A Newsletter, Sort Of

Dear Friends,

What a year this has been!

Aunt Tinglebottom and Fred finally tied the knot.  Get married? No, she tied the knot around his throat, but his neck was so greasy (he works as a mechanic and hasn't taken a shower since 1966), the noose slipped off.  Too bad for her.  The sheriff of Nottingham, Kentucky saw the whole deal and locked her up.  It all worked out OK, though.  She made him a key/lime pie and used the leftover keys to let herself out of jail.

Aunt Cribbage (or is it great-aunt?) has been playing cards for money again.  She had a big loss last month.  She had taken some things with her when she moved out of the circus, among them an elephant. You guessed it, she lost the elephant in a poker game.  Uncle Sahib wasn't happy, and he's been trying to recover the pachyderm ever since.  I hope she never gets so desperate again. She already lost the Bearded Lady to her old friend Min Oxydil.

Uncle Fresno moved to California in April, but he's coming home to Cincinnati for Christmas. Every time the ground shakes out there he gets homesick for his girlfriend Gargantula.  I'm not saying she's large, but when she plays jump-rope with the kids it can be felt in Arkansas.

Cousin Fleamaker has had a new job for awhile as a veterinary assistant. Sales of Raid, Off and tick repellant have tripled since he's been working there.

Second cousin thrice removed  Prego and her husband Dick are expecting children number 18, 19 and 20 any time now.  She says these might have to be the last.  I don't see why.  She's only 52.  I guess Dick is tired of changing diapers.  It's so hard to understand him when he babbles.

Cousin Zelda tells me I need new Christmas traditions, and she's right. It's hard to get my family together for various reasons but I have a plan.  I bought sixteen yards of Velcro and I am using it to upholster the couch in the living room, the toilet seat and the refrigerator.  I bought eighty-seven rolls of duct tape, sixty-nine tubes of superglue and a large sledge hammer.  Just in case somebody tries to escape. . .I mean,  get away, I won't feed my hundred pound dog until New Year's, and I offered to babysit my friend's Rottweiler while they are in Salt Lake City for the annual Gremlin/Pinto races on the Flats.  If that doesn't work I have a back-up plan which involves Prozac. . . .

And finally, don't tell Aunt Wallflower's fourth ex-husband Uncle Feelers you heard from me. He's from Europe, you know.  Those Russian hands and Roman fingers give me the creeps.


Warmest Regards,

MzzRzz

Second Thoughts

Second thoughts.

Second guessing.

Second job.

Seconds.

Time passing.

Second helpings.
Second place.

Second chances.

I'm learning.  This is my second journey. I thought I had reached my goal. I didn't. It's my second chance.  Because I learned so much the first time, I am willing to try again.

Last year I didn't know who I was; I had assumed the identity of daughter, sister, wife, mom, grandma, even cousin.  I became a writer.  I became Marilyn. I tried some new things like kayaking. I changed my way of dress and began at the Y. I quit the job I had come to hate and started a new career.  I learned to like myself, a giant leap forward.  I thought I was done. I'm not.

Now what?

Well, I haven't put much effort into my book lately.  I haven't been to the Y in awhile. My Scrabble skills are fading.  I've gone into the dumps.  I haven't cleaned the basement.  I haven't looked for the Christmas stuff for the second year in a row. I still have pounds to lose.

So you see, all those things--well, some of them anyway--that I had put first gradually shifted to second or even third in importance.  I was gloating over my triumphs but avoiding the failures.

My clients have given me back some perspective. Not much older than I, they require my help to do the very things my good husband does for me; I am learning forgotten household skills again.  My work requires a uniform I hate;  I am losing my vanity. The cat defies me like my dog never would.  I am learning humility. I have made a friend with whom I disagree on almost everything; I am learning the fine art of debate without lasting anger.  These are lessons I didn't think I'd have to learn, but that's why I need a second trip down life's road.

So I take another step. I've recognized that I need to move ahead, not necessarily to the right or left.

I have to revisit my beliefs.

I have to keep writing my blog because that's the way I keep track--by re-reading from then to now, by keeping the cockiness under control, by letting the sadness blow to the four winds and binding precious moments to my heart.  My joy was overflowing....maybe I gave too much love away?  No, that's what love is for, isn't it?

