As I was walking down the country road the other day, I heard a shrill, piercing cry, over and over. Intrigued, I crossed the street and went closer to the fields from whence the sound seemed to be coming. Another snow bird returning from southern climes, no doubt. It was well camouflaged on the ground, but occasionally one or two of them would break cover and fly. This was when I discovered how difficult it is to focus a long-distance lens on a moving object. I took a bunch of photos and hoped for the best.

Later, I looked the photos over – most of them were the kind that the delete button was created for, but there was one which showed promise.

Let’s see what the magnified version looks like:

Aha! See those rings around the neck? Between the Peterson Field Guide to the Birds and cross-referencing with photos on the internet, I discovered it was a killdeer, a bird in the plover family. Most people know the killdeer as that bird which cleverly pretends to be wounded, making noise and dragging its wing, to distract you from its nest if you get too close. Actors, take note – God made a bird that can do the same thing you guys do, and without any lessons whatsoever.

Here’s a better photo from the aforementioned internet:

I’d need a lot more lens power to take a photo like that. Here’s one I took today while I was out, using all the power I’ve got:

Tomorrow: the killdeer and the villanelle. Don’t miss it.

I’ll probably…oh, you know the rest by now.

WordPress played an April Fool’s joke on me. I wrote a whole blog this morning, inserted most of the photos and then went to get one more photo to put at the end. When I got back, it was all gone. I went through the five stages of grieving fairly quickly, but still didn’t feel like doing it all over. Maybe tomorrow.

Instead I’ll tell you about poor little Luna, our cat. She’s going through her own nightmare of social distancing right now. I took her to the vet yesterday because she was – hmm, trying to decide how much information to impart here – let’s just say that she was urinating inappropriately and behaving strangely. I had to go through an interesting social distancing dance at the vet, too. Upon arrival, I called them from the parking lot. I was instructed to wait until the vet tech came out and then put Luna (in her carry box) by the bench in front some distance away from the door. After retreating to my car, the vet tech retrieved the “package” and I waited in the car until the vet called me with the diagnosis: bladder stones and a UTI. She needs a special kind of food now that she’ll have to eat for the rest of her life, expensive food. And she’s on antibiotics.

Until she’s done with her “indiscretions,” she’s got to stay in the uncarpeted areas where her litter box and food are (which aren’t in the same room – don’t worry). There’s no door in that doorway, so we had to improvise and put the ping-pong table top up against the doorway to keep her in there.

She’s taking it pretty well and of course we come in to spend time with her now and again. I want to tell her “This, too, shall pass,” the same thing we are telling ourselves these days.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning. Are you getting as tired of reading that as I am of writing it? :-).

Last week I had a dream about doing a watercolor painting of a bluebird. It was quite detailed and the painting, if I do say so myself, was lovely!

This isn’t as random as it seems, actually. Our house sits on a property that used to be the location of the Bluebird Inn back in the early 1900’s. The story goes that the woman who lived in the house was widowed and needed some income, so she converted her home into an inn. We still have one of the original things that you would put your horse reins around when you came to stay (there’s a perfectly good word for that, but it eludes me. Where are those brain cells when I need them?). (Three hours later: hitching post!!!)

Anyway, shortly after we moved into this house, one of my sisters did a stunning cross-stitch to reflect the history of our property and gave it to me for my birthday.

The next year, she gave me a couple bluebird displays to put on the wall near it as accent pieces. She certainly did her part, but I fell short on my end. Those dear little bluebirds are still waiting for wall placement over 10 years later. It’s a decorating travesty, the kind I’m often guilty of.

Last week, I decided that I would finally TAKE ACTION. I looked on Amazon for little shelves and had this brainstorm that if I got a set of three, I could do a painting of a bluebird for the other shelf. In my mind’s eye, this bluebird painting was going to be very charming: small, simple, but capturing the essence of the bluebird in loose strokes and vivid colors. There’s a Bible verse that is applicable here: “When prides comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom.”

Keep in mind my only experience with watercolor painting is from YouTube tutorials and Pinterest pins. At best, I’ve dabbled. But as I considered this project, I thought, “How hard can it be?” Furthermore, I decided that I didn’t even need to look up a YouTube tutorial. I would simply get a nice photo of a bluebird off the internet and use that as my guide. With these kinds of thoughts circulating, is it any wonder I dreamed about it?

One must face reality sometime. Here’s the reality I faced:

I think it’s recognizable as a bluebird, but I really would rather have the one that I did in my dream. Yesterday, thoroughly humbled, I looked up YouTube tutorials for doing a watercolor bluebird, so I’ll give it another try.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Remember that new growth of chives in our garden that I showed you?

