by jphilo | May 11, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Last night, the temperature dropped into the low forties. The house was chilly this morning, almost chilly enough to fire up the furnace. But I bundled up and toughed it out, finding little jobs to do indoors until the temperature rose outside.
Finally, I opened the kitchen door and braved the elements, which took hardly any courage at all because the elements were extremely pleasant. The sky was a cloudless blue, the breeze non-existent and the sun warm on my back. The cool temperatures meant the birds were active longer than usual this morning, and my walk was a kaleidoscope of cardinals, meadow larks, blue jays, wrens, and grackles. Though they’ve been here for weeks, I saw my first goldfinch of the season. The Baltimore orioles showed their colors, three in one tree arguing and chirping. While snapping my first ever photo of the flashy, but elusive bird, a particularly aggressive oriole dive-bombed above me, then swooped away.
The cool morning walk reminded me of something I’ve been procrastinating about this spring – if I want to see the birds, I should walk early, shortly after sunrise, when the day is at it’s coolest and the shadows are long. I’ve successfully talked myself out of that practice all spring, but this morning’s kaleidoscope convinced me it’s time to get out the door earlier.
That’s the only way I’ll glimpse my shyest neighbors, down by the bridge, and finally capture them in a photograph. I haven’t seen the indigo buntings pull in with their U-Hall yet, but they’ll be back any day now. And thanks to the reminder this chilly morning provided, I may be there to greet them when they arrive.
by jphilo | May 6, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
The redbuds in our neighbor’s ravine are blooming. Few things compare to the sight of the small trees. Some are barely visible above the underbrush. The still bare branches of the hardwoods – black walnuts, elms, maple and locust – hover over the little trees like anxious parents waiting for their children to perform their spring recital pieces.
The redbuds performing beautifully every spring. When I descend the hill into the ravine, they catch my eye and draw it north across the bridge, into the greening woods. The vivid pink-purple of the near trees take my breath away, and I stand transfixed. But beyond them, ten or twenty feet another cluster of trees blooms. A short way beyond that cluster is another, and beyond it, another. On and on they go until the colors blur and meld in the far end of the ravine.
While I look beyond the bridge, a quote from C.S. Lewis’s Narnia series comes to mind. In the last book, when the children get to heaven (oops – I gave away the ending), they rushing up a mountain with their Narnian friends, shouting, “Further up and further in!” They reach the top of the mountain and look out over a great valley. At the end of their vision is another mountain range. “Further up and further in!” they shout, and run to explore the new vista. And when they have scaled that taller, grander mountain, a more beautiful valley awaits, and in the distance, a more spectacular mountain range.
For eternity, they explore the unending wonders of heaven and the eternal God who created it. For one week, I relish the redbuds. Then the blossoms fade and the new leaves of the shade trees overshadow them. But while they last, my heart shouts, “Further up and further in!” when the haze of pink and purple catches my eye. Heaven, I think, will look a lot like my neighbor’s ravine during redbud week.
I can’t wait to get there. “Further up and further in! Further up and further in! Further up and further in!”
by jphilo | May 1, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Rest assured that this SNAKE WARNING is not meant to eclipse the swine flu pandemic. But I’m worried that the media’s narrow focus on all things pig and pork-related may have blinded us to a growing menace right beneath our central Iowa feet.
Since Easter, the number of squashed snakes on my gravel road has increased alarmingly. In one month, I’ve seen more of the flattened critters than in the previous eighteen years combined. In the newsletter put out by the vegetable farmers from whom we purchased our community supported agriculture (CSA) share, mention was made of the large number of snakes crawling around their farm, too. And in a casual conversation with someone who shall remain nameless (not because he or she is an anonymous source, but because I’m having a senior moment), an abnormally large number of snake sightings was reported.
Even though my level of credibility, manpower, or technological wizardry does not match that of government agencies like the CDC or the Department of Health and Human Services, I am hereby issuing an OFFICIAL SNAKE WARNING for my small town and the surrounding countryside.
The most important thing is that you DO NOT PANIC. DON’T hide in the basement or a windowless closet or interior room in your house until the all clear siren sounds. DON’T wash your hands frequently or stay away from crowds to avoid spread of reptiles. Just AVOID sunbathing on warm rocks. CHECK your shoes for sleeping snakes before you put them on and watch where you step when wandering in the grass. WHISTLE “Dixie” real loud before kneeling in your garden. This is a little trick I learned in South Dakota to scare off rattlesnakes. It works, too. In seven years, I never saw a diamondback.
