Globe Corner Blogs

Trees: A Visual Guide --by Tony Rodd and Jennifer Stachouse

Trees can tell us a whole lot of things. They can tell you direction if you are lost. Some can provide water for you. They make the air you breathe, which is pretty cool. They also can tell us which way the prevailing wind in a specific area blows. Oh yeah, and they look amazing. Trees, A Visual Guide by Tony Rodd and Jennifer Stachouse has come in to the store and the book is awesome. It has gorgeous pictures of all different types of trees from all over the world. It gives you all the information you need to have a general understanding of tree usage in our world and tree usage in the animal world. This book also lets you know how tall they are, where they grow, the types of flowers or fruits they produce, and much, much more. Anyway, I think it is an awesome book that tells you about some of the tallest and oldest living things on earth. Even if you don’t want the information, the pictures alone are worth it and are spectacular.

Lonely Planet Walking in Scotland

Fun fact: Alba is the Gaelic name for Scotland.

Sinking knee deep in mud once is an accident; sinking knee deep three times on the same trail is just ridiculous. It happened so swiftly and suddenly - the sinking, I mean – that I imagine the mud having similar properties to quicksand. This is not a useful thought to have when you’re alone in a remote glen in Scotland tuck up to your knees in mud, but it came to me nonetheless. Thankfully, there were some blades of grass for me to hold onto while I freed my legs from the sludge. Heavy rains from the previous evening, and continued drizzle throughout the day, made hiking on the Isle of Arran a sloppy affair. However, after a short time in Scotland, you learn not to wait for a sunny day if you want to get outside; you just pull on your waterproof gear and wellies and dive in! Care must be taken and then a day’s hike in these conditions – whether you summit a ridge or reach a lovely waterfall – makes one feel triumphant. And what better way to enjoy a dram of whisky or refreshing cup of tea with milk than to earn it! Continue Reading »

Unidentified Flowering Tree--photo by Llalan

After over three months of riding home on sweltering subways tucked under a stranger’s sweaty armpit, elbowing my way over simmering sidewalks between armies of tourists in mirrored sunglasses, and sticking to La Brea-like tar while waiting for egregiously late buses,  I needed a break. Hailing from the corn fields of the Midwest, I wither away under the glare of glass skyscrapers and blinking neon.  Without a car, the choices seemed limited. I could go to Boston Common and pretend not to notice the necking teenagers and muttering homeless. I could wedge myself between sunbathers on the Charles River bank and laugh at the runners. Or I could sit in the mini front garden of a Beacon Hill home when I thought no one would be home.

Fortunately I found there was a better way to get my seasonal dose of Vitamin Green: Boston’s Arnold Arboretum. At the end of the Orange subway line lays 14 acres of dignified oaks, poky spruces, ancient bonsai, wispy silk trees, and everything else in between that I couldn’t identify. The paved paths that wind through the Arboretum are not only a great place to identify plants, but also an ideal people- and dog-watching spot (by which I mean rambunctious children with training wheels and puppies who can’t believe so many trees exist in the world). Continue Reading »

The Bedside Book of Birds by Graeme Gibson

I woke up at 5:30 this morning. It was unintentional and unusual for me as I am, above all else, not a morning person. It had been a long time since I had been awake then, and I had forgotten how much I actually loved that time of day. The birds have just woken up and are chattering amongst themselves. At this hour, there are yet no horns honking, no jackhammers pounding through the sidewalk — just the birds. True, when I part the curtain to feel the still-cool air and listen more carefully, I don’t hear as many birds as I did growing up in the rural Midwest. But I can still hear the robin going through that loop of complicated chirps that never seems quite the same twice. I sometimes catch the song of a cardinal flying by, bobbing along with “bird-ee, bird-ee, bird-ee.” I do miss hearing the wrens, though. Every spring back home, the male wrens would start early, preparing their nests in the bird houses, working hard to impress the ladies. When they were ready they sat on the peaks of the houses, puffed out their feathers and called out to the females. The looked like little tenors on stage at the opera: chests full, heads tilted to the sky, wings fluttering earnestly against their sides as they hit the high note. I was impressed, at least. They usually had two broods a season, so the males’ call trilled above the cicadas throughout the summer.