Today I was cursed in two languages I don't speak-- cat and hummingbird. Even a seven pound cat deserves some dignity. When she is engrossed in chasing a squirrel for hours on end, I do pick her up and bring her in for dinner. She called me a four letter word I had not heard before. Some day she may catch a squirrel, although they are not much smaller than she is, she is that fierce.
The hummingbird was busy chasing a lady and having a snack at the feeder and skimming by the justicia bush just where I was watering in some mulch. It got into a little spray. Normally this would not be a problem, but is was 50 degrees and dropping. Tonight is projected to go down to 32 degrees for a couple of hours. The forecasts have been accurate lately. Even though it is after St. Patrick's Day, I do not want to take chances. I covered the purple crinum lilies because they get so disgusting when they are frost bitten, like alien mucus on a stalk.
I covered the butterfly weed because, beyond all hope, I am still waiting for the monarchs to come back. The monarchs are getting it on both ends. Food supply eradicated in the bread basket states in this country, thanks to GMO crops sprayed with herbicide, and habitat destruction in Mexico thanks to logging. I remember only four years ago when our house and the bushes out front were covered with little blue monarch chrysalises all summer long. The change happened overnight. Instead of a steady stream of munchers all year long, only half a dozen. What have we lost, besides a curious phenomenon? Pollinators. If you need a self-interested motivation, there it is. I notice a distinct difference in which plants are getting pollinated and reseeding themselves in the garden.
Personally, I don't need a reason to want the monarchs and African elephants to survive. I don't need to see them myself. I just want them to be there, somewhere, out there, living their diverse lives. I would like to see more tolerance for diversity in our world.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Monday, March 25, 2013
spring break ritual
Today I observed a ritual that has been part of my spring break for the past three years. Instead of pulling weeds and vines in beds already established and tragically overgrown, I dug up perfectly vigorous clumps of St. Augustine grass that had survived my campaign of near-neglect (one to two feedings a year and no watering) in order to expand the bed in the side yard where I plant most of my herbs and vegetables.
Today was windy and sunny. The trees are putting on their new suits of clothes. At this time of day, the late afternoon light doesn't hit every leaf as it does at midday, so there are patches of brilliant chartreuse and tea green. As the minutes pass, the patches of tea green expand. Watching it change at the remains of the daylight from the porch is one of our chief pleasures.
I saw a red tailed hawk fledgeling make his first flight today. I heard an unfamiliar voice. His parent had been a regular for several weeks. But this voice was raspy and he wasn't flying so well. Then his parent flew over to where he was to check on him. They both got very quiet. A successful first flight. It's ironic because I had not looked at the Washington Square hawk cam or looked at Roger Paw's blog for a while until today. Last time I looked was in February, and Rosie and Bobby had just mated. Now they have three eggs. Of course New York is on a different schedule than north central Florida.
Today was windy and sunny. The trees are putting on their new suits of clothes. At this time of day, the late afternoon light doesn't hit every leaf as it does at midday, so there are patches of brilliant chartreuse and tea green. As the minutes pass, the patches of tea green expand. Watching it change at the remains of the daylight from the porch is one of our chief pleasures.
I saw a red tailed hawk fledgeling make his first flight today. I heard an unfamiliar voice. His parent had been a regular for several weeks. But this voice was raspy and he wasn't flying so well. Then his parent flew over to where he was to check on him. They both got very quiet. A successful first flight. It's ironic because I had not looked at the Washington Square hawk cam or looked at Roger Paw's blog for a while until today. Last time I looked was in February, and Rosie and Bobby had just mated. Now they have three eggs. Of course New York is on a different schedule than north central Florida.
More about Things
A couple of points made in the NYT overview of Achebe's Things Fall Apart did show understanding of the novel's complexity, something which is easily lost in a superficial reading of Achebe's seemingly simple prose. Yes, it tells the story of colonization from the point of view of the invaded community. It is also true that the community is already experiencing change before the arrival of the colonial government; the elders comment that Okonkwo's breaking of the week of peace would have been severely punished in the past. Could any community be strong enough to withstand a determined invading force? The example of another village that stood up to the British is enough to convince the Umuofian elders that appeasement is the best approach. (They could not know about the Pueblo Revolt on the other side of the world.)
