The Perseids never became visible thanks to cloud cover that moved in with the evening, but at least sunset gave off a nice glow and showed off the downtown Chicago skyline.
On March 9, 2023, the United States Postal Service issued a set of stamps that, like “Backyard Games,” evoke Americana: “Historic Railroad Stations of the United States. “
Noteworthy railroad stations began brightening the American landscape by the 1870s and, although many fell to the wrecking ball once they had outlived their original purpose, hundreds survived. This issuance of five different stamps features five architectural gems that continue to play an important role in their community.
Each stamp in the pane of 20 is an illustration of a single station: the 1874 Tamaqua Station in Tamaqua, Pennsylvania; the 1875 Point of Rocks Station in Point of Rocks, Maryland; the 1901 Main Street Station in Richmond, Virginia; the 1918 Santa Fe Station in San Bernardino, California; or the 1933 Union Terminal in Cincinnati, Ohio. The pane resembles a page in an old-fashioned photo album, with the title “Historic Railroad Stations of the United States” and drawings of a train and a one-ride ticket in the header.
These aren’t grand urban stations. They’re less ostentatious gems of architecture, with charming, warm, and welcoming exteriors, perfect for the tired train traveler.
These stations continue to play a role in their communities today.
I haven’t been in many train stations. The grand waiting room at Union Station is, well, grand. It’s also a hike to any of the trains, and the rest of the station is a dim, confusing maze (and seems to be under constant reconfiguring or renovation).
The Pittsburgh station is below street level and doesn’t have a distinctive exterior that I know of. Because of train schedules, I’ve seen it mostly in hours of darkness. It has a lot of seating, maybe because there’s a gap between the Capitol Limited and the Pennsylvanian with many people waiting for the connection. It’s also utilitarian, with some lockers, a few vending machines, and a TV hung near the ceiling. Conveniently, it’s across the way from the Greyhound station, for those times train equipment or schedules fail.
I have only a handful of train station photos, taken from Amtrak trains when I think of it. Most of them remain active Amtrak stations. The old Ann Arbor station, however, was converted into an upscale restaurant called the Gandy Dancer. For years I had a strange idea about what a Gandy dancer was, but found out it’s slang for early railroad workers, the American equivalent of “navvies.” Wikipedia has a section on the term’s etymology. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gandy_dancer
The present Ann Arbor station is an efficient but cheerless box similar to the Pittsburgh station. It’s so without distinction I don’t think I’ve bothered to take a photo of its interior.
Somehow I don’t think the newer station will be preserved as a restaurant or anything else.
I’ve been watching most available Doctor Who episodes since “An Unearthly Child” and am on Season 18, the last with Fourth Doctor Tom Baker and Lalla Ward’s Romana. I just found out about these adverts for Prime Computer. They aired only in Australia and were written by Baker, presumably prior to the dissolution of his relationship with Lalla Ward. Interactive indeed.
I thought to check Atlas Obscura to see if there were any oddities of interest nearby. I found out there is a colorful banded rock down the street that’s across from the bed and breakfast. Since every University of Michigan building along the way seems to have benches in front, I was able to get there without difficulty (with several breathers).
Before I did, however, I found a sculpture of interest, also listed in Atlas Obscura — Arriving Home (2007) by Dennis Oppenheim. When I saw it, my first thought was: If I step through it, what will happen to Edith Keeler? (Yes, I know the Guardian of Forever is an irregular shape, but in the moment I wasn’t that literal.)
When I arrived at the rock’s location, I found other rocks. All glacial erratics? They were of different shapes, sizes, and compositions. Unfortunately, I thought, a class that had added to the collection had had the rock’s surface carved with their year. A sign or plaque would have been better. Alas.
I found the banded rock I was seeking. It wasn’t called out as special or unusual — it was one rock among some rocks.1 I wouldn’t have minded taking it and some others home with me, if it were possible to lug boulders onto an Amtrak train.
This Ann Arbor District Library page has a bit more about the collection at 1100 North University, known as “Rock Specimens on the Lawn.” It makes me regret I didn’t become a geologist (or don’t have the mental makeup to have become one).
1 Apologies to Michael L. I know “some rocks” are always in groups of three, but I beg indulgence.
This winter the Illinois Audubon Society held a Zoom series on the black-crowned night heron (BCNH), a species with worldwide distribution that is endangered in Illinois. At one time they nested in the Calumet area, but for the past few years they’ve moved their rookery to the red wolf exhibit at Lincoln Park Zoo.
This isn’t as odd as it may seem. The wolves aren’t a threat to the adults or to chicks/fledglings who stay out of reach. They are a deterrent tot raccoons, skunks, snakes, etc., who otherwise could reach eggs or chicks. It’s the same reason I believe people sometimes find fawns in the grass, shrubs, or flowers by their door. People’s presence and activity keep hungry predator mouths away. The BCNHs also like the mix of deciduous trees.
The zoo closes the red wolf exhibit while the BCNHs are nesting — something to keep in mind if you’re planning a spring/early summer visit to the zoo (maybe call ahead).
