I ran into this photo shortly after publishing Turtle Time and wanted to set the record straight. Turns out we took pictures of the same turtle in 2020, 2022, 2023, 2024, and 2025.

I try not to get too worked up over what’s happening outside my neighborhood, but it’s hard to ignore the cruelty and corruption in Washington and the wars in Israel and Ukraine.

So I distract myself with what Bob calls “World Class Puttering.” Here he is yesterday on the business end of a shovel, digging a deep hole for a Fringe Tree from Rachel’s Native Plants. I took that photo before hanging our bed sheets on the line, after which I dug all the mondo grass from our pond garden.

When our chores turn onerous, we seek diversions from the natural world. It’s an especially good day when the box turtles return for the summer.

Her legs are dotted with yellow scales against a rusty background and when I caught up to her, I took note of the rainy cascade on her pleural scutes—six little clouds and a burst of rain on the scute in the middle of her right side.

Okay, here’s some turtle vocabulary:
Carapace: the top shell
Plastron: the bottom shell
Scutes: shell sections or scales
Vertebral Scutes: scales along the topline of the carapace
Plueral Scutes: scales along the side

Based on that pattern, I named her Rain and began looking for pictures from other years. The first time we saw her was in 2022, determined to cross through the chicken wire into our garden.

We learned how to tell Rain’s sex from the internet. Females have flat plastrons, and males have a little hollow in theirs. That slightly conclave shell helps him stay aboard when mating. Nature thinks of everything!

Rain isn’t huge, but our neighbor David Harris, an avid turtler, guesses she may be upwards of forty years old. He writes about his turtles at A Turtle For Every Log.

Other turtles have visited Trouts Farm over the years, and we usually catch them in our camera lens. In 2020, I photographed two turtles that I have not seen since. I gave them names so that I can recognize them if they return.

Comet’s pattern is similar to Rain’s, with more of a starburst vibe. We didn’t turn them over to look for a divot.

Zip has a disturbing lip line. It looks like someone sewed their lips shut. Both Comet and Zip have a bright dotted line along their topline.

2023 was a big year. Another dotted-line turtle showed up on July 1st.

I named it Tiger because its shell is so colorful.

And then we spotted a third turtle towards the end of July who clearly had business with Rain. I named him Leopard for his bold pattern, and because he was less stripy than Tiger.

I hope to see more turtles and plan on looking at their undersides. I used to worry about scaring them off with too much handling, but Rain keeps coming back, so I’m going for it.

We easily lose ourselves in outdoor work, surrounded by birdcalls and the scent of the tea roses, the sweet William, and now the Fringe Tree. I sometimes make it until noon without a glance at my newsletters, which makes for a healthy, sane life.

After I finish this post, I plan on pruning our azaleas and cleaning out the rain barrel. And when I see Rain moving around our yard, I’ll take a nature break to watch and wonder what she’s thinking or about to do next.

Bob and I had been gone all week visiting my brother, James, in Massachusetts for his birthday. I had just turned 70 and Jamie was turning 59.

The three of us spent two nights on South Yarmouth in the wake of Hurricane Beryl. We enjoyed some refreshing barefoot beach time and James went for a short swim.

And then James drove us inland to celebrate his birthday with pizza, cake, and ice cream at his new home outside of Boston where we were joined by his stepdaughter and her family.

Christina and Lou’s seven kids bounced around Jamie’s lush lawn, taking turns on the swing between bites of pizza at the picnic table. No one threw up.

This was the best pizza I’d eaten in years. It had a thin, slightly salty, crispy, yet foldable crust, with blackened dough blisters, a spicy sauce, and not too much cheese. In other words, it was New York style pizza like we used to get on our birthdays from Freddie’s in West Long Branch, New Jersey.

No birthday is complete without cake and ice cream, so we did that, too.

~*~

Bob and I returned home to discover deer tracks in the garden. They had taken out a pepper plant and decimated the edamame. I tightened the clothesline I’d strung above the four-foot livestock fence in a lame attempt to fend off another garden attack, made dinner, and we went to bed and fell asleep wondering how we were going to solve our deer problem.