The other important point to make is that Okonkwo himself is not a typical Umuofian man. His attitudes toward women do not reflect the views of other men in his community. He is not an archetype; he is an individual. His friend Obierika takes a balanced and reasonable view of things. Okonkwo bashes against every problem with his fists. That said, Obierika is the right character to say what we feel when we have seen the whole shape of the narrative-- that Okonkwo is a great man.
Reading beyond Things Fall Apart usually leads to its sequel, No Longer at Ease. Of all the other novels Achebe wrote, I think Arrow of God comes to the closest to continuing the portrait of a village's choices in the face of colonial subjugation. With its focus on a man of peace and spiritual strength, rather than a man of war, it provides a good counterpoint to Things Fall Apart.
For an introduction to African literature, nothing beats the wrestling match in the first chapter of Things Fall Apart, when Okonkwo throws Amalinze the Cat. Read it out loud.
The other important point to make is that Okonkwo himself is not a typical Umuofian man. His attitudes toward women do not reflect the views of other men in his community. He is not an archetype; he is an individual. His friend Obierika takes a balanced and reasonable view of things. Okonkwo bashes against every problem with his fists. That said, Obierika is the right character to say what we feel when we have seen the whole shape of the narrative-- that Okonkwo is a great man.
Reading beyond Things Fall Apart usually leads to its sequel, No Longer at Ease. Of all the other novels Achebe wrote, I think Arrow of God comes to the closest to continuing the portrait of a village's choices in the face of colonial subjugation. With its focus on a man of peace and spiritual strength, rather than a man of war, it provides a good counterpoint to Things Fall Apart.
For an introduction to African literature, nothing beats the wrestling match in the first chapter of Things Fall Apart, when Okonkwo throws Amalinze the Cat. Read it out loud.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Achebe
I'm not quite ready to talk about Achebe yet. I read Things Fall Apart during my first year of teaching, 1988-1989. I found it in the English department's paperback book closet. I realized at once that it was a story of great power, that it would speak to my all male tenth grade basic skills class, and that I would need to prepare myself with cultural background before I undertook it. I was too overwhelmed with the daily juggling act of four preparations across three grade levels and I lacked confidence in my vision that the sophomore boys would embrace the story. I did not teach the book until 1995 when I was asked to join a team where the curriculum was set in stone.
How I fell in love with teaching during that first year I am still trying to understand, but I did, and reading Things Fall Apart, having the dream of teaching it some day, was a big part of it. The fifteen years that I did teach it were magical. I later defended dropping the novel from the curriculum (formerly set in stone), year after year. The teacher who originated that curriculum dropped a casual comment as he left the parking lot for the last time. "Keep the ninth grade going," he said. We have not spoken since but his request stayed in my mind all these years. I saw that Things Fall Apart was the centerpiece. Everything else in the four years of our English program depended on it. Other works might come and go, but not the novel written in English by a Nigerian author with a title from Yeats... okay, this is where it gets complicated.
How I fell in love with teaching during that first year I am still trying to understand, but I did, and reading Things Fall Apart, having the dream of teaching it some day, was a big part of it. The fifteen years that I did teach it were magical. I later defended dropping the novel from the curriculum (formerly set in stone), year after year. The teacher who originated that curriculum dropped a casual comment as he left the parking lot for the last time. "Keep the ninth grade going," he said. We have not spoken since but his request stayed in my mind all these years. I saw that Things Fall Apart was the centerpiece. Everything else in the four years of our English program depended on it. Other works might come and go, but not the novel written in English by a Nigerian author with a title from Yeats... okay, this is where it gets complicated.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Rose knows tuna
She's making tuna salad for lunch. When she opens the can, she pours the juice on a big plate and we all get to lick. Then we get to lick the empty can. It's a recipe she brought back from her sister in Texas, many years ago when I was still small and young.
