Birdsong

When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbin' along... along;
There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts throbbin' that old... sweet song:
'Get up! Get up! Get out of bed...'

BOOM!

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

It Could Only Happen to Me

Winter in northern Pennsylvania is what separates the ‘ridge runners’ from the ‘flatlanders.’ People who were born here say that’s what distinguishes the two, but to most of us, it’s the ability to thrive despite almost-daily snow and temperatures in single digits. Even some of the locally-born folks migrate south in the winter, but those of us who stock up, bundle up, and dig out secretly believe those people can’t hack it here. Privately, we consider them little better than camp-owners.

However, even I admit this has been a harsher than average winter. After the usual several months of almost-daily lake-effect snow, we’ve been hammered lately by Alberta Clippers dropping up to fifteen inches of snow per storm, one after the other, about twice a week, with the days in between often having low temperatures in negative-double-digits, high temperatures that usually but not always get above zero, and wind-chills breaking records in the minus-20’s and -30’s. The last storm was followed by a day so cold I put on an extra layer and used chemical hand-warmers in my gloves while I shoveled, hauled a bucket of feed to the deer feeder, and filled the bird feeders.

Yesterday’s twelve-degree high seemed like a heat wave. Even so, I put on my usual mid-winter working-around-the-house clothes: a long underwear top, and, that particular day, Tree-bark camo thermal-fleece men’s pajama bottoms (comfy whether I’m lounging or working) and a cheerful tie-dye t-shirt sporting Native American pictograms. Yeah, it was a Clash Day contest winner outfit, but I seldom even think of bothering about color-coordinating on days I’m staying home and not expecting visitors.  Indoors, I kick around in lined Crocs, but when I went out (as I did several times that day), I changed to the knee-high hunting-camo Muck boots I keep in the garage, with Yak-trax permanently strapped to them for traction on ice and snow. I had just come in from a prolonged and very physical session moving heavy equipment outdoors, hung up the stained denim jacket I use for dirty work, and was headed for tea-time, when a THUD against the living room window told me a bird from the feeders had flown into it. Maggi went over to see if it was alright, and made a sound of dismay.

I walked over to look, and saw a crumpled junco sprawled in the snow. Was it dead? I thought I saw a twitch of movement, but wasn’t sure. Neither one of us could tolerate the possibility of the poor thing freezing to death if it was still alive, so I sighed and headed for the garage and my boot box. Time was of the essence if the poor critter was stunned, for it could easily go into shock and freeze to death. So I pulled on my boots again, but, at twelve whole degrees, above zero, didn’t bother with coat, gloves, or hat. I grabbed a feed scoop to pick the bird up with and slogged out to the feeder area in front of that big bay window.

The snowbird was still there, position unchanged. I scooped it up, getting a cup or so of snow in the process, and carried it back to the shoveled area in front of the garage door where I examined it. Its eyes were open and it blinked at me. It was alive! Gently I scooped it out of the cup with one bare hand, leaving the snow behind, and it settled into my cupped palm, wings closed, watching me. With the forefinger of my other hand, I gently stroked its head and back, feeling for deformities, watching its reactions. I smoothed each wing, noting a few bent secondary feathers, but nothing obviously broken, and straightened out the tail. Carefully I checked underneath for signs of blood. Nothing. No bird poop, either, and I hoped in passing that would not change. Except for the possibility of internal injuries, it appeared the only thing wrong with this poor wee thing was shock. The treatment? Warmth and security. Holding the bird cupped in one hand, covered except for its head with the other, I held it against my chest for maximum warming action. 

As minutes passed, I pondered my options. There was no place snow-free outdoors to sit the bird down once it began to show signs of recovery, except the concrete apron in front of the garage doors, and I was hesitant to leave it so exposed. In addition to killing cold, there was a sharpshin hawk hanging around the yard almost daily, and other predators would come out at night. Indoors, I have five cats. (Not to mention the pandemonium that would ensue when the bird came out of shock and went into panicked flight.) I stood there, getting gradually colder myself due to my underdressed state, cuddling the bird, absently talking to it in a calm, quiet voice, and thinking.

You all now know the back-story. But the driver of the UPS truck that came up my driveway and pulled onto the concrete apron did not have that advantage. I wasn’t expecting a delivery (with five new inches of snow I wasn’t expecting anyone) and was quite startled, but that was nothing compared to the poor UPS guy who came out of the truck bearing a smallish box and an indescribable expression when he saw an aging hippie in tie-dye and camo, coatless outdoors, cradling a bird against her bosom. Of course, I knew the back-story, having lived it, and wondered what the heck his problem was.

