According to Birdcast, 14,526,300 birds crossed Ohio from 8:40 p.m. on May 11, 2025 through 6:40 a.m. on May 12. From 9 to 11 a.m. that Monday, participants in the annual Spring Bird Migration Hike followed the pointing fingers of Deb Weston and David Smith to catch a glimpse of brilliant spring plumage. That morning, the group documented 46 bird species in the wetlands, pollinator gardens, and upland forest of The Quarry Farm nature preserve. An enormous Question Mark Butterfly warmed its wings long enough for a good view as well.
It seems that migration peaks earlier each year as the planet tries to right itself, and Deb and David try to schedule a hike date that happens before all of the migrators pass us by or settle in to nest under dense canopy. To get a good idea of what might pass through for a crowd, Deb walked the trails for days leading up to May 12 hike. She took notes…and brilliant photos.
April 30: 47 species today. A juvie Bald Eagle flew over the prairie, Yellow-rumped Warblers all over the place. One Yellow-breasted Chat, 3 Orchard Oriole, Tennessee Warbler, Nashville Warbler, Yellow Warbler, Palm Warbler and Black-throated Green Warbler. Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Great Crested Flycatcher, Warbling Vireo and 13 Double-crested Cormorants flying over in a perfect V.
May 1: 52 species today. There was a Gray-cheeked Thrush in the garden area. Don’t see them often and it escaped photo day. Female Red-winged Blackbird, Nashville Warbler and Solitary Sandpiper were not so shy.
May 2: 50 species today. An American Robin on her nest every day. 2 pics of a Palm Warbler; the first one dropped its food when it saw me. Another female Red-winged Blackbird because they’re so pretty and a Gray Catbird. 3 Wild Turkey, 2 in different sections of the prairie flushed when I walked by even though they were out in the middle. Sounded like helicopter blades. Not sure if they were sitting on nests, but baby turkeys would be cute. 1 Ruby-throated Hummingbird and the biggest surprise was an Osprey sitting in a tree at the lookout point. It took off before I could get my camera up, but was excited to see it. Last sighting was in 2021. Warblers: Orange-crowned, Nashville, Common Yellowthroat, Northern Parula, Yellow, Palm and Yellow-rumped.
May 9: 53 species today (14 warblers) Canada Goose, Wood Duck, Mourning Dove, Green Heron, Turkey Vulture, Red-headed Woodpecker, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, Northern Flicker, Least Flycatcher, Yellow-throated Vireo, Blue-headed Vireo, American Crow (YAY—they’re back!), Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, White-breasted Nuthatch, Northern House Wren, Carolina Wren, Gray Catbird, Eastern Bluebird, Wood Thrush, American Robin, House Sparrow, American Goldfinch, Chipping Sparrow, Field Sparrow, Savannah Sparrow, Song Sparrow, Lincoln’s Sparrow, Swamp Sparrow, Eastern Towhee, Orchard Oriole, Baltimore Oriole, Red-winged Blackbird, Brown-headed Cowbird, Common Grackle, Ovenbird, Nashville Warbler, Common Yellowthroat, American Redstart, Cape May Warbler, Northern Parula, Magnolia Warbler, Blackburnian Warbler, Yellow Warbler, Black-throated Blue Warbler, Palm Warbler, Yellow-rumped Warbler, Black-throated Green Warbler, Wilson’s Warbler, Northern Cardinal, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Indigo Bunting.
Birdcast noted that 24,564,200 bird species flew over Ohio last night. We will be listening for new song as they make their way north to Magee Marsh Wildlife Area where Deb will be watching with her camera and 89,999 other people.
Conservation biologist Douglas Tallamy [Nature’s Best Hope, 2019] urges us to use our gardens to help fight looming threats to life on Planet Earth, two being shrinking agricultural land and loss of habitat for our vital pollinators. How can we use our little plots to impact such huge issues while also beautifying our landscapes? Dr. Tallamy assures us that our combined efforts can go a long way toward correcting both problems. So, this winter as we pore over gardening catalogs, we who have enlisted in the cause of supporting pollinators should pay extra attention to seed and plant descriptions, looking for evidence of plentiful pollen and nectar supplies for bees, butterflies, hummingbirds, etc.
