Sure, the title is a cheesy rip-off of a song, but it got your attention.
The marsh really is on fire, though, – on purpose. The Department of Natural Resources began the annual, controlled burnings a couple of months ago. The only signs of the burnings most people witness are the charred remains of the marshland.
Despite traveling Shorter’s Wharf Road (which becomes MD some number or other, which becomes Maple Dam Road) every day, we’ve never seen the fires.
Wait a minute. Let me back up here.
Three names for one road?
Don’t ask me. That’s just the way they do things down here. You drive a few miles on one road but you never know what road you are on because along the route, the name has changed a few times. What the section of the road cutting through the marshland is called, I have no idea. All I know is if you come in from the Cambridge side, it’s Maple Dam Road. If you come in from the other side, it’s Shorter’s Wharf Road. Somewhere in between, it’s MD some number or other. I’d tell you the number, but there are no signs, but I know that’s how the road is named because I saw it on a map once.
We now return to the story of the burning marsh.
So, everyday, we drive along this road we nicknamed “the back way” for sake of ease. One day we cut through the marsh and all of it is brown. The next day it is charred black with dozens upon dozens of muskrat mounds dotting the landscape. (The mounds were always there, but you couldn’t see most of them because of the tall marsh grasses.) We never did see the fires.
Tonight, coming through the back way, we finally saw a section of the marsh burning. The flames were far off in the marsh, nowhere near the road. We didn’t see any firefighters or game wardens so I reckon they set a section at a time on fire and let it burn out on its own.
The burning is supposed to rejuvenate the marsh grasses and provide more food for the waterfowl the following fall. Man is supposedly simulating what would occur naturally if we weren’t here.
Now, since Ernesto hit back in September, nothing down here has been dry. The air is saturated with moisture, daily, and the ground is a sopping wet sponge. A few weeks ago, I tried building a bonfire and couldn’t keep it going because all the wood was too wet despite not having any rain for a couple of weeks. On top of that, this time of year is not known for thunderstorms.
The reasonable, and logical assumption, then, is that these marshes rarely, if ever, burned through the autumn and winter months. I’m not like all of the locals down here who don’t trust a thing the government does and have a complete faith that whatever the government does, it’ll screw it up, but either the marsh is supposed to naturally burn in the summer when it is drier and thunderstorms abound or our DNR folks are simply pyros.
I have a confession to make, though. A few weeks ago, when I tried unsuccessfully to build a bonfire, I couldn’t understand for the life of me how the pyros could burn the marsh, and I couldn’t keep a pile of wood burning. A couple of weeks ago, I learned how easy it is to burn a marsh, but not the wood.
The marsh grasses down here, especially the phragmites, are highly flammable. They burn fast and intensely hot. I piled a mound of dry grass (dry for down here, very moist grass by anyone else’s standards) and lit it. It was a little slow at getting going, but once it took off, it burned like molten lava. The flames were minimal, but the whole pile smoldered in a mass of red heat.
I even piled masses of grass I dredged out of the drainage ditch on top of this molten mass. Nothing can get wetter than being submerged in water for months. Water dripped out of the pile as I threw it on top of the fire. Every last bit of it burned. The next morning, all that was left were chunks of wood practically un-charred.
Don’t ask me for an explanation. Waterlogged grasses burn with intense heat, but damp wood barely gets charred.
Yet another backwards phenomenon down here in the Toddville Tidewaters.
© 2006
Mark Darien
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Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Winter Finally Arrives!
To some folks, Winter Finally Arrives! May sound like a boring headline. Big deal, winter arrives a month late. To some folks out west, they might be thinking, “Good, take our winter from us. We’re sick of it.”
To Keith and me, this is big news. We aren’t used to being bitten by mosquitoes well into January. Last weekend, I got a lot of yard work done and I still broke a sweat. I’d have taken my tee shirt off, but I thought that would be kind of weird it being in the middle of winter and all. The weekend before, we saw something even stranger than the January mosquitoes. Frogs hopped across the road and we watched a blue heron catch a foot long snake. Frogs and snakes are supposed to be hibernating, not hopping and slithering around in the middle of January.
Today is a big contrast from the last two weeks, though. Temperatures never got out of the twenties and it snowed. I decided what a great day to take a Sunday drive around the marshlands and tour the old cemeteries and Churches. Keith got his bottle of wine and we headed out.
All through the backcountry roads sits old churches, many abandoned. Small cemetery plots dating back from the early 1800’s dot the roads. Some of these plots look like they have long been forgotten. Some are adorned with flowers signaling someone is still around to honor the dead.
Take this little plot along Liner’s Road. It sits in the middle of the woods far from any houses, communities, or churches. The newest grave was dug in 1930 for an 84-year-old woman. Seventy-six years later, someone placed a couple of what appeared to be Christmas wreaths at the site.