Oh, yes! I smiled and said, “Hi. Please excuse the bird.”

“Uh. Do you have an actual mail box? I mean, is that one down by the intersection yours?”

I removed one hand from sheltering the snowbird to point. “No. Ours is that-a-way, on the main road, in a clump of three mailboxes by some big evergreens. You might find it easier to wrap future deliveries in plastic and leave them there.”

“That’s for sure,” he said fervently. I figured he was talking about the steep slope up the side road to our lengthy, currently snow-covered, driveway.

The box was shaking in his wavering hands. It was just a little too large for me to handle with one hand. Luckily my housemate Maggi came out just that moment and took it. She was a bit less Bohemian about her color choices than I, but had wrapped herself in a shawl as her only protection from the cold and was wearing floppy slippers the color and texture of Cookie Monster from Sesame Street. “How’s the bird?”

“See for yourself,” I told her. She cooed at it and stroked its little head. The UPS man was hastily climbing into his truck, backed with a crunch into a plow mound while turning, then gunned his engine furiously and fishtailed down the driveway and away. Meanwhile we’d brought the injured bird into the garage so we could be a little warmer while I continued to treat the bird for shock and discussed the next step. It was moving a little more, actually standing on my hand instead of having its legs tucked beneath its belly, so I knew it was feeling a little better. We decided to put it on the screened-in porch, where it is at least a couple degrees warmer than in the open, and it would be safe from predators even with the door propped open so it could exit once it felt able to fly again. 

Taking a couple of tablespoons of birdseed from the bin and a rag for a warm nest, I carefully carried the bird to the porch, made sure the door would not close, and settled the little thing on a bench with the seeds nearby. When I went to tuck the rag around it, though, the junco fluttered away in alarm, of course heading the opposite direction from the door, bounced off a screen, and ended up perched on the railing. All right! If it could fly, it could survive. As the sun was nearly down, I placed a small cardboard box out there as a tiny shelter, next to the pile of seed, just in case the little fellow did not find its way out of the porch door by sunset.

Periodically as I was making dinner I looked out the kitchen window where I could see the snowbird, first in its spot on the rail, later huddled under a pile of plastic porch chairs. Finally Maggi observed it was gone, and I later confirmed that. Our patient had survived and had gone back to its natural environment, no doubt with a tale to tell its buddies about being abducted by aliens and taken to strange places with no sky.

Most of the evening I just enjoyed the warm glow of having saved a life, but at some point the incident with the UPS man popped into my mind in all its weird glory. I realized what he must have seen and thought, and remembered his reactions. How strange must I have looked to this random stranger who burst upon just that scene at just that time? It seemed a rational chain of events that had led me there, from my point of view, but he walked into this scene of the movie of my life in the middle; and, like the junco, had a bizarre tale to tell that he would remember and relate for some time to come.

“Damn! I’ve done it again!” I thought. (“Again?” you ask.) “I’ve been doing something perfectly rational and had someone come into it at just the wrong moment, the moment guaranteed to give the impression of maximum weirdness!” And I smiled. Yes, there’s a part of me that was upset, thinking “oh, no!” But a larger part of me was amused, and the largest part appreciates being different enough from “normal” to be memorable; to make someone’s day different, special, and give them a story to tell.

What I'm Hunting For

      Another deer season has ended. I still have no venison in the freezer. What I have is what I went after: a mind full of memories that few modern people can duplicate. Today I had the tedious task of following an hour-old trail through six inches of snow. The woods are cluttered with blowdowns and head-sized rocks, pits where trees have fallen, and old stumps, all now treacherously hidden under that white blanket. I picked my way through this tangle, ducking under branches that the deer had found no obstacle, moving six steps, then pausing six minutes to look, listen, focus on what’s around me.

I know these woods, know them as none but a hunter can. The trees are old friends. Anything out of place is glaringly obvious. Any flicker of movement attracts my attention, although it usually turns out to be a squirrel clinging to a trunk, a woodpecker or chickadee gliding from branch to branch, or an aspen leaf shivering in the wind. About once a season it’s a deer. Usually one I can’t see well enough to determine if it’s a legal animal, or in a position where a shot might not be safe, or moving too fast or at the wrong angle. I won’t take a chancy shot. Quick kill, no suffering, or no shot. And safety, always safety first.

