A Whipple Spring

This has been an amazing spring, a spring when I have been brought face to face with people I'd only admired from afar. When I've realized that the Internet connection that started our friendship is a powerful thing and capable of much good. That the feeling you get when you chat with someone via email can be as real as it is good. That came home to me when Murr Brewster traveled all the way from Oregon to stay a few days at Indigo Hill. I knew I'd love Murr and sure enough we were like sisters (without the baggage) from the moment we met. I felt I'd known her forever.

Chet Baker loved Murr, too.
He smiled all the time around her.

and sometimes we all laughed ourselves silly.

When Murr arrived she started futzing around in a huge duffel bag, saying, "I brung you something." My curiosity was piqued. "Oh yeah? Well, just bringing yourself from Oregon is plenty, sweetie."

"It's a whole salmon. Caught it this morning."

And I thought to myself, Oh God what am I going to do with a whole fresh salmon when we're leaving for a festival. With friends like these, who needs enemies? "Smoked?" I squeaked hopefully.

And Murr turned around and handed me a rolled up hank of fabric and I thought, Oh, thank God, it's just a piece of salmon.

And I unrolled it

and tears squirted horizontally out of my eyes

because something like that has to be made with great love
pieced together out of hundreds of tiny bits of fabric and quilted for hours and hours

and capturing the soul of The Bacon so precisely and adorably

and after all we'd never met, but Murr just knew what to do. And it still makes me weep.

Murr's made a number of these quilts, all for friends, mostly of their beloved doggehs, present and past.

Thank you just doesn't begin to do it. I have the quilt hanging in my kitchen where it's the first thing you see when you walk in the door--you can't escape it-- and everybody who walks in goes straight to it with their mouths hanging open and they all kind of sputter for awhile before they're ready to get the story of The Woman Who Can Do Anything She Turns Her Mind To.

So that was a hostess gift with the mostess, and I am still agog. I resolved to try to be as good a hostess as Murr was a guest so I tied my apron on and fed her up good. No salmon, though.

The place was showing rawther well, with trees dressed in filmy greens and blossomy blouses of white. View from towertop.

Liam was exploring the physics of cardboard ramps and flying Matchbox cars.

The meadow was alive with field sparrow song.

Chet Baker was cold, as usual, so we fixed him up in an ET wrap.

Murr got a taste of GardenPod Xanadu. All that's since been emptied out and put into planters and baskets, and it's simply ridiculous how beautiful it all is.

Murr's a gardener of the first rank, so we moved slowly about the yard and greenhouse, exclaiming about this or that little thing we've grown or tried to grow. I found myself wishing I could send her back on the plane with pots full of starts from my garden. Flight attendants frown on such things.

When Nina (of Nature Remains) arrived, we played with a baby mourning dove for awhile
and then I tried to think of the most whiz-bang thing I could do to show these naturalists a good time. The answer was pretty obvious: Newell's Run in late April. Yep, that's it. That's the road that gave me permission to fall in love with southeast Ohio; that's the road with the mostest.

The Bacon, awash in blue-eyed Mary (Collinsonia verticillata)
Blue-eyed Mary is my favorite spring ephemeral wildflower, and Newell's Run is drowning in it. It washes down the hillsides like blue mist. I am sure that my affinity for bicolored blue and white lobelias has everything to do with blue-eyed Mary, trying to recreate that look in my hanging baskets.

It's being dreadfully threatened by nasty garlic mustard. I cussed and pulled, cussed and pulled.

The garlic mustard is the big white stuff towering over little Mary.

Nina shoots Chet wading in blue flowers
He was thinking about squirrelts and chiptymunks.
We were having the most quiet kind of fun, the doodly oh look at this! kind of fun.

Murr looks for salamanders everywhere. She likes salamanders best of all. And she found two: a dusky salamander Desmognathus fuscus

and a northern two-lined salamander Eurycea bislineata.


Woo hoo!

We found the deliciously named cream violet, which pairs nicely with blue-eyed Mary,

Jacob's ladder


and dwarf larkspur. The larkspur had spread and was coming up yards and yards away from the original tiny patch I'd known about for years


Elves in hats.

We found tiny gold-butted beetles partying on a splash of bird doo, which is something I'd have liked even without Murr there

and when we were finally done at Newell's Run we meandered up home to meet Buck the Bull
who was occupied assessing the readiness of Tina for another go.

