Chaotic Terrain Press
Stories everyone should read. +News & thoughts.
Sunday, July 7, 2024
Clouds Fall to Earth, Book Cover Creation
Clouds Fall to Earth is a novel about people who have lived in the air for 1500 years. I started writing it in 2011 and progress has been irregular, but I have completed the rough draft of all 14 chapters and am now upgrading the book some for others to read and offer critiques. The artwork above is the first product of composing prompts for a AI generated cover art. My brother has been helping me on this--I give ideas and course corrections and he talks to AI. So far we have about 30 or so images. None of them are close, yet, but this one, a sort of diagram, presents a level of detail I want. All the other images are more like photographs, somewhat realistic, if science-fiction is realistic.
Friday, September 15, 2023
Recently a bookstore in Sylva,
Fall 2023
Dear Friend,
I released the most recent edition of my monarch migration guide a couple years ago. The plan was to update it every other year or so. As you might tell, I did everything in the book myself, from writing and photography to layout and publishing. As it happens, I’m busy with many things and couldn’t keep up with updating it as much as needed. Maybe next year….
Anyway, when City Lights Books asked me to send them books for this fall I was delighted with their interest, but wanted to include an insert, this insert.
Because the book is a guide, I wanted up-to-date information. Some of the material now is out of date. But much of it—the photographs, the monarch life cycle details, and the better locations for viewing the monarch migration around here are all still good. One of the hiking trails shared, Naked Falls, I would no longer recommend because it is now overused. One of the retail sources for milkweed plants, Mellie Mac’s, is no longer in business. Some of the educational events are different now. There are other things, like recent overwintering counts in Mexico, so look online for what’s current.
The book was a detailed snapshot from the past, still of some value, I hope. I’m not making anything from it, I just offer it as a gift of my time.
The chaoticterrain.com website no longer exists. I do keep up somewhat with chaoticterrainpress.blogspot.com, which covers my writing and projects. You can reach me at anaktuvuk@earthlink.net.
Perhaps I will see you up on the Blue Ridge Parkway this fall. If you observe anyone looking up, scanning the sky, and especially if there are monarchs about, speak to them. If it’s not me, it’s likely another person who is fascinated with this amazing creature.
Lastly, I will share something beautiful. It might appear unconnected except nominally, but beauty in whatever form is universal. Listen to the Butterfly Lovers Violin Concerto, performed by the Singapore Chinese Orchestra with Josh Bell as the violinist. The piece is based on a Chinese folk tale.
-Mickey Hunt
Thursday, September 14, 2023
Deprescience
(a short, short story)
As a child, our son Timothy told his teachers he was adopted. During adolescence, he wailed in misery, certain that his best friends had moved away. By age twenty, Timothy’s grief sank into glum desolation, and he would lie on the bed all day, bemoaning an imaginary poverty. None of his therapists could free him from his flawed perception of loss.
Saying, “sign up or move out,” my husband Bill and I finally pushed him into enrolling at the community college, where he takes literature courses. Now in his early twenties, Timothy sits at home reading novels or staring into the tropical fish tanks.
One Friday afternoon when I came home from work, I found him eating a bowl of ramen noodles at the breakfast counter.
“How’s your day been?” I asked.
He pushed a paper toward me across the counter. The letter “A” and the word “Incredible!” were scrawled in red across the top.
“You won’t want to read it,” he said in a monotone. “It’s the same stuff about my family and friends who disappeared.”
I had stopped arguing with him years ago — stopped telling him in hysterical terms how we were his natural parents, that his memories were false, that he had not been robbed of a fortune and no one had abandoned him.
“Writing is a healthy outlet for you, Tim,” I said.
He gently cleared his throat. “I suppose.”
“I’d like to read it.”
He just shrugged his shoulders, slid off the stool, and put his empty bowl into the dishwasher.
“Your dad and I plan to see Grandma Ostenson tomorrow at the hospice center,” I said. “She won’t be around much longer. Will you come with us?”
“Grandma Ostenson? Why? I never visit her.”
“You won’t have another chance.”
“I mean, I don’t even know her.”
“My mother was troubled,” I said.
Tim blinked like he usually did before an emotional episode. “She’s barely aware. She’s going to die when we get there, anyway.”
“You’d be keeping us company.”
He looked at me with something like pity for a needy stranger. “Yeah, I would be.”
