Ice Blues

One morning last month, just before sunrise, the temperature plunged to -2 degrees. That's not so unusual for this time of year, but this particular morning brought with it one of my favorite winter phenomena:  rime ice (also known as hoarfrost, ice fog, and rime frost). Every inch of every branch, stem and tree trunk, shimmered and glistened with a soft coating of white jagged ice. 

It was a spectacular, foggy, winter wonderland against crisp blue skies. On some surfaces it was thick as snow while on others it appeared to be growing in sharp spikes.

Winter birding was a challenge.  However, a family of seven lovely, little bluebirds have been with us all winter, feeding on berries in the garden and singing from the trees. Brilliant blue against the white snow and the red berries of the winterberry bush, they flit away from the stingy starlings and manage to out-wit the sneaky cats. At night, I find them huddled in the eaves outside our bedroom window and checking on them has become my bedtime ritual. 

Usually all I can see is a tail or two high up in the corner, but many nights one adult is sleeping separately from the group, alone on a ledge but tucked in against the weather. About two weeks ago, however, they stopped coming in to roost even though it is still windy and cold. Are these bluebirds winter birds who have since started their way north? Or are these the same bluebirds we have here in the summer? (will there be seven?) And if so, where ARE they right now? I miss their cheery songs and the promise of spring!

Riding in the New Year

Our traditional New Year's Eve celebration is watching a bunch of movies, creating and enjoying a fabulous multi-course meal, and drinking lots of wine. Just the two of us. Well, three if you include our warm and comfort-seeking dog named Jake. Temperatures were mild enough to start the evening on the porch stoop and drink a cocktail, the barn and shrubs ablaze in sunset.  Most of the meal was sourced locally: a standing roast from High Point Farms, a creamy soup of leek and rutabagas from Country Side Produce, chocolate ice cream from Cayuga Lake Creamery, wine from J. R. Dill and bubbly from Lucas Vineyards. It was another perfect evening.

Early in December we made reservations for a New Year's Day trail ride at Painted Bar Stables in Burdette. Neither of us having ever been on a horse, we nervously made our way into the stables, all the while getting safety tips and riding instructions from Erika, the owner. I was to ride Dozer, a sharp looking chestnut gelding. Duchess, a solid paint palomino mare, was saddled for Kevin. We mounted, and with my stomach in my throat, I gingerly directed Dozer to the trail head and I stopped. I can't do it, I thought I said to myself, but Erika--ever present and alert--heard me, and made a suggestion. "Hum a tune, and you'll get over your fear. And don't forget to breathe. The horse will sense that you are nervous, then he'll get nervous. Oh, and don't micro-manage the horse. He knows how to walk through the mud and ice. Just gently suggest what you want him to do." I did, and he did, and all was well.

Creekside, my fear took over again, but with kind encouragement from Erika and the other riders, I kept calm, leaned back and let sure-footed Dozer manage the slope into the water. Slow and steady. That wasn't so bad. All in all, it was lovely ride on a mild winter day through corn fields and meadows, and I can't wait to go horseback riding again. Perhaps this will be a new tradition for us--riding into a Happy New Year.

Pots of Gold

Last weekend a quick and violent summer thunderstorm blew through the Interlaken plateau. Thunder cracked, trees bent, and one electrifying snap of lightning fried our modem with a loud "pop!" The rain lasted about 5 minutes. What followed this outburst was one of nature's most impressive phenomena. Through the green haze and puffy clouds came the rays of the sun and a rainbow, brilliant and majestic. One end of it illuminating a corn field to our south, and the other a field of grazing cows. Would our good fortune double--what does the folklore tell us?-- if we found both pots of gold?

After taking advantage of my first full year of AARP benefits (I turned 50 last summer), I am accepting the thought of retirement. Not retirement from life, but retirement from a full-time, work-for-somebody-else job. Our bed and breakfast is doing great and we love it. I'll need something else, however, to help keep it all going. Learning a new skill which can take me into my retirement (where ever that place may be) feels like the right choice.  So, beginning in January, I will be starting a new journey. It begins at the Finger Lakes School of Massage. 

I'm going back to school to become a Massage Therapist.

All the papers are in place, and now I am about to write what may be the most important prose of my adult life: A tuition scholarship essay. Writing this blog has been good practice. I've learned to collect my thoughts, create a story and put it on paper (well, e-paper), and find my voice. But I've never in my life asked for financial assistance, or had to affirm myself, my existence, my contribution to society, or ask for recognition. It is unnatural for a practical, efficiency-minded, do-bee like me to talk about what makes me special, or what sets me apart from everyone else.

I keep thinking about that rainbow and the two pots of gold. A shimmery, fading glimpse of the past and spark of the future. A reflective and colorful bridge between two careers and two phases of my life. The highs and lows, the graceful arc of a happy, productive, and fruitful life. Hmmm...maybe I just found a theme (somewhat hokey I know) for my essay. Or, perhaps I'll just point the scholarship committee here to read my blog because this, after all, is me.

