I look out my window and see hard travelers, migratory birds on their way back down south again. I look out my window at my garden and know that I'll soon be needing to stock my feeder again. Right now my little patch of color is filled with flowers and squash. To add seed to the feeder right now would mean the end of that. The squirrels would be at it before too long and would tear everything up in search of sunflowers seeds or whatever they could find. Too much bother for the moment. There's still plenty of chow around for them to savor in somebody else's flower bed.
I took down my bird bath a couple months ago when I was pushing the outside work really hard. I was determined to have this house ready to go into the hands of the next owner by the end of the month but from what I can tell it's not happening. What seems to be happening is that I'm here and the kids are in Boise and that I'll be heading into the heart of fall and the beginning of the cold season on my own. For the first time since I can't remember when I'm truly on my own and I still don't know what to think of that. But what I do know is that it's almost time to put that birdbath back up again.
I look out the window at the garden and see things out there that take me back to other days, to times when birding was new and I had a guide to walk me through all those little moments that might have been laughable to someone other than you. You were kind in that way, telling me the names of birds and quizzing me when you figured I should know something and bringing things into my life that I needed to have to more actively appreciate the hobby. In turn I became a willing pupil and took to those guides and bought my seed and tolerated the pests that the seeds brought in order to feed the birds.
Birding seemed to be something that was always very special to you and you were determined to share that love of the hobby with me. I think of that birdbath you won that night at Gala as the first great birding experience we shared back in the beginning of our days. We were both working the floor that night, handling the silent auction and both of us kept watch on the bids for the birdbath. We had a pact going, that we would keep the bids moving along with our initials regardless of the cost. You wanted that birdbath and I was determined to help you win it. At the end of the auction you indeed did come out on top. It was a pricey win but it was beautiful and fragile and delicate. All too much like our arrangement. But what's money when it's something you love?
We trundled that bird bath to your house that night in the back of my car. We wrapped it well and took great care not to do any harm to that piece. I wonder about it now and then when I come across my old green and hardy plastic birdbath, the one you gave me on my birthday so long ago. I look at mine and think "pedestrian", "tough", "rugged", and know that's what I am supposed to be at this point. My relationship with birds has flagged a bit but I still thrill when I see birds around my neighborhood like our famous Blue Heron and our local woodpeckers and kingfishers. Alot of the tools of the hobby are tucked away now. The bird poster you gave me is folded up and stuck away in the crate. The bird guides, on the most part, are in storage. The big bird show in Portland was missed once again this year and yet I know that it's almost time to revisit one of those old pleasures. I know that winter is an important time to take care of the stragglers, the birds that stick around the Sound instead of taking off for warmer climes.
I can relate to those stragglers. I sometimes feel like one of those birds, one of the ones that stick around through winter and endure it. It would have been oh so easy to go, to take off to a sunnier place, to leave behind all this craziness, all these dogged memories. But somebody has to be the one to lend the place some color, to sing the old songs, to hunker down and take it and show Old Man Winter that he's not the king of the place, but that I am.
Yeah, the King of Winter. I can relate to that.
So, tell me Jane, what became of that bird bath? I will be wondering about it once I dig up my dahlia bulbs and prepare the garden for winter. The feeder will soon be up and stocked. I won't worry too much about vermin that roam about on the other side of the alley. The English ivy vines are down and access points to the attic of the Little House are few. The birds will be hungry come December and they will be to happy know that somebody was there along the line that taught me the fine art of feeding the less fortunate, even if, for the moment, those that are being fed are just our fine feathered friends.
I took down my bird bath a couple months ago when I was pushing the outside work really hard. I was determined to have this house ready to go into the hands of the next owner by the end of the month but from what I can tell it's not happening. What seems to be happening is that I'm here and the kids are in Boise and that I'll be heading into the heart of fall and the beginning of the cold season on my own. For the first time since I can't remember when I'm truly on my own and I still don't know what to think of that. But what I do know is that it's almost time to put that birdbath back up again.
I look out the window at the garden and see things out there that take me back to other days, to times when birding was new and I had a guide to walk me through all those little moments that might have been laughable to someone other than you. You were kind in that way, telling me the names of birds and quizzing me when you figured I should know something and bringing things into my life that I needed to have to more actively appreciate the hobby. In turn I became a willing pupil and took to those guides and bought my seed and tolerated the pests that the seeds brought in order to feed the birds.
Birding seemed to be something that was always very special to you and you were determined to share that love of the hobby with me. I think of that birdbath you won that night at Gala as the first great birding experience we shared back in the beginning of our days. We were both working the floor that night, handling the silent auction and both of us kept watch on the bids for the birdbath. We had a pact going, that we would keep the bids moving along with our initials regardless of the cost. You wanted that birdbath and I was determined to help you win it. At the end of the auction you indeed did come out on top. It was a pricey win but it was beautiful and fragile and delicate. All too much like our arrangement. But what's money when it's something you love?
We trundled that bird bath to your house that night in the back of my car. We wrapped it well and took great care not to do any harm to that piece. I wonder about it now and then when I come across my old green and hardy plastic birdbath, the one you gave me on my birthday so long ago. I look at mine and think "pedestrian", "tough", "rugged", and know that's what I am supposed to be at this point. My relationship with birds has flagged a bit but I still thrill when I see birds around my neighborhood like our famous Blue Heron and our local woodpeckers and kingfishers. Alot of the tools of the hobby are tucked away now. The bird poster you gave me is folded up and stuck away in the crate. The bird guides, on the most part, are in storage. The big bird show in Portland was missed once again this year and yet I know that it's almost time to revisit one of those old pleasures. I know that winter is an important time to take care of the stragglers, the birds that stick around the Sound instead of taking off for warmer climes.
I can relate to those stragglers. I sometimes feel like one of those birds, one of the ones that stick around through winter and endure it. It would have been oh so easy to go, to take off to a sunnier place, to leave behind all this craziness, all these dogged memories. But somebody has to be the one to lend the place some color, to sing the old songs, to hunker down and take it and show Old Man Winter that he's not the king of the place, but that I am.
Yeah, the King of Winter. I can relate to that.
So, tell me Jane, what became of that bird bath? I will be wondering about it once I dig up my dahlia bulbs and prepare the garden for winter. The feeder will soon be up and stocked. I won't worry too much about vermin that roam about on the other side of the alley. The English ivy vines are down and access points to the attic of the Little House are few. The birds will be hungry come December and they will be to happy know that somebody was there along the line that taught me the fine art of feeding the less fortunate, even if, for the moment, those that are being fed are just our fine feathered friends.
Love.
Your WHMB
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