“Do you have plans for the weekend?”
He whisped air from his nose at my absurd question.
“Well,” I said, “I’m putting my feet up for a few minutes before I start supper. What would you like?”
“Nothing. But thanks.”
I took Timothy’s paper upstairs, thinking that I’d fall asleep during the second paragraph, but I didn’t. Instead, I moved to the window for better light. Ever since he was little, Tim had communicated his delusions, but never with such realism, and never with any rational perspective.
The prompt had been, “Your fountain of joy.” Tim had written about a wife and children, a career as a novelist, acclaim from intelligent readers, pleasure in research and storytelling, satisfaction in hard physical work, and purpose from sharing life with others.
But the ending of the essay… The last paragraph said, “Only recently have I realized that the memories exist merely in my head, fixed there forever, as if a malicious scientist planted them to torture me, which means they will never give joy, but will always burden me with the pain of separation. My hope is that someday the pain will subside.”
#
When we arrived at the hospice, Mom was propped up on pillows; her eyes were open and her breathing was labored. After a while, she said, “It’s nice to see you.”
I babbled on as if she understood every word. Between her cat-naps she appeared to enjoy our company, especially Timothy, who sat next to her. When I mentioned his paper, she said, “Read it to me, please. Read it all.”
“Sorry Mom, we didn’t—” Bill said, but Timothy was pulling a copy from his pocket.
As Tim read, her mind seemed to open like an evening primrose and when he reached the end, she said, “I remember that story… I’ve seen it before.”
“What do you see, Grandma?” Tim said.
She fumbled and took his hand. “Timmy?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Dear child, it’s a gift. Those people and experiences you feel are gone—they’ve not come to you yet. Your memories aren’t memories. They’re visions of your future. I had the same condition.”
“We’re clairvoyant?”
She nodded faintly. “Until I resigned myself to loss, real or not, I couldn’t be thankful for the present… for the people in my life. I prevented my joyful future. Accept your losses, baby, even self-inflicted ones. Give and receive love.”
She drifted into unconsciousness again and then stirred enough to say, “I wish I’d known you, I could have told you before. But, I’m glad… you came to visit.”
Timothy looked at his grandmother and blinked rapidly, her words working in him, maybe re-forming his life as we watched. He then gathered his father and me into his arms and cried unashamedly. We wept with him. At last when all this new grief was purged, we saw that my mom was gone, her breath stilled, her face serene.
We watched in silence until Bill said, “Tim, go tell them at the desk, okay?”
After Tim rinsed his face and left, I asked Bill, “What do you think about the family gift?”
He touched Mom’s hand and sighed. “I’m not sure. You don’t have it.”
I walked to the door. Down the hallway, Tim was leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station.
A minute later he returned, his face wearing an allusion to a smile. “They’ll be here soon,” he said. “No hurry.” Another silent moment passed until Timothy said, “What’s the name of the duty nurse? The young one. Brunette.”
“Margaret,” I said. “She’s vivacious, isn’t she?”
“She looks familiar.”
“She likes good literature, Tim,” my husband said.
Timothy blinked and said, his voice caught between a sob and a laugh, “Yeah, I know.”
END
Wednesday, January 11, 2023
Nose Prints
Glowing nose print clearly seen at night with headlamp. |
It's fascinating how vacation rental guests seem to be unable to calculate where a window is and mash their noses into the glass as they gaze at the lovely scenery outside. Children love to decorate the windows within reach with their personal oil of palm. Anthropological psychology questions acide, in this insecure world, we have made it a secondary business to assist law enforcement in the surveillance of our citizenry by collecting these prints of every type, along with the oils for DNA samples, for identification purposes. Surprisingly, it pays well.
Thursday, December 1, 2022
Two Wildness Adventures
The florescent orange, highly venomous Araneus marmoreus orb-weaver trekking across the |
We are, however, separated from wildness by the protections and aids of what we call civilization. Civilization is valuable and now even essential for our survival, but it also is a hindrance to experiencing the most direct connection to the natural world. Civilization has helped us, but also made us dependent, and thus not fully what we are meant to be.
When wild, non-human creatures, especially those considered endangered, are injured or as young ones, orphaned, caring people sometimes take over, providing for the needs of the creature, with the goal of reintroducing them into the wild, of possible. If not possible, then the creature remains in the care of humans, often serving to educate and inform about the needs of the species, and even to install awe and wonder in seeing that creature up close. Zoos, for example, still serve these purposes.
