The Bird Bath

It’s spring in Florida. Temps are mild. Sun-dappled, bright green leaves on trees and shrubbery rustle a few yards from me.

I’m on our lanai, where I love to study or write on cool days. I can easily pretend we live on some expansive nature preserve instead of just a few miles from Disney World. Insulated by green and nature sounds, it’s just me and the critters back here.

There is a problem though. I get distracted. Take today. As I wrote notes and stuffed and stamped letters, birds arrived in a seeming parade at our newly installed bird bath. Apparently, birds love bathing. The birds visiting the new bird bath in our back yard act just like cartoon birds, bouncing and fluffing and flipping water droplets high and wide. They are lovely and funny and free.

From my perch on our lanai (yes, where I fractured my wrist–see previous post), I’m just 20 feet from our bird station, a fancy name for an unpainted vertical rail tie with a plastic tray nailed to the top. Every couple weeks, I put a sprinkling of nyjer seed into the tray and seems to last forever. (Tip: nyjer seed seems expensive but the squirrels don’t eat it, so a sprinkling lasts many weeks).

I did not intend to get a bird bath. A few weeks ago, two friends and I browsed a small old Orlando nursery (Palmer’s). That’s where I spotted this bird bath seemingly designed for our backyard. Not too big, that’s it in the picture above, with the mushroom design on the base and a pair of brown thrashers taking turns bathing. Actually, the male is doing the splashing, his mate (I assume) waiting her turn. I wonder, is she patient or murmuring through her beak? Might she be using her bird brain (couldn’t resist) to send him messages like, maybe, could you please hurry. When will it be my turn? Silly stuff like that.

In just a few minutes, I’ve seen a blue jay pair, blackbirds, and painted buntings (male: bright tangerine throat/chest, royal blue cap, green belly; female, yellow-green all over), all at this free public bath. Word gets around. As if at a Bus Stop, palm warblers sit on tree branches, waiting their turn. Earlier today, as I ate my lunch, I watched a male red-bellied woodpecker catch a lizard, carry it to a fork in the jacaranda tree and proceed to bash and shred it, munching as he went along. It sounds ghastly and it was, a little. I felt like I was watching one of those nature shows on TV, only live.

It’s a privilege to get to see what I see here. It’s also a blessed relief. My work week often includes sitting with grieving clients or persons who’ve made choices with significant, destructive, outcomes. I find nature a nice break from real life.

Sit still. Look around. Let me know what you see.

Sonic Booms, Wrist Sprains and the Dark of Night

I last wrote last from our lanai (Floridian for screened porch) on November 26th. What a treat, to ponder books and mess with words while sitting facing into the deep greenbelt behind our house. The sun went down and my zone became marvelously cool, quiet. When I finally posted the book piece, it was quite dark.

That’s when I got up, computer in my hands, and launched myself up the step from the lanai into our living room. More accurately, that’s what I intended.

What actually occurred translated to my mate, inside the house, as very like a “sonic boom or bomb.” His report: the house shook as I crashed into the tall double-paned slider that was NOT open.

The door did not break. (Thank you, Lord.) My computer crashed to the floor. As did I, eventually landing on my rear, right wrist aching terribly. I experienced those stars usually drawn over the heads of cartoon crashes along with a distinct nausea. Bob found me, held me from behind while I tried to take stock of my circumstances.  Apparently, my right hand had been flexed up when I hit that glass wall.

We eventually got me into the house where I elevated that arm and used the other to google wrist sprains. There was fierce pain and swelling but I reasoned a trip to the ER on a Saturday night would have result in me sitting many hours, in pain, triaged to wait at the end of the line behind others with far worse injuries.

The pain remained fierce but ice, elevating and lots of ibuprofen seemed to be working. We went to church the next morning, me with a light brace Bob found at Walgreens.

Time for Disclaimer: Bob wanted to go to the ER from the beginning. I’m a tad willful, which I chalk up to the genes of my mother, a hardy woman from northern Maine, and well, it was my arm that was hurting.

After a week, the swelling was down by 90% and the pain less sharp. However, after two weeks those things remain about the same. Since I want full use of my right hand again, hopefully soon, I saw my doctor today.

She sent me for X-rays and though we won’t get an official reading until Monday morning, it appears I have a compression fracture at the head of the radius, near where that long bone curves up to seat the hand bones on the inside of my arm. No wonder I’m still hurting.

I’ve been able to type all along. It’s pronating the wrist that hurts like___     (insert dire word of your choose).

