(If I Could Be Me...)
I would be a fairy princess
in a toddlers body
The undisputed champion
of the the 3rd grade spelling bee
If I could be me...
Adolescence would be my proving ground
popular,
thin,
smart
All the boys
would notice me
If I could be me...
Honor classes,
Prom,
Graduation,
marry high school sweetheart or
go to college
the right choice or the smart choice?
I would know this answer
If I could be me...
College or not,
marriage or not,
babies or not -
we all end up in the same place
Turning 30
Am I too fat,
too old,
too poor?
and who are all these people in my life?
and oh yes....
what about who I would be
If I could be me...
Life is so hectic I barely stop.
I am becoming,
a career woman,
a lover,
a mother.
A fixer,
divorced,
married,
single.
Living,
drowning,
in options.
Is this really who I would be?
If I could be me...
Unbelievable this ride of life
The choices.
the kids,
the men,
the self.
At night I sleep
and I am so far from who I would be
If I could be me...
Movie stars are now not "older" than me
and a couple of kids have called me Ma'am
The world seems to be getting younger
I am not.
But here is what I am getting,
more sure.
More graceful.
More forgiving.
There really is a rhythm and a flow to it all
And just as all who are young have to struggle?
I realize I do not.
Like a late Indian summer day,
I have an extra hour
To relax,
look,
reflect.
To smile.
To reach out gently to my time conscious self
and with no more effort than dipping a paddle steers a canoe,
realize...
I am in charge of what will be
I can be me.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Halfway Point Of My Journey
On Turning 50
I'm turning 50. That's half of a century! Can you imagine? For some reason I feel like this is a momentous accomplishment on my part. But when I look back I can see I have always been fascinated by the things we call "old".
I remember being ten... an awkward shy girl who read a lot and daydreamed her way through time. I came out of my introspective reveries one day long enough to notice my mother in a state of great excitement. Seems she had inherited a beautiful oak side board from her mother-in-law. After much laborious grunting on the part of two sweaty movers this wooden leviathan assumed a place of honor (in it's huge hulking way) in our dining room. It seemed to be quite the big deal that I of course, being ten, didn't grasp. So I asked, my radiantly happy mother "What's so great about it?"
My dear mother, oblivious to the naive density of her fledgling, exclaimed " Why this is 50 years old." This was said in the most reverential of tones while running her hands over the smooth patina of well rubbed and oiled wood. To that younger me it seemed like her version of MY excitement when I had found an arrowhead the summer before. With a shiver I had curled my fingers tightly, feeling the cold smooth center and rough edges of the arrowhead as it pressed its outline against my palm. I remembered standing there spellbound at the thought that some long ago person had shaped and used it as a tool, with their own two hands. Now, somehow, in the churning tempest that is the earth, the long buried arrowhead had found its way to me, to be held once again. I wondered about that long ago person. Lost to the shrouds of the past, but still having once existed, with no less validity than my own existence in that moment. The proof of this profound truth rested solidly in my closed fist. Recalling the solemn awe of that moment, I found myself running my hands over this beautiful wooden object my mother was so entranced with. Imitating and understanding her sense of reverence.
Over the years that have passed since that day, I have observed with interest the excitement that a 56 Chevy can elicit from a group of men. How far people will travel to view the architectural detail found in the splendor of the ruins of ancient Rome. Or how hard the normally unfazed New Yorker will fight to save an old building. Not to mention the highly esteemed culinary intricacies involved in the making of fine wines and gourmet cheeses. Recipes of which have been highly guarded and handed down for centuries. And then there are the treasures of nature, which cannot be hurried, diamonds, amber, silk and pearls. It has slowly seeped into my consciousness that all these things we collectively deem valuable, share one common element. That element is time.They take time.They improve with age.
In beauty, in substance, in value.
The woman of 50 is a defined woman. For better or worse she is no longer that fresh newborn malleable lump of clay that we all begin life as.The potential of youth has been bartered for the richness of life. As the moments tick on, her experiences, combined with her thoughts and feelings, have taken turns guiding, shaping and molding her. Life has focused her, much in the way a lens does a camera. Everything about her becomes more clear. Revealed in the shining light of time. Her joys her passions her loves and hardships, it's all there.
