A little glimpse of warmer days

These three were clucking around at my sisters' house one day last summer. The sun was warm, the sound of their chatter was soothing, and I snapped a photo in hopes of preserving the moment.

Not quite the same as being there in person, but still powerful enough to evoke a vague essence of balmier days...

It's for sale in my Etsy shop. Now I'm off to start the next one! Carpe diem, right?

Busy, busy

The days fly by during this time of year. There are too many places to be, school- and sport-related tasks for my little dude, garden items to harvest and preserve, a filthy home that begs for attention, a misbehaving cat who may or may not have an intestinal disorder, and the quiet but insistent footfalls of autumn as it nears...

I finished a couple of paintings recently—one a commission of a neighbor's pet kitty, and the other just for me because I liked it (a nuthatch, in case you're not familiar with that type of bird). I made salsa, twice. And froze some tomato sauce. Next on the list? Peeling apples for apple butter, in between layers of paint on an old wooden chest that needs a facelift.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll force myself to get registered on LinkedIn in an attempt to drum up some freelance proofreading. I so prefer the painting and preserving; if only those pastimes paid better. Sigh.

Duck, duck... and that's all

You won't find a goose here. I figure they've pretty much taken over every small lake or pond within 50 miles, so if I choose to exclude them from my painting, the population will not be adversely affected whatsoever.

We saw these little ducks at my sister's a few weeks ago. Her family has chickens, ponies, cats, a dog, and the space to accommodate them. The ducklings were adorable, if loose-boweled (I know, I know, too much information) and the chicks had just progressed beyond that ball o' fluff stage, or so I was told. The down-covered darlings were all milling on the kitchen floor, and then in a giant plastic tote that was tall enough to contain them. I took photos like crazy, but those little birds just would not be still. Additionally, the big tote was bright blue and made a terrible background. So, after the fact, I pulled out my artist's license and proceeded to place the ducklings in a more appropriate setting.

If only real life were as easy to alter as art and digital images are. I suppose our memories can do that for us... and often do.

Anyway, the painting will be available in my Etsy shop later today.

Crusade against the cowbird

There seem to be limitless examples of how nature takes advantage of changing environments in order to exploit smaller, weaker, more easy-going members of its society. I'm sad to tell you that it also happens in the bird world.

Meet the cowbird—a species I was happily unaware of until a few years ago, when we set up the feeders here in our yard and began to enjoy the beauties of our winged neighbors. This plain, sour-looking fellow showed up, and my son and I were curious enough to find his picture and read about him. We did not like what we read: this bird is a parasite.

Used to be, cowbirds hung out with the buffalo and followed them around, taking advantage of the insect explosion stirred up by the wandering herd. Since the big beasts moved around a lot, so did the cowbirds; in fact, they never stayed in one place long enough to build nests. So what did they do? Why, they used other birds' nests as their own little incubation system. And they still do it.

(If you don't believe me, you can read about it here or here. Appalling, isn't it?)

You can see why we aren't big cowbird fans; we know what they're up to, laying their big, nasty eggs in the nests of smaller, unsuspecting birds, to the detriment and even death of the host birds' own young. And when those cowbirds show up at our bird feeder, we scare them away. We clap at them, shout at them, even open the door and run at them until they flee in fear, their annoyingly high-pitched call echoing behind them as they vacate the premises.

But honestly, how much good does it do? They keep showing up. They've found a way to use and abuse the good, upstanding members of Birdville, and they're going to keep at it until somebody is defeated or disappears. Worst of all, the cowbirds aren't going anywhere because the constant destruction of forest and opening up of more woodland edges actually exacerbate the problem; that's just the sort of surroundings to which they flock.

We'll keep on fighting the good fight. And yet... it's feeling like a lost cause, because even as I type, Mama Cowbird is out there laying roughly an egg a day, invading as many happy homes as possible, dooming the rightful members of the family.

The worst part is that our own society is looking a lot like nature these days. Sigh.

Ancestry—avian, and otherwise

I was outside earlier today, enjoying the late morning sunshine and comfortable temperatures. I took some paperwork onto the patio, to try to lighten the load of record-keeping by surrounding myself with nature.

It worked. The load was quite manageable and even rather pleasant. Of course, I was not as productive as I likely would have been in the darkness of the dining room. I became rather distracted by the many birds who flew in and out of my midst to dine at the feeders I'd filled yesterday.

The chickadees are definitely the most bold. They swoop in without apology, lighting nearby and chirping insistently. A titmouse showed up, more timid, and didn't stay long. A few sparrows stopped by, some munching right there, others taking a seed in their beak and fluttering back to some safer locale. Lately, we've even been graced by a big, pileated woodpecker. Nuthatches visit the suet feeder, and the funny mourning doves with bobbing heads trip around beneath the feeders, feasting on what would have been wasted.