Keep singing!

Right now there's a Northern Mockingbird outside the window, feverishly and relentlessly singing to impress his mate, who just arrived in our yard today (he's been singing for about a month.) Driven by instinct, he settled in and kept singing. Night after night, a male barn swallow roosts beside his egg-filled nest, even after his mate has been missing for a week and the clutch is lost. Two winters ago a snowy owl made our town his home for 4 months bringing birdwatchers from miles around to observe and record his every move and pellet expulsion. What makes this place so right for them?

But, there's more. Always more. While cleaning up the remains from another spectacular peony bloom, I hear Kevin say "Here's Michele, I'll let you talk to her." On the other end of the phone line was our friend David from the market around the corner. One of his customers reported having a sandhill crane in their front yard. A sandhill crane just up the road? Could it be? I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see one this close, so I dropped the broom, the clippers, spritzed myself with bug-spray (thinking we would be trudging through a field), grabbed the binoculars, jumped in the car and picked up David along the way.

Okay, so up the road was about 3 miles, but in farm country, that's still in the neighborhood. I was half expecting the bird would turn out to be a Great Blue Heron. I was so wrong. As we pulled into the driveway, there it was, its red-patched head a beacon in the green grass under a small tree. It was no more that 20 feet from us, foraging on the ground below the backyard bird feeder. We didn't even have to get out of the car. It made no reaction to our being there. The property owner stood by, shaking his head. He never expected to be feeding a bird like this! Every few minutes, the bird would let out a loud, prehistoric-like clucking squawk. We were thrilled.

The crane has been there for about a week now, strutting around in the yard like a pet, and there is no telling how long it will stay or what attracted it there in the first place. The general area is perfect habitat for a sandhill crane, and so is the neighbor's yard next door, and the yard across the road. Why did it choose this particular yard?

Like the birds, we have chosen one place from a thousand in which to land. We're safe, well fed, and industrious. But which bird are we? The dependable migrant who stays the course year after year? Or the errant who has temporarily lost its way and must survive on wits and instinct? Or the wanderer who stays for a while, and moves on? No matter. For now, it feels right to settle in and keep on singing.

Boys of Spring

How far would you drive to see a particular bird? Tonight, just before dusk, I put on my red tassel cap, tossed my binoculars into the car, and drove about 6 miles hoping to catch the courtship display of the male American Woodcock. I know it sounds nerdy, but conditions were perfect:  Both the wind and rain had stopped, and the sky was white with cloud cover. I arrived at my destination cold...muddy...but full of hope. Lover-boy did not disappoint.

I am a birdwatcher. I can't help it. Watching birds is fascinating. They are amazing creatures. Some travel hundreds, even thousands of miles, twice a year, no matter what. Some feast on early berries for the long flight south, some feast on later berries when they arrive famished and exhausted. And finding a particular species is not as random as I once thought it was. If you had bluebirds in your yard last year, you will probably have bluebirds again this year and next.  Barn swallows? They return every year, probably the same birds or their offspring. A couple of years ago, one particular barn swallow--we call him Bebo--decided that our porch is much nicer and less crowded than the barn, so he found a mate and built a nest. Our guests enjoyed watching the babies fledge one by one and seeing the whole family roosting all in a row at night.

There are times, however, when a storm will blow a bird off-course or something goes wrong with its navigation system, or it passes through just briefly, and we get to see an uncommon bird in our local habitat before it perishes, as is sometimes the case, or moves on. Last Christmas we were lucky to have a visit by a Snowy Owl. He stayed until May.  Once word is out, generally via a posting by someone in the Cayuga Bird Club, people drive good distances to see the birds in the local habitat. You know you have found it when you turn the corner, and there are a dozen cars and giant camera lenses poking out from the windows. You walk over to the first person you see, they ask "Are you here to see the 'fill in the blank'?" and then they point. There it is. We all stand in silence and awe, saluting with binoculars raised. 

Back to the American Woodcock who is, by the way, one of the first spring arrivals.  It's a funny looking bird, brown spots and long bill and a waddle when it walks.  But when attracting a mate, this birds goes all out. I heard the peent...peent...peent and I waited. I was hearing at least two different birds. Without warning, he flew out from the brush in a diagonal trajectory making fast chirping sounds. He climbed higher and higher, spiraling with wings fluttering rapidly. The chirping continued until he was just a speck against the sky. Just as quickly, he dove towards the ground, spinning and zig-zagging nose first, a more melodious chirping marking his descent. Then silence, followed by peent....peent...peent.  I kept watching and listening as he repeated this sky dance three times before the darkness made further seeing impossible. Wow. I can't believe I finally saw it. Funny thing?  Lover-boy will keep doing this even after he's got the girl! 


(photo credit Michael J. Hopiak/CLO)