Catching Our Bugs (and Capturing Our Hearts)

No bird has captured my heart quite like the Great Crested Flycatchers who first nested last year in the ramshackle birdhouse perched on a corner fencepost in a fairly busy spot in our yard. We cannot help but pass it frequently as it sits near our workshop/tool shed. The good thing about that is that the flycatchers have gotten so used to our comings and goings that we can come quite near, even when they’re home, before they fly away. The little house is quite the fixer-upper with cracks and missing shingles, but it doesn’t seem to bother them. Maybe they came for the view.

 

I spent considerable time watching them last year from a bench near their house, but haven’t had as much time lately for watchful and attentive pursuits. But I did spend about 45 minutes a few weeks ago watching them build their nest. I was hoping to see them bring in the snakeskin that flycatchers usually put near the entrance of their dwelling, possibly to scare off predators. I never got to see that, but I was impressed by the huge beakfulls of nesting materials that Mama Flycatcher managed.

 

Can you see why I find them so endearing? And I also love them for the way they cock their heads in a somewhat curious and quizzical manner:

The way they peek out of their house, like a cuckoo in a clock:

Their grace and beauty in flight—-like bird ballet:

Their neat housekeeping habits:  here carrying away the bird equivalent of disposable diapers, fecal sacs:

The way the flycatcher’s crest sometimes looks like a rather silly wig:

And just because they sometimes make me laugh out loud for sheer joy and delight.   That, alone, is sufficient.

More Signs and Wonders (and A Far Less Lengthy Post)

(In my back yard)

I’ve been feeling more pensive than loquacious this past week, so you’ll be happy to know that this post will be far less long-winded than my last.  

You may remember that I talked in the previous post about our bee balm that has never bloomed before, but is covered with blossoms this summer.  Well, it’s not only blooming, it’s blooming in different colors!  Light pink, magenta, purple, and white growing side by side and appearing to spring from a single plant.  Obviously, there must be different plants in the one clump, but, still, such a riot of colors was so unexpected that it seems wondrous and magical. 

And so pretty.  Even the bud of the bee balm is amazing to me.  It starts out  looking like just a cluster of tightly compressed green leaves, but over time, those leaves unfurl and open a few at the time, like a little present, to at last reveal the flower inside.   And the bees and butterflies and hummingbird moths…and me…can’t get enough of it.

And one more small unexpected marvel:  Last year, we installed front porch flower boxes (and gingerbread trim) to make our rather plain little doublewide look as close to Victorian as a trailer could possibly look.  (A challenging task indeed). Early in the spring, I noticed little green shoots  in the flower boxes.  The flowers from last year had re-seeded!  And the flowers (mostly petunias) finally blossomed last week.  I never cease to be amazed at the improbability of such tiny, insignificant-looking seeds growing into something so lovely.   And without any help from me.   An everyday miracle, but a miracle nevertheless,  I think.

(from my front porch this morning)

I hope you’ve had some wonders of your own in the past week.  I think the miracles are always there.   It’s just that sometimes you have to remember to look for them and to listen.  To keep your mouth closed—-but your mind  and heart wide open.

Signs and Wonders and Marvels and Miracles

(All photos below taken in my yard)

I’ve always loved the story of Gideon in the Old Testament.  Gideon was the unlikely hero that God chose to lead an army to deliver the Israelites from the terrible oppression of the Midianites.  (The Israelites were so afraid of the Midianites that they were hiding from them in caves in the mountains). When the angel of the Lord first appeared to Gideon and told him that he was chosen to “save Israel from the hand of the Midianites,” Gideon’s response was incredulity.  “Oh my Lord, wherewith shall I save Israel? Behold, my family is poor and I am the least in my father’s house!”

