Lunch is Ready

Having been away for the better part of the week, during which time there

had also been a significant snowfall, I came home to empty feeders

in need of replenishing.

First step: clearing a bit of snow off the porch...

One of the pleasures of feeding is that the local birds that overwinter get to know you. As soon as I step outside, they magically appear and start chattering away to bring in the rest of the neighbourhood who might have missed the fact that the two legged creature with big, bulky, funny coloured feathers was outside holding goodies in her five pronged claws.

No sooner up, then they're at'em. Shelled nuts for nuthatches, chickadees, woodpeckers, jays...they pretty much all love them.

Kids and peanut butter.

They're reasonably well behaved, and take turns.

'course if you have a wee beak, like a Redpoll, you don't have to wait for any nuts, you can go directly to the finer seed, like nyger.



And there's no waiting particularly, because it sprinkles all over the place.  

The nuthatches eat lots of peanuts..which considering the nut is almost as big as its little head is quite a good trick.

They wait in on line for their turns. 

and keeping an eye on all of the proceedings is PW, waiting on the far side of the tree, not realizing that the bright red cone is a beacon. I see ya!

Black sunflower, nyger, shelled (and often unshelled as well) nuts, finch mix, suet, and water- that'll do it and you too can have a flock of featherbrained friends- who frankly, are often more entertaining than  homo sapiens.

Chip Off the Old Block

Today was a sunny winter day, crisp but no wind,  a perfect day for a look around the yard. It was also a perfect day to  climb up a tree

and beat the pulp out of it

...if you're a Pileated Woodpecker of course.

There is no mistaking the sound of a Pileated Woodpecker pounding the living bugs out of a branch. They move purposely up one branch, and then another, foraging their way through the woods.

There is no such thing as subtlety either. This is a bird that knows what he wants, and will go to great lengths to get it. Chip-off-the-old-block is his middle name. And he leaves large chips of bark
and wood all over the ground -a sure sign of his visit.

In Pete Dunne's Essential Field Guide Companion, he calls the Pileated Woodpecker (aka Dryocopus pileatus) the slightly unseemly

Log Cock.

But if you think about it, there's the Cock of the Walk  -  or the flamboyant rooster who is master of the chicks.

And this guy, old Chip,  is definitely the biggest bird on the tree

in this neck of the woods!

So Log Cock it is - A finely feathered pecker indeed.

Owl Be Seeing You

As we were driving along Hwy# 148, something caught my eye...something that didn't quite belong, and immediately signaled the inner bird alert.

I yelled politely asked John to slow down, and turn the car around immediately whenever it was convenient. Which he did.

Can you see it? (Yes, it's there!)

Having been birding for several years now, my eyes automatically scan the sides of roads, tops of trees, fence lines...looking for shapes that don't quite fit,

as in this case a football sitting on a branch.

A football? That doesn't make any sense! The season ended here ages ago, and besides, a football isn't as fluffy.

Must be, I hope it is, I think it is, turn the car around now!! It's an owl!

As we turned around, I'm reaching for camera and the binoculars (never leave home without them...bird nerd, I know!), so I'm ready when once again we pull up to the spot we were just seconds ago.

Yay!!! Still there!

It's been three or four years since I've had such a good look at an owl...in this case, a Barred Owl. You know the one...you can often hear him calling on an early spring evening..."Who  cooks for you? Who cooks for you?"

They're generally nocturnal, so to see one on a bright Saturday afternoon is a thrill. And this guy, not only did he did he not fly away as soon as we parked the car beside the road, he actually flew closer -
wanted a look at us too it seems!

 And sat patiently while I adjusted the camera, rolled the window down further, and generally acted like an squirrely tourist!

I remember as a child, my mother reciting this nursery rhyme to me:
A wise old owl sat in an oak
The more he saw the less he spoke
The less he spoke the more he heard
Now wasn't he a wise old bird?

I got it then, and I get it now..and perhaps that's why the owl -any owl - is a such  favourite of mine. They're just so spectacularly special. They have acheived mythical status -they're wise, they're full of magic, they portend great beginnings and great endings. And they sail to sea with pussycats in beautiful pea green boats.
They're truly a hoot.

The Sue Chef: Fortification Soup

When it's -8C and the windchill makes it feel more like -21C

and the view out the window looks like this

and only those poor, unfortunate people who got snowshoes for Christmas

feel compelled to be outside,

then that is the time that my thoughts, and those of the creatures around me,

turn to food. From the little nibble notes of the Red Squirrel

to the nutty taste tests by the Blue Jays,

thoughts of food abound.

Perhaps it's a winter thing. A cold thing that makes us yearn for rich, tasty treats, a kitchen redolent with earthy spices, a pot simmering on the stove

and buns in the oven. Pregnant pause here. 

Some spicy cooking indeed!

Which is why I'm thrilled with the ability to browse through papers from all over the world, and discover a recipe in the Los Angeles Times that begs to be tested and tasted. A recipe for a soup that a couple had at Bewley's on Grafton Street in Dublin. I've actually been there! And they thought the soup was so exceptional that they asked the food writer at the LA Times to get it for them.