There. I’ve done my civic duty, and I’m ready to enjoy a SNAKE-FREE weekend. I hope your weekend is, too.
by jphilo | Apr 30, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
The fog pressed against the windows this morning, and I manufactured several reasons not to walk. They voices in my head ran the gambit from safety conscious, “The road’s so narrow and the fog’s so thick, I could get hit by a car,” to wimpy, “My hair will get wet,” to whiny, “It looks cold, and I’m tired of shivering.”
When the pathetic clamor grew unbearable, I stepped outside to test the waters and was surprised to find the temperature was warm, the wind was non-existent, and my carefully manufactured excuses were all wet. Before I reached the end of the driveway, I was glad to be outside. Dew clung to the violets, beading the petals with pearls. The violets’ perfume mingled with the faint, cinnamony smell rising from the drift of dead leaves along the fence. The birds chirped and sang, half-hidden by the mist. They flew from branch to branch, undeterred by the fog and the damp.
A few steps down our gravel road and the wet, wormy smell that confirms the arrival of spring filled the air. In the ditch, a robin tugged at an earthworm, then started and flew away when I walked by. Half in and half out of the ground, the bird’s breakfast burrowed back into the soft, wet dirt. On the other side of the road, two male cardinals guarded their turf, trading bird-chirp insults and puffing out their little chests. Slugs inched along the gravel, their grim determination morphing into a death wish whenever a car passed by.
As I walked, the fog slowly lifted. In one short hour, daylight extinguished the strange beauty created by the mist. When I went into the house, the voices in my head were quiet until one exultant cheer burst forth. “Ah, spring!” it shouted as the last remnants of the flog clung to my hair and dripped onto my nose, smelling faintly of worms and violets and cinnamon. “Ah, spring!”
by jphilo | Apr 24, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
The birds are noisy today, enjoying a last day of sun before rain arrives for the weekend. The little critters were noisy as could be, and one particular bird filled the air with an arresting song. I searched the treetops beside the cornfield and found her out on a limb, warbling and facing the rising sun.
Too dull for a robin, too big for a sparrow, I wondered if it was a meadowlark. But they rarely perch so high. No other ideas presented themselves so when I got home, I pulled out the “Birds of Iowa” book my friend Cindy gave me. Once again I was thankful the author, Stan Tekiela, arranged the birds primarily by color, with little colored tabs for those of us in the birdwatching-for-dummies crowd that needs all the help we can get.
Halfway through the “brown” section, I found my musician, a female red-breasted grosbeak. Apparently, the females are all sedate, Iowa church ladies who, instead of flaunting red breasts as flagrantly as their husbands do, cover themselves with brown speckles for the sake of propriety.
The book said males and females sing, but the males sing louder. If that’s the case, I’ll need earplugs when the mister commences his vocalizations. But the most exciting thing about the birds is that they are the last birds to arrive in spring and the first to leave in autumn (for Mexico and Central and South America if you’re interested in going with them in the fall). If the author knows what he’s talking about, and I think he does because the bird was correctly categorized as “brown” which is pretty impressive, then spring is really and truly here.
So I’m going out on a limb with my new church lady friend and fine musician, the red-breasted grosbeak. We’re singing the duet all Iowa has been waiting to hear – it’s spring, it’s spring, it’s spring.
by jphilo | Apr 21, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Photographing birds is always a challenge, but one day last week was particularly frustrating. The weather that day was lovely – sunny and warm without much wind, a rare exception to the string of cold, blustery mornings that have defined this spring.
The neighborhood birds were out en mass, singing as they perched on bare tree branches to sun themselves. Robins pecked in the ditches, crows argued on the fence lines, a wren sat on the blue bird box she’d commandeered and bragged about her conquest. A dusky, blue dot flew across the road and perched in a redbud tree. A bluebird, I thought, but by the time my camera was ready, the elusive little thing had flown away.
The same thing happened over and over. The cardinals flitted here and there, the robins were too busy to pose, even the crows were skittish. Were the birds dedicated construction workers, determined to get their new homes finished be for their good weather building permits expired or just camera shy?
Whatever it was, my photo shoot was a bust. Even the blue jay, usually content to sit on its throne in the cedar windbreak and issue constant, bossy proclamations, was on the fly. I aimed my camera as she glided over the road and snuggled in the crook of a walnut tree. As I depressed the shutter, the flighty thing dive-bombed and landed in the field, hidden by corn stubble.
With that, I decided photography was for the birds and zipped the camera into its case. If you can’t beat them, join them, I thought, and dreamed up spring construction projects all the way home.