Monday, I’ll see the doctor I’ve been avoiding for two weeks. My hope is that he’ll be satisfied to simply immobilize the wrist, leaving me my working fingers.

The Moral of this Story: Either turn on the light or look up when stepping through a doorway. Reducing speed might also be a good idea.

Books Worth Chasing Down

News Flash: I’m not very organized or regimented. Apart from tooth-brushing and book notating, there’s little I do the same way twice.

I’m a rabid reader of all sorts of books on various topics from war to nature exploration to living with a psychotic mother, surviving all sorts of loss and more. Don’t believe me? I have proof. I’ve kept careful records of books read, including titles, authors, and publication dates, since June of 1990.

Sounds crazy, but the 2 small notebooks I’ve filled are ones I revisit when I want make a book recommendation or reference. I can actually find the title instead of making some woozy outline of a story or biography I recall poorly.

My earliest entries in my two small record books of books read are simply titles and authors. Beginning in 1992, entries include a brief story synopsis and that’s how I’ve continued.

So, here are some of All-Time Favorite Reads, beginning with the one I very reluctantly finished today. Novels are notated as fiction. Everything else is non.

• The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka (Fiction: Japanese workers in CA, 1900)
• What Women Tell Me by Anita Lustrea (reflections of a Christian talk show host)
• Into the Tunnel: the brief life of Marion Samuel (Jewish child survivor of WWII camps, sponsored to U.S. by Ft. Wayne, IN, theater owner)
• Letters from the Land of Cancer by Walter Wangerin, Jr. (Lutheran pastor/winner of National Book Award, refutes the “battle” in favor of “living with”)
• Gardens of Water by Alan Drew (Fiction: encounter of American Christian aid workers and Turkish Muslim refugees)
• Evidence by Mary Oliver (poetry re: nature)
• Lights on a Ground of Darkness by Ted Kooser (poet, nature reporter–his writings inspire me to look more carefully

If you actually read any of these or want to share your own favorites list, I’d love to hear from you.

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Auer Family Focus

Awhile back, my man and I determined we just had to see more of our sons’ families. Specifically, with six grandchildren clumped near one another in the Southwest, we wanted to try temporarily living in their zone. We envisioned tele-commuting during the day and hosting members of these two families evenings and weekends in our own place nearer theirs.

Particularly, the vision of grandkids at our dinner table was like dangling a huge lollipop 3 inches from the face of a toddler or placing a boiled lobster on my plate! Our hands were not tied. We could make this dream happen for us and for 6 of our 8 grandchildren by moving ourselves for a few weeks.

We wanted a more leisurely, less pressured kind of being together than Christmas holiday or a week-long July stop-over. So we dreamed and schemed a plan to pitch to our bosses. Since we’ve worked in our departments far longer than most co-workers and since most of them are far younger than 60 (we’ve passed that number), we pitched our idea.  We asked to try tele-commuting for a month, this month.

Since most of our clients are overseas, we primarily serve them by phone or email. The others we serve are at headquarters and much of what we do for them also happens electronically. Hence, we have now passed the two-week mark  of daily tele-commuting, evening and weekend grand-parenting.

It’s early Sunday morning and, upstairs, 3 girls sleep twisted around one another, across a queen bed, sideways. One son’s (and his wife’s, of course) progeny, these three are the cat’s meow to their grampy and grammy. To have them under our (rented) roof is a wish come true, a blessing of the first order. Add meals prepared by us, eaten at our table, 30 miles from their parents (a mile would work fine) and you have the makings of grandparent fantasy land. At home, we live near Disney World where families come to spend time together. For us, this version beats, easily, both price and delights of a week at Mickey’s land.

Two nights ago, another son’s progeny: another three fantastic grands slept here. At breakfast, we celebrated a 14th birthday with our older grand. Ah, yes, this is a grand (there’s that word again) experiment. It’s also a cooperative effort. If we lived here, we might not schedule such frequent visits or drive as  often to fetch and return kids. But we’re here a month, so we do and it’s all good.

This smaller space is actually perfect for what we’re doing. Bedrooms (less) and baths (more) are sufficient and living space is ideal. Still, my guy and I are sharing it just about every minute of each day: work week and weekends. Morning and night. We coordinate  car and space schedules often.

Is this how it is for retirees? It’s good we like one another. Still, one’s an extravert and the other, an introvert and there’s a lot of togetherness in this arrangement.

