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BIRD IN RESIDENCE AGAIN

(re-post)

The acorn bird house on the deck took ages to attract a resident when first put up a year or so ago. Birds seem to trust a food source far sooner than they do an abode, which makes sense. The first occupant was a downy woodpecker and I was delighted to look out each morning and see him with his head poked out of the doorway, looking back at me. I had watched him spend ages enlarging that hole and when he had flown away for a meal or to socialize I would go close and admire the workmanship and progress. I wished for extraordinary vision to see just what he had used to decorate the home - I had put various materials nearby for his selection - but I had to rely on my imagination.

When the first windstorm of the season tossed- and turned -that house I worried about the bird but his usual appearance the next morning reassured me that he must have 'sea legs'. However I did eye the rope holding the house with some alarm - it had been there across several seasons and looked a bit frayed. So, giving in to worrisome, I waited until bird had left one morning and with great care added a stout piece of fishing line to the loop of rope. I did not think I disturbed the home at all. But I must have.

Downy woodpecker vacated. I felt terrible. And my upset at having interfered only finally abated, I realized, when I saw a sparrow peering out at me the other day. And each morning since. I think it is a sparrow. It may be a finch. It swoops away mightily and so far my eyes have not been quick enough for a definite identification. I don't care. It is a bird. It is being sheltered in something I put up with that intent. It shares an early morning greeting with me. The winds are no cause for alarm this time. I assume it is a good sailor, as I imagine all birds must be.

The acorn bird house on the deck took ages to attract a resident when first put up a year or so ago. Birds seem to trust a food source far sooner than they do an abode, which makes sense. The first occupant was a downy woodpecker and I was delighted to look out each morning and see him with his head poked out of the doorway, looking back at me. I had watched him spend ages enlarging that hole and when he had flown away for a meal or to socialize I would go close and admire the workmanship and progress. I wished for extraordinary vision to see just what he had used to decorate the home - I had put various materials nearby for his selection - but I had to rely on my imagination.

When the first windstorm of the season tossed- and turned -that house I worried about the bird but his usual appearance the next morning reassured me that he must have 'sea legs'. However I did eye the rope holding the house with some alarm - it had been there across several seasons and looked a bit frayed. So, giving in to worrisome, I waited until bird had left one morning and with great care added a stout piece of fishing line to the loop of rope. I did not think I disturbed the home at all. But I must have.

Downy woodpecker vacated. I felt terrible. And my upset at having interfered only finally abated, I realized, when I saw a sparrow peering out at me the other day. And each morning since. I think it is a sparrow. It may be a finch. It swoops away mightily and so far my eyes have not been quick enough for a definite identification. I don't care. It is a bird. It is being sheltered in something I put up with that intent. It shares an early morning greeting with me. The winds are no cause for alarm this time. I assume it is a good sailor, as I imagine all birds must be.

HAPPY TRAILS, COWBOY

It's been thirty years since I took part in a shoot-out but I still know exactly where the holster would sit on my hips - and I now have hips - and how to sort of crouch and wait on the shout to "draw!".

Yes, a former tomboy, rootin' shootin' cowgirl. (Has women's lib done away with such things; are there equal opportunity judygirls now.)

What brought this all back was the sight of an honest-to-goodness cowboy hat in one of those old timey store's window. A Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Gene Autrey hat. Not a Dale Evans, Bat Masterson sissy, small flat top hat. No, a real classic regulation curved-brim mountain-peaked Old West hat.

I had to try it on.

Now the young man behind the counter did not at all understand why I took the hat into the dressing room. He looked surprised, then a bit suspicious, when I lifted the hat out of the window and moved toward the change cubicle making a myriad of hand gestures so I wouldn't have to explain.

But any of you who once lived for the next neighbourhood ambush, who rode a horse more real than any actually alive (I remember my horse's name; do you), who sat for ninety minutes each and every Saturday morning in a stale theatre barely blinking, barely breathing - you'll know exactly and completely why I had to be alone to try on that hat.

It didn't really fit. My ears seem to oppose any hat I try to wear. But it felt great. As I knew it would.

Just for a second, time was elastic and I snapped with it and felt the plush of the Capital Theatre seats scratching my legs while my soul was up there on the magic screen, leatherclad, galloping, solving last week's dilemma, creating next week's cliff-hanger, wearing a cowboy hat. Exactly like the one on my head.

