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.

First stop, Japan, a.k.a. Tami and Arlo’s house by the pond. Arlo, Kristen, and Tami put out sandwiches and deviled eggs, and Kersten brought a plate of coconut almond macaroons. Great way to fuel up for a woodsy hike!

As Tony, Susan, Megan and I were walking down to Japan from Susan and Tony’s house (Inkberry Hill Farm), we were passed by a car peopled by men in dark suits. Our first thought was, Mormons? but it turned out a pre-party party was already going on at Japan.

Tami’s mother’s partner, George, passed a few weeks ago, and his and Anne’s families would soon be elebrating his life at The Plant. I had a whale of a good time yakking at a whole new group of people who hadn’t already heard my stories. Kudos to Tami, Arlo, and Kristen for making both parties happen!

Per Carrie’s request, we stopped at Delphi to see the gardens.

Kersten and I have grown close from years of weekly walks and hikes.

Tony led the way from Delphi to Inkberry Hill via new trails he and Susan made in the ten months since they moved into our neighborhood.

The trails lead to the green burial ground at The Sanctuary of the Burrow, were many of our beloveds rest and where Bob and I will ultimately spend our last days in earth.

Susan and Tony put out deviled eggs, pineapple, watermelon, and cheese and crackers. The temperature was pushing up towards eighty, so the watermelon was just what we all needed. Tony and Susan had new windows installed last weekend and I think Susan picked the perfect color blue to set off their yellow house.

When we were sated, we took off down the Elephant Trail.

Turning right before reaching Stinking Creek, we hiked up and over The Beeches trail. I’m not gonna lie, I was often short-winded. Every time I stopped to take a photo, I had to run to catch up. Also, I’m seventy and it was hot.

At the top of the hill stands a group of mature beeches, hence the trail’s name. Thank you, David, for taking my picture.

Another right and now we’re on the Northwest Passage, heading south towards our place. Our crawlers had stopped to discuss some point of interest, but by the time I caught up they had moved on. Eleagnus is my best guess, as eradicating it and other invasives is top of mind for all of us.

It’s pollen season and our footwear grew more yellow with every step.

Last stop, Trouts Farm, where Bob and I put out drinks coolers, a hummus and veggie plate, cheese, chips, and crackers.

Our back porch on the north side of the house is perfect for entertaining with its wood flooring and eclectic chair collection.

How nice to spend the day with friends, and even nicer to reach my favorite rocking chair and pull off my shoes and socks.

Here are links to previous Trail Crawl photo essays:

[Trail Crawl 2022] * [Trail Crawl 2019] * [Trail Crawl 2018] * [Trail Crawl 2017] * [Trail Crawl 2016] * [Trail Crawl 2015] * [Trail Crawl 2014] * [Trail Crawl 2012] * [Trail Crawl 2011]

A few days later, John and Darla drove up from Florida after spending a month in St. Augustine—a trip I would have found arduous—but they arrived on our doorstep with smiles, their overnight bags, and Katrina, their Coton de Tulear.

Darla handed me a plush bathmat with the words “Squeaky Clean” and a copy of Jeanette Walls’ Half Broke Horses. “I was needing a new mat for our guest bathroom,” I said, and told her I knew I would enjoy the novel, having loved The Glass Castle. Somehow, Darla always knows the exact right gift—not just for us, but for everyone she knows. Intuitive shopping is her super power.

We spoke in whispers—it being a tad past nine and Bob already retired—while Katrina padded through the house, finding the food and water bowls that I had set out. I wondered if she remembered them from her last visit.

“This house smells like Nana’s house,” John said, nose lifted. We both knew that Nana’s house represented the very best moments of our childhoods. I blushed, realizing that my ovearching life goal has been to make a space where others would feel as at home as I had been at our Nana’s. This, I thought, was my super power.

What was that smell, we wondered, trying to pick it apart. “Do you use Calgon bath salts?” John asked.

“No, no bathtub here. Windex and fried onions, perhaps.”

“Remember that face cream Nana kept in the downstairs bathroom with her makeup?” And we drifted down memory lane, thinking about our grandmother special smells and our days as children on her acre of paradise.

The next morning the five of us sat in our yellow dining room and when our plates were empty, it was time for show and tell. First, John went out to the van to fetch a small alligator head that Darla had picked up for someone back home in Pennsylvania.

