoway Brook in March, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL: empty bird's nest, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; hiking the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL: sunset on the College of DuPage Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL.
For current updates on Cindy's speaking and classes, visit http://www.cindycrosby.com
Posted in hiking, Prairie, Prairie Restoration, Uncategorized
Tagged bee balm, big bluestem, bird's nest, clouds, college of dupage, college of dupage natural areas', common milkweed, compass plant, evening primrose, Fear, Frederick Buechner, hiking, Illinois, illinois bundleflower, lisle, little bluestem, new plants, pale prairie plantain, prairie dock, prairie dropseed, russell kirt prairie, sandhill cranes, schulenberg prairie, skies, sunset, Telling Secrets, The Morton Arboretum, Whistling in the Dark, willoway brook
5 Reasons to Hike the February Prairie
"…Some say that February's name comes from an ancient and forgotten word meaning "a time that tries the patience." — Hal Borland
February is the shortest month of the year. But it may seem like the longest.
Big, wet snowflakes fall outside. I welcome the snow—-it brightens up the seemingly endless gray skies that feature so prominently this month. Snow helps lift my mood. Hiking the prairie? Even more so.
Let's take a stroll on the prairie…
…and find five good reasons to walk it in February.
1. Experience Weather Swings
Indecisive February!
The weather shivers between rain, sleet, sunshine and snow. To hike the prairie this month is to experience shifts of temperature in real time. Feel the freezing sleet on your face. Admire the snowflakes that collect on your sleeve. Crystals play on a hundred thousand seedpods, as precipitation pelts the prairie plants.
I love to discover transitions on the prairie as the temperatures plunge and rise.
There's the tension between freeze and thaw; sunshine and leaden skies; the snap of ice under our boots and the suck of mud. February is all about our impatience for the last month of meteorological winter to finish and the first month of meteorological spring to arrive in Illinois. Hurry up! Our minds are already turning to spring. But what a loss it would be, if we failed to enjoy what February has to offer.
2. Signs of the Unseen
I rarely glimpse the meadow voles, prairie voles, or white-footed mice during the warmer months in the tallgrass. Although once in a while I'm surprised, as Jeff and I were this spring when we reached into a prairie trail map box and found these tenants.
In winter, these mostly-invisible members of the tallgrass community are betrayed by their tracks and tunnels. I think about them as I follow their progress across the prairie. The collapsed snow tunnels. An occasional escape hole. And my favorite—the sewing machine "stitches" —-tiny tracks evenly spaced—that criss-cross the trails.
As we hike, Jeff and I leave our tracks alongside their prints—and the tracks of geese, coyotes, deer, and other members of the prairie community. I like that. It reminds me that we're all a part of this place.
3. Plant Silhouettes
The same gray skies that plunge some of us into seasonal affective disorder throw prairie plants into sharp relief this month. It's a new perspective. Indian hemp pods swing in bundles, bereft of any seeds.
I'm more aware of the ribbon-like curves of big bluestem leaves, shorn now of their turkey-footed seadheads.
I enjoy the rhythmic sway of Indian grass, pushed by periodic blasts of Arctic wind.
Prairie cinquefoil takes on a ghostly aspect, blurred in the falling sleet. Its silhouette makes me think of tulips. Of the bulbs beginning to spear through the garden in my backyard. Of spring.
These grasses and wildflowers won't be here long.
Fire is coming.
4. Unexpected Gatherings
When I think "grassland birds," mourning doves aren't exactly what comes to mind. But hiking the College of DuPage's Russell Kirt Prairie this weekend, that's what turned up. Notice how this mob has fluffed out their feathers against the cold—like down vests, puffy and tinged with color. It reminds me of the down vests I wore in the 1970s.
Why did they choose this tree on the prairie, and not another? What are they murmuring about? I wonder. After a bit of looking around on birding websites, I discover a group of doves is called a "dole" or "dule," and sometimes, a "cote, a "bevy," and even, a "flight." Flight? Maybe not. These birds look like they've settled in for the long haul.
Seeing them in the tree reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the original 1967 Disney adaptation of Rudyard Kipling's "The Jungle Book." Remember the four vultures, loosely modeled on the Beatles, talking to each other in a tree? "What do you wanna do?" one asks. "I dunno, what do you want to do?" And so it goes. I can imagine these mourning doves asking each other the same question, over and over. Makes me smile.
5. Snow Magic
Hike the prairie in February, and you'll be aware of contrasts. Snow is the mitigator. A light dusting of snow makes everything softer, brighter, more appealing. Snowmelt softens the crisp edges of senescing plants, like this prairie dock leaf.
Cup plants, cracked and brittle…
…become a foil for the crystal flakes, their veins and wrinkles more obvious now than in the summer. This leaf looks like footed pajamas hung on a laundry line, doesn't it?
A sprinkling of snow makes February's gray skies seem a little brighter.
A little snow makes the month of February a little more do-able. More digestible. Beautiful. Why not go for a hike and see for yourself?
February will be over before you know it. The prairie is waiting.
This winter, I've been enjoying the writing of Hal Borland (1900-1978), whose quote from A Sundial of the Seasons, 365 days of natural history observations, opens this post. It was tough to find his books—all out of print, I believe— so I'm once again grateful to the marvelous Sterling Morton Library of the Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL, which carefully curates vanishing works of literature like Borland's. Thanks to Mary Joan for introducing me to to his work. The original opening quote is prefaced by the caveat, "There's no evidence to support it in the dictionaries, but some say… ." Ha! If the actual etymology of the word "February" isn't true, the supposed meaning certainly is.
All photos this week are taken at College of DuPage's Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL, except where noted (top to bottom): Culver's root (Veronicastrum virginicum); Illinois bundleflower (Desmanthus illinoensis); "Prairie Parking" sign with unknown lichens; snowy trail through the prairie; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca); COD pond; white-footed mice (Peromyscus spp.), Wolf Road Prairie, Westchester, IL (photo from 2019); mouse and vole trails through the snow; top of the ridge on COD's Russell Kirt Prairie; Indian hemp, sometimes called dogbane (Apocynum cannabinum); big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii); Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans); prairie cinquefoil (Drymocallis arguta—us older prairie folks will remember it as Potentilla arguta); little bluestem (Schizachryium scoparium); mourning doves (Zenaida macroura); mourning doves (Zenaida macroura); prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum); cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum); cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum); tall goldenrod (Solidago altissima) and wild bergamot, sometimes called bee balm (Monarda fistulosa); snowy trail through the prairie.