I'm so busy licking the plate that I don't always see everything she puts into the tuna salad, but I can smell the sweet pickle relish, the mayonnaise, and the green olives. The poppy seed jar is on the counter. I saw her putting the sliced almonds back in the cabinet. The grater has carrot on it. I smell celery.
It seems a shame to do all that to a decent chunk of tuna, but there it is. This kitchen is not run in a logical manner.
I'm so busy licking the plate that I don't always see everything she puts into the tuna salad, but I can smell the sweet pickle relish, the mayonnaise, and the green olives. The poppy seed jar is on the counter. I saw her putting the sliced almonds back in the cabinet. The grater has carrot on it. I smell celery.
It seems a shame to do all that to a decent chunk of tuna, but there it is. This kitchen is not run in a logical manner.
Canned prey
The quiet morning shifted into high gear when Daisy charged the bird feeder. She had been under a bush watching. All the birds flew up. I thought it was all over and called her to come in. She had been out for several hours and I didn't want her to make another attempt to catch a bird-- I thought that's what she was doing. I called and called but she wouldn't budge from the base of the bird feeder pole.
I called in the other cats, put on my outside shoes, and went to get Daisy manually. She is usually good about coming in when I call her. Not this time. As I got closer to the bird feeder, I understood why. A squirrel was turning the air blue from inside the raccoon baffle. It had run up the pole to get away from Daisy and was trapped in the can. I wonder how long Daisy would have waited for the squirrel to come down. The squirrel's head appeared looking out from the bottom of the baffle four minutes after I brought Daisy inside.
I called in the other cats, put on my outside shoes, and went to get Daisy manually. She is usually good about coming in when I call her. Not this time. As I got closer to the bird feeder, I understood why. A squirrel was turning the air blue from inside the raccoon baffle. It had run up the pole to get away from Daisy and was trapped in the can. I wonder how long Daisy would have waited for the squirrel to come down. The squirrel's head appeared looking out from the bottom of the baffle four minutes after I brought Daisy inside.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Spring songs
I have been listening all week. Listening to students, listening to birds. The birds have surprised me. (Some of the students surprised me too.)
All week, when I listened outside, I heard a song that drowned out all the others. It was a song of four notes. High low not so high and lower. I heard it at home on the southwest side of the county, and I heard it at school on the southeast side. On Friday, at last, after hearing it all week, I saw the singer. It was a Carolina Chickadee. All week I thought I was listening to an exotic warbler. I know the Chickadee's call. Chickadee dee dee. The bird who schooled me was at my house. As I watched him on a branch of the five year old redbud tree, I saw that he stretched himself up to his tallest profile and poured everything he had into his elongated throat. How could a Chickadee look so big? He was big with song.
I cannot look at a Chickadee ever again without thinking of my mentor, Eva Touster, who put a line in one of her poems, "My own, the tiny Carolina Chickadee." She taught me Ransom and Tennessee Williams. She taught me Oedipus the King and myself. I understand why she would think of a bird as her own, when the glimpse of its passion is so intimate and so fleeting. Everything I learned from her was like that, hard to hang onto and reverberating endlessly.
All week, when I listened outside, I heard a song that drowned out all the others. It was a song of four notes. High low not so high and lower. I heard it at home on the southwest side of the county, and I heard it at school on the southeast side. On Friday, at last, after hearing it all week, I saw the singer. It was a Carolina Chickadee. All week I thought I was listening to an exotic warbler. I know the Chickadee's call. Chickadee dee dee. The bird who schooled me was at my house. As I watched him on a branch of the five year old redbud tree, I saw that he stretched himself up to his tallest profile and poured everything he had into his elongated throat. How could a Chickadee look so big? He was big with song.
I cannot look at a Chickadee ever again without thinking of my mentor, Eva Touster, who put a line in one of her poems, "My own, the tiny Carolina Chickadee." She taught me Ransom and Tennessee Williams. She taught me Oedipus the King and myself. I understand why she would think of a bird as her own, when the glimpse of its passion is so intimate and so fleeting. Everything I learned from her was like that, hard to hang onto and reverberating endlessly.
