The Glimmering Miles of It

I'm like those birds, keas in New Zealand, who collect the shiny objects: I go out in the world, certain things glimmer at me, they resonate with something inside me it could be the waiting room of a veterinary clinic, an overheard moment of conversation, the way the light is coming through the trees. Whatever it is, it hits that spot in me that says, "Writing-worthy."                                                            
                                                                                                                                  -Pam Houston

It seems 2014 was a year of taking things apart. It is my hope that 2015 will be a year of putting them back together, in more meaningful ways. Being here again, finally, after a long absence, as I begin teaching the nature writing class again, is a starting place. At the Summer Community of Writers this past year, we participated in a writing exercise with Pam that asked us to find and reflect on a few of those glimmers. It occurs to me that last year - one filled with too-muchness - was overfull with them, those moments of utter importance, whether positive or negative. And there's too much to say in any thoughtfully organized way.

On companion animals: Shortly after my last entry, we lost Pepper, a loss that Z. took very hard and which we all still struggle with; we lost one of the cats this past summer, too, and the last cat is ailing.

On avian animals: That rufous hummingbird continued to try to overwinter, even into early January when the temperatures fell to almost zero and I was changing out the feeder nectar every 10 minutes because it kept freezing. My last sighting of him was January 7th, 2014.We bought a house in March and I convinced a neighbor at the old house to keep a feeder out this fall, in case he returned, but she never saw him. I am still hoping against hope he made it, did not freeze to death (as is common among hummingbirds). Our new house has a very puzzling lack of bird life. Even with feeders out, we routinely have very few visitors. Only saw a couple of ruby throats all summer. At our previous house, the birds could empty the feeder within a day. Here, I've filled it once in months and it's still nearly full. I am utterly disappointed. Especially because last semester I completed the Virginia Master Naturalist program and was planning to participate in Cornell's Project Feederwatch in order to gain some of my required volunteer hours for full certification. Perhaps a change of food will help. There is a pileated woodpecker who lives nearby, which is always an exciting sighting. I could, though, do without the resident catbirds, which mewl incessantly and annoyingly, just like a certain cat used to do.

On place: Despite the lack of bird activity and that I no longer have a mountain view out my window, it has been lovely to have a place that is ours again. We are within walking or running distance to both Wildwood Park and Bisset Park, places where we find ourselves often. Here I will finally make good on my promise to the girls that we will have a garden this summer. Gardening is unfamiliar territory and is a daunting prospect, given my inability to keep green things alive. It should be an interesting adventure. The landscape of this house is desperate and needs attention, another project once winter flees.

On travel: When I was younger, I used to travel a great deal, but those days have long been eclipsed by life. I have been teaching at Chatham since 2005, and last spring, had the first chance to be an instructor for one of our field seminar abroad courses. The other instructor and I took a group of 24 students to Belize and Guatemala for two weeks. I last traveled internationally twenty years ago and to say the experience was astonishing would be an understatement. This was full immersion in the natural world, in a place teeming with life and activity. The experience was helped by having a wonderful guide (he says, "loving nature is my language"), who knew I was most interested in the wildlife. And see wildlife we did - my spotted-bird list was impressive, and we saw monkeys in the wild, among so many other things. I hope to one day return. 

On teaching and writing: It was a conflicted decision to relinquish my hard-won full-time teaching job, but that life was wholly unsustainable. I have pangs of regret every day, but know that I made the right decision. Now I must be patient as I search for a more-right path. I did find, after years of searching, the right place for one of my essays, "Giant Forest." Now the task remains to return to and complete the collection. That project has been on hold for far too long, another of the many reasons I made such difficult decisions last year. 

All the glimmers, indeed. Many more to come.  

Mute Dancer

I am sure that my friends have long tired of my obsession with this one very small creature, but I can't get over the rarity: As of today, our rufous visitor remains with us. I hadn't seen him in more than a week, and assumed, as I have erroneously assumed a number of times over these last few months, that he had migrated. So certain I was that I didn't bother to refill the feeder or ask the neighbors to bring it in at night while we were away for Thanksgiving. And yet there he was on the feeder this morning. So he arrived about 3 weeks earlier than last year, and he's already stayed 2 weeks past his departure time of last year - surprising to us all. I wonder what exactly is going on in his mind - or body - that keeps him here, whether there's a chance he may decide to overwinter. I know they are intelligent and able to survive almost unthinkable conditions; their symbolism in native cultures as "resurrection birds" is well earned. But it just seems that he must, must move on soon. How can he not?

In the meantime, I share a lovely article on watching hummingbirds by Diane Ackerman and another of Stan's wonderful photos. And wait.