And lo and behold, it's now simmering on my stove too.

I love that about today's technology!

This soup is chock full of vegetables: onions, potatoes, leeks, tomatos,fennel, carrots,  and white kidney beans...

My kitchen smells like a place to linger.

To sit and share a bowl of soup,

 and a warm cheese scone.

I'll put another log on the fire, and we can enjoy this cold winter's day -

where at least for this hour, and in this place, all is right with the world. 

Fortifying the soul on a Saturday afternoon.

Ellis in Wonderland

In 1965, a British rock group who couldn't think of a name, called themselves The Who and released My Generation. The depth of their lyrics was stunning. Really. Every kid between 10 and 20 thought so. And sadly, 40 years later, they still think there's substance and meaning in this s-s-song for the aaa-gg-ing.

People try to put us d-down (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Just because we get around (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby

Why don't you all f-fade away (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
And don't try to dig what we all s-s-say (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I'm not trying to cause a big s-s-sensation (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
I'm just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

Sometimes I wonder what the archeologists digging among our bones and lost baggage in the year 3011 are going to think.  Sometimes even I have trouble reconciling our past with our present.

The dusty old farmer and his favourite team of horses is quickly becoming a romantic image of a kinder, gentler time.

"Kind" and "gentle", of course, have a totally different meaning and context than they do now. Getting up at 6:00 am to
start plowing the field, and sitting on an iron bevelled seat in the rain, the sleet , the hail, and heat while being swarmed by bugs~ not so gentle, not so kind. Different from driving 100 kph down the highway dodging trucks and weary travellers? Yes. Avoiding the driver who's busy texting and talking at the same time, far more dangerous than sitting behind Nelly and Jo, agreed. Definitely.

There are so many stories that this generation hasn't even had the dignity to forget. They didn't even know  about it in the first place. And who's left to tell them about the time in 1950's in Newfoundland when a decision was made to bring families in from the outposts, so they'd be easier to manage. Row, row, row your home... a piece of Canadian history quickly archived, but poignantly illustrated in this painting by Ted Stuckless (great name for the painter of this scene, no?)

At  another point in our nefarious Canadian history, and again, in the 1950's , the government of Canada decided that it should do  something about all the people living in the north. In August of 2010, some 60 years later, a special apology was given by the Government of Canada for the sublime, supreme ignorance it had demonstrated, and the untold pain it had caused, to the indigenous people of the North.

Today, on behalf of the Government of Canada and all Canadians, the Honourable John Duncan, Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development and Federal Interlocutor for Métis and Non-Status Indians, apologized for relocating Inuit from Inukjuak and Pond Inlet to Grise Fiord and Resolute Bay in the High Arctic in the 1950s, and for the hardship, suffering and loss they experienced as a result of the relocation.
"The Government of Canada apologizes for having relocated Inuit families and recognizes that the High Arctic Relocation resulted in extreme hardship and suffering for Inuit who were relocated," said Minister Duncan. "We deeply regret the mistakes and broken promises of this dark chapter of our history."

I recognize the inevitability of change. It is a constant. The cliches reflecting time and changes, ages and stages, and the inevitable march to the edge  ring true with poets, painters and authors..no matter Who they may be.

Birds falling from the sky, fish washing up on the shores, and So You ThinkYou Can Dance ...It all appears to be nonsense.

And I fear, Alice, that  we have finally fallen through the rabbit hole.

Helllooo?? Anybody here?

Come Closer

When I lived in the city,   my eye would be drawn to bright lights. Winking me into a bar or restaurant for comfort and warmth they often plopped me in places I didn't actually want to be, and I would quickly leave, vaguely disatisfied for having been sucked in. Like a moth to flame.

Not so now.

Now the light is finer, truer, and real. It draws me in and entices me, making me want to linger longer than I should. I am often late.

Some things just demand to be seen.

I can't codify cute. But I know it when I see it. Beauty. Boldness. Something catches my eye, turns my head, and speaks to me.

Often more loudly than it should, and I get swept up in the moment. Attention deficit I am not...perhaps, no actually, the opposite. Attention overload.

I can lose myself in the moment, the memory, the meaning. I am sometimes not present because I am all there.

My favourite walk is right outside my door, full of mystery, signs and signals. It stops me cold in my tracks. I truly cannot understand how others can simply walk on by! But they do, leaving me behind to ponder..what animal? Where was it going? Or was it coming? was it being chased? or chasing? I am chastened by all this. Humbled. Smaller. But more complete.

My inner child is evidently alive
and well. It does not take much to take off on a flight of fancy. And "why?" is a question often asked.

As the crow flies is sometimes just a short little walk out the front door.

 

I wish you  all a wonder full new year!

A Christmas Letter, 1942

In 1942, the world was at war, and families around the globe were missing loved ones as they celebrated Christmas. The following letter was written by my grandfather, Dr.Arthur Richardson Brown to his children, A.G., Margaret, Eleanor, George and Ruth ....

Lloydminster, Sask. 

