Gregarious – that’s the House Finch! On powerline or feeder, a sociable bunch. Conical bills for cracking seeds, streaky breasts, and in the males, a certain rosy glow of head and breast. Their conversation – a “long jumbled warble.” Whatever they’re saying, they do go on about it.
Then you have your Eastern Phoebe. Gray above, white below, dark head on the blocky side. But not a blockhead. No, she’s a bird of intelligence and distinction. Of course I would say that. You may suddenly see one poised in the bare crape myrtle. Occasional quick S-shape with her dark tail. She waits, she watches, she pounces. They don’t call her “tyrant flycatcher” for nothing.
How glad I am my nature draws me to them. However long the “long winter long,” these little companions bring a smile.
Well, the plumber just left. We didn’t know we needed a plumber until our neighbor appeared at our front door this afternoon to say water was gushing out the side of our house and rushing down his driveway into the street. And here we thought we had escaped any damage from the deep freeze. Ha. The break had happened in some copper pipes we plugged long ago – they were part of a no-longer needed system to run the whats-it to the thingamajig, and that’s all I can tell you about that, except they still had water in them, and they froze. All is well again. We hope. Another hard freeze tonight…
This morning (before we knew about the pipe break) I was looking out at the lumpy ice crusted on the side of our blue disappearing fountain jar. The sun was shining, the ice was dripping and dropping, and I wanted to go out there and detach some and throw it on the pavement, just for sheer fun. But it was 24 degrees. I waited another little while then could resist no longer. By the time I bundled up and went out to be a little kid again, the whole ice mass had detached and shattered, by itself. No fair.
I had to call AppleCare last week about a problem with a USB SuperDrive which turned out not to be the SuperDrive’s fault but a yoga DVD the SuperDrive was trying to play. There’s more to the yoga DVD thing, an emerging mystery about the DVDs made by that particular company, but I’m tired of thinking about it. Anyway, I called AppleCare and they put me on hold. A recording came on to say they would play some music for me while I waited. They gave me choices: For modern popular, press 1. For classical, press 2. For jazz, press 3. For silence, press 4. That, I did not expect. Silence being a precious commodity these days, I pressed 4. It was a long, long silence but I have to say I enjoyed it thoroughly.
Yesterday we rang in 2024 and celebrated a certain six-year-old with a family feast. No, it wasn’t pinecones:
Last night saw a great washing-up. What fun it is to set a pretty table and do some serious cooking – now and then!
Having placed the last silver spoon in its drawer and the last champagne flute in its cabinet this morning, I experienced a second wind which sent me to the kitchen windows and window sill for a much-needed cleaning and rearranging.
Last but not least I made a garden for the kitchen island.
With gratitude for still being able to clamber up to clean that window, and for untold blessings besides, I turn now to more “serious” pursuits. Or are they? They say the art of life is to blur the line between work and play. Do you agree?
Grandson Shep is almost four. They say he can read. (I’m pretty sure he’s been secretly reading for a good while.) Evidently he follows my blog and he liked the post about Honey’s early morning “eyes on the sky.” Here he is the next morning:
As to the second encounter:
I think our resident skink must also follow my blog. The day after I reported its sustained refusal to leave our house, it came out from under the ottoman, stood uncharacteristically still as I trudged to the back door and opened it one more time. I could see its logic at work: “I’m still afraid of her. But she claims to be offering me freedom. This time I’ll take her up on it.” It crept out the door and I saw it no more. In the words of a Depression-era song, that skink is “solid gone.” Or, as Elvis Presley sang it, “You’re right. I’m left. She’s gone.”
Speaking of reptiles – that’s what a skink is, right? – I saw a news item about three crocodiles in India who observed a young dog plunging into their river to get away from a pack of feral dogs who meant him harm. If you think the crocs grinned and gaped and gobbled this free lunch, you’d be wrong. They circled the dog and escorted it to a safe way out of the river. The reporter concluded, “Reptiles have been underestimated as far as animal cognition is concerned.”
“Morning by morning new mercies I see.” Each day at roughly 6 a.m. I step out the front door, looking for new mercies. If there be clouds, good, because in this profound drought, any hint of rain is welcome. If it be clear, that’s good too, because I love the predawn planets and stars. At this moment in time, Venus in the east, constellation Orion overhead, and Jupiter west of overhead. Bright calm in dark sky, hint of light in the east—a promising way to start the day. And so it was this morning. But wait. Movement! In the space of two minutes, two planes traverse, with lights blinking. People up early, going places. And what is this?? From the west comes a light, fully bright as Jupiter but not as bright as Venus. Like the planes, moving at steady speed. Unlike the planes, unblinking. I watched it move east, suspecting what it was. Back inside I “asked the weather guys” and here’s what they said:
The International Space Station (ISS) can be very bright. It orbits Earth at an altitude of about 215 miles traveling at a speed of 17,200 mph. It is a large object with large, highly reflective solar panels making it the brightest of human objects orbiting Earth. It can be as bright as Venus.
