To the Chicken Lek!

Deb, Tim and I took off on a Friday for a hot date with lekking lesser prairie-chickens at Sue Selman's ranch near Woodward on Saturday morning. Thanks to impassable roads, we couldn't get to the main lek so the festivalgoers had to walk to one that, on the morning we attended, had but three males. They put on a lovely show, bowing and making their peculiar ricocheting hoot. I was really glad Deb had loaned me a sketchbook and pencil, because the photography ops were like this:
Those are prairie-chickens in the middle of the frame. It was nice through the scope, so I was really glad I'd lugged that along. I sketched happily for a couple of hours until my bladder began impinging on my lungs. The rule for unobtrusive blind-watching is to get into the blinds before the chickens get there at first light, and not to leave until after the last chicken flies off. We're talking three, four hours of sitting still and being vewwy, vewwy quiet while your bladder slowly fills. OK, I know, enough about the bladder. But it's a thing.

And once you get out, the most you can hope for is a dip in the landscape for cover.Which didn't even slow me down.

I shared a blind with John, an extraordinary young guy with what looks like the brightest of futures as a field biologist before him. He's home-schooled, and passionate about birds and birdwatching. And funny as all get out. I went into full mother-of-a-13-year-old mode, fussing about his choice of clothing for an icy, wet prairie dawn: a cotton hooded sweatshirt. Dude is gonna freeze to death before he gets to that bright future. Borrowed a real coat for him and plopped one of my ear warmers on him, too. He took it off for the picture. Tsk. I, for one, am not afraid to look like a fool as long as I'm warm. Hence the Cat in the Hat look, the big white ski gloves.



I don't want you to think that distant specks is the only kind of view you can expect of prairie chickens at this wonderful little festival. We just had a little bad luck: bad weather and distant chickens on a secondary lek. By Sunday morning, the roads had improved to the extent that lucky festivalgoers were able to access the big lek, and they got fabulous looks at the birds. At that point, I'd been out two mornings in a row, getting up at 0-dark-thirty and testing my (here it comes again) bladder capacity, so I was happy to do something else and leave my fabulous looks at lesser prairie-chickens to sometime in the future.

A nice black-tailed jackrabbit came lalooping across the lek, which was amusing. I am unused to seeing hares. They are huge, leggy, and very odd compared to our little cottontail rabbits.

On the first morning, we walked to a vantage point where we could see lekking chickens. The weather was pretty good and the company was even better.

Debby made quick sketches of distant chickens. I want to grow up to be her.

A tiny mammillaria cactus in fruit.

There is nothing quite like coming in frozen stiff from a stint in a blind, to a warm ranch house redolent of bacon and maple syrup and waffles and coffee. Ahhhh. Sue Selman, owner of OK's largest private ranch, is a wonderful hostess, and she made every festival participant feel like family. A time-tested recipe from the New River Birding and Nature Festival!

Here, Tim Ryan shows Sue Selman (seated) and stalwart volunteer Susan some photos on his iPhone. Doubtless some of the ones from the previous post...

Susan's a blur of motion as Sue serves bacon, waffles and scrambs to hungry birders.

Sue's kitchen is as generously proportioned as her breakfast helpings.


It was so cool to be having breakfast at the home of the rancher who owns and protects the land that this endangered grouse needs to survive. She's host to the prairie chickens, and host to us, and gracious to all. She's also a wonderful photographer and interested in all aspects of nature. Sue Selman is a gift to the planet. But wait! more evidence that she's the finest kind:

Someone who reads my blog mentioned to me that among her dogs, Sue has a Boston terrier. So after most people had finished their breakfast, Sue let Bug out to meet us.


photo by Tim Ryan

You can imagine how happy I was to hold a Boston terrier on my lap, after three days without Chet Baker. I mean, I had plenty of bacon, but not The Bacon.

Bug is a beautiful 8-year-old girl, solid muscle and sweet as maple syrup. Sue confessed to me that she has had a lot of dogs, but Bug is her favorite of them all. Imagine that. Bug's the principal varmint-catcher for a busy ranch, and she patrols a route several times a day. Which brought to mind Chet's chiptymunk and bunneh route. I would hate to be a gopher in the vicinity of Sue's house. Or a piece of bacon, fallen to the floor.

It amazes me how the Boston personality is so consistent from Ohio to Oklahoma. Such sweet, merry little dogs they are.

Zick, with Bug, at peace. Photo by Tim Ryan.

That night, I'd give the keynote at the Woodward Cultural Center. If it looks kind of like a frontier town in the Wild West, wal, it is.