Christmas Eve, 1942

My Dear Children,

It is Christmas Eve. The house is quiet. No excited voices, no pattering feet disturb our rest. And yet---there are six of you, little Bena Mae in her snow shrouded rest in Saskatoon, Ruth somewhere at home, George in England in the brave garb of the Seaforths, Eleanor cheering her navy lad in Halifax, Margaret in Toronto bearing with fortitude the denial of her heart’s desire but encouraging her  brilliant young husband in public service, and our first born A.G. at Ottawa for his first Christmas with Mabel using his fine mind in war research---six whose tiny clinging fingers are forever clasped about our hearts, six whose shining eyes have lighted our many Christmas trees with the “light that never was on land or sea”, six whose echoing laughter still trembles softly on the drums of memory, six gifts of life and charm and hope and love which your beloved mother cradled in her affection and fed with her body and sustained with her unselfish soul. Six of you, six miracles, six demonstrations to prove that love is the secret of the good life, that love is life.

And so despite the miles and miles of lonely prairie, of dark forbidding forest, of weary wastes of water which separates us tonight we are joined in spirit about this family tree and your mother and I once again marvel in the glories and mysteries of life, once again catch the murmuring music of the spheres; for love reaches through and beyond all barriers of space and time; we reach our arms about you, feel “our life’s glow” and watch the twinkling lights of yet another Christmas.

If there is one gift we prize above all others it is the love of our children; if there is one gift we bestow more gladly than all others it is our love for our children; if there is one message we would have them accept and ponder more deeply than all others it is that love is the secret of the good life, that without love there is no meaning in Christmas or living or philosophy, or systems of government or economics or dreams for a new and better world.  Knowledge gives us law and order and system
and the mechanics of progress, but love is what dreams are made of, the stuff of nobility and worth, the warming stream which feeds our lives and brings them to
 fruition in truth and beauty and purpose.

And so my children, on this Christmas Eve, your mother and I once again tender you our gift of love. May it warm your hearts, enlighten your minds, inspire your souls, and direct your steps along the paths of fruitful and happy living. And we thank you for the privilege of being your parents, for the joy you have given us,
for the inspiration you have been to us, for the proof you
have given that life is good
and that all’s right with this world.

                                                With all our love,

Dad and Mother

All of the people in this letter, with the exception of Ruth,
who is now in her 80's, are gone,
but my Grandfather's words still ring true,
and the greatest gift of all is still Love.
Merry Christmas!

This Hoya started out at my Grandmother's home, and has since been divided and shared. It's at least 35years old,  and has blossomed continually since I received my slip two years ago...including this blossom which I just noticed today.

A little gift from Grandma?



Cold Comfort

As a snowy white blizzard  blasts into my world, it changes. Colours, shapes, textures, temperatures, even smells.

There is more, and there is less. More intensity, less lingering.

More softness . Less definition

More shades of gray. Less of every other colour.

This wintery white world envelopes us, and dictates changes

that we must make to survive it.

It slows us down. Insulates. Isolates.

Makes us late.

Until we learn to leave earlier.

Which we do. We slowly adjust.

The first day is always the worst. The topic on everyone's tongue.

Why does - 5C feel  frigid in December,  and downright balmy in March?

Imagine getting used to that!

But we do.

We  are proud to be part of this northern land.

And it gives us cold comfort in return.

U's Gone.

U’s Gone

I know I pt it somewhere, bt I can’t remember where?

It’s not nder the bed, I know, becase I jst looked there.

It’s not p in the attic, on top of the boxes and bags

They’re missing too becase I moved them

When they sddenly started to sag.

It’s crios withot it, many words don’t look qite right

Sch a simple little joiner with two arms that make things tight

A lovely  sbtle sond made when yo prse yor lips

It never stops it’s fsing, wants s joined at the hips!

If yo come across it shortly, please try sending it my way

As I’m trying to end this message

And I don't want to misspell my name!

Ssan.

for more thoghts on the letter above, please go to http://www.abcwednesdayround3.blogspot.com/

Icing from the Inside

It started with sand being thrown against the window, and soon grew to a steady wave of small pebbles tatooing on the roof. In my dream, I was standing on a beach looking at the clear blue waters of Northumberland Strait and the bridge to Prince Edward Island. Peaceful, but slightly disoriented. As I woke,  that vision faded, and was replaced by this one.

When Nature takes your world, and gives it a shake and a polish, you must pay attention.

And so I did.

Cocooned by the soft glow of morning,  and unable to see beyond, I was forced to look within.

Nature's artistry leaves me breathless. A haunting golden moment that rises with the sun and lingers just long enough to remind us that  we can only see this magic when the paint brush is heavily laden.

A magnified moment, frozen in time and soon to melt away.

for more images, visit Skywatch Friday

http://skyley.blogspot.com/

S and Making Sense of it All

I have learned about difference. The difference between soft and sweet

and hard and sharp.

I can tell  hot from cold and  wet from dry...and I know if it's hot and wet, or cold and dry, and what that means...

 Is it dark or light or in between?

 My senses tell me sweet from sour and they tell me to be wary

I hear the quiet... and the clamour

And I know my world.

It makes sense.

Read more about 'S' here

                                                                       http://abcwednesdayround3.blogspot.com/