Her hands reveal what they have spent the years doing. Whether creating works of art or stroking the heads of babies. Working in an office, or close to the earth under a relentless sun, the hands speak of what they know.
Her feet too, say so much. Beautiful and well cared for, or gnarled by ill fitting shoes and long hours of standing. They bear silent testimony to having been shaped by the steps her own personal path has taken.
But the greatest story teller of a woman's life is in her face.
The joy, the sorrow, the contentment or lack of, on display for anyone who chooses to observe. Whispered in the gentle crinkles that frame eyes filled with frequent laughter. Or suggested in the soft wreath of smile lines that trace across luminous cheeks. Sometimes, the story is told in thinly drawn lips that have spent years pressed tightly in disapproval, judgment of others, the corrosive acid of bitterness doing its handiwork.
Regardless, its all there.
An exclusive story for each and every woman. We sculpt our own personal look by what we think, by what we feel, and by how we react to all that happens along our journey. How true then the saying that when we are born we have the face God gave us, and when were old we have the face we've earned. The woman who has lived for half of a century is possessed of a sage-ness that is strikingly observable to others. It as identifying as a fingerprint, as unique as a snowflake as solid as an arrowhead.
While a younger woman may dream of finding her "other half"? The woman of 50 is serene in the knowledge that she need seek no other half. Rather, she emanates the completeness she has attained with a beauty that is all its own. She is a survivor, she is wise and she is humorous. She has a story to tell, born out of a sophisticated wisdom that is now hers. She has an authenticity that cannot be faked, rushed or purchased, but rather, develops gently under the sculpting hand of time.
When a woman turns 50
she becomes.~
I'm turning 50. That's half of a century! Can you imagine? For some reason I feel like this is a momentous accomplishment on my part. But when I look back I can see I have always been fascinated by the things we call "old".
I remember being ten... an awkward shy girl who read a lot and daydreamed her way through time. I came out of my introspective reveries one day long enough to notice my mother in a state of great excitement. Seems she had inherited a beautiful oak side board from her mother-in-law. After much laborious grunting on the part of two sweaty movers this wooden leviathan assumed a place of honor (in it's huge hulking way) in our dining room. It seemed to be quite the big deal that I of course, being ten, didn't grasp. So I asked, my radiantly happy mother "What's so great about it?"
My dear mother, oblivious to the naive density of her fledgling, exclaimed " Why this is 50 years old." This was said in the most reverential of tones while running her hands over the smooth patina of well rubbed and oiled wood. To that younger me it seemed like her version of MY excitement when I had found an arrowhead the summer before. With a shiver I had curled my fingers tightly, feeling the cold smooth center and rough edges of the arrowhead as it pressed its outline against my palm. I remembered standing there spellbound at the thought that some long ago person had shaped and used it as a tool, with their own two hands. Now, somehow, in the churning tempest that is the earth, the long buried arrowhead had found its way to me, to be held once again. I wondered about that long ago person. Lost to the shrouds of the past, but still having once existed, with no less validity than my own existence in that moment. The proof of this profound truth rested solidly in my closed fist. Recalling the solemn awe of that moment, I found myself running my hands over this beautiful wooden object my mother was so entranced with. Imitating and understanding her sense of reverence.
Over the years that have passed since that day, I have observed with interest the excitement that a 56 Chevy can elicit from a group of men. How far people will travel to view the architectural detail found in the splendor of the ruins of ancient Rome. Or how hard the normally unfazed New Yorker will fight to save an old building. Not to mention the highly esteemed culinary intricacies involved in the making of fine wines and gourmet cheeses. Recipes of which have been highly guarded and handed down for centuries. And then there are the treasures of nature, which cannot be hurried, diamonds, amber, silk and pearls. It has slowly seeped into my consciousness that all these things we collectively deem valuable, share one common element. That element is time.They take time.They improve with age.
In beauty, in substance, in value.
