Yup, it’s that time again when people from all over North America (sorry Australia) count the birds that visit their feeders.
Common Grackle
Hang onto your feeders however, because it’s not just feeders, even though the name implies it’s just feeders.
Nope, you can count birds on flowers, bushes, grass, in water, and trees too! Even on the ground.
Leucistic Mourning Dove
From the Project FeederWatch website: FeederWatch is a November-April survey of birds that visit backyards, nature centers, community areas, and other locales in North America. You don’t even need a feeder! All you need is an area with plantings, habitat, water, or food that attracts birds and count the birds you see for two consecutive days. You can find detailed instructions here.
Why is Project FeederWatch important, you ask with eager anticipation. Well, it all comes down to Global Warming and bird distribution. Bottom line, bird numbers are declining as the environment is changing. The FeederWatch program gives scientists data to help understand what’s really going on. Read about the data here: ABOUT THE DATA
White-tailed Deer
New for 2023/2024 is the ability to enter information on mammals that visit your count area. Mammals
Seriously, visit this link to get all the details on how to count, when to count, what to count, what to not count, what to wear or eat while you’re counting, what music to play, and stuff like that. (Two of the items are not necessary but still very fun. LOL)
Samhain (pronounced sah-win), a Celtic sabbat often confused with Halloween, is celebrated from October 31 to November 1. Although Halloween and All Souls Day fall on these dates, they are Christian in spirit, but do take their roots from the pagan beliefs.
Samhain occurs at the midpoint between the fall equinox and the winter solstice and marks the Celtic new year, celebrated on November 1. Celts split the year in half, one light and one dark. Samhain signals the end of the harvest season and the start of the darkest time of year–winter. And because the veil between the world of the living and the world of the departed is at its thinnest at midnight on the 31st, its a time to connect with the people gone from this world.
Bay back in the dark ages some Christian missionaries decided to ‘educate’ the people of the land and replace their pagan beliefs with bright and shiny Christian ones. Yup, those pagans were too damn uneducated for the Christians and needed a good learnin’ about how the spirit world worked.
Soooooo, Samhain got a makeover and was renamed Halloween, hallowed means holy, and All Souls Day. One night and one day to honor those who have passed from this world into the next.
Thus the Celts were somewhat allowed to keep their Samhain cakes and eat them too.
What are Samhain cakes, you ask? They’re wonderful scone-like cookies baked to honor departed loved ones. Made from wheat, lard (butter if possible), eggs, salt, spices and sugar.
At night, during medieval times, the poor would go ‘mumming’, a practice of pretending to be wandering ghosts. They would visit wealthier homes and sing, prayer, and perhaps perform tricks, in the hope that a steaming plate of cakes would be their reward. By the 8th century, Samhain cakes had been adopted by the Christian church (sigh) and ‘mumming’ became known as ‘souling.’
Samhain Cakes (also known as Soul Cakes)
The ingredients of Samhain cakes are important: wheat, sugar, and butter for sustenance; salt for wisdom; cinnamon to attract prosperity; ginger for healing; plus raisins or currants to placate any angry spirits.
Photo courtesy of Pexels.com
Ingredients
3 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp each cinnamon, ginger
1 tsp. salt
8 Tbsp. butter, room temperature
1/2 cup whole milk (more added if dough is crumbly and won’t stick together)
1/4 cup dried, chopped cranberries, currants, or raisins
Additional milk and sugar for topping
Additional 1/4 cup of flour for rolling out dough.
Instructions
Preheat oven to 425 degrees
Cream together sugar and butter with a hand mixer.
Add the milk and vanilla extract and mix.
Next add in baking powder and spices and mix.
Add in the flour one cup at a time and mix well.
Fold in the dried fruit and chill dough for 20 minutes.
Roll out dough on parchment paper and use extra flour on your hands, rolling pin and parchment paper as needed. Roll about 1/2 inch thick.
Using a cookie cutter or a biscuit cutter, cut the cakes out and place them on a cookie sheet that’s lined with parchment paper.
Cut the X in the top and decorate with dried fruit if you want to. Brush the tops with milk
Bake for 12 minutes.