Please join Cindy for a class or talk!
Pre-Valentine's Event! The Tallgrass Prairie: Grocery Store, Apothecary, and Love Shop: February 13 (Thursday) 8-9 p.m., Park Ridge Garden Club, Centennial Activity Center 100 South Western Avenue Park Ridge, IL. Free and open to the public! Book signing follows.
Wheaton Book Signing! Local Authors Event. Sunday, 2-3 p.m., Prairie Path Books in Town Square, Wheaton, IL. Free and open to the public. Click here for details.
Nature Writing and Art Retreat, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, February 22 (Saturday) 8 a.m.-4 p.m. Cindy will be facilitating the writing portion. Sold Out. Waiting list –register here.
Tallgrass Prairie Ecology Online begins March 26. Details and registration here.
Nature Writing Workshop (a blended online and in-person course, three Tuesday evenings in-person) begins March 3 at The Morton Arboretum. For details and registration, click here.
See more at http://www.cindycrosby.com
Posted in february, Prairie, tallgrass prairie, Uncategorized
Tagged bee balm, big bluestem, college of dupage, college of dupage natural areas', culver's root, cup plant, dogbane, glen ellyn, Illinois, indian grass, indian hemp, lichens, little bluestem, monarda, mourning doves, nature writing, nature writing workshops, Park Ridge Garden Club, parking sign, Prairie books, prairie cinquefoil, prairie dock, prairie ecology, prairie ecology online classes, prairie ethnobotany, Prairie literature, prairie speakers, Prairie Steward, Prairie Stewardship, russell kirt prairie, snowy trail, tall goldenrod, tallgrass prairie, The Morton Arboretum
A Tallgrass Season on the Brink
Posted on March 5, 2019 | 8 comments
"Winter is on the road to spring." — William A. Quayle
March is all about transition. As I write, it's -1°F. Prairie ponds are frozen; patches of snow linger. In only a few days, the temperatures will soar 50 degrees.
Spring. It's coming. Two more weeks!
Skunk cabbage jabs skyward now in our region—or so I'm told. And yet, no matter how I've slid and scrabbled through the icy muck in my usual skunk-cabbage-speared haunts this week, I can't find a single leaf rocketing through the soil. I console myself by scrolling through old photos from previous years, and admiring it nostalgically, like this photo from a previous year.
Skunk cabbage is the first native plant to bloom each year in the Chicago Region, according to Illinois Wildflowers. It's the tipping point between winter and spring, although I've found it in "bloom" as early as December. But not so this year. We seem a bit like the proverbial Narnia of C.S. Lewis' children's book series—frozen in a perpetual winter.
Hiking the prairie in early March, it is tough to believe anything will ever have color again, isn't it?
At Nachusa Grasslands, the "sand boil"—a natural spring—is bubbling away, and the stream flowing from the source runs freely, despite the Arctic weather.
Clouds of mosquitoes and biting flies colonize this spot in late May and June. If heavy rains fall in the early summer, it can become semi-impassible, choked with lush foliage by August. In early March, mosquitoes are only a bad dream. Splotches of ice hopscotch across the grass hummocks and make my hike a slow, uncertain stumble. I'm proud of myself. I only fall once.
Despite the chill and gloom on the prairie, spring is signaling its imminent arrival. Sandhill crane traffic on the aerial northern expressways is heavy. I don't always see their confetti-ed exuberance overhead, but their creaky cries are unmistakable.
Blooms? Well, some plants are trying. In a sheltered south-facing spot against a wall, the non-native but always-welcome snowdrops are in bud and trying halfheartedly to bloom. Indoors, in our prairie greenhouse cooler, we unveiled the results of sowing pasque flower seed this past autumn. Asking me to name my favorite prairie plant is like asking me my favorite flavor of ice cream. Too difficult to choose! The pasque flower is high on my list.
Maybe it's because of pasque flower's early bloom time, early to mid April in my part of the Chicago Region. On one prairie planting where I'm a steward, all but two of the pasque flower plants have been lost over the past 50-plus years of restoration. Will we lose them all? Not on my watch, I've determined. After collecting a handful of seeds last spring and propagating them in the greenhouse…
…we have five seedlings to show for it.
Five. Count-em! Five. Not bad for a notoriously difficult seed to germinate. Now, the learning begins. Because they are such early bloomers, do we put these baby seedlings out this spring? With temperatures hovering around zero, this week is out of the question. But when? I don't know.
This is where I rely on the network of people who have wrestled with the same questions. Even if a prairie problem is new to me, it's probably been answered by someone else. It's a good lesson in the need for community.
Spring seems to be having a bit of trouble germinating this year, just like the pasque flower seeds. On March 4, we broke a 129-year-old record for the coldest high temperature in the Chicago Region: 12°F degrees. I'm not sure it's something to celebrate.
It seems further confirmation of a long road ahead before warmer days and wildflowers.
The cardinals sing me up each morning, their spring mating songs clear in the shattering cold. Sunday, March 10, we "spring forward" in Daylight Savings Time in Illinois, and gain a little extra light at the end of the day, or at least, the perception of it. March 20 is the vernal equinox, the first day of astronomical spring.
Any sign of spring, natural or artificial, is welcome. I'm ready.
You too?
William Alfred Quayle (1860-1925) was the president of Baker University, the first university in Kansas, and an Episcopal bishop. He was also a prolific writer of spiritual texts about the natural world, such as God's Calendar (1907) and In God's Out-of-Doors (1902). The complete quote by Quayle from the snippet that begins this blog post is: "Winter is on the road to spring. Some think it a surly road. I do not. A primrose road to spring were not as engaging to my heart as a frozen icicled craggy way angered over by strong winds that never take the iron trumpets from their lips." ("Headed Into Spring" from The Sanctuary, 1921).