Next, Bob gave a tour of his gorgeous orchids. Like Bob, Darla wears the green thumb in their house. She, too, has a few orchids.

Show and tell is boring for little dogs, but Katrina is made of patience. She lay down in our living room, bathed in orchid lights, and waited for a good smell to appear, or for her people to move toward the door.

We soon said our goodbyes on the lawn, promising to drop in on each other as often as possible, no matter for how long or short. We’ve often enjoyed John and Darla’s hospitality and were pleased to return the favor. They are the kind of hosts who leave chocolates for their guests, and post “Welcome, Camille and Bob,” on their refrigerator.

After their van had vanished down the road, I went inside to strip the bed and looking out the window, wondered when I’ll get around to finishing washing the others. Maybe next week, I thought, and turned my attention to other, less productive pursuits.

Twenty years ago, I’d have taken to the streets in protest, but today, given the firehose of outrages, I wouldn’t know what to write on my cardboard sign. Outrageous headlines sizzle across my laptop screen like multi-headed dragons. So, I look for diversions. I try and keep moving. I go to the gym, walk, dance ballet, work in the yard, shop for groceries, come home and cook.

My friend, Susan, recently re-introduced me to my sketch pad, a fabulous diversion. Susan is a real, for-hire, portrait artist who paints in oils. She kindly invited me to make art with her—twice at Jordan Lake Dam, and most recently in her studio.

She set me up in a comfy chair on the second floor of her old farmhouse with its cherished northern light—light that doesn’t change value as the sun tracks across the sky.

We draw actual objects as opposed to doodling out of our heads, so I brought a wooden elephant from home. Across the room, Susan immersed herself in the plump essence of a baby bok choy. For a blessed hour, I focused soley on dark and light values, doing my best to coax an inanimate being to life.

Bob and I came of age in an era of moral clarity in which good people protested against racism, sexism, and war. Fast forward to now, and we are mired in the same tar pit of might-makes-right, but we lack the exhilarating ferver—the focus—we had fifty, or even twenty years ago.

In my defense, I say, “I don’t know which dragon head to go after,” and “It’s all so fuzzy, this shit storm of outrages,” and “What good would it do?” and, “If I think about it too hard, I’ll lose my mind. How will that help anyone?” and “Best I keep my head above water, best I focus on the people close to me.”

I often think about the good Germans, about how they turned blind eyes to Hitler’s rise in power. See How Hitler Dismantled a Democracy in 53 Days. I used to think a Nazi holocaust could never happen here in the United States.

But now, with talk of imprisoning migrants at Guantanamo, I’m not so sure. And so, like German citizens of the ’30s, I see what’s happening and avert my eyes, focused instead on making soup and drawing elephants.

As we inch closer to Inauguration Day, I’ve been trying to imagine the best possible outcome, keeping myself informed without burying myself in bad news. I was hoping that a focus on the joys within my safe, community bubble would minimize the horror building in my chest.

But, there comes a point.

When the President-elect expressed his desire to aquire Greenland without ruling out military force, I could no longer contain myself. I was shocked that the presumptive Commander in Chief, the man with his finger on the nuclear button, has such ambitions.

Nearly three years ago, I watched in horror as Putin invaded Ukraine, not for one minute imagining that The United States might one day follow in Russia’s footsteps. I want to believe that my conservative friends, neighbors, and family members are as horrified as I am. I doubt they would have voted to invade a sovereign nation.

I don’t know what I can do to stop my country from becoming a mighty bludgeon, but I don’t want any part of it. I am not in lockstep with the brutish aims of a pathetic megalomaniac. For what it’s worth, my silence is broken.

We were also thinking of Jimmy Carter because, just before Sunday dinner, we had learned of his death. “One hundred years old,” we said, “My my.” And, “Too bad we passed up that plate.” The last time we carried the trash, we nearly brought home a plate with President Carter’s face on it.

On that day, there had been two men standing next to the trash compactor when we walked over with our garbage. One, a taxpayer like us, had just handed a commemorative plate—the kind of thing you hang on the wall—to the attendant. “You need this plate,” said the attendent with a smile that revealed some missing teeth, and I took it from his outstretched hands to be polite. “It’s got all the presidents up until Carter,” he said. “Carter was my favorite president,” I said, but Bob and I both agreed that we couldn’t use it, and I handed it back.

