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?
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