All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): pond at College of DuPage Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus), Lake Marmo, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum) leaf, College of DuPage Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; sand boil, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; sedge meadow, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis), author's prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; pasque flower (Anemone patens or sometimes, Pulsatilla patens), Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; pasque flower (Anemone patens or sometimes Pulsatilla patens), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum), College of DuPage Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; pond-side prairie grasses, College of DuPage Russell Kirt Prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; white oak (Quercus alba), The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; road to Thelma Carpenter Unit, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL.
Many thanks to the good folks at Illinois Botany FB page and @Dustindemmer on Twitter who offered advice and help on the pasque flower, from seed collection to planting out. Fingers crossed!
Posted in skunk cabbage, Tallgrass, tallgrass prairie, Uncategorized
Tagged college of dupage natural areas', Daylight Savings Time, franklin grove, germination, glen ellyn, Illinois, Nachusa Grasslands, pasque flower, prairie dock, prairie grasses, russell kirt prairie, sand boil, sandhill cranes, sedge meadow, skunk cabbage, springbrook prairie, Thelma Carpenter Unit, vernal equinox, white oak
Finding Hope in the November Prairie
Posted on November 6, 2018 | 2 comments
"Do not go gentle into that good night…rage, rage against the dying of the light."—Dylan Thomas
November, shmo-vember.
Sure, a few hard-core "I love all months of the year" folks out there are going to give a high-five to November. But I'm going to come clean here.
I think November is the toughest month of the year.
The elections are certainly a part of that. I despise the mud-slinging, the he-said/she-said, the polarization of the world I find myself in today and the many places where hatred and suspicion are cultivated in public forums. I cast my vote early, feeling a bit like I do when I planted pasque flower seeds on the prairie this season. The odds seem long, but hope was there. The promise of something beautiful. Today, in November, there's no sign of the pasque flowers. But I haven't given up hope. I'm trying to live in "prairie time." Taking the long view.
If you live in the Chicago region, our first few days of November have not been promising. Temperatures are cold enough to prompt extra blankets, but not cold enough for a Christmas card-worthy snowstorm. Rain, desperately needed, came just in time to splash all the (finally) colorful autumn leaves off the trees. High winds decimated most of the rest of the foliage, which lies strewn across prairie trails like discarded party invitations.
How do you feel about November? Does November give you the blues? If you're tempted to hang up your hiking boots and sit this month out, here are five reasons to go outside and see the prairie this month. If you feel discouraged by the state of the world—or just discouraged by the month of November and all it brings—this hike's for you.
1. The Good News About Bison
If you live in the Midwest, chances are you're within driving distance of seeing bison on a prairie. In the Chicago region, I'm fortunate enough to have bison on three preserves within a two-hour driving distance. There's something, well, reassuring about their sturdy presence, impervious to cold and rain amid the wind rippling the tallgrass in November. Bison remind me of strength. Of continuity. Of hope. Here is a species that was almost extinct, and through the efforts of people who care, is now thriving again. We need this kind of inspiration, as the United Nations issued grim news about our natural world that made headlines this week. So hop in the car and drive to your nearest bison preserve. Bring a friend. Feel your spirits lift?
2. Encore Performances
Oddly enough, some native plants (and non-natives too!) put on a repeat bloom performance in November. To discover them is a bit of a bizarre scavenger hunt, worth traveling a trail or two to see what you can find. My backyard pond has pops of yellow right now; marsh marigolds which normally bloom in April are hosting a second-run performance. Other late bloomers in my prairie patch, like the obedient plant below, gave a last push of color against its deteriorating foliage this week. You can almost hear them whispering, "Do not go gentle into that good night… ."
3. Cruising Without Guilt
I always feel a pang of remorse about driving around a natural area. After all, shouldn't I be on foot, exploring trails, wading through wetlands looking for dragonflies, or sitting on top of a rocky knob, enjoying the breeze? Of course I want to hike this month. But in November, when pounding rain, wind gusts of 30 mph, and temps in the 40s are all in play, I can feel almost virtuous driving through a grassland, enjoying the views, without the shame that might normally accompany my gas-guzzling self. I'm outdoors! Sort of. Braving the elements.
Hey–turn the heater up, will you?
4. Prairie Plants Take On New Personalities
In November, you can exercise your imagination to describe the familiar prairie plants of summer in new ways. Prairie dock, below, is my November favorite for its transition from flexible sandpaper-y green to a crackled surface. A little like those old decoupaged craft projects we did in the sixties; right down to the tiny beads of "glue." Maybe you see a prairie dock leaf in November as an aerial view of Death Valley. Or perhaps you see the leaf as the back of an dry, aged hand, with pores, veins and tiny hairs. A mountain range, dotted with snow? Spiderwebs in the rain? Or? Go ahead, your turn!
Other plants give up the above-ground life in tangled shoelaces slowly draining of color, a virtual jungle of still-green and long-past-the-sell-date leaves.
And when is a square-stemmed plant not a mint? When it's a cup plant! After focusing on the signature leaves and flowers of this vigorous, sometimes-aggressive native all summer, we get a good look at the scaffolding. Wonder what tiny critter made that hole?
5. Those Spellbinding Seeds
It's almost worth facing November on the prairie to see how nature plans for the future. Diversity is on display in the form of prairie seeds in all colors, sizes, and shapes.
Each seed is a possibility. The promise of restoration.
I need that promise. You too? Of change, of hope, of restoration in the month of November. Especially on an election day, after another week of horrific shootings and dismal headlines. The prairie seeds remind me of all of those who have made a difference in the world. The stewards and site managers who are out there today, as you read this, cutting brush. Collecting seeds. Leading tours of the tallgrass. Painting prairie landscapes.
At the polls, voting to save our natural areas and fund them for the future.
Doing their part to make sure change happens in the world. Change doesn't always come as quickly as we'd like. But the prairie reminds me—keep working toward restoring a damaged world. It all starts with these small, simple actions that are ours to take.
"Do not go gentle into that good night…rage, rage against the dying of the light."
You know, November isn't so bad after all if it brings the opportunity of change—the hope of a better future—with it. And at this point, I think I've talked myself into a hike. You too?
Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) was a Welsh poet, whose lines that open this essay are from a poem of the same name. He told biographers he fell in love with words after learning nursery rhymes as a child. Thomas was a contemporary of T.S. Eliot, who helped bring him to the public's attention as a very young man. Thomas was a high-school drop-out, an alcoholic, often homeless, hounded by creditors, and frequently cheated on his wife, Caitlin. He died at age 39 from pneumonia, probably complicated by alcohol poisoning and drug use, and Caitlin was incarcerated for a time in an insane asylum. And yet—out of so much despair and damage—there are these beautiful poems. Click here to hear Thomas read Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.
All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Rice Lake-Danada, Forest Preserve District of DuPage County, Wheaton, IL; pasque flower (Pulsatilla patens or Anemone patens) in seed, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; red maple (Acer rubrum) leaves on the path, Kath Thomas' prairie planting, Hinsdale, IL; bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; obedient plant (Physostegia virginiana), author's backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; Stone Barn Road, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL: prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum), author's backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; prairie dropseed (Sporobolus heterolepis), author's backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum), author's backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; gray-headed coneflower (Ratibida pinnata) and bundleflower (Desmanthus illinoensis) seeds, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL: rosinweed (Silphium integrifolium) seeds, Fermilab Natural Areas, Batavia, IL; Remic Ensweiller, prairie manager, leads a tour of the Russell Kirt Prairie at College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; thimbleweed (Anemone cylindrica), Hinsdale Prairie Remnant, Hinsdale, IL.
Posted in change, fermilab, nachusa grasslands, Uncategorized
Tagged backyard prairie, bison, college of dupage, cup plant, forest preserve district of dupage county, franklin grove, glen ellyn, gray-headed coneflower, Hinsdale prairie, IL, Illinois, lisle, Nachusa Grasslands, pasque flower, prairie dock, prairie dropseed, prairie planting, prairie restoration, red maple, remnant, rice lake danada, russell kirt prairie, schulenberg prairie, Stone Barn Road, The Morton Arboretum, the nature conservancy, the nature conservancy illinois, thimbleweed
Prairie Maintenance
Posted on January 30, 2018 | 13 comments
"Ain't no use jiving. Ain't no use joking. Everything is broken…" — Bob Dylan
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a prairie steward in possession of a car she believes is reliable will soon be disillusioned.
My 2004 Honda CR-V just turned over 208,000 miles. The mileage doesn't trouble me much. Until something conks out. This week, it was the driver's side window that no longer powered down.
I didn't really notice that window function until I didn't have it anymore. Suddenly, driving through the java shop for my morning coffee, picking up a prescription at the drugstore drive-through window, or going by the gatehouse at the arboretum where I'm a prairie steward became awkward. Opening the door to offer money or information or an admission pass back and forth, especially when temperatures are zero-ish, can herd your thoughts into a bad mood for the day.
Of course, car repair problems are never solo. They swirl in like sandhill cranes, one following the other…ever multiplying before your eyes.
The gas cap swing door now refuses to flip out, and I find myself manually prying it open whenever my tank registers "E." A brake light gave up the ghost. And—what's this? The bright "check engine" light stares back at me from the dash. Bob Dylan's song "Everything is Broken," plays continually on my mental soundtrack.
It's time to trade it in. This, from my husband, who has been patient with the repairs we've done over the past 14 years. I've always prided myself on not getting attached to "stuff." But I admit it—I'm sentimental about my car. It's the first new vehicle I ever bought especially for myself. I haggled over the price with the dealer, customized it with a roof rack for my kayak, and waited until it was available in my favorite color, blue. It regularly hauls a dozen seed collection buckets, weeders, dragonfly nets, loppers, large thermoses of coffee, a giant orange cooler of water, tarps, and other accouterments of a prairie steward for countless volunteer work mornings.
Of course, as a prairie steward hauling tools around, I'm responsible for a different set of repairs. The tallgrass site I help supervise is always, it seems, in need of some sort of maintenance.
This season, we'll tackle the usual problems: cutting buckthorn and honeysuckle creeping around the prairie edges; pulling Queen Anne's lace, garlic mustard, and yellow rocket where it pops up in our high-quality plantings. It doesn't take long for sweet clover and crown vetch to creep in and plot their take-over strategies. Birds-foot trefoil? Always ready to slip in under the radar. Fixing the trouble spots calls for a series of small, necessary "repairs" that require vigilance and continual maintenance.
Occasionally, the warning light trips on. Check the engine. Last season, it was an infiltration of reed canary grass that stormed a high quality area and suddenly seemed everywhere. Ditto for some rogue brambles that shaded out a previously diverse section of wildflowers while going mostly unnoticed. These started as small problems, but neglected, got steadily worse. Now, both are major repair jobs.
Some of the repairs I can tackle on my own. Others require a team of volunteers or staff. We all work together, keeping the tallgrass prairie engine humming.
The prairie, like my old CR-V, is always going to be in need of management. It will always need a certain amount of routine maintenance, like prescribed fire, even when there are no obvious "repairs" to be done. It's a work in progress.
Which brings me back to my Honda. At some point, the repairs will become too much. We'll trade in my old CR-V for a vehicle with less mileage on it. Cars, no matter how many times you repair and carefully maintain them—and no matter the nostalgia you feel for the roads you've traveled together—eventually give out.
Which is, perhaps, where the comparison of prairie and beloved Honda ends.
My vehicle will eventually tick off its last odometer mile. But the more mileage the prairie has on it, the more promise it holds. The older the prairie, the richer its history. The deeper, more tenacious, the roots. The stronger the ties to the land.
The maintenance and care we give it each year helps it become more beautiful with age. It encourages me to know this. As I keep making the repairs.
Bob Dylan (1941-), whose words kick off this post, is an award-winning songwriter and musician. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016. "Everything is broken" is a good song for every car owner—or any prairie steward struggling with a restoration—to give a listen to. It makes me smile—and I hope it makes you smile, too. If you're a Jane Austen fan, you probably also noticed the "wink wink" reference to the opening lines of Pride and Prejudice. One of the most famous lines in literature! I'm sure Austen never envisioned her words referring to a car.
