I hoped we would spend every non- working minute of my schedule together, making memories, laughing together, with me imparting last bits of guidance to help his transition.  It didn't happen that way.  There were unanticipated changes at work requiring thought and intention.  My son had the opportunity for extra hours at work, which seemed wise, given the need for his pizza and books fund. There was the girlfriend to prioritize and neighbor friends for back-yard badminton competitions. Before I was ready, I was out of biscuits. 

Despite a timely shopping excursion for extra long bed-sheets and new pillows, the packing still came down to a day-before launch event; T-minus 12 hours and counting. All that felt necessary of his life was packed in three large Ikea storage bags, a few bins and a backpack, stuffed in  back of the van. I always thought a minivan was perfect for bringing him home from the hospital in his car seat after he was born. Turns out it's perfect for the packed up life, his bike and snowboard, and taking him off to college, too.  

​So here's the surprising thing.  After hugs and some tears on the drop off day, I'm not sad.  I haven't cooked a hot meal since he's been gone.  It's been two weeks.  I was waiting for the melancholy, the feeling of loss.  It hasn't come. Am I premature in writing this, or will it creep upon me when I don't expect it? I am concerned, of course, for his adjustment; the relationship with his room mate, his ability to get up on time, do laundry at least once in the semester, and negotiate the freedoms and risks of unsupervised college life without negative consequences which could be harmful, long-term, and potentially expensive. But it's OK. I waited 18 years for this, he is ready, and I'm going to go find something delicious to eat. 
​

In notice-me red, he chip, chip chips. Not one to stay at the feeder long, the cardinal puts in an appearance then moves on to the bushes and ground. I watch from inside my screened porch, in slippers, hoping to be warm enough but its only 50 degrees and my coffee is already cold, as are my fingers. But who of us early risers can resist the May morning song? My family jokes that my tendency for early rising on weekends is a curse. Even our dog goes back to sleep after briefly being let out and fed when I get up. But sleepers miss the gifts.
​
I watch for it, the coyote that sometimes trots parallel to the back fence heading east. Where does he go? Perhaps someone has food or trash he appreciates. He is punctual. I hope he's not hunting the mallard duck pair that sometimes bed and breakfasts in a low area in my perennial bed that pools after heavy rain.

Many mornings a squirrel jumps off the roof of the screened porch above my head, leaping onto a small arbor with early clematis and trumpet flower vines. Routinely it jumps onto the top of the split-rail fence and uses the rail as a squirrel-highway to travel around the yard's perimeter to the back. Down one tree trunk later she's at her final destination under the bird feeder for breakfast. It would be much more direct to travel straight across the yard. I surmise she doesn't like dew-wet feet. For the squirrel, probably dew-wet underbelly, too. I don't want to think about why she might be coming from the roof.

I mentally hum an old Dan Fogelberg song and go pour myself warm coffee. The mindfulness of this time is rich. It is solitary but not quiet. I appreciate bird communications more singular than the later day sounds, when birds calls are blended with an assortment of lawn-maintenance noises. I hate for it to end. And it's going to be a day and there is really no way to say no to the morning.

​And then the sun reaches high enough over my neighbor's trees to shine into the screened porch. It's the warm signal. I sit, like a charging cell phone, while the warmth and the May morning sounds power me up after a week of work. And now I'm ready to have my day.

Perhaps you have wondered how the bachelor wren I wrote about in early June has fared? 

As a result of his persistent wooing, I had the delight of watching both a He and She-Wren complete a nest in the gourd hanging outside my kitchen window.  The wren singing went steadily on for weeks. I was nearing wren-song fatigue. There is no correlation between He-Wren's tiny size and the amplifier-inspired volume of his melodies.  One morning while outside weeding, because that's what all gardeners are doing in mid-June, I heard something else-- the unmistakable peeping of hungry baby wrens. Success!

I enjoyed the view from my vantage point at the kitchen window. He and She-wren flew repeatedly into the gourd on feeding missions.  Wrens are impressively adept at catching meals.  I was mentally exhausted for them, recalling  my own motherhood experiences--  the feedings that at one time blended endlessly together. I encouraged them with blatant self-interest, "Catch the mosquitos. Feed them mosquitos".  Knowing that fledging was imminent, I was camera ready.