Bob found her the next morning, a lactating doe that had been hit by a Ford truck during the night. Problem solved. We didn’t take her picture out of respect for the dead. After picking the big plastic “R” and other truck parts out of the grass, we went inside and waited for the clean up crew.

Soon enough the vultures began to arrive. Lyle and Carrie had watched a breeding pair of Black vultures raise two chicks at their place half a mile away and we were pretty sure a group of four who were nearly always together were the same family. We were thrilled to have them at our place and be able to share our friends’ experience.

About three days in, the intermittent whiff of rot began spoiling our summer afternoon spa time. But it was short-lived—in this heat, roadkill decomposes at an accelerated pace—and a couple of days later we resumed our refreshing cold water (88°) soaks.

Although the family of four birds were the same size, we could tell the youngsters from their parents by the baby fluff around their heads and necks.

I confess that Black vultures are among my top three favorite birds along with Great blue herons and Carolina wrens.

Unlike other birds, vultures spend a lot of time standing around. They don’t have to flit about chasing bugs or searching for seeds, worrying about getting picked off by cats and hawks. Vultures are so big, they don’t worry about much of anything. They waddled up near the garden to watch Bob work, as interested in us as we were in them.

We learned that when vultures blink, they look like sharks.

Bob and I were struck by their affection towards each other and were reminded of our time in Massachusetts with Jamie and family.

Family is where you find it. Sometimes you might have to board an airplane to see them. Sometimes family comes to you after a deer gets hit on the Moncure Pittsboro Road. Either way, families make life more interesting by reminding us that we were all young once and that we are all hurtling through space on the same planet, doing our best to stay happy and fed.

Something must have died, but I can’t see it from my desk.

When Bob and I pull out of the driveway an hour later for our trip to the gym, we see a dozen Black vultures and one dead squirrel. “Doesn’t look like much of a meal,” Bob says. We drive over another meaty smear a mile down the road, and I watch him steady the steering wheel, straddling the kill to avoid getting any on the tires.

The squirrels are everywhere these days, poinging around the yard, burying acorns. Bob calls them “Gay rats on acid,” which makes me laugh every time, politically correct or not. I watch the staccato movement of their shoulder blades ripple beneath their thick grey fur and marvel at their long fingers patting the sod back into place over each little stash.

“This one must be a youngster,” I say, and Bob jumps up from his desk to watch a squirrel with no meat on its bones bent over a nut hole outside our big windows. He won’t admit it, but he’s as fascinated as I am.

I’m washing dishes when I see one clinging to a wooden post, snatching at a deep red Oklahoma rose before scrambling to earth to munch down a blood-colored petal. I half expect to see her wipe her mouth. When I tell Bob, he says, “Those fuckers,” voicing my thoughts.

The squirrels are not alone in their quest for calories. We hear rustling through our open bedroom window at night, so Bob places a trail camera next to the fig tree. A couple of days later, we watch the footage: lumbering possums at night and hyped-up squirrels during the day.

That evening, we tuck into our easily-gotten dinner on the porch while the squirrels hop around the lawn, still working for their calories. One perches on a garden tote and stays even after I yell. Bob picks up a frisbee and hurls it to make him jump down. Even though I appreciate how hard they work for food, I can’t stand the idea of them digging up our carrots.

How can they know that although the acorns are theirs, we consider the carrots and the roses ours? Like all life on earth, they are just doing what comes naturally, trying to stay alive through another winter. How lucky Bob and I are that we were born in an era of prosperity and ease. We do not take it for granted that we can eat pretty much anything we want whenever we choose, without tanks rumbling down our street.

The phoebes don’t let up. They sit on the pole barn shouting out of synch as if their little lives depend on it.

Now a pair of bluebirds tumble from the porch roof, bounce off the clothesline, and swoop into the crepe myrtle, where they sit on separate branches, giggling. Like the phoebes, they likely fledged last year. A third bluebird joins them. They’re all just goofing around, these youngsters, flexing their voices and wings.

Pearl keeps hunting, slightly annoyed, wondering who feeds these silly birds. Her sole purpose is to fatten up before flying north and starting a family. They are in round-robin mode; when one finds food, they all eat, and this unsprayed lawn on the Moncure Pittsboro Road is full of fat worms.

