Connections

With today a whirlwind of blistering change, a chimera of magical technology laced with an underlying horror story full of nightmares, I find myself thinking about how many other changes my generation has seen and our connections with all that ancient history. 

I walk my ten-thousand steps a day listening to W.E.B. Griffin's Corps series in audio book form for the second time through...I read the paper versions too, a while ago. I was not born until two years after the Korean War began and was a baby when the armistice was declared but I am still connected to those days. My uncles must have served in occupying forces because I remember being awed when they came home on holiday leave...Christmas I think...in starched and pressed khakis, (remember starch and ironing boards?) bearing gifts from the other side of the world. My mother had a jewelry box that sported mythical dragons if I remember rightly and we were always warned to be extra careful when we pawed through the paste gems admiring it madly.

And even farther back to the Day that will Live in Infamy, Peal Harbor. Once again I was not born yet, but my parents were. Mom was 8 and remembered the day well. She and her siblings were playing upstairs at the house that grandpa built with his hands, in many cases of used lumber with nails he straightened before using them. There was a landing at the top of the stairs there, with not much of a railing at all and kids could perch over the edge near the kitchen listening to all that went on below. There must have been a radio....or maybe someone came by and told them...but she remembered the hushed tones of shock and horror that rose from below with the warm scent of dinner cooking and the oily air from the kerosene stove, on that fateful day.

And so I am connected to these world events and others, even if I didn't experience them myself. Listening to the books, remembering the stories told at family gatherings before everyone had a cell phone and no one told stories any more, makes me think of historical events like these as closer than the passing years would make them in real life.

I still find it a challenge to throw away a good cardboard box, a battered tee shirt or a still functional length of string, because my grandparents lived through the Great Depression and knew the pangs of hard poverty and loss. They saved everything until it was truly past any possible use and even long after that. I try to be more sensible, but our house is cluttered with things we might use someday.

As I listen, I see Ken McCoy, the main character in the books, as looking like one of my handsome twin uncles in grinning photos from their military days when their visits home were worthy of the utmost joy imaginable. I still feel the energy of Grandma and Grandpa Montgomery's kitchen when all the brothers and sisters and their kids gathered to eat good food and love one another.

I guess that makes me old, but I treasure the connections. I remember the people, the houses, one that exists only in memory, and the tales of times before mine, and the plentitude of years between, and feel connected. 

Shiverish

 

As I sit in a house built of bones of old forest with elixir of beans from a far southern continent, I savor the flavor of seasoned fall gourds...or a reasonable chemical facsimile thereof... plucked sunny from fields just to sparkle my drink.

Somebody's sorrow gourd
Found in the parking lot of a place we bird

I shiver.

The cold has come, is coming and will come. I have made it through my annual challenge. Why must I compel myself to make it harder?

I don't know.

But every year from April to October, I wear shorts.

Every day. 

I count it as a personal failure if I break out my sweats during that interval, but I soldiered through all the way into fall. The weather cooperated.

This year, fool that I am, I decided to shoot for THRU October and have done just fine.

Up until now. The temperature is going well below freezing. The garden is toast....but I am.....not...

Four more days...

Just four more days....

Brrrr...

Also, it is time for two of my most hated jobs of the year. We must dig the cannas and put the insulation board and tarp over the big front doors, in futile hope of keeping out the north wind because that is where they point.

 We stall, and stall, and stall, every single year, until it simply essential to do the job and then we shiver and complain through it.

The cannas are worse. However, the hummingbirds love them so we perservere.

Happy Fall y'all.

Intruder

 Machine gun chatter of spruce-crazed squirrels, sentinel jays scream out their warning, intruder! Intruder! Intruder!

It's raining spruce cones again. Ripe ones now, so perhaps not as threatening as the hard green ones were earlier, but still I have to raise the thick hood of my father's old green Carhartt to stave them off sometimes. I wear it, partly because it is the warmest thing I own, but mostly in his honor. He passed down the love of the woods and the whole bird thing, and those are some of the best parts of my life.

In one spot so many cones are tumbling down from seventy or eighty feet up that I have to run (Imagine that...me, running!) to dodge them. (First time I have run since the days of chasing cows and I am amazed that I could. Didn't even kill me.)

I succeed in remaining undamaged, although some were mighty close.

