WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Well, it wasn’t a picture-perfect day due to the cloud cover and grayish skies; it wasn’t even balmy though it is nearly the end of April. Perhaps that is why I was walking solo on the Park path this morning. The solitude was kind of nice, actually, and I could stroll and just languish at all my favorite spots along the way. I stopped to toss a few peanuts here and there as the “regulars” scampered over to get their daily nut goodies. Oh yes … I know I’m such a sucker for those little beggars, but they do make me smile.

For most of my journey, it was quiet and peaceful and all I heard was the low cooing of a mourning dove interrupted by a few starlings who decided they must serenade me with a songfest as well. While I’m not fond of starlings, they can warble continuously for several minutes and never take a break and they wear me out trying to keep pace and whistle back at them. So, I walked along, thrilling to the trilling of the songbirds, and watching an occasional bunny bop on by. The only other noise was a somber-sounding train whistle from the nearby tracks in Wyandotte which seemed to be intensified in the still morn. In fact, I was so in tune with my surroundings that I was visibly startled when I heard the train whistle blow.

Well, I’ll just bet the tail end of my headline got your attention. The goose egg for me was no ducks at the sewer drain once again. Last weekend I mentioned the lack of mallards to other walkers whom I see similarly glance that way when they pass the ducks’ usual gathering spot. We’re hoping there is not a predator of some sort that has hurt them or scared them off in recent days. I continue to take some bread along and keep an eye out for them daily. But a sight for sore eyes was these two beautiful Canada Geese which I saw gliding down the Ecorse Creek. Since I started walking at Council Point Park, I’ve never seen Canada Geese in the water – they are usually grazing in the baseball diamonds or soccer fields. In between mouthfuls of grass, they generally strut around, plop down around the perimeter Path or fly in flocks overhead. Usually, you can’t miss them with their incessant honking when they are overhead – it is like they are warning you in advance to cover your head and duck for cover. They were as graceful as swans as they glided along. Perhaps the pair was scoping out a good secluded location for the female’s eggs to be laid and protected until the big hatch. I am hoping to see a few goslings by early to mid-May and will keep my eyes peeled for any nest-sitting activity going forward. There was also a pair of geese on the Park path, and as I approached them, they started honking up a storm. I dug into one pocket to have my camera at the ready, and opened the twisty-tie on my bag of bread to toss out a few tidbits onto the path. But they were too fast for me and a second later took flight, their large wings flapping furiously to lift them quickly off the ground, honking madly all the while. Perhaps I spooked them, but, in reality, their large presence, plus their sudden, rather obnoxious honking when they had just been placidly grazing, spooked me first, though I’d never let them know that!

Well, I guess this little fella took it to heart when I suggested any further dispensing of peanuts would need to be done on a quid pro quo basis. He doesn’t speak nor understand Latin of course, and neither do I, but having been a legal secretary now 34 years, I’ve picked up some legal jargon along the way. The phrase “quid pro quo” simply means “something for something” … I suggested to my little squirrel friend here, that he should pose prettily for some peanuts … and, he did just that as you see in the photo above. Now, if I could just wield such power with the always-mischievous and sometimes bull-headed Buddy I would be all set. (Smile) I managed to get this shot of my peanut pal in his favorite tree from which he often scrambles down to meet me as I amble by. After much tail swishing and repositioning himself in this deep V of the tree, (and me clicking off six or seven blurry shots), he managed to stay still long enough for me to snap his picture. I had my gloves off only long enough to use the camera and toss out some peanuts, because although the sun was shining, it was windy and quite nippy for my walk. On the Park path, there were just a handful of walkers this morning and the rest, mostly retired folks, perhaps stayed home in their jammies sipping coffee and waiting ‘til later to venture out. I’m not really anxious for the hot weather to arrive, but a little warmer temps sure would be appreciated.

