Hummer Junkies

We live near the artistic homestead of John J. Audubon, famed bird and wildlife illustrator, located in a town cleverly named Audubon, PA. I bought some beautiful note cards with his illustrations of hummingbirds: two caught in mid-hover, green and red, delicate and dignified, their long, elegant beaks carefully inserted into slender pink blossoms.

Our resident ruby-throated hummingbirds are nothing of the sort. They spend more time chasing each around our deck, over our heads, and off into space than actually feeding. There are two females that return every spring, and this year we have also seen a smaller male - but he has been scarce, and one can only imagine why. The two females spend most of their time racing around, zipping in and out like Warner Brothers cartoons, in circles, up and down, with sudden sideways left turns, using the most impressive helicopter-like maneuvers to evade and chase each other away from our flowers and sugar-water feeder. When they are not competing for our outdoor buffet, they are hanging out on tree branches nearby watching for each other. They persist with these activities in the middle of thunder storms, in the hot humidity of our summer afternoons, and at dusk when we are sitting outside trying to eat our dinner. If we are not expecting it - like when we are looking down at our plates of zucchini and rice to scoop up another forkful - the sudden zooming by of a 3 to 4 inch creature whose wings are beating at 53 times per second – well, the sound can be quite startling. It’s a sound that the primitive-warning parts of our brains don’t quite recognize, and it's a bit nerve-racking every time. But we love watching them, and so we’ll continue to put out the juice that I suspect got them hooked in the first place.*

One day in the late summer, they’ll disappear. The only thing I wonder is: Where exactly do our dinner companions go every fall? The University of Maine Extension web site says that most ruby-throated hummingbirds fly nonstop across the Gulf of Mexico, almost 600 miles, to their winter habitat in southern Mexico or Central America. I would love to know in which country they spend those months. Which lush, green rainforest do they hover in down there? Is it mountainous? Foggy and cool? Hot and sunny? I would love to affix a tiny H-bird-cam on their tiny heads, to see how they make the 1500-some-mile journey, and then how they make it back to our deck in Southeastern Pennsylvania each spring. How do they do it?

* For feeder solution, add one part table sugar to four parts boiling water, stir to dissolve the sugar. Boil for at least a minute. Cool before filling feeders. Keep feeder clean and sterilized. You should also have the long, tubular, red, purple, or pink flowers they like – as the flower nectar provides nutrition the sugar water doesn’t have. They need it for the long trip.

There are actually three in this video, recorded through a window (if you can catch them!) ...

Small Farms - So Tasty!

Fresh fruit!

In summer I am consumed with visiting farm stands and picking, buying, and eating fresh local fruits and vegetables. After being deprived all winter long, the vibrant colors and sheer abundance are shocking. We try to stay local in our produce purchases in the winter, which means that other than buying lettuce shipped in from California, we do without peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, and most fruit unless it’s frozen or jarred. So in the summer we go crazy with fresh-off-the-farm strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, peaches, corn, tomatoes of every shape and flavor, lettuce, green beans, zucchini, melons, raspberries, cucumbers, red peppers, and anything grown right here or nearby in New Jersey.

We are so blessed here in the Northeast, and in this country, with our seemingly limitless availability of water and good soil and the peace and time for our farmers to plant, grow, and harvest. (I am so grateful to these small family farmers willing to put in the hard work for not very much money.) Not only do we get to eat this stuff the day it’s picked, but the wild shapes and sizes and colors are more beautiful than any painting. For those of us lucky enough to partake – enjoy the bounty!

Gotta go now – the smell of a sweet canary melon is beckoning me to scoop and eat!

Meadow Drive-In

I grew up in southern New Jersey, where the first drive-in movie screen was built. A true summer treat, you could ride there at dusk in the back of your parents’ station wagon in your pajamas, and during a good Disney double feature, pass out with the crickets as company.

Now I live in Pennsylvania, and I don’t know of any drive-ins that exist anymore. But we have a great meadow on a low hill in Valley Forge National Park that we like to drive up to at dusk on summer evenings. We pull up, park, open the windows, stick our bare feet out, and watch the show. Swallows - in their navy blue tuxedo jackets with white dress shirts - swoop and swerve, criss-crossing all across the field, over the car and up overhead against the pink and gray sky, catching their evening bug snacks. The red-winged blackbirds call out cheerily as they finish up their day’s business before retiring. Thrushes, orioles and bluebirds wing by, returning at last to their nests for the night.