All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom) Honda at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; bison (Bison bison) at Nachusa Grasslands, the Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis), Jasper-Pulaski Fish and Wildlife Area, Department of Natural Resources, Medaryville, Indiana; broken compass plant (Silphium terebinthinaceum) blooms, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; wild quinine (Parthenium integrifolium), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer's Grove Park District, The Nature Conservancy, Downer's Grove, IL; rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer's Grove Park District, Downer's Grove, IL; compass plant (Silphium terebinthinaceum) leaf, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer's Grove Park District, The Nature Conservancy, Downer's Grove, IL; late summer at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; volunteers hauling brush and grasses, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Belmont Prairie in January, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer's Grove Park District, The Nature's Conservancy, Downer's Grove, IL; Honda at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; sunset, Russell R. Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL.
Posted in Honda, Prairie Restoration, Uncategorized
Tagged belmont prairie nature preserve, bison, bob dylan, college of dupage natural areas', compass plant, Cr-V, DNR-IN, downer's grove, downers grove park district, everything is broken, franklin grove, glen ellyn, Honda, IL, Jasper-Pulaski Fish and Wildlife Area, Medaryville, Nachusa Grasslands, rattlesnake master, russell kirt prairie, sandhill cranes, sunset, the nature conservancy illinois, volunteers, wild quinine
Tallgrass Ice Magic
"Everything is always becoming something else." — Gretel Ehrlich
January's vivid prairie sunsets remind me of the black light posters I had in the early '70s. Pow! Unbelievable colors. You wouldn't expect this in a landscape you thought had gone all taupe grasses and gray skies.
What amazements winter keeps pulling out of her bag of tricks! The whims and vagaries of weather brought about both ice and thaw this week. My backyard prairie pond glassed in plants and leaves.
Down in the still-frozen shallows of Willoway Brook on the Schulenberg Prairie, the broken stalks of white wild indigo lay tangled up in blue snow shadows.
Along the shoreline, milkweed pods stand ready to serve as makeshift boats. Spilled of their floss, they could float downstream in a thaw; sailing a million miles away. My mind seems to drift off that far in January sometimes as well. Anything seems possible.
Along the brook where the current runs deep, there's thaw. So much tension! The muscle of ice against water, the push and pull of solid to liquid.
I always find transitions difficult. But they often signal some sort of breakthrough. January is a good moment to pause and reflect on this. Be encouraged, instead of discouraged by these passages, these changes.
Meanwhile, Willoway Brook wrestles with its own transitions. Ice splinters and fractures. Shards tumble downstream. The water sings of spring on the way. Soon. Soon.
The ice, cold and slick, is a foil for the other sensory pleasures of the prairie this month. Today, it's bright sun. Tomorrow, it might be a shroud of fog across the grasses. Breathe in, and you inhale the taste of evaporating snow in the air.
Lean down, and touch a rasp of sandpapery compass plant leaf…
…or listen to the castanet rattle of milkvetch pods, holed by insects, each with its cache of dry seeds beating time in the breeze. In the clear air of January, sound seems to travel a little farther than other months.
The brittle and the rough stand in sharp contrast to the last soft brushes of little bluestem, still holding rich color in the otherwise bleached-out grasses.
All of these pleasures add their joy to these January days. The ever-present geese honk their lane changes, flying across the jet contrails which criss-cross the sky.
And each day—as the sun burns its way up through the east and then falls in flames to the west—you know the January cycle of freeze-thaw, freeze-thaw, is bringing spring a little bit closer.
But for now…
…enjoy every moment of the magic of ice and snow.
Gretel Ehrlich's quote, which opens this essay, is from her book, The Future of Ice, written about her love for winter and the perils of climate change. My favorite of her books is The Solace of Open Spaces. If you haven't read her writing, it's good company for a cold January evening.
All photos/video copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): sunset on the Russell R. Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; author's backyard prairie pond, Glen Ellyn, IL; white wild indigo (Baptisia alba macrophylla), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; authors backyard prairie pond, Glen Ellyn, IL; Willoway brook thaw video, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Canada milkvetch (Astragalus canadensis) Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Canada geese (Branta canadensis) and contrails, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; sunset, edge of the Russell R. Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; ice on the author's backyard prairie pond, Glen Ellyn, IL.
Posted in ice, Prairie, schulenberg prairie, Uncategorized
Tagged Canada geese, Canadian milkvetch, college of dupage, college of dupage natural areas', common milkweed, compass plant, glen ellyn, gretel ehrlich, ice, IL, lisle, little bluestem, pond, prairie, reflection, restoration, russell kirt prairie, schulenberg prairie, sunset, tallgrass, thaw, the future of ice, The Morton Arboretum, the solace of open spaces, transitions
Why (Prairie) Words Matter
Posted on December 19, 2017 | 11 comments
"'Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary. The public itself stopped reading of its own accord.'"– from Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, on burning books.
While hiking an unfamiliar prairie this past weekend, I came to a stream, limned with ice.
The bridge spanning the waterway was gone. Hmmm. My choices were simple. I could turn back. Hop from slick rock to slick rock. Or, wade the shallows to the other side, and get my feet wet. Reluctantly, I chose the path of least resistance and retraced my path. The rest of the prairie would have to wait for another day's exploration, better footwear, or the bridge repair.
As one who seeks to know new places more intimately, I'm reminded that the loss of bridges—connecting points—-matter.
As a writer, I get that as well. Words are bridges. They have the capability to connect us to places—and to dynamic ideas. They elicit memory. They provoke action. They stimulate emotion. They are a springboard for the imagination.
How many times has a parent told you, "Her first word was—-." Or a grieving person: "His last words were—–." Words are significant! Our ancestors also knew the importance of words. The First Amendment notes, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press… ." Words matter. Losing words matters.
When we lose particular words about place, we lose part of the collective memory of our people. These words comprise a slice of our identity. They are the language of the place in which we live. More specifically, when we lose prairie-related vocabulary, we break links that join us to the tallgrass; specific identifiers that bind us to a place.
Words are one way we give human voice to a land that speaks in prairie dropseed, bobolinks, and dung beetles. Naming things brings them to our attention, just as learning the name of someone we meet makes them more memorable, more "real" to us.