Then we went on vacation.  Two weeks of vacation. 

I imagine She-Wren viewed the serendipitous lack of humans as perfect timing. Sadly, when we returned, the birds were gone. I missed their maiden flights.  I missed the money-shot photos of tiny heads poking curiously out the entrance of the gourd.   I missed knowing with certainty that they left the nest successfully, unharmed by the neighbor's patrolling cat.  I checked carefully;  no evidence to suggest a malicious event.  

So, that is the end of the wren story. In an ironic bit of timing, my son is away at camp this week. After all of my wren writings, I especially feel the empty nest.  It's awfully quiet. 

This house wren has taken up residence outside my kitchen window.  He's a mere mite of a bird, falling in size somewhere between 'larger than a hummingbird' and 'smaller than a goldfinch'.  I had to identify him in Stokes Field Guide to Birds because, while I am adept at identifying all the obviously marked birds, this lovely guy fell into my embarrassingly large category of birds named  'Little Brown Bird'. 

His subtle tawny markings and camera-shy habits  first made me think him a timid bird but I've been observing him daily and now realize my first impression is an injustice. He-wren is diminutive in size but colossal in spirit.

He-wren found the old gourd hanging from the witch-hazel branch and set to making it a home. From my kitchen vantage point I watch him tuck in tiny twigs, dried grass and whatever other flotsam he finds nest-worthy. What I read about the nesting habits of house wrens is that the male builds a nest, often more than one.  Once ready, he begins the serenade for a she-wren. She-wren answers the call and takes a look at the proposed nest site. If this is to her liking, well, that's where the 'birds' part of the birds and the bees comes in.

So, nest ready, He-wren starts to sing. For a tiny bird he demonstrates operatic range and Ironman endurance.  He sings and sings and sings and sings and sings.

And then there are two wrens in the witch-hazel.  I am delighted for him!  

Sadly, his gourd nest is located outside the kitchen window, also directly adjacent our brick walkway. It's not a secluded spot for wooing she-wrens.  It's late spring; we mow weekly.  There are water-fighting kids in the yard and a sun-basking dog. The gourd hangs within 15 feet of the gas grill and not far from the fire pit.  In real estate terms, He-wren built on a busy street. But he only needs one buyer, right?

And so the advertising continues. Occasionally I see a female, and then she's gone. Still, he sings, and sits, ever hopeful. Each morning as I prepare my coffee, I tell him I am hoping today is his lucky day. He's putting serious vocal effort into this pursuit.   He flits from branch to branch and the He-wren version of a Craig's-list advertisement, home for occupancy, is posted again and again.  

So, on to my lessons learned.  I begin with the obvious. Taking the easiest route to something you really want (in He-wren's case, a mate) is not, perhaps, the best route. There's a reason I've never had birds nest in the old decorative gourd next to the busy pathway. I'm guessing the first rule of successful nest building is probably location, location, location.

But on a positive note, I am encouraged, daily, by the persistence and optimism of the He-Wren.   He has a goal:  Get a She-wren.  He has a plan:  Build a nest by taking one step, one little twig and strip of dried grass at a time. Then, advertise. 

He-wren didn't get stuck at, "What if ?"  He didn't stop because of the possibility he might fail or his house (or he) would be rejected. He took action!  He did his best. Now he sings out for the whole neighborhood and every she-wren to hear. I just love He-wren's spirit!  

Perhaps I'll post a future picture of tiny house wrens with hungry beaks poking out from the entrance of the gourd nest.  Perhaps there will be none.  If he doesn't succeed this year, He-wren will likely build a more secluded nest next year and in his years to come.  All is not lost in failure. 

These are my lessons from the  house wren.  There are so many things I'd like to accomplish.  I am inspired by the he-wren in the witch-hazel. And, incidentally, in the fall I'll move the gourd to a more secluded spot!