One small way to focus is by looking for colorful, pollinator-friendly annuals to incorporate among the perennials, herbs, vegetables, native wildflowers, etc., in our garden plans. Annuals that are both ornamental and beneficial include easy-to-grow cosmos, marigolds, sunflowers, coreopsis, salvias, and zinnias. Some can be obtained as nursery starts, while all can be seeded directly into the soil. With proper care, especially deadheading, they can provide color and pollinator food for a season. Their flattish, daisy-like flower heads make rich pollen and nectar supplies easily accessible to bees (the most important pollinators), butterflies such as Monarchs and Swallowtails, and certain flies. [On zinnias, for example, pollen and nectar sources make up a yellow center, easy for pollinators to spot, except perhaps for showy fully double varieties that tend to bury the food supply.]
Plant breeders tempt us every year with exotic cultivars and hybrids of familiar annuals. These promise color and interest, but many fail to feed pollinators. The features that supply rich pollen and nectar may have been weakened or bred out. For example, pollen-free sunflowers touted for cut flower arrangements may be colorful but are useless to pollinators. Cultivars bred from flowers that are normally flat and daisy-like instead may have dense pom-poms that look quirky and cute but make pollen and nectar too difficult for bees and butterflies to reach. Unless a new variety promises great benefits, tried and true standards may be the best bets for pollinators.
A four-year research project by University of Minnesota Extension (2015-2018) studied more than 30 annual varieties and identified the following nine as the most popular with pollinators… (click on the newsletter cover for the full article)
Author Sterling North published the book Rascal in 1963. It’s an autobiographical story about industrial and economic changes, wilderness being lost to industry, and a young boy raising a baby raccoon. The antics of the animal help alleviate the boy’s fear for his brother who is a soldier at war.
I remember reading Rascal and desperately wanting a raccoon as my best friend. A lot of people did. We read it and watched the Disney movie based on the book. For most, the later parts of the story, where the growing animal became destructive in captivity, just didn’t sink in. When an orphaned raccoon did come into my life, my dad was there to intervene.
The wild animal did not become a pet. There was a creek nearby with crayfish. We taught him to catch and eat them. He built strength by climbing trees. He grew a warm coat. As the days passed, we saw him less frequently. One day in December, I saw him along the creek, as I did most days. He hesitated on the path, then turned slowly away, huffing. It was like a switch turned and he was one of the wild things again.
There are more rural residents now, and fewer opportunities to slowly release a rehabilitated animal into the wild. Unless you are trained and licensed to do so, it’s against the law to contain a wild animal. Not only is it illegal, it’s unhealthy for humans and wildlife. Raccoons are especially tricky. They imprint on people very, very easily. There are licensed wildlife rehabilitators who work only with raccoons because these animals take so much time, resources, and territory to “rewild.” And there are certain parts of Ohio where it isn’t legal at all to rehabilitate a raccoon.
The Quarry Farm does not rehabilitate wildlife. When people call here, saying that they have a) a baby bird/rabbit/raccoon/squirrel or b) an injured wild animal, we a) tell them to put it back and/or b) provide contact info for someone else. We do possess educational permits from the State of Ohio for a few non- releasable wild animals that serve as ambassadors for their kind. We have the training to care for them—six years of it before we were allowed to house a Virginia Opossum. That is how Emerson the Raccoon came to live here.
Last spring, we were asked if we were in a position to care for an 8-year-old male raccoon named Elvis. He had quite a backstory. Long-story-short, the raccoon came here in a cage. His mother was shot and killed before she could teach him how to be wild and free. He grew up in a house, and indoors is what he has always known. While a long-ago head injury and neutering tempered the more destructive nature of his kind, he still had a full set of teeth and was absolutely terrified. His diet had to be altered as well, from a reliance on people-food to fruits, veggies, protein bites and absolutely no more potato chips. It took several weeks of coaxing and a name change before Elvis became Emerson, king of the tallest bookcase, keeper of squeaky toys (unless Quinn the Fox steals them), and puller of earlobes. Thankfully, he was litterbox-trained when he arrived and never misses.