The second time around and I've already learned something. Imagine that.

I Want a Miracle For Christmas

I don't feel like Christmas. Putting up a tree and decorating like I used to seems pointless.  I have no Christmas spirit.  I get the fulfillment I need at church.  I just don't feel it at home.

Neither of my clients is doing much decorating.  At my other job, I am bombarded with Christmas trappings, including music for the last two weeks.  My fave radio station has switched to an all-Christmas format, but it is mostly singers who think they can improve on the old classics. A girl sings about the Grinch as though she likes him, and what is SANTA BABY without the boop-boop-de-do? It's lacking somehow. I haven't heard Josh Groban yet, or Gene Autry, or chestnuts roasting on an open fire. And no White Christmas or TSO!

I remember a time when I loved the holidays.  There was plenty of family around, lots of cookies and gifts stacked everywhere.  My little tree, flocked in white, had red and white lights, cardinals and doves and some crystal ornaments.  The mantel, passed from Mom to Grandma to me, held stockings that Mom had crocheted years before, and there were three--no, four--Nativity sets around. Old-fashioned Santas with elegant robes (my favorite) and Nutcrackers graced the tables and poinsettias bloomed everywhere.  My Santa collection, mostly four to six inches tall, were in the curio cabinet.  The printer's box that Dad fixed held dozens of teensy Santas and ornaments.  There was evergreen and pinecones, red bows to tie back the curtains and a big wreath on the front door.

I made candy in those years, chocolates and fudge, colorful chocolate suckers, homemade caramels and hard tack. Dinner was a production--a buffet on Christmas Eve, breakfast on Christmas morning, a ham with all the trimmings Christmas afternoon.  We visited family, or they came to us.  We watched movies like A Christmas Carol, Miracle on 34th Street, Christmas Story.

I looked at the Christmas towels today, still packed in the box from two years ago, the same box that held the ornaments.  I dusted off my three foot tall Nutcracker, but I didn't put it up. I've lost interest in the holidays.  Chances are  Hubby will have to work anyway, and I probably will, too, at least in the morning....it isn't the same anymore...

I could use a miracle, Lord.  Something to bring back the joy.  I don't want to drive away my family and friends with my sadness.  I know the real meaning of Christmas, and I celebrate it in my heart.  It's just that I don't feel a part of it anymore.  I feel like everybody is doing their own thing and like I am not included.  Oh, I know that isn't true, but it doesn't stop it.

I want a miracle, Lord. Something that will make me feel  like it is really Christmas. Lord, you know what I want most for Christmas, and it isn't something Santa can bring me.  I don't want the day to be interrupted with work. I want to WANT to decorate and to have no excuses why I can't celebrate. I want to be able to go to church without having to excuse myself because Hubby needs the car to go to work, or because I have to. I want to be full, Lord.  You know my needs.

The past year or two have been filled with ups and downs.  There have been days where I felt complete and days when I've felt empty.  I know it will pass, it always does. The holidays are so hard because I remember them when they were better, when my own kids were small, when Mom and Dad were here, when Grandma would buy everybody sweaters and drink highballs like water; when somebody would read the Christmas story from the Gospel and we would have birthday cake.  Somehow, those traditions got lost--and with them went my hunger for Christmas.  It has turned into a reason to shop, to wrap, to open gifts and return them. The closeness is gone, the gifts are no longer tokens--they are expected.  There is no more Christ in Christmas, it may as well be Santa Day.


So unless there is a miracle, there won't be a tree or a big festive Christmas dinner.  There won't be a mantel full of pinecones and Santas; there might be a Nativity just to remind me of the real significance of the holiday.  It isn't for me, it is for Him.  Help me to remember that much, Lord, and please give me back my Christmas joy.

As I write tonight, I am aware that I was as caught up in the materialism as everyone else. I'm sorry about that.  I gave my children the wrong message. Those aren't the things I miss most....I miss the driving around to look at the lights several times during the season...I miss everyone being there instead of somewhere else...I miss the birthday cake for our Lord. . .I miss the reading of the Gospel...I miss the decorations. . .I miss my folks and the way life used to be....

I need a miracle, Lord.....

