Let me introduce you to the squirrel that shows up in our front yard every year and eats the seeds out of the bird feeder hanging from our pear blossom tree.
Last summer, I asked my Facebook friends, "How do I keep the squirrel from climbing onto my bird feeder and spilling the contents of that feeder, aside from running out the front door, clapping my hands, and yelling, 'Squirrel, that's not for you!'?"
I received several suggestions: Put the feeder on a metal pole, buy a bird feeder with a squirrel guard, shoot it with a BB gun. (This last tip prompted a healthy discussion on gun control, pacifism, and vegetarianism.)
I took none of the advice. I did, however, buy non-germinating bird seed.
This summer, like last summer, I filled the feeder and waited for the myriad of exotic birds with multicolor plumage - as promised by the bird seed package - to light daintily on the edge of the cedar perch. Until . . .
"Squirrel, that is not your food! And you look fat this year! Have you been eating all of this bird seed?" By this time, I was standing in the front yard, shouting up the tree, and clapping my hands at the squirrel wildly. "Look at how much seed is on the ground! Did you do that?"
Squirrel, as I so affectionately call him, did not answer me. But the neighbors walking their dog furtively crossed to the other side of the street.
I did not refill the bird feeder, deciding that the birds (and probably Squirrel) should eat the seed off the ground first. Eventually, once the seed disappeared, Squirrel took to gnawing on the wooden feeder instead. We now have a large chunk missing from the feeder's side and perch.
The cute, colorful birds, that occasionally outsmart Squirrel, are not innocent players in this summertime cat-and-mouse (or squirrel-and-bird) game.
Last summer, when I wasn't looking, a bird built a nest in one of my fuchsia plants, hanging on our front porch. Before I got around to removing the nest, the bird had already laid her eggs. I couldn't in good conscience destroy her babies, so the nest stayed and consequently killed my fuchsia.
But the babies were adorable, their miniature beaks flailing in the air when their mama would fly to the nest to feed them, their squeaky chirping, their tiny, fuzzy heads poking above the fuchsia leaves.
One day, I came home from work, and the babies were gone.
"Dan," I said, almost in tears, "the baby birds are gone. The nest is abandoned!"
"That's what happens when birds grow up. They fly away."
"I feel like I helped them grow into independent, self-reliant creatures. And now they've disappeared, without even a goodbye! I'll miss them."
"Okay . . ." Dan said. "We're never having kids."
The birds left behind a nest full of droppings and a dead plant.
As much fun as I had hatching baby birds last summer, I decided I wanted my plants to survive this year. So we removed the nest as soon as it appeared in our fuchsias. About a half-hour later, Dan had to remove another one. And a half-hour after that, yet another nest magically manifested.
This time, it was my job to dispose of the nest. All of a sudden, I heard a fluttering of wings and a nasally squawking from the tree. There sat an extremely agitated female bird, glaring at me with such animosity that I thought I might have been warped into the middle of a Hitchcock movie.
"It's okay, birdie," I cooed calmly. "I just want my fuchsia to live. You're going to have to find another nesting area."
This remark was greeted with more violent wing-flapping.
I ran inside with the nest.
"We have to do something, NOW! That bird wants to kill me."
Dan decided we should stick sharp objects in the plants to prevent the birds from landing.
"I don't want to kill the birds. I just want my plants to live."
We compromised. Dan armed the soil with plastic forks and knives instead. While he prepared the plants, I stepped out onto our front porch. Up on our roof was the soon-to-be mama bird, her mouth full of twigs and dead grass. A colorful, presumably male, bird was "supervising" the operation. They looked around, bewildered as if to say, "Where did you put my potential nesting location?"
"Ha ha! Not so smart now, are you?" I said to the birds. "No nest here for you! Not in my fuchsias! You'll have to go somewhere else! "
"And you wonder why our neighbors don't talk to us," Dan said as we hung our plants back up.
It worked. Our hanging plants are nest-free. We still have beautiful birds that visit our feeder when Squirrel is not around. A few weeks ago, we even had a Chukar in our driveway. Dan was so excited, he recorded a video of the bird waddling around and making strange noises.
Now if I could only figure out how to keep my little summer creature friends from eating my sunflowers! That may be a story for next year.
I dedicate this site to my mother. She was a columnist and an author with the uncanny ability to find humor in the daily ins and outs of life. She faced every challenge with a witty optimism, including the cancer that ended her life too soon.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
A Memorial for Grandma
About a month ago, in my post "A Mother's Day Tribute," I wrote about how the floods in southern Illinois prevented me from attending my grandmother's funeral. Last weekend, my family and I made the journey to Cairo, Illinois, a town of Mark Twain fame, where the Ohio and the Mississippi meet, a town hit hard by poverty and now by devastating floods. My mother and grandmother both grew up in Cairo (pronounced Care-o - as in I "care" about you - as opposed to Cairo, Egypt or - as many non-Cairo residents say - Karo Syrup). Several generations on my mother's side also hailed from that Missouri/Kentucky/Southern Illinois region. Because Cairo is so close to Kentucky and Tennessee and sits on the Mason-Dixon line, it feels more Confederate than Yankee sometimes.