My liberal friends (fellow liberals, except in this regard) would think me a barbarian for owning guns and a monster for hunting with them. Yes, there are what I call ‘slob hunters,’ who take sound shots, hunt animals they refuse to eat, and/or pay big money for ‘trophies’ which are often tame animals raised for the purpose, not wild, fair-chase game. On the whole, these are the same people who commit other conservative atrocities, the one-percent. The 99-percent, the hunters I know, are ethical, caring folks who are out there for totally different reasons. The few among my class and acquaintance that swing that gun muzzle in an unsafe direction for a moment, take an iffy shot, drop litter, or break out the liquor before the guns are cleaned and racked, often end up quitting hunting because no one else will go out with them anymore. My rather extensive circle of hunting friends have a zero-tolerance policy against unethical hunters; and are more typical than the ones the liberal media points fingers at.

As a fishing guide, I admit to a certain amount of contempt for well-to-do clients looking for shortcuts, who just want to catch fish instead of learn about them, their habits, and the aquatic ecology that supports them. I learned fly-fishing through experience and practice, and to me it’s all about the process, not the catch. Hunters like my fishing clients give us all a bad reputation. It’s the process, learning the woods, finding the game trails and learning the ways of the creatures themselves, that lures me out there again and again. It’s the focus, becoming a part of the cycle, using my senses in a natural pursuit. It’s facing the fact, however unpleasant a gentle soul like myself finds it, that life feeds on life; and it’s hypocrisy of the first order to value one class of life above any other.

The deer have the advantage. Oh, boy, do they, as my success record clearly shows. Unlike battery chickens, which are hatched, force-fed, drugged, mutilated, crowded wing-stub to wing-stub, and killed at six weeks old; the deer enjoy freedom, living as their wild ancestors did, often to an old age. Unlike supermarket meat animals, deer are free of steroids and antibiotics, the meat untainted by dyes or preservatives, and lean. Healthy meat, from animals that live an unstressed, natural life, eating natural foods, enjoying their freedom. And, incidentally , learning their territories so well they consistently elude me when I pursue them. Unlike domesticated food animals, they have a darn good chance to survive, thrive, breed, and give me those bland, smug looks the day after hunting season ends.

Hunters know the creatures that live in the woods. Most people who don’t hunt know what children’s stories and the mass media have told them about animals, which is more fantasy than fact. And, it’s true, most effective conservation efforts that really benefit animals (of all kinds, not just game) are motivated and funded by those who love and respect the creatures that share our planet for what they truly are; the people who go out and share their habitats with them on a regular basis; almost exclusively hunters and fishermen. Yes, it’s as self-serving as it sounds. We want to preserve those wild places where we can go out and fill our senses with nature as it is, where we can become one with the cycles of the Earth.

Today I slogged up the north side of a hill, an open meadow, following those deer tracks. The footing was better than in the woods, but snow had drifted deeply there, making it hard going. Pausing for one of my frequent looks around, I had one of those moments. I could see the meadow dropping away on three sides, bordered by forested lowlands. In places evergreens brooded, grouchy under their festive seasonal decoration of snow. In other places, the snowy ground was clearly visible under bare deciduous trees, an open landscape one never sees in summer. Beyond the lowlands the spurs of Broadhead Mountain loomed, misty grey, miles away: Boone Ridge to the west, and beyond it the nameless ridge that holds the old railroad grade that is now Junction Road. Clouds curled over its summit, spitting a few flakes reluctantly at the ground, threatening more. Wind reddened my face, blowing snow in streaming flags across the meadow. I was alone. I was the only human being seeing this sight, on this day. It was like the cold air I breathed had been created just for my enjoyment, and the view just to give me a mental image to treasure. That’s why I go out there. That’s what I’m hunting for.

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I don't see how people can Tweet. As a writer, I could never express my thoughts in so few words!

Flipping the Bird

A friend sent me an e-mail forward about golf today. In the spirit of trying to at least think about seven impossible things before breakfast, croquet as played in Wonderland crossed my mind. This, as most people know, is played with a hedgehog for a ball and a flamingo, turned upside-down so its beak is the mallet-head, for the... well, mallet. Thus the title "Flipping the Bird."

It occurred to me that someone my height could never handle a bird as tall as a flamingo as a croquet mallet. Fretting over other possible avian mallet choices, I finally decided that toucan play at that.

A Proper BLT

A proper BLT was high on my list of “Ten Foods I Refuse to Give Up” when I was diagnosed diabetic. To me, it’s the sandwich made in heaven. Every part of it is necessary, blends and harmonizes with the rest, like the instruments in a chamber quartet, to form artistic perfection. There is no such thing as a bad BLT, but there IS such a thing as a proper one.

It starts with the toast, well-done toast firm enough to stand up to fatty, juicy goodness and not get soggy. My preference is a light wheat, but I’ll accept white or whole grain. My homemade bread makes a fine BLT, except of course for fruit bread.

