Birding at Flat Shoals
Seven new species today!
Peaceful excursion
Birding Haiku
Working Remotely In the Field
When it’s a remote workday, that’s a day to work overtime gathering data from the field. I gear up for the clinical setting of my workspace, and while there is no air conditioning in these areas, it sure beats a day in a windowless office!
So here I begin with my cheep entertainment for the day.
Answer calls and emails. Check.
Set up a meeting. Check.
These are things I do from the field, whether it’s stop one, stop two, stop three or four.
I put on my work hat and grab my keys, calendar, notebooks and computer.
I drive to Stop One.
As I leave my driveway, I put my window down so I can hear the sounds of nature all around me. I never know what wildlife will appear, so I keep my camera near to collect rich data in the field.
At Stop One, I check on the Blue-Gray Gnatcatchers in the tree by the park, and at Stop Two, I visit the House Sparrows under the pavilion. All the way to the Red Oak Covered Bridge, I listen and do a head count of my feathered friends. Some are pairs – they fell in love online, and the rest is history. They follow each other on Twitter, these left-wingers and right-wingers – – they tweet in unison.
These are my Georgia red clay dirt roads with the rocks that grit underneath the tires while warm air blows in through the windows and cool air through the vents with the only radio the song of birds – and crickets, even in the daytime.
Along the way, I have a chat. A Yellow-Breasted Chat, to be exact. Second one of these today. Add that to the count.
The tally grows. Collecting data in the field is hard work, but someone has to do it.
I like to use the data to bridge the gaps….so I’m always on the lookout for just the right bridge. Come along for the ride with me if you dare, and more alarmingly if you trust my driving. There’s only a 9-foot clearance (the sign says there’s also a 3-ton weight limit).
Mom waves a red flag over there from the bushes, reminding me to slow down, make sure my seatbelt is fastened, and drive safely. Thanks, Mom!
And my buddy the Eastern Towhee, in magnificent abundance here in this rural area of middle Georgia, reminds me to watch the ditches on the edges of the roads – – this is no easy place to have be “tow”ed.
A full morning of data gathering is complete, so I check my “calls” once again and return home to analyze my data.
I have no egrets about spending my morning working so hard.
It’s all in a day’s work.
Pileated Woodpecker Fibonacci
Red
heads
drill trees
with their beaks
(I love watching them!)
Pileated Woodpecker pairs!
July Open Write – Day 5 with Mike Dombrowski
Today’s host for the last day of the July Open Write is Mike Dombrowski of Michigan. You can read his full prompt here, along with the poems and responses of others. Today, Mike inspires us to write a poem about a time we experienced anxiety, and to include how we overcame it if possible. I chose to write about my mother’s last breath.
Christ Church Cemetery plot shopping
My brother’s cell phone rang. “Hurry.”
We sped, cried, dodging traffic ~
Would we make it in time?
Each second mattered.
Through the front door
To her room
Three last
breaths
July Open Write Day 4 with Shelby
Our host today for the fourth day of the July Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Shelby from Michigan, who inspires us to write poems about special places in our lives. You can read her full prompt here, along with the poems of others. I have written a nonet, which has nine lines in ascending or descending order, and has the line order number of syllables on its lines. I attended elementary school on St. Simons Island, Georgia, where recess was almost always before lunch – – when it was cool enough to be outdoors.
Recess Nonet
my elementary school playground
its blacktop hot as a griddle
sizzling in the island sun
where we rolled each other
in castoff car tires
spinning childhoods
dappled in
live oak
shade
Open Write Day 3 with Susan Ahlbrand
Our host at http://www.ethicalela.com for the third day of the July Open Write is Susan Ahlbrand of Indiana, who inspires us to write Venn Diagram poetry today. You can read her full prompt and the poems others have written here, and even try one of your own if you wish.
This is one form that I have never written before today, and honestly I’m not sure I’m coordinated enough to try again. My brain felt like Spaghetti Junction in Atlanta, where all the intersections dance and spin and twirl around and then peel off in different directions like little spinoff tornadoes.
The idea is to play with two completely different concepts or ideas and find the intersecting similarity in the middle section of the diagram, reading vertically.