Emerson dips his sensitive hands* in his water bowl,“seeing” the grapes and carrots that we drop in. It’s thought that water contact increases a raccoon’s tactile ability. His wild counterparts do the same in streams and ponds. The only other thing that he has in common with wild raccoons is his appearance. Emerson has always lived his life completely contained and will continue to do so. At least he will help us teach people more about how to co-exist with these intelligent, curious animals.
Have you noticed, as we have on The Quarry Farm, an absence of Woolly Bear caterpillars this fall? Typically, the fuzzy black and brown creatures are a common sight in late summer/early fall, crawling on the warm pavement of our country road. Not so this year. Here’s a brief look at the life of our fuzzy, bristly friend, to know it better and attempt to understand why its scarcity matters.
Woolly Bears are the caterpillar form of several related moth species, including the orange-yellow Isabella Tiger Moth (Pyrrharctis Isabella), which ranges across the U.S, and Southern Canada. The moth typically produces two broods a year. It lives about two weeks, nectaring on a wide variety of flowers. It mates, lays eggs, and dies. The caterpillars we see in the fall are the second brood. They’ve grown fat on leaves such as violets, nettle, sunflower, maple, and elm, and green grasses, and they may have shed five or six times while growing. When the fall brood is ready to pupate, it finds protective winter cover under leaf litter or logs or rocks. During the winter it pupates in a cocoon made from its bristly hairs and emerges as an adult in the spring. The cycle repeats to produce a summer brood.
The second-generation caterpillars that we see in the fall (in a normal year) have eaten their fill, are preparing to hibernate, and are out and about because they’re looking for cover. They are not going to poison us if we pick them up (although they can feel prickly). And sadly, they can’t predict our winter weather—by coloration or by size of the brown band around their middle. Those features are influenced by stage of development, belonging to a particular tiger moth species, and diet. There is no special little weather sensor embedded under the fuzz.
So why are we seeing so few Woolly Bears? First and foremost, no doubt, is the serious decline of many moth species worldwide—for all the reasons that we know too well and are struggling to deal with: climate change, habitat loss, light pollution in populated areas, pesticide and herbicide use. Also, we could look around us recently at a bleached, drought-ridden landscape and see little food for Woolly Bears preparing to hibernate. Their absence matters because, as pollinators and a major food source for birds and other animals, moths are an important link in the food chain that sustains us.
In one county to the east, toads and spring peepers sing in wetlands, warmed in the urban heat island. They are quiet here on The Quarry Farm. There is no hint of green as you look over the lowland treetops. Spring wildflowers have better sense than Golden-crowned Kinglet that conceal themselves as much as possible in bare treetops, calling their thin, high-pitched call to anyone that arrived a tad too early.
Tracking preying mantis cases
It was chilly enough for coats for the March 2 hike. We followed White-tailed Deer, Eastern Fox and Gray Squirrel and Wild Turkey tracks in the nature preserve. A Great Blue Heron left a nearly complete fish skeleton for us to find on the south bank of the quarry wetland. The birds were quiet, for the most part. Two days later, I counted 16 avian species in the short walk between the farm animal sanctuary and the pavilion. The temperature hit 74 degrees F. This weather is crazy. Today, the toads, salamanders and spring peepers remain burrowed deep under the quarry and oxbow water and forest floor leaf matter in anticipation of a weekend of rain and wet snow.
