Thursday, May 5, 2016


During a warm week in late March, I was doing some garden cleanup, weeding and such.  I was rummaging around my little potting bench looking for the nasturtium seeds I had harvested in the fall when I moved a plastic bag which had been shoved to the back of a shelf.  Out burst a little bird squawking at me.

 I was startled, then curious.  Why was there a little bird hiding in a plastic bag?
 Apparently it made a nice nesting spot because there were 5 jelly bean sized eggs in a tiny nest inside the bag.  I pushed it back as best I could to it's original spot and vowed to leave it alone.

Yeah, right.  I was peeking in every few days to see if the mommy bird had returned and then to see the progress.  I was alerted to the baby birds by the most adorable peeping comping from the bag - that time I did not peek.  But a week later I couldn't help myself and took a look at the ugly little things (Wiki calls them naked and helpless) squirming around in the nest.  Then I kept my vow for another week or so.

Last Sunday I was working in the yard and saw the mommy bird fly out and took another peek.  I startled one of the babies which caused it to hop out of the nest and flutter and hop into the nearby bushes.  I felt terrible.  Had I doomed this little bird which obviously could not fly back home?

I fretted all afternoon until I noticed that the adult birds were hopping and flying around in the bushes and soon there were several (I couldn't count how many) little birds hopping and trying to fly around in the bushes.  They were all peeping and the sound was just so joyful.  They all seem to have made their way back to the nest and I SWEAR I will not interfere again.

I determined that they are House Wrens and that they babies should be leaving the nest within the week, and they did.  So glad my curiosity didn't do any damage, though I miss them!

Tuesday, April 26, 2016


Hard to say if this will stick, but I have been itching to start writing again.
 Maybe it took a year or so to build up stuff to say!

Just the little stuff of our days.  Like trying to find a Mother's Day card that is either funny or fits my relationship with my mom.

 My parents have not had kids in their home for over 35 years - so all those "take the day off" cards don't work.  I am not the sloppy sentimental type, nor am I one for the hyperbole "best mom on the planet" characterizations.  We are way past the "you taught me everything I know" phase.  Something a little poignant or funny is more the tone for my maternal relationship.

I am big on sending store bought cards.  They cost a lot of money these days, but I get a lot of pleasure in looking for just the right card.  I have a box of cards at the ready for pretty much any occasion because I buy cards that I like and figure I will eventually have the right person to send them to.  I send cards to my kids for even the most minor holidays or just because.  Who doesn't love getting mail that isn't a political flyer or a bill? I mention this because I troll the card aisles all the time.

What I have found this pre-Mother's Day season is a mystery to me.  There are more cards for wives, for grandma, for aunts, from the cat, from the dog, for someone like a mom and for stepmoms than there are for just plain old mom.

I thought it was just the selection at CVS until I dropped by a few other card aisles and found the same mix everywhere.  The few cards for just plain old mom  range from  drippy to  glitter bombed. They are double wrapped in plastic to protect little scrapbooking elements which are glued on and leave me wondering how they must look after a week in the postal system. The same old humorous cards involving mixers and potty training are still there. And don't even get me started on the musical ones.  There are always the booze oriented cards but I have sent those a few years in a row now...too predicable.

Anyway - I finally found a card.  It probably won't win the family contest for the best card (an unofficial competition at which I tend to excel.)  It is those little things.