“Here’s what we’ll do," Aunt Alice, my grandmother's 93-year-old sister, said over a phone conversation before we left Idaho. "I’ll have Charles [her son, my second cousin] barbecue the pork shoulder on Friday night. Then y'all get here at noon on Saturday, and we’ll have the pork shoulder and then chicken spaghetti that night.”
I hung up the phone, a little bewildered, pretty certain we were going to have two huge, home-cooked meals on Saturday alone.
"I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm a vegetarian," I told Dan. "I don't think they have vegetarians in Cairo. I guess I'll just have to take one for the team."
Of course, there's nothing better than barbecue in that region of the country, even for a (semi) vegetarian like me.
We did, in fact, eat two huge meals with Aunt Alice on Saturday, complete with two desserts - Rainbow Angel Food Cake in the afternoon and . . . well . . .
"It's Lidy's recipe," Aunt Alice explained. "She calls it her Better-Than-Tom-Selleck Cake," then she added, "Better-Than-Sex Cake."
As we were leaving Alice's house that night, she stared at my husband for a minute. Then she said, "You sure don't talk much."
And with that, we headed back to our hotel in Sikeston, Missouri to prepare for the memorial service.
I sang a solo at my grandmother's church the next morning. Cairo Baptist (renamed Mighty Rivers Worship Center) was also the church in which my mother grew up. The minister there married my parents. Every time we have visited Cairo, I have been asked to provide special music. And every time I sing in that sanctuary, I get the feeling that I kind of grew up there too, maybe vicariously through my mother, maybe because I'm sure my grandmother talked me up to her fellow church members. To Grandma, I was the Ninth Wonder of the World (she and her siblings and their Vaudeville act being the Eighth Wonder of the World).
This time, before I sang, the pastor said, "Helen [my grandmother's name], I hope you're listening."
At the memorial that afternoon, we arranged pictures of Grandma around a bouquet of flowers My brother, Steve, told a story about playing Old Maid with Grandma. She would stack the deck so that she would always end up with the dreaded "Old Maid" card, and Steve would win. My father talked about my grandmother always wanting dessert first and connected this metaphor to the enjoyment she gleaned from life.
"I hope she's up in heaven, surrounded by dessert," he ended.
My father also invited the congregation to tell Grandma stories.
One of her fellow choir members, a gentleman about my age, said, "I am the tallest choir member [he's well over six-foot], and Helen was always the shortest [she was around 4'9"]. Sometimes I couldn't find my robe, and I'd say, 'Helen, are you wearing my robe again?' And she'd laugh and laugh."
Then, I sang "I'll Fly Away."
Aunt Alice, my strong, tough 93-year-old great aunt who had not shed a tear, started to cry.
"She always wanted that song sung at her funeral," Alice said. "And we just couldn't do it because of the flood."
"Well," I embraced her through tears, "we did it."
“Here’s what we’ll do," Aunt Alice, my grandmother's 93-year-old sister, said over a phone conversation before we left Idaho. "I’ll have Charles [her son, my second cousin] barbecue the pork shoulder on Friday night. Then y'all get here at noon on Saturday, and we’ll have the pork shoulder and then chicken spaghetti that night.”
I hung up the phone, a little bewildered, pretty certain we were going to have two huge, home-cooked meals on Saturday alone.
"I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm a vegetarian," I told Dan. "I don't think they have vegetarians in Cairo. I guess I'll just have to take one for the team."
Of course, there's nothing better than barbecue in that region of the country, even for a (semi) vegetarian like me.
We did, in fact, eat two huge meals with Aunt Alice on Saturday, complete with two desserts - Rainbow Angel Food Cake in the afternoon and . . . well . . .
"It's Lidy's recipe," Aunt Alice explained. "She calls it her Better-Than-Tom-Selleck Cake," then she added, "Better-Than-Sex Cake."
As we were leaving Alice's house that night, she stared at my husband for a minute. Then she said, "You sure don't talk much."
And with that, we headed back to our hotel in Sikeston, Missouri to prepare for the memorial service.
I sang a solo at my grandmother's church the next morning. Cairo Baptist (renamed Mighty Rivers Worship Center) was also the church in which my mother grew up. The minister there married my parents. Every time we have visited Cairo, I have been asked to provide special music. And every time I sing in that sanctuary, I get the feeling that I kind of grew up there too, maybe vicariously through my mother, maybe because I'm sure my grandmother talked me up to her fellow church members. To Grandma, I was the Ninth Wonder of the World (she and her siblings and their Vaudeville act being the Eighth Wonder of the World).