I clearly recall my youthful days at home, when my mom would address the birds. "Hello, Birds," she'd say. Sometimes she spoke to the sky on a particularly beautiful day, or her many flowers, and I think I may have heard her recognize the big maples in the backyard. I can't tell you how many times I giggled at her when she did this, gently poking fun at her fascination with nature and all its winged beauties. I was oh-so-worldly, you see, and much too cool to participate in such silliness. I would never speak to birds and plants.

And now, sitting out back of my own home, some 30-plus years later, I see how you always come back to your heritage. You can deny it, you can run from it, you can try to train it right out of yourself, but it's there. It's in you. Maybe it's in your face, when you look into the mirror and one of your parents stares back at you, or an aunt or uncle. You might hear it in your voice, when you pronounce a certain word, or speak a turn of phrase you swore you'd never repeat, such as, "I'll give you something to cry about." (That was my uncle's phrase. It still makes me chuckle.) Perhaps you'll recognize the way your thighs look in jeans, or the bump on your foot just under the big toe (that's from my grandma, Ma-Ma).

All those people who made you, are in you. They shaped you, and eventually, they will emerge from you in all sorts of ways.

It'll happen. It's happening to me. Now, I speak to the birds. The wonderful thing, though, is that now I understand the other side of the quotient: my mother was only holding up her end of the conversation.

Thanks, Mom.

Springtime in Mel-ville

It's been a long stretch of sick days here in our house. First the kid, then me, then husband complained of scratchiness in the throat. The others shed the bug a bit earlier than I did; in my relentless stint, a completely unrelated infection cropped up, the meds that were required were strong enough to turn my stomach (and did), and finally my chest cold flirted with the idea of becoming bronchitis or pneumonia or some other debilitating thing. Today, for the first time, I feel human. Hot showers, Vicks Vaporub, and much prayer have helped me crawl out of the abyss that is an unwell February.

As I ran errands (yes, actually ran instead of dragging my exhausted, hacking self from place to place), I began to think about how emerging from a stretch of poor health is sort of like coming into your very own springtime. Suddenly, there is life where once there was nothing. There is energy, light, hope and promise. Just as stepping into a sunny spot on a breezy day can remind you that there really is such a thing as being too warm, waking up and feeling decent can remind you of your own potential, your own plans and dreams. It's hard to dream about anything happy when you feel sick. It's hard to even focus, to deal with everyday chores and necessary tasks. I've found it quite challenging of late simply to climb out of a sleepless, uncomfortable night and face the day.

I am very, very thankful to feel more like myself again. Not 100%, but tremendously improved from a week ago. I feel a little bit reborn. I can think clearly. I can look forward to things. I can stop my ceaseless petition to God for healing, and start to feel genuinely grateful again.

And speaking of spring, I've posted a couple of spring bird note cards at the Etsy shop. If you're looking for a good gift idea, especially for someone who loves birds, these will earn you some points for sure!

Wishing you good health, an early spring, and bright hope for tomorrow.

I'm a fool

A painting fool, that is. It's my only escape from winter! Doesn't this little feathered pal make you think of spring?

It's in the Etsy shop; I plan to make blank note cards out of it, also—maybe early next week, after the Steelers victory.

Soak up the sun while you can, and look for beauty in the little things around you today. See what you can find to help calm and soothe you when the air is nippy and your mood is chippy!

P.S. "That boy sure is a runnin' fool!" Can you name that movie?!

What I've been up to

The cardinal sat, half-finished, on my easel for months, probably since mid-March. Now, at last, he is free to fly.

And the other came together rather quickly, from real life; the tomatoes and little jack came from our garden.

Fun, fun!

I'm thinking more and more about starting a little shop on Etsy and selling prints and/or notecards featuring some of my favorite paintings. I'll keep you posted.

Hope you're having a lovely autumn.

Weird, wild suburban visitor

It was late morning, and the boy and I were out front. I was pulling weeds (my least favorite yet most common outdoor activity), and the kiddo was drawing race tracks and driveways on the sidewalk with his chunky chalk. It was quiet, which is rather unusual since my son is a bit of a chatty guy, and we were both focused on our work in the chilly sunshine.

I saw something from the corner of my eye, and glanced up at Marcus—only to catch my breath. Directly behind my little boy, not more than four feet away, a behemoth wild tom turkey was strolling along. Marcus, who was completely oblivious, looked up and saw me staring with intent interest at him; before he could ask me why, I instructed him quietly, “Turn around and look behind you, slowly.” He did as he was told, without a word, and the giant bird was so close to him that a single step forward would have allowed him to reach out and touch its shimmery-dull brown feathers.