When we learn the name for a particular sedge or a specific bee, we can visualize it, even when it isn't in front of us. In a time when tallgrass prairie is dubbed one of the most threatened natural areas on earth, to lose any of these names is to lose some of our momentum in cherishing and caring for it.
We're lazy. We don't have enough time, do we? It's easier to use non-descriptive, bland words that trip easily off the tongue. Ecosystem. Landscape. Grasses. Plants. Bugs. Use generalities and the prairie becomes a blur, a non-entity.
There is rhythm and motion in the prairie vocabulary; joy in the particulars. Delight in the common names: Canada wild rye. Regal fritillary. Hoary puccoon. Cream wild indigo. Try saying some of the scientific names out loud: Bison bison. (That double whammy! Like a drumbeat.) Or, Monarda fistulosa. Spiza americana. Let these descriptive words roll off your tongue: Mesic. Mollisols. Loess.
Speak the words. Keep them in front of people.
It's a fragile hold we have on these words. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
As we draw toward the winter solstice on Thursday—the shortest, darkest day of the year—remember the light that words can bring into the world. Words of color and sound. Words of hope. Words of restoration. Words of promise.
Specific words matter.
Let's use them.
Ray Bradbury's (1920-2012) short, powerful book Fahrenheit 451, written in 1953 about a post-literate society, seems almost prophetic more than six decades later. Bradbury's writing spanned many genres, from science fiction to fantasy, as well as a terrific book, Zen in the Art of Writing on the craft of putting words together well. My favorite is Dandelion Wine, his fictional memoir of growing up in Illinois.
All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Willoway Brook, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; blown-out Queen Anne's lace (Daucus carota) seedheads on Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans) Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; wild quinine (Parthenium integrifolium), Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; mixed grasses with smartweed (Polygonum spp.) around the pond at Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; mountain mint (probably Pycnanthemum virginianum), Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve DeKalb, IL; mixed grasses including Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans) and switchgrass (Panicum virgatum) on Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; mixed grasses with little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium) on Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; Canada wild rye, Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; unknown sunflower seedheads (Helianthus spp.) with Canada wild rye (Elymus canadensis) Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; wild cucumber (Echinocystis lobata), Afton Prairie, Afton Forest Preserve, DeKalb County Forest Preserve, DeKalb, IL; sunset, Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage Natural Areas, Glen Ellyn, IL.
Thanks to John Heneghan and Tricia Lowery for taking us to Afton Prairie for our first visit there. And thanks to Joshua Clark and the good folks at DeKalb County Forest Preserve who care for Afton Prairie and its associated beautiful natural areas. Once again, a big shout-out to Paul Marcum and the ID gurus at Illinois Botany Facebook page for help with wild cucumber.
Posted in afton forest preserve, Prairie, Uncategorized, words
Tagged afton forest preserve, afton prairie, canada wild rye, college of dupage natural areas', common mountain mint, dekalb, dekalb county forest preserve, franklin grove, glen ellyn, IL, indian grass, lisle, little bluestem, mixed grasses, nachusa grasslandsa, Queen Anne's lace, russell kirt prairie, schulenberg prairie, smartwweed, sunflower, switchgrass, The Morton Arboretum, the nature conservancy, wild cucumber, wild quinine, willoway brook
August's Opening Day on the Prairie
Posted on August 1, 2017 | 1 comment
"The first week of August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning." Natalie Babbitt
You can feel summer pause for a moment, catch its breath.
July is over.
August is here.
The fireflies wink their Morse Code at night. On. Off. On. Off. They're abundant this summer. People talk about it, wonder out loud. Speculate: "I haven't seen this many fireflies since I was a kid. Must have been the wet spring? Maybe all the rain?"
The fireflies light up the yard, the old field by the railroad tracks, the parks after dark. Listen! The soundtrack for the fireflies is the buzz saw and hum of the invisible cicadas, crickets, and other fiddling insects tuning up in the dark.
We sit on the back porch and watch the fireflies twinkle in the prairie patch. Remember catching them as kids? The mason jars with a bit of grass tucked in and holes punched in the lids. Fireflies. We'll enjoy them while they last.
On the bigger prairies, the more delicate wildflowers back off a bit as the grasses push themselves skyward and elbow them out of the way.
Some of the heavyweight bloomers are tough enough to compete with the grasses: stocky cup plant, rough-and-tumble rosin weed, bristly compass plant.
The curiously smooth prairie dock stems throw periscopes of flowers across the prairie eight feet high. Its fists of blooms uncurl at last. They vie with the compass plants for supremacy.
If it wasn't for its eye-popping purple color, you might miss the low-growing prairie poppy mallows.
Also short but eye-catching is the bright white whorled milkweed. Doesn't look much like milkweed at first glance, but check out the individual flowers. Yes! That's milkweed, all right.
The bison move slower in the heat, graze a little, then look for a shady spot to cool off. The spring babies are getting bigger. They seem to put on weight as you watch.
The prairie ponds shimmer under the August sun. July rains have filled them to overflowing. Dragonflies fly across the water in a frenzy. It's now or never for laying eggs to make future generations happen. Everywhere, it seems, there are insect hook ups; winged romance on the fly.
The purple and white prairie clover has gone to seed and created perches for the eastern amberwing dragonflies.
Blue dashers, too.
The wings and bodies of the widow skimmer dragonflies take on a blue-ish powdery look that indicates age, called "pruinosity." Old age, for a dragonfly, is a matter of weeks. If they are lucky, a few months. And with age and pruinosity, the widow skimmers become more beautiful.
Flowering spurge has gone crazy this summer.
It fills in the spaces between the grasses like baby's breath in an FTD floral arrangement.
The first breath of silky prairie dropseed grass in bloom scents the air with the smell of buttered popcorn.
Blazing stars spike across the prairie. With their flowers comes a sense of inevitability. Asters and goldenrods will be right on their heels, and with them, the close of the warm weather season.
Everything on the prairie is poised for the downward plunge into autumn. But for now, summer in the tallgrass reigns supreme.
August's opening day on the prairie is here.
The opening quote is from "Tuck Everlasting," a novel by Newbery Medal Award-winning children's book writer and illustrator Natalie Babbitt (1932-2016). It's worth reading the lines in context, reprinted here: "The first week of August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color."
