This gallery contains 6 photos.
First and foremost, I wish to send my sorrow and love to the victims of September 11, 2001. May their spirits soar and may their loved ones find peace with their loss. Blessed be. Can you hear her? While I … Continue reading
This gallery contains 14 photos.
Ahh, those lazy, hazy, crazy dog days. According to Brady’s Clavis Calendaria, the Dog Days, running from July 24 to August 24, were believed to be an evil time when “the Sea boiled, the Wine turned sour, Dogs grew mad, … Continue reading
With a nod to the spaghetti western of 1966 (Really? Was it that long ago I fell in love with Clint?), here is my saga, set against the backdrop of the Concord River.
The Good
The hummingbird garden is in full bloom and the hummers seem to be enjoying it. Each day the flowers get visited by three birds and several butterflies. Next spring I plan on expanding the width and length. Eventually, it might take up the whole yard, which would certainly cut down on the mowing.
Hummingbird garden.
Hard to believe four months ago it was nothing but dirt, seedlings and sweat equity.
Getting the hummingbird garden going.
More Good
Every morning I’m greeted by dozens of mallards with empty crops. “Feed us!” their quacks demand, “And not that cheap white bread, but nutritious whole wheat bread!!” (Maybe that last part is in my imagination.)
Breakfast time.
After breakfast, it’s preening time, an elaborate ritual of dipping into the water, spreading feather oil, and flapping of the wings. One must stay well oiled when you live on the water.
Preening.
A good wing flap also offers post breakfast exercise.
Not only do I get to feed the ducks each day, but sometimes they stay on the lawn to play in the sprinkler, just like a bunch of kids.
Gleeful duck.
Some even drink the water, which I’m sure is much more delicious than river water.
Yum.
Others prefer to sit and allow the water to wash over them.
Two showering ducks.
When it’s all over, I’m left with fat, clean, happy ducks.
One fat, clean duck.
Even More Good
Isis, my great blue heron, is a daily sight. Her call imitates how a Pterodactyl might have sounded. When I hear her, I feel like I’m living during the late Jurassic period and expect to see a T-Rex looming over the trees.
Isis
No, she’s not a large lizard. She’s a large, stunning bird.
Isis, on my beach.
Even More Good
I’ve discovered by feeding the ducks from the retaining wall, the sunfish will also visit for some bread. On a few occasions, a couple of catfish have appeared, large enough to command $17.99, with a side of fries and cole slaw.
Sunfish with bread in it’s mouth (looks like white lips!).
A painted turtle joins the breakfast club too.
Where’s the bread?
Oh, there it is!
Yes, life on the Concord River is very, very good.
The Sad
Well, it had to happen. With all the life around me, it had to be expected that I would start seeing death. However, I didn’t plan on causing it. Last Monday night I was rolling out the trash barrel and rolled right over a shrew. At first, all I heard was the screaming. Dashing into the house for the flashlight, I arrived back in time to see the poor thing trying to drag itself across the driveway. Yes, I started crying. No, I didn’t have the backbone to put it out of its misery. Instead, I wrapped it in a t-shirt and placed it in a box. Good thing I keep these boxes handy. The next day it was dead, so Sparky and I buried it in the rose garden. Be at peace little shrew.
The Beautiful
The dragonflies that live along my river are jewels. Brilliant blues, emerald greens, dashing reds. Absolutely breathtaking.
Dragonfly in hummingbird garden.
Deep, red dragon.
Additional Beauties
My gardens are blooming and my newest rose bush blessed me with not only a deep coral rose, but also one of the sweetest smelling roses in the garden. Sorry, this blog isn’t scratch and sniff.
Unrivaled Beauty
The morning mist as it travels across the river. My words can’t even begin to describe the beauty of it. Stordimento!
Morning mist.
This brings me to the close of my saga. My life on the Concord river is often good, sometimes sad, and always beautiful.
Blessed be :}
The fish are definitely jumpin’, and the thistle is high and in bloom, with a brilliant splash of yellow on the white, downy puffs. I’m sure Gershwin would have written a song or two about such a marvelous sight.
Goldfinch on thistle , taken from River Street bridge.
This is the time of the year when the American goldfinches build their nests. Both the male and female will find a nesting site but only the female will construct the nest, using spider silk and seed husks for building materials. Her clutch will average seven pale, bluish eggs, and the young finches will hatch within two to three weeks. Goldfinches are not only unique in the lateness of their nesting habits but also in what they eat and feed their young. American goldfinches are vegans, having a strictly plant based diet, such as thistle, sunflower, black-eyed Susan, and aster seeds. The young are also raised on seeds, not insects like most song birds. If a brood parasite bird, such as a cowbird, lays an egg in a goldfinch nest, the young cowbird will quickly die, due to the vegetarian menu. Ahh, Mother Nature, your ways are wily.
