More Than Just a Shell

I go down to the edge of the sea.

How everything shines in the morning light!

The cusp of the whelk,

the broken cupboard of the clam,

the opened, blue mussels,

moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred—

and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split,

dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone.

It’s like a schoolhouse

of little words,

thousands of words.

First you figure out what each one means by itself,

the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop

       full of moonlight.

Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.

Breakage by Mary Oliver

Treasures
two shells i found

Snow crunched under the weight of me. My boots left tracks down to the river where I saw a rock that looked like a shell, wait, was that a shell? The only shells I’d ever seen in Minnesota were those tiny snail shells at the shores of lakes or the ones people bring back from vacations to Florida. It was cracked in half—and another as well, and, what?! another and another—four halves. All brown and muddy, hiding under a sheet of ice that rose up over the shore of the river. They were buried in the glowing light under the frozen cover. I flipped them over, and they were pearly white and empty, like they had been preserved in that ice forever and then melted out, like mermaid treasures washed up all the way from the ocean. There was a small, misshapen pearl in one. What luck!

I carefully carried them inside and looked them up, determining that these abandoned shells were, in fact, Freshwater Pearl Mussels. Depending on the species, they were considered either endangered or low risk. Through species identification books I later found their closest match—Villosa villosa—not listed as endangered. But who knew there were so many species of mussels—let alone any that lived in Minnesota? North America is home to more than 300 species—more than any other continent in the world! For some reason this fact escaped my knowledge of nature for twenty years, and yet they’ve always existed in that time. How much do I have yet to discover, and how much does the whole world have yet to discover? So little is known.

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birth of venus by botticelli (uffizi)

Venus came from a shell like this. Prehistoric people used the shells and pearls of mussels to decorate themselves and their graves. But, according to Wendell R. Haag, up until thirty years ago, “we knew virtually nothing about the basic ecology of freshwater mussels. With a few notable exceptions, mussel research… usually involved collecting mussels, getting rid of the ‘meat’ as quickly as possible, and whisking the shells away to museum drawers” (Haag xii). Scientists who studied mussels then considered themselves “conchologists,” or studiers of shells. Mussels were seen more as living rocks, which is understandable (at first glance I thought they were rocks, too). But under the water, mussels live and even sometimes move… Only recently has the true story of these animals begun to be told. This is a whole new field of study.

We need to understand the ecology of freshwater mussels. They are a keystone species, research suggests. They filter the bodies of water that they live in, and cycle nutrients. They provide physical habitats and food for other animals, and might also provide calcium to calcium-poor waters (Haag 43). Up until fifty or so years ago, scientists called freshwater mussels naiads. “In Greek mythology, Naiads were nymphs who inhabited and gave life to fresh waters. A Naiad was intimately connected to a specific body of water, and her existence depended on it; if a stream dried up, its Naiad expired” (3). The name naiad can no longer be used for mussels, however, because the name has already been taken by some other aquatic larvae. Nevertheless, mussels still make a name for themselves. Many places in North America are named after mussels, meaning they must have been very abundant in the past. Think Clam Lake, Pearl Lake, Shell Creek, and others—all place-names in Minnesota and other states as well.

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musselshell river, MT (montana pictures)

Shells, like tree rings, record growth and other life events. It is a wonder that any mussels survive to tell their stories at all, though, for whether or not they live to maturity is dependent upon many factors. Males release sperm which are inhaled by females. The fertilized eggs develop in the female’s gills. Environmental cues trigger the release of larvae, which at that time look like mini mussels, but their shells are kept open until they clamp down on a fish’s gills (Skinner 4). Although freshwater mussels are free living for most of their lives, in nearly all species, larval development “is dependent on a period of a few weeks during which larvae are parasites on fish” (Haag 37). Most don’t find a fish and are swept away. Those who make it live in the gills until they drop off and hopefully find a sandy place to land. This is when they burrow, and live for anywhere from 5 to 50 years, depending on the species. Some legends say that they can live for over a hundred years.