Humans dwelling within civilization are like the inhabitants of a zoo. We are dependant. Different organizations like National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) and Outward Bound serve to initiate the reintroduction of humans into the wild, their original environment. These days, we can only visit the wilderness for short or for some people, longer periods. We are visitors, no longer natives—perhaps we are exiles. We carry civilization on our backs in the form of dried food, fuel and stoves, and high tech clothing, shelter and other gear—maybe even a satellite telephone and solar charger. Perhaps a weapon. In some ways, like an astronaut, but lower tech.
This craving for our original natural state may be behind our, or I should say, my fascination with observing wild creatures. I watch, listen, and even smell them living their lives and I see how it’s done. I enjoy wildness vicariously by contemplating those who are still native. I appreciate their beauty and deceptively complex simplicity.
Today I was outside the Brown House, a place we built on five acres, taking a short break from cleaning for the next guests. Long ago I developed a habit of what I will call, outdoor situational awareness. It involves an almost unconscious perception of wind and weather, and changes in them. Anything new or in motion catches my attention. I am aware of the topography and flora. Same as a wild animal, I often look up and around and survey my surroundings.
So, during my break from cleaning as I stared out through the leafless trees and brush to the east, I caught the motion of something big, almost frightening, moving at a fast pace, bounding across the front yard of the white modular home up the hill. My first thought—that it was a large dog—quickly morphed into “deer,” and the way it moved, head erect like it carried a heavy crown, a male deer with tall antlers. It sprinted down the hill into the field before me. Then it ran frantically back and forth, fervently sniffing the air. My instincts tuned me into the breeze touching me on my left, so I knew the animal could not smell me, so I watched it run back and forth, up and down, following a scent, until it vanished straight back up the hill. I was in awe, and blessed to have witnessed this brief demonstration of abundant, passionate wildness.
Later in the day, in the afternoon, I was staining the side of the new woodshed of the Brown House. As usual and without thinking, I glanced up to survey the long view, in this case north on our property. You never know what you will see. And I saw something. Tall, dark, and moving back and forth side to side into a bush like it was dancing. It was a bear doing something I had seen more evidence of than I wished, but had never observed in person: Rubbing and reveling in the fragrant foliage of a Carolina Sapphire Cypress tree up in our fruit orchard.
The Carolina Sapphire Cypress was developed by
As the years passed, the CSC trees thrived and grew, but so did the bear population, and I began to see damage to the lower limbs. Chewed, broken, twisted off, piled up. It was strange. Then when two of the trees died from unrelated causes, I replaced them with new CSC trees, and smaller. Those trees got special bear treatment and were continually abused, and it was clear they would never grow tall like their older brothers, who now stand at 30 feet or more. I didn’t know for sure bears were the varmints, but what else could it be?
An old friend and former colleague of mine was a plant buyer
and customer guide at BB Barns Nursery in south
So, today for the first time I saw a bear bathing himself in the foliage, as much as a bear, or anyone for that matter, can take a bath in a plant. He was standing up on his hind legs, walking in and out of the poor shrub (only about 5 feet tall—and it would be much taller if not for the abuse) and generally rolling, snuggling, adoring.
We can only guess why the bears have such an
attraction. Their powers of smell are
about 100 times stronger than ours.
Maybe the aromatic volatile organic compounds have some insecticidal
properties. Maybe the transferred scent
is an attraction to the opposite sex.
As I stalked closer and closer to the bear, keeping the blueberry fence between me and him to conceal my form, I was aware that the breeze was to my back and it was only a matter of time before he would smell me. I moved when he moved as he was distracted, not looking around. Then he froze for a minute. He couldn’t see me, but he knew I was close-by, and slowly, stiffly he strutted away—that’s what male bears do when they are scared and about to run. They are trying to scare you, but it’s a bluff. Suddenly he bolted and was gone, just as I saw one of our elderly neighbors walking down the road to the right.
If you are staying at the Brown House, and if you visually survey the horizon now and then, you might catch a glimpse of wildness. It might be anything. Hawks, woodpeckers, the grand vista of the skyscape rolling by in the south, a cloud of nearly invisible insects overhead. It might be deer and bears. Or, if you are even mildly brave, you can walk up to the orchard and breathe in the scent of Carolina Sapphire Cypress and imagine for a moment you yourself are again a wild uncivilized native of the forests.