Since I’m on the subject of laying eggs, I was visited by a large, (let me stress LARGE!) painted turtle the other day. She was digging a hole in my lawn and I can only guess her intent was to lay a few eggs. It must have been the photographer hovering around that caused her to change her mind.
Digging a hole for eggs (maybe).
Grand old painted turtle.
When she decided to leave, the retaining wall messed with her GPS. She walked right, then left, then right, then left, ….. I made a cup of coffee and watched the show. After an hour it was time to lend a hand. Now, this isn’t Animal Planet and I’m not going to pick up large turtle. Instead I used my snow shovel. It took some persuasion but she eventually settled down and allowed me to carry her to the beach. Once on the bank she ran down the sand and into the waiting water. She moved pretty damn fast for such an old lady. Very impressive.
Life on the river sometimes spreads out on the road, which is not always a good thing. Snakes, turtles, toads, and birds have met untimely deaths on my street. Many of the drivers think they’re in training for the Indie 500. There was a garter snake that had been hunting in my side garden for the past two weeks. It’s not hunting there anymore, as it became the most recent casualty on the road. Why the heck didn’t it just stay in the yard? Arghhh.
My garter snake, when it was alive.
This topic leads me to the ducks. What do smashed animals have to do with ducks? Nothing, really. I’m just ready to write about my ducks, of which I have plenty. Some days over three dozen!! One of them, who I’ve named Hobby, only has one leg. Chances are there’s a snapping turtle in the Concord River who had a duck leg snack.
Hobby
I try to feed him more than the other ducks, but when there’s dozens of ducks running around and they all have two legs, a one-legged duck doesn’t stand a chance. He’s a trooper though, hopping across the grass to get the bread ahead of the swarm of flapping wings. I’m working on shooting (no, not ducks) a video of the hungry hordes. Keep a weathered eye out for it.
At night the ducks sleep on my beach, periodically quacking out loud. I lie in bed and wonder what causes them to do that. Perhaps they have dreams of running and playing, like Chris used to when he was young. Or maybe they call out to make sure they’re not alone. Whatever the reason, when I hear them, I smile, knowing they’re out there and I’m not alone.
Getting ready for bed.
As I put this post to bed, the moon is peaking through the clouds. Although she was full last night, she’s still a stirring sight tonight. Known as the Blessing Moon, the July full moon guides us to our intuitive gifts. (There, did you hear it? A quack! Listen closer next time and you’ll hear them.)
“By the light of the Moon, my dreams are clear; All that I hold true in my heart are near; Guide me oh light in the dark July sky; I hear you whisper to me, as soft as a sigh.”
Blessed be :}
Yup, she finally did it! After waiting and waiting, Mama finally laid her eggs and stopped by a few days ago with ducklings in a row. Four chicks and a proud Mama walked onto the lawn while I was having my morning coffee. They probably heard me up in Lowell as I rushed into Chris’ bedroom. “Mama is here and she has babies with her!!! Come on!!” Ahh, it’s easy being 19, all you have to do is tell your mother to get a life, roll over, and go back to sleep. His lack of enthusiasm didn’t faze me in the least though. Grabbing the camera, I headed outside for some family photos. Chirping and squeaking, four little balls of yellow fluff were pecking the ground, never straying too far from Mama. She kept a watchful eye, just like Daddy used to stand watch while she ate.
Eventually Chris came out. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist a peek at the chicks. We’ve waited far too long for this moment.
Sadly, however, we didn’t get a long visit. Another hen with fourteen (OMG!!) ducklings came into the yard. Older than Mama’s chicks, the ducklings hadn’t been taught acceptable playground behavior. Running around like sugared-up kids, one of them started chasing Mama’s chicks. Acting like a water fowl version of Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider, Mama soon put the duckling in his place. Who knew Mama could move with such speed?
The frenzy was too much for the chicks and Mama soon gathered them together and left. I haven’t see her since but I’m confident she’s been taking good care of them. Soon, they’ll be on their own. Maybe they’ll come back for a visit to Grandma-ma’s yard. If not, that’s okay. She brought them by to say hello and that was way cool.