Aristotle thought mussels “arose spontaneously from mud or sand.” Wendell R. Haag notes that “this would be remarkable indeed, but as always, the truth is even more interesting” (Haag 37). Even though “mussels live most of their lives burrowed at the bottom of a stream or lake,” some species are more sedentary than others (31). While mussels aren’t really able to swim up, they do sometimes move horizontally using their “foot.” Only a small percentage of mussels across many individuals and species move enough to be noticed, but those few are the adventurers, much like some humans are adventurers. Some may move because the water is too shallow, but still very little is known about mussel movement. Many parts of mussel’s lives are still a mystery to the scientific world.

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the secret lives of mussels (sue scott via skinner)

Though we’re only just getting to know these animals, like many animals right now, in our time of the sixth great extinction, many species of these intriguing creatures are quickly disappearing in many areas. It’s not the first time, however, that mussels have been threatened by human action. “Despite the great importance attached to freshwater pearls by Native Americans and early European explorers, large-scale pearl harvest in historical times began relatively late but abruptly” (Haag 295). In 1857, a pearl was found by a carpenter in New Jersey and was bought by Tiffany and Co., where it was ultimately sold to the Empress Eugenie of France. This sparked the “first great pearl excitement.” Everyone wanted in on this new pearl craze. Pearls were also later turned into buttons, an industry that further destroyed mussel populations. Because of buttons, “many [mussel] beds were considered commercially exhausted by 1899” (306). Though the button industry didn’t do as well during the Great Depression and through the dawn of plastic buttons, shells continued to be harvested (309). One good thing that came out of this, however, was the beginning of a realization that humans have a direct impact on mussel populations, and are likewise responsible for saving them.

The next pearl rush was in the nineties, though this time the fad was rounded pearls instead of buttons. On top of over-harvesting, zebra mussels were introduced in 1988, which almost completely killed all native freshwater mussels in the Great Lakes. Populations are only just now recovering again from that time (Haag 314). Mussels used to literally pave the bottoms of North American rivers. Hunting/harvesting, chemical spills, pesticide use, and other forms of habitat destruction have wiped out populations in the last 100 years. Also, “more than 75,000 dams in the United States severely disrupt the continuity of the river landscape and affect to some extent every major watershed in the country” (331). Dams have directly made extinct at least 12 mussel species, who are directly impacted by water flow (332). Even when dams stopped being built so often in the 1980’s, mussel numbers still declined due to isolation and fragmentation. In the last 100 years, we’ve lost 30-40 species forever.

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a qualitative sketch of mussel populations according to haag’s research and outlook (this could be completely off)

After all of these losses, the mussel population in the Mississippi River is still currently estimated to be greater than the whole human population of the United States. Even with these numbers, though, we could still lose half of all North American freshwater mussels in the next 100 years. If fragmented species that now exist go extinct, larger numbers of species could disappear as well. (Haag 391). Human help is needed now. Conservation of mussels for use has been happening since the early 1900’s, and since the Endangered Species Act in 1973, they have begun to be protected for their own sakes. Habitat restoration is one way to recover mussel populations (396). The future could look rather bright, thanks to the Clean Water Act and other legislation, though now that order may be reversed again. “Trump said he is ‘paving the way for the elimination’ of the rule” (NPR). Public awareness and efforts to help clean drinking water help the mussels as well as humans. We, as living things on this earth need to work together and help each other. Stories matter now more than ever. The scientific truth needs to be told. More is learned every day in the field of mussel ecology and in countless branches of science everywhere. Here’s to making sure freshwater pearl mussels once again become part of our cultural landscape, because if we care for our environment and have clean water, mussels will live on. And if we care for our environment and have clean water, we, too, will have life.

thanks to:

Haag, Wendell R. North American freshwater mussels: natural history, ecology, and conservation. Cambridge: Cambridge U Press, 2012. Print.

Kennedy, Merrit, and Susan Phillips. “Trump Aims To ‘Eliminate’ Clean Water Rule.” NPR. NPR, 28 Feb. 2017. Web. 10 Apr. 2017.

