My Sacred Places: Angel Mounds

Each of us has visited places that we regard as sacred. Cathedrals, burial grounds, and monuments to soldiers fallen in the line of duty readily come to mind. When we broaden the definition of “sacred” to include any place inspiring our loftiest ideas and our highest respect, we have a host of consecrated locations. This series of blogs is dedicated to a few of my sacred places.

My India Ink Drawing of Woodland Mound,

Which I Made for Dr. Conard Carroll

When my brother and I were enrolled in one of many summer sessions at Indiana University, we decided to spend a Saturday at Angel Mounds. After AD 1000, a large settlement of Native Americans thrived beside the Ohio River; the impressive civilization lasted until 1450. The inhabitants farmed the area for miles around. The site boasted a dozen impressively large structures including various mounds and a palisade.

As it turned out, my brother and I had chosen a stiflingly hot day. At approximately 11:00 a.m., we parked our car and walked through a weedy field toward a reconstructed section of the palisade wall, which once had bastions at rhythmic intervals along the half circle that stretched from the river, around the village, and back to the river again. The sun beat down on our heads. We were standing on soil that crayfish loved. Every inch of ground was steamy. Even while standing still to read the markers interpreting the archaeological site, we felt sweat beading on our foreheads and dripping down our backs. We weren’t being baked; we were being boiled!

We had come to see the mounds, and we were going to see them, no matter how sweltering the day might be! We went from one to the next, surveying each in its torrid splendor. Not a breath of air cooled our perspiring faces. All was breezeless and scorching. We were the only visitors to the park. Others were wiser. Others were enjoying themselves in air-conditioned rooms somewhere. We trudged from a platform mound to a conical mound. We could have wrung the moisture from our shirts.

We found appealing the thought of climbing above the tropical bottom land, so we scaled the cone before us. We dragged our feet through tangled grasses, our tendons pulling hard as we scrambled up the steep embankment. When we reached the top, we sat down to drain. The view was spectacular. The turquoise haze of southern Indiana lay above the land bordered by motionless trees. The great river lay beyond with scarcely a trace of movement as if it were a lake instead.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. I felt that we were becoming one with nature.

Just then, with a sarcasm that only my brother can wield, he jeered, “It probably took them a long time to make this mound. I bet they wish they could have had our modern earth-moving equipment. With a good bulldozer, they could have scraped this mound together in less than a day.”

Out of nowhere, a furious wind suddenly crashed against us. We took one look at each other, jumped to our feet, and dashed pall-mall down the slope, nearly falling several times in our rush toward the level plain. Once we regained our breath, I said, rather accusingly, “They didn’t like that very much!” Contritely, my brother said, “No. That stirred up something we had no right to disturb.”

Neither of us felt safe. We abruptly concluded our visit by striding back to our vehicle. Since that day so long ago, we have journeyed to many prehistoric sites in Ohio, and, needing no reminder, we have kept a respectful attitude throughout our trips.       

Why I Planted Peaches and Pears (Last Installment in This Series)

When I moved from the city, my new home had half a dozen old apple trees near the silo beside the barn. They were of the winesap cultivar. Neglected for many years, they were in sad shape. I followed instructions in The Reader’s Digest Illustrated Guide to Gardening to prune them. They held on for a few more years, but the yield was usually disappointing. I finally gave up. The wood lent fragrance to many a winter’s day when I burned it in my Buck stove. I replaced the trees with plums, apples, peaches, and pears. This is a story about the last two.

I remembered how thoroughly my mother enjoyed the fresh fruit from her trees. How easily I can picture her as she sat watching Ruth Lyons on the Zenith black-and-white TV while eating a peach, which dripped down her chin. How readily I can see her later in the year as she plucked a pear and bit into its inner pale yellow goodness. Nothing made her happier! She was certainly no J. Alfred Prufrock, who asks, “Do I dare to eat a peach?” Like my mother, I was determined to grow peaches and pears, not just apples.

My Peaches That Snapped Their Branches

 

In my area, frosts nip the fruit blooms almost every year. With the loss of the spring flowers comes a fruitless harvest. Two years ago, the peach tree blossoms escaped the usual frost. The fruit set on so thickly and heavily that the branches began to split off the trunks of the trees. I tried to prevent calamity by propping the branches with two-by-fours, but the limbs broke at the points of support. I had the greatest crop of peaches ever! … but the cost was dear. My peach trees are so weakened that I plan to replace them with new stock.

Last year, the blooming of the pear trees slipped in between the killing frosts. The fruit set on in bunches like overgrown grapes. The branches arched downward, many of them touching the ground, and I was afraid that my pear trees would be destroyed in the same way that my peach trees were ruined in the previous year. My pears were younger, which caused their branches to be springier. Luckily, none of the limbs snapped! They were covered with fruit of that indescribable outward color (green or yellow or brown, depending on the angle and the light). For weeks, I enjoyed the purity of pears. To me, the flavor of pears is uncomplicated but powerful in its simplicity. When you make your own apple sauce, include one or two pears. You will be amazed how the notes of the pear enhance the taste of the apples!

My Heavenly Pears in Jars

No wonder pears have figured so prominently in literature and the other arts! They are divine!