As the weather changes its mind, the wild and domestic animals here do not change theirs. Two weeks ago, our beloved, elderly Sophie, the best porcine educational ambassador ever, died. As always, the animals gathered around the grave until the ground was smoothed over. Donkeys Lucy and Silky had to be whispered to and hugged. Everyone slowly wandered away. Two weeks later, everyone is love-struck and besotted; infatuated and obsessed. Spring will be here officially on March 21. Spring twitterpation is now. The fostered re-wilding Canada Geese call to the wild ones on Cranberry Run. The goats bark and huff, bumping foreheads across the paddock. Patches, Pockets, Gerald, Mr. Fabulous, Caramel, Sydney and Chicken Ricky crow their rooster hearts out when American Woodcocks hurtle through the evening sky. Tom turkeys Edgar and Bernard strut their impressive stuff while turkey hen Souix does her best to avoid them. There is whole lot of “Get off my lawn!” happening this season.
Chicken Ricky and Nemo
During Winter’s coldest, the chickens warm their feet by riding around on the donkeys, pigs, and goats. I’m sure the feathered spot of warmth is soothing on the mammals’ backs. In the midst of Spring chest-thumping and display, two individuals share a daily lesson of tolerance and respect. Tom Turkey Bruce has always been unsteady on his feet. he came here a few years ago after being dumped in a park. He was found spinning in circles, unable to walk more than a few steps due to probable fattening in close confinement. Canada Goose “K” (named for the tag around his left ankle) prefers the company of Bruce to the rest of the Canada geese. K keeps an eye on Bruce, making sure the two are never far apart. In the evening, K will match steps with Bruce as he makes he slow way into the barn. On Monday, Steve watched the two approach the door. Bruce waivered when he got to the steps. As he turned away from the enclosure, K reached out and gently prodded Bruce into the building before hopping in behind him.
Three weeks from now, 31.6 percent of the global human population will celebrate a man who made the ultimate sacrifice for all. We observe the time leading up to the observance by meditating on written word, coloring eggs and eating fish on Fridays, all the while arguing—warring—about who should be even our most distant neighbor. What if we share the fish, and not just on Fridays?
By September and October, most of the white, blue, pink and purple wildflowers have faded from the landscape, but our byways glow into early autumn with the bright yellows and golds of what we might refer to simply as “pretty yellow flowers.” Let’s give a respectful nod to four of those cheery wildflowers—Goldenrod, False Sunflower, Jerusalem Artichoke, and Sneezeweed—and get to know them personally.
The four have much in common. All four are members of the huge family Asteraceae, also Compositae; their flower petals grow daisy-like in rays around a center. The centers are typically a cluster of many tiny florets. All four attract pollinators (bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds), so they are important economically and ecologically. Deer avoid them. All are perennial, and cultivars have become popular garden flowers. While they share family traits, their differences can help us distinguish them.
Goldenrod, a common name for Solidago, may be the easiest to identify. More than 100 species grow wild in moist soil in North America, but a few have become popular in gardens. The plant heights average three to five feet. The flower heads are fluffy plumes or fans densely covered by tiny florets. Because they produce almost no pollen, they can’t be blamed for allergies. They are not poisonous to humans; in fact, parts are edible and can have medicinal uses. Because they are native, they are not termed invasive, but they can spread aggressively by seeds and roots.
False Sunflower, one common name for heliopsis helianthoides, is a native that can be mistaken for a daisy. It prefers sun and can grow in a wide range of soil, preferably on roadsides, near wooded areas and in prairies. The plants reach three to six feet and bear flowers with yellow (the common color here) to orange rays that may droop slightly around a soft brown center, earning them the nickname Ox-Eye Daisy. They are neither invasive nor toxic.
Jerusalem Artichoke, or helianthus tuberosus, is not an artichoke but rather a species of sunflower native to central North America. The plants can grow from five to nine feet tall, bearing bright yellow, daisy-like flowers with sturdier petals than False Sunflower or Sneezeweed. Its elongated tubers (fleshy underground stems) vary in color from light brown to white, red or purple and have a nutty flavor. They are highly nutritious and can be eaten, either raw or cooked. In fact, tasty-looking recipes can be found online. The plant was once a widely cultivated root vegetable crop that is regaining popularity.
