Today, our host at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 1 of the August Open Write inspires us to write poems about hands. Denise Krebs of California is hosting today’s writing. You can read her full prompt here.
Welcoming Magnolia Mae
yesterday, these hands
gripped handlebars, holding on
for the ride with friends
yesterday, these hands
swaddled babies, bandaged knees
as children grew up
yesterday, these hands
stitched a quilt for a grandchild
I will meet today
for today, these hands
will build Legos and fairy
gardens first, and then…..
today, these hands will
swaddle a new granddaughter
in rosettes and sage
so that tomorrow,
these hands will be remembered
this heart full of love
Aside from the usual blasts of neighbors’ target practice gunfire and tannerite explosions just to light up the Pike County Discussion Page at 8:00 on any given Sunday morning, the planes from the local airport flying low and the jets flying high along the flight path above the farm from the Atlanta Airport, and the roosters excited to see the sunrise after the long, dark night, the sweet notes of birdsong from the branches of the Loblolly pines brings peace and serenity.
One of our deer families has learned how to enter and exit the old goat pen, where they feast on breakfast and enjoy a little more security and thus a more relaxed dining experience than they normally have, especially with their little ones.
The white-breasted nuthatches laugh like evil circus clowns with their white-painted faces as they climb up and down the suet trees and keep watch while they eat.
And the hummingbirds engage in full-body air jousting squabbles over the sweet nectar at every feeder.
What I love most about my birdwatching time, despite all the best reasons I’d sometimes love a noise ordinance in our county, is that all deadlines and demands are on hold while I sip my morning coffee, never knowing what I’ll see or hear next.
I may not be sporting a Rockport, Massachusetts t-shirt, but I do have this.
Every time I scrub dishes, I think of that cute little Sail Loft in Bear Skin Neck, and it takes me back to one of the most scenic United States towns I’ve ever visited.
The VRBO unit had one of these dish brushes in the sink, and I fell in love with it right there in the standing-room-only kitchen in that iconic New England coastal town that still plays steeple hymns at 4 pm on the church organ, probably to remind everyone walking around in this much natural beauty that it might be the closest place to heaven on earth.
Even before I left Massachusetts, I went online and ordered one for myself from Amazon. The Lodge. They may specialize in cast iron, but they make a mean dish brush, too.
As I scrubbed the two crock pots from yesterday’s Meal Train Mississippi Pot Roast and our own MPR dinner with cooked-on carrots and potatoes, I thought back to my walks through this quaint little New England town to take photos of the rocky shore, the sunrise seaglass hunt, the angel wings I found on White Wharf beach in one of the least expected places to ever find a pair (an unquestionable hello from my mother in heaven), and the little wooden boats that looked like they were sitting on glass as they were anchored like lone ducks in the water.
I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for several reasons.
An Indigo Bunting performs acrobatic moves in a tree
I’m cooking dinner for a friend who is now cancer-free after radiation, chemotherapy, and surgery, and I’ll get to see her today for the first time since early June.
I’ll finally finish a quilt for my new granddaughter and get to see the true “rag quilt” look of the final product.
I’ll get to read from the next book in Sarah Donovan’s book club, even though the hammock is out of the question on what is supposed to be the hottest weekend of the summer here.
The weeds that are completely out of control will get handled by someone else.
There’ll be some time for birding before it gets hot outside, when the birds are most active.
There’ll be some time for writing chapters in two books I’m working on with my writing group.
Some pressure washing might happen.
And the other thing that might happen is a trip to an underground bookstore where they sell these candles that use the scents of things in the books they’re named after, like Alice in Wonderland with the unbirthday cake fragrance, and Anne of Green Gables with some lemon and jasmine. A co-worker told me about this place, maybe an hour from here, where she started Christmas shopping last weekend because of all the unique gifts she’d found when her husband took her there as part of her birthday celebration.
For now, I’m settled into my writing chair, enjoying the early morning silence of the house. I’ve taken the boys out for their morning relief romp, and they all came back in and settled back to sleep right away. I can hear a Carolina Wren singing at the top of its lungs through the kitchen window, and the faintest light looks like pinholes through the tree leaves against the eastern side of the Johnson Funny Farm.
Five minutes from now, at a quarter to seven, I’ll be outdoors with a steaming cup of coffee, starting a bird count to mark the species I hear and see.
And I won’t be rushed to get showered and dressed today. I’ll savor my coffee and my own private bird concert on the front porch way out here in our remote corner under the Loblolly pines of rural Georgia and give a thousand thanks for the blessings of another sunrise to enjoy the spectacular splendor of the woods.
For weeks, I’ve been watching and waiting for the figs to ripen, and almost overnight the first wave is ready for the picking. I saw the purple-brown fruits last evening and ran inside to fetch a plastic bowl and summoned my husband to bring his long arms and reach the branches down for me so that I could pick them. Together, we got what we could reach. It was too late to fire up the tractor, though. Usually, he raises me up in the bucket so that I can pick from the tip-top of the tree. That’ll happen after work today.
For now, we have our first bowl full, and they are plump and heavy.
But that’s not all that happened yesterday.
I finally caught a glimpse a bird I’ve been hoping to see for the past few years. Up until yesterday, I had only heard them. They live here on this farm, and I hear them in the wee hours of the morning, when it’s still dark. Ironically, I’d conceded our long game of hide and seek in yesterday morning’s post and declared them the winners. It’s as if one of these birds actually read my blog and decided to show a little mercy.
I was in the reading room that overlooks the butterfly garden. From the window that faces southward, I saw a stirring in the trees. A large stirring – – really an extra-large stirring.
Surely not, I thought.
It wasn’t dark. Just a couple of minutes before 8 p.m. on the nose.
It couldn’t be, I told myself.