Waking to piles of small shoes and swimsuits near the door, heaps of games and toys on the big work table is all frosting on a cake we are serving up to ourselves and these 6 grandkids and their parents. We’re celebrating 4 birthdays, an anniversary and Halloween in 30 days.

We’ve another good son, daughter-in-law and two young’uns in another city. How to make this happen in their zone is a puzzle we’re working on.  Ah, bliss and blessing.

 

Born to stay put or keep moving?

It’s confusing. I love being right here at home, surrounded by family photos, good art, books, desks, coffee makers and unmatched mugs. But I seem to be on the go, far and often, and there are parts of that I like a lot, also.

I grew up in rural Indiana, the first daughter of a Hoosier and a northern Maine-iac (my quirky Maine relatives–you know who you are–seem to wear this colloquial title proudly, as do I by association). Our family’s summer car trips to visit my mother’s people way up north were the best part of nearly every growing-up year for me.

When my Indiana father married my Maine Girl mother they set up house as Indiana Hoosiers. In return, he promised to get her to Maine annually. The oldest of 3 girls, I have mostly happy memories of those 28-hour, straight through, car trips.

I especially loved when it was my turn to sit between my parents in the middle of the broad front bench seat. I’d flick open my freshly purchased Top Hits tune-zine and sing along with Chuck Berry (Rock and Roll Music, 1957) or The Clovers (Love Potion, 1959) crooning on the radio as we rolled up the miles. In those days, travel seemed high adventure.

These days, I would gladly trade some travel and adventure for more being at home. My distract-ability factor is high. We travel for work a LOT, sometimes stateside, sometimes not. Whichever, by the time I’ve unpacked our bags and processed the laundry and mail, I feel like I’ve just begun to re-engage with my “normal life (home, church, and office) when we find ourselves repacking and flying/driving off to some next destination.

My parents were both from the country. I was brought up in the Indiana countryside which always seemed wonderful to me. I couldn’t imagine myself in a town. I love space, tall trees, sky and quiet. The two homes I recall growing up in were each perched along rural roads a few miles from the same small town.

There were always books and newspapers in those homes. My mother and dad talked about local news and watched the evening national news on the TV. We stayed abreast of some of what was happening in the rest of the world, especially big things like the Vietnam War which claimed the lives or long-term psychic health of many of my husband’s and my school mates.

Decades later, I’m a country girl who left home and now gets great lift from spotting Hairy Woodpeckers and Blackburnian Warblers in our backyard (both seen one day, a week ago, just beyond the window near my writing desk). I don’t mind being a part-time world-traveler who comes home to work and rest in a small central Florida subdivision surrounded by cattle ranches.

I love it all: our large library, friends who drink coffee with me all over the globe, and my writing desk facing onto a broad-topped jacaranda tree and the wild woods beyond.

Had I independently chosen a place to live and work, I doubt I would have wandered from rural Indiana. I might have been just as happy there. But, in spite of mild moans about suitcases and the lack of a more settled life, I feel quite blessed at living and working as we do.

I feel as if I’ve lived bits of several lives: the globe traveling one and the delving deep in one favored territory one, the mother and grandmother one and the professional counselor one. And, since my late teens, the married to an adventurous man one.

As my friends say, It’s All Good.

Florida gardening excitement

I tried to beat the heat last Saturday. My plan was to weed early and get back into air conditioning. I’d been ignoring our jungle. Since it’s buggy and sometimes beastie here, I donned my ice cream vendor outfit: white long sleeved t-shirt, loose white trousers, wellington (high-top black rubber) boots and a ball cap. My hands sheathed in disposable rubber gloves, I finished suiting up by pulling on heavy rubberized overgloves. FYI, I do not dress this way for the fun of it.

I’m avoiding ugly, uncomfortable, arm and leg scratches. Plus, I sometimes encounter creatures. We are, after all, in the sub-tropics here in this Central Florida subdivision. Our lot opens onto a broad 2-acre greenbelt, Florida-ese for “Leave it Natural, Honey!”

Across this swampy green barrier, tall trees host herons, ibises, storks and more. A broad lawn separates our home and the greenbelt/nature zone which gives the impression of a larger property. If you drive up to Auer Haus and enter by the front door, your first sight will be this broad green swath through tall sliding glass doors at the back of Auer Haus. It’s a calming view if untamed green soothes you.