I spaced my feet. Squared my shoulders. Bent my knees a tich. Waited on the signal. Then, in one smooth greased lightning move I drew my pistol. Take that and that and that.

Thirty years ago I slayed my enemies like that. I was aiming at Cayenne Joe (it was years before I realized it must have been Cheyenne) and the Badland Boys. But I was attacking the bowling alley bully, the math I didn't understand, the fallout shelter talk I understood less but feared more.

In the dressing room, the other day, under that hat, I popped off the same sort of 'enemies': my own inadequacies that didn't go away with age; the relationships that still hurt; updated fallout shelter talk; old ghosts.

And just as that ten-year-old stick of a girl child would roll back her head and shout with laughter in the fun of the moment, the conquest, so too this middle-aged, rounded-out, woman-child laughed. Exuberantly but quietly. (I imagined I would be greeted by 911's finest if the young salesperson heard sounds of hilarity coming from the dame in the dressing room with the cowboy hat.)

I put the hat carefully back in the window. Hadn't even checked the price: I didn't want to own the hat. I just needed to borrow it to release a memory.

Perhaps I swaggered out of the store. Maybe I sashayed. That tomboy my mother despaired over grew into quite a gentle lady.

Fine Lines Monday Magazine Feb. 1992

Blowing bubbles in a rainstorm with thunder and lightning, too!

(re-post)

Twenty minutes ago, the sky darkened.  Then there was thunder and then there was lightning;  actually I think it is lightning and then thunder.

These are becoming more common it seems, here in Victoria,  and we Ontario born and bred are less likely to stop and stare and listen and marvel and reminisce.

I had stopped reading and was staring and listening.

Then it started to rain - heavy, Vancouver-type rain.

Bubbles!  I don't recall blowing bubbles in lightning and thunder and rappaty tappaty rain.

So I blew them out the window and the storm blew most of them right back in;  at least for a moment.  Then, for a moment or two, several wandsful of bubbles went prancing madly out and about, high and low and I did not see one single bubble popped by a raindrop. 

The birds had left the feeders and gone back into the trees when the heavy rain started (they kept on feeding when it was thundering and lightning and seemed a bit skittish) but one nuthatch came sailing back in the midst of the rain and the bubbles and tsk'ed tsk'ed on the peanut feeder.

Then the bubbles went into pat-a-cake behaviour and then dosey-doe square dancing steps. I went and got the camera.

But twenty minutes had already passed and the rain was stopping and  the sky was clearing and Victoria was reassuring the tourists that the legend of Victorian "wait twenty minutes" weather was a fact; the bubbles, by now, were rather ho-hum.  If you click on the photo and squint you can see the ones that were still around for the photo shoot.

You'll have to take my words for the drama.

Posted on August 07, 2012 at 07:06 PM | Permalink

Twenty minutes ago, the sky darkened.  Then there was thunder and then there was lightning;  actually I think it is lightning and then thunder.

These are becoming more common it seems, here in Victoria,  and we Ontario born and bred are less likely to stop and stare and listen and marvel and reminisce.

I had stopped reading and was staring and listening.

Then it started to rain - heavy, Vancouver-type rain.

Bubbles!  I don't recall blowing bubbles in lightning and thunder and rappaty tappaty rain.

So I blew them out the window and the storm blew most of them right back in;  at least for a moment.  Then, for a moment or two, several wandsful of bubbles went prancing madly out and about, high and low and I did not see one single bubble popped by a raindrop. 

The birds had left the feeders and gone back into the trees when the heavy rain started (they kept on feeding when it was thundering and lightning and seemed a bit skittish) but one nuthatch came sailing back in the midst of the rain and the bubbles and tsk'ed tsk'ed on the peanut feeder.

Then the bubbles went into pat-a-cake behaviour and then dosey-doe square dancing steps. I went and got the camera.

But twenty minutes had already passed and the rain was stopping and  the sky was clearing and Victoria was reassuring the tourists that the legend of Victorian "wait twenty minutes" weather was a fact; the bubbles, by now, were rather ho-hum.  If you click on the photo and squint you can see the ones that were still around for the photo shoot.