UW-Madison department of atmospheric and oceanic sciences
So. Planets and planes. Starlight and solar panels. That’s what I saw this morning.
A closer encounter: Plestiodon fasciatus. Common five-lined skink. This small individual has been in our house a few days. (Or, unhappy thought, does it come and go? If so, how?) On seeing it inside I’ve left the door open, encouraging it to leave. But it won’t. Not while I’m watching, anyway. Yesterday it emerged from under the ottoman on which my feet rested as I sat reading. Emerged, climbed the side, raised its sleek head above the faded cording around the upper edge. From there it regarded me. Leaning forward, I eyed it right back. I said, “You sure are pretty. You have nice eyes. And, I know you know you’re too fast for me to catch. And, you can snap off your tail and keep going if I try. Or so I’ve read.”
This week I came across a writing of mine from 2006, one of a series of weekly articles for our church newsletter. A sweet memory and good counsel, from my long-ago self:
Cardinal Consolation
Well, Sandy made it sixteen years. She would be the last to want a sappy send-off. Not cat-like. So we held her Holy Saturday funeral in silence. Her younger brother the dog lay down by her grave and moaned, but other than that, no words were spoken.
She had fallen silent herself the day before—she chose Good Friday to stop her awful railing against blindness, to stop walking in pitiful frustrated circles.
As the day unfolded, she stopped all extraneous movement and sound altogether. The bottom line for her was to settle against my heart, purring, and wait. Enough for her to be in my arms, to know that Austin, Robert, and Rusty the dog were close by, keeping watch.
And so Easter weekend was especially poignant this year. I confess I am taking the death of this faithful little feline very hard. But I make no excuses. She was dear, and sixteen years of friendship is a long time.
This morning as I dressed to go to Bible study, I heard something outside, a voice close to Sandy’s resting place. It was a male northern cardinal, singing his heart out, no doubt to attract a lovely lady of his species. But I took it as a note of encouragement, a suggestion to give thanks, remember, and let Sandy go.
The message? “What? Cheer! What? Cheer! What? Cheer!” There are friends gathering, a Bible lesson to be taught. So one had best take heart, and get on with it.
So it goes, in the life of a family, the life of a community, the life of a church. There will continue to be long stretches of “ordinary time,” punctuated by surging joy, and body-blows of pain. Through it all, we keep loving, trusting, and praying, often with sighs too deep for words. We keep claiming the anguish of Good Friday, the hush of Holy Saturday, the glory and power and promise of Easter.
My niece and I share our first name with a dear little bird called phoebe. So when planning a birthday supper for Phoebe it seemed fitting to make a centerpiece featuring birds. What a delight, playing with my treasures! See-through bird tower. Upended candleholder birdbaths. Clay pots—one squirrel-perch, one cave for a jeweled frog. Trees to frame the scene. Each time I passed the table I tweaked the tableau. I suppose there was some grocery shopping and cooking; there had to have been, right? But the heart of my planning was that centerpiece.
Came the night of the supper and two interesting things happened. First, niece Phoebe did a resurrection. She was examining the Walgreens cardinal, whose battery’s been dead for years. Suddenly the cardinal came to life, happily singing, twitching its head for emphasis. “CheerCheerCheer. PrettyPrettyPretty!” Thus encouraged, Phoebe and others laid hands on the blue jay. No luck there. Silent he remains, screws to his battery door frozen shut. But still he charms my heart, as he did that rainy day in Walgreens when first he spotted me with his electric eye and I heard him shriek, “JayJayJay! Beedleeyoop!Beedleeyoop!” With emphatic jerks of that noble plastic head.
Next interesting thing: after all were seated for dinner, my eye went to the centerpiece. It had been transfigured. Trees crowded the tower. Creatures all in different places. More creatures from around the house, including an AstroTurf rabbit and a stuffed mountain goat. Quoth the responsible party, five-year-old Amelia, “Look, Honey. It’s a forest!” Soon other hands, adult hands, crept toward the centerpiece, making other changes. “And a little child shall lead them.”
“As with ripest repast my being is sated, and with lips of glad song my mouth declares praise.” Psalm 63:5
As April 4th dawns, a voice gradually works its way into my sleepy brain: Catbird! There he is on the power line above the crape myrtle, burbling away, improv punctuated by the occasional “meow.” I hate to tell him but the kitten next door he may remember from last fall is now a cat, and she visits our yard just about every day, and she spends a lot of time looking up into trees. Yesterday I caught her climbing the crape myrtle and with sinking heart I ran out and ordered her to come down. Amazed at my request, she climbed higher. Well, it’s a universe of hazard, heartbreak, and change. But we hear the good news of spring and we “hallelujah anyway.” Stay alert, little catbird, and keep singing.
Everlasting Arms 