It's that time of year when our migrant breeding birds come pouring back into the state and I go a little crazy. Many birders live for these few weeks and I'm one of them. I've made some small steps toward learning my peeps and ducks in the last year, but it's the songbirds I truly love. Every year I re-learn the warbler songs, plus one more. I don't know whose it will be this year. Last year it was the Tennessee. Maybe this year, I'll finally learn all my flycatchers. Right.
Phoebe still seems to be scouting for a nest site; today it was in our garage.
There do seem to be birds missing: not many thrushes and a complete lack of northern waterthrushes (actually a warbler) in their usual spots. I haven't seen our oriole yet either, though I've seen lots elsewhere.
I still have many birds to get this spring before all the migrants have passed through and our local residents are settled in. Miles to go before I sleep...
It was 50 degrees here today. Hooray for global warming. At least that's what I say til the poisonous snakes and giant insects from the southlands move in here. And 50 degrees also means black flies will be with us shortly. The husband and I placed bets on when we'll hear our first wood frogs--historically Not in March. More like right around April vacation. But it's supposed to be in the 40s this week, the ice is going fast and frogs are a possibility. I've seen them emerge and float among icebergs.
Remember James Herriot? All Creatures Great and Small? I have re-read all of his books in the past three or four weeks and am now on his illustrated book about Yorkshire. If I could beam myself anywhere right now, it would be there. The pictures were all taken in the 70s, which doesn't seem that long ago, but good Lord, it really was. Ah well, at least if I can't travel, I can watch the TV series through Netflix. Time travel + armchair travel = cheap vacation.
Rediscovered contra dancing this weekend. Good fun. Again, more time travel, this time back to colonial days. I sense a theme.
The chickens have turned into criminals--trespassing left and right. They have started sprinting across the field behind our house to the neighbor's whose leaf pile seems to have some narcotic hold on them. The boys have had a workout herding chickens home. The sight of six chickens streaking across the field is better entertainment than the Oscars. Never an Oscar lover, though, I find most things are. Are my chickens turning into vagrants like some guinea fowl I know?
In the knitting department--am on my fourth pair of socks since Christmas. I'm using Misti Alpaca (merino, alpaca, silk and nylon). It's looovely.
I saw my first frost heave sign today and took the neon orange for what it is: a warning to slap a lid on the car mug.It’s a little ridiculous to think of spring on Feb. 7, especially in central Maine, but the lengthening days already had me leaning that way. Signs of spring. I’ll take what I can get.
The flocks of robins aren’t signs right now, despite how much everyone associates them with the turning season. These birds are wintering over, subsisting on an abundant crop of ornamental crabapples. Big flocks of cedar waxwings gorge on them as well. Today I watched as the waxwings, in their bandit masks, clasped the berries in their beaks, tipped their heads back a little, seemed to say, "slainte" and swallowed them whole.
Our chickens may be the toughest in Maine. They made a beeline for the coop door this a.m. even though windchill is near zero. I’d put them in, but they don’t want to go. They are grazing in the breeze on our lawn, open where the snow has blown and washed off. They look like mod squad sauntering across the yard. I like it when they simultaneously tip their heads and their tails shoot up.
Happy birthday Laura Ingalls Wilder, born 143 years ago today in Wisconsin. When I think of how the world changed during her lifetime, it makes Twitter and the Internet look like tin cans and string. Well, maybe not quite that simple. And then I stop and wonder, What would Laura Ingalls say about our inability to draw breath without reporting it near and far? For someone who thought it strange when her beau showed up on Tuesday when Sunday was soon enough, all this instant communication would have to be intrusive. Or would it? There is a certain (lost) pleasure in letters going back and forth, but wouldn’t she have liked to hear from her parents more often after she moved away from de Smet? When she went to San Francisco to visit Rose she could have transmitted words and pictures to Almanzo instantly. Ah, but then we’d likely have no real record. Who saves tweets and emails? How will future biographers reconstruct relationships when there’s no written record like we had with letters? How long will blog posts be saved? How reliable are personal interviews?With information leaving the world of print at an alarming rate, is it possible we’ll look back and wonder how we lived, and what we thought, even though this electronic world has to have led to the biggest verbal outpouring in history?
I finally have photos of my pinwheel sweater which I hope doesn't make me look like a walking bull's eye. I am wearing it to death because it's warm, funky, and soft. I no longer fear short row shaping, I can tell you that.
Here's the shell scarf I'm giving my sister for Christmas/Chanuka aka the Annual Gift Exchange. It's made of Ball and Skein either merino and silk or alpaca and silk. I've lost the label, but any way you fondle it, the yarn is softer than butter. I also finished my second gecko, this one for a little friend of ours. It's almost too cute to send. It's from a Morehouse Merino pattern and is fairly mindless tv knitting. I learned how to make pockets from this project, though, so it's best not to zone out completely.
I can't believe it's November and I haven't posted since last spring. Time flies as they say. And what fun we had this summer and fall. We spent two weeks in paradise, also known as Perrydise, also known as Perry, Maine in late July. The weather was pretty bad, but we didn't care. We had a snug little cabin overlooking the water, complete with woodstove, which we fired up. The boys weren't as interested in dam building and rock skipping as they were last year. Instead they were into daredevil biking that involved pretty much freefalling down the biggest hill they could find. The trail started in the woods, then fell sharply into a field. They took advantage of gravity until my younger son wiped out in a spill worthy of wide world of sports "agony of defeat" footage. After that we biked more moderately.