Remove cakes from the oven and brush the tops with milk again and then sprinkle on sugar. Bake for another 11-14 minutes until the tops have started to brown a bit. Do not bake them for longer than 26 minutes total.
Transfer to a cooling rack right away and let them cool completely.
Offer a plate to those who have gone before and enjoy one or two yourself.
I wish you a bountiful Samhain, a Happy Halloween, and may the loved ones you’ve lost bless you with their love.
It’s hard to imagine that I have spent close to 200 days (don’t even get me started on how many hours that equals) sitting on my couch. Damn!
Two seasons. Spring and Summer.
My health took a tumble at the beginning of March and I’ve been plagued with dizziness, or as I like to call it, vertiginousness and a bunch of other neurological issues.
Ahhh, NPH – Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus–you rock.
Or, as some neurologists like to tell me: “It’s all in my head.”
Anyway, I’m here, sitting in my house with my pups…
Bailey and Harlee, 2023
…watching my birds…
Male Northern Cardinal
…and my gardens.
One garden as viewed from my deck. Have I mentioned that I’ve fallen down my steps a few times? Well I have.
Here’s a fun fact, when you can’t take care of your gardens they do fine without you.
Seriously, my plants didn’t seem to care that I spent my time viewing them from a window or my deck and not in amongst them. Seems a little ungrateful to me, but whatever.
Anyway, today is the first day of Autumn, 2023, and I’m looking forward to another season of headaches, bladder leakage (TMI?), brain fog, stuttering, and general malaise.
Things could be worse; I could be sitting in the hallway of a nursing home. So, hey, life is good.
Grass recently mowed, ripening fruit and flowers, fledglings newly developed feathers, and distant lightening combine to create an aroma that only a July night can know.
July is the perfect month to sit outside at dusk and watch the newly fledged bats (do bats fledge?) flutter in their hurried quest for sustenance.
Two common bats in Massachusetts are the Big Brown bat and the Little Brown bat. I can’t be sure which type I am seeing when I watch their nightly foray but I’m going to guess Big Brown bat. Then again, they could be Little Brown bats. No bother. The good news is this year there are many more bats than in summers past.
Did you know that a single bat can eat up to 1,200 mosquito-sized insects every hour, and each bat usually eats 6,000 to 8,000 insects each night!
Bats are good for Mother Earth.
Cute Little Brown Bat.
Since I have the walking stability of a drunk elderly seaman, the weeds have had their way with my gardens. There is a school of thought that leaving weeds in place helps retain moisture in the soil. Hmmmm, I’m not so sure that’s true. Weeds need water, as do non-weed plants so a collection of thirsty weeds remove water from the soil. They also use nutrients. I think the gardeners who came up with the moisture conservation hypothesis about weeds are just too lazy to weed their gardens. However, since I’m not able to do much weeding this year, I guess I’ll jump on the ‘Weeds are Good’ bandwagon.
According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, a weed is defined as “a plant that is not valued where it is growing.” So I guess, one woman’s weed is another woman’s flower.
Each morning, when the sun is just waking, I take my crutch, mug of coffee, and Harlee and Bailey, and shuffle out to side porch to welcome the new day. I’m greeted by a symphony. Parents singing their songs and fledglings, following their parents around, begging for food. I’m of the mind that if a young bird can fly it should feed itself.
Eastern Bluebirds.
But then again, what do I know. Mother Nature has been doing her thing a lot longer than me.
I’m grateful for the birds that migrate and find their way back to my little corner of the Concord River. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for all my birds…well, maybe not the House Sparrows…okay, fine, them too. But what of the migrating birds, those neotropical migrants? The tiny Ruby-throated hummingbirds? Baltimore Orioles? Herons and Grosbeaks? They travel thousands of miles to places I’ll never see. Drink from exotic flowers. Eat from a menu my local birds will never taste. Secret places that only the travelers know.
Tell me your secrets, Mr. Baltimore Oriole.
In the wise words of Shakespeare: “Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” Ain’t that the truth. The days go by quickly in July. Every day I try to capture moments too precious to waste. The flash of a goldfinch sharing his meal with a bumblebee.