His head swiveled back around, still slowly (good listening!), and the expression on his sweet face was absolutely priceless. He didn’t burst into tears, or holler, or say a word, but his eyes were huge and I could tell he was pretty uncomfortable with the proximity of that ridiculous creature as it strutted past, waddle bobbing with each step. “It’s a wild turkey, honey—isn’t it big?” I said softly. He nodded, and turned to look at it once again.

The tom had continued on his way, and was stepping out onto the road to cross it. He never looked at us, never wavered from his path in any way, simply trod across the street and up into the neighbor’s back yard, out of sight. It was rather surreal. I thought about creeping over to the neighbor’s to try taking a photograph, but even if I were successful (highly unlikely, considering my history), it seemed anticlimactic somehow; I’d missed capturing the best picture of all, that being the enormous creature right behind—and standing nearly as tall as—my astonished son.

And just a few hours later that same day? Our first hummingbird of the year showed up at the feeder. I pointed him out to Marcus, and we watched the tiny miracle zipping away toward the tallest tree. I said to him, “Can you believe that little hummer and that huge turkey are both birds? How can that be?”

His answer was simple, yet profound in its honesty: “I do not know.”

Neither do I, my boy. Neither do I. But I do know that the more I see, the more certain I am that none of it is accidental. What an amazing Creator is obvious in everything around us.

Go out and be awed today. (You can be odd, too, if you’d like. I highly recommend both.)

Bird on a wiry branch

A long time ago (or so it seems), I began this painting. It was late winter, the trees were still bare and gray, and birds of all feathers were sitting in trees, huddled against the cold. Then, life happened: Todd got laid off, we tripped over each other while we searched for jobs from the same computer, spring came, Todd found another job, we began planning for and attending end-of-year activities at preschool and church. And all the while, this half-finished little lady mocked me from the easel in the bedroom. Fuzzy, incomplete, without a branch to stand on, she caught my eye while I made the bed, or gathered laundry, or tried to find an outfit that still fit without squeezing my middle...

And then, on Tuesday, I was blessed with an hour to myself, and daylight streaming in the windows—the very same diffused daylight in which I had begun painting all those weeks—nay, months—ago. I grabbed brushes and palette and scrambled to free the poor cardinal.

Here she is at last.

Yet now, she feels so out of season. I don't think I can bear to hang this one right now, not with green finally winning the tree color contest. The poor little gal looks so chilly, puffed up against a cold breeze; I can't imagine putting here anywhere near all my yellow flowers and fruits. I think she will take a back seat until autumn. Meantime, in the dog days of summer, I'll plan to get to that barn-in-a-snowfall painting I've been keeping on hold for years now. A snowy barn and a puffy cardinal, both splashed with red and sharing the same gray background, should make a lovely cold-weather pair.

'Til then, bring on the brights, the sunnies, the fiery colors of this happy season we're entering.

"Stubbirds" (our backyard territorial warriors)

I’ve been fighting a battle. My opponents are steadfast and determined. They are beyond stubborn—the nickname I’ve assigned them does not do them justice. Their exact genus and species are insignificant. They are nondescript birds, drab little sparrows or finches or something or other, and they want to make a home in the eave of our back patio roof.

So far, we’ve been equally determined to fend them off. Todd and I have unapologetically removed their earnest home-building efforts a total of four times. Four. We’ve watched them watching us, twigs in their mouths, flashing us with the evil eye. And each time, under their baleful gaze, we’ve torn down their lovingly constructed nest.

Lest you judge us as nature haters, let me explain. Last year, some house finches built a cozy little spot in the same location. And we, sympathetic and charmed by their innocence and tweetness, permitted the intrusion. It was cute, it was dear, they hatched their little family and fed them and nurtured them and eventually the hatchlings flew away. BUT.

What remained after the coop had been flown was a nasty little microscopic creature called the bird mite. Hateful, tiny, biting, itching beast. We couldn’t shake them. We washed the patio furniture, washed it again, went from cool to warm to boiling hot water when scrubbing the cushions—all to no avail. Finally, the situation came to a standoff: any furniture item with a hard surface was bleached; anything softer was grudgingly packed in garbage bags, left out on collection morning, and replaced with new cushions. It was quite a maddening experience.

And I won’t suffer that defeat a second time. Cozy nests be damned; there are trees all around, perfectly sound, safe, stable locations for bird homes. They can just as well build there—and leave their horrific mites there as well.

So far, so good—after the fourth teardown, we’ve gone a full 24 hours without an attempted rebuild. I remain ever watchful, broom in hand. They won’t win this round. Not while I’m on guard.