I could only take a photo of my mess and post it. Other writers in my group are using Canva and making backgrounds beautiful and doing all the creative colors and designs, but I’m over here with an ink pen and an unlined piece of brown paper just trying not to be seen or heard…….
But in the spirit of having some good days of writing and some not-so-good days of writing, here is a day in the life of a writer who at least tries something new and different.
I’m putting back on my work hat after a truly wonderful summer. Today is my first day back on contract, as my district awaits the appointment of a new Superintendent.
And so these hats, as constant as they are, keep life in balance!
July Open Write – Day 2 with Mo Daley
Our host for the second day of the July Open Write today is Mo Daley of Illinois, who inspires us to write Fibonacci Sequence Poems. You can read Mo’s prompt and the poems of others here. A Fib is written in six lines:
1 syllable
1 syllable
2 syllables
3 syllables
5 syllables
8 syllables
I love the short forms! I was out way past my bedtime cheering on my favorite baseball team at Truist Park in Atlanta, and then sitting in the horn-blowing traffic where people were actually playing recognizable songs on their car horns when no one was able to even creep out of the parking deck for a lonnnnnggg time. I say all of this to say that this true fib is especially dedicated to my Illinois writing buddy, Mo Daley. Cheers!
Take Me Out to the Ballgame
balls
strikes
homeruns
major leagues~
our Atlanta Braves
……..lost to the Chicago White Sox!
Even though the Braves didn’t win, there was one particular winning moment for me.
It wasn’t the hot dog, even though a hot dog at a ballpark is a grand-slam homerun all by itself, with a cold beer and a bag of Cracker Jack.
It wasn’t walking around the park looking at all the great things to see, either, from the jerseys for sale overhead moving along on a clothes belt similar to a dry cleaner’s, or the Braves Hall of Fame or the tribute to Hank Aaron with the waterfall.
All of that was amazing, too, along with the friend who gave us the free tickets to enjoy a night of major league baseball. We saw a few home runs, but none greater than the one hit by a fan – not a player.
What grabbed my heart was the boy with the white jersey in the picture below. He was, perhaps, about 14 years old. At the inning changes, he grabbed the hand of the little fellow in front of him with the blue baseball cap on (a younger brother or cousin, maybe?) who were sitting behind us, and they ran down to try to catch a ball; the players throw a few up into the stands to all the open gloves waiting to catch a real game ball for a minute or so as one team takes the field and the other retreats to their dugout. The older one tried and tried and tried to catch a ball for the younger one. By the seventh inning with no ball, I’d already been praying for three or four of those inning changes – Lord, please let this boy catch a baseball for this little guy.
They returned empty-handed every. single. time, including the time the ball glanced the glove of the young teenager and landed in the hands of someone else.
That was YOUR BALL, one lady encouraged the teenager, when he came back up and sat down after losing one that had been so close.
This became my ballgame. Not the game on the field between the Braves and the White Sox. Here with these two young boys and the quest for a treasured baseball was the game to be won.
And then, as I was watching the game during an inning, my husband nudged me.
Look to your left, he urged.
I turned and watched. A young fan seated in the front rows and his mother brought a game ball up to the top of the section. They passed it right down the row to the young boy who had been so hoping to get a game ball. Then, as they headed back down to their seats, they turned around halfway down the section and waved up, smiling.
In the eyes of one who doesn’t cry often (and almost can’t, officially, with a recent diagnosis of dry eye and a practically unaffordable prescription to go along with it), I felt the welcome tears of gratitude welling as I witnessed this exchange.
That, readers, is American baseball.
Whether your team wins or loses the game, the spirit of winning is most alive and well in the goodness of those who will sacrifice a game ball to sear into the heart of a youngster an unforgettable moment he will carry with him for the rest of his life.
Grand Slam, lady and son! I don’t know who you are, but you won the game for everyone who, like us, had been watching and hoping and praying, cheering for this sideline ballgame.
Atlanta Braves: 5
Chicago White Sox: 6
Baseball fans in Section 116: Faith in Humanity Restored
July Open Write Day 1 with Mo Daley
Mo Daley is our host at ethicalela.com today for the first day of our July Open Write. Two things came to mind when I read her poem, in addition to all the memories of previous generations’ masks: the poem A Bag of Tools by R. L. Sharpe (a favorite since high school), and a birdwatching excursion in Palo Duro Canyon State Park in Texas over the summer, as I sat behind a bird blind counting birds. I chose a Golden Shovel poem using one line of Sharpe’s poem today.