The woman of 50 is a defined woman. For better or worse she is no longer that fresh newborn malleable lump of clay that we all begin life as.The potential of youth has been bartered for the richness of life. As the moments tick on, her experiences, combined with her thoughts and feelings, have taken turns guiding, shaping and molding her. Life has focused her, much in the way a lens does a camera. Everything about her becomes more clear. Revealed in the shining light of time. Her joys her passions her loves and hardships, it's all there.
Her hands reveal what they have spent the years doing. Whether creating works of art or stroking the heads of babies. Working in an office, or close to the earth under a relentless sun, the hands speak of what they know.
Her feet too, say so much. Beautiful and well cared for, or gnarled by ill fitting shoes and long hours of standing. They bear silent testimony to having been shaped by the steps her own personal path has taken.
But the greatest story teller of a woman's life is in her face.
The joy, the sorrow, the contentment or lack of, on display for anyone who chooses to observe. Whispered in the gentle crinkles that frame eyes filled with frequent laughter. Or suggested in the soft wreath of smile lines that trace across luminous cheeks. Sometimes, the story is told in thinly drawn lips that have spent years pressed tightly in disapproval, judgment of others, the corrosive acid of bitterness doing its handiwork.
Regardless, its all there.
An exclusive story for each and every woman. We sculpt our own personal look by what we think, by what we feel, and by how we react to all that happens along our journey. How true then the saying that when we are born we have the face God gave us, and when were old we have the face we've earned. The woman who has lived for half of a century is possessed of a sage-ness that is strikingly observable to others. It as identifying as a fingerprint, as unique as a snowflake as solid as an arrowhead.
While a younger woman may dream of finding her "other half"? The woman of 50 is serene in the knowledge that she need seek no other half. Rather, she emanates the completeness she has attained with a beauty that is all its own. She is a survivor, she is wise and she is humorous. She has a story to tell, born out of a sophisticated wisdom that is now hers. She has an authenticity that cannot be faked, rushed or purchased, but rather, develops gently under the sculpting hand of time.
When a woman turns 50
she becomes.~
Saturday, May 29, 2010
And So I Begin. Again,
My computer crashed and I lost most of what I had written.
For two days I wandered around hugging a pillow and feeling sick inside.
My computer nerd guy (ever compassionate those types huh?) merely said "if you wrote it once you can write it again"
well that rankled...I mean what am I? some kind of human back up disk?
my words are carefully chosen works of art
I love the line by Oscar Wilde, where he said
“This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon I put it back in again.”
writing happens in fits and spurts and is hard won
I cant believe I never made a back up of something I considered precious
so here I am
all my lost and (carefully crafted I might add) words are gone
all my favorite quotes and sayings. All my brilliant moments
gone
ok, maybe I am not a Michelangelo with words, but
It is like my words were road dust and I was put through an involuntary car wash
so I will start again
after all what does anyone do after a disaster?
they start anew
they build better
stronger
smarter
so AMEN to my expired hard drive
and HELLO to my new one
may I make you worthy of honesty and truth
Heaven knows there can always be more of it
so I begin again
For two days I wandered around hugging a pillow and feeling sick inside.
My computer nerd guy (ever compassionate those types huh?) merely said "if you wrote it once you can write it again"
well that rankled...I mean what am I? some kind of human back up disk?
my words are carefully chosen works of art
I love the line by Oscar Wilde, where he said
“This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon I put it back in again.”
writing happens in fits and spurts and is hard won
I cant believe I never made a back up of something I considered precious
so here I am
all my lost and (carefully crafted I might add) words are gone
all my favorite quotes and sayings. All my brilliant moments
gone
ok, maybe I am not a Michelangelo with words, but
It is like my words were road dust and I was put through an involuntary car wash
so I will start again
after all what does anyone do after a disaster?
they start anew
they build better
stronger
smarter
so AMEN to my expired hard drive
and HELLO to my new one
may I make you worthy of honesty and truth
Heaven knows there can always be more of it
so I begin again
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Worm Has Turned?