Did you do your part to help erase your carbon footprint for Earth Day 2014? I intended to walk today, thus using foot power versus vehicle power, but the overnight rain and windy conditions would have spun my Springtime allergies into overdrive, so I took a quick car trip to get my allergy shots and came right home. For 2014, my miles driven in the car versus my walking miles are fairly close, and, I hope this year I can walk more miles than I drive once again. Last year, you may recall I walked 100 miles more than I drove (500 versus 400). My biggest contribution to the environment would have to be walking and not using the car, thus not adding more pollution to the atmosphere. I also use all electric-powered yard tools, so that is another plus. In recent years, I have switched over to CFL bulbs throughout the house. I resisted at first, and I find these light bulbs do not cast as much light as traditional incandescent bulbs, but I am adjusting. My DTE Home Energy Report says: “you used 11% less energy than your efficient neighbors” … but, after all, most of my day is spent in one room, the kitchen, where I work from home and my office is at my kitchen table. I got a high-efficiency furnace in 2012 so I am seeing good results in that regard, notwithstanding the brutal Winter and the need to keep nudging the thermostat higher and higher to keep Buddy and I toasty warm. I’m at a loss what better measures I could take to help our planet. I listened to some experts discussing this subject earlier in the day. They suggested growing your own food because there is less waste that way. I couldn’t – no, make that wouldn’t – be able to reach underneath cucumber or tomato plants, to snap off one of those veggies, still warm from the sun, from the vine. The fear of something running up my arm would be too horrid for me!! Years ago we had a garden out back, but the birds and squirrels helped themselves more often than not, just taking one bite out of a tomato and then casting it aside. I have to stick to Meijer or the Lincoln Park Farmer’s Market once it opens next month. I was buying heads of romaine lettuce for Buddy at Meijer a few weeks ago and one of the U-scan “helpers” told me she was growing her own romaine lettuce since she loves salad. I asked how she could have a garden at this time of the year, then she whipped out her phone and showed me pictures of romaine lettuce in various stages of growth which were sprouting in old cottage cheese containers on her counter-top. It seems, if you lop off the core at the bottom, then stick that stubby chunk of lettuce into a container of water, within five to seven days you have tender new shoots of romaine lettuce. She was proud of herself for growing several “crops” already. I don’t really need an abundance of lettuce – just enough to keep Buddy in fresh greens all the time, and, hey … that might really work well through the Winter months. Coincidentally, a few days later I received a Facebook post from a friend who shared how many type of veggies you can “re-grow” and I’m passing it along for your interest: http://www.buzzfeed.com/arielknutson/vegetables-that-magically-regrow-themselves

Another Facebook friend greeted us this morning with “Happy Earth Day Earthlings” so I will wish you the same greeting as well to close this post.

“Guard well your spare moments.
They are like uncut diamonds.
Discard them and their value will never be known.
Improve them and they will become the brightest gems in a useful life.”
~~~Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Free time” or “me time” seems to have become a more precious commodity since I’ve gotten older. And, it’s even more important now, after our recent brutal Winter, where I felt I lost my independence somehow, after the constant snow and ice kept me, the Winter Wienie, sequestered in the house most of the season. Well, now that Spring has finally sprung, I am guarding my “me time” and trying to get my daily walk accomplished no matter what. Today I needed a few items at the grocery store, and, though it would do the car good to hop in and give it a three-mile whirl, my produce was certainly something I could carry (even if the oranges and bananas do make me list to one side while I walk home). So, this morning I moseyed to Meijer and thus garnered almost four more miles to add to my total miles walked in 2014 by the time I made the round trip from home, trekked through the produce department, through the U-scan and across the massive parking lot. Whew! I have to pass a donut shop along the way. I am always a bit amused by their marquis sign proclaiming: “It’s Me Time”. This donut shop is the local watering hole where a group of older men gather daily over coffee and donuts to try to fix the world’s woes. Whenever I pass that donut shop, which sits on a fairly busy corner, I always wonder if there is a comparable venue where the older gals might convene to discuss world affairs and diss their significant other at the same time? Well, perhaps the answer to that query would be the good, old-fashioned beauty parlor, where the ladies often sit in a semi-circle underneath huge, hard-bonnet hair dryers which cover their ears, as well as curlers or bobby-pinned pin curls, while the hot air that whooshes out dries the hairdo-in-progress. The camaraderie of these women exists as they catch up on gossip, exchange recipes or complain about their better half, but usually most of the stories are missed or must be re-told, since they must raise their voices to be heard over the relentless din of the high-decibeled dryer. But … that is the ladies’ “me time” just as the older gents enjoy their break with their buddies. We all need our “me time” … no matter what form it takes. The two signs in this picture above say: “It’s Me Time” and “Walk” … well, I made the time and thanks for the “suggestion”!