Wednesday, November 23, 2022
Thanksgiving Thoughts
Re-arrangement for the Holidays |
So, we sold the rental house (The Grey House) to the tenant and paid the debt off, leaving something extra to invest. After many years, finally, we are now drawing a positive income, and this is one of the things I am most thankful for this year. Though it is a lot of work, especially the cleaning.
To me, clean is clean. There are no grades of clean. Humanly speaking, however, we can only bear so much tedium. So far we have not been able to find anyone who will clean to my standard. At this point, it doesn't matter who cleans, I will always check afterwards and find "things". I don't want to get distracted here, because I only want to say I feel we are not so much in the hospitality business with cleaning as a required sideline, but we are in the cleaning business with a hospitality sideline.
It was startling to realize and admit that we are a part of the tourist industry. But for us, that specialty of the industry—hospitality—is more than providing a roof for an impersonal out-of-towner as much as it is sharing what we love, our home, with a fellow creature, who in turn helps us afford to share.
Some weeks ago a woman booked the Brown House for a full Thanksgiving holiday, and I was happy that we could provide the setting for their special get-together, that we would become a part of their permanent family memory. All of our guests so far had from zero to, maximum, 10 reviews. This person had about two dozen perfect 5-star ratings. Royalty. So, I wanted to roll out the red-carpet, or specifically, the fall-themed table cloth.
As the house construction had moved to the end phases, our plan for the main room furniture layout was to place the dining table in the prime location—the window corner—and, as where we live (the Red House), have the table reach into the kitchen. But with the furniture we bought, it wouldn't all fit how we liked, so we put the comfy sitting furniture in the prime spot. It was nice, but the table had been pushed into the less-than-glamorous, relatively dark space of the room that remained. Back to the present: I asked the upcoming guest beforehand about switching it all around and extending the table to make it the hub. The key to setting all that extra work in motion was if she was going to cook a Thanksgiving meal, or just go out to dinner? I received the answer when she sent me a list of cooking tools and asked what we had and didn't have. She was thrilled about us switching it all around, and yes, it took a couple extra hours.
Since the guests would be arriving well after dark we also "left the light on" and that's a post for the future. Hint: we have 116 LED lights associated with the Brown House, not counting the night-lights.
So, after hours of driving, the guest and her family got in late last night. And here is what she sent me just before midnight: "I forgot to text at 10:15 when we arrived bc we were so enamored with your place! It's so incredible...sparkling clean, wonderful array of antiques and other gems, and such great workmanship and artistry. We just love it here and are so amazed at what you created!"
And this is what makes the extra work worthwhile.
Sunday, November 13, 2022
The Artwork at the Brown House
Appalachian Writer James Still's Cabin on Dead Mare Branch |
Friday, November 11, 2022
Eleven Essential, Big Rules on How to Earn a Coveted One-Star Review from Your Vacation Rental Host
Sample of artwork in the Brown House |
1. Don’t pay attention to any of the material your host sends you. This is essential to achieve that one star review for several important reasons, which I will refer to in the list.
2. Remember, a vacation rental in a private home is exactly like a cheap hotel room, which means you can treat the host, staff, and the rental itself with as much disrespect as you can muster. If you see the host, just keep walking and say something, brief, meaningless, and insincere. Never thank them for their beautiful place and hospitality.
3. Don’t bother writing a review of your stay. It’s a waste of your time and no one will read it anyway. And if you do happen to blow it and write a positive review, it will mean the host can raise the rent for next time. Better even is writing a bad review, and especially complain about things that the host told you about in the material they sent you. Like if they say upfront they don’t have a large TV, you complain about not them having one.
4. Show up at least a half hour before the stated check-in time without asking and stay at least a half hour after the check-out time. This will be fun, as the host will be in a muck sweat to clean while you are in the way.
5. Leave all your trash scattered here and there throughout the place, as it suits your convenience. You’ve already paid a huge amount of money for the rent and the cleaning fee, so you are entitled make life easy for yourself. If you clean any of your nasty messes, the cleaners won’t earn their money. For extra points, bring your smelly food garbage from home and stuff it into one of the inside garbage cans.