Today was spent being alone and mellow with my thoughts. All without benefit of a bong or a joint!
I never did do the bong or joint thing, even in the 70s, truth be told...
No,I was the girl over in the corner with her nose shoved in a book.
Or doing some football players English homework for him.
Yes that was me. A nerd girl in the 70s. Always just left of center but it just sounds so hippie-ish to talk about hanging out with oneself on purpose and without chemical help doesn't it?
A shame actually.
I think before we were constantly bombarded by friendly fire (the media) we had to (gasp) think for ourselves. A man out building a barn or hunting in the woods has a lot of time to think, especially thoughts about cause and effect.
Me bring home food= GOOD me miss my shot = BAD om gah wah
A woman similarly, stirring the campfire tending children and a forgetful old crone of a grandma positioned within watching distance, each had time to think their individual thoughts.
A simple, immeasurable, priceless, commodity in our communication driven world.
Solitude.
Time to think
Time to interpret the input from the world around you into your own personal data base of experiences and thoughts without a brightly shined media "face" telling you not only what the news is but how you should "interpret" the news.
When I was a little girl back in the 60's (ouch I know) Kronkite delivered the news as dry as a brown industrial paper towel that you would pull out of a rack at grade school.
Left to form their own thoughts, we the public did just that.
So at what subtle point did we start letting journalists not just inform us but interpret for us? Because that is were we are now and I suspect it is not all their fault but rather our own. We got fat and lazy intellectually speaking. WE got busy with the details of our life and looked at these brightly glossed people as saving us time from reading the paper and framing our own thoughts.
Well that is over and the backlash is tremendous. People are taking the reins back into their own hands. The free wheelingwild wild west of the Internet is their main source and magazines and news shows via television networks, are fighting for their lives.
Women consult their iPad while they wait for the timer to go off on the modern day cooking fire of the micro wave.
Men scour the concrete jungle of the city with a Blackberry or iPod in hand - weapon of choice.
And they each weigh their information and consider their options.
Maybe we are starting to think for ourselves again,
maybe...
The worm has turned.
I never did do the bong or joint thing, even in the 70s, truth be told...
No,I was the girl over in the corner with her nose shoved in a book.
Or doing some football players English homework for him.
Yes that was me. A nerd girl in the 70s. Always just left of center but it just sounds so hippie-ish to talk about hanging out with oneself on purpose and without chemical help doesn't it?
A shame actually.
I think before we were constantly bombarded by friendly fire (the media) we had to (gasp) think for ourselves. A man out building a barn or hunting in the woods has a lot of time to think, especially thoughts about cause and effect.
Me bring home food= GOOD me miss my shot = BAD om gah wah
A woman similarly, stirring the campfire tending children and a forgetful old crone of a grandma positioned within watching distance, each had time to think their individual thoughts.
A simple, immeasurable, priceless, commodity in our communication driven world.
Solitude.
Time to think
Time to interpret the input from the world around you into your own personal data base of experiences and thoughts without a brightly shined media "face" telling you not only what the news is but how you should "interpret" the news.
When I was a little girl back in the 60's (ouch I know) Kronkite delivered the news as dry as a brown industrial paper towel that you would pull out of a rack at grade school.
Left to form their own thoughts, we the public did just that.
So at what subtle point did we start letting journalists not just inform us but interpret for us? Because that is were we are now and I suspect it is not all their fault but rather our own. We got fat and lazy intellectually speaking. WE got busy with the details of our life and looked at these brightly glossed people as saving us time from reading the paper and framing our own thoughts.
Well that is over and the backlash is tremendous. People are taking the reins back into their own hands. The free wheelingwild wild west of the Internet is their main source and magazines and news shows via television networks, are fighting for their lives.
Women consult their iPad while they wait for the timer to go off on the modern day cooking fire of the micro wave.
Men scour the concrete jungle of the city with a Blackberry or iPod in hand - weapon of choice.
And they each weigh their information and consider their options.
Maybe we are starting to think for ourselves again,
maybe...