Winning and Losing

I have a tendency to root for the underdog, I guess because so often that is me. Then I am disappointed when he loses yet again. Maybe I should root for the winners, huh?

We were discussing the ways of the world, and I said one of the many generational problems is that we are not teaching youngsters to win and lose graciously.  We aren't teaching them to be proud of the 100% and to be not satisfied with the 67% on a test.  We aren't teaching them how to lose a soccer game with dignity.  Instead, we don't keep score (do you really believe the kids don't?) to preserve self-esteem....oh, really?

A kid who goes through life never learning how to lose becomes a spoiled, selfish individual. A kid who has parents who let him always win, or a teacher who gives him a D- instead of failing isn't getting any favor. If he doesn't work to win, he won't appreciate it.

Self-esteem is not a rite of passage.  It is something that grows in us as we accomplish.

Criticism? That's not what I mean. No one deserves to be berated for their opinions, their looks, their intellect or anything else.  Constant criticism is defeating.  What I am talking about is teaching our young ones to do their best, to accept winning with good sportsmanship and grace; to accept losing with dignity and an urge to try harder next time.  Not criticism--guidance.

I watch the differences with kids who are allowed to lose without harshness or condescension. They know they won't always win; they try harder. When they do win fairly and honestly, it is a true achievement--something of which they can be proud.  Kids who always win at any cost--whether it be cheating, bullying or whatever grow up to be mean, self-righteous and demanding. Should they lose they don't know how to deal with it.

Our society is one of entitlement.  That's just plain wrong.  We are entitled to life.  It is not guaranteed to be successful or joyous; that's up to us.  We are offered a rudimentary education; beyond that, it is up to us. We are offered certain freedoms.  We are not to expect our government to give us anything else beyond a simple education, food and shelter if we are incapable of getting it on our own, safety and protection from foreign powers.  The other things? We work for them.  Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.  I didn't say it was fair.

I hope that we raised our children to expect nothing but fair play from others.  I hope I instilled in them that if you want it, nobody owes you--you work for it.  You don't cheat to win, you don't expect anyone to let you win.  What you have should be earned, not coerced. Then it is truly yours.

I believe that we should be allowed to be proud of our own hard work, proud of our accomplishments, proud of our good deeds.  We needn't brag.  We need to be secure in ourselves.  When we lose, of course we are disappointed.  We should be man-or-woman enough to congratulate the winner, accept the loss with our heads held high and try harder next time.

I hope I can live up to my own expectations, especially when I lose.

Brussels Sprouts

My mother used to take little Brussels sprouts, wrap them in a meatloaf-type mixture and a seasoned tomato sauce, bake them and serve them up as inside-out cabbage rolls. I loved them. Dad ate anything--he'd put ketchup on it and swallow it whole if it didn't appeal to him. My sister chose peanut butter.

Hubby likes Brussels sprouts.  They had them one time at our favorite eatery. He was in heaven.  He begs me to buy them and doesn't ask that they be drowned in Velveeta.

Of all the vegetables I have ever cooked, Brussels sprouts are the only ones my sons never liked. Not even with cheese sauce.  When they were old enough to choose what they would and would not eat, Brussels sprouts were the first thing to go. (Aside here--we expected the boys to try everything until they were about 12. If they didn't like it, there was always peanut butter. I remember them asking once when they could eat what they wanted. We told them we weren't running a restaurant, I didn't cook anything poisonous (they still question my wild mushroom picking); they would eat what was served, or peanut butter. They never chose the peanut butter.)

I was reminded of this brief history of Brussels sprouts a couple of days ago when my friend of many moons showed up at my door with a whole stalk of them. Teeny tiny ones to big fat ones, green as emeralds and just as precious. As I plucked them from the stalk, I found myself popping the little ones into my waiting mouth. Yum.

I don't expect everybody to like the teensy cabbage-like veggies, just that you give them another try. Even the most vocal of my sons has agreed to try them once more if I send him some.

I might make a believer out of him yet.

The T In The Road

My own road back to self-esteem began when Mom died.  I was 58.  I don't know all that happened along the way.  I had ups and downs with my confidence for years and years.  I tend to take things personally, and to run way--literally or figuratively--when everything isn't the way I expect it to be.  I wasn't always like that but I may have been sliding downhill in my 20's or 30's.