But God persisted, so Gideon asked for a sign.  First, a sign that it was really an angel of God talking to him (instead of some imposter angel).  Gideon brought bread and meat as an offering, put them on a rock, then watched as the angel of the Lord touched them with a staff.  A great fire arose from the rock and consumed the bread and meat.  So he was satisfied that it was the Lord alright, but that wasn’t enough for Gideon.  No indeed.  He then wanted a sign that God would not only lead him to battle, but give him victory.  He asked that a woolen fleece that he put out would be drenched the next day with dew, but the ground around it dry.  The next morning, Gideon wrung an entire bowl of water out of the fleece, while the ground around it was bone-dry.  

So, at this point, Gideon (1) had an angel appear to him as he worked in the wheat field, (2) had said angel cause a mighty flame to arise from a rock, and (3)had gotten the Lord to perform Gideon’s own personal magic fleece trick.  But was that enough for Gideon?  No sirree.  Gideon, though he was shaking in his sandals, had the nerve to ask for one more miracle!  This time, he asked that the fleece be dry, while the ground was wet.  By now, I imagine God sighing and rolling His eyes, but, again, He complied and made the fleece dry, while the ground about was soaked.  And, at last, Gideon was satisfied.

I love this story, in part, because I identify so strongly with Gideon.  It’s so hard sometimes to keep the faith, especially when you feel that you’ve had far more than your share of hardship.  Especially when you see so many bad things happening to good people.  Especially when you have Midianites in your own life, making you want to hide in a cave, like the Israelites did.  But what I love most is the fact that God, although He must have been somewhat vexed at Gideon’s lack of faith, still had the compassion and mercy to give him the sign that he asked for, not just once but three times!. I think that means that God understands our doubts and recognizes that we are only human. The story of Gideon has given me solace the past couple of weeks while we’ve been going through a difficult time and I’ve been struggling with my own faith.  Because, during that time, we thought for certain that Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man, my husband Tom, had cancer. 

It all started when Tom was referred to a urologist because of very high PSA levels.  His PSA was 40—-a normal one is 4 or less.  Not a good sign.  Some of the information I found on the internet suggested that almost all men with a PSA over 20 have cancer, and PSA’s much higher (like 40) probably were advanced cancer.  So I was anxious to start with, but became even more so after the urologist said that Tom’s prostate on examination was very hard and lumpy, and he scheduled an immediate biopsy. 

After the biopsy, the doctor (who was a very kind and straightforward sort) showed Tom the ultrasound pictures of his prostate, comparing them to an ultrasound of a “normal” prostate.  He pointed out the dark shadows on Tom’s, which he indicated was not good.  What it boiled down to was this:  he was trying to tell Tom, in so many words, that he was almost certain that he had cancer.  With the extremely high PSA, the hard lumpiness of the prostate, and the suspicious mass on the ultrasound, cancer was almost a sure thing.  The doctor also began to talk about having bone scans, which are done to check whether cancer has spread to your bones. Obviously, the doctor was trying to prepare us for the worst.

It’s funny how the mind, when confronted with a hard reality, begins immediately to search for signs of hope and reassurance, for signs that God is near.  At least, that’s the way it is with me.  That day, after Tom told me all the doctor had said, I immediately thought of how we had seen five rainbows that week from our porch.   Those of a more scientific bent might say, “Well, yeah…you had rain every single afternoon.  Rainbows are a pretty good bet!”  But, for me, every rainbow is a wonderment, a marvel, a symbol of hope.  And we saw Tom’s favorite airplane—the B-17—fly over our house that day, too. You don’t see that everyday.  Plus, we won two dollars with the lottery ticket we picked up that day.  We never win the lottery. 

Some might call this grasping at straws.  But who’s to say what’s random and what’s not?  Who’s to say whether signs and wonders and messages from our greater power really are?  Even if most of us haven’t been lucky enough, like Gideon, to have an angel visit us in the wheat field, I believe that God sends us messages all the time.  I guess sometimes, we just don’t notice, and He has to knock us upside the head to get us to pay attention, to get us to listen, to get us to see.