6. Be sure to bring your pet to the Pet Free rental—they are always cleaner--then when the host later finds animal hair everywhere and asks if you brought a cat, tell them you left it at home with a sitter. Don’t tell them you brought your ferrets. Hosts are sensitive to bad reviews, so you can lie and bully them into submission.
7. If you accidentally or purposefully cause damage, never tell the host. They probably won’t see it until it’s too late, and then will not know exactly who did it.
8. When you make your booking, select dates that begin on a Saturday night or end on a Saturday. You will save money because Friday and Saturday nights are more in demand and hosts charge more for them. This keeps the host from making more money. Another trick is to check out on New Years Eve day, or otherwise cut any holiday season in half, thus preventing someone else from enjoying the whole holiday and the host from making a fortune.
9. Lie, and lie, and lie about everything. Or tell them nothing. Whatever they may say, hosts love not knowing what is going on in their place.
10. When you make a booking, always ask for a discount, inventing a sob story about how you are only trying to have a family reunion with your brother and mom for the first time in 10 years, and everything is so expensive, and that you might have to borrow money to afford the fees. Or make up your own stories. For extra effect, flatter the host. Hosts feel guilty about being rich enough to own a second home, or an extra room, so they always cave.
11. Ask the host all kinds of questions, especially ones they’ve answered in their online literature, and get them to invest considerable time with you. Treat them like new-found friends. Then later on cancel the reservation at the last moment while you can still get a full refund. The downside to this is the host can’t write that one-star review. The upside is that they will never let you book their place ever again and you will save a ton of money.
12. Leave all the lights on, inside and out, even in the daytime when you are out and about. You are bringing light to the world and inspiring the climate activists.
13. Attempt to break the world record for how many full-garbage-bags/poundage/per day of trash you can leave behind. Extra credit for whole watermelons and such. Hint: recyclables add to the bulk, so don’t separate those.
Wednesday, November 9, 2022
When Public Reviews & Private Remarks Are Switched
It happened this week. A guest new to AirBnb loved our place and wrote us a stunningly rave 5-star review. Problem is: he posted the review as a private message only we can see. And at the same time, he posted private embarrassing remarks in public so everyone can see. Oops. What do you think?
Public: 'The owners are such a great assets….awesome. They know what they are doing. Awesome, awesome owners is all I can say. They know what they are are doing. This place is the s**t. If everyone on here were as detailed and attentive as these owners then there would be no need for hotels.'
Private: 'This was the best. The cabin was absolutely spotless and stocked with things that I would not have thought (TP, paper towels, shower gel, shampoo, coffee etc) would be there. I definitely cannot say enough about they cleanliness and beauty. The views are awesome and it is literally @8 miles from grocery stores and places to eat but is far enough to put you off the grid and feel tranquil. The “Brown House” is such a nice place and I will 100% book this house again. If anyone is looking for a place to get away and relax then you need to book this place without a doubt. Mick and Edi truly know what they are doing and they carry it out with this place.'
Discussion: I think the first review was intended for the Airbnb administrators, as a report card. He did try to fix this reversal, but Airbnb doesn't allow editing once reviews are posted by both parties, except to delete the whole review. And he did book again for a future stay.
Wood Shed or Woodshed?
Transition
I began writing a novel in the year 2000 and it took about 10 years to complete. Then, with the encouragement of my wife, who said it would help promote my novel, I began writing short stories. Many of those stories were published here are there, but for the most part, nowhere of significance to advance a career in writing. My stories and novel are all available to purchase on Amazon, as is my monarch migration book. The short stories are available to read here.
My plan was to transition from a decades long career in what I will call "social reform" to writing and selling books and stories, but the writing part never went anywhere, except as a hobby. As it happened, I didn't have any significant "retirement" revenue. Fast-forward to the punchline: we built a house on about five acres near Asheville, North Carolina, equipped it as a vacation rental, and since the early spring of 2022 we've accommodated guests through the AirBnb and Vrbo platforms.
Those platforms are rigidly designed for formally presenting our place in words and pictures, and booking guests. They have a helpful mutual review process between guests and hosts. As a host, you want 5-star glowing reviews, and you want them as guests, too. Everyone is as polite as pie, typically. What the vacation rental formats don't have in is an environment for sharing news, and frankly, more candid and humorous stories about the joys and terrors of letting complete strangers live in your beautiful new house on your private property.