The sky grows darker, and the air dampens and wafts across the field, carrying with it the sweet smell of sun-baked grasses. Crickets and cicadas began to warm up for their evening concert. The meadow dims, and one small light flashes gently, then another, and finally the whole field is filled with tiny fairy lanterns, flashing on and off in the darkness.

Like the drive-ins, there are few true meadows left anymore. Most of our land has been developed into houses and shopping centers, lawns and soccer fields. We treasure this meadow in the daytime, taking walks and enjoying all of its inhabitants. But we really like to be there for its always-entertaining evening show. We just don’t wear our pajamas. And at least one of us stays awake to drive home.

Mind Your Manners

I saw my annual snake today. I always see at least one a year while I'm out walking somewhere. It’s usually lying out on a path in the sun in early spring, trying to wake up and defrost from its long winter nap.

This one was stretched out on a patch of ground near a path in the woods, warming up on our first 80 degree day. It was tan-ish brown with long yellow stripes, about 15 inches long, lying in kind of a skinny crooked line. My husband spotted him, and thought he was dead, because he was lying so still. His little head was pointed to the side and was close to the edge of the leaves and bushes. But we could see his eyes were open, and after a minute we saw his tiny tongue dart in and out, so that proved it: not dead, just resting.

After much discussion of how we could hardly see him, how well camouflaged he was, etc., I said, “I really want to touch him with a stick.”

“I know,” my husband replied.

“I’m going to move him or touch him just a little with a stick.”

“O.K.” he answered.

I was thinking that this might scare or annoy it and it would probably slither away into the woods. Somehow, as I bent down and picked up a stick, I changed my mind and decided I was going to try to pet it with my hand instead. I reached out with one finger and barely touched it, and in a microsecond it whipped around, leaped at my hand, and then recoiled back into 2 little piles stacked neatly in a figure eight, tail tucked under protectively, with its little head erected above. Staring straight at me, it looked mighty offended at my nerve for touching without permission.

Needless to say it scared the dickens out of me. I reflexively wrenched my hand back so fast I felt a shot of pain jolt from my shoulder straight down my arm.

A little garter snake it was, with a head maybe the size of a nickel. It stared up at all 5 foot 8 inches of me – now standing upright, rubbing my shoulder, shot full of adrenaline – and faced me squarely, ready to take me on.

“Oh my gosh, did you see that?”

“Yes!”

“Why did he do that?”

"He’s a snake! What did you expect?”

“I thought he was going to slither off into the woods.”

“Yeah, me too.”

After a few seconds we walked away, and looking behind us, could see its little head following us down the path.

Wish I’d had my camera.

They're Here!

The Waxwings are here!

Just yesterday I was looking at our big old serviceberry tree outside our window, and noticed its berries had come in, but were still green, and I said to my husband off-handedly, “Have you heard from the Waxwings? Any emails?”

“No, nothing yet.”

We never know exactly when they are coming. Like the fun family friends or wild cousins that travel around, free as the breeze, unattached to boring desk jobs or other mainstream conformity, our cedar waxwing friends arrive every year on their own schedule. And just like the free-spirited folks we love to have drop in, they come every spring for about 2 weeks, and throw an unforgettable bacchanalic celebration in our humble serviceberry tree. It’s wonderful.

So this morning, I woke up, looked out the window, and – there they were! - as if they had they heard me asking about them. They were just as beautiful as I remembered them. (They are sort of shaped like cardinals, but are a beautiful olive-golden color. Their head crests are flattened softly back on their heads, like delicate Robin Hood caps. They wear black eye masks, and have bright red and yellow paint-dipped tail feathers.)

Their arrival and subsequent feast is much like any other annual party or family reunion: full of celebration and ritual. The berries aren’t red yet, so they hopped around on the branches, took a berry or two, and passed the ceremonial offering back and forth between them, doing a little hop and head-nod-away in between each pass. Their initial festival–opening-thank-you-folk-dance enacted, they flew on elsewhere and have not been back since. I know they are “in the neighborhood,” but now that they have checked-in, they have probably moved on to some other favorite spot, and will be back as soon as those berries turn red. And THEN, all of the neighborhood birds come over to join in, and there will be a 14-day-long party in that tree, with singing, chattering, hopping, berry passing back and forth, dancing, and general merry-making just outside our window. I can’t wait!

