Ft. Federica, the National Monument on St.Simons Island. This coastal fort, once a thriving village on a coastal river, was the other side of fascinating. Standing there where the fort and village once stood, I stopped alot. It triggered my rich life experience, too many times challenged by threat and impending risk/danger. My artillery unit (155 mm howitzer, towed) didn’t go to ‘Nam, but we sure thought we were going, and being a green 2nd Lt. gave some pause, for sure. Dangerous guys back then in Brooklyn had to be kept on the radar, constantly, and yes, there were times I was steeled for trouble. Riding the subway each day, through a notorious part of NYNY, alone, always was much. Working as a Dean at John Adams H.S. (knives, guns, riots, murders and Gotti’s crew’s kids) . . . a rich life of kind of tight-rope walking. Thank You G-d.
I tried to imagine myself a junior officer at the fort. back then in what, 1738? Imagine a Spanish Armada appearing down river, headed to overwhelm the fort and the village, full of homes with women and children.
Good that there were butterflies flying in the meadows surrounding the fort, as Virginia had hoped. That was when I spotted this fascinating moth, motionless amidst the foliage.
I don’t know the hundreds of moths found in the southeastern USA, so I was unable to ID this one. I admired those lipstick red spots on each wing, and that white stripe across the abdomen?
I see so much in the field that I want to know. Curt? Barbara Ann? Virginia? Phil? Angela? David K? David Wagner?
Late summer in a 100+ acre field in Southwestern Pennsylvania. I went there almost every day for 2 weeks. This September 5th, 2014 view was in the southeastern margin of the field. Wildflowers grew along the treeline. Nectar? More than enough for the butterflies, flies, wasps, bees, moths and ruby-throated hummingbirds that worked the field.
If. If I would have counted the number of goldenrod blossoms in the entire field, I would say a reasonable count would have approached, 10,000,000. The purple New York ironweed plants were few in number and strategically located, for reasons of their own, no doubt.
Three hours in the field that day, and, not a single other person about. Monarchs flew there that morning. Why weren’t you there?
I have read this often, and attempt to emulate it in my own life, whether gardening to attract winged beauties, or with family and friends, in my spiritual life, and in the field, as I attempt to capture ever more beautiful images of butterflies, darners, wildflowers, whatever . . . .
To laugh often and to love much . . .
To win the respect of intelligent persons
and the affections of children . . . To earn
the approbation of honest critics and to
endure the betrayal of false friends , , ,
To appreciate beauty; to give of one’s self . . .
To leave the world a bit better whether by
a healthy child, a garden patch, or
a redeemed social condition . . .
To laugh and play with enthusiasm and to sing with
exultation and to know that one life
has breathed easier because you have lived –
. . . That is to succeed . . .
–Ralph Waldo Emerson
This perennial garden that I loved brought butterflies from great distances, nurtured scores of butterflies, bees, moths and ruby-throateds, the latter coming every hour on the hour. It brought joy to family, though concealed from the world, as it grew behind the house, and remained unknown to most.