In Favor of a Semi-Sheltered Life

Can you believe this hydrangea was blooming up until the freeze?

Look at it!

This determined plant has enjoyed a certain amount of sheltering.  It is tucked into an interior corner of the house where a small bird sanctuary has been created.

One brick wall to the west shelters it from the storms that track this way. But there is no overhang, so rain comes down upon it.

One brick wall to the south shelters it from the Southern summer heat.  But the kitchen roof slopes down to bask it sunlight.

A large barberry shrub to the north shelters it from the chilling winds.  But the breezes come through to dry the water-loving leaves.

All that stands to the east are bird feeders and the sun.  The morning rises to give it first glow and to gently warm the the walls as the sun ascends. The birds bring company and an eager appetite for the seeds we provide and the bugs that just are.  We hear the birds scamper through the undergrowth; their tiny feet and beaks keep the litter lightly turned.

We all need a semi-sheltered life.  Experience is good and all.  Adversity brings profound and lasting changes.  But a life graced with the semi-shelter of the care of others-- that life can find such growth, such blossoming.  Shelter by fortune or plan, for short or forever.  Thank you, Lord, for Your shelter.  May my heart, my life, be shelter to others.

Another Walk

Perfect day for a noontime walk.

One of the neighbors had the sprinkler going.  It was barely 50 degrees outside.  Why, oh, why?  Must have been some winter grass, it was a stand-out green.  Wonder how it will handle the next round of frost tonight. But it did make tiny rainbows.

With all of the trees now bare, I had a excellent view of the lush tussies of jade mistletoe, its every bough heavy with the pearls of berries.   Makes me wonder:   if people are so keen to affix a desiccated sample to a doorway during the holidays for the sole purpose of stealing a kiss,  why are not masses of people heavily smooching beneath oak trees crowned with the most vibrant of specimens?    I might need to start a reform campaign.

I went northward on the newest Greenway section.  I walked only as far as the bridge over Aldridge Creek to St. Stephen's Episcopalian Church.   The flowing water was warmer than the weather belied.   Shoals of minnows crowded facing upstream in the currents.   I say minnows, but they could have been fingerling trout for all I knew. One was at least six inches long, bossy and speckled brown.

Crickets chirp on the far bank, winged nymphs dart from bamboo.

Not a turtle or frog to be spied. All good amphibians gone to brumate.

Birds.  There were birds!  Two hawks emerged from the tree line, wheeling about each other, for a moment.  The red cedar was filled with blue drupes and the usual quarrels of starlings.  Robins dug and barked in the leaf litter.  My eyes could barely catch the running stitch of finches in the reeds.  As I headed back to the south, a sight caught my eyes-- a solitary heron upon a rock and framed by the trees of the creekside classroom trail.

The sun was bright, the wind was light, the deeper waters scintillated and sparkled. I paused, allowing my mind to be born off and returned.

Despite nature's surround, the man-made, manipulated, still abounded.  Pumpkins waited in uncharacteristic aquatic patches. Below the Hobbs Road bridge lay a computer monitor, the CRT kind.

Nurture does affect nature.  Witness: this short pine, who had to compete with its fraternal twin lightpost.

While nature always affects the nurture.  I will return to this corner and collect more windfall hickory nuts and learn to open then.

Providence provides a banquet for the senses.

All we must do is receive.

Ain't No Snipe Hunt

Most people, after a Friday night show during the last weekend of performances, would go out to celebrate and unwind.  Party as it were.  This bunch for "It's a Wonderful Life" as been a wonderful home-body group.  I don't mind.  Tonight I got to stay up late and have fun in an entirely unexpected way.

I got to track down a hawk.

Cynthia M. creates, sets and runs the lighting plot for many Theatre Huntsville shows (as well as for other groups.)  She is trained and talented in this, and her "real" job is do such for various VBC events.  She is also a fabulous friend to animals and a rehabber, of sorts.  (During the spring shows, she'll often have something small and adorable in the booth.)