Post Script..... Just think, we didn’t have to do anything to get ready for our company, other than step in front of the chain saws last May, preventing our neighborhood association from chopping down that big old tree ...

Here are three of them, hanging out.

Woods Prom

We are fortunate to live near the beautiful Jenkins Arboretum in Devon, Pennsylvania, which is a preserve of native woods and indigenous wildflowers. It is fenced off on all sides to keep out the deer that, due to over-development and lack of predators, are everywhere, eating everything. So here is this little patch of woods, in its natural state, and it is lovely. At the beginning of spring we run over to check out what little green shoots are poking their way up through the leaf litter, and we check back once or twice a week to see what is budding, what is leafing out, what birds have arrived, and what is in bloom. The scene changes every week throughout the spring; a symphony that begins quietly, then builds to a crescendo of colors, shapes, and sounds at every level of the forest.

I’ve tried for the three years in a row we’ve lived here to contact friends and relatives as I see it happening. “You’ve got to get over here! It’s unbelievable! It will all be different next week! You’ll miss it!” People are so busy, with days booked weeks and months ahead. With all of the responsibilities and routines and commitments, it’s harder than ever to make the time to stop and notice what is going on right around us, on mother nature’s untamed clock.

When I lived in Los Angeles, some folks would get ready in early spring for the great California poppy blooms that would cover the Antelope Valley in a carpet of orange. Aficionados knew, you had to listen or call or read for the go-ahead from rangers or locals, and be ready in a day’s notice to jump in the car and drive out there to see all of those bright orange heads, dancing in the wind - all gone in a matter of days.

Here are some photos from our local arboretum, caught just in time at the peak of the azalea bloom. They are, appropriately for this time of year, dressed to go to the prom.

What is bursting forth in a few short days of glory where you live?

Cow Outing

It’s April. It’s been a long winter, with the last snow falling earlier this month. We have already been outside staring at the cheery daffodils and the early blooming forsythia. Last week we got up early to drive to Seven Stars organic farm in Kimberton, PA to watch some 70 Jersey and Guernsey cows let out of their barn for the first time since the fall.

An annual ritual, the farmers wait for the exact right day each spring, when the grass and clover have grown and taken root and the ground isn’t too soggy. Otherwise the cows' hooves will tear it up, leaving them with nothing to graze on all summer. Finally, the “right” day came (after twice weekly phone calls to confirm, I got a “Yes! Tomorrow is the day! 8:00 a.m.!”) And so we went to watch along with some local kids who had the day off for Good Friday (and it was Earth Day – perfect!).

When we got there we wandered around until a farmhand pointed out the route the cows would take. It was a long trip out of the barn, down a lane, around some farm equipment and then around three sides of the 10 acre cooperative farm next door before they would get to their regular grazing pasture. We waited outside in the field a good distance from the barns and 20 feet back from the lane the cows use, as we were warned not to stand too close because the cows were shy and might stop moving when they see us, thus causing a big backup for the other cows coming from behind. So we stood out in the field waiting, our sneakers wet in the dewy grass, listening to the birds’ singing, rubbing our arms against the morning chill. Finally, in the distance, some of the cows appeared outside of the barn, collecting in a little group. One of the farmers standing in the field with us called out to them in a high voice. A bit confused, they stopped, mooing, not sure what they were doing outside. The farmer called again, and this time they looked over at us. Suddenly realizing they were free and recognizing the moment, they began to trot and then run down the lane, hesitating only once or twice, each stopping abruptly to look at the same black plastic pipe sticking up out of the ground. They made it all the way around the next-door farm, maneuvering three turns in the lane without a herding dog, without cowboys or prods or shocks, directed only by that early call of encouragement.

One cow limped a bit with a sore foot, another moved slowly with a stiff hip, but who doesn’t on a cold morning after being stuck indoors all winter? I am still warmed by the image of their first exit from the barn, their first gaze as at the green grass, their first realization that their new freedom was just around a few corners to greener pastures that they remembered from better, pre-winter days, and the skip in their step to get there. Happy Spring!