Off to Oklahoma!

A scissor-tail takes flight in the rain

It all started innocently enough. Well, what eventually happened was going to happen anyway, but none of us knew it, at least not in our conscious minds. I've been waiting to tell this story for a few weeks, but it keeps unfolding, kind of like the Zick- bats story, and I'd like to know how it ends. Failing that, I'd like to help make it end better. I've been working on a series about Oklahoma for awhile now, and because there is so much to tell and because continuity is important, I will break my twice-weekly blogging cycle and be posting on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. I hope you enjoy it.

I was asked over a year ago if I would like to give a keynote at the brand-new Lesser Prairie Chicken Festival in Woodward, Oklahoma. Knowing that this bird has thus far eluded me, and more importantly, that two of my favorite people on the planet: traveler/writer/photographer Tim Ryan and fearlessly versatile artist Debby Kaspari--live in Oklahoma, I grabbed the chance to see the chickens and my friends in their native habitat.

You'll remember the prairie chicken poster from earlier how-to-paint-like-Zick blogposts:Well, this was the 2010 poster. And 2009's kickoff festival poster was done by none other than Debby Kaspari!


I love her palette, and the daring angles and rock-solid drawing. Mmm.

Tim Ryan picked me up at the Oklahoma City airport on April 15 and brought me to his beautiful Arts and Crafts cottage in a gorgeous suburb of OKC. There, Debby met us for a delightful lunch on his terrace, and then spirited me off to her little rural paradise near Norman. We were gabbing away at lunch when Debby glanced up at the sky and said, "I'm not crazy about the looks of those clouds. Let's head for my house." I heard the resolve in her voice and didn't protest. The clouds didn't look all that bad to me, but what do I know about Oklahoma weather?

So off we went to Debby's house, where I'd spend the night. I was exhausted from a 4:30 wakeup in Ohio, so after a little garden tour of Debby and Mike's magnificent rural contemporary house and yard, nestled in hundred-year-old oaks, I collapsed in a hammock under the oaks and drifted off to the songs of black-and-white and yellow-rumped warblers. Every once in awhile I'd crack an eye to the drifting clouds, and once Debby's little cat Gizmo leapt up and landed on my stomach, curling up contentedly. Which flattered me, since Gizmo, who arrived on the Kaspari porch as a pregnant teenager and proceeded to work her way deep into Deb and Mike's hearts, is a very cool, smart cat. Here she is, nuzzling one of Debby's many incredible sculptures--a harpy eagle planter (!) Who else would think of it? Told ya Deb could do anything.

I slept off the weariness and let the peace of wild things settle over me. I felt cared for and welcome and unpressured and content. It was one of my Top Three Naps of All Time.

Sure enough, there was weather moving in, just in time for the festival. As I think back over the many festivals I've worked, I remember rain at most of them. Of course, most of them are in spring, and it rains in spring, but still! it gets old. Rain at the Lesser Prairie Chicken festival is especially problematic because the road to the main chicken lek (display grounds) gets gumboliciously impassable after only a few hours' downpour. And boy, did it.

Tim and Deb and I, world travelers that we are, were (naturally) woefully unprepared for such conditions, and so, in the grand festival tradition started by Bill of the Birds in a Jamestown, ND Wal-mart, we repaired to Woodward's WallyWorld for things like rubber boots and heavy fleeces, because not only was it pouring; it was freezing cold. After all, we had packed in deep denial of how cruel Oklahoma springs can really be.

First order of bidness: rubber boots. These weren't bad, and they had all three of our sizes. iPhone photo by Tim Ryan. We're being Gumbies. And our brains hurt!


We couldn't resist a little People of Walmart safari of our own. The pickin's were rich. I posed for a surreptitious shot of a gender-bender: a woman in a wifebeater. Unfortunately, the tats aren't showing up too well. There's a angel on my shoulder...


From there, it was on to Atwood's, which is the most spectacular farm-supply store I've ever seen. And I savor farm-supply stores like I savor morels in April.

Tim found a hat, but it wuz too small. That did not stop him from vamping a bit.


iPhone photo by Debby Kaspari

Yes, we were having loads o' fun. In fact, as I think about that trip to Oklahoma, I think about our shopping trips and the crazy foods we ate and the laughter in store aisles just as much as I think about dancing prairie chickens and prairie dogs and coyotes and longhorns and my nap under the oaks at Debby's house.