A Return, Long Anticipated

Earlier, standing in the kitchen looking at the birds outside on the feeders, I got to wondering where our ruby-throated hummingbirds might be, right now. Tomorrow is the equinox, after all. Then I remembered that there are much-more-obsessive-than-I people out there who are tracking their migration. And I checked the map and discovered that some were sighted, right in our area, this very day! I am boiling sugar water and have pulled the feeders out of storage. They will go up first thing tomorrow. J says that he *thought* he saw one earlier this morning. But they truly herald the real return of spring!

A New View

The dust, so much dust, of the last six weeks begins to settle and so do I. A new, smaller space, which is challenging. But apart from a Very Little Ant Problem (both in scale and in ant-size), all I can feel is relief at no longer having to share my living space with the mice, stinkbugs, black flies, box elder bugs, and mini-flock of European starlings. Hard to believe that life had become *normal* to us, having all those outside creatures inside, right alongside us. And I am trying to return to a normal Me, the one that conjures up sympathy and empathy for those other creatures, rather than resentment or contempt.

A few days ago, The Girls and I spent a long time observing together a lone carpenter ant which had found a dead-moth "treasure" (as they call everything that is found outdoors, leaves, sticks, acorns, berries). The backdrop of this shared moment was the lovely view of the Blue Ridge Mountains from our patio (seen in the photo). So nice to be able to enjoy the outside space without thinking about all the pests trying to get inside.

The one thing I do miss so far from the other house are the birds. Watching them. Looking them up in the field guide. Writing down all the species that frequented our yard. Particularly our (because after 2 years, we felt that they belonged to us somehow) pair of red-bellied woodpeckers. From the songs, there seems to be a great many more birds here (a great many more trees & fewer houses), yet none of them - beyond the mundane Little Brown Jobs - show any interest in the feeder we've put up. There is one in particular that has intrigued me. I'm terrible with identifying birdsongs - they all sound so much the same to me - but this one was unusual, a bird I'd never seen and one with a constant and distinctive song. We finally got a good look at it yesterday, saw a fledging baby and mother in the foliage outside the kitchen window: a mockingbird. We've noted it on our list and listen each evening for its calls. And to ameliorate my sadness at what we've lost, the Preschooler has drawn me a picture of the woodpeckers, which she says is for "whenever you are missing them."

More Feathers, Hope

We spent today worrying about a female house sparrow in our  yard. She clearly has an injured wing and spent most of the day splayed on one of our feeders. Every time we tried to have a closer look, she would attempt, and fail, to fly away, usually just landing in a heap on the ground. By nightfall (when birds should be in their nests), there  were eight inches of snow on the ground - with just as much more forecast by morning - and she was still there, limply resting on the feeder. Knowing that she would freeze to death by morning, we placed a call to the wildlife rehabilitators up in Roanoke who helped  us with our baby squirrel situation earlier this summer, who gave us some suggestions about how to capture her and bring her inside. The suggestions were irrelevant;  in her exhausted state, she didn't even put up a fight. For tonight, at least, she is warm and safe with food and water in a cardboard box in our downstairs bathroom. We shall see how she is in the morning. The injury doesn't look life-threatening, and she doesn't appear to have any eye problems like the wildlife rehab person says they've seen with sparrows around here. The Preschooler was enthralled with this whole situation, watching her father capture her outside through the living room windows, and then insisting on having a look at her once she was moved inside. She's been asking a lot of existential questions lately about life and death, which are hard for anyone, harder for those of us with out-of-the-mainstream ideas and beliefs. We're hoping the sparrow makes it, so that we can avoid some of those Hard Questions for a while longer.

During all this bird-rescuing chaos, my father-in-law called and thought we were crazy for going to all this trouble to help a common bird. Certainly house sparrows don't get much love from me, as far as local birds go. They are ruthless in their role at displacing the disappearing Eastern bluebirds, and while they're not as horrible as say, cowbirds, they definitely aren't the kindest, gentlest species. Still, there was just nothing else we could have or would have done but this. Nothing at all.

Happy Ending Postscript:
House Sparrow seemed to be rejuvenated this morning, with no sign of any serious wing injury. So we all just released her into the yard, where she promptly flew away quickly and eagerly. Good thing, since it doesn't look like there's any bird rehabilitators within a two-hour drive of here!

On Feathers and Foreigners

I have realized that now that I no longer have a job where I sit in front of a computer all day long, to maintain this space as I have in the past, as I would like - which means long, meandering, thoughtful posts - is an impossibility. So I shall have to retrain my Blog Self, to write smaller things, less meandering but, I hope, not less thoughtful.