Then the mayo… or, as I prefer, the light, sweetish taste of Miracle Whip. Mayo’s fattiness competes with the fattiness of the bacon, and let’s admit it, bacon is THE food. Any dish it’s in, it steals the show. If I must use real mayo, only a light smear, please. Miracle Whip I slather on with a trowel.

Next in construction, the lettuce. As with most sandwiches, I go for the All-American standard of iceberg. I like the crisp, light texture, subtle flavour, and non-chewiness of it. The leafy lettuce currently in vogue for sandwiches I find too assertive in taste, and somehow it is limp and tough simultaneously.

I only make BLT’s in the summer. Why? Because they lack that taste-explosion-in-the-mouth unless made with fresh garden tomatoes. It borders on heresy, but to me, a good tomato is the co-star of the BLT production along with the bacon. The tasteless hothouse or imported types available in winter may add colour to a salad, but never flavour; and give nothing at all to a sandwich. Best of all for a BLT is a nice, juicy, homegrown Super Steak or Big Boy, the kind you can carve a single thick slice from and have it protrude beyond the edge of the bread. But I’ll take two slices, please, dripping with juicy, home-grown, grab the tongue and assault the taste buds flavour. 

Now, pile on the bacon! Real pork bacon, definitely NOT turkey, cooked crisp, never hard (which eliminates thick-cut bacon as an ingredient), well-drained, nice and hot. Although Weight Watchers and my doctor do not approve, bacon is the star of this show. Pile it high. Add the top slice of bread, cut if you wish (on the diagonal is the classic method), and dig in. Be sure to have more than one napkin on hand. This is meant to be a messy sandwich, enjoyed as much tactilely as by taste. And abandon table manners during the BLT experience. Dab up dropped bacon crumbs with a finger, lick tomato juices off your hands… heck, lick the plate if you want to!

I’ll be the first to admit that the above instructions reflect my personal opinions. After all comfort food is a very, very personal thing. I revealed none of this to my psychologist, during the time I was using one’s services. I could talk about my job, my ex, my health problems, my fears, but not comfort food. The stomach is too close to the heart.

A Tale from the Booby Hatch

Over the course of losing over fifty pounds, I expected to lose at proportionally the same rate over my entire body.  Or, perhaps, that the places with the largest fat deposits would lose the most.  But, to my dismay, it seems to me that at least half the departing adipose tissue disappeared from my breasts.

      How was it I didn’t notice my tatas vanishing?  Firstly, I was distracted by the elation of seeing less desirable portions of my anatomy shrinking.  And it happened slowly, insidiously, exactly like two bean bags, each with a few stitches torn from the seam, that gradually deflated over the course of a year;  becoming a pair of limp, drooping, pathetic, almost-empty sacks attached to my chest.  At my age I wasn’t expecting to end up with the figure of a nude model, but this is downright distressing.

       Yes, I went from a size 44 brassiere to a 38, but what was once a comfortable C-cup is now…  Well, I can only say that I have not been this embarrassed of my bosom since I was twelve years old, when all the other girls in the gym class locker room were starting to wear bras and I was still wearing Carters undershirts.  If it had just been a matter of my young self looking busty while wearing clothes, a bra stuffed with two pairs of rolled socks would have given the right impression, but not in the total-honesty environment of the locker room.  Lack of hooters at the age of twelve is normal, though, and what I have dangling from my upper torso now is not.  I could be very happy with my prepubescent figure now, rather than a pair of skin flaps.

By fastening my old bras on the inmost set of hooks I can still wear them, diameter-wise, but have to almost accordion-pleat my teats to get them aligned to push the cups out to where they should be.  Then I put on a shirt, and mooosh!  Baggy bra cups.  Horrors!  Worse yet, the largest of my old bras have room for my poor withered boobies to ooze out the bottom, as if they were semi-liquid, over the course of an hour or so.  Since this makes me somewhat anxious about catching them in my waistband, I bought a couple of ‘sports bras,’ which my friends nickname ‘uniboob bras.’  The source of this moniker is still not that obvious to me, as my pendulous skin sacks just flatten against my chest entirely and vanish.  My problem with sports bras is the constant fear that people are going to address me as ‘sir.’

I try to look on the bright side.  Next time I go for a mammogram, there will be no pinching.  I doubt the plates of the ‘ice vise’ adjust close enough together to pinch two layers of skin with no stuffing between them.  Come to think of it, I’ll just suggest I pull them outwards with a strong light under them and the doctor will be able to see everything she needs to.

As for my feminine curves… Can anyone loan me a pair of rolled socks?