But he shambled up to the fence to say hello, for he is nothing if not a companionable bull.


Tina, who looks more like a hippo with her frostbitten ears than a cow, said hi too.



When who should arrive but Jeff Warren, Buck and Tina's owner. I was delighted to introduce him to Murr and Nina.

He told us that Buck is now 13. I love Jeff for keeping Buck around. I know he eats a lot of hay, but he's still doing his job, as evidenced by Photo One.

We ended a perfect excursion with a look at seven perfect Carolina chickadee eggs in a box in my driveway. As I speak six of those seven eggs are feathered out and yelling for their afternoon repast.

Spring in Whipple.

Aftermath of a Tornado

All photos in this post courtesy Debby and Mike Kaspari

I'll say one thing about blogging this story: it makes tornadoes and what they do painfully real for me. Tornadoes have gone from a woozy mythical Wizard of Ozzy abstraction to the worst of monsters in my mind. I've been writing these posts for three days now, dawn to well past dark, trying to get the story pulled together and cogent, gathering images from diverse sources, and it has been stormy here in Ohio the whole time. I must glance at the sky a hundred times a day as I write. I eye the clouds, looking for the dirty greenish-brown, the cyclonic rotation that indicates we're all in big trouble. I go outside, hear the birds warblers singing songs of comfort even as I wheel around examining the sky. And I can't stop thinking about what it means to lose everything.

Or perhaps not everything, but to lose one's shelter, one's home, one's garden; one's handmade Eden.

I stop to put my head in my hands and cry several times a day, in the purest of empathy for a dear friend, bereft. I think about what it must be like to have your home be nothing but a pile of wet rubble, from which you're charged with extracting the things still extant, still dear.

And so it began, and Debby sent us her photos of the process. The thing being not to stop to mourn, but to scratch and scrabble to recover what could still be recovered. Put up by friends in Oklahoma City, wearing borrowed clothing and just-bought underwear, they braved the still-violent thunderstorms to try to beat the rain to their possessions.

A grit-spattered photo of one of Debby's early bluegrass bands, Heartland, ca. 1985. There she is, second from right, lookin' real bluegrassy. Big hair has never been a problem for Deb.

The current issue of Bird Watcher's Digest. There's a nice symmetry to her finding that, since it brought us together.
Some of Debby's earlier Cameo Girls. Most people who know her as a natural history artist don't realize that as a designer and sculptor, she's a huge celebrity in the head vase collector's world. Well, she is. Check it out!


Ah ha ha ha ha! The magic of the Tubes of the Interwebs!

Debby, our own Cameo Girl. Nice hat. But where's the hole to put the flowers?

Through it all, Debby and Mike haven't lost their sense of humor.

and another ironic find:
You can see the dreadful conditions they've been working in--storms and rain. The roof collapsed right on top of the house, and actually protected a lot of their belongings.

Here's a beautiful wood flatfile, totaled, but still holding priceless sketchbooks full of tropical animals, birds, plants and insects--the kernel of a book I know Debby will write one day.


Oh yes, when this is all done, she will. Because the sketchbooks survived.

And here they are, drying out on the floor of the home where they were staying.

She's entering a framed painting in the Bennington, VT show this summer. It survived the gallon of water that was sitting in the box without even a drop in the frame. Way to go, Airfloat Box.


Wedding and family photos, drying out.

Each new discovery, an extravagant gift.

Both Deb and Mike found their laptops, asleep in the rubble. Both Macs started right up on being opened.

They've sent a desk computer and some external hard drives off for data recovery. Expensive stuff, that data recovery, but not as expensive as losing it all. Mike had a home office that looked like E.O Wilson's might.

Amidst the joy, there is still great sadness. Debby says what hurts most is the oak trees, the hundred-year-old giants that surrounded the house in quiet and green.
Every last one of them, uprooted or shorn off, every one of them gone.

An aquatic biologist from the university tries to recover the beautiful red comets from the pond. Only two of 15 survived the storm.

A backhoe scoops rubble.

My book, as lasting and undamaged as our forever friendship.



On the night of May 10, one of the first things I thought of, after finding out that Debby and Mike and little Gizmo had survived the storm, was Debby's banjo. Oh, please, let it be in its case, let it be OK. It had been under the stairwell where Mike sometimes went during storms, and it was in its case. The stairwell collapsed completely, but when they excavated down, the banjo was unharmed.

