Jack-in-the-pulpit

Today we met friends at Petrifying Springs County Park (yes, the springs really are petrifying, turning wood to stone over the past millions of years). Tradition holds that we take a short nature walk down one of the paths bordering a stream at which point, Michael (friend of Rhiannon who has an addiction to Spiderman which just might have been cured with the release of the eponymous movie, take 3) chooses a fishing spot. The four children commence to squat in the mud, fishing poles (sticks of various sizes) in hand, waiting for the fish to bite. Or not. I did teach Michael the joys of "bomb-fishing" in which he would chuck a chunk of wood (his "dynamite") into the rushing water to generate dozens of fish corpses. This seemed like a great idea to everyone, so we pretty much fished the place out and skedaddled prior to the appearance of roving rangers.

On our walk, I happened to spy several jacks-in-the-pulpit, new and green, and called Rhiannon over to see. The other children followed, and I showed them "jack" standing there, light-green, shaded by the top-leaf, standing in water. The next ten minutes was a mad scramble to find Jack wherever he was in the forest, exposing him to the sun, and then on to the next, Rhiannon, for one, leading the charge, effecting a holocaust of violets and buttercups in the pursuit of floral novelty. Apologies to those who followed in our unmistakable footprints.

Rhiannon. Biocute.

Andrew (Papa)