I cast my first-ever presidential vote for Jimmy Carter in 1976 and was thrilled when he won because I believed his values resonated with mine. He proved me right during the four years of his presidency by choosing diplmomacy over violence, by installing solar panels on the White House, and by advising Americans to save energy by turning down the heat and wearing sweaters.

My mother was also pro-Carter. So much so, that she got on a bus full of Pennsylvania college students bound for Washington DC to witness his inauguration. She took notes and wrote it up for the Shippensburg University Slate. Thanks to her, I can almost taste the air from that day.

Here’s a sample from Inaugural Traveler Finds Hope for America :

It was 11 a.m. when the band struck up the first song, “Praise the Lord.” This triggered the young boys and girls to scramble into the trees. One girl looked ready to join them but her mother held fast to her pigtails.

A year or so later, on a drizzly May 3rd, 1978, Bob was lucky enough to meet President Carter. He and a friend had made a solar collector out of scavanged material, including beer cans for a class at the University of Colorado’s School of Environental Design. When Jimmy Carter saw the collector, he quipped that his brother would have approved (brother Billy famously loved beer!).

It made Bob happy to meet Jimmy Carter because he felt that Jimmy was what our country needed. Like me, Bob felt that their values aligned.

Sadly, Ronald Reagan won the next election and reversed direction. He had the solar panels removed from the White House, he slashed coroporate taxes, cut finding to the Solar Energy Research Institute (now NREL) where Bob hoped to someday work, and did away with energy credits. Bob’s undergrad in Environmental Conservation became nearly worthless, prompting him to pursue a business degree.

Ultimately, we decided to take our chances and carry the trash. After we emptied the trunk, we sauntered over to the Swap Shop for a look-see and some idle chit chat with the attendant. He pointed at the flag and said, “Someone asked me why I had it like that.” “At half mast?” I said and he nodded. “Because of Jimmy Carter?” I asked and he nodded. “Now I wish I’d have taken that plate.”

He got a strange look in his eyes and started walking towards his office. “Do you want it?” he asked over his shoulder. “Yes!” I said, following like a puppy. Turns out he decided to hang it in his office until he could find a proper home for it. He pulled it off the wall, handed it to me, and I gave him a gleeful squeeze.

My family was very pro-Carter. So much so that my mother joined a bus full of college students headed to Washington DC for his inauguration. Here is the article she wrote about that day.

INAUGURAL TRAVELER FINDS HOPE FOR AMERICA

Janice Illo

The Slate – Shippensburg University’s weekly newspaper

February 1, 1977

It was around 7 am as I sleepily found a seat with my two young sons on one of the five Shippensburg State College student buses headed for the Presidential inauguration in Washington.

Questions and thoughts began awakening me as I watched each pair of eyes search for a seat. What were they thinking? The year 1976 was such a whirlwind, the first Presidential election after Watergate; the Republican and Democratic conventions running neck and neck with the Olympics; Carter, running all the way on hope and just making it ahead at the finish line; and all within the setting of the country’s exploding Bicentennial celebration.

I began talking with these eager, knowledgeable, young people as they headed to add a live historical experience to their knowledge. As we talked, I was interested to learn that the group was mostly made up of students majoring in elementary education, government or social welfare.

The students were soberly optimistic about the next four years and were realistically aware that the term may have its dangers. They all agreed that anything could happen, with the assassinations of the 60s still etched in their minds. The hope was strong in them, though, as they talked about what the new President might accomplish.

The group was a happy one and a delight to be with. Their quick eyes detected everything of interest that passed by the bus windows. Their witful comments made the ride speed by. As the bus paused for a light on Constitution Avenue, cheers rolled through from end to end as each one caught sight of a pretty, slight, fully uniformed police woman at the wheel of a police car full of robust policemen.

We arrived! Some of us had the good heads to get tickets to enter the Capitol gates. Others stood outside, including me. We even forgot to bring my son’s invitation. I wasn’t sorry, though, for there was much to see among those thousands of outside people.

We climbed the icy steps of what looked to be a law building to get a better view. The day was bright and clear but cold. An Indonesian family sat huddled on an icy step in a sleeping bag.

Another man was wrapped in a green blanket.

A well-dressed man wore a plastic bag over his head with a hole cut at his mouth.

Men were shouting and holding up hats and gloves for sale. Steam poured forth from thermoses. Newsmen were in and out, getting their captions.