The humans inside the house linger by the windows of their big, square cage. They wonder if Pearl knows she doesn’t look like the others and whether or not the black-backed robins treat her differently.

They snap some photos before turning their attention back to the refrigerator. Bob and Camille are fattening up while the weather is still cool, just like the robins. Then it begins to rain, and the flock returns to the trees. Bob tends his orchids. Camille opens her laptop to write.

Friends make any day more fun, and the aquarium was a dry place to immerse ourselves in marine life. We only got slightly wet walking in from the parking lot.

We all took a half step back each time this enormous shark swam our way. I thought his/her wide open eye gave her/him a terrified look, but I doubt that is accurate. Sharks, like many animals, cannot share their feelings via their face because they lack the required musculature. Sometimes I wish my face were not so expressive. Maybe that’s why people pay for botulinum toxin injections.

Bob took this photo of a green tree frog, one of the cutest animals on earth.

Bob and I loved swimming with angelfish and the like in the warm waters of the Caribbean. Some mornings, still, I wake up and ask him, “If you could do anything today, what would it be?” He always turns to me and says, “Go snorkeling!”

While I was gaping at an alligator, Bob walked around the corner and got this picture of two beady-eyed caimans.

A pair of seahorses doing whatever it is seahorses do. These are one of Camille’s favorite animals.

At an interactive exhibit, we were encouraged to pick up plastic sea turtles embedded with chips, put them on scanners, and discover their ailments. Camille soon learned that her turtle had a gut impaction, probably caused by plastic which was ironic considering the turtle’s physiology.

Nothing you would want to touch, but reportedly good to eat, the lionfish swam languid laps around their tank. Also, they have a face only their mothers could love.

The sting of a moon jelly is not as painful as that of other jellyfish.

We didn’t get the name of these jellyfish with the super long tentacles and that lovely pattern on their cap. If you know what they are, please let us know.

Pacific sea nettles dance like no one is watching, which of course, we all were because how could you not be mesmerized by their sinuous waltz.

These nettles have four frilly arms and a slew of thin tentacles.

I watched the sea nettles rise and fall, otherworldly, pumping slowly around the tank. I took more photos than I care to admit, and when I looked at the pictures later, I had trouble believing they were real.

We go to museums to see and learn, and to while away grey mornings. How deliciously fun to come away with blown minds and a renewed respect for nature.

You read that they’ll come through again when the weather cools, lay their eggs on the same plants they grew fat upon as caterpillars, and that those new butterflies will migrate south and back north to start the cycle over again next spring.

The azaleas burst open in early April, shortly after the daffodils.

Next come the irises. Now we have the three primary colors: blue, yellow, and red.

More yellow as the collards bolt. They’ve had enough of winter and are ready to concede to a new generation by putting forth seed. Rather than rip them out, we left them standing to feed a squadron of hungry spring bees.

Then the peonies in the third week of April, as per usual.

Meanwhile inside, our garden starts yearn to join the burgeoning riot. But we made them wait until we thought all danger of frost was behind us. Or mostly behind us. This year we played the odds and planted them out on April 11—a bit ahead of schedule—and bit our nails when the temperatures dipped a couple of weeks later.

We are in the midst of a renovation project to repair old water damage to our floors and including a complete overhaul of our master bathroom. Come to find out, there is only an inch or so of plywood between the bottom of my feet and an abyss.

I’m not sure whether this critter emerged from the abyss or made its way in from outside, but it was unusual and begged me to take a photo.

Bob’s beloved plant shelf is equally entertaining with a blooming venus flytrap clamoring for attention among the riot of African violets and orchids.

Back outdoors, the potatoes we planted on St. Patrick’s Day are coming along nicely.

As are the beets we planted last fall.

These are fava beans. We plant in the fall and harvest in the spring. Flowers mean bean pods will soon be setting on. They smell as pretty as they look.

A male cardinal clings to the white plastic window edging outside our bedroom window. He believes he has seen a rival, a cardinal that looks a lot like himself, someone who must be fought for the privilege of residing in his chosen locale. Someone who may try and breed the female cardinal he seeks to woo.