All photographs and audio clip copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): sunset on Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; flood debris on a tree by Clear Creek, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; crickets and other fiddling insects audio clip, author's backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; grasses, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL: compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Schulenberg Prairie, author's backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL: purple poppy mallow (Callirhoe involucrata) , Kickapoo Nature Center, Oregon, IL: whorled milkweed (Asclepias verticillata), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; herd of bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL: eastern amberwing dragonfly (Perithemis tenera), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; blue dasher dragonfly (female) (Pachydiplax longipennis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; widow skimmer (Libellula luctuosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL: flowering spurge (Euphorbia corollata), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; flowering spurge (Euphorbia corollata) in the tallgrass, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie dropseed (Sporobolus heterolepis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; blazing star (Liatris spp.), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; tallgrass prairie, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL.
Posted in Prairie, sunset, Uncategorized
Tagged backyard, blazing star, blue dasher, Clear Creek, college of dupage, compass plant, crickets, eastern amberwing dragonfly, flood, flowering spurge, franklin grove, glen ellyn, grasses, IL, Kickapoo Nature Center, lisle, Nachusa Grasslands, oregon, prairie dock, prairie dropseed, prunosity, purple poppy mallow, rosin weed, russell kirt prairie, schulenberg prairie, sunset, tallgrass, The Morton Arboretum, the nature conservancy illinois, whorled milkweed, widow skimmer, wildflowers
Cindy Crosby
Cindy Crosby is the author, compiler, or contributor to more than 20 books. Her most recent is "Tallgrass Conversations: In Search of the Prairie Spirit" with Thomas Dean (2019, Ice Cube Press). She is also the author of "The Tallgrass Prairie: An Introduction," (Northwestern University Press, 2017). Her writing is also included in "The Tallgrass Prairie Reader" (2014, University of Iowa Press). She teaches prairie ecology, prairie literature, nature writing, and prairie ethnobotany in the Chicago area, and is a prairie steward who has volunteered countless hours in prairie restoration. See Cindy's upcoming speaking and teaching events at www.cindycrosby.com.


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How To Choose The Right "Companion Notebook"?
Today, I wanted to talk to you about how to choose the right notebook. Well, probably the most important key for me, when it comes to choosing a "life companion", is the quality of the paper, rather than the brand. It's important to note, that Leuchtturm1917 still remains the most popular bullet journal today, obviously thanks to that bullets structure. However, these days you can buy notebooks from many other suppliers, that offer the dots design as well, so that Leuchtturm1917 is not your only option anymore.
Personally, I don't like Leuchtturm1917 , because of their poor quality of paper, it's extremely thin, only 70g/m2 paper, which is an awfully thin paper, that does not allow drawing or writing on both sides of the paper, without having it leaking to the other side. I absolutely hate it, when the writings leak-through! And considering, that today we're almost always use oil-based ink pens to write in our notebooks, these types of pens (such as Sakura), always leak to the other side, unless it's a 90g/m2 paper. The Rhodia is a very good 90g/m2 alternative from France, that stood the leak-through test bravely with nearly all my pens, while Moleskin is by far the worst notebook (yes, despite the price and brand's popularity!).
Leuchtturm1917 leak-through test… The ghosting is very visible.
And, although I'm absolutely in love with the dotted paper structure, lately I found myself switching over local "Oxford" notebooks, which have significantly thicker and higher quality paper, even though they offer only classical grid based design. You can also look on Amazon or eBay for more alternatives, all you need to do, is pay attention to the quality of the paper, how thick it is (which determines grams per metre square, the more – the better), and whether the paper was bleached, polished or is it generic.
Another important point is the size. And yes, size matters. Most notebooks are offered in an A5 format (because it's perhaps the most popular size ), which is exactly half of your A4 paper. This size is convenient to take with you, it's very portable, yet offers enough space for all your notes, lists, plans and logs.
I personally have both A4 and A5 notebooks. I find it when I want to plan something ahead, like making a business plan, or mapping out a project, A4 works better, as it offers more space. Since I always make plenty of remarks, and I tend to write down every thought that comes into my head, while planning something. On the other hand, for my day-to-day notes, daily to-do-lists, lists of upcoming or completed tasks, A5 notebook works best, because I can take it with me, it doesn't take up too much space, and I still have plenty of room for my ramblings.
Last year I also had a smaller notebook in A6 format, and I must say I totally hated it. It was way too small, so I had to always write my remarks in "keywords" rather than in full sentences, to make sure I don't overflowed the entire notebook in one day.
So we discussed the size and the quality of the paper one else is important? Obviously, the cover. Previous times in the past five years I always made the mistake of judging the book by its cover, by choosing a notebook based on how beautifully gilded its cover is. This is why for many years was a faithful client of Paperblanks. Of course, it's not only the cover, but also the quality of their paper, that won me over. However, since I am very much into do it yourself crafts, I realized that, if the notebook, or a diary, offers a hard cover, you can do pretty anything with its' design. You can completely wrap it up in a different wrapping paper and seal it masking tape. You can print a personal photo or a message and build your design around it. If you search eBay, for instance, for the keyword "scrapbooking", you'll find so many ideas and design elements, all for even less than a dollar.
Last year, I bought myself a set of iron book corners, which I can easily attach to any notebook, to give it and instantly more expensive look , and also to protect the corners of my notebook from getting scuffed. Moreover, if you're crafty enough, you can take the hardcover from a previously used notebook or diary, (which is what I did with my old paperblanks diary!), and attach it to the new diary. That way, you don't need to pay so much money just for the cover. With a little bit of imagination, washi tapes, glue, and some scrapbooking elements, you can create your own unique diary, it will be much more luxurious any of the ones you can find in stores, moreover it will be one-of-a-kind..
I hope these tips help, and will assist you the next time you decide on buying a new nootbook or diary. Feel free to let me know in the comments below, what are YOU looking for, when choosing a notebook?
Everything about the Bullet Journal!
How to Organize Your Life With Bullet Journal?


