Woodstock Twilight
Author: Bob
Lost Tooth
Returning home after I had just received a root canal, we saw our first ducks of the season. 4 mallards on the Sawkill. Which thrill would you choose?
Robin’s Dilemma
This poor robin blew in just ahead of the snow storm and is probably sitting in a cold tree right now thinking some very unbirdlike thoughts. Like…….”What the hell was I thinking? Twelve hours ago I was hopping around in a nice warm Cajun restaurant in Baton Rouge eating spilled spicy gumbo and beer. Why did I take off north early and get a storm blown up my freaking tail gun at 2000 ft. And the de-icing stop in Philadelphia. You know what they say about that. ‘Last Sunday, I spent a week in Philadelphia’. Only Newark could be worse. And now I sit here in this bleeping snow covered tree in Woodstock, NY. Peace and love my ass feathers!”
I’ll bet that’s what it’s thinking.
Eggs
Hung the new duck house yesterday. On a tree. Near the pond. 7 ft up and 6 ft away. Not precisely up to Ducks Unlimited guidelines. But close enough. Brand spankin’ new kiln dried inland red cedar. We even tossed in two bags of WoodLink’s best ultra high grade wood shavings as extra incentive. Prime soft as a baby’s butt nesting material. In the realm of duckdom, a furnished luxury apartment. Enough to bring out the desire for a sizzling stretch in the hay–or chips–in any female wood duck. Eggs to come. We even hung out a sign. All ducks welcome, regardless of color, race, creed or feather persuasion. Please contact owner. Etc.etc.
Nothing. By now, we should be up to our ears in ducklings. I’m reminded by friends–those who would admit it–that migration season is in the very earliest of its early phases. Maybe female ducks aren’t ready for a sizzling stretch in the hay–or chips. Who cares? I’ve laid out good money for kiln dried inland cedar. Where are the birds?
Ground Hog Day
Groundhog Day. The village elders of Punxsutauney, PA unceremoniously yank poor Phil out of his cozy hideaway. Little do they care that he was in the middle of grooming. They expose him blinkingly to the rude light of a late winter day. He quietly endures the annual poking and prodding. Part of his family history for decades. And apparently obligatory. The Fellowship of Fermentation and Brothers of the Bottle, bottles in hand, wait eagerly–for what? Phil doesn’t know. But he wonders. What are these demented humans doing? Do they know? He wants to go home. A sudden burst of noise and it’s over. The Brothers of the Bottle and the Fellowship of Fermentation cork up. Mount their large metal machines. And leave. The village elders of Punxsutauney, PA put Phil back into his hideaway. Sunset. Darkness falls. And peace returns to the hills. Still, he wonders, what were those demented human beings doing?
White Out
Snow. Ten inches last night and another three this morning. A white out this afternoon with–rough estimate–a 30-40 knot wind. Shari just informed me of the temp outside. 7 degrees. It’s 7 pm. Lucky 7. And dropping.
We shouldn’t complain. I read in the Times that homeless people in Chicago are facing much. much worse. Sub-zero temps as they sleep on park benches. Nothing but their clothes and a few garbage bags for warmth. Some avoid shelters because they fear that they may be robbed or injured. Others, because all the shelters require that folks clear out in the morning. Back on the streets. Where to go? Carpe diem.
We can assume that Chicago is joined by many large cities in this sad circumstance. Before I retired, I often saw the security people clearing the NYC IBM HQ lobby of homeless people. Every morning.
Gotta wonder what the animals do in these climes. Of course, people who leave their dogs out in such weather should be made to exchange places with them. And eat Puppy Chow. For days. Or weeks.
I’ve seen places in the snow marking where deer have spent the night. Not very appealing to me. But if you’re a deer and are so inclined, I guess it’s ok. Deer are kinda dumb anyway. Ask one to count from one to ten. You’ll see what I mean.
Other animals, such as bears and woodchucks, find a nice warm den where they can hole up. And enjoy a long winter nap between football and baseball seasons. Except walrus, penguins, seals, bears of a polar persuasion and their ilk. But they’re not too smart either. Would you spend the winter on the ice looking for another ilk to eat? Pray not.
Then there are the fish. What are they thinking!? Spending 4 or 5 months in the dark under layers of ice and snow? In water, the temps of which are just above freezing? Well, word has it that they don’t think. No surprise there. They go into what ichthyologists call a state of stupor. Really. Metabolism slows to the point where life is sustained by minimum energy intake. And, being cold blooded, they’re cozy and “warm”. In 35 degree water. So I guess warmth is a relative term. But I’ll pass.
I could go on about how dumb some animals are. It makes me feel better about myself.
But I think, instead, that I’ll send some warm vibes and hopes for better times to those poor folks in big cities. The ones under garbage bags. On park benches. In cold unfriendly places.
Midwinter Dreams
Well, I’m back, after what Shari and I have calculated was a 4 month tour through the foggy climes of cellulitis and septus. Two dark places I don’t want to revisit. I gradually gained full awareness during the last 6 weeks of hospitalization. The rest is lost in the cracks between August and December. And better so, from what I’m told.
So eat your heart out Rip van Winkle, I’m back. Back to address more bloggish issues…
To wit; a hawk flew through our front yard today. Warp speed. Shari saw a mole frolicking out there in the sparse grass yesterday. The hawk has no doubt been distracted by that. That and the fact that it knows there are more moles gestating out there in the subsurface darkness.
Every few years an invasion of fat, juicy grubs takes place in our little sub-terranian world. The moles gorge on them. In the process, they create a network of underground tunnels that renders our yard into a soft, mattress like surface. Weird. But then, “What, me, worry?” I don’t go out there anyway.
Alas. we’re now in the throes of mid-winter gloom. That limbo world that offers little variety save shifts in humidity and values of gray. OK, An occasional sunny or snowy day. Anyway, it’s that time of year when one begins to yen more and more for Spring and her verdant wardrobe of greens and golds. New plants, new animals.– In our pond, new fish. Just born into a new and hostile world, Fingerlings that will soon become the main course on their parents’ menu. Many a fish child doesn’t make it through the first day. Burial at sea? Or the less ceremonial conversion of fish to fish poop. You decide. Tough life out there in the grim world of the new born fingerling. New birds break the confines of the egg and leave their parents with an empty nest. New fawns test their shaky legs. Squirrels run in erratic circles, digging wildly in the soil. No doubt looking for the acorns they buried last October. Memory fades. I can relate. I’ve lost a few acorns over the years myself.
Home
Home. The very word connotes so many things. The ceiling high brick fireplace that has warmed our house on many a freezing cold winter day
The loud bangs as the ice on the pond expands and contracts.
The view of Overlook Mt. with its panorama of seasonal change.
The passing deer herd. Perhaps a bear or two come calling.
The warm kitchen–everyone’s favorite venue for fine food and a good conversation.
Shari, for whom no superlatives suffice. She who held my hand for hours while I teetered on the brink.
And who visited me every day in the hospital with her loving support.
Who needs more to bring them home?
Happy New Year!!!
A better year!
Merry Christmas!!!
Not the best of years, but I’m happy that I’m alive.