Sneezeweed, or helenium autumnale, is so called because its leaves were once dried and used to make snuff. The plants prefer moist soil and are at home along streams and wetlands. They grow from two to five feet tall and bear pale yellow to orange flowers with fan-shaped drooping rays. It is sometimes called Wingstem because of the gill-like “wings” running the length of the stems. Although attractive to pollinators, it is poisonous (in large amounts) to humans and livestock.
One final note: all four of these “pretty yellow flowers” look lovely in floral arrangements.
Qarie Marshall offered a sunny weather radio forecast for Thursday—“Turkey Day.” I’m counting on Aunt Paula’s cheesecake and Mom’s mashed red potatoes, with the ruby skins liberally integrated.
Every day is Turkey Day here. Max the Bronze is the current guardian of the farm animal sanctuary flock. Visitors have frequently lost the contents of their pockets to bronze Buttercup. Their wild relatives sway in summer night breeze, perched high in tree tops like giant fruit. They chortle and murmur in the daytime, hidden from predatory eyes in the thickest thickets. A stray feather occasionally makes its way into the Putnam County Master Gardeners’ pollinator patch.
Cool hat…missing boots
Saturday, we stretched our legs in thanks for a late morning hike. Elisha broke in a new pair of Trespass boots shipped from the UK. His mom Esther shared her lovely Irish accent and details about the clothing line, including the fact that Trespass makes water-resistant onesies.
Type ‘Ohio’ into the company website’s ‘Find a Store’ widget and you get Galway (eh…only 3,426.94 miles away.) Still, the “No Child Left Inside” movement would benefit from a line of puddle-jumping ware.
So, apparently, would my child. Home on holiday, she took off her rubber knee boots (“They’ll get wet, Mom”) to wade in the chilly quarry wetland with a seine in hand. She caught a sample of snails, a beetle and a fingernail clam for us to see. The clam was the size of the second smallest hiker’s pinkie finger.
The smallest hiker of all slept through the walk, swaddled in his mother’s walking fleece.
Fungi suspended over autumn leaves
The sun brought out the color in what leaves still hung on the trees. We used honeysuckle walking sticks to traverse downed leaf matter. We gathered a few Osage oranges before the ghosts of mammoths could lay claim to them. I thought I saw a shrike in the back 10 acres. Maybe we’ll see his/her larder—voles impaled on hawthorn spikes—during the 2019 Great Backyard Bird Count.
We saw tracks. They crossed our path in wallows and licks and fur clinging to branches. There were hoof marks, short and long bird toe prints and thin drag lines. The turkeys left the latter two for us to find, surely watching us from a distance that would keep them whole beyond Thursday’s feast.
Much as I tried, I couldn’t leave this photo to its own devices. Buddy was indeed yawning, not braying the classic “hee haw.” Donkeys don’t, at least the two here, don’t. They “hee-hee-hee” and “ho-o-o-o-nk” and blow raspberries, but declare nothing for Buck and Roy to play along with.
Sunday morning, as I filled the water pans, Buddy followed me to make sure no carrots lurked in my pockets. I saw his lower lip begin to tremble and readied the camera just in case a toothy grin was on its way..
Gerald Owen Coburn, the man who first set foot to the path that led to The Quarry Farm as we know it, was, at his very core, an artist. It was with an artist’s eye that he looked on absolutely everything, particularly the natural world; a recurring theme in the body of work that he left, whether in paper, canvas, wood or stone. He was relentless in his desire to understand the world that he took to representing, primarily with brush, methodical and nearly clinical in his efforts to that end. And why not? It’s a fundamental truth that among the very many things that art is, it is most certainly science, peeled and filtered and laid out sideways so as to permit viewing from a different perspective.