Bumblebee and male American goldfinch on my zinnias.
The heron drying his/her wings on the shore of my river.
Great Blue Heron.
The surprise of a white Mourning Dove .
White Mourning dove.
Colors bursting in my untended gardens.
And of course my jewels of the garden.
Female Ruby-throated Hummingbird.
On a cold winter’s eve I draw these memories forward and recall the beauty of July.
Oh, I must not forget playful pups.
Bailey on the left, Grace on the right. Recently turned one-year old.
There are still many days ahead but time steals them with swift hands. ‘Stay with me,’ I whisper to the bats, ‘do not go, ‘ as I watch the stars wink from the inky July sky.
It is with a deep joy in my soul that I send you this Solstice Prayer:
May the summer season bring you drink to quench your thirst and food to fill your belly.
May the sun warm your bones and hold you gently in his embrace.
May the breeze caress your skin and cool your brow.
May your soul find joy in the colors, scents, and songs of nature.
May you know peace and tranquility in the shade of an oak.
May your journey be without peril.
May you soar.
Blessed be.
“Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly” Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda is one of my favorite poets so who better to welcome one of my favorite months–June.
Named after the Roman goddess Juno, June lays before me, her wings unfurled, presenting all the exquisite beauty she has to offer.
Is there any other month as beautiful as June? The mysterious scent of lilacs on a gentle breeze calls to mind long-vanished ladies, freshly powdered and wearing gossamer dresses, parasols held in delicately gloved hands.
My childhood yard was framed by lilacs, traditional purple but one white variety. As a young child I imagined Pegasus lived under the white bush. I would sneak out of bed as quietly as a mouse so as not to wake my sisters and sit by our bedroom window which faced onto the yard. In the dark of the moon the while flowers glowed and on many a night I watched as Pegasus nibbled the sweet petals. Oh how I longed to leap onto his back and soar.
June is the month of hummingbirds darting about like jewels scattered in the garden, and dew kissed early roses scenting the dawn.
It’s a time of cool grass beneath ones feet, sky-blue dawns, and reaching for rainbows brought to life by a sprinkler’s mist. Cotton sunsuits and traveling to far off lands in the purple folds of our hammock.
June 1st was the time when my father hung the hammock between the two large oak trees in our backyard. Four eager children scrambled to be the first to ride the magic carpet.
Next to come from the basement was the slush maker. My father made the best lemon slush. Nobody liked turning the crank and complaints of burning muscles trailed behind my Dad as he went about readying the yard for our first cookout of the season. But oh boy, one bite into the tart sliver of lemon rind hidden in the sweet slush and the dreary job was forgotten.
Not my Dad’s slush maker but a decent copy.
Chairs were arranged around a metal table on the flagstone patio, wood gathered for the fireplace (nope, not a chiminea but a real brick fireplace that my father built by hand).
A good old-fashioned fireplace.
Burgers formed, corn steamed, lemonade sweetened, and brightly colored plastic plates, cups, and napkins awaited our guests.
Neighbors joined the feast and by the time the sun set in its rosy glory the sound of ice clinking in the tumblers of the adults as they drank highballs and other mysterious libations accompanied the laughter of children chasing fireflies.
The night always ended with my mother bringing out a bag of marshmallows. All the kids would race into the woods behind our house in search of the perfect stick. Long and sturdy.
I live in a small house on a small plot of land along the Concord River, although small is a relative term. The White House would be small next to Château de Chambord in France …
The reason I bring up the size of my living quarters is I need you to understand that being housebound in a small house on a small, but stunningly beautiful, lot is playing with my sanity. Actually playing with is not correct — being cloistered in my home and within the boundaries of my property line is wreaking havoc with my sanity.
Some days I shuffle down my front steps and around the yard. I purchased a second rollator just for this purpose.
Samantha testing out the goods.
One red and one blue. The red one is for inside the house and the blue one is for outside.
I once rocked three-inch heels and a red Mustang convertible but now I own two rollators. But again, I digress.
My car has been sold. Daily walks with the dogs, and working in my gardens are things of the past. My days are filled with sitting on my recliner and meditating, trying to read (my short-term memory sucks), and staring out the windows at the birds, trees, and life as it, along with my river, flows by.