     

Why I Plant Raspberries

One of my favorite memories of growing up was when my mother went berrying in the summer. My brother and I piled into the car, and our mother drove to a deserted farm that had become overgrown with blackberry vines. Except for being startled by an occasional snake, we spent a dreamy morning peacefully filling our buckets with plump berries—and eating more than we dropped in our buckets! I say “dreamy” because there is no way to race through a patch of berries. Thorns cover the canes, and the picker of berries must be as graceful as the canes themselves and proceed with slow, thoughtful movements, if scratches are to be avoided.

Now I grow red raspberries, and they are among the easiest plants to establish. My raspberries have been taking over large sections of my yard for several years now, and I don’t mind a bit! They supply me with seemingly endless streams of berries in those wonderful hot months that bring out the fullest flavor of raspberries. I am reminded of Walt Whitman, the great American poet whose work was the focus of my dissertation, and whose life and poetry were the subject of one of my courses that I taught for many exuberant years; In Specimen Days for June 21 in 1882, Whitman wrote about his “favorite dish, currants and raspberries, mixed, sugar’d, fresh and ripe from the bushes—I pick ‘em myself.” The canes form artistic arches. Where they touch the soil, they form roots. The part with the roots can be cut from the rest of the cane and given a shallow planting, thereby expanding the berry patch with minimal effort.

A Few Jars of My Raspberry Jam

 

Berries form on two-year-old canes. After harvesting the berries, I cut away the canes that held them. I am careful to leave the springy, new canes that have not yet borne fruit; those canes will give me the next year’s crop. Hsün Tzu (whose name is often given as Xunzi) was born around 313 or 310 BC and died between 238 and 220 BC; philosophers often include his work with that of Confucius and Mencius in the development of Confucian thought. Hsün Tzu wrote about a raspberry vine standing upright without needing to be staked; his metaphor represented Confucius who, at age 70, had perfectly blended his inborn nature and his philosophical training. I hope, when I am that age, my thinking and my nature will likewise be indistinguishable from one another; for the time being, I can opine that the selection of a raspberry vine to represent a well-respected philosopher is most fortunate! The supple cane—grounded yet free, arching delicately, and bringing health and happiness—is joyously symbolic of wisdom.  

Dried red raspberry leaves can be steeped in boiling water for fifteen minutes to form a “tea” that can be effective as an eye wash. I am told that such use of an infusion of dried raspberry leaves was practiced among some groups of Native Americans. The astringent quality of the tannin in the leaves helps to heal styes. Many websites describe the benefits of raspberry leaves for pregnant women.

Morning is the best time to harvest raspberries, provided that they are not wet. In the hours before the sun beats down on them, they offer their richest taste.

Why I Planted Squash

In a recent year, the seeds I planted in several adjacent rows in my vegetable garden failed to germinate. Faced with a blank space, I wished to fill it. Always be careful what you wish for! I bought summer squash seeds and formed half a dozen hills of two or three seeds each. All of them grew. And grew. And grew. When I began harvesting squash, I had delusions of keeping up. I collected a few and relished their rich flavor. But soon, I had too many! I was fetching them by the bushel basket nearly every day. I could not begin to give them away! The plants commandeered half of the garden. Each morning, when I went to the garden to pick the squash, I could not find spaces for my feet. From some crazy desire not to crush the thick leaf stems of my gigantic squash plants, I proceeded slowly on tiptoe, almost losing my balance and teetering above the squash jungle. To have fallen among the foliage in such a way as to have wiped out a few of the plants and to have slowed the production of squash would have been a blessing, but I never fell.

Squash Taking Over My Garden

Finally, I was forced to admit to myself that I had too many squash, and I began chucking their swollen bodies over the ravine into my creek. Poet and novelist Marge Piercy perfectly captured the same experience in her poem entitled “Attack of the Squash People,” which I first heard her read in 1980:

https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem1606.html

Piercy’s poem is hysterical in the fullest sense of the adjective. I know. So was I.

One of Several Baskets of Squash That I Harvested Every Morning

Harvesting Squash by the Wagonload

A digression is in order. I first met Piercy when I was earning my master’s degree in poetry writing at Indiana University. She addressed the workshop of ten poets in which I was enrolled. Our professor had mailed an anonymous sampling of our poems to Piercy in advance of her visit. After she was introduced, Piercy said, “I want to discuss one of your poems. It is ‘Wrestling.’ Who wrote it?” I raised my hand. Piercy complimented my work. Several years later, after I had finished my PhD and was teaching at Northern Kentucky University, Piercy came for a reading. At a social event, I asked her if she remembered my poem. She said she did. I had the joy of meeting Piercy on at least two additional occasions. One was at the home of a creative writing professor. Music was playing. Piercy was sitting beside the professor. I had walked over to Piercy to ask a question about poetry, but she brushed off my introductory remarks, stood, and commanded, “Dance with me!” Embarrassed as all get out, I danced. In a matter of seconds, everyone was dancing. I undoubtedly got more from dancing with Piercy for a few minutes than I would have received by asking my question; after all, she gave me something fun to mention in this blog!

My favorite way to prepare summer squash is basic. I slice it, boil it briefly, and put butter and salt on it. Yum! It’s almost as good as dancing with Marge Piercy!