We got the results of the biopsy two days ago.  Since Tom, as a maintenance man, has to work in the field, I was the one to call the doctor’s office for the results.  I had my questions about prostate cancer and its treatment all written out, ready to hear Tom’s Gleason Score and the staging of his cancer.  I already had sort of come to terms with the idea of his having cancer and was ready to talk about how to fight it.  But I was still a nervous wreck.  It took a while to get the results because everyone I spoke to—the receptionist, the nurse, the doctor’s secretary—told me, after looking at Tom’s record, that I needed to talk to the doctor.  They all sounded rather grave when they said this, which further heightened my anxiety.  Then, I was put on hold with some sort of Britney Spears-type pop music playing.  Now I don’t care for that kind of music under the best of circumstances, but this time it made me want to tear my hair out and run screaming from the room.  But I couldn’t.  Because, in a few minutes, a doctor was going to tell me something that would either make me the happiest woman in the world or one of the saddest.

I heard someone pick up the receiver. “Hi, Mrs. _______?”   My heart quickened and I began to shake.

“Yes sir.”  I could hardly breathe.

Thank God, he got straight to the point.  “The biopsy showed no sign of cancer.” 

I gasped and very nearly hollered in his ear, but managed (with great effort) to restrain myself. He went on to tell me that Tom had a somewhat rare condition called granulomatous prostatitis which apparently mimics prostate cancer in every way, causing an elevated PSA level, a hardened prostate, and areas on an ultrasound that are indistinguishable from cancer.  Only a pathological analysis of the biopsy samples revealed what it actually was.  Tom was fortunate, in more ways than one.  In some cases, men with this condition have had their prostates removed because of a mistaken diagnosis of cancer.

After I hung up the phone, Benjamin and I began to jump and holler and whoop and giggle and dance around the room like utter fools.  We were actually afraid we might break something—we were much too giddy to be inside.  So we went for a walk.  When I stepped out into the sunlight that day, I felt like someone who had been in a cave.  Everything looked especially bright—our big purple-pink coneflowers, the daisies dancing dazzling white in the field, and the ferny, lacey red and pink yarrow.  The world looked so fresh and new and beautiful that day.

You know, I’d never have the nerve to ask the Lord for a special sign like Gideon did, especially not three times.  But I’m quite sure God sends them, just the same.  Remember the heart in the grass?  Well, it’s still there.  I looked.  It looks a little different now, but that’s okay.  My heart’s a little different, too. 

That day, as Benjamin and I walked around, still giggling with pure joy, we saw even more signs and wonders.  The butterflies were here at last.  They’ve been scarce this year, and I’ve missed them, but the Great Spangled Fritillaries are flittering now in great numbers to my coreopsis.   And the bee balm that wouldn’t flower last year is just now showing its first blooms.  Soon, it will be covered with pink and red flowers that the hummingbirds especially adore.  And the morning glories have begun climbing up the porch lattice again, with those heart-shaped leaves that seem to convey a divine message of their own, apart from their luminous glory blossom. Natural events, sure…but signs and wonders just the same. 

But the greatest sign and wonder came later that day when Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man stepped out of his work truck whole and healthy and happy and alive.  And wet. The sky had opened up that evening and it was pouring rain. Tom got drenched as he ran up to the porch, so I got wet too when I threw my arms around him and held him close.  I laid my cheek against his damp hair and closed my eyes and thanked God for rain and sun and fritillaries and bee balm and morning glories and hearts in the grass.

And for giving me, despite my doubts, despite my wavering faith, despite my fear, the sweet miracle of Tom. 

Psalm Upon Hearing the First Lawnmower of the Season

(Our open bedroom window this morning)

After we mowed on Saturday, for some reason, the sweet fragrance of the cut grass was particularly intense, so that smelling the combined essence of freshly-cut grass and honeysuckle blossoms coming through the bedroom window was very nearly a spiritual experience.

I’ve always loved the smell of new-cut grass.  In fact, when I was nineteen or twenty (the age of my children now), I wrote a poem about it:  Psalm Upon Hearing the First Lawnmower of the Season.  It actually got published in a literary magazine, and the editors were kind enough to write a little note to me. I can’t remember all the words of their note exactly, but I do recall the last line : 

“Wonderful descriptive images with lively metaphors…but the pun was intrusive.”