I am a gardener.  That is to say, I plant things and I obsessively enjoy watching them grow. It doesn't always work as I would like. In the spring I stare at the bare soil most mornings, cup of coffee in hand, and will things to burst forth. If you are a gardener you understand this.  If you are not a gardener I don't know what you think. Having survived such a long and agonizingly drawn-out winter, I am taking extra delight in my spring garden, for which I've been forced to wait.  Did I mention we had snow showers the last week of April? I write the following list purely to remind myself, but in case anyone out there is reading, I'll share spring's ten most delightful things in my garden.

1. The hairy, solitary blossom that modestly hides under the leaves of the wild ginger plant.  You have to be a 'real gardener' to look for this tiny, understated blossom. Spotting this bloom is my private little secret.  This is no flashy daffodil or tulip bloom. My gardening snobbery emerges.  Perhaps even better than spotting the unassuming blossom, watching the leaves of the wild ginger plant unfold as it pushes up through the earth is pure gardener dessert. Wild ginger leaves are living origami packages that unfold in stages, like pages of a pop-up book, at times faintly resembling a StarWars battleship cruiser.  You can take my word for it.

2. I delight in the deeply red wine-colored veins of the heuchera.  When I lived in the Pacific Northwest these leaves were often devoured by slugs.  Thankfully, not so much, in my current midwest location.  What gardener can resist these leaf colors that, incidentally, last throughout the summer? Who needs blossoms with delicious leaves like this?   

3. I delight in the ferns. Only the most distracted can pass the place in their gardens where ferns reside and not look for those tightly curled fronds, tense with potential energy, ready to spring open in shapes suggestive of shepherd's hooks or seahorses or elven-sized saxophones. And oh, when there is sunlight on those symmetrical tender fronds, perfection! Perfection in a garden, or in anything for that matter, is so fleeting. I love the ferns in the early spring!

4. I am delighted by the daffodils; the early sentinels that stand watch over the garden and alertly signal the other plants it is safe to come out.  These are the forward guards of the garden.  They fear not the deer nor the late frost nor the heavy rain.  Daffodils stand, ever cheerful and so detailed, with ruffled trumpets and graceful petals. I hope that I can be as resilient during storms as the daffodils!

5. I delight in the four tulips that the deer did NOT eat.

6. The native trillium that poke up, untended and unintended, feed my need for early spring progress while other, later-waking perennials slowly make headway.  What gardener can resist their dappled leaves and crimson blossoms as they bring nature's punctuation to nearly barren flower beds. They are delightful.

7. & 8.  Patterns!  I'm delighted by the harlequin checkered pattern of the frittilaria with their elegant bell-shaped blossoms that come early and linger, if uninterrupted, until late in the spring.  And don't overlook the speckled leaves of pulmonaria, wearing fashionable polka-dots because they can. These little details are the stuff of my delight. 

9. & 10. The company of birds! What is more delightful than the nuthatches that scour the tree bark as adeptly upside down as right-side-up? In the dark feathers at the back of their heads I see Batman's broadly shouldered cape. And finally, the poorly-named red-bellied wood pecker, with white belly and red cap, while usually bashful, found it no hardship to pose for the camera today. The birds and I work side by side in the spring and their presence is delightful in my garden. To the humans in my family and the lumbering dog, I find myself saying with alarm, "Watch your step! That's a little plant sprouting there." The birds give me no cause for concern.

All of the winter whining, the cold and freeze and snow is now forgotten. For just a few days, all is delight. Soon enough, I'll hear myself talking about the humidity, the weeds and grubs, and, of course, the mosquitos. That is a list for another time. For now I'm just savoring the delights in my garden.

We've been blanketed in snow since early December.  There's something very pleasant about the brightness of the light that reflects through the windows in the morning.  As it has been persistently cold, that snow covering has not yet deteriorated into the ugliness of winter snow; the dirty patchiness that comes with melt and the revelation of unswept leaves hidden beneath.  I know it is coming.  Right now it is a minimalist painting of brightness and shadowy contrast with animal tracks that give away the patterns of a dog let out the back door, the squirrels under the bird feeder and other wildlife that apparently sneak, stealthily, into and out of the periphery when no one is looking.  The snow makes everything appear clean.

