Sights and Sounds from the Porch

 

I have bluebirds in my birdhouse this year.  It has always been hit or miss with the bluebirds, but I was sitting on the porch last week and thought I saw one sitting on the roof of the house.  A few days later, I did see one going inside the door.  Since then, I’ve seen them several times.  This morning,  I watched one of the adults go inside and heard, for the first time, baby birds clamoring for their share of breakfast.

There is also some kind of nest just outside the window of my writing corner.  I’m not sure what kind of bird it is, but it seems to be a very active set of would-be parents. I frequently witness a lot of hustle and bustle in the depths of the bush.  Then of course, there are the mockingbirds, who scold and fret from daylight to dark in the crab-apple tree just a short distance from the porch swing.  The other day, I noticed two swallows doing an aerial dance around the porch.  So much joy contained in a body not even as big as my fist.

I feed the birds in the winter and early spring, keeping several types of feeders stocked with sunflower seed and suet cakes.  I don’t keep a count or a list of different birds, like some people do.  That would make it seem too much like work for me and might put too much pressure on the birds to keep up.  I do always take note of the woodpeckers and am happy to see the sweet little chickadees and finches and nuthatches.  I like the cardinals, although I don’t necessarily share the belief some people have that they are spirits of departed loved ones.  If they are, they are cranky spirits who delight in fighting other spirits for their spot at the feeder or on the tree branches. 

The aggression of the cardinals pales in comparison to that of the hummingbirds, however.  I just put the feeder out this week and four new arrivals appeared.  They are beautiful and I love to watch them hover and feed and zip away.  Jewels in the Garden was the title of one book I saw about hummers and it fits if you only look at appearance.  X Wing Fighters in the Garden would be a better description, if you take behavior into account.  Apparently, they are very territorial.  From my observations, I think they are sociopaths.  They don’t care that there are two feeders with several stations.  Why do the makers of feeders even bother to put more than one hole? No self-respecting hummer will allow another hummer to share.  And if you get in the line of battle, it’s too bad.  Dodging incoming birds disrupts the peace of the front porch when they visit the feeders.  I had to move one feeder further from the porch swing to avoid incoming bombers.  And when the feeder is empty, I catch a malevolent glare from their tiny eyes until I fetch more sugar water.  If they ever managed to unify, it would be The Birds all over again.  They won’t because they would be too busy fighting each other, at least until the sugar water ran out. 

There are owls in the holler beside my house, unseen but audible every evening and night.  And I occasionally hear a whippoorwill down there in late afternoon.  I thought all the bobwhites had disappeared from these parts, but I was happy to hear one call last summer from the pasture south of the garden.  I was even happier to hear an answer from the front pasture.  I hope they found each other and lived happily ever after.  I’m anxious to see if there are more this summer.  These bird calls are a welcome accompaniment to the creak of the porch swing and the snores of the dogs asleep at my feet.  Not to mention the cheerful songs that wake me up every morning.

Since I don’t have to worry about chickens, I enjoy watching the lazy flight of the hawks, and an eagle is still a rare enough sight out here to bring a skip to my heartbeat.  John Denver sang that he’d be a poor man if he never saw an eagle fly, and I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see one fly across the pasture to the river where they now build their nests.

The most interesting bird related event was a couple of Sundays ago when a very large flock of cedar waxwings stopped by to practice their tap dance routine on my back porch roof.  I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  I had started to the barn that morning and when I went out to the porch, I heard what I first took to be hail on the roof.  Since the sun was shining and it was a shirt sleeve day, I eliminated that possibility almost immediately.  But there was a definite tap, tap, tap of what seemed to be dozens of tiny feet on the tin roof. 

The birds – there must have been dozens – then swooped down into the back yard, inspecting the top of the old cistern and the last season’s flowerpots sitting there.  They did a complicated air ballet for a couple of minutes and returned to dance practice on the roof.  I’ve heard people talk about flocks of cedar waxwings appearing in the spring, but this was, I think, the first time I have ever seen even a pair at my place.  My guess is that they were on their way to a dance competition and had stopped by for a last-minute rehearsal.  When they had finished the second set, they flew to a nearby tree, then departed.  It was such a short visit, I almost felt I had imagined it.  I hope they had a prize-winning performance, wherever they were headed.  It sounded good to me.

Another Good Friday

 

As I drove home under a full moon from a Good Friday service, I reflected on two parallel observances that took place during Passion week.  On Thursday, the biggest Methodist church in the county held its annual “Reign of Darkness” service.  This 28 year old ceremony, which brings neighbors from all denominations and walks of life together to dramatize the events leading up to Easter weekend, begins in candlelight and ends in near total darkness, with the only illumination from the backlit cross at the front of the church and the streetlights through the stained glass windows.  The readings took us through the arrest, trial and death of Jesus, with quiet hymn solos punctuating the age old words of scripture.  Some of the readers have done the same part for years, and the end is marked by the booming voice of an elderly preacher from another denomination, whose voice must bear a resemblance to the voice of God himself.  I don’t know what we will do when he is gone.  It will never be the same with someone else shouting out “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me!”

On Friday night, I participated in a similar service at one of the smallest Methodist churches in the county, a gathering of no more than twenty worshipers.  This is not my home church, but they graciously let me be a part of their Christmas and Easter events and I always feel a warm welcome.  The candles were lit just as twilight fell outside the windows; windows that overlook the cemetery just steps away from the little church where generations of church-goers are buried.  And the age-old words were read again, from a slightly different version of the ageless story.  When the last chorus of The Old Rugged Cross faded and the flame of the last candle was extinguished, we left the dark sanctuary silently, each person pondering their place in the familiar story.