You'll have to take my words for the drama.

Pig Latin

I can remember speaking Pig Latin many years ago but had forgotten how to do it.  So I googled.  And came up with lots information including this:

 

How to speak Pig Latin:

 

• If a word starts with a consonant and a vowel, put the first letter of the word at the end of the word and add "ay." ...
• If a word starts with two consonants move the two consonants to the end of the word and add "ay." ...
• If a word starts with a vowel add the word "way" at the end of the word.

I wonder if anyone knows how to speak it fluently.  

 

Simplicity

(re-post)

SIMPLICITY

Such a sun-warmed, breeze-through-leaves type of word. Comforting, somehow, as if its very sound conveys the concept.

It means different things to different people and seems a wannahave, something worthy of pursuing. Any taste of it brings happiness, contentment, and the lure is there for repetition. Particularly when it is, inherently, so - simple.

I've been seeking simplicity all my life, in a more focused way these past ten years. What an adventure! It's the hardest thing I have ever done, and yet the most satisfying.

It seems, of necessity, a solitary journey, but meeting up with fellow travellers, in person, through their writings, enhances the voyage and furthers the quest. Like cells in an organism we need each other but are uniquely independent. I am finding that it is through the expression of our individuality in service to the whole, that true contentment, enlightenment, if you will, is achieved.

I have found there are levels to 'stopping to smell the roses' and something I do or think or know today I may tomorrow do or think or know with quite a different awareness. It is both scary and exciting at the same time. Nothing changes but everything changes. Lovely paradox.

And it is not something I can learn from another or teach to another. No, I must experience it for myself, guided by others' example, by my doing giving example to others. This for me is genuine, 'tool acquisition' knowledge.

This morning I sought the sun on the front porch stairs, a rarer gift than a month or so ago when doors and windows were, first thing, flung wide and the outdoors was not so separate, not so much a thing to be reclaimed, weather permitting. Today's weather more than permitted!

The cats were there, of course. We claim ownership to none at the moment but no matter. As lovers of cats know, the word goes out, and the space in home and heart that our own cat might occupy is soon filled by orphans or passersby or neighbour cats. We are willing to be shared and our habitat and my homebody presence has assured a full quota of cat population.

So all three cats were there. And the resident sparrows were making hasty work of the morning's offering, bread suitably placed in the feeder high on the fence, and the last chunk of cake, more a challenge, on the ground. A huge glittering crow in the cherry tree was trying out some new vocabulary and compounded the draw of the sun to get me soonest to leave soup simmering and a load of wash awaiting to just get outdoors!

Top of the totem Cat was on the stoop beside me. He too raised his face to the sun, eyes closed in bliss. His deep belly breath reminded me of a new found skill - breathe deep instead of high and feel the amazing effects. (Such breathing helps staunch fear, clear my sinuses, makes decision making easier, lets me tolerate minor surgery better, grind spices effortlessly, and goodness knows what else, still to be discovered).

I accepted the joy of the moment and watched the cat. Once he had paid homage to the sun he stretched out on his side and I could fully admire the remarkable patterns and colours that make up his coat. Black and brown and copper and grey in swirls and sweeps and geometric lines and then the most flawless white bib under his chin and down his chest. He never seems to soil this bib (unlike several children I have known and a lady not a hundred miles from here - well, chins are terribly convenient from which things drip and bib/chests the likeliest receptacle).

Today, Top Cat (we call him Sims, not knowing for ages if he were Simon or Simone) concentrated on his right armpit. It needed not only a good licking but several nuzzles and bites and pulls, as well. It took him forever to finally be satisfied and I was on the point of a gentle interference to see if perhaps a burr had worked its way into this tender spot.

I was aware of the sun warm on my face and my head and my hands, of the birds chittering away and rushing from forsythia bush to fig tree to eaves with one brave tweet hanging onto a pampas grass stem and rocking gladly. Cars and people passing in the distance on the street were on the edge of my attention. I could smell the soup simmering on the stove and part of me listened for the phone. But for the moment I was compelled by Cat and that has scented my day.

Then the orange explosion of a kitten from next door suddenly sat up his straightest further along the steps and gave voice to the crow now above his head on the hydro line. It was that sort of teeth-bared talking that cats can do.