Over the weekend I set it free from the bondage of weeds and old growth and gave it room to breathe.

I am reminded of a passage in The Secret Garden in which Mary Lennox, having discovered the garden, begins to make other discoveries.

“She did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have enough room to grow. She searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made a nice little clear place around them.

‘Now they look as if they could breathe,’ she said, after she had finished with the first ones.

I’m guessing I’ve read that book at least 10 times, half of those times in my adult years. And now that I’ve gotten it out to hunt up that quote, I’m going to read it again. As C.S. Lewis said,

“No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond.”

Are there books that you loved as a child that you still love as an adult? Do tell! I could give you a long list of mine, but I’d rather hear about yours. Maybe we have some in common.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, making room to breathe for other blog posts that are greening up in the wings.

It turns out I spread some fake news yesterday. Yes, rank sensationalism was embedded within my blog post. Still committed to accuracy in media, I offer up a correction. My husband and I went for a walk yesterday and with molting feathers fresh on my mind (weren’t they on yours?), I began to look more discerningly around me. We saw them everywhere. The whole world seems filled with them now. I think they were just more visible on the side of that stretch of county road.

My mind is alway eager to find some sort of mystery where there isn’t one. I blame the Trixie Belden series, which I read as an impressionable child. In fact, when I was 12 or 13, my friends Debbie, Sue, and I formed a group that we called “LSD,” using the initials of our first names. We thought that was insanely clever. Anyway, the purpose of the group was to spy on our neighbors, seeking out nefarious doings that we could investigate as intrepid sleuths. I’m fairly certain that I was the ringleader to this rather unwholesome activity. We took turns going out at night under the cover of darkness with our little notebooks and pencils and stood as close as possible to a neighbor’s home, looking surreptitiously into their windows. We’d take notes and then go back to report to each other what we’d found. Alas, our neighbors’ lives were just as dull as mine is now. They watched TV, they had quiet conversations, they read the newspaper, they read books, or even worse, they did nothing at all. Imagine looking out your window at night and seeing an adolescent girl creepily staring into your house taking notes. Good grief!

The LSD group disbanded almost immediately when we realized that we were not going to be solving dark mysteries in our neighborhood. Thank you, Lord, for your tender mercies.

I saw something yesterday that encouraged me greatly, so let me encourage you with it as well:

In these days when fears are gripping our nation and we are bombarded with statistics, charts, graphs and horror stories, can you find comfort in the new growth of chives in our garden? In these days of swirling changes, cancellations, postponements and uncertainty, be assured that the coming of spring is right on schedule.

The Lord’s lovingkindnesses indeed never cease,
For His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning.
Great is Thy faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:22-23

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

I promised you an exciting post about the fantastic mystery of molting and I’m not one to go back on my word. What got me thinking about molting – wait, does everyone know what I’m talking about? Let’s start with a definition.

Molt: to shed hair, feathers, shell, horns, or an outer layer periodically.

So, what got me thinking about this was that after the snow melted in these parts, I began to see lots of feathers on the side of the road while I was out walking. Not all the roads, just the busy county road that goes past our house. And not even there until you got far enough out that you’re walking next to fields. If you’re like me, you don’t think about birds and their molting habits much. I have my own molting to worry about: shedding hair and skin cells takes a lot of time and energy out of my life.

I found an Audubon website where I read up on the topic a little. Most birds molt once a year and after checking their calendars for breeding and migration times, they schedule it in for any other time but those times to conserve energy. For bigger birds, losing huge flight feathers has to be spread out over a few years. The article referenced a book called Peterson Reference Guide to Molt in North American Birds. I don’t have (or want) this book, so I’m just going to have to make stuff up from here on out.

Actually, I just have a few questions:
1. Should I assume that these feathers were from an old molting time or could they be fresh?
2. Why are they only on this road?
3. Did they blow to the side of the road from the field?
4. Do birds have to remove these feathers, or do they fall out naturally? (The Peterson Guide to Molting would come in handy here, but on principle I would never buy a book which seems designed as a cure for insomnia.)
5. Are these all from the same kind of bird?

The more I see, the more questions I have, and the more I want to know.
I agree with the psalmist:

The works of the Lord are great,
Studied by all who have pleasure in them.

The Mystery of Molting – a Haiku
I’m losing feathers.
Oops, there goes another one.
Oh well – they’ll grow back.

I’ll probably molt this in the morning.