I'm not alone.  My way out was to eat, or get mad, or to retreat so far into myself that nothing could drag me out.  Yours may be alcohol or drugs or long, long drives; you might throw yourself into projects.  We all need to escape once in awhile.  I spent a good many adult years living an oxymoronic existence--too afraid to change, too discontented to remain, too weak to follow through.

I could tell you exactly the day things began to change for me, but it is unlikely you would believe such a simple thing could change one's life.  Suffice it to say it began with a tornado, although I didn't realize it at the time. 

So I began, and finally came to what I thought was the end of the road, but it was only a T-stop.  I have choices to make once again. . .I can't go back (well, I could, but that doesn't make sense even to ME).  I can go left or right. . .decisions, decisions. . .but wait a minute. . .there is another way.

Remember what I said about perspective?  It's all in how we look at things.  The trouble with looking is that we are too close...we see only part of the picture.  I see a clear-cut T-stop.  I don't see so clearly straight ahead, the third choice, because it looks like wilderness instead of the paved road.  But there is a third way. . .not easy, not yet defined.

I see clearly the you-must-choose ways.  I see the jobs on these roads, the roadblocks on the way.  I can see the directions posted as I turn the corner.  I don't like either set of choices. Not that they are illegal, immoral or indecent; they aren't hard to live with, just different. . . or maybe it's because the choices are so indifferent.

I have always led a safe, predictable life.  I've been restless, especially now that the boys have been on their own for so long.  I've lost my focus. I have gone ahead, not with a dance or a song, but with a sluggish crawl, burdened with the stuff I have allowed to accumulate.   I have looked at the choices I thought were available to me.  I saw them all as must-choose, must-do.  I vaguely heard the voices--both inner and belonging to others--that told me there was another way to go.  I heard them, even wrote about them--but I wasn't listening.  They push, they pull, they suggest, all in directions I'm not wanting to go.  They all speak the truth as they accept it, but none of it is my truth.

It came to me tonight, wired as I was on caffeine and aspirin, that the reason I was having such a hard time moving forward is that I don't like the set of options I have chosen to look at. They don't offer excitement or challenge. They offer a way to stay where I am, not a way to get to where I want to be.

So I'm going to stand in this place for awhile longer.  I'm going to check out where I want to go from here. Tom-Tom and MapQuest won't be much help, nor will the loving suggestions of friends who have as little imagination as I do.  I know they mean well, but the truth of the matter is that they are mostly as incapable of moving as I am, or maybe they are really content.  I'm not.  I want more.  Hubby says I can never be satisfied.  Maybe he is right.  He's a good man, and he sees my urge to do something about my discordant brain.  He thinks sometimes that he is the probem, but the  truth is that it is me.. Once again,  I want to scream in frustration.

It begins tonight.  I will revisit my dreams.  I will spend time in prayer.  That journey I began that I thought was done will begin again, perhaps as a private journal this time instead of a public one.

We rarely have only two choices.  Sometimes the third one is hard to see.  I'm going to look for it.

Sympathy

Our Pastor's father passed away this past week.  It wasn't unexpected.  That doesn't make it easier.

I lost my grandparents, aunts, uncles, my beloved parents.  Some were gone in an instant, some lingered on.  It doesn't matter.  The hurt is the same whether it is sudden or terrifyingly long.

Expression of sympathy no longer comes to me with difficulty. The words are often the same--I am sorry for your loss.  That is usually all one cares to hear at the time.  Most of us going through loss don't want to talk about it while the wound is fresh. We want to grieve in solitude for the most part.

Later, though, when the flowers have wilted and the last of the casseroles has been tossed is when the urge to remember comes. We look around and the relatives and friends that were there a day ago are gone.  Neighbors are afraid to broach the subject for fear of enhancing the hurt. We feel the aloneness so acutely then.  Where did all the love go?

We are brought up to respect the privacy of the grief-stricken.  Many of us were never taught how to behave at a funeral home or at the graveside service.  We approach the casket with trepidation. We are told to 'be strong'.  We want to help; we don't know how.