When we got to the denim section of Atwood's, my eyes nearly rolled back in my head. Because ever since September '09 when I left my favorite ever denim shirt in a hotel in Wisconsin, I have been pining for a shirt like that. I didn't find an exact replica--maybe I never will--but I came back from Oklahoma with four perfectly decent denim shirts (one for Bill) AND the most fabulous pair of Round House Oklahoma-made overalls you have ever seen. I have been living in them this spring, with pruners and trowels bristling from every pocket, and I think about our good times in Oklahoma every time I put them on. I regret not having taken a photo of the Sizing Chart for Round House Overalls that was posted at Atwood's. It advises would-be overall wearers: "If your belly hangs over your beltline, add four inches to the waist."

I did, just because.

iPhone photo by Debby Kaspari

Tim and Zick at Atwood's, flushed with joy at having found the ultimate plain denim shirts and real overalls. When's the last time you saw real overalls? No pearl buttons, no yoke-stitched frippery, just good plain clothes. And the dearest of friends.

The Why of Orchids

The east window, where orchids get just the right amount of sun, year-round.

I often hear from people who say that they can keep orchids alive, but the plants won't rebloom.
Maybe it's true--you haven't got the touch, or you haven't got the accommodations orchids most prefer. But maybe not. I think it's important to keep in mind that orchid time is a very slow time. You can expect one flush of bloom each year. And sometimes it takes two or three years for a plant to rest and recuperate, until it decides it's happy and it takes off.
Note the humidity trays, always kept filled. But the orchids never sit in water; they're elevated on tiles so their roots don't get soggy and rot. When the trays evaporate dry, I refill them with really hot water. That keeps the algae and insects in check.

About reblooming: Most orchids sold in grocery stores and warehouses have been fertilized like crazy and pushed to bloom hard at a very young age. Maybe after that flush of bloom finishes, they need to catch their breath for a year or two. An older plant simply has more reserves, more leaves or more pseudobulbs (the swellings at the base of leaves in cattleya and oncidium types) to make more food. And it's so worth it to wait out that youthful period and let your plants mature and really show what they can do. That's when it gets fun, and addictive.

You grow together, like compatible partners. You find out what each plant likes, developing an empathy over the years.

The most basic requirement of orchids is sufficient light. I suspect that 90% of the problems people report with orchids failing to rebloom revolve around insufficient light. Many folks keep them on mantels or end tables because they look so pretty there, and forget that this is a plant with a need for strong light--yes, even direct sunlight! You wouldn't expect a gardenia to bloom and thrive on a coffee table, so why should an orchid? East window, a few hours of sun each day--that's ideal for most orchids.

Speaking of empathy, I get a lot of orchids as waifs. People buy them in bloom and then enjoy them while they're blooming, but forget to water them or maybe put them on an end table or in a sunny hot west window or cook them over a radiator. By the time they get to me the leaves are limp and hanging over the pot and the roots are rotted and the plant is gasping its last. I knock the plant out of the pot and trim off all the dead roots and put it in fresh medium and mist it every day. And it's amazing how it will spring back and say thank you thank you thank you. It's gratifying.

This was a very fine Doritaenopsis that was badly handled at our local Kroger's. It had been left out in 20-degree weather on a rack and all but two of its leaves froze off. I brought this beautiful plant home only to see its leaves turn to yellow mush and fall off within two days. That was two years ago. I coddled it and loved it and now it's springing back so beautifully, making new leaves and even sending up a marvelous, branched flower spike this spring. See how those leaves stand straight out? They're full of turgor pressure--they don't droop flaccidly over the sides of the pot. That's the sign of a very happy orchid. It's going to be a magnificent plant in another two years. Orchids are very forgiving, very long-lived, and so much tougher than people realize. It literally takes years to kill one.



I started this little Iwangara "Appleblossom" from one little pseudobulb from a plant of mine that had become infested with mealybugs. Unable to rid it of mealybugs, I threw the mother plant out and put all my faith in this offshoot. And oh, how it has rewarded that faith.


Such an elegant, fragrant flower it has--almost like a corsage.
Laeliocattleya x Encyclia cordigera "Pixie" sat around thinking for three years after I bought it in bloom. No buds. Nothin' doin'. And then, this spring, this:


I think it wanted to be misted, that's what I think. In fact, all my plants wanted to be misted. So now I mist them a couple of times a day. We all enjoy it. It's such a simple thing to do, and once I saw the jaw-dropping results, I really began to enjoy spritzing them.


Phalaenopsis "Lava Glow" is such a great little plant. Red is a rare color. And the magenta lip kills me.

