Summer Inventory

On July 26, 2016July 26, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Monocacy River, Trash2 Comments

The Monocacy is low enough now that new trash (that is, old trash that is new to me) is revealed every day, and I’ve been able to reach places that were covered in water only a few weeks ago. Rusty cans, broken bottles, fishing line, shoes, and socks: they’re all out there, waiting to be discovered. I haul out up to 3 bags a day, but I’m always leaving something behind. Here’s just a sample of what I find in a day:

Bud Light cans (5)

Corona Extra (caps and glass bottles, 3)

Krispy Kreme box (1)

Coca Cola Cans (2)

Busch Beer cans (2)

Tequila (1 large glass bottle, shattered)

Skoal (1)

Fanta can (1)

Grab & Go Chocolate Milk jugs (2)

Coors can (1)

Bud Ice bottle (1)

Gatorade (small plastic, single serve, 1)

Orbit Gum (1 empty package)

Salt packets (7)

Disposable Plate wrapper (1)

Green napkins (?)

Burger King bag (1)

Trolli Sour Brite Critters (1 bag)

Walmart bag (1 plastic)

Eagle Claw hooks (1 pack)

Fishing line (3, tangled)

Float (1)

Bottle caps (unidentified, 9)

Doritos (1 bag, family size)

Diaper (1, with wipes)

American River

On July 25, 2016July 25, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Monocacy RiverLeave a comment

The sweat might be dripping down my neck and my bare ankles burning from all of the hops and nettle I stepped through to reach the river’s sand-and-pebble shore, but, in this summer’s heat, I am happy. I find the greatest peace at the most extreme of temperatures. At 20 below and 100 above, all but the hardiest of creatures are still and quiet, and, whether muffled in layers of clothing or in waves of heat, I feel alone and at home.

Unless, of course, it is a long Sunday afternoon, and droves of pool-less, beach-less citizens suddenly appear. As much as I like my peace, it is good to be reminded how very much I am part of a larger community. My boys play in the water with the children they meet, even if they and their families only speak Spanish. Kayaking hipsters wave hello to us. “Country” folk share fishing stories. Bored teenagers of every shape and size and color appear in motley groups, trying to escape the watchful eyes of adults. (They look a little annoyed when they see me, but my dog wins them over). The river, so imperfect, is so very American.

A Few of My Favorite Things

On July 22, 2016July 22, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Monocacy River, Nature2 Comments

Because I can’t pick just one thing when I have such little time to write, and The Sound of Music is inspiring any time of the year…

A doe, a deer, a female deer. There’s a Where’s Waldo scavenger hunt going on in downtown Frederick this month, but at the river we like to do things a little differently.

Raindrops on…Sharp-winged Monkey-flowers. Because the bloom of the mimulus alatus is beautiful, but the common name is even better.

Ford every stream. Seriously. It’ll cool you off.

How do you solve a problem like… trash? Clean it up, one piece at a time.

High School Stars

On July 18, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Current Events and IssuesLeave a comment

Warning: I am about to write something completely off-topic.

A few days ago, the local paper ran a front-page story about the sudden death of a 30-year-old former local high school football star. No, let me correct that: it wrote about anything but the death of a 30-year-old former local high school football star. I would be positive and say that it wrote about his life, but that would also be untrue. The lengthy story concentrated only on what an amazing, focused athlete he was as a teenager; how he was so good and so serious that his friends didn’t like to involve him in pick-up games; how he gave up every other sport for football; how he had the world at his feet and colleges banging down his door; how he casually and confidently chose to go to the University of Maryland…until he injured his spinal column at the end of his freshman year, transferred to Penn State, never played again, and “life did not get easier.” After this statement, the writer returns to extolling the young man’s athleticism in high school for several more paragraphs, before dropping this quote from one of his old high school buddies: “We haven’t really hung out much or talked to him much…There wasn’t much in common here lately. We didn’t really want to associate with him, unfortunately.”

The cause of this young man’s death is never mentioned, and so I cannot with certainty say why he died. But there are dark hints that lead to some sad possibilities. He had a bad football injury, most certainly painful, and was never able to play football again. Afterwards, his “life did not get easier.” His friends ceased hanging out with him and “didn’t really want to associate with him.” He died suddenly of a cause not reported. When I read between these lines, I see hints toward depression, personality change (think: concussions), and, very likely, addiction. I also see a lost opportunity for a real story.

I understand that, for the sake of his family and friends, relating the (apparent) grimness of his recent years and the (painful? sad? tragic?) details of his death is something that, as a sympathetic writer, you might be reluctant to do. You want to remember the good times. But, to put his death on the front page and and to devote almost 30 paragraphs solely to his years as an amazing high school football player seems entirely disrespectful of the majority of his life. Was he truly only valued for those 2 or 3 years of athletic greatness? Did he fall off the face of the earth after football? The article notes that his Facebook page mentions working for a local tree service and country club. Did he have no friends from these places to quote? What has he been doing for the last 10 years? Was it of no value? Was he of no value?

I am afraid that he might have felt that way. I hope not. I hope he found life afterwards. I hope that he didn’t become addicted to painkillers. I hope that he didn’t become depressed and choose to self-medicate. I hope that he found something to live for outside of football. I hope that he found other interests and friends. I hope that he didn’t think that the best years of his life were over. I hope that he died in a way that had nothing to do with his “tough times” after leaving football. I hope.

It’s strange how angry this article has left me…for him, his family, his loved ones, for all those injured athletes who have had to face life after their sport. All of these men and women are more than what they can do on a field, or how fast they can run, or how hard they can kick. Let’s be respectful of that. Let’s remember that. Let’s remind them of that.

We are not to be defined by one ability, by one time in our life, by one tragedy that changed things. We are all so much more.