Skinner A, Young M, & Hastie L (2003). Ecology of the Freshwater Pearl Mussel. Conserving Natura 2000 Rivers Ecology Series No. 2 English Nature, Peterborough.

http://www.uffizi.org/artworks/the-birth-of-venus-by-sandro-botticelli

http://www.montanapictures.net/two_dot_montana_landmarks.htm

Neverland

There’s a scene in Toy Story 2 where this girl lets her toys get sad under her bed while she grows up. As time went on, she slowly forgot about her childhood. When I saw that scene, I swore that would never be me. But what if that is me? Here I am, twenty years old. Whether I like it or not, I spend more time now in my college dorm room than I do in my childhood room. We all have to grow up, after all.

I’ve been obsessed with Neverland ever since I was five years old and first watched Peter Pan on VHS. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was a place where we never had to change or think about growing up? My bedroom was always that place for me, my Neverland. This is where I have the most stories, the most history. This is one of the few places I’ll be sad to leave when I move away one day.

Maybe the history of my family’s house wouldn’t be considered historically significant to historians or anything, but to me it was always a mystery worth uncovering. All I ever discovered, however, is that some people owned it before my parents did, and it was built in 1965. I don’t know who the previous owners were, so I made up little stories about them in my head. I was always convinced that they created a small secret room in one of the walls that didn’t add up, even after I discovered that it was just a space for the furnace.

I do know that my parents put a lot into remodeling our house, however. Right up to the day before I was born the construction people were still making finishing touches. My parents didn’t intend for us to still be living here, in their starter house. They also had different plans for its construction than what was actually constructed in the end. They told us it was supposed to have a second story and a deck out back. I could image how that would look, but it didn’t look like our house. This single-story deck-less place was our home.

I recently rewatched old home videos. There was the construction on film and then me and then my sister and then my brother. I want to know all of my parents’ stories of their childhoods and our childhoods. I’ve heard them so many times, but I’m afraid of forgetting. Pictures aren’t enough sometimes.

In my basement bedroom before it was remodeled there were parties there, when people who are in their fifties now were in their twenties. They drank and talked and laughed about life before I had life. There were people here before I existed. Maybe it’s the ghosts of those memories that I hear now in the cracking of the vents above me.

My bedroom didn’t even exist, in its remodeled state, until I was eight. My sister was four then, and even though she had had a room made for her, too, we shared mine to keep each other company. I chose to paint it light aquamarine, a color I’ve never stopped loving. There are memories there, in the walls. Secrets held there, like those splatters of the great black nail polish explosion of 2011, covered now with paper butterflies. Pictures, too, that I’ve drawn or printed out are on display, covering white patches from old sticky tack that took the paint with it or furniture that left deep scars. Tears cried in the carpet, though those didn’t leave stains.

When I’m in my room there’s almost always music playing. Even though I’m an introvert, I’ve never been a fan of total silence. It’s unfortunate, though, that my CD collection is only representative of my twelve-year-old music taste, which was before I discovered the good stuff. During that early teen transitional phase I made a lot of mix tapes from songs I recorded off the radio. Once in a while I’ll listen to them again, and the music takes me back.

Sometimes I’ll smell supper wafting down through the vent, along with the cold basement air. The best time of day with my west-facing window is late afternoon, when the light shines in at just the right angle. I have a nice view of the woods and the river and golden sunsets through that glass. Stars, too, and the moon at night. For when it’s cloudy, there’s a glow-in-the-dark sky on my ceiling.

I never considered myself a homebody, and I still don’t, but I used to want to get as far away as possible. When I was thirteen I researched apartments in Los Angeles. I wanted to run away from home. Felt trapped in a fish bowl, I remember writing. But it wasn’t our house, it was our small town and all of the people in it. I’m always craving change.

My room has gone through many changes, too, remodels of its own, on the walls. All of my different phases brought new decorations. It was tropical themed at one point, with palm tree pictures from calendar pages and flower leis hanging from the ceiling. Then models from Vogue and celebrities covered the walls. Then all celebrities were gone, replaced with stars and butterflies. Now I have a mixture of everything, really, as I am I mixture of all of my previous selves and phases. Constantly growing and adding, like Virginia Woolf said in Orlando, “these selves of which we are built up, one on top of the other, as plates are piled on a waiter’s hand, have attachments elsewhere, sympathies, little constitutions and rights of their own.” The bookshelf that I made in high school wood shop class isn’t big enough to hold all of the books I’ve found at book sales, and so my collection overflows into my closet.