I hope that your day thus far was filled with blessings, bunnies, bonnets and much joy. I took advantage of the beautiful weather, and headed to my favorite place in the world – Council Point Park, earlier today. I stepped out, on a still-chilly morn, with no fancy Easter bonnet, just my warm, woolen hat that I’ve worn all Winter, and, though I was tempted to stick an artificial flower into the open weave of the woolen fibers for this Easter Sunday, I did not do so. I did don a pastel pink sweat suit lending a small air of Springiness to my duds, and yes, I was stylin’ for sure in my own way on this picture-perfect day.

I arrived at Council Point Park in record time, then strolled leisurely along the pathway figuring I’d just immerse myself in the ambiance of twitters while I frittered away an hour or so of my Easter morning. It was so peaceful, and there were just a handful of walkers and no joggers or bikers, so I figured that most of the regular crowd was at Easter Sunday services. Just as that revelation hit me, and as if on cue, bells began peeling at the church about ½ mile away from the Park. In the still morn, with only the cacophony of birdsong filling the air, the church bells sounded crisp and clear beckoning “come one, come all to celebrate the miracle of Easter with us” … the bells seemed like they rang for five or ten minutes signifying the start of the 9:00 o’clock service. There was no denying that Spring and Easter have finally arrived since people have decorated the many memorial trees that are scattered around the Park’s vast grounds. I have mentioned before that anyone can purchase a tree, and a memorial stone that is placed at the base of the tree, to honor a deceased loved one. Often these memorial trees are decorated for holidays or special occasions, like birthdays, where occasionally a brightly colored birthday balloon will be found tethered to a branch of the tree. Many people have “planted” artificial flowers, placed Easter ornaments – religious or otherwise – or fastened Spring-y wreaths to the front of these trees.

It seems the critter population at the Park was similarly occupied elsewhere this morning. A few of the faithful and ever-present peanut pals came sniffing around, then sat up on haunches and begged as I reached into my bag of peanuts. I tossed out a few here and there and saw spent peanut shells still strewn on the path from yesterday’s trip. Like the past few days, after dispensing some treats, I then led the procession of a few fox squirrels, trailing along behind me and occasionally dashing into my path, always hopeful for another treat to squirrel away for a rainy day. Once again, the ducks were absent from their usual spot and I didn’t see any in the water or marshy banks of the Ecorse Creek either. Even the geese were reverent of this special day and hung out elsewhere and were not honking in their usual, sometimes obnoxious, manner. I watched several bunnies bouncing around in the grass, searching for sweet, tender grass shoots or non-existent clover, and after they could find none, they hopped off quickly as I approached. I decided when I returned home and did today’s post, I would use a black-and-white photo of my pet rabbit I had some fifty years ago. My grandmother grew up on a farm in rural Aris, a town near Guelph, Ontario. She was one of nine children. The girls were all married off to boys in town and the boys left the nest to start their own farms. Such was the case with Bill Klein, who was my Great Uncle. When I was about seven years old, we took my grandmother up to his farm for a visit, and we all spent the day there. He was gruff, and handed me a baby bunny and said “here, you can make this guy into a pet” and so we left with a bushel basket, some straw and some type of rabbit kibble. I named this pure-white rabbit “Scratch”. We had to get him special food and cedar shavings for the basket and he lived in the basement and was not allowed upstairs. After a few months, my parents said it wasn’t fair to confine him to a small bushel basket in the basement by himself, and he should be returned to the farm where he could be with the other rabbits and not cooped up all the time. Reluctantly I agreed. We travelled to Aris and returned Scratch to the farm the following Sunday, and my eyes misted over when Uncle Bill hastily grabbed him by the ears, plucking him right from my arms, and said “well, I guess I’ll find some use for your rabbit here – I dunno what yet” … I remember that I prayed all the way home that Scratch would not meet his fate in the cast iron cooking pot with some potatoes and vegetables as a tasty rabbit stew. We never returned to the farm after that day so I don’t know what ever became of my little pet, but I am glad I have this picture of Scratch sitting in my lap in our backyard to remember him.