It was 11 a.m. when the band struck up the first song, “Praise the Lord.” This triggered the young boys and girls to scramble into the trees. One girl looked ready to join them but her mother held fast to her pigtails.

The people, as they stood around with their banners and signs stating their ideals and prides, were happy but not jubilant. They were hopeful, but somewhat reserved. There was peace and a disarming trust everywhere.

In front of us, young men walked up and down with a sign saying “Stop Nuclear Weapons and Power.” In back of us, a man quietly wore his sign of “Total Amnesty.”

All kinds of “Home State” banners waved. Even a figure of Abraham Lincoln turned out, looking so real that everywhere he stood people asked him to pose for a picture.

It was a few minutes until noon and “America the Beautiful” was filling our ears. Everyone was silent now as the Presidential swearing in took place. That man we chose stood earnestly on the Capitol balcony in what looked to be his traditional green. The only distraction of the moment was the shield he stood behind, and the gunned guards standing on each nearby roof reminding us of the all too real problems of our society.

Then the distraction left our minds as our new President’s words echoed back to us. Words such as: “Spiritual strength of our Nation;” “love and mercy to all;” “a new beginning and spirit;” “learn, laugh, work, and pray together;” “to be true to ourselves we must be true to others:” “we will work to eliminate nuclear weapons on this earth;” “pledge perseverance;” “cannot be indifferent.”

As I looked around me the faces seemed to have an attitude of introspection, the realization of the littleness of one man to do all and the awareness of the nitty-gritty of each ones own responsibility.

It was like the bottom beginning instead of the usual climax. We left the grounds thinking this man will hear if we will speak.

Our steps quickened as we headed for the parade. Many of us stopped off at the open legislators’ buildings to thaw and to eat. The lobbies were like picnic grounds as people sat on the floor near the heaters and opened their box lunches.

Friendliness was most prevalent as people warmed their toes in the sunny spots. In spite of the crowds there was no disorder anywhere, just friendly warmth.

Highly refreshed, we set off again for the parade. Everyone was smiling. Three well-dressed middle-aged business-type men handed us a camera asking one of us to take their picture in front of the Commerce of Labor sign. Click, and we were on our way again as they waved a thank you.

The parade was upon us now, and true to his ideals the President and his family stepped out of the limousine and walked with the rest of us.

All the while, a big peanut with a Jimmy Carter head walked along the sidewalk. Tiers of unicyclists equipped with a crutched participant showed this was a celebration that nothing could stop.

The next hours were a sight to behold; a patriotic Mardi gras spiced with circus overtones. The fifty states sported floats and bands. Tennessee’s barn and square dancers and a real chicken perched on its roof; South Carolina’s smoking train; Alaska’s Husky dog team, and Georgia’s peanut balloon.

Our Pennsylvania float was a source of pride, with its two eagles and the words “Committed to the Spirit of a New America” moving to the rhythm of Shippensburg’s own College Raiders.

Even Colonel Lindberg’s first plane, the Curtiss J N-4 “Jenny” was there.

The students couldn’t see much of the Inaugural Ceremony from where they stood and didn’t catch other details of the day, such as Amy stopping to tie her shoe in front of the parade. Some even had to jump up to see the parade over the heads of the people. Nevertheless they learned a whole lot that day about the very real presence of America and the ever flow and exchange of ideas among its every walk of people as they stood among signs and comments that they agreed of disagreed with.

I thought as I took notes on the bus, “How lucky I am to be able to decide in a moment to write a newspaper article about my surroundings and be free to do it.”

What a wealth we have here if we will use it. Let’s “Keep Freedom Ringing.”

All that matters is the familiar heads bobbing through the woods, sunlight sparking bright patches at our feet. We are all happy for this warmer day.

It was Tami’s idea to walk on Christmas. This year, we start from our house, hiking across one of the feeder creeks, over the hill, across the dam, and up the driveway towards the yellow house.

Susan meets us on the road, and she and Tony lead us up their new trails which are edged in straight lengths of downfall.

We all gasp when we reach the labyrinth. Tony and Susan have cleaned up the old Sunday Circle, embodying its spirit in a spiral. We linger, several of us walking the maze, feeling gratitude for the earnest energy assembled here. Matter become energy. All those rocks, each one lifted into place.

