by jphilo | Mar 28, 2013 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
- How did the juvenile red-tailed hawk hanging around our place for three days know to skedaddle permanently the minute I located our binoculars? Do you think he’ll come back once I move the binos from the kitchen counter and lose them in the closet again?
- The daffodils are up and looking a little worse after an extra month of winter wear. As soon as the snow covering the rhubarb patch melts, you’ll get an update on how it survived the winter, too.
- God nailed it when he created spring. Like He said, “It is very good!”
What’s good this week where you live? Leave a comment.
by jphilo | Mar 15, 2013 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
All week I have been hungry for spring,
Impatient with the snowy view outside our windows,
Eager for the spring thaw that brings freedom from our stuffy house,
Antsy to stretch my legs and walk miles outside in the fresh air.
This morning, eight deer graced the winter vista outside the living room window,
They pawed through the snow, finding little to eat.
One yearling fawn mouthed a tree branch and stood two-legged,
Then dropped on all fours, still wrestling with the woody, bitter morsel.
From the warmth of my living room, I watched the shivering animals
Wander across the yard, through the hedge, and across our driveway.
They looked for greener pastures, shorter trees, and tender twigs–
These winter-starved creatures, hungry for spring in ways I hope to never know.
by jphilo | Feb 22, 2013 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Oh, deer! If the current trend continues, our neighborhood is going to get a bad reputation. Why? Because our front yard is becoming a teen deer hang out. Every day, after school is dismissed at White Tail High, the students hightail it to our lawn like teenagers bound for the mall.
Be warned, and don’t get in their way.
First, they head for the diner out front and have a bite to eat. Then they slouch on over to the big maple tree, put in their antler buds, and listen to Alvin and the Chippunks on their iPods.
They think they look so cool.
On weekends, they hang around the yard all day long. One night, their parents showed up about supper time. They kept circling the perimeter of the yard, but the street parking must have been full because they didn’t march in and drag their kids home.
What were they thinking?
You’d think they’d want their kids home and out of the cold in the middle of winter. But if Fawn and Bambi mess in their bedrooms like they do in the diner, Big Buck and Mama Doe may be relieved to have the kids raising Cain somewhere else.
So how did our yard get designated Teen Deer Hang Out?
Who knows? For now, I’m jiggy with it, but if they start listening to the sound track of West Side Story and tatooing their fur with the emblems of the Shark and Jets, I’m calling the deer patrol. The real estate market’s bad enough without rival gangs laying claim to the ‘hood and driving down home values.
What’s with fawns these days anyway?
by jphilo | Nov 16, 2012 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Bambi’s Disney dad was an absentee father. How do I know this? Because during my morning walks this week, more twitterpated bucks than I could shake a stick at have crossed my path. And believe me, the gleam in their beady eyes made me wish for a stick to shake at them!
But back to Bambie’s absentee big buck daddy. If Pops been around, Bambi wouldn’t have needed to ask a wise old owl to explain the meaning of twitterpated.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JXBbgzQmpJw[/youtube]
As the video clearly shows, owls get twitterpated in spring. But deer get twitterpated in the fall, which Bambi would have known if his father had been around to serve as a role model for his cute little boy.
I’m neither a deer nor a member of the male gender. But during my walks, the deer in my town are making it perfectly clear that November is their twitterpation month. Like this young buck that keeps strutting across our lawn several times a day.
Or this big fella who chased the doe at the top of the page across the walking path in the park and then hid in the woods. He was torn between wanting me to take a picture of his big rack and following the does sashaying around him.
I know he really wanted to have his picture taken because he stood still until I got a good shot of the back of his rack, too.
The camera was at home the morning when a fairly young guy, with one broken antler and one intact, pranced in the park. And the camera was home this morning when 3 more bucks–one the same size as Mr-take-my-picture-while-I-act-modest, but not as battle-scared–engaged in a stare down.
Dumb bucks they may be this time of year, but maybe not as dumb as they look. After all, these twitterpated gents are smart enough to strut their stuff within city limits where hunters aren’t allowed.