"That crow is bigger than you are," I reminded the fluff ball. He gave me a tolerant look. Had we not shared the earliest morning sun pouring in a slope across the garden and making the bushes steam. I was out sweeping water from the bird feeder and kitten had leaped onto the picnic table between me and the sun hoping for a tidbit. Once his shadow had moved suddenly, unexpectedly, magnificently across me, startling me, delighting me, I would have cooked him a full breakfast! He seemed content with a piece of the bread.

Such is my participation in simplicity. 

For me it allows more and more receptivity so that I go with the flow of life and become aware of how effortless and right and wonderful it can be. And I crave it, oh how I crave it. It keeps me seeking on.

Smile....... You're on Candid Camera....

I remembered watching this show on tv and wondered about it - so I googled Candid Camera .... and came up with the information below.  Check it out.  I couldn't stop - smiling - laughing.  Enjoy!

 

Candid Camera is an American hidden camera reality television series. Versions of the show appeared on television from 1948 until 2014. Originally created and produced by Allen Funt, it often featured practical jokes, and initially began on radio as The Candid Microphone on June 28, 1947. Wikipedia

Program creator: Allen Funt

First episode date: August 10, 1948 (USA)

Final episode date: 2014

 

Feat with sunflower seeds

(re-post)

Grandkids can remind us of things we forgot we could do.  Such was the case with sunflower seeds and how to open them without needing to use hands.

I forget what inspired the discussion - we tend to gladly embrace tangents and follow them where they will lead - but I told them how I could put a bunch of  sunflower  seeds  in my mouth and let my teeth and tongue do the work of shelling the seeds, spitting the shells out, eating the seed that had been shelled,  while keeping the rest in mouth and choosing the next one to be shelled and eaten.

They looked impressed and wanted to see me do it.  The only sunflower seeds I had were the all black ones purchased for the birds which are not meant for humans; likely something to do with sanitation.  So the show and tell had to be put on hold.

A few days ago I spotted these in the grocery store.  I can still do it!   I can hardly wait to share with the grandboys. I imagine  contests will ensue to see how far we can spit the shells.  

And I will tell them about riding on a bus in the States where the driver had a bag of sunflower seeds on the floor by his feet and a paper bag beside this and what he would do was pop a handful of the unshelled seeds in his mouth and work them around his teeth and tongue and then, a few minutes later, open his mouth and put all the shells into his hand and dispose of  them in the paper bag.  He then seemed to eat the shelled seeds so maybe he stored them in his cheeks like a chipmunk.

Grandkids can remind us of things we forgot we could do.  Such was the case with sunflower seeds and how to open them without needing to use hands.

I forget what inspired the discussion - we tend to gladly embrace tangents and follow them where they will lead - but I told them how I could put a bunch of  sunflower  seeds  in my mouth and let my teeth and tongue do the work of shelling the seeds, spitting the shells out, eating the seed that had been shelled,  while keeping the rest in mouth and choosing the next one to be shelled and eaten.

They looked impressed and wanted to see me do it.  The only sunflower seeds I had were the all black ones purchased for the birds which are not meant for humans; likely something to do with sanitation.  So the show and tell had to be put on hold.

A few days ago I spotted these in the grocery store.  I can still do it!   I can hardly wait to share with the grandboys. I imagine  contests will ensue to see how far we can spit the shells.  

And I will tell them about riding on a bus in the States where the driver had a bag of sunflower seeds on the floor by his feet and a paper bag beside this and what he would do was pop a handful of the unshelled seeds in his mouth and work them around his teeth and tongue and then, a few minutes later, open his mouth and put all the shells into his hand and dispose of  them in the paper bag.  He then seemed to eat the shelled seeds so maybe he stored them in his cheeks like a chipmunk.

MONARCH BUTTERFLY

(I saw a Tiger Swallowtail Butterfly today out here on the West Coast and was reminded of the Monarchs I would see in South western Ontario where I was born.)

(re-post)

MONARCH

I have no fear of losing touch with earth,

For I was born of human, wasn't I.

It's upward vision that I need,

So I revere the butterfly.

Encourage access to my garden,

Entice it with supposed delights,

Sing its praise, and beg its pardon,

An earth-bound creature craving flight.