It wasn’t so recently. After some general clipping and clean-up, I pulled a couple large dead leaves from the mouth of a grey-green bromeliad (plants often used as shopping mall and airport decor). There, in that deep natural cup was a coiled juvenile Cottonmouth snake! At least, that’s what I thought it was.

I quickly banged on the locked front door til Bob answered. I asked him for my camera. Then, dashed out to snapped our slithery intruder.

He (she?) appeared alert and comfortable, head resting on multiple coils. I got his picture, then went inside to phone a friend!

Since I’d seen a couple snakes, similar to this one, in the greenbelt, I was pretty sure this was a Cottonmouth. But, I didn’t know what to do about it.

So I called my professional Biologist friends. M&M work in the field and are far more knowledgeable and relaxed about these things than I am (though my mate said he was proud when I referred to our intruder as “a cute baby”).

My phone-a-friend Biologist said things like, “Biologists walk in snake-infested areas all the time when they’re doing field work. If these snakes were aggressive, we couldn’t do that.” Right. Then he said, “These (Cottonmouths) are polite snakes who just want to get away from you.”

Yes, he used the word polite.

I pictured snakes asking permission to bite or, at least, to live in my plants. I wondered how long that politeness might persist before they lunged. Did they mumble some snake version of please before striking? I hoped my friend meant snakes didn’t like humans, that they’d rather move away than toward.

M. advised me to get a nice long stick, to lift the snake from his home near mine and help him get on his way, elsewhere. Well, I’d rather not, I thought, but I’ll just check to see if he’s still out there. Then I’ll get my Man to find a stick and…well, you get it.

Lucky for me (and the Man), when I got off the phone, our serpent had slithered away.

I breathed a deep sigh and got back to weeding, realizing M. had, basically, talked me down with his comments about the snake’s politeness and my option to move him by wielding a stick in a helpful (not hurtful) way. Even his comments about field biologists facing this threat routinely, with hardly any ill effects, at all, ever, almost never, even those comments provided space and time for me to think.

That sounded like what I often do in my crisis counselor role. I bring calm experience to worried, frightened individuals. That experience helps me to honestly say calming things like “when I’ve been in this kind of situation before, this is what we did.” Or, “this circumstance might require bravery, even prayers, but you’ve already faced hard things. I think you’ll find a way forward in this situation, too.” Then we might pray and figure it out together like M. helped me calm down and think clearly.

I’m still glad I avoided the stick rescue and I was glad I’d suited up properly. It would have been more risky if my feet were in sandals, arms and hands uncovered. Preparation and tapping into “at hand” and “by phone” resources kept me (and him) safe. Thanks, M. 

Why old people look (feel) old

Over the past three weeks, I did the following:

• routine work at home and at the office (lots of email exchange with folks all over the globe, bill-paying, meal preparing, vacuuming–ok, not so much of this)
• had coffee with a friend, on a Friday morning late in May, at a little Italian bakery near my house
• 5 minutes later, while pumping gas into my car, received the phone call saying my father was in crisis in Indiana
• made/received many more calls including a brief, tender, one with my dad
• 2 1/2 hours after the first call, learned from Daddy’s nurse that he died peacefully after eating lunch and specially-requested ice cream
• flew to Indiana the next day, 5 nights in motel
• helped make decisions for/witnessed his burial (full military honors, Daddy was a WWII wounded vet)
• flew home, 6 nights
• wrote dozens of thank you notes
• dug into my dad’s post-death administrative affairs
• helped decorate the reception hall/attended the wedding of a dear friend’s daughter
• flew to Chicago for grandson’s 7th birthday celebrations, 5 nights
• flew home, two days ago.

Which adds up to 4 significant relocations and 3 contrasting life-marker ceremonies, the loss of a beloved parent and heaps of admin duties.

I’m also the eldest child, paternal grandmother for the birthday boy, and the wife of a guy who’s an amazing help-mate and who’s been coughing too much, but that’s another story.

As a person who thrives on focus and routine, I’m a little desperate for a dose of one or the other or, imagine, both.  Some days, I can barely recall what focus or routine means. Today, I’m going to try to get a little of one or the other or both.

All to say, I strongly suspect this life phase I’m living doesn’t just reveal natural wrinkles. I’m pretty sure it causes them. The bouncing around and losses of life just might be a partial explanation for why, in my early 60′s, I sometimes look or feel particularly weary, worn, even wrinkled..which, to some younger folk, probably translates as old.

Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I think I’ll go take a nap.

May Beauty Sleep be more than a phrase.