70 years ago a baby was born to Francis and Harry Gonnella, and the world was never the same.
Ha! I challenge you to decide which part of the above statment is false and which is true.
Today IS my birthday, and I’m celebrating it by sitting in the waiting room of the Massachusetts Veterinary Referral Hospital in Woburn.
Guess which dog is the reason for my being here?
Yup, Bailey.
Bailey, checking out the river.
Why not? Last year I sat here for her IMPA affliction and today…well, I have no idea what is wrong with her. She is having trouble breathing, her left nostril and left eye are discharging a yellow goo, and she yelps if anything touches the left side of her face. Also, she can’t open her jaw that well.
I took her to my vet three weeks ago and he couldn’t find anything immediately wrong so we started her on a course of antibiotics, which did nada.
So today she is scheduled for a rhinoscopy, ‘where a veterinarian uses a tiny camera (rhinoscope) to visually examine the inside of the nose and sinuses for issues like chronic discharge, sneezing, bleeding, or foreign objects, allowing for magnified views, fluid flushing, and even biopsies to diagnose infections, tumors, or autoimmune conditions, providing a detailed look beyond X-rays.’ (Thank you, AI)
Poor Bailey. 🤕
And Happy Birthday to me. Stay tuned for a new post about getting old. Sigh.
I think I’ve posted this topic before but I’m old and my mind isn’t as sharp as it was. So, here it is again: I fell down my steps.
Not a ton of steps, just seven. Seven hard steps.
No, I’m not suffering from NPH again. I’m not dizzy. The ground is not tilting.
I’m just…for lack of a better word…stupid.
I have two banisters but do I use them? Nooooooooo. I have to carry a pitcher of water in one hand and a bag of birdseed in the other and step onto the frozen deck like it’s summertime. La-dee-dee.
Oh oh!
It was 6:30 in the morning with a temperature of 22 degrees.I took a hardy step onto the top of the deck and whoops! baboom-baboom-baboom-baboom.
My final destination was the bottom of the steps, drenched in water and spitting out birdseed.
Inventory time as I lay there in a dazed WTF moment.
I hit the back of my head, shoulders, wrist, and that useless bone – the coccyx. Seriously, why do humans need the coccyx?
So, once again I gave myself a mild concussion (ahhh, memories of when I tripped over the retaining block and knocked myself out – sigh).
My neck is fine and the nausea and headaches have passed but I may have broken my coccyx (I repeat, it’s a useless set of bones) and I’ve bruised the heck out of my backside.
My sister, Dyan, passed six year ago on November 23, 2019. The reason for her death was the relentless pursuit of her health by ovarian cancer.
Dyan was my best friend, my companion, and my cheerleader. Without her I wouldn’t have survived the abuse I suffered as a young girl, nor would I have had the inner strength to become the woman I am today. She taught me how to love, lose, and find joy in each day.
Was she perfect? Far from it. But she was mine.
This time of year, when I stand on my front porch, I see a star shining bright in the eastern sky and I know she is with me. Her laughter rings through the night sky and wraps itself around my heart.
To honor her passing I wrote this haiku, entitled My Star
I hear you calling a bright star...my immortal night is when you sing
I will admit no one is going to give me an award for my prose, but no matter–my sister hears my words.
Why do I have to turn my clocks back? What is the method to this madness that each year I must gain an hour to only lose it in the spring? Argh!!!
According to AI from a Google search, “We turn the clocks back to return to standard time at the end of Daylight Saving Time (DST), a practice designed to make better use of natural daylight. The original goals were to conserve energy and to give people more daylight in the evenings during the summer months, though the energy savings are less significant today. Turning the clocks back restores the hour of daylight to the mornings during the winter months.”
Here’s a bit more: “The practice of “going back” and “springing forward” is a result of Daylight Saving Time (DST), which originated in the early 1900s as an energy conservation measure during World War I. Benjamin Franklin first joked about the idea in 1784, but Germany was the first country to implement a version of DST in 1916 to save fuel. The United States adopted it in 1918 but repealed it the following year; it was reinstated nationwide in 1966 by the Uniform Time Act.”
My advice, time to repeal it again.
I’d ask Trump to take care of this but he’s too busy destroying democracy to be bothered with Daylight Savings Time.
Damn stupidity if you ask me.
And yes, I’m cranky. All this back and forth isn’t good for an old lady with hydrocephalus.
Anyway, I need to go tend to my clocks. What time is it anyway?