Hee, hee…that makes me laugh every time I remember it because it wasn’t the first (or the last) time I heard that criticism.  And of course they were probably right.  I’m pretty sure that none of the poets we now consider great included “intrusive” puns in their poems. But I find it so very difficult to resist wanton wordplay.  After all, for me, writing poetry is about the sheer delight of playing with language, and there’s nothing I find more amusing than a good (or bad) pun.  

So, even though we’re a bit past the first lawn mowing of the season, I thought I’d share the poem I wrote about it over thirty years ago, complete with flagrant pun.  Can you find it?  Maybe those editors didn’t appreciate my wordplay, but I hope that you do.  And, of course, I hope you like my poem, too.  :-)

Psalm Upon Hearing the First Lawnmower of the Season

Winter-sealed windows muffle morning
And the sunshine serenade
Of silver blades on green.
Lone droning melody—long over dew.

Rasping open, the window inhales, gasping
As life and light rush through.
Draperies flutter like pale cobwebs
Swept aside in spring cleaning.
Green air filters through the screen
Almost strained of winter’s ghosts.

Air greening! Bare greening!
Sun and rain in warm light showers
Combine—a pure and golden wine.
Pale embryos too long confined
Beneath the earth begin to stir. 

Something in me moves
Forgotten seeds
Planted in heart grooves
In springs before cold dormant seasons.
They stir once more and feed
On pulsing blood.
New rivers running in a flood
Through a singing heart.

Yes

I thank you God for most this amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue true dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes. 

~~e. e. cummings

Just a few of the things right outside my door that I thank God for:

The way the chipping sparrow throws its head back when it sings,

The swallowtail alight on the lilacs,

Pussywillows,

The exuberance of the mockingbird who sings in the dead of night,

The Great Crested Flycatcher who’s nested again in our ramshackle birdhouse,

Our neighbor’s wildflower meadow,

And toads.   I especially thank you, God, for toads.

(A belated Happy Birthday to my beloved son Benjamin, whom I also especially thank God for.  He’s not a teenager any more!)

Just In Case You Still Remember My Last Post…

Since it’s been nearly two weeks since my last post, you’ve probably all pretty much forgotten what the post was about.  But just in case you do remember and just in case you’re curious about whether or not my shameless exploitation of Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man’s hurt toe actually got me into Blog Log…why, I’m happy to report that…yes…yes, it did.

But the thing is, Brian was a little late with Blog Log this week (apparently he was moving last week), so until today, I thought I had embarrassed myself  for nothing.  In fact, I was just about to publish a post bemoaning my previous post and exposing the egg on my face.  It was going to be titled something like The Folly of Following Fickle and Fleeting Fame.  (You know how I love alliteration) Here’s an excerpt from my unpublished post: 

Yes, it’s true—it seems I humiliated myself and exploited my beloved husband’s injury for naught. It would appear, in fact, since it has been two weeks since the last Blog Log was published, that the Mountain Xpress has decided to discontinue the column. And they apparently made this decision just as I published my post where I all but begged to be in Blog Log again.  So it seems, as usual, that my timing is thoroughly and painfully off.  Which, of course, is nothing new.  I’m always the one who remembers the punchline of a joke long after everyone has walked away; who arrives at the party after all the food is eaten, half the crowd is gone, and the balloons are starting to deflate; and who sends a cheery “Get Well Soon!” card only to find out that the person I sent it to has just passed away.

*Sigh*
 
My, that certainly was a light-hearted little piece, wasn’t it?  However,  I then went on to say:

But, on the bright side, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man is still employed!  And his completely blackened toe did not wither and fall off!  In fact, it no longer looks gangrenous so I can now see it without flinching. 

Yep, it’s a good day alright when your toe doesn’t fall off!  I mean, I really hate it when that happens.  Bummer.   Yeah, nothing ruins a good day like losing a digit.