But while I stand with eyes and heart gone misty,

Drawn to painful yearnings in that sky,

Something gives, as indeed something is taken,

And soul greets soul in raptured compromise!

from Moon Madness and Other Skywritings

Posted on June 11, 2007 at 06:54 AM | Permalink

A Different Perspective on Parking

(re-post)

(My apologies to the young man, yesterday,  who stopped to watch me with my camera pointed at car wheels who stated "You're taking pictures of tires' with a "what the heck are you doing?" tone and,  prompted by that horrid need for correctness, I replied,  "Hubcaps" and he then said/asked "There must be a lot of kinds of hubcaps." and I answered, "I'm going to write about these" and he looked absolutely flummoxed when he realized it was my car as I got in and drove away. I felt he would have been even more bewildered had I tried to explain the "conversations" aspect.)

Many months ago when I had already had my lovely Yaris for a few years I parked her in the Village, got out, and noticed a man staring at the car.  At the hubcaps.

 "I see you also have 'conversations with the curb', he said.  The "also" got me standing and staring with him.

"I've not had this problem before, " I told him.  "I think it's because the car seems to be wedge-shaped and I misjudge angles when parking."

Well, turned out he had a Yaris, too, and had come up with the same conclusions!

Yesterday, when I caught sight of the increased evidence of  'conversations' I thought of that man and how a problem can become rather endearing when viewed differently.

 

Posted on November 25, 2013 at 10:46 AM | Permalink

(My apologies to the young man, yesterday,  who stopped to watch me with my camera pointed at car wheels who stated "You're taking pictures of tires' with a "what the heck are you doing?" tone and,  prompted by that horrid need for correctness, I replied,  "Hubcaps" and he then said/asked "There must be a lot of kinds of hubcaps." and I answered, "I'm going to write about these" and he looked absolutely flummoxed when he realized it was my car as I got in and drove away. I felt he would have been even more bewildered had I tried to explain the "conversations" aspect.)

Many months ago when I had already had my lovely Yaris for a few years I parked her in the Village, got out, and noticed a man staring at the car.  At the hubcaps.

 "I see you also have 'conversations with the curb', he said.  The "also" got me standing and staring with him.

"I've not had this problem before, " I told him.  "I think it's because the car seems to be wedge-shaped and I misjudge angles when parking."

Well, turned out he had a Yaris, too, and had come up with the same conclusions!

Yesterday, when I caught sight of the increased evidence of  'conversations' I thought of that man and how a problem can become rather endearing when viewed differently.

 

Trouble parking the Yaris

(re-post)

What a comfort to know I am not the only one who continues to have trouble parking my darling little Yaris.  Heck, I've parked station wagons and huge American rental cars and cars with wing fenders (that was some years ago, I admit) with far more success.  But after more than two years of continuing to park this mango-coloured cutie (Toyota thinks she is orange) and then having to get in her  again and move her closer to the curb, and then have her tires get too close to the curb and then get in her again and straighten her because she is on the most peculiar angle....well, I thought it was me. Then I got chatting with a man curbside last week about the Yaris - he has one too - and he pointed down at the wheels and said, "Yep, I scrape them just like that.  Don't know why.  Must have something to do with the design."  I thought the same: she feels wedge-shaped from the inside which is just fine for vision and aiming - but hard to park. What I find interesting is how I have not managed to adjust to this over all that time.  At least someone else shares the experience. 

Posted on July 29, 2008 at 02:46 AM | Permalink

What a comfort to know I am not the only one who continues to have trouble parking my darling little Yaris.  Heck, I've parked station wagons and huge American rental cars and cars with wing fenders (that was some years ago, I admit) with far more success.  But after more than two years of continuing to park this mango-coloured cutie (Toyota thinks she is orange) and then having to get in her  again and move her closer to the curb, and then have her tires get too close to the curb and then get in her again and straighten her because she is on the most peculiar angle....well, I thought it was me. Then I got chatting with a man curbside last week about the Yaris - he has one too - and he pointed down at the wheels and said, "Yep, I scrape them just like that.  Don't know why.  Must have something to do with the design."  I thought the same: she feels wedge-shaped from the inside which is just fine for vision and aiming - but hard to park. What I find interesting is how I have not managed to adjust to this over all that time.  At least someone else shares the experience.