It was a beautiful and satisfying journey this morning and I was thankful for small blessings – beautiful weather, a pretty park and my good health which gives me the ability to enjoy both. While others oohed and ahhed over sugary confections or chocolate novelties, I had all the “sweet tweets” I could have wanted as I ambled along the walking path during my trip to Council Point Park this morning. Happy trails … happy heart … happy soul.

I was up with the chickens this morning in anticipation of a long and leisurely walk at Council Point Park on a glorious Spring morning. And, speaking of chickens, while eating breakfast, I was amused by an interview on WJR between Warren Pierce and a local farmer who rents out baby chicks for Easter. You simply show up at his stall at Eastern Market today and fifty bucks will get you a pair of three-day old chicks and a cage, bedding and food for two weeks. He says that you’re free to keep the critters forever, but generally the novelty of Easter chicks wears out in about two weeks, at which time you return them and the cage. He’ll give you a voucher for a dozen of eggs to be redeemed at his stall at Eastern Market come Fall by which time your very own chicks would have grown into egg-laying hens. Quite a concept! But, truthfully – it’s just better to buy your kids Peeps and risk cavities versus boredom I would think. And, while we’re discussing feathered friends, I held my breath as I walked outside this morning and absolutely no robin shenanigans had transpired. Whew! Do you think they finally got the message? If they did, then truly they are not the birdbrains that people say they are.

Before I left the house, I stuffed the big cargo pockets in my worn Winter coat with a fresh Ziploc bag of peanuts on one side, and slipped the digital camera into the other and toted along the rest of the loaf of bread for the ducks. I set out for Council Point Park bright and early, and what a beautiful, but nippy morning, it was. We could not ask for more perfect weather for this holiday weekend, could we? When I arrived, the Park was already crowded with many walkers and joggers on the pathway. As I walked along, the trees just erupted with birdsong and I must have heard at least ten different warbles and whistles while passing beneath them, and it made me feel good to be out enjoying the morning. I realized I should consult my bird call website to try to identify the many twitters, tweets and warbles I heard before my next visit to the Park. I saw a beautiful red-winged blackbird who sang loud and long, either calling to its mate, or just because it was a beautiful sunny day.

With camera in tow, and clutching my bag of crumbled-up wheat bread, I waited on the mallards, but they were nowhere to be found today, and, in fact I never even saw ripples in the water indicating they were swimming noiselessly downstream. I brought my bread home with me and will try again tomorrow. I secretly suspect that the mallards knew of the impending holiday and they ducked under the storm sewer drain in case anyone is pondering a nice roast duck rather than the traditional ham for tomorrow’s Easter dinner.

Occasionally I stopped to toss a few peanuts to the squirrels who scampered over to see me. They kept nosing around my ankles and I tried to get their picture from that vantage point, but, first I had to fumble to remove my gloves, grab the camera, then shake out some peanuts – they soon lost interest and ambled off, so to entice them back, I tossed some peanuts at my feet and they came back lickety-split. I’m such a soft touch, but next time, I’ll make then work for those peanuts: no treat ‘til you pose for me!
I walked along companionably with several of the walkers I had met last year and we all commented how wonderful the weather was and how good it was to get back into our respective walking regimens. As I suspected, some of the stalwart walkers told me that, try as they might, the Park paths were simply too snowy and icy to walk during the course of this past Winter. They turned to mall walking instead, warm and slick-free, while being mindful to steer clear of the tantalizing whiffs of fresh coffee and goodies which assailed their nostrils near the Food Court.