I still weep every time I look at this photo. Musical instruments are not things to be replaced. Musical instruments have history; they have souls. Thank you, tornado gods, for not taking her banjo, too.

Debby and Mike's house and cars were insured, even most of the artwork was insured. Insurance will cover a lot of it. But there is a tremendous amount of outlay for tornado survivors; for instance, insurance will cover only part of the huge cost of demolition and hauling the rubble away. She'll need to replace all her art materials, her paper, brushes, clothing, and kitchen stuff (the first floor was crushed under the top floor, where her studio was). Other tornado survivors have told Debby and Mike that insurance helps, but the cash outlay is still considerable.

Debby and Mike have been assigned a terrible job for which they never applied. Building their lives back after the tornado is what they are going to be doing for a long, long time. Each night, when they collapse exhausted in borrowed lodging wearing borrowed clothes, they hit an emotional wall, and they're struggling to keep working through the grief and bewilderment of being suddenly homeless, rootless, carless, skilletless, gardenless.

I've set up a Paypal page for any contribution you might wish to make. There's a donation button in the blog sidebar.

If you're old-fashioned, checks may be made payable to Deborah Kaspari, and sent to:

Deborah Kaspari c/o
Department of Zoology
University of Oklahoma
730 Van Vleet Oval
Room 314
Norman, OK 73019


I'll wrap up this series with my heartfelt thanks for any help you might be moved to offer. Hug your loved ones, look up in gratitude at the roof over your head, and be sure you have a basement or storm shelter nearby. Be safe, and keep an eye to the sky.

The May 10 Tornado

photo by Rich Thompson, meteorologist and stormchaser, www.chasetolive.com

My friend Debby has lived with her husband Mike Kaspari, a renowned expert on ants (dude hangs with E.O. Wilson!) near Norman, Oklahoma for 15 years. Mike teaches at the University of Oklahoma, and Debby works from a studio at home, drawing and painting and sculpting and illustrating and launching shows of her work. Their arc is somewhat similar to Bill's and mine; they got married about the same time, bought an awesome place in the country, and shaped it into a little Eden for birds, bugs, animals and themselves. Here's the house, a shot best taken in winter, because it was surrounded by magnificent oaks that beautifully hid it in the grove.

They'd lived there several years when they decided to build a storm shelter beneath the floor of the garage. In fact, they built it on May 10, 2001. Remember that date.

Oklahoma, as anyone who reads the news knows, is smack in the middle of Tornado Alley. I just read that the farmer whose picturesque place north of Oklahoma City was used for much of the filming of "Twister" just had most of his buildings leveled by a monster tornado this May.

The Kasparis had had the shelter for nine years, and so far luck had been with them. Debby had spent quite a bit of time there, in fact, but they'd never yet been struck. She doesn't like storms; she doesn't like lightning or thunder and she has always feared tornadoes. Like me, she was marked by the Wizard of Oz as a child, and has never really come to grips with that snaky monster from above. Oklahoma is a tough place to live if you fear tornadoes. And you'd be a damned fool not to fear them.

Storm shelters are no fun to be in. They're dark and windowless, underground and spidery and claustrophobic, and although Debby would retreat to it, Mike never liked it one bit, and he'd often go under a stairwell when threatening clouds piled up. On the afternoon of May 10, 2010, Debby was weeding away in the garden when she decided she didn't much like the look of those clouds--dark, dirty and coppery-colored.
Photo by Rich Thompson, www.chasetolive.com

She headed to the storm shelter, and Mike stayed upstairs, making homemade bagels, and planning to go under the stairwell when it got really ugly.A photo taken the night of May 10, 2010, in another storm cellar. Little Gizmo's bundled in a towel, because there was no time to hunt up the cat carrier. May 10 was a wild, wild day in Oklahoma. Photo by Mike Kaspari.

Meanwhile, Tim Ryan was checking the weather on his computer while on assignment for his work in Barcelona, Spain. He didn't like the looks of the radar, nor did he like what he was picking up on the Twitter feed from his Oklahoma friends and family. His thoughts darted to his dear friend Debby, who would be bumming out and probably already sitting in her storm shelter with Gizmo the cat on her lap. So, being Tim, and always thinking of the ones he loves, he called her up. He's done that for me, too. Not with a tornado, but just because.


