Controlled Burn

Here on Waverly Lane, you never know what you're going to see next, and one evening about two weeks ago, I happened to notice that my shoreline was ablaze.

While most people might be startled at such a sight, my worn-down nerves knew that this was not necessarily an emergency.

(Even though to most normal people this screams, "EMERGENCY!")

Daughter and I calmly sprinted walked out the back door to take a closer look at the situation.  

Daughter shared the joyous occasion with friends via iPhone, no doubt with a comment like, "Oh, nothing, just finished up some supper and am now watching the blazing inferno that is my back yard."

You can't get this type of entertainment in the city--that's the lesson here, Daughter.

My father intentionally sets the shoreline afire every so often, for reasons that used to make sense but which now escape me. He takes a rake and delicately lifts burning brush onto the dead marsh grass. The fire usually stops where the green foliage begins (due to the moisture).

Although he's in good shape for his age, he gets winded easily, and, let's face it. He's not as agile and spry as he used to be. So I always worry.  But this time, thankfully, he came out unscathed. The fire went out in a hurry on its own, and we quickly returned to normal, frazzled nerves and all.

Things were normal for only a little while though.  Late last week as I was approaching Waverly Lane on my way home from work, I came face to face with the inevitable:  the tilling of the daffodil field in preparation for the corn crop.

The daffodil field full of bulbs way older than I am (and I'm no spring chicken either) was being changed forever.

Goodbye, daffodils. I will miss you terribly. Hello corn.

Click here for a 2011 post referencing Royal Colony Farm, the daffodil business my grandfather operated.

Click here for the 2012 version of Let's Have Fun Intentionally Setting Fires in One's Yard.

Happy Monday.

Fiddler on the Road

Sunday's Diversion Excursion (where Daughter and I attempted to focus on anything other than the fact that Son had just returned home from being away all week and immediately trotted off up the road with friends) took us to Bethel Beach, which on this particular day was sunny, breezy and warm.

On the way there, I had to swerve several times to avoid a pesky road hazard.

This particular road hazard blends in quite well with its own habitat, 

otherwise known as swamp mud the marsh.

On the surface, all seems OK. There's nothing going on here.

But the predator is there.

And that predator is also all over the roads of Onemo.

It's important to note that the roads of Onemo are rarely barely above sea level, which may explain why these beasts are confused about where they belong.

Anyway, even though they're not my favorite creatures, I do try to avoid running over them, which makes for a very exciting Sunday drive, particularly if you're Chesapeake Bay Daughter, who hasn't been down this way and experienced Driving to Avoid Fiddler Crabs in some time.