So I’m predicting a bumper crop of Bambis next spring. With daddies smart enough to stay close to home and out of harm’s way. Which means it’s time to collect sticks and practice shaking them. No way do I want to be mistaken for a come-hither-look doe next November.
by jphilo | Sep 28, 2012 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
It may be impolite to brag about one’s accomplishments, but I’m gonna buck convention and admit my absolute genius for self-delusion. In the past month, I’ve convinced myself that:
- eating large amounts of chocolate won’t result in weight gain if combined with exercise,
- our new grandchild would be born before his/her due date,
- and publishers would snap up my book proposal about post-traumatic stress disorder in children.
If it weren’t for cold, hard facts like:
- my jeans fitting a bit to snuggly,
- our daughter-in-law now a week past her due date,
- and the sweetest rejection letter ever from the first publisher to respond to my agent about the book proposal,
I would still be wrapped in those delusions. Instead, I’ve moved onto new ones. My two favorites are:
- It’s still summer.
- Mom’s holding her own in the fight against Alzheimer’s.
But brilliant foliage of the trees along our gravel road forced the abandonment of the first bit of self-delusion. Two phone calls with Mom shattered the second one.
She called yesterday morning, something she rarely takes the initiative to do. “Any news on the baby?” she asked.
“No,” I answered, “and it’s getting really hard to wait. I was hoping the baby would be born today, on your mom’s birthday.”
“That would have been nice, ” she agreed. “But Jolene, if the waiting’s hard for you, think how much harder it is for Abbey.” She sounded so much like her old self, I wondered if the prospect of being a great-grandmother was winning the war against mental decline.
But she called again later in the afternoon. “What’s my old address?” she asked.
I told her and asked, “Why did you need that?”
“I’m filling out this registration form to prove I live in a different county. It asks for my former address.”
“Is this so you can vote for president?”
“Yes,” she replied. After a pause she asked, “What’s today’s date?”
Now it was my turn to hesitate. Every year until this one, my mother spent all September anticipating her mother’s birthday, talking about her, telling stories, saying she missed her. This year, she didn’t know what day it was, even though I’d mentioned it in our last phone call.
I swallowed and said, “September 27. It’s your mom’s birthday.”
We chatted for a few minutes. I teased her about who she would vote for. I promised to call her as soon as we heard anything about the baby. Then I hung up, let go of my delusion, and faced the truth:
- Mom’s memory is failing.
- Alzheimer’s is chewing more holes in her brain.
On the other hand:
- She knows who she’ll vote for in the presidential election.
- She’s eager for news of her first great-grandchild.
- She can still call and talk on the phone.
She may be failing, but her life, and ours, are rich with memories. And when she can’t remember anymore, we’ll remember for her.
- That’s not self-delusion.
- That’s love.
by jphilo | Aug 6, 2012 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
This summer has not been kind to the flower beds along our bit of gravel road.
Blame it on Hiram’s back injury preventing yard work.
Blame it on the heat trapping us indoors after he recovered.
Blame it on the drought eating up my time watering.
Blame it on the Japanese beetles gnawing leaves and blossoms to shreds.
Blame it on my tendency to use any excuse to avoid weeding.
Blame it on whatever you want, but like I said…
This summer has not been kind to the flower beds along our bit of gravel road.
So Hiram and I were surprised when a Sunday morning peek outside showed the sweet potato vines were taking over the patio. The vines’ fingers, which three days ago were hanging close to their container pot homes, were inching up the trumpet vine pole, snaking across the grass, and twining around the patio furniture.
I blame their wild abandon on Saturday’s rain.
The downpour and the cool down that followed had a similar effect on me. I snaked my way around the house, twining my fingers around windows long shut and impatiently tugging them open, though rain was still falling. I understood the sweet potato vine’s over-the-top response to the rain. But if such behavior continued unchecked, the patio would disappear forever. The the patio furniture. And finally the house.
So I grabbed the plant clippers, and gave the vines a haircut.
They required some persuasion to relax their grip on the patio furniture. And they dragged their snaky little feet in the crispy, brown grass while I hauled them across the lawn to the refuse pile. Once the job was done, I put the clippers away. Heading toward the house, I noticed the pesto had grown about 6 inches since the rain.
Maybe cosmetology school would be a wise investment.