This time, before I sang, the pastor said, "Helen [my grandmother's name], I hope you're listening."
At the memorial that afternoon, we arranged pictures of Grandma around a bouquet of flowers My brother, Steve, told a story about playing Old Maid with Grandma. She would stack the deck so that she would always end up with the dreaded "Old Maid" card, and Steve would win. My father talked about my grandmother always wanting dessert first and connected this metaphor to the enjoyment she gleaned from life.
"I hope she's up in heaven, surrounded by dessert," he ended.
My father also invited the congregation to tell Grandma stories.
One of her fellow choir members, a gentleman about my age, said, "I am the tallest choir member [he's well over six-foot], and Helen was always the shortest [she was around 4'9"]. Sometimes I couldn't find my robe, and I'd say, 'Helen, are you wearing my robe again?' And she'd laugh and laugh."
Then, I sang "I'll Fly Away."
Aunt Alice, my strong, tough 93-year-old great aunt who had not shed a tear, started to cry.
"She always wanted that song sung at her funeral," Alice said. "And we just couldn't do it because of the flood."
"Well," I embraced her through tears, "we did it."
WHERE I’M FROM
(the tribute poem I wrote and read at Grandma's memorial service on
Sunday, June 12, 2011 the day before her 99th birthday)
I am from Grandma, the self-proclaimed “T.V. Dinner Queen,”
from pecan pies and Shemwell's barbecue on toasted bread.
I am from Aunt Alice and Uncle Bud,
from distant stories of Great Aunt Lucille – she quacked like a duck – and Great Grandma’s Halloween costumes and neighborhood haunted house.
I am from panty hose and high heels, even at age 80-something,
from phone calls on Sunday nights and “Good Night” spoken as an interjection,
I am from the Dunn Children Vaudeville act, the 8th Wonder of the World,
and me, the 9th Wonder of the World,
from being the center of attention and loving every minute of it.
I am from the Big Wheel pedaling down Pine Street,
from chasing lightning bugs on humid, Midwestern nights.
I am from snapping many, many photos of family living far, far away.
I am from Murder She Wrote and paperback mysteries,
from Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.
I am from sending my brother into Grandma’s attic, just to see if there’s anything cool up there.
I am from black-eyed peas on New Year’s,
Brussels sprouts on Thanksgiving,
marshmallow date logs on Christmas.
I am from Christmases spent in Cairo and fancy dinners at Alice’s and answering the phone, “Christmas Eve Gift!” on December 24.
I am from a mother who is no longer able to say goodbye to her mother, but I am here, and I am from beautiful memories of a grandmother, a mother, and a daughter.
(the tribute poem I wrote and read at Grandma's memorial service on
Sunday, June 12, 2011 the day before her 99th birthday)
I am from Grandma, the self-proclaimed “T.V. Dinner Queen,”
from pecan pies and Shemwell's barbecue on toasted bread.
I am from Aunt Alice and Uncle Bud,
from distant stories of Great Aunt Lucille – she quacked like a duck – and Great Grandma’s Halloween costumes and neighborhood haunted house.
I am from panty hose and high heels, even at age 80-something,
from phone calls on Sunday nights and “Good Night” spoken as an interjection,
I am from the Dunn Children Vaudeville act, the 8th Wonder of the World,
and me, the 9th Wonder of the World,
from being the center of attention and loving every minute of it.
I am from the Big Wheel pedaling down Pine Street,
from chasing lightning bugs on humid, Midwestern nights.
I am from snapping many, many photos of family living far, far away.
I am from Murder She Wrote and paperback mysteries,
from Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.
I am from sending my brother into Grandma’s attic, just to see if there’s anything cool up there.
I am from black-eyed peas on New Year’s,
Brussels sprouts on Thanksgiving,
marshmallow date logs on Christmas.
I am from Christmases spent in Cairo and fancy dinners at Alice’s and answering the phone, “Christmas Eve Gift!” on December 24.
I am from a mother who is no longer able to say goodbye to her mother, but I am here, and I am from beautiful memories of a grandmother, a mother, and a daughter.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
The Perfect Birthday Mix Tape (or - er - Playlist)
Last weekend, I asked Dan to make me a "mix tape" for my birthday road trip to Sun Valley. I suppose the term "mix tape" is obsolete and has been replaced by "mix iPod playlist," but that doesn't have quite the same ring to it. I had no idea that Dan would put so much pressure on himself to make me the best mix tape/playlist in the world, worthy of High Fidelity standards ("That is such a good movie," said Dan with a sigh).
Dan made my birthday playlist Saturday morning, right before we left for Sun Valley, but he was reluctant to let me listen to it.
"What's the point of making me a birthday playlist if you won't let me listen to it?" I asked.
"You might not like it."