Dangerous Beauty

On July 15, 2016July 15, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Nature2 Comments

The Honey Locust, or Gelditsia triacanthos, is a remarkable but treacherous tree. Its lower trunk is covered in 3-inch barbs so sharp that in the past they were used by woodsmen as pins, spear points, and animal traps. (More recently, they’ve been known to pierce running shoes and flatten bicycle tires with a budget-busting regularity.) The trees are common along the Monocacy River, and currently they’re festooned in the long, flat, curling seed pods that inspired the “honey” in their name. The pulp of the pod is sweet enough to tempt wildlife like deer, squirrels, and rabbits, and Native Americans, in addition to using the pulp of the Honey Locust as a thickener and sweetener, also roasted its seeds as a source of protein. I, however, prefer to admire the trees from a distance.

Shoe

On July 13, 2016July 13, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Monocacy River, TrashLeave a comment

A shoe without its mate is a forlorn thing, especially if it’s somewhere out of place, like on the side of a road or, like yesterday, in the muddy shallows of a river. Where is the other shoe and, more importantly, where is its owner? I could concoct a million stories about how this lovely black flat found itself in the Monocacy, but there is only one true one, and I almost certainly will never know it. Still, I like the possibilities.

The Little Things

On July 12, 2016July 12, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Monocacy River, WildlifeLeave a comment

When I think about summer along the Monocacy River, I think about sun, heat, and humidity, of course, but it’s the little things that really define the season…things like spiders, bugs, beetles, bees and other creepy crawlies. Some of these invertebrates are welcome: I love examining spiders in their webs, watching damselflies flit from plant to plant along streams of shallow water, and bees bumbling over the wildflowers in the floodplain. On the other hand, the invasive insect destroyers, like japanese beetles, which descend upon plants in dense, reproducing masses and devour their hosts’ leaves to bits of lacy shreds, repulse me. Yesterday, however, when I saw a slew of them chewing up some stinging nettle, I was almost happy with them. So, you see, it really is the little things. As long as you don’t mind getting a gnat in your eye every now and then.

A Bag on the Water

On July 11, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Environment, Monocacy River1 Comment

The waters of the Monocacy slow to near stillness mid-summer, when the moisture in the air feels equal to that in the river. At the end of a narrow dirt path, hemmed in by the stinging nettle, poison hemlock and japanese hops that the boys call “itchy plants,” you can find a deep, wide expanse of water that is more pond than stream. My old labrador likes to stop here for a drink (which I don’t advise unless, like her, you have a stomach made of steel). Yesterday, we both looked across to see a plastic bag floating on the surface of the lethargic water. It was impossible to reach from our side of the riverbank, but I did pick up a few fishing supplies. Float on.

More Trash Talk

On July 6, 2016July 12, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn TrashLeave a comment

In honor of our recent Independence Day, I’m returning to my main topic: trash. The 4th of July produces a lot of it, in the form of picnic scraps and recreational debris, like firecracker wrappers, cigarette stubs, and fishing paraphernalia. For now I’ll think of the trash as evidence of our ability to rejoice, in spite of the storms, literal and figurative, that are pounding our nation.

Reflections on “Cicada”

On July 1, 2016July 1, 2016 By trashonthemonocacyIn Childhood, MemoirLeave a comment

Cicadas remind me of transformations. Slow, patient transformations. Even the annual cicadas live in the earth for years, feeding on tree roots as small, white nymphs before finally crawling out of the soil to trade their dull exoskeletons for wings and color. After a life of silence, they drown out even the birds’ songs with a harsh, incessant buzzing that, for me, is the defining sound of summer. They demand to be heard. Is it their years of invisibility that makes such bold insistence possible?

If so, can I learn from them? Can I accept my years of quiet acquiescence as years of growth and then be brave enough to let them go, to break out of them and find a new form? While nature forces the cicada into its impressive transformations, it seems to work against my own. It is much easier to remain as I am, safe and fed, than to risk the precious resources of time and energy to try something new.

Loss has been such a power in my life that I’m reluctant to lose anything purposefully, even if it is my own sense of limitation. When I lost my mother at the age of 5, it was too much for me to understand. Certainly I couldn’t put my grief into words. I knew only that my world seemed to change color the day she was buried, from bright hues to a constant sickly green. In the car, I would count my family over and over again, only to come up with the wrong number, but for some reason I was sure that it wasn’t my mother I was missing. There was something else, something bigger, something too frightening to really look at. I wished upon the first stars of many nights for my mother to return, until a well-meaning adult told me that I needed to wish for something I really could have…like a Barbie doll. Children are so resilient, I heard them say.

But I didn’t feel resilient. Not even 20 years later, when my oldest brother died in an accident so bizarre that it’s almost impossible to discuss. We buried him next to my mother, while his own son, the same age that I was when my mother died, looked on. Why can’t anyone just grow up with both of their parents? my grandfather asked at the wake. My brother’s loss was nothing less than a reaffirmation that change is frightening, risk is an expression of stupidity, and that that great big hole was never really going to be filled.

As it happens, I was with my brother’s son, now an adult, when I found the cicada yesterday. He bent to look at it with me, still wondering at my weird preoccupation with the life of the Monocacy River. He was there at my son’s command, to skip rocks across the slow, brown water of one of the broadest spots along the river. He is, like my brother, a gentle and soft-spoken man with a desire for family and a peaceful life. In fact, he is studying to become a family counselor, noting that he wants to help people the way people helped him. Maybe that is what resiliency looks like.

Grief can force change. It can force action. It can force one to see time more clearly for the precious thing it is. I know that there is time to wait and to grow, but that time is not limitless. I need to dig myself out of my safe hole, shed my fears and truly spread my wings. I’ve been close so many times. What’s stopping me now?

TRASH ON THE MONOCACY

Month: July 2016