To Keith and me, this is big news. We aren’t used to being bitten by mosquitoes well into January. Last weekend, I got a lot of yard work done and I still broke a sweat. I’d have taken my tee shirt off, but I thought that would be kind of weird it being in the middle of winter and all. The weekend before, we saw something even stranger than the January mosquitoes. Frogs hopped across the road and we watched a blue heron catch a foot long snake. Frogs and snakes are supposed to be hibernating, not hopping and slithering around in the middle of January.
Today is a big contrast from the last two weeks, though. Temperatures never got out of the twenties and it snowed. I decided what a great day to take a Sunday drive around the marshlands and tour the old cemeteries and Churches. Keith got his bottle of wine and we headed out.
All through the backcountry roads sits old churches, many abandoned. Small cemetery plots dating back from the early 1800’s dot the roads. Some of these plots look like they have long been forgotten. Some are adorned with flowers signaling someone is still around to honor the dead.
Take this little plot along Liner’s Road. It sits in the middle of the woods far from any houses, communities, or churches. The newest grave was dug in 1930 for an 84-year-old woman. Seventy-six years later, someone placed a couple of what appeared to be Christmas wreaths at the site.
If you take a closer look, you can see how shallow the graves are dug. The concrete coffins are half exposed. In some cemeteries, they practically rest on top of the ground. The water table is so high, I reckon it’s near impossible – no, impossible – to properly bury the dead six feet under.
Our next stop was an old Church built in 1874 on Smithville Road. It’s a quaint little building and still in use. Several months ago, we stumbled upon it and the congregation had some sort of social going on. Judging by the looks of the attendees, I’d say it is the original congregation from 1874 that still attends.
The graveyard surrounding the Church is well maintained. A once well-respected member of the community must occupy one grave, judging by its size and prominence in the middle of the lot. We should’ve gone up to the headstone to read it, but we didn’t. It was cold and somehow, I felt it would be disrespectful to trudge over the other graves to get to it. Maybe sometime in the future, I’ll take a closer look.
On the other side of the Church is what appears to be a pile of graves. I reckon the occupiers of these graves weren’t so well-respected within the community. Maybe somewhere down the road, I’ll revisit these graves and try to learn who is buried there and why they were just piled in a mound so close together.
On our future travels, I’ll be sure to include the roadside graves as part of the regular tour. A few months ago, for example, we came across a small family plot overgrown with poison ivy and an encroaching woods. A small historic sign marked the site, but no one takes care of the site anymore. A whole family from the 1800’s is buried here, the last member buried just prior to the Civil War. In addition to Mom and Dad and some other relatives, a tiny grave for a year-old child was placed next to the parents.
And in the middle of the plot of about seven graves rested a tombstone carved in the shape of a dachshund-like dog. The family ensured their beloved pet would stand guard over their final resting place. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to find this gravesite again, but if I do, I’ll certainly include the pictures and story as told by the tombstones.
© 2006
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
Our next stop was an old Church built in 1874 on Smithville Road. It’s a quaint little building and still in use. Several months ago, we stumbled upon it and the congregation had some sort of social going on. Judging by the looks of the attendees, I’d say it is the original congregation from 1874 that still attends.
The graveyard surrounding the Church is well maintained. A once well-respected member of the community must occupy one grave, judging by its size and prominence in the middle of the lot. We should’ve gone up to the headstone to read it, but we didn’t. It was cold and somehow, I felt it would be disrespectful to trudge over the other graves to get to it. Maybe sometime in the future, I’ll take a closer look.
On the other side of the Church is what appears to be a pile of graves. I reckon the occupiers of these graves weren’t so well-respected within the community. Maybe somewhere down the road, I’ll revisit these graves and try to learn who is buried there and why they were just piled in a mound so close together.On our future travels, I’ll be sure to include the roadside graves as part of the regular tour. A few months ago, for example, we came across a small family plot overgrown with poison ivy and an encroaching woods. A small historic sign marked the site, but no one takes care of the site anymore. A whole family from the 1800’s is buried here, the last member buried just prior to the Civil War. In addition to Mom and Dad and some other relatives, a tiny grave for a year-old child was placed next to the parents.
And in the middle of the plot of about seven graves rested a tombstone carved in the shape of a dachshund-like dog. The family ensured their beloved pet would stand guard over their final resting place. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to find this gravesite again, but if I do, I’ll certainly include the pictures and story as told by the tombstones.
© 2006
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
Sunday, January 14, 2007
You Might Be a Redneck If…
Jeff Foxworthy has made a lucrative career off his redneck jokes. If you’re like me, though, you’ll laugh, but deep down you know that his jokes are exaggerated for the comedy effect.
One of his jokes goes something along the lines of you know you’re a redneck when you cut your grass and find a vehicle. Surely, this has to be an exaggeration.