He'd talked Debby through a tornado warning before, and he was going to be there for her, whether from Oklahoma City or Barcelona. Yep, she was safely down in there, but she'd been in there a long time and she really wanted to come out NOW. "No, no, stay there! Stay put!!" Tim urged. "And get Mike down there with you! It's hitting Lake Rupert RIGHT NOW. It's right over you!!"
Photo by Rich Thompson, www.chasetolive.com

Debby called Mike down; he grabbed his Kindle, in case it would be a long time, and they shut the door over their heads, and just a few minutes later there was a low humming sound. Not like a freight train, not a roar, just a hum. This hum was the vortex of the tornado passing right through their house. It isn't that noisy in the vortex. But then their ears popped hard.

And when the noise stopped Debby noticed that there was light coming through the cracks in the shelter roof, and that shouldn't be so, because the shelter was under the floor of the garage, and wasn't there a garage roof over them? Tim was still on the phone, talking to Mike, when the humming stopped and Mike tentatively opened the shelter door.

"It's gone. It's gone. Everything is gone. We should be dead! We should be dead! We should be dead!!" Mike said, as Tim listened helplessly from Spain. For there was nothing left of their house, their grove of ancient oaks, their garage and their barn but a huge triangular pile of rubble with giant oaks uprooted and thrown on top of it.

Photo by Debby Kaspari

The iron-framed bed is the one I slept in only three weeks earlier. I think I see the shower, too. It was a great shower.

Photo by Debby Kaspari

The front of the house. Both their cars were totaled, too.

The barn. Photo by Debby Kaspari


Photo by Debby Kaspari

The storm shelter, blown full of debris, that saved Debby, Mike and Gizmo's lives. The stairwell Mike favored was crushed flat under the second floor.

Debby and Mike, wearing borrowed clothes, pause on the first day of assessment at the entrance to the tiny shelter that kept them among the living.


Photo by Debby Kaspari

The backyard, once a grove of noble oaks, now blasted flat. The red stripe, from a can of paint that was carried along by the funnel. The indigo sky, a receding wall cloud from the storm.


Photo by Debby Kaspari

The house, as viewed from the water garden. This is where Gizmo and I took our wonderful nap, where iris and bougainvillea once bloomed.

These are incredible times we live in. To have photos from a storm shelter, to have photos of the immediate aftermath; to receive them via computer and to be able to post them, is humbling, amazing. But stormchasers posted photos of the actual tornado that ate Debby and Mike's home, and I have those, too, even though it makes my stomach squirm to post them.


Photo by Rich Thompson, www.chasetolive.com

It was an F4 tornado, a huge wedge with a funnel a half-mile across. Stormtrackers told Debby and Mike that it was a single F3 tornado until just before it hit them, when a second funnel merged with the first. And 100 yards beyond their house, a third funnel merged with those two, and it became a monster F4 with a path a half-mile wide. And who needs monsters from outer space, who needs myth and legend and horror movies, when things like this can reach right down out of the sky and obliterate everything you hold dear?

Photo by Rich Thompson, www.chasetolive.com


On May 10, 2010, 22 tornadoes touched down across Oklahoma. One had a track of 150 miles. Debby and Mike were square in the path of an F4. Her firsthand account is here, on her blog, Drawing the Motmot. And in this post, Anatomy of a Tornado, Debby figures out just what happened to her and her neighbors.

Right after the tornado, when Tim called to tell me what had happened to our friends, we began scheming about how to help. There was an outpouring on Facebook and in emails of people asking how and where they could donate. It has taken me a month to pull this together, but our hope is that having a single, centralized place--right here on this blog--where people can donate makes the most sense. So here it is. We've put the word out to the great bloggers at the Nature Blog Network and to friends who Debby has touched with her art. Thank you for coming here.

If you would like to reach out and help Debby and Mike, please see the animated mini-story created by my WebWitch, Katherine Koch, on the right sidebar of this blog. Clicking on the DONATE button leads to Debby's PayPal page, with easy instructions for donating.

If you'd prefer to mail a check, please send it to

Deborah Kaspari
Dept. of Zoology
University of Oklahoma
730 Van Vleet Oval
Room 314
Norman, OK 73019

Thank you.