Why is it so hard? Most of those who grieve want acknowledgement that their loved one touched a life, or that someone understands that they might not feel like talking right now. You can see it in their eyes--"Hug me. Take my hand. Show me that I am still whole, though part of me is gone."

When my Pastor returns, I will take his hand as he has taken the hand of so many others. I will offer condolences, though he will have so many on this coming Sunday. I will let him know that somebody understands that while he is always in the position to be the strong one...well...sometimes it's OK to let someone else take care of him.

I'm sorry, I really am, for your loss.  I know you believe that our loved ones are in a better world now.  I know you believe that we will be together again. But right now, this minute, you wish you had told them what you felt for them. Just one more time, a glass of wine and a crust of bread.

It gets better. You will laugh again at their foibles. You might cry again for missing them. And you will go on, some days not thinking you can.

It gets better.  Honest, it does.  My heart goes out to you. God bless you and yours, my friend.

Worry

I am a worrier.

I come by the trait honestly; I inherited the habit from my mother.

I worry about the health of friends and loved ones, spending time in prayer, hoping to relieve them of their pain.  I worry about their kids and grandkids and the things I see from the outside looking in.  I worry about my clients and customers, wondering how that one with the mean mouth in public treats them in private.

I worry about money, or the lack of it.  I worry about my job. I worry about my kids and their kids.
I worry about the souls of those who believe in nothing, and I don't understand how one can believe in nothing. I worry about the state of the world.

I worry about Hubby's and sons' long drives to work with the weather ready to turn nasty at any moment.  Now mind you, I did that for years and years, and many miles farther than any of them motor now.   However, first of all, they are men.  Women tend to be a bit more cautious.  Secondly, we are not talking about me here; we are talking about men whom I love more than life itself. Thirdly, in those days I didn't punch a timeclock--when I arrived, I arrived. And, of course, Hubby drives in the dark, as do the boys.  I worry about deer running in front of them.  I worry, period.

Why do I worry so much? Because.  I have prayed about it, this bad habit of mine, and I'm OK for awhile, then the fear (because isn't that what worry really is?) raises that ugly head.  Having faith means I shouldn't worry so much.  Easier said than done. 

Last Sunday I worried about a talk that I had to give in front of the congregation. It turned out OK; I remembered the main points, even got a chuckle from the early service. Why was I nervous?  Well, it was the first of several that I will have to do. It was about stewardship. Asking for money is never easy. They gave me a thumbs-up when I finished.  There wasn't anything to worry about after all.

All the other things will be OK, too, and if they aren't, I cannot change them.

Words of wisdom from my friends help me to focus on the good parts of my life.  I need to avoid negative people and negative situations.  I need to surround my psyche with joy.  I thought I had learned this lesson already.  I gave all my problems to God, then one by one I took them back.  Knowing my failure doesn't help matters.

Worry, be gone!  One step at a time. Again.

Obedience

Hubby and I have been married for 41 years as of a couple of weeks ago.

In the dubious wisdom of my youth, I did not promise to obey. Love, cherish, sickness and  health, rich and poor and all that.  Obey, no.

For most of our married life, I have barely thought of those vows.  They were a part of who we were, what we were doing.  We were very young.  We thought marriage was an easy way to be on our own. Hubby will deny it today, but that was a big part in our decision to marry when we did.  We wanted to; we didn't truly understand how long forever is. Do I regret it? No.  Do I wish I had better understood what it means to obey?  You betcha.

Marriage isn't the 50-50 hogwash we hear about from the young and starry-eyed. In fact, rarely is it even close.  More like 80-20, or 10-90.  Somebody is always in charge some of the time.  It isn't always right, it isn't always fair.  Toes get stepped on occasionally.  I know of couples who actually had a contract written of who does what.  What then? Do you drag it out and say, "Hey! You were supposed to clean the toilet 6.9 hours ago! Well, I'm not doing it even though you're in the process of passing a kidney stone!"  Obedience is also part common sense and compromise.

Back in the late sixties and seventies the women's movement had its roots.  Equality! they shouted.  I tell you now, equality comes with a hard price.  Do I believe in equal opportunity? Yes. Do I believe in equal pay for equal work? Yes.  Does equality mean never giving in a bit, never obeying, because it is so much more important to be right, or absolutely equal?  No.  Do I believe men and women are the same animal? A resounding NO.