Seriously, we are truly grateful that Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man still has a job.  And that his toe didn’t drop off.  He even scored some free vegetable plants for our garden last week when there was a closeout at one of the places he does maintenance, along with some herbs that we can’t identify (but they sure smell good).   And I found the butterfly bushes I’d been wanting at a price I could afford.  Plus,  all the perennials I planted last year have come back this spring, except for the purple verbena.   All that…and I got on Blog Log, too!  Almost too much excitement for one week!  Things are definitely looking up.

So thanks, Brian.  I hope your move went well.  And I sure am glad the Xpress isn’t dropping Blog Log.  I enjoy it, even when I’m not on it.  But I sure do like it when I am. Makes me ridiculously happy.   Quite a thrill to see Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl in print, even if that isn’t really my name.  That would be “Beth.”  With a “B.”  As in beaming.  As in buoyant.  As in bountifully blessed.

Whereas I Shamelessly Exploit My Husband’s Injury To Achieve Only Modest Fame

Tom’s foot with one sad toe (by Benjamin)

Our local alternative weekly newspaper, the  Mountain Xpress, has a feature called Blog Log, where reporter Brian Postelle chooses certain local blogs and a particular post on those blogs to highlight for the week.  My blog’s been chosen several times, and I’ve got to tell you—it makes me inordinately happy.  Perhaps I’m a little silly, but it’s really nice to be recognized, however modest the fame may be.  It is particularly gratifying because, although we have a very active blogging community in the area, I don’t really fit with the general blogging crowd here.  I’m sure they’re all very nice, but they are a hip, savvy, and trendy crowd.  And I…well…I am not.  So I don’t fit in.

Anyway, it’s been a while since Brian mentioned Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl on Blog Log, and it’s got me a little down in the dumps.  The truth is, the only posts of mine he seems to like are the funny posts.  And, well, these days I’m feeling about as funny as fire ants at a picnic.  As funny as a big zit on prom night.  As funny as screen doors on a submarine.  You get the idea. 

Because Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I have been a little anxious lately.  Big cuts are being made where he works, and he is still classified as a “temporary” worker.  He is also the most recently hired.  So we’re feeling a mite vulnerable.  Plus, they’ve cut his $12/hour pay and gone way up on our insurance, while our benefits have been sharply reduced.   So we got the poor-boy-beans-for-supper-again blues, and I just don’t feel like being funny.

So here’s where you will see me shamelessly exploit Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man just so I can maybe be in Blog Log again.  You see, Brian Postelle also has a fascination for blogger injury stories.  He said so himself here. And I offer as proof the fact that he featured my post about the time Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man stopped bleeding with a condiment, not one, but two times on Blog Log.   So here I present the sad, sad story of Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and his tragic toe injury:

Since Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man works as a maintenance man, I worry a right good bit about his safety.  He has a lot of roof leak experience, so he’s the man they turn to when there’s a persistent leak.  So he spends a lot of time on ladders and roofs (I always want to say “rooves.”)   He likes it up there, but it makes me nervous, especially considering our luck for the past twenty years. 

So it finally happened—he got hurt about a month ago.  But it wasn’t falling off a roof.  Nope, so often it’s the little things that trip you up—in this case, an extension cord that he tripped over.  He then, in regaining his balance, managed to somehow come down hard on his toe and sprained it badly.  He came home limping like Grandpappy Amos on The Real McCoys.  (Does anybody else remember that show?)   When he showed me his toe, I got that weird chest-tightening I only get when someone I love hurts themselves.  It was one ugly digit, let me tell you.   Completely black—almost gangrenous looking—like his toe was going to wither and fall off in a matter of days. 

And, unfortunately, he is afraid to take time off from work (See Paragraph 3 above).  So he’s been gimping about for a while now, and while he’s some better (and his toe is unwithered and firmly attached), it still hurts quite a lot.  So, really, I’m not just posting this to get on Blog Log.  Certainly not.  I’d truly be grateful if anybody has some ideas to help a seriously-sprained toe.