Within the next few minutes, Dan told me not to play it all; then he told me to look at it first; then he stopped me from looking at it because it wouldn't be a surprise; finally, he let me play it. No, I didn't look at the list first. I wanted it to be a surprise too, and it was my birthday after all.
After a few songs into the playlist, Dan said sheepishly, "It's mushy."
Ummm . . . here are some examples of the songs from my birthday playlist: "El Scorcho" by Weezer, "Check the Rhime" by A Tribe Called Quest, "This is Love" by P. J. Harvey - it might have "love" in the title, but it opens with, "I can't believe life's so complex/When I just wanna sit here and watch you undress."
"Real mushy," I said.
Of course, the song selections were also some of my favorites, proving that Dan knows me pretty well. I guess you could say that's a little mushy.
For instance:
"How did you know this is my favorite Incubus song?" I exclaimed when I heard the first few bars of "Love Hurts." "You must listen to me!"
"It's pretty hard not to when you say over and over, 'I like this song,' every time it plays."
When "Fell in Love With a Girl" by The White Stripes came on, Dan reiterated, "See, it's mushy."
Dan confessed he couldn't figure out which Green Day song to include so he finally settled on "21 Guns." The title may send up red flags to anyone who doesn't know the song. (I can hear it now, "He made you a playlist for your birthday and included a song about guns?)
But first consider the lyrics: "One, twenty-one guns/Lay down your arms, give up the fight." It's the perfect song for a closet liberal, pseudo hippie pacifist (Am I describing myself? You decide).
I think Dan actually chose this song, not because of political or violent implications, but because we saw American Idiot last summer on Broadway, and this song was part of the stage production. And of course, our journey down New York memory lane was completed with Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind."
Dan took his creation of the perfect birthday "mix tape" very seriously. He made sure every song on the playlist had some sort of significance either to me personally or to our history together. I'm not sure what that means when one of the songs on my birthday playlist turned out to be "Paranoid Android" by Radiohead. But I've never really tried to hide my neurotic tendencies.
"Do you want me to make you another one?" Dan asked as the last song ended.
Don't worry, Dan. You'll get your chance again next year.
"The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. It takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick it off with a killer to grab attention. Then you gotta take it up a notch. But you don't want to blow your wad. So then you gotta cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules."
-- Rob Gordon in High Fidelity (2000)
Dan made my birthday playlist Saturday morning, right before we left for Sun Valley, but he was reluctant to let me listen to it.
"What's the point of making me a birthday playlist if you won't let me listen to it?" I asked.
"You might not like it."
Within the next few minutes, Dan told me not to play it all; then he told me to look at it first; then he stopped me from looking at it because it wouldn't be a surprise; finally, he let me play it. No, I didn't look at the list first. I wanted it to be a surprise too, and it was my birthday after all.
After a few songs into the playlist, Dan said sheepishly, "It's mushy."
Ummm . . . here are some examples of the songs from my birthday playlist: "El Scorcho" by Weezer, "Check the Rhime" by A Tribe Called Quest, "This is Love" by P. J. Harvey - it might have "love" in the title, but it opens with, "I can't believe life's so complex/When I just wanna sit here and watch you undress."
"Real mushy," I said.
Of course, the song selections were also some of my favorites, proving that Dan knows me pretty well. I guess you could say that's a little mushy.
For instance:
"How did you know this is my favorite Incubus song?" I exclaimed when I heard the first few bars of "Love Hurts." "You must listen to me!"
"It's pretty hard not to when you say over and over, 'I like this song,' every time it plays."
When "Fell in Love With a Girl" by The White Stripes came on, Dan reiterated, "See, it's mushy."
Dan confessed he couldn't figure out which Green Day song to include so he finally settled on "21 Guns." The title may send up red flags to anyone who doesn't know the song. (I can hear it now, "He made you a playlist for your birthday and included a song about guns?)
But first consider the lyrics: "One, twenty-one guns/Lay down your arms, give up the fight." It's the perfect song for a closet liberal, pseudo hippie pacifist (Am I describing myself? You decide).
I think Dan actually chose this song, not because of political or violent implications, but because we saw American Idiot last summer on Broadway, and this song was part of the stage production. And of course, our journey down New York memory lane was completed with Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind."
Dan took his creation of the perfect birthday "mix tape" very seriously. He made sure every song on the playlist had some sort of significance either to me personally or to our history together. I'm not sure what that means when one of the songs on my birthday playlist turned out to be "Paranoid Android" by Radiohead. But I've never really tried to hide my neurotic tendencies.
"Do you want me to make you another one?" Dan asked as the last song ended.
Don't worry, Dan. You'll get your chance again next year.
"The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. It takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick it off with a killer to grab attention. Then you gotta take it up a notch. But you don't want to blow your wad. So then you gotta cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules."
-- Rob Gordon in High Fidelity (2000)