Hah, hah, you missed me!

At least this time.

Anyone who imagines the forest to be a quiet place hasn't been there lately. The woods at the Blues at Burbine contain ten million, seven-hundred, and sixty-leven squirrels, both red and grey, along with a few dozen munks of chip, and as of Sunday, myriad migrating sparrows of all sorts.

Along with an occasional breeze rustling what's left of the leaves and the creaking of elderly trees and knees, it makes for a singularly unquiet place.

Which is fine by me.

 I do a lot of birding by ear and the noisy juncos and their ilk are quite unbothered by my visit to their domain. Most of the birds I saw yesterday were migrants, passing through or looking for a place to winter. However, at least one pair of Dark-eyed Juncos raised a brood of young right here in the woods this year. I got to see them shortly after they left the nest and hear them singing all summer long...which was pretty cool.

Meanwhile, I've been bringing home acorns for Ralph's chipmunks and carrying peanuts for our jays. They come streaming in from wherever they await, crying, "What has it got in its pocketses? Huh? Huh?"

Why is it

 

That there is a soul-deep joy in putting out the plants in the spring, in planting the cannas, in starting tomatoes and whatever strange and mysterious flowers that Becky has bought for me, yet bringing them all in is like a husky black cloud glooming up my day?

I don't know, but there are three rows of canna lilies out there to dig and store, plus a whole batch of the dwarf ones in pots to haul indoors. Ugh. At least the houseplants are in and safe.

BTW, this year and last I saved seed from my favorites of these little ones and grew new plants from them. I tried starting the seeds in peat pellets, which worked somewhat, but germination was poor at best. However I put some right out in the dirt in big pots in the spring and got lovely plants that bloomed eagerly. At five bucks a plant this is a real economy...plus I do love a garden challenge.

We had an incredible haul of tomatoes this year. They must love the hot dry weather we have had. There is still maybe a peck or two out there, mostly pretty green, but we will pick them all and see what happens. Becky has offered to see how fried green tomatoes do in the air fryer, so we can probably use them one way or another. (Update: nothing left out there now, but the Husky Red Cherry tomatoes that haven't ripened yet.)

I am not a winter person, and tending my myriad houseplants over the winter is a poor substitute for a real garden and cheerful flowers any place I can fit a plant. However, October Big Day is Saturday, and the sea ducks should be drifting through in the coming weeks, so there's that....

Happy Fall to All.

On Becoming an Influencer

 

I get da peanuts

I run on down

It started with peanuts. When you reach a certain age, you look for entertainment anywhere you can find it. In my case, I'm a pretty cheap date. Feeding peanuts to the Blue Jays works for me.

However, the bossman is a fan of the dastardly clever little chipmunks. He likes to feed THEM peanuts.

Chonk-munk

This creates a situation of great conflict, since they are both aggressive and ravenous. The 'munks gather continuously, stuffing cheeks full of anything that will fit (and many things that won't). 

I get the peanuts

And I scarf em on down

The jays have to carry the nuts away one-by-one and crack them out of the shells to enjoy them.

Thus the chipmunks have had about a four-to-one advantage over the birds.

Since nuts are pretty expensive to toss on the ground for the wildlife, I have pondered and experimented in ways to slant the game in the blue folks' favor.

I don't get the peanuts but this cracked corn isn't
too bad

This morning I became an influencer, if only in who gets the peanuts and who doesn't.

Because I was defrosting the big freezer I was later than usual in sneaking outside to my birding chair to parcel out my share of the nuts. The jays had evidently given up on me and by the time they came back to the yard the 'munks had eaten ALL the nuts.

What are peanuts?
Are they anything like lettuce?

I had two leftovers in my pocket and when one of my blue-feathered buddies landed by the place I put nuts, I made sure he was watching me and tossed one out by my feet. He tipped his head back and forth a couple times as if debating whether I wanted to eat him, then darted down and nabbed it.

Within minutes the local jays were gathered around watching me. Whenever I tossed a nut out of my pocket they were all over it in no time flat. The chipmunks only got one out of a whole pocketful

So now I am a backyard influencer. I can hardly wait until tomorrow when it is time to meet the morning flight.

Fie on peanuts
Imma get you all!
(This is not our cat, but if you know whose cat it is,
tell them they might want to keep him home...)