As I walked home, the wind kicked up a tad, so I zipped up my coat higher, so it was like a turtleneck, and though the April sun was strong, it felt more like a late March day. I’m sure the decorated hard-boiled eggs can safely be hidden around the yard tomorrow without fear of food poisoning, lest they don’t get discovered right away. There weren’t many homes decorated with an Easter or Spring motif – perhaps most people thought we’d never get past the wicked Winter and couldn’t put themselves into “Spring or Easter mode”. What I mostly saw were huge bunnies adorning doors or over-sized decorated eggs in living room windows. My mom never decorated Easter eggs for me; instead, she shared the love by baking bunny-shaped sugar cookies and festive cupcakes, and this ritual continued for many years after I was a kid. My grandmother, however, got into the whole egg-dying fun, but not like you’d think. She would collect flimsy onion peels for months, then boil them up with a few dozen eggs. Well, those eggs were indeed dyed, though not in the prettiest pastels with decorations resembling dots and zigzags, but the effort for her granddaughter was made with love and appreciated. She never hid those butterscotch-colored eggs in her backyard, but piled them into a big dish inside the fridge, to either help yourself or she would use them to make egg salad sandwiches. We’d always go to Toronto to visit my grandmother for Easter dinner and along with the those hard-boiled eggs, my grandmother would make me up an Easter basket as well. She’d dump out the contents of her worn wicker sewing basket into a plastic bag, then line it with a couple of pretty, lace-edged hankies. Voila … a pretty Easter basket. I usually got a tall chocolate bunny from Eaton’s in the middle of the basket and a few “Golden Books” with animal themes tucked in between the bunny and buried in the Easter grass. There was never alot of candy, and back in those days, we didn’t have gooey marshmallow treats like Peeps or Cadbury eggs and I can’t ever remember chewing on chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies. My Easter basket from my parents was similarly devoid of high-sugar treats like jelly beans. I usually got a foil-wrapped rabbit and a box of Laura Secord pastel-colored chocolate suckers. Dancing along the edge of my Easter basket were tiny chenille chickens, who were attached by their wire feet and they encircled the entire basket. My parents were loving, but practical. I usually got a new Easter outfit for church and many pictures in the old photo album, were of me strutting around in a new coat and hat, a frilly dress which peeked out beneath the coat and new black patent leather shoes and bright-white knee socks. I would have to model my new clothes before I left for Sunday school. Those Easter days somehow seem like eons ago. I hope your Easter is special and leaves you filled with enough warm memories to last a lifetime.

Yesterday, at least three different weather forecasters predicted rain to start last night, continue through the overnight hours and early this morning. Once again, I fell into the bad habit of believing them. I set my alarm for later, since it was a work day after all, thinking I’d catch a few extra ZZZZs this morning, then I’d get up early both weekend days. Well, that was a bad idea. But, before the alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., I awoke to the sound of chirping, tweeting and much merriment outside (as to the bird world anyway). Buddy doesn’t make a peep until I uncover him, whereupon he bursts into song, so it clearly wasn’t him as he was fast asleep in the other room. The bird noises were definitely not the tiny cheeps from sparrows seeking refuge from the rain on the back bedroom window ledges. No, it was much louder than that, and, besides, I didn’t hear the pitter patter of rain on the patio roof and it was already light down the hall. In the space of a minute, I flung off the covers, jumped out of bed and had the radio headphones on my ears to catch the weather report which stated “rain for Wayne County is headed our way later” … grumbling, I dashed to the window to open the metal blind to determine what the heck was going on with the birds. I crooked my head just enough to see a contingent of robins lined up on the cyclone fence, beaks brimming full with strands of dried grass, awaiting their turn to make a contribution to the nest building. I certainly didn’t know this was a joint effort now! But, what I did know was that this venture was close by and most certainly at MY house. There was no evidence of rain either. Silently cursing the weather people and myself alternately, I sped out to the kitchen and hastily made and finished off a bowl of oatmeal and washed it down with some scorching-hot coffee that nearly burned my throat. I could not get outside quickly enough, and by 7:30 a.m. I was dressed and headed out the door, anxious to see what mischief the birds were up to this time. I opened the screen door slowly, and what had been a crescendo of tweets and twitters immediately ceased. They saw their “bully” and soon, a bevy of birds were lifting off the fence, no doubt to alert the others of my presence. I surveyed the situation, just shaking my head. Well, this was new – in the space of a day, there was a huge pile of nest-fixings, which you and I might simply characterize as debris or yard waste, the likes of which included shredded-up Kleenex and pieces of paper towel complete with colorful motifs, string, yarn, twigs and dried grass. It was all lying in a heap underneath the