The worm has turned.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
On Friendships
Friendships are a fragile and beautiful thing
A thread felt not seen
wraps mysteriously around you
drawing you both together
you explore your commons
and admire your differences
the veneers of your outer self peel away
replaced by layers of trust
one at a time
until what you have in common
is more than what you don't
you now exchange thoughts with a glance or a laugh
maybe a raised brow or a shrug
thus is the language of friends
the level of trust flowing as deeply as iron ore
you are my friend
and I am yours
A thread felt not seen
wraps mysteriously around you
drawing you both together
you explore your commons
and admire your differences
the veneers of your outer self peel away
replaced by layers of trust
one at a time
until what you have in common
is more than what you don't
you now exchange thoughts with a glance or a laugh
maybe a raised brow or a shrug
thus is the language of friends
the level of trust flowing as deeply as iron ore
you are my friend
and I am yours
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Maintenance
Have you ever noticed that the older you get the more effort it takes to look good?
In my 20's all I had to do was get a tan and comb my hair -
and wear tight clothes.
In my 30's I was still doin ok...I could stay up all night with my girlfriends watching movies and eating chocolate and drinking wine and still get up just a little later the next morning.
Maintenance consisted of shaving my legs and underarms, keeping my eyebrows plucked and getting a good tan every summer.
My hair looked good up or down. My skin was finally through breaking out (maybe?) in retrospect this was my one shining moment between pimples and wrinkles! Who knew?
In my 40's life got a little bit more complicated.
While I waited in line at the Taco Bell drive thru, I could see all of my gray hair in my side mirror as I leaned out to shout my order....
"I'll have a Nacho Grande and OMG what is that stuff in my hair!"
*****crackle over loudspeaker**** "what's that ma'am?"
Did he just say "ma'am"? Am I "sounding" old too?"
"I'll have the taco salad...hold the meat and cheese...and also a diet soda, umm...on second thought just make that a water...."
A pair of tweezers has now become my best friend in my diligent search for the grays, a plan I only abandoned when I realized I could quite easily pluck my way into pattern baldness.
So now I am 50...
I wake up after one dinner at a restaurant, swollen and puffy.
A blooming onion makes me "bloom" for 3 days...
in the meanwhile I am facing "veins" and "age spots" and what's up with the chin hair?
You know, that one lone solitary hair that can grown 3 inches in the time it takes you to check your email.
A magnifying glass has become not a luxury but a necessity, since apparently my eyes are becoming myopic so fast I cant even SEE the aforementioned now 6 inch long solitary chin hair.
The magnifying glass also mirrors my need to get my roots done again in my attempts to angle it so that I can see my chin...
I need a highlight job on my roots again? Didnt I just do that?
Of course I do! I need that about every 3 weeks appperently.
As I stand in my kitchen popping vitamins by the mouthful I remember the words of a neighbor I adored that has since moved away. She and I used to walk every day. She was turning 50 and I was turning 40. She said,
"I had a deep massage today so I hurt all over. I had my hair dyed and highlighted and my nails done."
I said, "well you look great!"
"Yes" she replied tiredly and with a rueful grin, "I can still look great but it is taking more and more effort to do it."
I listened to her and I thought that was interesting but I didn't really identify.
Now?
I GET it!
I wake up with a cranky hip.
I run with a faulty bladder to the nearest bathroom.
My allergies are in full bloom and my hormones tell me I should kill someone.
Too bad I am not in Iraq. I'm sure once I quit sneezing and peeing, I would be a human death machine!
"Fear THIS! Ha!
I am hormonal and have nothing left to lose!"
I probably wont offer myself to my country though...
I don't want them to tell me I am too OLD!
In my 20's all I had to do was get a tan and comb my hair -
and wear tight clothes.
In my 30's I was still doin ok...I could stay up all night with my girlfriends watching movies and eating chocolate and drinking wine and still get up just a little later the next morning.
Maintenance consisted of shaving my legs and underarms, keeping my eyebrows plucked and getting a good tan every summer.
My hair looked good up or down. My skin was finally through breaking out (maybe?) in retrospect this was my one shining moment between pimples and wrinkles! Who knew?