We have grown up a lot, Hubby and I.  Some days we are, as the Bible says, one flesh. We think alike, except about politics.  We like the same music, except he prefers 60's (early) and I prefer 60's (late) and 70's. We agree on food, except he likes ditalini with peas and garlic and my heritage draws me to tomatoes and ceci beans.  Those are silly things. We...uh...discuss...the big stuff until we find a common ground, or somebody walks out.  Obedience isn't agreeing for the sake of agreeing.  At times it is just picking your battles wisely.

Obedience isn't groveling at his feet.  It isn't giving up my core beliefs so that whatever he says I have to answer. "Me, too!".  It isn't even nodding all the time and never...uh...discussing....an issue at 120 decibels or in a whisper.

I've been going 'round and 'round,listening to newlyweds, listening to second-or-third timers and spouses-to-be.  I've been really paying attention, for some reason, to others' ideas of married life and vows and what it means to "obey".  I've concluded that most of us don't really know.  So, like I often do, I made my own conclusion and my own definition.  It works for me.

Obedience is not saying, "yes, dear".  It is being faithful to your God, your vows and your own beliefs.
Obedience is not 100% spouse, 0% you.  It is not 50-50.  It is accepting with love and grace our own shortcomings and those of our spouse, working within that framework to reach an agreeable plateau.  It doesn't mean we never get angry or experience frustration or even decide to end it all because, quite frankly. we have had enough. 

As Mrs. Billy Graham said (to paraphrase), "Divorce? No, I never considered it. Murder, however, has occasionally crossed my mind."

Sounds

I like to hear my dog growl when he's pretending to be fierce.  I like to hear a cat's contented purr.  The tweets and chirps of the birds, even the mocking laugh of the gulls, make me smile.  Chipmunk and squirrel chatter bring me unspeakable joy.

I grew up a block from the train tracks.  They were busier back then, and I would fall asleep to the sounds of train whistles and blasts from their horns.  The rumble was comforting and familiar.  When I moved away I couldn't sleep for the longest time.  Then one night, when the wind was just right, I heard the sound again.  Instantly I was swept into dreamland.  Today the tracks are a mile away in either direction, but if the wind is perfect, the sound still lulls me to sleep.

When I sit by the lake I hear the geese high above me and the ships as they make their way through the channel.  I block out the whining children, the blabbering teens, the arguing adults.  I hear only the sounds I wish to hear.

At home there are the everyday sounds of water running, the phone ringing, the knock at the door. Some of it is noise, but amongst the noise I hear the wind, the rain on the window, the crunch-crunch of the leaves as the mailman walks by.  Comforting sounds. Familiar, safe sounds--like the voice of a loved one in your ear.

We take for granted the everyday sounds, don't we?

For more years than I choose to remember, my workday was filled with Muzak, the rattle and clang of shopping carts, a PA system that blatted commercial over its airways, the endless prattle of shoppers and staff. It was noise, that's all.  I had to learn to push away the noise and to hear only the sounds.

Today at work I hear the fan as it attempts to freshen the stale apartment air.  I hear the sneaking footsteps of the cat, the rustle of the bag she plays with. I hear someone in the hall, the squeak of the door.  It's noise, just quieter noise if that makes any sense to you.  There is nothing familiar, nothing comforting about it. Nothing personal.

I need a hug.  I need sweet nothings in my ear.  I need to hear my big, hairy dog trying to be fierce.

I need to hear the trains.

This Woman I Know

She's built like me, not too tall, could stand to lose a few pounds, pretty when she smiles which isn't nearly often enough.

She has a responsible job overseeing people and conditions, dealing with government regulations and privacy laws.  She is in the middle most of the time.  Higher-ups lean on her, clients gripe to her.  Some days she wants to scream; it's all too much to deal with.

Does she scream?  Not while anybody is around.  That would show weakness.  Does she ever stand in the shower and cry?  Probably, but no one will ever know.  She has to be strong.

She's fair.  She doesn't care about your color, religion, weight or sexual orientation.  If you need something and she can provide it, she will.  If you lie to her or cross her, watch out.