I know my flowers and nectar fortified these jewels of nature for their long trip. Goodness, Ruby-throated hummingbirds on the East Coast undertake a migration flight of about 500 miles!
My cardinal flowers are still blooming so I’ll have a few stragglers flying by for a to-go snack.
And to my readers, please keep your nectar feeders up through October, unless you have flowers. Then you can relax and let Mother Nature feed our traveling friends.
Zinnia, a hummingbird favorite.Female Ruby-throated hummingbird on a Zinnia.Juvenile Ruby-throated hummingbird on a Zinnia.
So that’s it for summer 2025 and my hummingbirds.
Stay safe little ones, and goddess willing, I’ll see you in the spring.
Last day of summer, 2025. And what a hot, muggy, buggy, did I mention hot? summer it was.
I feel I can safely type: I MADE IT!
Yes, true, I didn’t make it yet. I still have to get through tonight and the first half of tomorrow, Monday, September 22, (2:19 PM to be exact) but, hey, we’re splitting hairs here.
Great Blue Heron
So let’s take a look back at some of the blessings that came my way.
I got to watch baby Eastern bluebirds fledge from their nest.
Young Eastern bluebirds
The Baltimore Oriole chose my yard for his territory.
Baltimore Oriole
My Northern Cardinal sang his sweet song every morning.
Northern Cardinal
A family of deer visited the opposite shore of the river on many a morning.
The Ruby-throated Hummingbirds kept me company while I worked in the gardens.
Tender mercies were mine and despite the muggy, buggy, did I mention hot? weather, I have a full heart and peaceful soul.
One is a cozy, cottage style box with a lovely blue roof and a squirrel guard over the front door.
The second nest box is a condo-style dwelling. A wonderful place for a pair of bluebirds to call home.
Well a pair of Eastern bluebirds were shopping around for someplace to raise their second brood of the season. Yes, bluebirds lay two broods a season.
Wouldn’t you know, they snubbed their beaks at both houses and settled on a hole in my oak slag.
Home Sweet Hole
Hmmm, this looks like a nice place.I wonder if the missus will like it?Oh, yes, this is a lovely spot to raise my younguns.Let’s move in.
Side note: Slags are a great addition to any property dedicated to wildlife.
Mallard hen atop one of my oak slags.
Even ducks!
But seriously, there are two expensive nest boxes just waiting for a family of bluebirds. Why did they pick a dead tree?
Sigh.
Okay, moving on.
Sooooo, the bluebirds decided to move into the slag. There was round hole, perfect for an Eastern bluebird and, thankfully, facing my back deck and camera. Yay!
Step one: build the nest. This activity takes four to five days and is the sole responsibility of the mama bird.
Female Eastern bluebird with nesting material.
Daddy watches mama, offering critical comments like most males would do.
You’re using too many twigs!
After the nest is built comes Step Two: egg laying. Mama lays one egg per day.
No, I didn’t take this picture, but mama bluebird did lay three eggs.
Step three: the incubation period, which takes about 12 to 14 days. The female is the only one to sit on the eggs. Daddy’s job is to bring her food.
Did you order a caterpillar?
Once the eggs hatch both parents are busy with food runs and nest cleaning. The removal of fecal sacs produced by the nestlings is vital to keeping a sanitary home and avoiding production of a scent that will attract predators. The parent birds carry the fecal sacs away from the nest and drop them on newly washed cars.
Dad with fecal sacMom with fecal sac
A nestling eats six to 10 times a day and when you have three crops (mouths) to fill its a full-time job.
As the nestlings grow, they are hungry little buggers and the parents work doubletime to keep them fed.
Dad with a delicious insect.Mom with a juicy grasshopper. Reminds me of the Disney movie A Bug’s Life where Hopper dies.
The nestlings grow into fledglings after about 16 days. What’s the difference between a nestling and fledging, you ask? Nestlings are usually naked or have sparce, downy feathers and relay on Mom and Dad for food and warmth. They don’t move around a lot, choosing to lay low in the nest and wait for food.
A fledgling has defined feathers and will ultimately leave the nest, forcing the parents to chase it as it hops and flutters on the ground.
Many ornithologists consider any young bird still in the nest a nestling while others call active young that possess feathers fledglings; even if they haven’t left the nest. I subscribe to the second group.
TaDa! My Eastern bluebird fledglings.
Or nestlings.
Whatever.
And this is the part where Mom and Dad work their tail feathers off. Three hungry fledglings all clamoring for food. Insects, berries, worms — the fledglings love a variety of tasty fare.
Don’t be deceived, Dad does plenty of feeding too.