In my 40's life got a little bit more complicated.
While I waited in line at the Taco Bell drive thru, I could see all of my gray hair in my side mirror as I leaned out to shout my order....
"I'll have a Nacho Grande and OMG what is that stuff in my hair!"
*****crackle over loudspeaker**** "what's that ma'am?"
Did he just say "ma'am"? Am I "sounding" old too?"
"I'll have the taco salad...hold the meat and cheese...and also a diet soda, umm...on second thought just make that a water...."
A pair of tweezers has now become my best friend in my diligent search for the grays, a plan I only abandoned when I realized I could quite easily pluck my way into pattern baldness.
So now I am 50...
I wake up after one dinner at a restaurant, swollen and puffy.
A blooming onion makes me "bloom" for 3 days...
in the meanwhile I am facing "veins" and "age spots" and what's up with the chin hair?
You know, that one lone solitary hair that can grown 3 inches in the time it takes you to check your email.
A magnifying glass has become not a luxury but a necessity, since apparently my eyes are becoming myopic so fast I cant even SEE the aforementioned now 6 inch long solitary chin hair.
The magnifying glass also mirrors my need to get my roots done again in my attempts to angle it so that I can see my chin...
I need a highlight job on my roots again? Didnt I just do that?
Of course I do! I need that about every 3 weeks appperently.
As I stand in my kitchen popping vitamins by the mouthful I remember the words of a neighbor I adored that has since moved away. She and I used to walk every day. She was turning 50 and I was turning 40. She said,
"I had a deep massage today so I hurt all over. I had my hair dyed and highlighted and my nails done."
I said, "well you look great!"
"Yes" she replied tiredly and with a rueful grin, "I can still look great but it is taking more and more effort to do it."
I listened to her and I thought that was interesting but I didn't really identify.
Now?
I GET it!
I wake up with a cranky hip.
I run with a faulty bladder to the nearest bathroom.
My allergies are in full bloom and my hormones tell me I should kill someone.
Too bad I am not in Iraq. I'm sure once I quit sneezing and peeing, I would be a human death machine!
"Fear THIS! Ha!
I am hormonal and have nothing left to lose!"
I probably wont offer myself to my country though...
I don't want them to tell me I am too OLD!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Every Day Is Mothers Day
I actually wrote this last May but for some reason, never posted it.
No time like the present though, right?
~~~~~~~
With the coming of spring mothers day is every day on a farm and in the wildlife around us.
A little bird saga was going on this weekend and I thought that this winged mothers story was fitting for the day.
I feed my dogs at night. One last time for the day as they basically eat all day long but feeding them at night encourages them to stay close and not roam far away in the fields and woods, following whatever fascinating scents and wild calls they may hear and smell late at night.
When our cat was still alive we had no problem with birds or mice. Since her death at 23 yrs of age (who can blame her?) the mockingbirds have gotten more and more bold.
I know they are the state bird (whose dumb idea was that?) and they are "protected" but after a couple of years of them nesting in our chimney I grew rather disenchanted with the whole process.
I remember it was late one night and the house was quiet when I first heard that strange fluttering sound in the fireplace. Oh look! A baby bird!
I got a lid from a mayonnaise jar, washed it and filled it with water along with a small plate of bread crumbs in the fireplace to feed this little accidental house guest.
Little did I know there was nothing accidental about this. Mockingbirds are the Gambino family of the bird world. They take over. No other birds can stay. They run the place. Once the cat died they were home free in bird speak. They were here to stay....
We (I mean me) fed the little fallen fledgling there in the fireplace, while listening nightly to his brothers and sisters practice flapping their wings somewhere deep within our chimney. After a day or so we took the little feathered thing out of the fireplace. This involved a brave 21 yr old son putting on an oven mitt and diving into the fireplace along with a small degree of fluttering and chirping. Once the gray feathered chirpling was within grasp he was tossed (gently) out the front door near a big bush which he fluttered to. His parents chirped and flew back and forth nearby. A mother and child reunion. So be it. I closed the front door.