She was told that two days ago that a hawk flew into the South Hall and had not left.  The raptor was chasing a pigeon dinner that flew in through one of the big loading doors that was open at the time.  It enjoyed its meal, but now it had no idea how to get out and was hiding up on the cat walks.  Oh, and a major event was going to be on Saturday, so did she know how to escort out the uninvited guest?

Cynthia planned to do it after the show, when all of the various people in various parts of the VBC for various reasons would unifiedly be gone.  When I heard her talk of it, I asked if I could come help her. Raptors are such BEAUTIFUL creatures!   It would be a privileged to help one.

She came prepared with a pair of welding gloves, some blankets to hood and calm the bird and a cat carrier, for carrying it out of the building.  She supposed it was the red-tailed hawk that has been living around the VBC for the past three years.  It's usually found near the Concert Hall, across from Big Spring Park.  But, anything can happen when you're thinking about lunch.  Me, I stayed in my back-stage black.  A red suede jacket and a blue bowler didn't seem wildlife appropriate.

I would classify this as an adventure.  I got to see a part of the world I'd never seen before, from the top.  When we arrived at the South Hall, our first job was to reconnoiter from ground level.  This got the attention of one part-time security man.  Here we were, wandering around holding a box to conceal things in, and Cynthia without her badge.  All cool, though, 'cause who would make up a story like our? We didn't see anything remotely avian from the floor, so up to the catwalks.

She directed me through a few doors, and I was surprised at how easy it is access the building facilities.  Not that I, as an honest person, would do so.  Around and around, up the stairs.  I figured I'd more likely get queasy from dizziness than from the height.

It is a different world up on the catwalks.  From the ground, it is lights and metal, a ceiling without the concealment.  But when you're up there, it is secure avenues high, high above the floor.  Conduits that carry wires, air and water.  Miles of cable like well directed rivers. Caged channels creating overpasses for the wiring.  Low girders, wrapped in carpet and bright tape, that STILL connect with foreheads.  Scaffolding and trusses in clean geometrical patterns.  A graveyard of lost helium Mylar balloons.  A world where the denizens keep it tidy for safety, open for access, and the visitors forget their cola cans.

It was fascinating, and not once did I concern myself with the height. It was more secure up there than on the ground.  We split up to scan the ceiling.  With all of the grey metal and straight lines, it should be easy to spot something round with brown feathers.  We quartered the first hall, found nothing, and crossed over to the second.  We wondered, did it leave?  Did it swoop low out a door and was in another part of the building?  Cynthia confirmed that it had come in; she'd seen what it had left of the pigeon it had chased in the first place. Hence, the welder's gloves.

We met up in the far back corner.  I looked up, and there it was, almost over our heads!

What a lovely bird!  And in the last place we looked, too.  It was perched too high above us for us to reach.  Not that it wanted anything to do with us.  You see, it wasn't the red-tailed hawk.  It was a greyish little sharp-shinned.  Very scared.  Every chance it got, it glided away from us on silent wings, keeping as much duct-work between us.  It remembered how it came it.  Its preferred perch was near the wall with the loading doors.  I so wanted to get a photo, but we did not want to tire it out.  It seem to be doing well on its last meal, but too much fly and too much fear would tax it.

We agreed that the best thing to do was to let nature take its course. We came back down from the cat walks and found the regular night guard, AJ.  He turned off all the lights in the hall.  We closed all the doors.  We talked to the head of security to arrange to have the big loading door-  first the exterior, then the interior-- opened with the dawn.  After a dark and quite night, the introduction of natural light should attract the bird. Nature will take over.

Cynthia and I walked back to our cars, chatting about what we love about life and animals.  And agreeing there is no known purpose for cockroaches.  We left with our prayers for the hawk.

From Emily, "Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul."