security light fixture at the corner of my house. A half-completed nest was nestled in the light fixture, between the two flood lamps, and there were mud splats galore spattering the light-colored brick wall beneath the light fixture. I sighed long and hard, exasperated with them. I looked up in the tree to see several robins giving me the evil eye, and, yes, they were wearing a scowl. So, now it seems, the robin saga has now become THEM versus me. It’s as if the robin has recruited his family, friends and neighbors to help with the nest building. Is this an act of desperation and the egg laying is imminent? I shuffled dejectedly to the garage, intent to grab a broom and dustpan to drag down and dispense with their latest effort and the debris. When I arrived at the front of the house, the bag I had so carefully stuffed into the elbow of the coach lamp, was sitting on the front porch, and a new and bigger nest was in progress. A defiant robin sat close by … watching … waiting for my next move. I unlocked and flung up the garage door on its rollers, and it’s a wonder it didn’t go flying off the track, as I opened the door so hastily and angrily. I pulled my broom out and thought about taking it to him as he sat there so smugly. I whacked that nest with great gusto trying to dislodge it, and could not, so once again I hoisted the bag up and tucked it into place. The robin watched me from the split-rail fence, then, just as before, attempted to land atop the bag and realized he could not. He took a run at me next – and I ducked as he dive-bombed near me, close to my head. Loud chattering ensued and he flew off to share the tale of his latest misfortune with the others, no doubt. I returned to the backyard, pulled down the other nest-in-progress, cleaned up the mess and a good half hour later, prepared to set out my walk, hoping the respite would give me a much-needed attitude adjustment. On this most-holiest of days in the year, the morning was gray and gloomy and rain indeed threatened as was predicted. In fact, I only got to the end of the street and it started sprinkling. Undeterred, I walked on, ignoring the light rain, and feeling just as defiant as that pesky robin and his compadres. Soon, more raindrops forced me to head home, and as I neared my driveway, I saw a trio of robins glaring down at me from Marge’s plum tree. My steely glance toward them truly belied the fact that as I walked into the house, even though I was angry, I felt both guilty and remorseful for disrupting this natural annual ritual and the miracle of life.

The long-awaited, much-anticipated return to Council Point Park finally happened this morning. I had planned on three separate occasions to go there, and each time something came up. I decided today I was going to make it happen. I got dressed and ready to go, then packed a Ziploc bag of peanuts for my squirrel buddies, crumbled up a half loaf of bread for the ducks, tucked my camera into my coat pocket and off I went. I waved hello and wished a few of my fellow walkers “happy new year” and confessed it was my first trip to the Park since Christmas Day. Some were incredulous over that statement, and one woman said her first day was yesterday. The grass has not yet begun to green and looked brown and dull with dribs and drabs of Tuesday’s snowfall. The Ecorse Creek’s water was rippling and sparkling as the sun glinted down on it. I stopped multiple times along the trail to toss some peanuts out in front of my feet and I was rewarded with squirrels coming out of the trees, and from behind bushes, enticed by fresh peanuts, which smelled so good that I was tempted to crack open a few myself. One gigantic blue jay spied a peanut and swooped down from his high perch and lunged for that morsel, then flew right back up into the tree in the blink of an eye. I threw some additional peanuts away from the group of squirrels that had gathered nearby, hoping to entice him to come down again, but he was wary and flew away. I felt like the Pied Piper of Hameln as I walked along the pathway, ahead of a procession of fox squirrels, who, depending on their size, either waddled behind or ran like greased lightning, occasionally darting in front of my feet hoping that I would share some more peanuts with them. My trip to the duck “landing” didn’t disappoint either. I felt like a “duck whisperer” as I stood there, a bag of bread in hand , while clicking my tongue and talking softly while asking “who wants some goodies?” as I doled out tidbits of bread. A handful of mallards approached, grabbed some bread, then dispersed onto the banks of the creek or into the sewer drain where they had been hiding before I showed up. I left my feathered friends then headed for the last portion of the lap around the Park when a few more squirrels showed up directly in my path and surrounded me, while sitting up on haunches begging. I wondered if any of them were the little guy I befriended last Fall who used to tag along behind me all over the Park. Time will tell, unless he forgot me over the long, cold Winter. The squirrels made me smile with their begging antics. Don’t dare think for a minute they don’t know that begging tugs at a human’s heartstrings, causing more frequent dips into the peanut bag and more plentiful treats for them. The lap around the Park, the first of many more to come before yearend, was over quickly and I found myself at the end of the pathway, and soon heading home. I needed that interjection of nature into my day, and I went home, lighter in heart and mood than when I departed the house a mere hour earlier.