Imagine my dismay when it happened again the next year!
I mean I love animals as much as the next guy but give me a break!
We put an iron grate on our chimney top. Problem solved!
No.
They pecked through it (apparently there was one weak spot that rusted) and once again I try to watch TV with the accompanying tempo of the magnificent beat of rehearsing wings in my chimney.
Tonight when I went out to give the dogs their last of the day food, I heard an unusual thing.
The mama mockingbird was perched up in the tree and was pathetically running through some serious stage lines. First she was "dying" with soft little chirps. Then she was singing in a voice like an angel that drew you to her. The beating of wings in the chimney was so strong, gathering momentum so that for the first time I could hear it while standing outside of my house.
She was calling her babies! Oh my!
After a few minutes she changed her song to a soft whimper. The sound that a puppy makes late at night when it is alone.
In a few minutes she was joined by her mate. They both began to make soft whimpering helpless cooing sounds together.
Simply amazing.
There were answering coos form within the chimney along with much beating of wings.
The babies will fly tonight.
Out of the chimney where they have practiced their stattaco calls on feathered pinions.
Out into the night world of a full moon, a waiting tree
and their mothers voice.
~
No time like the present though, right?
~~~~~~~
With the coming of spring mothers day is every day on a farm and in the wildlife around us.
A little bird saga was going on this weekend and I thought that this winged mothers story was fitting for the day.
I feed my dogs at night. One last time for the day as they basically eat all day long but feeding them at night encourages them to stay close and not roam far away in the fields and woods, following whatever fascinating scents and wild calls they may hear and smell late at night.
When our cat was still alive we had no problem with birds or mice. Since her death at 23 yrs of age (who can blame her?) the mockingbirds have gotten more and more bold.
I know they are the state bird (whose dumb idea was that?) and they are "protected" but after a couple of years of them nesting in our chimney I grew rather disenchanted with the whole process.
I remember it was late one night and the house was quiet when I first heard that strange fluttering sound in the fireplace. Oh look! A baby bird!
I got a lid from a mayonnaise jar, washed it and filled it with water along with a small plate of bread crumbs in the fireplace to feed this little accidental house guest.
Little did I know there was nothing accidental about this. Mockingbirds are the Gambino family of the bird world. They take over. No other birds can stay. They run the place. Once the cat died they were home free in bird speak. They were here to stay....
We (I mean me) fed the little fallen fledgling there in the fireplace, while listening nightly to his brothers and sisters practice flapping their wings somewhere deep within our chimney. After a day or so we took the little feathered thing out of the fireplace. This involved a brave 21 yr old son putting on an oven mitt and diving into the fireplace along with a small degree of fluttering and chirping. Once the gray feathered chirpling was within grasp he was tossed (gently) out the front door near a big bush which he fluttered to. His parents chirped and flew back and forth nearby. A mother and child reunion. So be it. I closed the front door.
Imagine my dismay when it happened again the next year!
I mean I love animals as much as the next guy but give me a break!
We put an iron grate on our chimney top. Problem solved!
No.
They pecked through it (apparently there was one weak spot that rusted) and once again I try to watch TV with the accompanying tempo of the magnificent beat of rehearsing wings in my chimney.
Tonight when I went out to give the dogs their last of the day food, I heard an unusual thing.
The mama mockingbird was perched up in the tree and was pathetically running through some serious stage lines. First she was "dying" with soft little chirps. Then she was singing in a voice like an angel that drew you to her. The beating of wings in the chimney was so strong, gathering momentum so that for the first time I could hear it while standing outside of my house.
She was calling her babies! Oh my!
After a few minutes she changed her song to a soft whimper. The sound that a puppy makes late at night when it is alone.
In a few minutes she was joined by her mate. They both began to make soft whimpering helpless cooing sounds together.
Simply amazing.
There were answering coos form within the chimney along with much beating of wings.
The babies will fly tonight.
Out of the chimney where they have practiced their stattaco calls on feathered pinions.
Out into the night world of a full moon, a waiting tree
and their mothers voice.
~
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