I am reconsidering my commitment to the birds here, the ones that visit our feeders, for purely selfish reasons, ones I feel most guilty about. Basically, it's economic. Daily I am astounded by just how expensive it has gotten to keep these birds - especially all the cardinals - sustained. Pesky squirrels aside, the birds themselves can literally empty a huge feeder in just a single day, if feeling motivated (which they are, always). With three of these feeders, we are spending a small fortune on this new hobby. When I complained about it to a friend the other day, she warned me that once I start, I really can't stop, especially not in winter when food becomes so scarce and they've come to rely on us for help. Probably we'll just keep buying it and keep filling them. But it's become not entirely a small burden.

As I predicted earlier this spring, the chopping down of the ailanthus forest in our yard has been futile. And if anything, culling them seems to only have hastened their propagation to a wild degree. I'm finding even more - which didn't seem possible - saplings, all over the yard now. In Pittsburgh, my foe was Japanese honeysuckle. And here, it is that ailanthus. But it's a battle I know I cannot possibly win. On my run this morning, I stopped to admire a mimosa tree, another pesty non-native species. It is a tree that, like the honeysuckle, has a scent that is so beautiful, almost intoxicating. I can understand why people brought them to a place where they don't belong.

Twitterings

For the second year that we've been in this house, a pair of European starlings has set up house in the crevice alongside the chimney (this house is full of crevices, hence our Neverending Battle of the Bugs). One of my most vivid memories of the first days with newborn V. exactly a year ago, was the seemingly incessant sound - right next to my head while lying in bed - of many newborn baby birds CHEEPING! for food. At the time, I remember considering the parallels between helpless chicks and the brand-new one I had of my own, how utterly, singularly focused they were on the same exact thing: sustenance. Funny, and sad, how much less dependent my little chick is now, a year later. Her whole world is so much larger now. I used to be the center of it, and now I am simply a (still huge) part of it.

This year, all I can think about is How. Very. Loud. those little creatures are. And how they seem insatiable. And how I wish the nesting birds were something much more interesting and less nuisanc-y than starlings. Like bluebirds.

Hope Is the Thing with Feathers

I've talked here about my "bird issues," how despite my being an animal person wholeheartedly, I've never really liked birds, except for the big, impressive birds of prey ('charismatic megafauna' anyone?). There's just something twitchy, unpredictable, and more than a bit creepy about them to me. All of them - in a sweeping generalization kind of way. And really, since I've mostly lived in fairly urban areas, I've been too busy paying attention to other animals where I can find them to notice something that's always seemed insignificant to me as birds have. And then I came here to Appalachia, where birds are the most abundant wildlife that I encounter regularly. They are everywhere, always. And it turns out that the three-year old really digs birds.

So, last fall, we went and bought a bird feeder for the front yard - which has now multiplied into three in the front yard and two in the backyard. And I dusted off that Audubon Guide to North American Birds - Eastern Region that's been sitting largely unused on my nature writing bookshelf for years, sat down at the front window, and I have forced myself to start paying attention. And this act has surprised me, in ways I couldn't have imagined. Such a diversity of birds. Such an unexpected thrill when I see a new one and *need* to figure out what it is ("I saw an eastern bluebird in the park today!"). Such fun to pore through the book with that three-year old, identifying what we look at together. Such sadness for four long days after a Terrible Squirrel Incident when the front feeders had been emptied and few birds came to visit.

I will likely never be a bird person, not even when The Toddler tells me she would like a *pet* bird. But I am learning to appreciate them, for the first time. And I guess it isn't only the big ones that can mean something to me.

Nesting Dreams

After the ill-fated and much-failed hummingbird experiment back in Pittsburgh, I haven't really felt compelled to do much in the way of bird feeding since. Part of it has to do with my ongoing *bird issues* and part of it is that, while I love and admire all animals, birds just don't really do it for me. But I guess I have never before lived in a place with such an amazing and incredible diversity of birds as there are here. And The Toddler is turning out to be really into birds. So we went and got ourselves a bird feeder - supposedly "squirrel resistant" - and hung it from the maple tree in front yard. We're not getting too much action yet out there, as it seems more different types of birds hang out in the back yard (we'll get a feeder out there next, I think). But I'm sitting there on the couch diligently with my Audubon Field Guide to Birds Northeastern Edition, learning how to become a novice bird-watcher. So far, though, I'm not improving much in my birding skills. Maybe it's my poor eyesight. Or maybe it's because those things are so twitchy and fast and unpredictable (the source of my "issues" in the first place!), I just can't ever seem to get a good, close-enough look. But I'm trying. We're all trying. Z. seems to think that it's "her" bird book and whenever I take it out, she has to steal it from me and look at the pictures.