I wondered at first, but only briefly, if I would like this woman I know.  Then I looked, really looked, in her eyes. What I saw delighted me.  Beyond that tough-as-an-overcooked-steak exterior is one of the tenderest hearts I have ever met. If you look, you can see mischief in those brown eyes.  When you finally get to see the smile, it's worth every minute you have waited.  She sees her child with a protective, unconditional love.  She says the dog gets on her nerves, but she says it with humor.  Cold when she has to be, warm when she is herself.

How many people have met this side of this woman I know?  I suspect not too many.

I won't tell you her name.  I won't tell you any more about her family or her work.  I will only embarrass her by telling anyone who will listen how remarkable she is.

You know who you are, my friend.

You're that special woman I know.

Birdies, Birdies

Halloween night something flew in front of my face. It was not a bird, it was a bat.  I jumped, but after a few seasons at the campground and Hess' Lodge I wasn't really afraid.  There is still a cover-your-head response, however.  Ah, the bat stories I will tell you one of these days.

But today it is about birds.  I love birds.  I am a novice bird-watcher.  I have my binoculars in the car.  I reference my Audubon volume regularly.  I feed birds, I watch them, I chase the cat who stares at the bush where they nest.  I listen for the first mating call of the cardinal around Ash Wednesday and the last song of the robins in September.  Not hear the birds? Or even worse, not listen for them? How sad!

I remember well the first bald eagle I ever saw soaring above me.  I stared in awe at his massive wingspread...the way he glided...the bright white of his head....wow.  Words cannot describe the thrill of seeing the pair taking care of their young...the eaglets, looking  like chubby turkeys, wobbling on the edge of the several-foot nest...Mom or Dad diving for fish, talons extended, so fast and magnificent.

How about the day we arrived in time to see the migration of a thousand or more songbirds? The parking lot was full of wings that day.  Bluebirds and scarlet tanagers, indigo buntings, golden wings and black ones in the trees and on the ground.  It was the first time and the last that I was so privileged.  That very same day I saw a pileated woodpecker--a Woody Woodpecker type, only in a red-white-black color scheme instead of blue.

I've gotten to know some birds that return to our abode every year, maybe three or four years in a row.  There was the grackle with a single white feather, the robin with his white face.  Every couple of years white crowned sparrows stop by, passing through to refuel on their way where? To the tundra?  There was a cardinal who would sit in the tree out front with the blue jay.  Together they made quite a duet, but only when the cat was nearby. Amazing.

I watch the Canada geese. What parenting skills they have!  They watch the goslings cross the street, standing patrol to keep them in line.  At the beach, the babies had a hard time hopping up over the concrete wall. The adults guided the ones who couldn't make it to an easier access and nudged each one. I've seen them getting into formation, one group at a time, practicing their flight south. Sometimes I think the geese are the most intelligent birds on earth.

No, I have no fear of seagulls even after watching Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" at least a dozen times.  I will sit at the breakwaters and listen to them laugh, or let them amuse me as they dive.  What characters they are!  I like to see them and their tern cousins pluck a fish from the lake, devour it in one gulp, go back for seconds.

My favorite waterbird is the great blue heron.  I've watched them stalk their prey, be it fish or frog.  Slowly, quietly...then snap!  They eat their fill, tossing the remains on the shore for the raccoons to finish off.  I see them in flight, their unmistakable silhouette, the big wings pumping steadily as they make their way back to the rookery.  I've seen them, a hundred at a time, feeding the young, teaching them to fly.  What a sight. Nature takes care of its own.

I've seen the birds cling to wood siding when a storm was approaching, feed off bugs and spiders and act a bit nuts before an earthquake. Birds are far more instinctive than we give them credit for being.

My Mom had a friend who was petrified of birds, and guess what?  The birds would always hang on her window screens and fly into her house and her car.  I remember being there when she called Mom from the closet.  She was waiting for her husband to come home so he could chase the bird outdoors.  On the other end of the spectrum is my friend Pat whose husband built a bird feeder that comes right into their den.  The birds have become so tame that she can feed them and they don't fly away.  Neither do the squirrels who find the buffet very convenient.

No, I am not afraid of birds, but I do startle when they bang into the window on occasion, or, like today, when the little twerp and a couple of his buddies insisted on hanging on our window screens.

Sorry, birdies, but that sent a chill.