Blessed be :}
While filling the feeder tonight, I heard a soft quack behind me. Mama! You would have thought I had just been visited by Apollo, I was so exc
ited. I knelt down to offer her some cracked corn, and she came closer to feed, taking the corn right out of my hand.”Where have you been? Where’s Daddy? Did you lay eggs? Are there babies?” Ignoring my questions, she quietly fed, her beak pressing against the skin of my palm. She hung around to feed and rest, then went on her way. Thanks Mama for stopping by. Hope to see you soon.
The heat and rain have kept me from gardening and the weeds took advantage of situation to explode in the gardens. It didn’t take long to fill my wheel barrow. While maneuvering it across the road I spied what I thought was a rock. Well, damn, if that rock did
n’t have two beady eyes and a tiny screech. It was a baby robin! It started complaining as soon as I came closer to inspect it and within seconds it seemed like every Robin in Billerica was flying around the trees, screaming at me. Assuring the adults I meant no harm, I picked up junior and placed it on side of the road. It couldn’t have been more indignant, screaming and flapping it’s useless wings. Every time I put it on the straw, it hopped back into the middle of road. For all I knew, it could 
have had a death wish and I was messing up its plans. The adult birds were still in the trees, cawing at me to get away from the kid! Let me stop here and dispel a myth about baby birds and their parents. Handling a baby bird will not keep the parent away. If the baby is accessible, the parent will continue to care for it. Unless, of course, the baby is as flat as a pancake.
I put the junior in a box lined with leaves, placed the box on my lawn, went inside and sat by the window and waited. Sure enough, along came an adult robin with some food. Feeling smug because I saved a life, I danced around a little then went back to gardening. I have to give credit where it’s due, though. My sister suggested the box. I was going to bring junior into the house and raise him as my own. Hey, it worked for Robert Stroud.
Since I’m on the subject of birds, it seems to me that birds don’t take advantage of the great gift that has been bestowed on them – flight. Most birds around my river fly from point A to point B. Feeder, branch, ground, fence, it doesn’t matter. They use their wings to get them to a location and their legs take over from there. But not all birds. Tree swallows seem to have it right. They swoop, dart, twirl, chase, and propel themselves through the air, along the water, and into the clouds. Sure, I know they’re catching insects but they do it with such abandonment. In my next life, I’m coming back as a tree swallow. I want to fly with joy and feel the wind against my feathers.
However, if I’m going to be reincarnated, I definitely don’t want to come back as a toad. Not when the spinning blades of a lawn mower threaten to mutilate me.
Once, while cutting the grass, I chopped the rear legs off one unsuspecting toad. Crumbling onto the grass, I held it’s bleeding body and cried. Chris thought I had lost my mind and told me to get over it. So now, when I mow, I watch for rocks, sticks, baby birds, snakes, and toads.
Well that’s it for tonight. It’s hot and muggy, the river continues to flow, the fish are jumping and the living is easy. Blessed be:}
Perhaps you recognize the haunting words from Alfred Noyes’ narrative poem, The Highwayman, a story of love, danger, and death. This poem came to mind last weekend as 2013’s largest moon was as ghostly as a pirate’s galleon, reflecting upon the waves of my river.
The Highwayman was published in 1906 and the 24 year-old British born Noyes penned it in two days. As beautiful as it is in written form, a compelling rendition is performed by Loreena McKennitt to violin and piano. Her voice brings Bess, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, and the highwayman, to life. “Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!” Yes, when the moon is full, it’s just possible to hear his soft whistle for Bess. Blessed be :}
The frenzy of building a nest, finding a mate, then laying the eggs, is over for most of the birds on my river. Gone are the early morning choruses proclaiming territories. “Keep out!” “This tree is mine!” No more songs to announce the rush of testosterone. “Look at me, how beautiful I am!” 
Yes, spring was a time of frantic movement. The rush to mate and produce offspring has slowed. Summer is drawing near with her warm nights and lazy, hot afternoons. Spring is leaving as the fledglings are leaving their nests.
The Baltimore oriole young have hatched and flown away. Dad is no longer proclaiming his territory and mom has stopped the frantic search for insects to keep her babies crops filled. The frenzy of spring is ending as summer nears. The only songbirds left to play house are the American goldfinches. They wait until the thistle is in bloom before producing a brood. For now, they’re content to watch how the other species get by.
Some geese arrived with their gangl
y goslings. One of the parents didn’t like when I got close to take the photo. He (or she, but most likely he) postured and hissed until I went away. Maybe he and his mate are like Kim and Kanye — no free baby pics.