We continue towards the burial grounds where Zafer lies with Chris, and Mark, Lyle’s parents, and Tami’s father, Ed. I move from bench to bench, beaming a silent “Merry Christmas” towards each pine straw covered mound. I think about their essence, the sound of their voices, and picture their molecules dispersed.

Bob is laying on the ground forty feet away and I get up to see what’s going on. “I’ve picked out our gravesite,” he says. “Come lay beside me.” I kneel on the soft earth, stretch out, and stare at the sky through the tall pine crowns before closing my eyes.

My friends murmur contentedly nearby, our buffer against the uncertain world outside the neighborhood. Nothing else matters but the feel of the earth cradling my hips and shoulders, the warm shaft of light at my throat. A cardinal sings and I exhale deeply.

There are six of us. Born to John and Janice who have now passed on. My parents married in 1953 and chased my father’s career across New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New York for nearly two decades. They finally settled in rural Pennsylvania—a place my father referred to as “the armpit of the universe.” I had recently turned sixteen and this was my eighth home.

I stayed in Pennsylvania long enough to earn a high school diploma and began my own wanderings. My brothers also scattered, some leaving the state altogether, and as my parents aged, we coordinated annual reunions, cumulating in two final gatherings, one in 2021 to bury my mother, and another in 2023 to put my father to rest.

Family visits have since become catch as catch can, sporadic and incomplete. And as my appetite for travel waned, I started nudging my brothers to come visit me and Bob in North Carolina.

John and his wife, Darla, have driven down to see us a couple of times, and earlier this year Jim and Kathryn said, “We’re really coming down this time.” They would drive down from Massachusetts, we would meet at the beach, and Joseph would fly in from California. Then we would all drive back to our humble abode.

So Bob and I got to work spiffing up our house. I fluffed and dusted while Bob, as per usual, did the heavy lifting, spending days painting the guest bathroom.

Bob and I were the first to arrive and quickly slipped into relaxation mode. He had booked a beach house with three beds for two nights.

Former pilot, Jim, had never been to the Wright Brothers National Memorial, so we went. The forecast for our one full day in Kitty Hawk had been for rain, but we lucked out and it stayed dry.

We began our tour in the visitor center learning about the Wright family and the history of aviation and gaping at a replica of Wilbur and Orville’s ground-breaking invention.

Bob and I had visited the Memorial two years ago with our friends Henry and Kelly.

Henry was Bob’s high school roommate at TASIS, The American School in Switzerland. Like brother Joe, Henry and Kelly live in San Francisco.

But, back to 2024. Here are Joe and Bob standing outside the visitor center with the flight path and a small airstrip in the background.

I was struck by the parallels between Wilbur and Orville Wright and my brothers, Joe and Jim. Both extremely intelligent, born four years apart, and avid bikers—the Wright brothers ran a bicycle shop before pursuing flight.

Two of my brothers, Bob and Jim, acquired pilots licenses early in life.

We climbed Kill Devil Hill for the exercise and to put ourselves in Wilbur and Orville’s shoes, imagining for a moment what it might have been like to launch ourselves into the air on faith alone.

I watched my brothers with pride, both so healthy and curious, thinking about Wilbur and Orville’s supportive older sister, Katherine, and made a promise to myself to follow in her footsteps.

To complete our foray into the Wright Brothers experience, we drove to the sculpture park on the other side of the monument.

At the visitors center, the hard copy urged us to stay on the trail lest we puncture our footwear with prickly pear cactus.

We drove four hours inland the next day and Spot got to meet the gang.

I picked up the mail and found a package of hand-harvested wild rice from Amy Armantrout which the five of us later ate atop steaming bowls of stir fry garnished with daikon steaks from our garden.

Joe’s birthday was coming up on December 4, so I baked a cherry pie and we sang to him.

Later, after Joe returned to California, Jim, Kathryn, and I visited the Raleigh Executive Airport. Jim seemed to know each model plane by sight and was savvy enough to look up them up online. “That’s a 1957 Piper Cub,” he’d say, or “That’s just like the plane I used to fly.”

That evening we hosted a small dinner party with some of our neighbors and the next morning Jim and Kathryn left before dawn to begin their twelve hour drive home.

Cards, letters, and phone calls are great ways of keeping in touch, but nothing can replace sharing time and space together. Now, when we talk on the phone and I tell Jim or Kathryn that I’m at my desk or in the garden, they have a mental image of me in that space in the same way Bob and I can picture their kitchen and yard after visiting in July.