Well, this morning unfortunately was Round 3 for the red robin and the homeowner, a/k/a “me”. Last week I wrote about my annual Spring feud with a particular robin who insists on building its nest in the elbow of my front or side porch lights. In an effort to put a kibosh on the robin’s version of “home sweet home”, I have resorted to stuffing bags atop the bend until long into June. It thwarts the nest building, but it also trashes up my house, but I’m willing to live with the silly-looking bags, so that I don’t go out the front or side door and have mud or grass fall down on my head, or muddy plops of grass landing on my mailbox lid. This annual feud has been happening for decades. I suppose getting rid of the light would be one solution, but the colonial-style lamps enhance the house – and besides … whose house is it anyway? I didn’t even write about Round 2, which happened Saturday morning. The wadded-up bags I stuffed in the front light earlier in the week, must have been trampled down by the robin and he used them as extra cushioning to build a bigger and sturdier nest. Grrrrrr. Well, I knocked it down as he watched me, clearly irritated, from the split-rail fence … in fact, he was so irritated with my actions that he dropped his long piece of dry grass to chatter a few choice words at me. (Not that I speak “robinese” but I got the drift, believe me.) I grumbled right back at him. I secured the bag in place, knotted it on the top of the coach lamp and soon was on my way to Wyandotte. He looked astounded and I figured he’d scout around for another place to build his next nest. Unfortunately, the 60 mph winds on Monday knocked the bag out of place and exposed the remnants of the very first nest, so he seized the opportunity to rebuild his home that the nasty human had repeatedly sought to destroy. I went out this morning and the bigger bag I had so carefully placed into the elbow of the lamp was knocked forward and a bigger and better nest was in its place. Sigh. I took a minute to admire his handiwork, but then opened the garage door, grabbed the broom and pushed the bag back in place, feeling the entire time like the big, bad bully to birds that I certainly was. Don’t get me wrong – I love nature, I love animals and I love birds … after all, I live with one and have had many, many pet birds over the years … but this is ridiculous. I’d have gone back into the house and got the camera to capture the image of his nest and my contraption, but I don’t want to sully this blog with such an ugly picture. Suffice it to say, my house wouldn’t be considered for House Beautiful – not even in Lincoln Park. As before, the robin was close by during this morning’s episode, and as I stepped away and closed the garage door, he went right over to check out my latest efforts. He quickly discovered he had nowhere to land, so immediately he alighted on his favorite perch, the corner of the split-rail fence. He shot daggers at me in between chattering and cackling and his comments were directed to me – there was no one else around. He wouldn’t or couldn’t possibly know that I was feeling like the biggest meanie in the world at that particular moment. I turned and walked away from him, feeling badly and wishing that he could have chosen another place to build his nest, then invite his mate to lay and sit on eggs, and subsequently feed their young until they were ready to set out on their own. I hope he finds a more welcome spot next time to start anew. I think he ought to join the Habitat for Humanity house-building crew because he knows how to put a home together in record time. Perhaps I should hum a few bars of “when the red, red robin goes bob, bob, bobbin’ along” to reinforce my message and get him to skedaddle?

Today, once again, we incurred the wrath of Mother Nature who wreaked havoc with our morning drive or our walking plans … but, on the plus side, she did allow us to reach that much-coveted record of the snowiest Winter in the books since the Winter of 1880-81. So, whether we want to whine about it, or perhaps tell our grandchildren about trudging and shoveling our way through this most-miserable season, we collectively made it through 94.8 inches of snow. I personally lost track of how many Polar Vortex events or bitterly cold days were in the record books this Winter season. All I know is that ol’ Mother Nature sure was conflicted the last 24 hours, eh? As the old saying goes, “it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind”, and the way I see it, Mother Nature just re-emphasized women’s reputation as being indecisive after we experienced a nearly 50-degree range of temps in a 24-hour time period. About an hour ago I looked out the window and all the snow is gone – poof … like it didn’t really happen. Now that we’re at April’s half-way point, and since the official shattering of the snowfall record is now behind us, going forward we all hope Mother Nature is done tweaking our post-Winter weather and she settles on a nice warm Spring and there will be no more capricious capers that involve the white stuff. When I peered outside this morning, that robin that frequents my house was scowling more than usual since he missed his breakfast of worms and grubs which he sure couldn’t unearth beneath the snow-covered grass. A few sparrows huddled together trying to keep warm up high in the plum tree and I’m sure that if they had shoulders, they would have shrugged them in disbelief, just as we humans all did.