When as a participant in several Zoom calls about the BCNHs I received an invitation to “Twilight in the Rookery,” I went for it. I haven’t been to an evening event in years, and now usually by late afternoon I’m in agonizing pain. Admission was expensive, but I’m working and how else would I get to see the rookery? If I were in such bad shape I couldn’t make it, it would just be a donation. And now I can take a cab vs. two buses. Done.
The evening began near the Japanese macaque exhibit. I’m embarrassed to say how long it took me to find the partially hidden building. After introductory speeches, we were divided into groups to spread out over the area.
It was hard for me to stand for 30 to 40 minutes before we moved on (thankfully to an area with a bench — I didn’t care that it was wet).
At first I saw only a few BCNHs. Counts from previous years have been as high as 600. I started to see some flying around — incoming and outgoing. After we had moved to the second area, I saw more and more BCNHs peering at us from the foliage. It was evening and overcast, so a bit dark, but their shapes were clear. The biologists must have a methodology for finding and noting nest locations and counting. I couldn’t do it. I’d lose track.
Toward the end we saw the heron trap they’d mentioned. Should a BCNH be tempted to enter, a human observer brings the door down. The BCNH undergoes measurements, examinations, etc. It may even be fitted with a wee backpack — more on that in a bit.
At this point, I should mention someone had told me earlier about a friend who rescued great blue herons. They’re big and not always cooperative, and one had used its stabby bill to put its rescuer’s eye out. When you see videos on social media with gushing comments about how wild animals appear to be grateful to their rescuers, remember the rescuer with one eye.
On the way back, we stopped to watch two BCNHs fly and vocalize at each other. Our leader recognized them and said they do that often. We also saw a group of up to a dozen headed north.
Back at the half-hidden building, we passed around one of the wee backpacks a few lucky BCNHs are fitted with. They’re lightweight enough not to bother the bird. Somehow, a few have managed to lose theirs, although in some cases not before recording trips north to Wisconsin before their migration south. It’s like driving to Florida by way of Milwaukee or Green Bay. Why?
Heading out, I noticed people had stopped by the lions and thought, “Why not?” His Majesty was snoozing. One of the others rested unperturbed in a position reminiscent of a domestic cat. Another seemed to be resting, but keep a wary eye on me.
There was an extra bonus waiting for me outside the west gate — a huge amount of lilacs in full bloom. That heavenly scent. It was the last of the lilacs for me for 2024, and a happy way to end an informative, enjoyable Twilight in the Rookery.
If you had come to North America from Europe, especially Great Britain, in the 1500 to 1700s, you had to have been overwhelmed by some of the differences between home and here, especially in landscape and species. The British coped by giving some American animals the same or similar names as more familiar ones, even when the animal was clearly different. The European robin lent its name to the American robin. The European hedgehog was transformed into the groundhog (aka woodchuck).
The.2024 emergence of Brood XIII and Brood XIX in Illinois makes me wonder about those who moved here from Europe or even the eastern cities. With only the annual dog day cicada for reference, what would you think when one May day you found numerous holes in the ground, insect-shaped husks clinging to branches everywhere, and red bug eyes staring at you by the thousands, millions, maybe billions? And then you are deafened by their calls until they die off en masse several weeks later? They don’t appear again the next year, or the next, or the year after that — not for another 13 or 17 years. Nothing would have prepared you for them.
I recall the last emergence only vaguely, although I don’t think I saw any cicadas. I may have heard them a couple times, mostly while dining outside. I assumed they occur in western New York, but a U.S. Forest Service map shows they occur in a small area east of my hometown,
This time, however, I was able to see them in a few places — first at Black Partridge Woods, finally at Bremen Grove, with Riverside, Morton Arboretum, and Chicago Botanic Garden in between.
I love them and am going to miss them. If I live that long, I’ll be just shy of 79 when Brood XIII next appears.
When you think about a frail nymph burrowing underground, eating for 17 years, emerging, shedding its exoskeleton, drying out its wings (sometimes imperfectly), finding mates, laying eggs that hatch into nymphs that burrow underground to emerge and repeat the cycle in 17 years — it’s nature at its weirdest. Only through sheer numbers do they survive. As the Field Museum said, “Here for a good time, not for a long time.”
I hope the numbers are on their side in 17 years, with not too many paved over. Broods can go extinct, and I’d hate to see (or not see) that happen in 17 years.
Long live Brood XIII and Brood XIX.
Spotted during a short visit to Black Partridge Woods near Lemont, Illinois. Seen but not heard. Yet. Presumably the famous Brood XIII. I wish I had more and better photos, but I was being swarmed by another insect — mosquitoes.
Brood XIII is on the merge of emerging. Although I don’t expect to see them in my Chicago neighborhood, I’m ready with cicada postcards and a new “Love is in the Air” cicada t-shirt from Christopher Arndt. Then a co-worker alerted me to this video from the Forest Preserve District of DuPage County explaining the life cycle of the 17-year cicada. Enjoy.
The ZIP CodeTM of my childhood.