Burgers, or steak

Our birds are snobs.

Well, they’re not our birds, actually—they’re the neighborhood birds that frequent our yard. But I think of them as ours…and now they’ve become quite standoffish.

Why, you ask? Because, you see, I purchased bargain birdseed for them. I was paying what I considered to be too much money for the good birdseed that these hoity toits love—the oiled black sunflower, primarily, with some other yummies mixed in. None of it was cheap, of course—the good stuff never is, now, is it? And the squirrels were scaling the feeder like determined little army recruits, and every day the feeder was emptied. I felt sad for the birds, but mostly I felt annoyance at the squirrels. And I thought, I’ll show you, squirrels—I’ll buy inexpensive seed that you don’t want. Then the poor, hungry birds can eat their fill instead of being terrorized by a climbing, swinging swirl of furry gray.

And the next time I bought seed, I paid $3.99 for 20 pounds. That’s right. 20 pounds. Except I forgot something: Just because they’re hungry doesn’t mean they’re desperate.

I remember the first time I figured this out. I was helping out at a grocery store, doing a volunteer project; I was to guard a table positioned in the store’s entryway on which shoppers were leaving donations for the local food bank. And as people dropped off their non-perishables, I was stupidly thinking Wow, look at all the great stuff people are giving. Of course, there were the typical donations of generic canned soup, store-brand beans, bargain pastas, etc. But there were good things, too: name brand soups and stews, expensive meats in tins and such, even famous boxed cereals sporting multi-colored spokes-animals. And slowly but surely, my brain said to me, Hey dummy, just because people are experiencing financial hardship, that doesn’t mean they’ve lost their sense of taste. They still like what everyone else likes. That doesn’t mean that someone in need couldn’t use my donated lima beans… but boy, I’ll bet they were wishing for some Dinty Moore instead.

It’s the same with clothes; it’s easy for me to drop off an old, misshapen sweater with pils on it. But next time someone’s collecting coats and such, maybe I should gather up a couple that I still like, or one that looks like new. That would be a real blessing to someone, right? I mean, if I were hungry, and two different restaurants were giving away meals, I’d go to whichever is closer. But hey, if the two restaurants were a burger joint and an expensive steak place, you can bet I’d work a bit harder to get to the steak place. Wouldn’t you?

And that, my friends, is what the birds—and likely the squirrels, too, those scoundrels—have done. I have a great neighbor a few doors down. She’s single, has a good job, and she loves animals, really loves them. And she has the bird feeder of all feeders, and it is stocked with high-quality seed. I would be willing to bet money that she does not shortchange the winged critters nor the thieving, fluffy-tailed rascals. I’m certain she buys the “steak.” And when I’m serving microwaved burgers, or the birdseed equivalent, I’m pretty much guaranteed an empty yard.

I can’t blame them, really. But I’m still not buying new birdseed until somebody eats all 20 pounds of this cheap stuff.

The changing of the birds

Even with the wacky, unusually warm temperatures we’ve been experiencing of late, the birds that frequent our little feeder and birdbath are not fooled. They know what’s up, and they're moving—out, or in.

First, the tiny hummingbirds showed up less and less frequently, until I realized it had been several days since I’d seen any sipping nectar from the feeder. That was an exceptionally sad day for me, since they’re my favorite. I know, how trite—they’re everyone’s favorite. But I can’t help myself; they’re just such petite, delicate little things, and so fast; watching them move is like watching a bejeweled bauble come to life.

Then, I noticed all of a sudden that I hadn’t seen a robin for weeks. And there was a noticeable paucity of any little wrens, not that we’d had many to begin with. And then, last week, I saw a chickadee at the finch feeder. A chickadee! I hadn’t ever seen one of those before, not here.

The finches have remained somewhat constant, but even they are beginning to diminish in numbers. I miss their lively gold heads and sweet songs. The little red-headed house finches are disappearing, too. Do they fly south? Or are they simply moving to proven, more secure winter dwellings?

It’s fascinating to watch them all, far better than any reality show. The kid and I sit transfixed for many minutes as the colorful little birds jockey for position on the feeder, or wait their turn to drink at the birdbath.

The only birds who’ve stayed through every season thus far are the crows. They haven’t budged, the loud, annoying things. Their big inky bodies dot the lawn in the morning, and their insolent, shrill caws break into my thoughts. I always open the back door and clap my hands to get them to leave; it works, in that they fly from the yard, but then they perch in the neighbor’s tall oak tree, waiting for my guard to drop so they can return without being bothered. I can’t stand them.

Goodbye, summer—I fear you are truly making your exit this time. See you next year.