A pair of Northern flickers have been visiting the suet feeder with only one offspring. Since female flickers tend to lay five to eight eggs, it’s not hard to imagine what happened to the other offspring.
I read once approximately 80% of songbirds die within their first six months of life. Many don’t even make it out of the egg, due to nest robbers like crows. Even the weather plays a factor. But, back to my flickers. They have one awesome offspring who follows mom and dad around looking for a handout. Even though junior is as big as the parents, they don’t seem to mind. First to the suet feeder, break off a piece of suet, back to the tree, place suet in junior’s mouth, back to the feeder — back and forth. While all the time junior clings to the tree, flutters his wings and makes soft squeaks.
It’s been a week since Mama waddled onto my grass but another pair of Mallards stop in for a bite each day. Instead of bread, the hen prefers the wild bird seed that falls out of the feeder. They’re not very sociable, leaving the yard whenever I come onto the porch. Sigh, still no babies.
Flood update – the river is high, my yard is flooded, and the sump is working like a champ. Not the sump that came with the house, oh no. I should have insisted the home 
inspector try the sump. “Naw, it looks good and, besides, it’s too cold to test it.” Well, it was a piece of junk. Thank goodness for Lowe’s and quick credit approval. Four hundred dollars later and several trips to the local hardware store for tubing, clamps, chocolate, and a scratch ticket, the new sump is keeping the Concord River at bay. It took me all day Friday and into the night, but I did it! It’s been pumping two gallons of water every 35 seconds for the past three days. The hose exits onto my driveway and I can hear the “swoosh” the water makes as it comes shooting out and hits the pavement. My electric bill is going to be through the roof, but at least my cellar is dry. Thank you Lowe’s!
When people ask me why I bought a house on the Concord River, I try to explain how 90% of the time it’s paradise. Sure the yard is flooded, but I’ve got my Wellies to keep my feet dry. Okay, so the electric bill is going to make me vomit, but that’s why I work, to pay the bills. Even with my yard turning into a swimming pool, the scents and sounds of the river are magic, pure magic. There is no place on Earth I would rather be. Not even Tuscany. This is where I was meant to live.
It’s dusk, the robins are singing and the slurping of the sump is lulling me to sleep. Yeah, this is home. Blessed be :]
…. stop filling my river!! My beach is gone, under three feet of water and the river is slowing rising to the level of my retaining wall. Arghhhhh! The rock across the river, visible Sunday …
… is now gone.
Oh, I’m not complaining (okay, yes I am) and the sound of the rain at night would be peaceful if I wasn’t worried about my Mustang drowning in the driveway. But enough already.
Thanks to Northeast Maintenance (Hey Chris, this is a plug for you!) my gutters are nice and clean. Downspout extensions, installed by möi, are doing the job of directing flow away from my foundation and, ultimately, my basement. 
The dehumidifier is picking up the slack, removing any water seeping through the cracks in the foundation. So far I haven’t needed the sump pump, so I guess things could be worse. But, come on Mom Nature, enough already.
Since I’m on the subject of moms, Mama came by yesterday, before the rain started. She was very thin. Hmmmmmm, maybe??? She and Daddy copulated about two weeks ago and now he’s MIA and she’s thin. Perhaps there are eggs, albeit soggy eggs, somewhere on the Concord River. Of course, according to several websites I visited, copulation doesn’t necessarily trigger egg laying. Sometimes, copulation is just for fun. Who knew ducks had such a wild side?
The last time I saw her with Daddy was this past Thursday. They visited at dusk for a snack before retiring for the night.
I know it’s silly but I worry about them. I don’t have enough to worry about, right? Water rising, 19 year old son, rose fungus. And it’s not like they needed me in the past. The Concord River has been flowing and flooding for hundreds of years and thousands of ducks have mated, raised young, and died over those years. I’ve grown fond of Mama and Daddy though. And, I must admit, I miss their visits. So, wherever they are, I hope they’re safe.
New bird sighting! A rose breasted grosbeak visited the feeder Sunday. It’s been 10 years since I saw this type of bird. So striking with his flashes of red, black and white. Yeah for me.
Now for the “I’m surprised you didn’t kill yourself” portion of the blog. My nephew gave me a compound miter saw as a house warming present. He is a PEACH, that nephew of mine. We spent over a hour doing a tutorial on safety and operation. Watch the fingers and other good stuff. “Got it! I’m good, thanks.” Next day, time to run it solo. I was a little nervous, having grown fond of my fingers over the past 50+ years. So, instead of holding the wood because I was too afraid to have my fingers within 10 inches of the blade, I just let the wood rest freely. I took a deep breath and lowered the blade. The cut was clean and easy. That wasn’t so bad. However, my measurement was off by a 1/4″. Again, still too nervous to hold the wood, I rested it on the bed of the saw and, once again, lowered the blade.