Day after day, the cardinal beat against the window, mussing up his feathers and leaving beak streaks across the glass. Hearing that a photo of a human might dissuade the bird, we taped one of Bob to the glass. It had no effect. The bird was just as determined to fight his rival to the death.

The red warrior eventually disappeared and we took down the picture. I have yet to wash the window, but have picked the pieces of broken plastic from the lawn. Someone said they’ll beat themselves to death and I wonder if that’s what finally made him stop.

We who grew up in the golden age of Disney’s Bambi and Snow White idolize nature. We like to think the animals wish each other the best and all get along. I catch myself wishing humans would learn to get along, too. I’m disappointed by human selfishness, war, and greed, and I cluck my tongue at underhanded politics that remind me of schoolyard bullying.

But it turns out animals are not as nice as I want to believe and humans are no more humane than the animals. I’d hoped for better, but there it is. We can be kind and selfless on occasion, but in general, as a species, we are not nice.

Oopsy, another bird doing its best to deter someone from passing along their DNA. This time it is a bluebird trying to oust a pair of nesting chickadees. Happily, the bluebird gave up and the chickadees hatched a brood of gape-mouthed nestlings.

Yet another bird, this one an eastern phoebe, sits atop its nest in our pole barn where we park our cars. One of its chicks begs for food at her feet. We love to watch them fly in and out, but do not love having to wash the bird shit from our cars. As far as we know, there have been no territorial disputes.

More breeding action is happening in the frog pond outside our guest room where we are holed up until our renovation project is complete. There are four frogs in this photo. Can you spot them all?

We listen to their throaty love language all through the night. Hopefully, they have learned to share the love pond with equanimity. If you know different, I don’t want to hear it.

Fragrant Sweet William, started from seed under lights last year. They fluffed out nice and green and stayed green all winter, holding their own against the black-eyed Susans and other ne’re do wells. But they did not show their true colors until this year. I hear they will pass the torch at the end of the year and we’ll have to start another batch. Until then, we’ll breath easy and wish them well.

But on Thursday, a pair of Bluebirds were taking turns sitting atop the the wooden house and fluttering over to the hole to peer inside. Every time I raised the binoculars to my eyes, I was afraid I’d see one of them enter the box, imagining that they had nefarious plans for those tiny, helpless hatchlings. Eventually I got on with my day and put the matter out of my mind.

The next day Bob and I stopped at the box during a lap around the yard. “Should I look inside?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t,” I said. I had read that Chickadees are far more easily disturbed than Blue Birds and I felt they had been traumatized enough.

He considered this for a moment before undoing the hook and eye latch.

We stood and gaped at the coiled black snake resting comfortably atop the soft nest, happily digesting away.

Without missing a beat, Bob reached into the box and tugged the nest out. The snake landed in a tangled pile and he stepped in close to snap a picture before it could sort itself out.

So ensued a standoff between man and beast.

The badassed black snake got organized, raising itself up in a startlingly aggressive manner.

He/she flattened his/her head into a triangle and thrummed its tail on the ground in order to appear more threatening.

And began to strike at my intrepid spouse.

At this point, we fetched a bucket, a lid, and a rake and Bob wrangled the snake inside.

And then I carried the bucket deep into the woods and released the irritated snake to start a new life far away from our Bluebird box.

This apparent wealth of winged delights belies the truth. Butterflies were noticeably absent this year, and our milkweed survived the season untouched by monarchs.

These large moths are so birdlike in their movements you do double and triple takes before realizing you should run inside for the camera and shoot.

The Webby Things

By early July, several large garden spiders set up shop, turning tomato and okra harvests into a dance resembling the limbo.

One fine July morning, we walked through a garden of young pines near the dam. We were taken with their upright buds of new growth (called candles) and upon closer inspection, discovered a miniscule spider clinging to one of the spires.

Busy Bees

Bees relentlessly worked the garden all day and, as far as we can tell, slept in potato flowers at night. In the morning when the blooms began opening, we would watch the sluggish bees crawl out and fly off.

Close  Encounters

Summing Up

The turtle is an apt mascot for 2020. We mostly hunkered down, doing our part to limit the spread of the virus, in retreat beneath the dome of our house — solitary, and complete.

See Critter Pics – Part One