But…there is no escaping the fact that I’m shamelessly exploiting my husband’s injury and milking it for all it’s worth just to see my name in print.  I’m kind of like that kid in grade school who was always raising their hand and waving it frantically to be recognized. Desperate, I tell you.  Heck, I’d even resort to excessive flattery to see my name in print. And it’s not even my real name.  That’s the saddest thing. I mean, my name isn’t really Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl, of course.  It’s Beth, with a “B”.  Like Brian, with a “B”.  As in, Brian Postelle, the very fine reporter and creator of the entertaining and delightful Blog Log in that most outstanding and venerable newspaper, the  Mountain Xpress. 

That’s Beth.  With a “B”.  As in blog.  As in bold and brazen. As in Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl. 

A Simple Woman

(Bluebird cuisine)

A friend of mine once called me “a simple person.”  Now, at first I took slight umbrage at that remark.  I’m a little sensitive about the fact that I didn’t go to college and that I lack the sophistication of some of my more worldly friends. But after I thought about it, I realized that he intended it as a compliment.  What he meant was that I’m easily pleased and find a child-like delight in simple and seemingly ordinary things. 

My Mama was like that.  I’ve watched the bluebirds for several weeks now as they nested in the house that Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man built.  And I watched as they cared for those perfect blue eggs and the perfect speckled chicks that hatched from them. I watched as Mama and Papa Bluebird  made endless trips back and forth to feed those hungry babies, their beaks full of fat caterpillars and grubs.  I even got to see two of the chicks when they fledged.  The whole time, I was thinking, Mama would have loved this.

Mama used to spend hours watching the bluebirds from her wheelchair at the window.  She would clap her hands with glee as she watched the bluebird babies and their antics and laugh at the way the fat babies puffed out their chests to look bigger.  By that time, her speech was slurred from the effects of ALS, but I could still understand her as she talked to the baby bluebirds:  Look at you, Mr. Big Stuff.  Yeah, you puff those feathers out! Look at you fly!  Go, baby, go!

Yes, Mama was a simple woman.  And I feel so very blessed that she passed that infinite capacity for joy on to me.  It’s a precious gift indeed she gave me, in this world where so little is simple anymore.  I think about her a lot this time of year and feel anew the ache of loss and regret and sorrow that she never got to know my children and they never knew her.  Mama would be so pleased to see the bluebird pop-ups that Ariel made for me or to hear Benjamin play the music he composed based on the song of the wood thrush.  I like to think that I’ve passed on the gift of being simple to them.   They, too, have that infinite capacity to be awed, that endless capacity for joy.

(Ariel’s bluebird pop-up)

I still miss Mama.  I guess I’ll never stop missing her until the day we are reunited in the better and sweeter life hereafter.  So, if you are celebrating this Mother’s Day with your mom by your side, give her an extra hug for those of us who can’t hug our mamas, whatever the reason.   Take pleasure in her warm touch and the feel of her arms around you, in the crinkles in the corner of her eyes as she smiles at you, and in the way she still reaches up to straighten your collar or smooth your hair.  Because it’s those simple things you’ll remember, those small gestures of affection, those funny little idiosyncrasies that maybe embarrassed you as a teenager.  That’s what you’ll remember.

So…Happy Mother’s Day.  May you know love and happiness.  And may we all know the pleasure of small joys and the contentment and delight of being simple. 

(Baby bluebird, newly fledged)

The Previously Unrecognized Mating Dance of the Eastern Bluebird

Ornithologists worldwide were alerted this week to a previously unobserved and most curious mating dance performed by a male Eastern Bluebird at a bluebird house at the Blue Ridge home of Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl.   Reportedly, the female bluebird was not impressed by the male’s lively performance, though she did eye with interest the juicy caterpillar in his mouth.

*wink*

(Note to Tom: Happy 22nd Anniversary to my Anam Cara.)

Little Signs of Spring #17

How I know that Spring is really here at the Doublewide Ranch…

The Chipping Sparrow sings in the morning.

The honeybees sip hummingbird nectar.

Apple blossoms…umm…blossom.

Tulips glisten after a sweet spring rain.

And swallowtails swarm on lilacs.

(Note to my daughter Ariel:  Happy Birthday,  babygirl.  Wish you were here.)