Poison ivy
We've had mild winter so the poison ivy is putting out leaves in a big way right now. It's not allowed in our living spaces in the yard, only in the woods. Yesterday I found two plants in the front yard. I pulled one and today I'm going to pull the other, or at least the part I can reach. It's growing on the fence and it starts under the hedge on the other side.
I spent this morning browsing gardenweb.com to see if there is any new wisdom about clearing poison ivy. All the threads were several years old. There was a lot of what I'll call folk lore on all of the threads. Spraying herbicides was widespread among the advice. Good way to kill everything else in the area.
My first battle with poison ivy was epic. When we moved in nine years ago, there were two huge vines out front, so thick at the base that they had to have been over five years old. I sprayed herbicide on it and killed the pine tree instead. Then I dug up the root, bagged up the vines, got a little on me at the wrists and treated it with Zanfel, which is expensive but works well. It is specifically designed to let you scratch the itch while it removes the urushiol from your skin. I got another rash the next time I wore the shirt I was wearing that day, so it is in the closet (because it was a gift from my mother) resting and waiting for the oil to break down. That takes ten years, I have heard.
After that, I was more cautious about how I dealt with poison ivy. My second battle was with a vine that had grown up into a live oak tree that started in my back yard neighbors' yard. I went over into their yard, with permission of course, cut the vine, and dug up the root. I washed my shovel and cross pruners with soap and that was that. I had not touched the vine itself.
On the edges of the woods, I put down a thick layer of oak leaves every spring, two to three feet wide, to create a barrier between the woods and the lawn. I get mixed results with that approach, but mostly it works until the leaves break down and the mulch barrier thins out.
I use layers of newspaper now when I find poison ivy in the flower beds. The New York Times is printed on good heavy paper and works well. I unfold the paper and use two layers with each pull, never reusing the paper, then wrap what I pull as quickly as possible into a ball inside the paper and put it into a trash bag.
For this poison ivy that is now growing up my side of the fence in the front yard, a dual platform approach is going to be necessary. I can pull what's on the fence and dump leaves on top of what's left and hope it will stop growing in my direction. There's light on the other side of the hedge, I'll tell it, go grow over there. If it doesn't listen to my advice, I'll look into brushing herbicide on the leaves, but that is my absolute last resort. Spraying is not going to happen in my yard.
I spent this morning browsing gardenweb.com to see if there is any new wisdom about clearing poison ivy. All the threads were several years old. There was a lot of what I'll call folk lore on all of the threads. Spraying herbicides was widespread among the advice. Good way to kill everything else in the area.
My first battle with poison ivy was epic. When we moved in nine years ago, there were two huge vines out front, so thick at the base that they had to have been over five years old. I sprayed herbicide on it and killed the pine tree instead. Then I dug up the root, bagged up the vines, got a little on me at the wrists and treated it with Zanfel, which is expensive but works well. It is specifically designed to let you scratch the itch while it removes the urushiol from your skin. I got another rash the next time I wore the shirt I was wearing that day, so it is in the closet (because it was a gift from my mother) resting and waiting for the oil to break down. That takes ten years, I have heard.
After that, I was more cautious about how I dealt with poison ivy. My second battle was with a vine that had grown up into a live oak tree that started in my back yard neighbors' yard. I went over into their yard, with permission of course, cut the vine, and dug up the root. I washed my shovel and cross pruners with soap and that was that. I had not touched the vine itself.
On the edges of the woods, I put down a thick layer of oak leaves every spring, two to three feet wide, to create a barrier between the woods and the lawn. I get mixed results with that approach, but mostly it works until the leaves break down and the mulch barrier thins out.
I use layers of newspaper now when I find poison ivy in the flower beds. The New York Times is printed on good heavy paper and works well. I unfold the paper and use two layers with each pull, never reusing the paper, then wrap what I pull as quickly as possible into a ball inside the paper and put it into a trash bag.