The "C" Word

Y'all, I generally don't mind bugs. Insects, specifically, but I tolerate spiders, too. They fill a niche in the world, they have a purpose. They're a part of the circle of life (I keep reminding myself, we won't have dragonflies if they don't have mosquitoes to eat.) Live & let live, sort of. If they're outside, they're where they belong. If they're inside, they're fair game for the hunt; Scott is all about slaying them, while I prefer catch-and-release. We even have tools that make us good at what we do: he has an electric bug racquet for wasps and other large creepies and I have have the bug jars from my kids. Either way, we keep the house occupants bipedal.

But there is one bug I loath. Of the myriad scavengers, those unattractive crawlies that consume our garbage & compost, there is one I will not abide. Do we not have pill bugs, millipedes, centipedes and crickets a plenty? (All I care not much for.)

Why do we need-- shudder-- cockroaches?
(There, I've said it. Sorry, Tanja.)

I've never liked them. They are creepy and gross. Sneaky, too, nor a respecter of personal space. I don't care if they are capable of surviving a nuclear Armageddon. So will kudzu and Twinkies, big deal. I find no point for the "c-word."

There was a bug under the bookshelf in my sixth grade classroom. I thought it was a cricket, and tried to help catch it. When it scuttled out and proved to be the-other-thing, I think my scream gave the PE coach a heart attack, and he was on the other side of the pod. Years later, one had the audacity to scuttle across the floor while I was baby sitting; I sprayed it with window cleaner, then with the bug spray (I was watching out for the kids,) finally resorting to smashing it with my shoe-- the demon insect kept crawling with its guts hanging out. Arrrgh!!!!!! Now, as a high-demand sitter, I'd handled many crises quite calmly. I resorted to calling my brother over to handle the final dispatch.

I cannot stand them.

So where did I go to college? Auburn University. Home of cockroaches so big & so aggressive that students from Louisiana and Florida were impressed. Not only that, those suckers flew.  Technically, they are "Palmetto Bugs." We don't HAVE palmetto in the area, so I blame some ag student in the past for accidentally importing it. I don't care. I just want them GONE. They eat everything. Plastic wire insulation is a fav dessert of theirs. Horror is waking up late for class because your alarm clock doesn't work and you can see the body of the culprit trapped against the lurid glow of the digital display. Just not right.

At Auburn, I learned: if you are alone in a room, it is useless to scream at one. That only gives it advanced warning. It'll fly right at you and laugh at your vain attempts to swat at it with a broom. (Wish that poster could have laughed about it... sorry.) I'll go on a stealth offensive, if there's no other recourse. My preferred method of destruction is to scream loudly as I jump up on some furniture; I can usually summon someone else within a 30 foot radius to do the deed.

My brother recommends a can of Raid. And a match. (No, he refrained from that during the baby-sitting rescue. But his method has a vengeful appeal.)

So there. Something I dislike, loath, abhor, despise, detest and just out-right can't stand-- nay, just plain hate.

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A whimsical note, I took a walk at the Botanical Gardens on Friday. The day had warmed up delightfully. Staying indoors would have been a sin. All sorts of six-legged things were buoying about, especially pairs of butterflies in their last hopeful, enamored dances.

As I approached the gazebo, I could see quite a few things buzzing about a trellis. Bigger than gnats, smaller than wasps. Thinking they might be honey bees out for a final hurrah, I tried to focus on one, only to realize they were flying polka-dots glowing red. Ladybugs! Oodles! They'd been lured out of their hibernation. With so many, it was easy to have one alight on my hand. Not so easy to take a picture of it as it scurried along. Even less easy when it became three, eight, twenty conveniently landing on me. Left arm, right arm, shirt, pants. I watched one hang from my bangs. Maybe there were too many ladybugs. The ticklish legs weren't a problem, but one of them wondered if my arm tasted like aphid.... party over. Shoo, shoo! (I got odd looks from others in the glen.)

I was almost out of the garden when I felt something at my shoulder. A straggler. It perched a moment on my sweater.

Shoo to you, too.