This is why, when the women who live at the end of my avenue, brought me a gift basket my heart filled with joy.
Thank you Donna, Irene, Meaghan, and Diana.
Not only did the basket contain a porcelain tea cup, tea, dog biscuits, and kitty treats, it also had a package of ginger snaps (not shown in the photo because…well, cookies, dah!)
I know my life has taken a different path than the one I expected but having neighbors who offer true kindness is wonderful.
I would like to fly
I would like to soar with the chimney swifts
Dart and swoop
Through the gloaming sky
I would like to ride a thermal with a hawk
We would call to one another through the coils under our wings
He and me
Floating above the world
I would like to soar to the highest branch
The one that touches the sun
I would preen my wings
Then spread the shining feathers and let go
I would like to play the feather game with the swallows
I would be the fastest of the group
Catching the prize as it spirals to the river below
None would fly as fast as me
I would like to join the kingfisher on his morning quest
Silver bodies under the water's surface
Our prey
Succulent flesh to fill our crops
I would like to sing with the robins
Call with the bluejays
Laugh with the flickers
And dance with the sparrows
I would like to fly
And know the splendor of the wind against my face
I would like to fly
Higher, higher, higher
Let’s begin with a story about a tragic love–Tchaikovsky’s ballet Swan Lake.
It is believed Tchaikovsky’s enchanting ballet is based upon a German folktale entitled The Lake of Swans. Although I can’t find the actual fable, I did find a Wikipedia page tying the ballet to the story. It matters little what source Tchaikovsky used for his ballet; only that the story is beautiful, the music sublime, and the ending haunting.
Prince Siegfried, who on a hunting trip, encounters a flock of swans, He falls in love with the Swan Queen, Odette, and swears his allegiance and undying love to her. As a result of a curse by the evil sorcerer Baron von Rothbart, Odette can only take human form between midnight and daybreak. Only faithful, true love can break the spell. This love is expressed in the White Swan pas de deux, danced to one of the most familiar sections of the music, and is both gentle and tender. (Although my favorite is the last dance — more on that later.)
During this pas de deux, Odette’s timidness and sense of fear of the Prince transitions to acceptance of his love and hope for the future.
Swan Lake by the American Ballet Theater Decca Music Group Ltd. Public Domain Compositions
To prevent his spell from being broken, von Rothbart transforms his own daughter, Odile, to look exactly like Odette. Dressed in black, she is presented to Price Siegfried at his birthday party, and he thinks she is actually his beloved Odette. (Seriously, Odette is a white swan!!)
Swan Lake doesn’t end well. Thinking she is his Odette, Prince Siegfried swears his love for Odile, (Men can be such fools.) both destroying his future with the Swan Queen and dooming her to death. In most productions, the prince, distraught, commits suicide by jumping into the lake.
In the end Odette and Siegfried fly to that great lake in the sky.
Here’s my favorite part of the ballet.
Swan Lake by the American Ballet Theater Decca Music Group Ltd. Public Domain Compositions
Yes, yes, I know. I can hear the chorus: ‘River Lady, what does Swan Lake have to do with your life on the Concord River?’
Patience, my dear. I’m getting there.
Mute swan pair, 2021.
There was a pair of Mute swans that visited my corner of the world each spring. They would glide along the water as gracefully as any prima ballerina.
Many people don’t realize that swans mate for life. If one of the swans dies, the other will remain without a mate for his or her remaining years. Very rarely a female who has lost a mate will find a male in a flock of swans but without a flock, she has no chance. And a male without a mate is destined to spend his days swimming and longing.
Remaining Mute swan, 2023.
In 2022 someone shot and killed one of the pair of swans that grace the waters of the Concord River. That person is a bastardo.
I wonder what drives the cruelty in humans but that’s a topic for another posting.
This post is about tragic love for it is tragic when an animal must spend its remaining days longing for a mate that will never return.
A form of love? Perhaps.
But most certainly a cruel joke on Mother Nature’s part. Shame on her.
concordriverlady.com 