Dad with cricket.
Soon it’s time to leave the nest, and the fledglings aren’t frightened about taking their first tumble.
The story doesn’t end there. As I mentioned, Mom and dad continue to protect and feed the fledglings on the ground. Eventually, the sky is a little bluer because the fledglings, if they survive, learn to fly.
Fledgling on top of the slag.
It’s interesting to note that over 50% of all songbird fledglings die within their first weeks after leaving the nest. Wow!
Imagine how many birds there would be if nature wasn’t so darn bitchy.
And that’s it. That’s the story of my Eastern bluebird family.
Damn, July was a beastly month. Dry as a bone. The river level dropped down to August level.
The rock in the river, which typically doesn’t show until August was visible for most of July.
Cormorant on the ‘rock’
And hot!! I can’t imagine Hades being hotter than some of the days in July.
Beastly hot.
I wish I looked this good. Sigh.
So, goodbye to July. (In case you haven’t noticed, that rhymes.)
Here is my little ode to a month from H – E – double hockey sticks.
Goodbye July I'd like to say I'll miss you But that would be a lie
Goodbye July You pushed me past the brink And drove me to indulge in alcoholic drinks
Goodbye July It's been a blast I'm thrilled to see that you are no in my past
Goodbye July May you fade from my brain And hopefully August will bring lots of rain
So there you have it. July sucked.
Wild fires, earthquakes, and all manner of discontent in the world. And here in my little corner of the Concord River I suffered through sweltering humidity that would have challenged a tropical rain forest, but without the rain.
The following post is unrelated to living on the Concord River, unless one assumes living on a river results in upsetting dreams.
No, I don’t think the river has anything to do with the dreams I had last night. My fractured psyche is too blame.
Indulge me, please.
In my dream I was sitting next to my sister, Dyan, whom I lost to ovarian cancer in 2019. It was her last day to be alive, which I hadn’t known then, but I knew it in my dream.
We were on her couch. And we just sat.
I longed to tell her things. I wanted to say that I was sorry for all the times I angered her. I also wanted to apologize for the times I had hurt her. And that I was grateful for all the times she rescued me when family dynamics loomed. And how sad I will be to lose her.
I longed to hold her and tell her of my love for her.
To beg her not to go.
And that I was sorry I couldn’t save her.
But the dream version of me remained mute, just as the living version had done six years ago. You see, I hadn’t said those words, hadn’t held her close.
I thought I had more time.
Then I woke, got up to pee, and went back to bed.
And entered the same dream again.
Same situation, same results.
Upon waking again I sighed then went back to sleep.
And entered the same dream yet again.
Over and over, until I gave up on sleeping and made myself a cup of tea. And cried.
It doesn’t take a degree in rocket science to figure out my dream. I get that, but I needed help so I entered my dream into an AI dream interpreter and this is what I got back:
This dream, with its recurring motif of your sister’s death and your inability to communicate, speaks volumes about unresolved grief and the enduring weight of unspoken words. The fact that it repeats – you wake and the cycle begins again – suggests a deeply entrenched emotional pattern, a loop in your subconscious that’s desperately seeking resolution. It’s not simply about missing her, though that’s certainly a part of it. It’s about the opportunity for connection that was repeatedly cut short, both in life and now in the dream. This isn’t necessarily about regret, but about the unfinished emotional business that lingers after a significant loss.
At 70, you’ve likely experienced a lifetime of losses, and the death of a sister often carries a unique weight – a shared history, a bond forged in childhood, a witness to your life’s journey. The dream isn’t necessarily saying you caused her death, but that you feel powerless to prevent it, even in the symbolic realm of dreams. This powerlessness may reflect feelings of helplessness you experienced during her illness or in the face of her eventual passing. The dream is highlighting the grief that remains, not as a linear process of sadness, but as a complex web of emotions – sorrow, guilt, longing, and perhaps even a touch of anger at the unfairness of it all.
The inability to speak, to convey what you needed to say, is particularly poignant. It suggests a fear of vulnerability, a hesitation to fully express your emotions, even now. Perhaps there were things you wished you’d said while she was alive, or perhaps there are feelings you’re still struggling to articulate. This dream is an invitation to confront those unspoken emotions, to give voice to the things that have remained trapped within you. It’s a call to honor her memory not by dwelling on the loss, but by acknowledging the full spectrum of your feelings and allowing yourself to grieve fully.
Dah!
So where does this leave me? How do I honor her memory and allow myself to grieve fully without all the baggage that comes with it?
concordriverlady.com 