I forgot to mention the birding in my original post (those of you reading this for the first time wouldn't know that). We had phenomenal birds here, including Nelson's saltmarsh sparrow, otherwise known as the hissing bird. Warblers were moving around in family groups (predominantly black throated green and redstarts), and there were irrupted finches including white winged crossbills. Shorebirds were just starting to arrive. We watched bald eagles several days (like having our own bald eagle channel). Also had various flycatchers, including alder. Highly recommend this spot for avid birders.
I love my new teaching job. I like working with GT students, I like the autonomy and flexibility of being on the road, I like helping other teachers, and I especially like being able to pee when I need to. It has given me a new lease on my professional life. It's not without challenges. I am not connected to a staff. Sometimes I feel like I don't know what's going on in the buildings. But mostly I don't care about those things and if lunch is quiet, I remind myself that I am not correcting bags of work every weekend. Shhh. I'm afraid someone will find out and make me start again.
We built a porch this fall, which I hoped to show you, but I'm having trouble uploading the picture. It was sort of a leap of faith that we plan to stay, at least for a season, to enjoy it. But we have a history of porch building and leaving. It's been the kiss of departure for two buildings now. Hopefully we'll be able to work things out so we can stay here a while longer. Work issues are what would uproot us. Vibing for good work for good pay.
Today we had noticeable snow flurries, bitter winds, and all in all midwinter conditions here, yet we haven't even had Thanksgiving! Where is the windmill when we could really profit from it? Winter snuck up so fast this year that I haven't done the usual boot sorting and snowpant purging that I usually do. Playing catch up now.
I have been knitting Morehouse Merino geckos for the boys. They are adorable and easy. Still working on a shell-patterned lace scarf from Barbara Walker's second stitch treasury. The yarn is merino-silk from Ball and Skein in Vermont. Lovely stuff. Itching to make another foliage hat out of my second ball of Malabrigo and/or a Center Square hat (both knitty patterns). I also finished the blessed pinwheel sweater, which I have been wearing to death. I ditched the pattern and had to cut and sew to make it work, but all in all it's not bad and I learned many valuable things. Among them are picot edgings, short row shaping, and to trust myself enough to freewheel something when it's not working. Not that this sweater will *ever* win any awards at the State Fair, but I like it. The yarn is buttery soft (though already pilling) and warm, lovely in lace and texture patterns, but the folks at Crystal Palace would be well advised to pull the pinwheel pattern.
And finally, one political note. I am, for once, proud of America. For once we have done the right thing and elected someone who I think is a good man with the right vision. I'm ashamed of Maine's latest bout of public racism, yet sadly not surprised. I have heard some sad things from my kids at school. They have no exposure to people of color here, especially in central Maine, and apparently no one to stand up and counter their misperceptions with tolerance. I guess I know what I need to do. But still I'm hopeful for the first time in eight years. So here's to new hope in the world and to peace in the new year.
It's spring here in central Maine. I can tell by counting my black fly bites. That, and the birds are back. My happy little kingdom rings with birdsong pretty much all day. The bobolinks kick it off at first light, followed by savannah and song sparrows, and two warblers nesting like bookends at either end of the yard--a chestnut sided and a common yellowthroat. The sound of birds drifts from the woods beyond the cornfield to reach my driveway when I walk out with my coffee to greet the new day, a giant yet faint woodwind symphony. I have been out ogling these little buggers like mad--we have at least eight species of warbler on my road, plus my favorite fly catcher-- the great crested-- which among other things says, "weep, weep."
Then there are the screeching birds: the killdeer. They nest in the cornfield but raise the babies in our yard now--mostly. They play chicken with the traffic and dart back to the cornfield several times a day. My heart is in my throat as I watch them. I think the screeching birds lost one of their babies overnight. There were two, but we've seen only one all day. There's no evidence of roadkill so I have to assume something else got it. There are many, many predators here, something the screeching birds alerted us to last summer when they first moved in. All night long their alarms went off--loud enough to wake us up. We had to look out the window to see what imminent attack was coming. We didn't get much sleep.
My best new bird this year is alder flycatcher, seen from a canoe.
We have other bird problems too. In late June the farmer will hay the fields, which sadly belong to him and not us. Bye bye bobolink babies. All of you with hayfields out there, don't hitch up the mower til late July, OK? That way meadowlarks and bobolinks have a better chance of fledgling, living to return next spring, and ultimately escape extinction. Meadowlark populations are down 72 percent in the last 40 years, according to an Audubon study.
Like teachers everywhere, I'm hanging on by my fingernails for the end of school. Next year I'll be the elementary gifted and talented teacher in our district. I'm alternately thrilled and terrified. No more easy 6 mile commute. Now I'll run to all the elementary schools in the district. Excellent timing with $4/gallon gas prices (or whatever the immorally greedy oil companies get away with by then). On the other hand, no more classroom management, to which I say Hallelujah.
And to spring, I say hallelujah too. It was a long winter, a cruel April, and now I'm holding all of us together with duct tape.
The first mitten has come out a wee bit bigger than expected, even on size 2 needles. But pretty? Gosh it's pretty. Even though you can't see the flower motif around the cuff. My hubby, who has custody of the camera, took this photo. If I can pry the camera out of his briefcase, I'll take a better shot. Or better yet, take one of the second mitten in progress, in which I demonstrate how I learn from my mistakes.
Ah mistakes. When will I knit something flawlessly the first time? I somehow ended the rows of braid on the cuff smack in the middle of the back where it really shows. The thumb is wonky (too long, lumpy), and then there's the small--or should I say big?--size problem. Alas. This is not to be my perfect knit.
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