I wish that it were so on the inside.  The winter outside brings a chalky mess of gritty snow-melt chemicals and salt to the floors in the kitchen and front entryway.  Well mannered guests and properly trained kids throw their boots and shoes into an ugly rubber boot tray that, at any other time I would not leave out in plain sight in the house, but for the drippy muck, it sits prominently near the door. On the floor near the back door can be found perfect prints of sloppy dog paws because I've yet to train the black lab to wipe her feet.  And so, I wipe and mop and, because we go in and out, I wipe and mop again. 

Snow-cover well illustrates my busy life these days, which may look bright on the exterior but underneath there is a messiness, a gritty accumulation of the salt, sand  and unwashed laundry of a too-busy schedule which needs some sweeping up before the melt, or possibly, someone's melt-down. I'm thinking of the volunteer work I do for the school that has been successful for fundraising but has left me serving micro-waved dinner to my incredibly tolerant family more often in the last two weeks than I care to admit. I'm thinking of the unessential things to which I've said 'yes' and the subsequent unmade phone calls and missed walks with friends who are dealing with life challenges. 

Thanksgiving Trivia to Ponder While the Turkey Roasts

1. Thanksgiving is celebrated in the United States on the_____Thursday of November?

a.     first
b.     second
c.     third
d.     fourth

2. The settlers that came over the Atlantic Ocean to find a new life for themselves are most commonly referred to as ___________?

a.     Pirates
b.     Mormons
c.     Pilgrims
d.     New Yorkers

3. Those same settlers came over the Atlantic on a ship called the _________.

a.     the Queen Elizabeth
b.     the Pinta
c.     the Mayflower
d.     the Titanic

4. The strip of land where these settlers landed, in now what is Massachusetts, is ________________?

a.    Cape Canaveral
b.    Cape Meridian
c.    Long Island
d.    Cape Cod

5.  The agreement that the early settlers wrote and signed, stating that everyone must follow the rules of the new colony was called the _____________?

a.   Mayflower Manifesto
b.   Compact of Cape Cod
c.   Standish Agreement
d.   Mayflower Compact

6.  The sea voyage that carried men, women, children, livestock and dogs took ____days to complete?

a.   33
b.   44
c.   55
d.   66

7.  The hokey tourist attraction at Plymouth, where Pilgrims are said to have first stepped on dry land is called____________.

a.    Plymouth boulder
b.    Plymouth rock
c.    Plymouth sand bar
d.    Plymouth boardwalk

8.  The Pilgrims were befriended by local Indians from the _________________tribes?

a.   Sammamish & Salish
b.   Tiquoat & Choate
c.    Wampanoag & Patuxet
d.    Souix & Chumash

9.  Tisquantum was a one of the only surviving Indians who did not succumb to small pox, brought by the white settlers.  He lived with the Pilgrims and taught them local survival skills such as how to plant, which native plants were edible and how to fish and trap.  He is more commonly known as __________.

a.   Squanto
b.   Tonto
c.   Silver
d.   Sacagawea

10. The First governor of Plymouth was ___________________. He died the first winter in the New World.

a.   William Bradford
b.   John Carver
c.   Miles Standish
d.   Samoset

11.  The first Thanksgiving feast was held in celebration of their first bountiful harvest.  The meal included cod, bass, eel, duck, and geese, in addition to wild turkey.  The year of that first feast was _______?

a.  1492
b.  1621
c.  1739
d.  1879

12.  Chief Massasoit joined the settlers on the day of the feast and brought along a few friends.  The ______Pilgrims were joined by ninety Indians who then went into the forest and returned with five deer to add to the feast so they could all eat.   (Note: This is why it is polite to RSVP to a party, so the hostess will know how much wild game to kill and prepare for guests).

a.   19
b.   38
c.   52
d.   76

13. Plymouth was the second permanent English settlement in the New World.  What was the first?

a.    Salem, Massachusetts
b.    New York, New York
c.     Baltimore, Maryland
d.    Jamestown, Virginia

14. Thanksgiving was declared a National Holiday by president___________in 1863?

a.   George Washington
b.   John Adams
c.   Abraham Lincoln
d.   F. D. Roosevelt


Answers:  1 d, 2 c, 3 c, 4d, 5 d, 6 d, 7 b, 8 c, 9 a, 10 b, 11 b, 12 c, 13 d, 14 c.