You can sometimes find Lava Glow in Loew's. Although Loew's is an awful place for a great orchid, or any orchid. I've never been able to figure out what our local Loew's gains by never watering its orchid stock. The honor of having them drop all their buds and die? The thrill of throwing them out?

I know where the taps are at our Loew's. I go get a new watering can off the shelf and fill it up and water their damn orchids, that's what I do. And I don't buy them there. I buy orchids at orchid shows. Half the price and twice the quality. And should I ever see a red-vested employee lurking around the orchids, I ask them why no one cares for their inventory. Invariably I get: It isn't my job. It's so-and-so's job, and she's out sick/elsewhere. Oh, well, of course. Why should anyone else care? How can anyone walk by a plant that's screaming for water, dying right before their eyes?

With orchids, I grow what I can. There are some orchids I know better than to try: Miltonia, Zygopetalum, Phragmipedium, Cymbidium; the really big cattleyas. I stick to what I can grow well, and what's small enough to fit into a bursting collection.

I branched out a bit for this Psychopsis mendenhall "Hildos." I bought it for $25. It had one 3" long leaf. The grower, Kim Stehli of Windswept in Time Orchids, who I trust implicitly, assured me it'd be worth it. "Just wait!" she said. "This is my favorite orchid."
So I waited. Here's the tag, with my notes:

Bought in April '07 with one leaf. It sent up a spike and by June '08 it was blooming. By October '09 it had made 13 blossoms and was adding a fifth leaf. That leaf threw out a second flower spike in April '10. And here's that new spike. It really wouldn't have had to do that. I was delighted with it as it was.

But wait! The old spike is still blooming away.

With this.
Hold your hand up, fingers spread. That's how big that flower is. It waves, chest high to me, on its wiry, yard-long stem. Kim told me that she's known a single Psychopsis spike to keep blooming for seven years. So we never cut off Psychopsis flower spikes until they wither away on their own. They always have a bud up their sleeve.

It is over the top, ridiculous, dearly loved. With two spikes throwing out flower after flower, it has the potential of being everblooming. Yes, just wait. It'll be worth it. Everything good is worth waiting for. Orchids illustrate that, magnificently.

The Bursting Bud-Emergence

First bloom of a young orchid, or any orchid, is not a speedy process. What fun would instant gratification be, anyway? Orchid fanciers learn to enjoy the journey. It helps to have a lot of orchids so that when one's journey slows down or stalls altogether (hear that, Donna?) you can switch your fickle affections to one that's doin' its thing for you.

Another ten days down the road. The scales on the bud hint at multiple flowers to come. Squeeee! Now I'm wondering if it's going to bloom precisely when it would were it living in Guatemala. How cool would that be? Clearly, I have weeks to wait before finding out--this photo was taken in the last week of January. Slowly I turn, step by step (you have to say that in a Daffy Duck voice).

February 3, 2010: I'm having such fun with this post, photographing the plant as it changes. I've no idea when to expect flowers. I've been watching this bud for so long I can hardly imagine the day when its flowers will open and start emanating that heavenly scent in my very own bedroom.

March 1, 2010: It's really cooking now. I fantasize that each little kink and scale on the spike will resolve into a bud and then a flower. I'm misting it several times a day and at night before I go to bed. It's kind of like boiling water when someone is in labor. It's something I can do that seems helpful.

The spike elongates and miraculously differentiates into separate buds. Here it is on April 20, 2010.


By April 28, it's starting to open.
agggghhh
boinnng
pop pop pop

The color deepens and even more flowers open
and along about 10 AM that heavenly muguet/carnation/paradise perfume, barely remembered from a roadside in highland Guatemala, begins to emanate

and it fills up the room until about 1 when the sun is no longer warming the flowers

but even after that you can catch a whiff until nightfall when it rests and girds itself for the next day of beauty and fragrance.

It surely favors its mother.

Not to be outdone, the little Encyclia cordigera alba plant I bought to tide me over decides to open on exactly the same day as its big purple cousin.
Just to show me, it pumps out a perfume that's even spicier than the purple one's.

I fall in love with it, too, and apologize to it for ever thinking it wouldn't be just as lovely and fragrant as its cousin from far away.

My orchids aren't really so much plants as members of the family, friends who bring me joy. My bedroom looks like a sale table at an orchid show. I bring practically everyone who enters the house in to see them; they're just too wonderful not to share.
We all have days when nothing seems to be as it should.

It's good to have a place to go where everyone is happy and thriving, where abundance and beauty are the order of the day. To to receive affirmation in the sight and scent of well-grown plants; know that this, at least, is something you've done right.