For this poison ivy that is now growing up my side of the fence in the front yard, a dual platform approach is going to be necessary. I can pull what's on the fence and dump leaves on top of what's left and hope it will stop growing in my direction. There's light on the other side of the hedge, I'll tell it, go grow over there. If it doesn't listen to my advice, I'll look into brushing herbicide on the leaves, but that is my absolute last resort. Spraying is not going to happen in my yard.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Frida's new story
Cold City
Chapter One
It was a cold day in the city. Detective Stripe was on furlough under the couch. The dockets were piling up on his desk. He poured himself another cold one and lay back in the shade. "Let them see how much they need me," he thought, "let them feel what it means to be without the intellect of Stripe protecting the city."
To be continued...
Chapter One
It was a cold day in the city. Detective Stripe was on furlough under the couch. The dockets were piling up on his desk. He poured himself another cold one and lay back in the shade. "Let them see how much they need me," he thought, "let them feel what it means to be without the intellect of Stripe protecting the city."
To be continued...
Nick's kitty girlfriend
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Entry #1469
As I mentioned yesterday, I was feeling a little anxious because my people were away. I wasn't sure who would feed us dinner. It was Her. We all got a taste of a new can as well as the usual one with the blue stripe. That made me happy.
Today has been good. I got to go out early in the morning and the little flap door on the porch stayed open for hours. Suki came over. We hung out in the back yard but then Suki got anxious when She came out in the back yard to put seed in the tubes. Suki didn't run away this time like she usually does. She just went into the woods and sat on a fallen log. I was happy she didn't run home. We played it real cool while She was around. Suki lives behind our house. We met three weeks ago when she came up to the house and introduced herself. Suki gets along with Rose and Daisy, too, which is amazing. They are challenging. But there we were all right together there behind the house just getting along.
Well, I've been four years old for nine days, and I've been living here for two years and two and a half months. Whenever they take me to the clinic, they bring me back here, so I guess that's a good sign. Already I've been here twice as long as I was with my first people. I missed my brother a lot at first but now I get lap time with Him every morning after his shower, and its okay with my people if I roughhouse with Daisy and Rose. But not with Frida. That's a story for another day.
Entry #1469
As I mentioned yesterday, I was feeling a little anxious because my people were away. I wasn't sure who would feed us dinner. It was Her. We all got a taste of a new can as well as the usual one with the blue stripe. That made me happy.
Today has been good. I got to go out early in the morning and the little flap door on the porch stayed open for hours. Suki came over. We hung out in the back yard but then Suki got anxious when She came out in the back yard to put seed in the tubes. Suki didn't run away this time like she usually does. She just went into the woods and sat on a fallen log. I was happy she didn't run home. We played it real cool while She was around. Suki lives behind our house. We met three weeks ago when she came up to the house and introduced herself. Suki gets along with Rose and Daisy, too, which is amazing. They are challenging. But there we were all right together there behind the house just getting along.
Well, I've been four years old for nine days, and I've been living here for two years and two and a half months. Whenever they take me to the clinic, they bring me back here, so I guess that's a good sign. Already I've been here twice as long as I was with my first people. I missed my brother a lot at first but now I get lap time with Him every morning after his shower, and its okay with my people if I roughhouse with Daisy and Rose. But not with Frida. That's a story for another day.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Daisy's Autobiography, Part I
To begin at the beginning, the legend tells that I was dumped on a dirt road with my sister and her 6 kittens. Someone found us, somehow, with my sister's pelvis broken and the 6 kittens and me in tow. She had all the dramatic elements and I had all the spunk. The kittens had all the cute. Whatever, it worked, and we all found good humans with food.
Rosie's first food column
She made chicken. I was there when she fixed it but I didn't get any. It was too hot and then she put it away in the cooler. Here's what she did.
Orange Sambal Chicken
Chicken breasts in a baking dish. Spoon olive oil onto the top. Then cut an orange, preferably red naval or blood orange, first cutting off the peel and then pulling the pulp from the sections into a small mixing bowl. Add a tablespoon of sambal paste, chopped fresh parsley leaves, diced capers, and add ground salt and pepper. Bake for 35 minutes at 350 degrees. Let cool briefly, sample, and store.