Well, according to Wikipedia, a projectile is any object “projected into space (empty or not) by the exertion of a force. Although any object in motion through space (for example a thrown baseball) may be referred to as a projectile, the term more commonly refers to a ranged weapon.” Yup, that about sums it up. That piece of wood shot across the basement at the speed of light. In fact, I think it actually vaporized at one point! The saw didn’t fair too well either, ending up with a broken blade, cracked guard and a large chuck of the metal ruler on the floor. Me? I screamed.
There is a happy ending to this story, however. I brought the saw back to the large, home improvement store and explained what had happened. I admitted everything. After the tool department manager stopped laughing, he exchanged the saw and I promised to memorize the manual. He also suggested I buy a pair of safety goggles and some life insurance.
I have a shadow every time I work in the gardens. A robin has figured out when I move around the grounds with my tools, worms appear. I’m reminded of the robin in The Secret Garden by Francis Hodgson Burnett. Cool
I loaded my first YouTube video today. The bathroom faucet has been leaking and, according to Fung Shui, leaks mean financial drain. Of course, I’ve been spending like a drunken sailor since moving in, but, I’ve also been hit with some unforeseen bills. So, after a search for a YouTube video that would explain how to fix the problem (not), and a visit to my local hardware store, I took care of the problem myself. Check it out: http://youtu.be/XuvLlOfmjQs
Whew, life on the river is far from dull. Blessed be :]
She wears the slow as molasses face on a hot, humid morning.
She wears a face that sparkles like brilliant diamonds in the morning sunlight.
She wears a face as old as the Nile. She has seen battles, poets, and writers.
She supports an abundance of life and withstands pollution, litter and daily assaults by power boats. Named by the Musketaquid Indians, her name translates to “grass-ground” for the amazing maze of rushes and brush that bordered her shores. Her colors and energy, in and around her banks, and deep within her waters, astounds me. She is my home.
Mama and Daddy were missing for a few days. I had assumed Mama finally laid her eggs, but, once again, I was wrong. They returned on Saturday and Mama was as fat as ever.
It was a 90 degrees out and she lazed on the beach with Daddy. Such pampered ducks, a long, hot day of eating, sleeping, and preening.
When it gets hot, and ducks get bored, the drama begins. My beach became a scene from West Side Story. Three drakes arrived while Daddy and Mama were snoozing. Daddy woke with a start and immediately went at two of the intruders. The third drake moved past the fighting to put some moves on Mama. She responded with indignant anger but he wasn’t fazed in the least. Mama took off up river, with the offender hot on her tail. I could still hear them, long after they were out of sight. Seeing their buddy chasing Mama, the other two ruffians decided to follow suit. Daddy was left with fewer feathers and a slight limp. But Mama was gone. Quacking softly, Daddy waited on the beach until dusk. Still no Mama. Around 8:00, he waddled onto the retaining wall until well after dark. Every so often he would quack softly. While at my desk, I could hear him. Convinced he was calling for his mate, my heart ached for his longing.
There is a happy ending to the story, though. This morning Mama was back! I’m not sure if she shared any details with him, but Daddy stayed a little closer to her, keeping a watchful eye while she filled her crop.
One would think I only have ducks in my little corner of paradise. So not true. My cove has all types of birds – black-capped chickadees, tufted titmice, house finches, nuthatches, American goldfinches, even a sparrow or two. Include tree swallows, flickers, robins, red-winged blackbirds, ruby-throated hummingbirds, Baltimore orioles, chimney swifts, cormorants, wild turkeys, and red-tailed hawks and Audubon would have been content to spend an afternoon on my porch.
I wouldn’t be honest if I give the impression life is all bliss, here on the Concord River. There’s water seeping into my basement and an army of carpenter ants is threatening to take over the little bungalow I call home. And the spiders. Why does there always have to be spiders? They’re black, fuzzy, with white dots. According to the web, they’re jumping spiders. I try not to kill them. Typically, if I find one in the house, I’ll catch it and put it outside. However, last night while batteling the ants, a spider became a casualty of war. I hope the old saying “Kill a spider, bad luck yours will be. Until of flies you’ve swatted fifty-three,” doesn’t apply in this situation.
So mote it be 🙂
concordriverlady.com 