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Photos on national heritage shown in Hoi An, Can Tho
The best works selected from the 2014 Vietnam Heritage Photo Awards contest are being exhibited Hoi An, a world heritage site, in central Quang Nam province, and Mekong delta Can Tho city, from December 2.
Tuesday, December 02, 2014 21:11
The photos make up a journey through wonderful landscapes, diverse cultural identities, habits and customs, and traditional festivals across Vietnam.
The Vietnam Heritage Photo Awards contest, launched in July, 2014, received over 4,400 entries, focusing on national tangible and intangible cultural heritage and natural wonders.
The photos have been shown in 44 tourist sites across the country and will be on display until March 10, 2015.
The exhibition is part of the activities to mark the 10th anniversary of Vietnam's Cultural Heritage Day (November 23), contributing to calling for the community to join hands in preserving Vietnamese cultural heritage.
Vietnam has nine cultural practices wining UNESCO's intangible heritage status, including Vi-Dam folk singing, Hue's royal court music, Gong space culture in Tay Nguyen (Central Highlands), the northern province of Bac Ninh's love duet singing, the Giong festival, Ca Tru ceremonial singing, Xoan singing, Don Ca Tai Tu music and the worship of Hung Kings.-VNA
After a year implementing the strategy on cultural diplomacy to 2030, issued by the Prime Minister in November 2021, Vietnam has achieved marked results in the field, helping promote its relations with other countries across all channels of the Party, Government, National Assembly, and people, affirmed Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs Ha Kim Ngoc.
Champion to defend WBA belt in hometown next month
Vietnamese World Boxing Association (WBA) Asia Super Middleweight champion Truong Dinh Hoang will defend his belt next month in the Central Highlands province of Dak Lak, though the challenger has yet to be named.
Poetry Day to take place next month at Thang Long Citadel
The Vietnam Poetry Day will be held next month in Hanoi's Thang Long Imperial Citadel with new activities, according to organisers.
Hue preserves craft villages for socio-economic and tourism development
The ancient capital of Hue in central Thua Thien-Hue province has for many years managed to preserve craft villages which have become destinations for tourists from both at home and abroad.
Reviving horse racing tradition in Lao Cai's Bac Ha
Bac Ha horse racing festival was recognised as a national intangible heritage on May 31, setting the scene for the northern mountainous province of Lao Cai to foster preservation of its distinctive north-western cultures.
Vietnamese artist marks Lunar New Year with thousands of carved cats
According to Vietnamese custom, each year corresponds to an animal (also known as a mascot). For the 2023 Lunar New Year of the Cat, many unique products bearing images of cats have been introduced to the market.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


The pair continue to deny that monies are owed.
Disgraced Gauteng former personal injury attorneys Ronald and Darren Bobroff await the judgement regarding whether their personal estates should be finally sequestrated. The case was argued in the Johannesburg High Court earlier this month before Judge Edwin Molahlehi.
The Bobroffs were provisionally sequestrated in March last year with Acting Judge Etienne Theron noting that "assets may be unearthed that will benefit creditors".
The Bobroffs strenuously denied that they or their firm, Ronald Bobroff & Partners Incorporated (RBP), owed a total of R3 million to Christine Maree, a 79-year-old Pretoria widow who was the victim of medical negligence, and Yasmin Motara, a 32-year-old Springs teacher who was the innocent party in a catastrophic and life-changing motor vehicle accident.
Maree and Motara are the applicants in the sequestration application.
In March last year, having agreed to hand themselves over to the Hawks for arrest and the arranging of bail, they fled the country for Sydney, Australia as fugitives from South African justice and have continued to litigate prodigiously against their South African creditors.
Ronald and Darren, in opposing their provisional sequestration, stated that they each had some R5 000 in personal creditors, while Darren's Victory Park home was bonded to Nedbank.
44 Bolton Road cc, the landlord of RBP, put in a claim of R435 005. A Moneyweb investigation revealed that the members of the close corporation, from 1995, were the three children of Ronald Bobroff: Darren, Cindi Jaches and Lisa Meyerthal. In 2013 Darren resigned and appointed his wife Lisa (née Berman) as a member (part owner). The latter Lisa resigned in 2016 after fleeing for Australia. Company records reflect that the current members (de facto owners) are Jaches and Meyerthal.
Ronald's wife (Darren's mother) Elaine put in a claim against Darren for R1 million for "monies lent and advanced". Immediately after Ronald and Darren fled for Australia, Elaine was arrested and arraigned in the Johannesburg Specialised Commercial Crimes Court where she sought bail. This journalist was present when she testified under oath that apart from owning the family home, she had a modest investment portfolio and dividends that Ronald had donated to her and that she had been a housewife for some 25 years with no other income. Her R1 million claim is at odds with her testimony.
R18 million was claimed from the estates of Ronald and Darren by Rugger Investments (Pty) Ltd. Rugger was formed in 2016 and its sole director and shareholder since September 26 2016 (more than six months after Ronald and Darren fled the country) is Cindi Jaches. The money was apparently lent after the provisional sequestration proceedings started. This is not normal business practice. Furthermore, since Ronald and Darren were outside of South Africa, this means that the South African Reserve Bank would have to have given permission for the loan. Moneyweb tried (unsuccessfully) to trace the source of the funds but did manage to establish that Mrs Jaches has for years been employed for a modest salary by the Chevrah Kadisha, a Jewish welfare organisation and does not have the finances or business acumen to set up a financing business.
Attorney Anthony Millar, acting for Maree and Motara, had filed papers in court in support of the final sequestration order which pointed out that the Pretoria High Court had in July last year obtained a preservation order in terms of the Prevention of Organised Crime Act seizing R102 million held in the names of Ronald and Darren Bobroff by the Bank Mizrahi Tefahot in Israel.
The Bobroffs opposed the evidence alleging that it was hearsay.
Judge Molahlehi indicated that he would hand down his judgment on Friday, March 23.
Attorney Johan Cameron responded on behalf of the Bobroffs telling Moneyweb that the matter was sub judice which prevented him or his clients from issuing statements on the case.
Cameron also alleges that this journalist was not present during the proceedings, an allegation which is demonstrably false.
No response was forthcoming from Jaches and Meyerthal.


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