Soft afternoon light shines in and hits that blue sequin purse that holds all of the flash drives with all of my memories, the first thing I would grab in a disaster. When there was a storm one night I was worried that a tornado might blow our house over. But my dad said if that happened, we would just build a new one. I understand now that this room will one day not be mine anymore. But no matter where life may take me, this is home. This is my place.

 

Hello Again

so here i am, sitting here listening to johnny bond, writing a post to procrastinate writing another post. next week (let’s hope) i’ll post a little piece i’m writing for my environmental writing class about a place. (ah the ambiguity…)

this summer i caught pokémon and drove to cañon city, colorado with my family:

then came school again. i think it’s safe to say that first semester kinda sucked. autumn brought horror after horror for too many reasons to count: in my own life, the lives of those closest to me, the lives of millions of americans, and really just too many lives to count around the world.

but here i am, already in the heart of second semester sophomore year. changing a bit yet again from what i’ve previously said, i’m now majoring in environmental science with a minor in art. my dream has now shifted to look like hopping from national park to national park, and then working on an organic farm while developing my art career. this would include some sort of writings of mine being published, and building up an illustration/animation portfolio.

anyway, i think i’ve listened to “goodbye old paint” too many times tonight, so i’ll end this post for now. ***

May Thoughts

What am I going to do with my life? So many people my age are freaking out about this question, and believe me, so am I. But does all of the stress really pay off in the end? “Most people don’t end up doing what they went to college for,” and “it’s the journey that matters” are the things the old people say. Those phrases may do little to calm the nerves of my generation, but those phrases are truthful.

And I might not be the biggest fan of Bethel University quite yet, and this school year may not have been a very great one, but that’s life. I’ve learned a lot about myself this year. For instance, I’m beginning to stick up for myself, and I’m starting to not care so much about what other people think of me. I still have a long way to go, but every day I’m getting stronger, and that’s pretty awesome.

I’ve also had a few major changes since senior year, which is typical of me. I’ve been changing my mind on my dream career almost every couple of months since I was in kindergarten. For the last half of high school, I thought I wanted to be an elementary school teacher. When summer rolled around, I decided I would do graphic design, cause who wouldn’t want a job in art? But in winter I changed my mind again…

Now I’m going to pursue a double major in biology and environmental science, and hopefully “save the earth.” When I informed my academic advisor of my plans, he chuckled. And I almost laughed with him (it is a cliché goal), but he quickly informed me that he just has a nervous laugh that has gotten him in trouble quite a bit in the past. So it looks like I’ll be keeping my dream of saving the world.

Maybe I’ll save endangered species or start up an organic farm or provide people with clean drinking water or find the cure for cancer in some marine plant. Maybe this is just a good day, but I’m feeling pretty optimistic. May is the greatest month, and summer is coming. The trees are blooming green and white and pink and the days are growing warm…

Alone

what if all the people who ate dinner alone ate together?

this is for everyone that doesn’t have a person.

for those who are eating alone again tonight,

you’re trying to look happy and busy there,

with only your thoughts for company.

you want real conversation,

but no one reaches out to you,

and fear keeps you from reaching out to others.

so you feel as if you’re stuck in this constant cycle of loneliness,

but i understand how you feel, i truly do.

because you are me.

and what if i sat next to you?

would we talk of music and politics and philosophy,

our hopes and our fears?

because we all have opinions and stories,

and we all have that need for human connection.

what if all the people who ate dinner alone ate together?

 

A Change of Name

These days at Bethel University, almost every girl seems to have a blog. It’s, like, the “cool” thing to do now or something. So in order to keep from looking like a poser, I’ve decided to keep my old blog posts, partly as proof that I was already bloggin’ three years ago, and also because I’m still on this same journey of self-discovery.

A new era of life calls for a change of name, though. I’m no longer preparing for my future, I’m living it. The person I was a few years ago is still the same person I am today, but now there a few more stories to tell (some of which may forever remain unpublished.) But more on that later. For now, just know that I’m a poet and I’m a wildflower and I’m writing again.

Peace,

Rochelle