Serve with steamed veggies, or chill and cut up to top a salad.
Either way, I won't get any.
Orange Sambal Chicken
Chicken breasts in a baking dish. Spoon olive oil onto the top. Then cut an orange, preferably red naval or blood orange, first cutting off the peel and then pulling the pulp from the sections into a small mixing bowl. Add a tablespoon of sambal paste, chopped fresh parsley leaves, diced capers, and add ground salt and pepper. Bake for 35 minutes at 350 degrees. Let cool briefly, sample, and store.
Serve with steamed veggies, or chill and cut up to top a salad.
Either way, I won't get any.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Where is Macau?
"Where is Macau?" has become a code phrase at our house since the night we saw "Skyfall" because it was one of the filming locations. This curiosity started a series of questions during which we tried to figure out the answer, not as artfully as the logic tennis match in Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead but about as productive. I was pretty sure it was somewhere in Asia, not Africa, but that's about as close as we could get. Of course we looked it up later and I doubt I'll ever forget where it is now because the original conversation was so frustrating and hilarious. Now, any time we find ourselves in the same position-- two adults, neither with a smartphone, wanting basic information-- we say, "Where is Macau?"
This morning was one of those times. I was telling my husband that my nephew is hatching his first molar, and his mother is dreading the molars to come. My husband wondered if kittens go through teething in the same way the babies do. It turns out they do, but at the time we were getting ready for work and didn't have time to look it up. I responded that I didn't think there is much in the literature about it, and my husband mourned the paucity of literature written by cats. Things went downhill from there. If our cats could write, Rosie would have a food column, Frida would write mystery stories, and Daisy would write autobiography. Nick's therapist would tell him to keep a journal, and a typical entry would begin, "Feeling a little anxious today." It certainly helps to begin the day laughing.
When I got home from work, a flock of fish crows was flying overhead, another small source of delight. The first time we heard them was twenty-five years ago on a camping trip. We woke up to what we thought was the sound of two people having an inane argument back and forth, "Un-un, un-un, un-un." When we looked outside the tent, there were the crows, sitting on a picnic table, looking very smart.
This morning was one of those times. I was telling my husband that my nephew is hatching his first molar, and his mother is dreading the molars to come. My husband wondered if kittens go through teething in the same way the babies do. It turns out they do, but at the time we were getting ready for work and didn't have time to look it up. I responded that I didn't think there is much in the literature about it, and my husband mourned the paucity of literature written by cats. Things went downhill from there. If our cats could write, Rosie would have a food column, Frida would write mystery stories, and Daisy would write autobiography. Nick's therapist would tell him to keep a journal, and a typical entry would begin, "Feeling a little anxious today." It certainly helps to begin the day laughing.
When I got home from work, a flock of fish crows was flying overhead, another small source of delight. The first time we heard them was twenty-five years ago on a camping trip. We woke up to what we thought was the sound of two people having an inane argument back and forth, "Un-un, un-un, un-un." When we looked outside the tent, there were the crows, sitting on a picnic table, looking very smart.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Harvest 2
Today was indeed a good day to harvest.
My students talked for twenty minutes, and my part as moderator went more smoothly than I expected. The timing was my concern: 8 minutes to talk about a poem, 2 minutes to respond to the moderator's questions, 10 minutes to discuss one of two other major works with the moderator. Every student came within 30 seconds of these time markers and ended right at 20 or 20 1/2 minutes, and the best part is that the ideas flowed naturally. I am so pleased for my students and this good start to orals week. I admit that the most rewarding part for me was not the precision timing but to hear from each of them some original interpretation that went beyond what we said in class.
My students talked for twenty minutes, and my part as moderator went more smoothly than I expected. The timing was my concern: 8 minutes to talk about a poem, 2 minutes to respond to the moderator's questions, 10 minutes to discuss one of two other major works with the moderator. Every student came within 30 seconds of these time markers and ended right at 20 or 20 1/2 minutes, and the best part is that the ideas flowed naturally. I am so pleased for my students and this good start to orals week. I admit that the most rewarding part for me was not the precision timing but to hear from each of them some original interpretation that went beyond what we said in class.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Look up
Look up every now and then.