One of the first Coburn paintings I had the opportunity to see was a watercolor. It depicted a young boy carrying in his arms what I first mistook to be a large stone, bigger than the boy’s head. It wasn’t a stone, though. It was a puffball, a fungus in the division Basidiomycota. To put an even finer point on it, it was probably Calvatia gigantea, the giant puffball, specimens of which commonly grow to a foot or more in diameter. Even more impressive, when they’re immature they’re not only edible, but supremely tasty. Be sure, though, that you are indeed in possession of an edible mushroom before taking a bite. If you have any doubts whatsoever, caution is the word of the day.
While puffballs are agreeable to most types of preparation, I have a fondness for them cut thick, breaded and sautéed. It’s simple, it’s quick and the results are noteworthy. Here’s how:
Cut the puffball into ½ to ¾ inch slices. An immature puffball, when cut, will have a uniform white appearance. If they’re turning yellow on the inside, they’re too far gone to eat. Make a slit in the tough, outer skin and peel it away. It should come free quite easily.
Heat 2 tablespoons of cooking oil (each imparts its own flavor; choose to your taste) in a skillet over medium heat. Alternatively, use melted butter, but do not brown it. Dependent on the amount of puffball you’re preparing, you may need to add more oil or butter to the skillet as you go.
In a pan large enough to accommodate the puffball slices, combine one egg with 1 ½ tablespoons of milk. On a different plate, prepare a bed of breadcrumbs. I’ve developed a preference for making my own, but store bought will do nicely.
Dip both sides of the puffball slices in the egg mixture, then dredge them through the breadcrumbs.
Sauté each side until golden brown, then drain momentarily on paper towels. Serve hot.
For the moment, let’s say you’re driving down a two-lane highway at night when, off to the side, your headlights pick up a misshapen bundle. You slow down to get a better look at whatever’s laying there, something that’s almost certainly dead, when, suddenly, part of the bundle shakes itself loose and skitters away into the dark…
Or it could be that there’s this cat that’s been hanging around and it’s pretty obvious that it’s had it more than a little rough. So, because you feel sorry for the poor wee thing, you’ve started leaving food out in a little dish by the back kitchen door. You hear it rustling around and turn on the light to give it a once over, see if there’s any improvement in its condition, only it’s not a cat, nothing like a cat, crunching down kibble. Nothing like a cat at all…
Or maybe it’s the night before garbage pick-up and you’re hauling the last bag out to the curb where you’ve already placed your recyclables and one half-full can. You reach for the lid, but it’s not in place. It’s lying, top-down, in the grass next to the can, and that’s odd because you’re more than kind of certain that you actually did put it in place before heading back to the house for that one last sack of trash. And that’s when you see it, furtive and menacing all at the same time, perched in the ripped-open Hefty bag at the bottom of the garbage can…
Whatever the scenario, what happens next is almost universal: you see those black eyes and all those sharp, glinting teeth in that gaping maw and your flight reflex kicks in. Before you’re even aware of turning, you’re burning rubber down the road, racing up the stairs, or dead-panic, brainless sprinting back to the house. And if your ears weren’t already full of the THUD, THUD, THUD of your own pounding heart, you know – I mean, you just know – that you’d hear it scrabbling along behind you, hissing and growling and keening for blood…
Except we’re not talking about some Jurassic Park raptor here, nor a great white shark or a freakshow hybrid of a government experiment gone awry, either. Nope. It’s an opossum – a Virginia opossum, to be precise – and it poses about as much threat to you as the neighbor’s Pomeranian. (You know, the one that they spritz with stink-pretty every other week after it’s been to the salon? The one that wears the pink Hello Kitty sweater as soon as the temperature drops below 40 degrees Fahrenheit? Yeah. That one.) So instead of chasing you down, that opossum’s busy either trying to put as much distance between the two of you as it possibly can, or making itself as small as possible, hoping against hope that you just won’t notice it.
Understand, I’m not saying that opossums can’t seem scary. They have more teeth than any other North American mammal and when their jaws are gaping wide in abject terror (yeah, mate, they’re positively terrified of you) it can be a little intimidating. But here’s the rub. Opossums aren’t predators. They’re scavengers, eaters of the dead and the overripe. See, they’re not interested in taking a bite out of you, unless, of course, you’re dead; in which case you have considerably bigger things to worry about than the chance that a wandering opossum just might stop in for a nibble.