I ran for my binoculars and searched the dense tree line for the bird, hoping it was still there when I returned.
I turned the knobs to focus and zoomed in as close as I could get.
Sure enough, just as I’d thought.
There it was, sitting on a pine branch, facing the house.
I could barely contain my excitement, yelling for my husband to come quickly, but not yelling loudly enough to scare off my buddy. I handed off my binoculars to him, and counted back the trees, pointed to the limb and actually used fractions to direct him 2/3 of the way up the Loblolly Pine to the Great Horned Owl grasping the branch with both feet.
We stood in awe, watching this great nocturnal bird of prey turn his head all around, watching the ground below for movement, like the embodiment of a Mary Oliver poem with wings.
It was fantastic to see. I still have shivers just thinking about the magnificent stature of this amazing creature and its commanding but camouflaged and silent presence.
After a few moments, he dove to the ground in pursuit of something he’d spotted, and just like that he vanished into the woods to feast on his catch.
And I’m burning with owl fever now, wishing desperately that he had a little camera attached to him like a policeman wears a bodycam, so I could have his night vision and see where all he goes and what he does. I’d have to hide my eyes when it came time for him to kill the bunnies and field mice and other critters, but I’d lose sleep for weeks just watching how he lives his days and nights.
Today was a treasure – ripe figs and Great Horned Owls. Life doesn’t get much more exciting.
A couple of autumns ago, I found some summer patio furniture on a ridiculous clearance sale and bought two loveseats and two coffee tables for the front porch.
I knew I’d like them, but I had no idea how much peace they would bring to my life. As an early riser, I can sit outdoors in the morning in the most extreme heat of the summer, before the sun comes up, to begin the day writing and listening to the treetop concert of the Johnson Funny Farm.
I rise at 5 each morning. I shower, get dressed, put a little color on my face, and brew a cup of Eight O’Clock coffee in the Keurig. From there, I take my computer, phone, and lap desk out to the porch to savor my morning writing time.
Most days, I also do a little birding in the mornings. I listen as much as I watch. We have two Great Horned Owls who chat over their coffee, too, back and forth across the east side of the farm. I like to try to spot them through my binoculars when the sun is high enough to see through the shadows of the Loblolly Pines. So far, they are winning our game of hide and seek.
The woodpeckers are a different story. They put on a show most mornings. We have Pileated Woodpeckers, Downy Woodpeckers, Hairy Woodpeckers, and Red-Bellied Woodpeckers. I keep watching for a Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker, but they keep not showing up. On any given morning, there are as many as 25 species of birds flitting through the trees, singing, and bringing joy to the start of my day.
The Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds dart around, squabbling over whose feeder is whose and avoid mid-air collisions at every turn, even though I don’t see how. As much as I anticipate the cooler weather of fall, I’ll be sad to see them move on, especially the ones who like to hover two feet from my face – the only birds who take the time to look me in the eye and thank me for the all-you-can-drink nectar. This month, they will begin their migration to Florida for the winter, like so many people who seek the same warmth.
Others are here with us all year and have no travel plans in the coming weeks – the Northern Cardinals, the Carolina Wrens, the Blue Jays, the Tufted Titmouses, and the Mourning Doves. We’ll wave goodbye to our summer guests soon, and stand ready to welcome the whole fold back next spring.
And perhaps it’s a little extra, but I can’t help worrying about my little hummers. I want to pack them a picnic for the trip and ask them to text me when they arrive safely and put a little teeny-tiny GPS tracker on them to see where they go for Christmas.
Somehow, I think they know I’ll be watching and waiting for them from my front porch seat, coffee in hand, ready to greet them next April and celebrate their long-awaited return.
I have a new little granddaughter I can’t wait to meet! Two of her older brothers had a stomach bug last weekend, so I’m working hard on her quilt so that I can take it to her when we visit. Each of my grandchildren has a quilt or blanket that I’ve made for them or that we’ve made together. I make these so that someday, when I am gone, my grandchildren will have a piece of the past that binds us together.
Magnolia May (“Noli”) is welcomed by her sister Saylor Reese and brothers Beckham Cash, River Dawson, and Sawyer Wilson, and her three labs – Boone, Sky, and Eli. Plus, she has a family tree full of aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandparents ready to dress her in all the pinkest outfits and lacy bows.
Quilt
Today, I stitched squares
Forever, you’ll remember
These arms full of love
Noli’s Quilt Layout PatternBeckham’s quiltSawyer’s QuiltRiver’s QuiltSaylor’s QuiltMaking Aidan’s blanket together (we went shopping for his fabric together so he could choose)So they remember
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers for investing in teacher writers
In Stillmeadow Sampler, Gladys Taber writes through the year in chapters named for seasons. I think what I love best is the way she captures the feelings of each season with such sensory descriptions.
I’m reading the end of the summer chapter, which focuses on August. Here is where Taber gives me the hope to get through the dog days of summer:
“As August draws to a close, evenings are cool. Autumn is already in the air. The signs are small, but a country eye sees them.”
Earlier this week, I found a reddened maple leaf. Today, I squeezed a fig, and it isn’t as firm as it was a week ago. And as I listen and watch the patterns of birds, I sense change in the numbers that are here.
The stores are beginning to put their summer clothes on clearance as the fall fashions arrive, and of course the craft stores are already decked out for Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’ve resisted all temptation to break out the pumpkin candles and strike a match.
I’m on the countdown, though.
Just after Labor Day weekend, I’ll bring out the pumpkins and burlap and light a maple bourbon candle. I’ll bring out the socks, sweaters, and scarves, and change out the front door wreath. I’ll book a pedicure and choose one of those shimmery autumn colors that’ll match all the shades of leaves on the deciduous trees. And I’ll make the orange spiced tea that my mother used to make when I was young and raise my cup to the changing season!
Common Threads 