Maybe not.
Giant reeds, or phragmites (frag-mahy-teez), practically surround our house. They took over the side yard right up to the driveway and looped around the back of the house, leaving only a narrow foot path between them and the house. You can see in the picture how tall and thick they get. I cut them back off of the driveway almost to the property line, but in two weeks you can see how fast they regrow.
Technically, phragmites is a grass. It’s definitely not a grass you would want to make a lawn out of, but it is a grass all the same. I started cutting them down with my little brush-cutting weed whacker, but I wasn’t making good headway. I broke down and hired a local professional, Andy, owner of Xtreme Tree Service.
He came in with his bush hog and did some serious damage to the stands of giant reeds. At the back of the house, though, he hit the blue pickup truck.
Yes, we cut the grass and found a vehicle. That might not make us rednecks, but it certainly does say something about the previous owners, but that will be a story for another day.
Keith’s brother-in-law came down for a visit a few weeks later. He lives up in Pennsylvania smack in the middle of redneck country. For years, I reveled in teasing him about being a redneck. He comes down and sees the truck out back, and, let’s just say that he’ll never let me live this one down. Finding a truck after cutting the grass was the funniest thing he ever heard. Now it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
The truck sticks out like a sore thumb. You can even see it from the road. In addition to the truck, cutting the grass uncovered a couple of piles of broken bricks and cinderblocks, a couple of steel drums, old pipes, and a pile of about twenty tires among piles of other trash.
I began the task of trying to clean up as much of the mess as I could. I have no clue how to get rid of the truck, but I figured I could make the rest of the yard look decent. Keith gave up. The piles of trash were bad enough, but that truck irritates him more than anything else.
“Just let the reeds grow back over it,” he would lament.
Two months into the task of cleaning up, I was out back by the blue pickup truck and decided to take a closer look at the reeds Andy wasn’t able to cut down. Water sits in the back and I wanted to know where it came from. Peering through the reeds, I caught a glimpse of something big. My first thoughts were, “Don’t tell me it’s another one.”
Sure enough, hidden out of sight is another vehicle.
I think I’ll leave the reeds around it. I don’t want Keith’s brother-in-law to learn about this one. Of course, leaving the reeds around it would definitely qualify me as a bona fide redneck.
© 2006
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
One of his jokes goes something along the lines of you know you’re a redneck when you cut your grass and find a vehicle. Surely, this has to be an exaggeration.
Maybe not.
Giant reeds, or phragmites (frag-mahy-teez), practically surround our house. They took over the side yard right up to the driveway and looped around the back of the house, leaving only a narrow foot path between them and the house. You can see in the picture how tall and thick they get. I cut them back off of the driveway almost to the property line, but in two weeks you can see how fast they regrow.Technically, phragmites is a grass. It’s definitely not a grass you would want to make a lawn out of, but it is a grass all the same. I started cutting them down with my little brush-cutting weed whacker, but I wasn’t making good headway. I broke down and hired a local professional, Andy, owner of Xtreme Tree Service.
He came in with his bush hog and did some serious damage to the stands of giant reeds. At the back of the house, though, he hit the blue pickup truck.
Yes, we cut the grass and found a vehicle. That might not make us rednecks, but it certainly does say something about the previous owners, but that will be a story for another day.
Keith’s brother-in-law came down for a visit a few weeks later. He lives up in Pennsylvania smack in the middle of redneck country. For years, I reveled in teasing him about being a redneck. He comes down and sees the truck out back, and, let’s just say that he’ll never let me live this one down. Finding a truck after cutting the grass was the funniest thing he ever heard. Now it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
The truck sticks out like a sore thumb. You can even see it from the road. In addition to the truck, cutting the grass uncovered a couple of piles of broken bricks and cinderblocks, a couple of steel drums, old pipes, and a pile of about twenty tires among piles of other trash.
I began the task of trying to clean up as much of the mess as I could. I have no clue how to get rid of the truck, but I figured I could make the rest of the yard look decent. Keith gave up. The piles of trash were bad enough, but that truck irritates him more than anything else.
“Just let the reeds grow back over it,” he would lament.
Two months into the task of cleaning up, I was out back by the blue pickup truck and decided to take a closer look at the reeds Andy wasn’t able to cut down. Water sits in the back and I wanted to know where it came from. Peering through the reeds, I caught a glimpse of something big. My first thoughts were, “Don’t tell me it’s another one.”
Sure enough, hidden out of sight is another vehicle.
I think I’ll leave the reeds around it. I don’t want Keith’s brother-in-law to learn about this one. Of course, leaving the reeds around it would definitely qualify me as a bona fide redneck.
© 2006
Mark Darien
All rights reserved
Please include this copyright notice if you share this article
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