So, no, opossums aren’t predatory, but they are seriously cool. They’re nomadic marsupials, have opposable thumbs on their back feet and they have prehensile tails. They’re the most primitive mammal in North America and, when threatened, “play possum.” The word “play,” though, is more than a bit misleading. It’s not a conscious act, not something that they choose to do. Nope, it’s something that happens to them when they get overexcited. Their hard drives crash and there’s absolutely nothing playful about a crashed hard drive.
Keep all this in mind the next time you scare up an opossum, because “scare,” my friends, is truly a matter of perspective.
Give Us a Hand and We’ll Give You a Shirt
If you’ve been following us for any time at all, you’ll know that, while we focus on assisting domestic animals, we also work with the occasional wild, but native, animal, as well. Most are just passing through, either on their way back to the wild or off to a rehab center. Sometimes, however, as with the two American crows and the Canada goose that live here, this is where they’ll stay from here on out. These native animals aren’t eligible for release, either because they have some physical defect that will prevent them from a successful return, or because they’ve developed a certain affinity for their most significant predator, humans. Such is the case with an opossum that recently came to us from Nature’s Nursery Center for Wildlife Rehabilitation and Conservation Education.
They told us right up front that he seemed a bit on the friendly side, and he was. Even so, we treated him with the same distance as we treat all such animals we’re tasked with fostering. Several days ago, after nearly six weeks here at The Quarry Farm, we decided it was time to give him the opportunity to go it on his own. Sadly, rather than march off into the woods or even just into the tall grass near the banks of Cranberry Run, he decided to follow us back to the house.
After discussing the situation with the powers that be at Nature’s Nursery, it was decided that responsibility for him should be transferred to The Quarry Farm, where he will live out his days and serve as an ambassador of his kind to the folks who visit us here, on-site, and to those whom we visit in their classrooms.
But, Houston, we have a problem. We can’t seem to come up with a suitable name for him. We’ve labeled him a host of different monikers, but none of them have stuck. So we’re throwing it open and asking for help. The person who comes up with an appropriate name (and, yes, we’re the ones who decide what’s appropriate) will get a Quarry Farm T-shirt.
So, have at it, boys and girls, men and women.
And thanks. Here’s another quick study of the little guy, should that prove inspirational.
Cut the puffball into ½ to ¾ inch slices. An immature puffball, when cut, will have a uniform white appearance. If they’re turning yellow on the inside, they’re too far gone to eat. Make a slit in the tough, outer skin and peel it away. It should come free quite easily.
In a pan large enough to accommodate the puffball slices, combine one egg with 1 ½ tablespoons of milk. On a different plate, prepare a bed of breadcrumbs. I’ve developed a preference for making my own, but store bought will do nicely.
Except we’re not talking about some Jurassic Park raptor here, nor a great white shark or a freakshow hybrid of a government experiment gone awry, either. Nope. It’s an opossum – a Virginia opossum, to be precise – and it poses about as much threat to you as the neighbor’s Pomeranian. (You know, the one that they spritz with stink-pretty every other week after it’s been to the salon? The one that wears the pink Hello Kitty sweater as soon as the temperature drops below 40 degrees Fahrenheit? Yeah. That one.) So instead of chasing you down, that opossum’s busy either trying to put as much distance between the two of you as it possibly can, or making itself as small as possible, hoping against hope that you just won’t notice it.
They told us right up front that he seemed a bit on the friendly side, and he was. Even so, we treated him with the same distance as we treat all such animals we’re tasked with fostering. Several days ago, after nearly six weeks here at The Quarry Farm, we decided it was time to give him the opportunity to go it on his own. Sadly, rather than march off into the woods or even just into the tall grass near the banks of Cranberry Run, he decided to follow us back to the house.