I’m going to be honest with y’all because I firmly believe in honesty in media, full disclosure, the whole kit and kaboodle. The only walk I took today was from my front door and across the street to get the mail (and back again) and the only photo I took was from inside our kitchen looking out the window (see below). The photo should pretty much explain everything. Remember the Face that Launched a Thousand Ships? This shall be known as the Photo which Expressed a Thousand Words. Why a thousand? Because I’m just that wordy, people. If I had an editor, he or she would have to come from very strong stock and have an entire drawer full of red pens for striking out extraneous stuff. Too bad for you that I don’t have an editor. I’ll tell you who else needed an editor: VICTOR HUGO. Have you ever tried to read Les Miserables? Spare yourselves and get the condensed and abridged version –never thought I’d say that about any book. Oh, he HAD an editor, you say? Nonsense. No self-respecting editor would have allowed the tedious and extraneous narrative with which Hugo burdened us. I’ll bet he was paid by the word. Do I sound bitter? Let me just say this in my defense: the sewer systems of Paris. Those of you who have read the book know exactly what I’m talking about. And that’s just one example out of many. Continuing on with honesty in journalism, I’m not even going to give the usual disclaimer of “But I digress…”. I am NOT digressing – everything I’ve said is completely on point. And the point is this: (….embarrassing silence as I realize the pointlessness of this whole blog post…). Sigh…

Oh dear, maybe all this self-quarantining and social distancing is starting to get to me.

Tomorrow will be better. I’m going to tackle the fascinating mystery of molting.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning. If I don’t go insane first.

I went for a short walk on Sunday and ended up in the cemetery near our house. Those of you who faithfully read my blog (bless you) have seen it before. One of the gravestones was decorated with a wreath, birthday greetings and some flowers still wrapped in cellophane, but faded and cold. I saw that the birthday had been March 16th and that the young man had been born around the same time as a couple of our sons and he had died in 2018. I wondered, as I often do in cemeteries, what interrupted story rested there. And I thought about the practice of visiting gravesites of loved ones and leaving tokens of love there.

My older sister died in June of 1987, just shy of her 33rd birthday, leaving behind a husband and two young children. Our family had a tradition of singing Christmas carols around the piano on Christmas Eve and as my sister had grown to be an accomplished pianist, she often played for us instead of my mother. Just one Christmas Eve before her death we had gathered around the piano to sing while she played, but our hearts were in our throats; her beautiful auburn hair had started to fall out from the chemotherapy. My mom stood behind her, hands lovingly placed on her shoulders as she played. All these years later, those memories still bring a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes.

On that first Christmas after she died, Mom asked us to go down to the cemetery to sing Christmas carols for Leslie. She didn’t have a gravestone yet, but we found the place where her cremains had been buried and on that cold gray day, chilled to the bone, we sang “Joy to the World” together, as well as you can sing when your heart is full of grief. It was our gift to her; it was our way of remembrance; it was excruciating and beautiful all at once.

But in the ensuing years, I found myself reluctant to return to that place. Every once in a while my brother-in-law would ask me if I’d been to visit her gravesite. I’d make excuses and he’d encourage me, saying, “You should go sometime.” Finally, on Memorial Day of 2014, our whole extended family went to the cemetery, partly to see the newly placed memorial stone on my father’s grave (he died in 2013), but also to visit my sister’s grave. It was the first time I’d even seen her engraved stone, the first time I’d been there when it wasn’t dreary winter.

Two columns of crabapple trees bordered a path near the site and just beyond that was a small lake. The crabapple trees were blooming and shedding their white petals in aromatic extravagance all around us, like a flowery snowfall. The tears that came to my eyes this time were not agonized and full of fresh grief as they had been the last time I had been here. Time had tempered the grief and made it sweet with memories.

And yet, I’ve only been there once since then. I’ve seen countless movies in which people visit the graves of their loved ones regularly, usually to speak to them, or to lay flowers on the grave in memory of them. Cemeteries are vast repositories of memories. Every year, the cemetery near our house fills up with flowers on Memorial Day, a poignant display of love. I wonder why I haven’t wanted or needed to return to my sister’s gravesite regularly or at least annually in honor of her memory. But at least I’m not avoiding it anymore. There is peace.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Did you know that gray squirrels build their nests way up high in trees? I didn’t know that until our twins took a class at the local nature center years ago. I always thought they were more of a burrowing type of critter. They’ll also use hollows in trees made by woodpeckers.

Anyway, this is a good time to spot squirrel nests since the spring foliage hasn’t come yet. They are fairly big and made of leaves and twigs. My research tells me that squirrels build these for single occupancy only, but when it’s really cold in the winter, they might double up for warmth. And of course, when the babies come, the nests get a little crowded.