So, given the economic failure of my writing efforts, and given the success of our modest vacation rental business, I'm transitioning this blog toward, well, telling stories from the Brown House under High Swan.
Sunday, August 15, 2021
I'm Still Here
For the past couple years, I've been building a house, and this has taken up much of my time and energy. Perhaps I will share more photos of the house, someday. Its theme is 'Outside In and Inside Out", which reflects an effort to merge the design of the inside of the house with the outside natural environment. I've done a lot with wood and rock, and using free or found materials. If I were to give a name to the house, I would call it Windfall, since the monies for the land and the house were given to us. I still think about story lines, and every so often I will work a little on Clouds Fall to Earth. Right now I'm wondering if I should write an article to submit to the Dark Mountain Project, the UK group that published my story, “The Tragedy of Bernie the Homeless.” The article would be on Sound, and explore
Monday, September 23, 2019
The Southward Migration Has Reached Us
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
My Milkweed Garden is a Love Nest
click to enlarge |
Monday, May 13, 2019
The Migration Miracle Continues!
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
A Big Migration Day on the Parkway
Monday, September 3, 2018
The Southern Migration has Begun!
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
Hawk Moth
Sunday, April 22, 2018
Happy Earth Day!
I've got an orange theme going, and in this photo is the cedar fruiting body of the fungus, Cedar Apple Rust (Gymnosporangium juniperivirginianae). These hairy, slimy, bright orange balls decorate local cedar trees, making it look like Christmas in April around here. As its name states, this disease lives in stages on both cedar and apple trees.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
The Upcoming Earth Day 2018
I picked up 13 bags along a mile stretch of road one Sunday in March |
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Our Io Moth
Female Io moth, cocoon on corn leaf, and eggs. CLICK TO ENLARGE |
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Notes and Reflections on the Western Monarch Migration
A Cluster Near Light House Field Beach, CLICK TO ENLARGE |
12/29/17 Friday
Sunday, November 19, 2017
Discussion of "The Cruller Twist"
Friday, October 20, 2017
Sunday, October 15, 2017
UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE
UPDATE for 10/16, 8:00 am: The high temperature today in Asheville is expected to be 55 degrees F. Monarchs can only fly when their muscles reach 54 degrees, and it will be cooler than Asheville at higher elevation, so the flow might not begin again until Tuesday or later.
Thursday, October 12, 2017
Go up the Blue Ridge Parkway NOW!
On Saturday, October 7, I gave an evening slide presentation and talk at the Julian Price Park amphitheater. The beautiful park with a 47 acre lake is at milepost 297 of the Blue Ridge Parkway. Elevation, something like 3400 feet. The presentation was not particularly well attended, but it was worth the trip, nonetheless. Afterward I camped overnight, sleeping in my 4Runner, parked in the drive of an RV spot. Oak trees kept dropping acorn bombs on my roof and that made it hard to stay asleep. They sounded like bombs, or rather gunshots. At about midnight, I moved the vehicle to the empty neighboring campsite where the acorns fell less frequently.
On the way to the event, I drove up the parkway from Asheville, stopping at likely gaps to see if monarchs used them to cross the ridges. The absolutely best place was the Ridge Junction Overlook. This overlook is about 100 yards north of the entrance to Mt. Mitchell State Park. It has a fantastic long view and I counted 20 monarchs in half an hour, most sailing over. As the temperature warmed, other monarchs stopped to feed on the violet asters along the parking area. Before I left, I did a spot count and got 15. I will definitely be including this location in the 2018 edition of my guide. Further north I counted six at the Bald Knob Parking Area, five on the private land adjacent to Gooch Gap, and two in the meadow at the turnoff to Linville Falls Visitor's center. (I will add milepost numbers later.)
So, get up on the parkway and look for monarch butterflies. The migration will not last much longer!
I plan to create a YouTube video of the slide presentation, which itself contains videos of monarch life cycle transitions. I learned quite a bit during the preparation of the presentation, in particular something of the natural and culture history of milkweed and the overwintering monarch population in California. Mexico has 12 known sites, but CA has 400!
Oh, and why did the government buy milkweed pods in the 1940s? To make life vests from the floss (the silk) for the war effort. More later.