Blinders
behind the bird blind, watching unaware, counting each
species, observing, admiring, appreciating, pondering: is
this what would happen if people were given
the same fanfare over the wonder of our beauty? a
way to admire all our brilliant feathers, to regain childhood’s shapeless
notions of race, share the same branch, and remove the mask?
Almost Out of the Doghouse
I might be on my way out of the doghouse. One of our Schnoodles, Fitz, had oral surgery yesterday, and he was having no part of that! He gave me the stink eye as I left him in the capable medical hands of those who could help surgically minimize the symptoms of his CUPS Disease. He’s been suffering from debilitating ulcers in his mouth for a year now, and removing the canines has been part of the plan.
Five teeth later (three additional teeth more than we’d planned), he was ready for pickup at 4 p.m. yesterday.
There was no forgiveness in his eyes whatsoever.
His whole body language made it clear that he was not even close to forgiving me for all I’d put him through yesterday.
And although we’d picked up all the food and held treats after 9 p.m. the night leading up to his procedure, I got a reporting call from the vet saying that the bloodwork indicated he’d had a snack. I told him I didn’t see how – – we’d picked up the bowls and not given any treats at all that morning, and since he sleeps with us, I could only conclude that if he’d eaten anything, he’s got a secret stash somewhere.
Which wouldn’t surprise me. He’s the food bully of the family. Strays from the street learn their ways of food supply survival.
His brothers had completely different reactions when I brought him home with that little cone head of his. Boo Radley was concerned and wanted to be gentle. Ollie, on the other hand, teased Fitz for looking like a bit of a clown.
But here is where I think the forgiveness was found – exactly where it usually is with Fitz: in food.
He’s supposed to be eating wet/canned food, but since we had leftover pizza in the fridge, I heated up the soft crust and cheese and hand-fed him his dinner like I would feed a baby bird. One bite at a time, until he’d had the equivalent of an entire piece of cheeze/pizza crust.
And this morning, he looks a little closer to forgiving me.
I’m not there yet, but I’ll take the baby steps to forgiveness.
My Soul Dog Has Surgery Today
CUPS Disease has claimed my dog’s spirit. Canine Ulcerative Periodontal Disease produces painful, life-altering mouth ulcers caused by a reaction to the plaque buildup on a dog’s teeth.
For several months now, Fitz has taken to the underbed and doesn’t want to come out and live life.
This four-legged son of ours is no stranger to medical conditions, either. When we rescued him, he was recovering from a badly broken back leg, and later developed a growth on his back that was a benign tumor – which was surgically removed. He had such bad breath (his top end smelled worse than his bottom end) that when we took him for a dental cleaning, the veterinarian ended up removing eleven rotten teeth. Our mission was to love him and give him the best possible life, so as part of our commitment to treating our animals like family, we have spent a small fortune keeping him healthy.
This morning, I took my soul dog to have his canines removed, which will help reduce the contact between gums and teeth, thus reducing the intensity of the ulcers that he will develop. There is no cure for CUPS Disease, but there are ways of managing the symptoms, and removal of teeth is one.
On our way to the vet this morning, we had a heart-to-heart talk. Fitz made it clear that he wants no part of any of this, but I’m pretty sure I convinced him that it is the right choice, and equally sure that once he feels better in a couple of weeks, he will forgive me for all I have put him through today. I’m thinking I’ll coax forgiveness while he is still on medicine and has no idea what he is saying.
I could tell when I handed him off to the veterinary technician, Fitz was not happy. Just look at that face!
This is my boy who lets NO ONE kiss his mama, who is a fierce and mighty lizard hunter who brings down trophy lizards from the brick walls outside, and who chases off all the deer and wildlife so that they pose no threat to his family. The dog who snaps at his brothers for barking at “his” deer, because it’s “his” job to keep us all safe – and he puts them in their place. The dog who sleeps right next to me so that no night ghouls or goblins or ghosts would even think about coming close to me.
And now this.
I’m clearly in the doghouse.
Common Threads 