Thus far, we have identified:

• rufous-sided towhee;
• Carolina chickdee;
• tufted titmouse;
• jay;
• cardinal;
• common grackle

And of course at other places in town we've seen the vultures, both turkey and black. But more on that soon. Radford's annual "Vulture Day" is fast approaching and this year, we're definitely going!

The Rafter Has Lost It's Tom!

I guess I missed this email from the Chatham campus security on 3/19 (emphasis mine):

"We have had reports that our large male campus turkey has been attacking students and staff (he’s the one with the blue head). Unfortunately, this is turkey mating season and he has become very protective of his territory. We are going to have him relocated at the earliest possible time (hopefully this weekend). In the meantime, please try to avoid him and try not to antagonize him. Usually shouting or firmly hitting him with something will chase him. Also, don’t hesitate to call security if you are afraid to pass. They will run off this feisty feathered criminal for you.

The good news is we finally probably have the name for our coffee shop – The Wild Turkey Café."

How sad. It sounds like he was head of a pretty big group (called a "rafter," in case you were curious about the post title; though you can call it a "flock" too I guess, but that's not nearly as interesting). I wonder to where he's been *relocated*? I also wonder if turkey relocation efforts are about as useless and ineffective as, say, black bear relocation efforts?

The Hope for Feathers

I thought it would be like in that movie I never saw but which yielded a ubiquitous catchphrase that most of the planet recognizes, Field of Dreams. I thought if I built it (er, rather, put it up), they would come. They = hummingbird(s). Turns out that there is only a single hummingbird species native to western Pennsylvania. It also turns out that not a one of them would like to visit my backyard.

I am reminded of sitting on H.'s balcony in midsummer, watching all those hummingbirds flitting about. Nope. Not going to get to see that here. How sad.

Two things that i suck at identifying and would like to be able to do a lot better: birds and trees.

This Distance Pulls at the Breath

So an old high school friend of J.'s sent him an email the other day with an interesting story . A painted bunting seems to have taken up residence in his friend's mother's yard in southern New Jersey. What makes the story interesting is that this type of bird lives exclusively in the southern U.S., the very far south. This is the northernmost sighting, ever, of this particular bird. His presence has caused quite a stir, a ruckus almost, among bird watchers and preservation groups, particularly the Audubon Society, and now friend's mother's yard is under constant watch by many people. No one is sure quite why he's gotten himself out of his "natural" habitat. Me, while I am in awe of the bunting's obvious beauty , I am also a bit sad for him. Most certainly he will never find a mate way up there and will likely live a lonely existence, indeed.

Late for Work This Morning Because...

I am unlocking my car door, when above me on the roof I hear a loud rustling. Ilook up to see a bird come sailing erratically off the second story and land, hard, into the tree just beside the car. The branch shakes for a split second, and then the bird falls, even harder, straight into the street below. On its back, almost motionless, feet twitching slightly, I know there is something terribly wrong with it. Instantly I know that it is dying. I cannot just leave it there in the street to be run over by a car, to die an undignified death (though it occurs to me now that perhaps that may have been the more humane thing to do, not painless, but likely swift). I cannot simply stand there and watch it happen. By this time, I am sobbing.

I scream for J. to come outside. We grab last night's pizza box, and while making impatient morning drivers wait, slide the bird onto it and carry it to the side of the house, lay it gently in the grass. It doesn't flinch, doesn't struggle. That it does nothing at all, doesn't resist, is almost more than I can bear. I stand there for too long watching it in the overgrown grass and weeds, eyes fluttering open and closed, breath shallow and labored. Quite large, but it is still a very young robin. It occurs to me that it will never see the soft, downy feathers on its chest give way to that deep, familiar, brick red color. I wonder if those same downy feathers I've been finding on the porch for the past few days were a warning, a sign leading up to this moment.

I am unable to pull myself together, spend the drive to work still crying, haunted by the image of that poor little trembling bird. My heart aches in a deep and twisty way. It is an ache I seem to feel frequently, for animals, but rarely for people. Only for a select few.

When I come home, I will stand in the darkness, bury the bird, say goodbye or something like it. The county health department does not want or need to know about dead robins, apparently. Only crows, owls, jays, and hawks. but that doesn't mean this little life doesn't matter.

As I often do, I wonder if this happens to other people, if it is 'normal' to feel this profound empathy for non-human creatures. Something so seemingly small as this morning, or something I simply see on television (the recent PBS show on hippos comes to mind), affects me deeply, evokes in me emotions that are constantly surprising, their strength, overwhelming and confusing. I have not always been this way, and I cannot help but wonder when this happened, when I became like this. More importantly, I am never sure exactly what to make of it when it happens. Seems like I need to do something, but I'm never sure what.