I just looked up from a colorful article about Ed Ruscha's new exhibit. I had read several sections of the Times over breakfast and several more over lunch. I thought I was keeping an eye out for movement, because I am waiting for one cat to come back to the house after a morning outside, but to my surprise when I looked out the window, there was the female oriole and a dozen goldfinches, along with a little sparrow, all eating seeds and suet enthusiastically in close proximity on the bird feeders. While I was looking down, the landscape had filled up with color and movement.
At the same time, a hummingbird flew near the window to drink nectar from the orange justicia bush. She sat on a branch and looked in the window at me for a few seconds. I'm wearing a t shirt with flowers on it. She decided that I'm not a nectar source and went back to the justicia. Did she somehow know I had just made fresh nectar for the hummingbird feeders?
Listen for more than a few seconds at a time.
A few years ago in Costa Rica, our local guide, a vanilla farmer, asked us to tell him how many different sounds we heard. We stood and listened for almost five minutes. For most people, that's a long time to listen to ambient noise without speaking.
A flock of robins has been with us for the day. First they were in the yard to the north, then in the afternoon they moved over to the yard south of us. They talk and move around continually, on the ground and in the trees. The hummingbirds commented when I took in the feeders and brought them back out, cleaned and refilled. Every other songbird has been broadcasting at full volume since before dawn. Yesterday, late in the afternoon, as we were sitting on the back porch, a hawk stooped at the bird feeder. He went away empty clawed that time.
I recall our friend Mae said once when we were kayaking at North Key that she was storing up vistas for the coming week. Today I am storing up sights and sounds.
I just looked up from a colorful article about Ed Ruscha's new exhibit. I had read several sections of the Times over breakfast and several more over lunch. I thought I was keeping an eye out for movement, because I am waiting for one cat to come back to the house after a morning outside, but to my surprise when I looked out the window, there was the female oriole and a dozen goldfinches, along with a little sparrow, all eating seeds and suet enthusiastically in close proximity on the bird feeders. While I was looking down, the landscape had filled up with color and movement.
At the same time, a hummingbird flew near the window to drink nectar from the orange justicia bush. She sat on a branch and looked in the window at me for a few seconds. I'm wearing a t shirt with flowers on it. She decided that I'm not a nectar source and went back to the justicia. Did she somehow know I had just made fresh nectar for the hummingbird feeders?
Listen for more than a few seconds at a time.
A few years ago in Costa Rica, our local guide, a vanilla farmer, asked us to tell him how many different sounds we heard. We stood and listened for almost five minutes. For most people, that's a long time to listen to ambient noise without speaking.
A flock of robins has been with us for the day. First they were in the yard to the north, then in the afternoon they moved over to the yard south of us. They talk and move around continually, on the ground and in the trees. The hummingbirds commented when I took in the feeders and brought them back out, cleaned and refilled. Every other songbird has been broadcasting at full volume since before dawn. Yesterday, late in the afternoon, as we were sitting on the back porch, a hawk stooped at the bird feeder. He went away empty clawed that time.
I recall our friend Mae said once when we were kayaking at North Key that she was storing up vistas for the coming week. Today I am storing up sights and sounds.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Harvest
The almanac says that next week is good for harvesting most days, with a few days good for planting. This alignment bodes well for the seniors' orals. Most importantly, though, after a fretful beginning to the week we ended on a high note with successful mock commentaries and discussions. They are indeed prepared.
A handful of them have avoided reading and avoided class along the way. They usually muddle through the oral when the time comes. Meanwhile, they had enough sense to keep their clever remarks to themselves this week while their better prepared classmates engaged in the final stages of readying themselves.
A handful of them have avoided reading and avoided class along the way. They usually muddle through the oral when the time comes. Meanwhile, they had enough sense to keep their clever remarks to themselves this week while their better prepared classmates engaged in the final stages of readying themselves.
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