On the way home, as I watched the full moon play hide and seek in the clouds, I thought how even the disciples, the closest friends of Jesus, got it wrong.  They spent three years with him, having daily conversations, hearing his message every day, and breaking bread with him.  They still didn’t fully understand his mission or his purpose.  They still didn’t understand that his mission had no part of military might or political power and that he was not going to bring about a seismic shift in the power structure of the world.  He changed the world, but not in the way they expected.  They struggled to understand why he didn’t call down an army of angels to smite the officials and install him and his followers on the throne.

People still struggle with the concept that the kingdom of God is not found in the halls of government or the ranks of the military; it is found in the hearts of those who accept the mercy and grace of God and who try to walk in Jesus’s revolutionary footsteps.  One of the scriptures I read last night contained the words of Jesus to Pilate. “My kingdom is not of this world,” he said, in answer to Pilate’s questioning.  Indeed, we can stand with one foot in eternity, even in the terrible, wonderful world we live in today.

On that first Good Friday, the disciples were frightened, confused and disappointed.  They didn’t remember or realize that Jesus had promised that the cross was not the end, but rather the new beginning.  And even though they didn't fully understand Jesus, they eventually did get it right.

On Sunday at sunrise, my little country church will gather with our friends and neighbors from other churches and other theologies, and, for a brief time, we will unite to celebrate the resurrection.  “He is not here; he is risen.”   The powers-that-be tried to shut Jesus up with a stone.  They forgot that the power of God cannot be shut in or shut out and that love will always win, a love so breathtaking that it even extends to those who tried to destroy it.  

 For a brief shining moment, just as the sun’s first rays streak over the tombstones of the cemetery beside the church, our differences will be forgotten.  We will listen to the familiar story from John.  We will hear the familiar hymns and remember. Maybe we can do a better job of taking the words of Jesus with us. “If you did it to the least of one of my brethren, you did it to me.”  Maybe we can carry a little of that with us even after Easter this year.  Maybe this time we will get it right.

 

Bluebells and Other Old Friends, a Fifty Year Legacy

The late afternoon sun was inching toward the horizon when I made my way down the path through what I call Trillium Holler. It had been cloudy for the first part of the day and I had been busy, but when the sun brightened mid-afternoon, I hunted up my good hiking shoes ( I have to hide them from Scout, who I may have mentioned has an affinity for footwear) and set out with my sturdy stick.

This was my latest trip to check on the wildflowers, and I was afraid I had missed the trout lilies. They are sneaky little critters, and you must slip up on them at just the right moment. Last week they had no blooms and all that was visible were the spears of mottled leaves. Then it rained and the weather was too damp and cold for my old knees. Usually when I delayed more than a day or two, the bright yellow blooms would be past their prime, a mere hint of yellow against the leaf covered ground. But I was in luck. As I looked down the steep path toward a sea of bluebells I could see amongst the blue, scatterings of yellow. 

We didn’t plan it exactly, but somehow the bluebells and the trout lilies, quite on their own, have woven their own tapestry of blue and yellow that our skill could not have created. It’s my favorite color combination, so much so that I use it in just about every room in my house. 

 Sophie stayed by my side as I made my careful way through the trees on slippery dry leaves. Scout darted ahead, trying to keep Bear in sight and excited to be along for the trip, whatever the purpose was. The dogs didn’t trample anything this time and seemed to understand they shouldn’t flop down on top of the blooming things. 

We created this place, my mama and me. From just a few transplants, the bluebells flow down the hillside now, the shooting star has (finally!) begun to multiply and the dutchman’s britches has decided to bloom. There are more trillium than anyone can count, tiny anemones resemble a dusting of late snow, and, a little later, Jacks will pray under their green pulpits and larkspur will replace the earlier flowers.

Last year I found a big patch of puttyroot just up the hill from the main garden, and just today I discovered another smaller patch about twenty feet away. I don’t know how we missed it all these years or how it got there. There are one or two lonely specimens living amongst the trout lilies at the entrance to our garden. We always wondered where they came from and I guess that mystery is solved.  The columbine I moved from another spot last year is thriving and blooming and I am thinking about some fire pinks again. They have stubbornly refused to take hold down there, but maybe my luck will turn. 

The hillside leading to that holler, carved out hundreds of years ago before my ancestors made their way here, is a haven within the paradise where I live. My worries and woes slip away, and I can always find peace there. The birdsong and the music of the water that travels through the rocks at the bottom of the holler are soothing.  Or, I can listen to What a Wonderful World on my phone and reflect on my blessings. 

 

As I always do on these spring excursions, I thought of Mrs. Carothers, who introduced me to the joys of the local wildflowers over five decades ago in high school biology class. I don’t remember how to dissect a frog, I never was able to see anything under a microscope, and I doubt I could recite the classifications of living things. But my heart sings every year when I spot the bluebells and trillium. And I breathe a word of thanks to my mama, who nurtured my love of wildflower hunting and was the primary instigator of our wildflower garden. I have to admit that she did most of the work of planting and caring for the flowers that are there today. She had the green thumb that I lacked and the time to spend, in the days that I was working. She also had the foresight to know that eventually we would not be up to long hikes up and down all the other hillsides on our farm and that we would appreciate having our blooming friends closer to the house. As I huffed my way back up the hill, I was glad of that! 

Wildflower 2022