Next time you’re out for a walk, look up high in the deciduous trees and you’ll start seeing squirrel nests everywhere. They tend to be about two-thirds of the way up the tree and toward the center. I took the shots below with my zoom lens, so you can’t really tell how high up they were. Let me know if you find any.

Thus concludes our nature lesson today. Here’s a bonus poem for extra credit (which begs the question about who gets the credit. Naturally, I get the credit for writing it, but out of the kindness of my heart, I grant an extra credit to you for reading it. Unless you skip it. You wouldn’t do that, would you? I think I’m still in a parenthesis – time to exit.)

Squirrel Nesting
It takes a lot of twigs and leaves
To make a squirrel nest.
It’s a private little dwelling
For just one squirrel to rest.

It’s way up high and out of sight
When the tree is full and green.
But winter makes the branches bare
And these high rise homes can be seen.

On a frosty night when the moon is full
And windy is the weather,
A squirrel might knock on his neighbor’s door
Saying, “Let’s warm up together.”

I’ll probably delete this in the morning. Go find some squirrel nests.

A few weeks ago when I was out walking, I heard a new voice coming from our neighbor’s trees. This is one of the advantages of walking without listening to podcasts and music – I hear the beautiful birdie choruses. It was an interesting little half-warble, half-gobble kind of song, and very short. God bless the chickadees, blue jays, cardinals and crows for sticking around all winter – true Minnesotans – but it’s awfully nice when the fair-weather group start to trickle back into town. This new, unknown bird was suitably elusive, so its identity remained a mystery.

Soon after that, we started getting visits every morning from a woodpecker. We could tell he was right outside our bedroom, but we couldn’t see him. His visits were so timely that I began keeping my camera handy just in case I could get a glimpse. He’d start in with his friendly tappity-tappity at around 8:00 a.m. and I’d open the balcony door ever so quietly and tip-toe out in my bathrobe and slippers, camera in hand. He was more clever than I, and very shy, so it was hard to catch him at his percussion. He’d fly off, but beyond where we could see him. But one morning, he slipped up – he flew to a tree right by our balcony and at last, we got a brief glimpse before he took off again, too quickly for me to get a photo, but not before we were able to observe a distinctive red head. Aha!!

Internet research ensued, during which I concluded that our new neighbor was not a red-headed woodpecker, but a red-bellied one. They look similar, so I listened to their bird calls, and there it was – that half-warble/half-gobble! I’m really quite fond of the internet sometimes.

At this point, I began to be in earnest about getting a good photo. This involved the sacrifice of getting dressed earlier, since I was beginning to feel a little sheepish about running outside with in my bathrobe and slippers. I got a somewhat dark-ish photo of him on our tree once. Not good enough.

This morning I was downstairs in the living room and sure enough, just before 8:00 a.m. he came a-calling. I crept out the back door (he was out front) and came around the corner as stealthily as I could. Let me remind you that it was 22 DEGREES out there. Bingo! I got a few shots of his head before he took off. This was better than nothing, but I wanted more.

A couple hours later, all bundled up, I went out for a walk and almost immediately heard his call. I froze, looking up to the trees in our front yard from whence the sound seemed to be coming. Glory, hallelujah! There he is! I started taking tons of photos and while I was still in this state of bliss, he had a friend show up, so I got photos of the two of them. You might think I’m getting excited all out of proportion over this, but it was a grand moment and I thank God for it.

As my friend Rachelle often says, “It’s the little things.” And isn’t it nice to think about something else besides that which is occupying all our news and social media?

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Sunrise…sunset: the bookends of the each day. How we start and end each day is an important part of our daily liturgy.

At the beginning of most days, my husband and I pray this prayer together:

Lord God, almighty and everlasting Father,
You have brought us in safety to this new day.
Preserve us with your mighty power,
That we may not fall into sin,
Nor be overcome by adversity.
And in all we do, direct us to the fulfilling of your purpose,
In Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen

And most evenings, we pray this prayer:

Blessed are you, O Lord, the God of our fathers,
Creator of the changes of day and night,
Giving rest to the weary, renewing the strength of those who are spent,
Bestowing upon us occasions of song in the evening.
As you have protected us in the day that is past,
So be with us in the coming night.
Keep us from every sin, every evil and every fear.
For you are our light and salvation, and the strength of our life.
To you be glory for endless ages. Amen.

I commend these beautiful prayers to you. We’ve been praying thusly for the last 15+ years of our lives, training up our children in them as well. My husband discovered these prayers in an old Book of Common Prayer, and in all these years, they have never seemed rote, tired, or boring. Sometimes we even get our hymnals out and sing together, so that the words “bestowing upon us occasions of song in the evening,” are put to good and true use.

The Lord bless and keep you all.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.