Margotlog: Hummers
What inspired me to hang the humming bird feeder in the crab apple tree, early August? Maybe the dismal showing of those helicopter birds during my stint at the North Shore/Lake Superior? It was such a cold spring, then summer, here in St. Paul, and north too, near Lutsen town. Hummers had stalled, no doubt, further south. When I hung the feeder on the deck facing the Big Lake, mid-July, it took days for any to find it--probably still raising broods. Finally when one or two showed up, they were so skittish, they disappeared if even a shadow flickered nearby. Then distracted by a house-mouse invasion, I lost track of hummers.
What I really know about humming birds could make ten drops of red liquid in a hummer feeder. Why they are attracted to red, I don't know. How far south they migrate, I don't know. Why they like northern Minnesota for summer baby-making, I can only guess since red flowers don't predominate in the mid-summer landscape. More like gold and pink--golden rod, golden tansy and sunflower varieties, pink roadside roses, pink fireweed. Why hummers are so feisty when they're so small, and have never heard of Napoleon, I don't know. But for sure, they are fast.
By early August I'd installed the feeder in the crab apple tree just beyond our backyard deck. Finally the weather was warm, even hot. Cloudless days when I walked early morning because it got too hot in the afternoon. Plenty of chickadees, in fact more than I'd ever remembered, ate sunflower seeds like there was no tomorrow. Two kinds of woodpeckers--hairy and downy--went after the solid suet/seed mix in the hanging net bag. Pigeons and European sparrows galore, but what wasn't surprising. Goldfinch on the thistle feeder in front, then goldfinch babies, all tan, on the sunflowers feeders in the back.
One heart-stopping few days of concern for a fledgling blue jay--all puffy feathers, and big eyes, staring at us from the deck railing, then attempting flight, and finally making it half across the yard to the entwined small spruce, its parents rattling and calling it ahead. Our neighbors with the two elderly cats agreed to keep them in--I trust no wandering feline, even deaf and arthritic. Last summer there was a dead baby blue jay waiting for me when I came home from the North Shore. I felt as if I'd failed the bird kingdom.
It's amazing how we humans can come to feel we're in charge. Nature's salvation is up to us. Now, after years of preferring cat lives over bird lives, I've switched my allegiance. I'm all for the winged tribes--butterflies, bees, moths, lady bugs and yes, birds. We used to house two famous outdoor cats years ago, Archie and Justa, but no more. Our cats now stay indoors , with an occasional foray to the deck, held tightly in my arms. Too much evidence that cats kill the birds I am attempting to feed, plus too much expense from menaces like bee-bee guns, vicious dogs, and the cats' own preference for attempting to leap ten times their height in a single bound.
Suddenly two weeks ago, I spied two green mighty mites in the crab apple tree--hummers. For two weeks, they buzzed in and out of the tree, picked invisible insects from the air, dive-bombed chickadees two or three times their size, and sucked at the sugar water in the hummer feeder which I refilled three or four times. Every spare minute I stood at various windows looking out on the yard and watched for them. They were my talismans of summer delight. My connection to hope, joy, and the belief that nature was boundless in its abundance and mystery. Then two days ago, after a very chilly night, I searched the tree and air for them, but they were gone.
Just as the internet information I consulted said they would be. They knew when to leave and they left without a goodbye, without a thank you. For several weepy hours, I was sure I had failed. Maybe my last filling of the feeder had gone awry? I took the feeder down and very carefully calibrated: one cup water, boiled three minutes then cooled, and 1/4 cup of sugar. Even with the new elixir to temp them, they did not return. They are so small, after all, and their metabolism must be enormously fast. They probably can't survive in cold below 45 degrees Fahrenheit. I would not want them to die, still I am sad, very sad. They pierced the membrane of my complacency with an acknowledgment that my place was good for a stopover. They charmed me with their antics, speed, agility, and yes their metaphoric resemblance--green back, oval shape, to green crab apple leaf, oral shaped. They belonged here with me watching for a while. It's probably all we can ask of ourselves and the truly natural creatures we let return us to humility.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Margotlog: Morning Medley: the Commons
Margotlog: Mornng Medley: the Commons
"My home is my castle" makes me think of an impregnable, guarded estate, high above the plebs. That might work for some city or suburban neighborhoods but not for mine in Saint Paul. Here with lots leaving about ten feet from the side of a house to the property line, we have a lot in common with our neighbors on either side. Not to mention the common boulevard which stretches down the block and around the corner.
The English who settled New England brought another form of commons to the "new world." A town phenomenon, not a plantation one, so not much visible in Virginia and points south. But I enjoy considering the New England commons as I walk about ten blocks west and back, crossing many property lines, noticing many boulevard trees, and enjoying a small "pocket park" with huge oaks. The New England settlers used a "commons" to pasture livestock, and possibly to cut hay. It was often land in the middle of a group of houses, thus allowing all the users to keep an eye on it.
Recently the Minneapolis city council has passed an ordinance allowing for feral cat "commons," as long as the humans in charge neuter and vaccinate and "chip" the feral felines. One council person opined that she had a bird guide and had learned to identify the English sparrow. Bird-lover that I am, I keep all my cats indoors. That wasn't always the case, I admit, but the more I learn about the enormous damage feral cats do to bird populations, the more firmly I support trapping and euthanasia for feral cats.
Here's a notion that occurred to me as I walked: Let's take the Mpls city council members on a bird walking tour. Let's remind them that the English sparrows are an invasive species (sort of like feral cats--neither has a predator sufficiently strong enough to keep their populations in check). Let's introduce these well-meaning council members to ten native and common American birds, starting with the robin, blue jay, crow, chickadee, nuthatch, and yes the humming bird (more of these in a moment), on to the adorable goldfinch, the slightly less adorable house finch, the beautiful singer the cardinal, and completing the list with several native woodpeckers--hairy and downy. All these birds regularly visit my back yard, which, as I say, is quite small, but full of eight varieties of trees. Plus, regular fresh water, suet, and seeds. You might say I have a bird commons.
Some falls (I think today feels like fall), I have seen maybe one humming bird passing through on its way south. This year, perhaps because I put out a sugar-water feeder with eye-catching red top and bottom, I've seen or heard maybe ten. This morning I stood in awe as one brilliant iridescent green mite hovered in the air, up and down, in and out, closer and farther from a huge silver maple. It was picking gnats from the air. Yes, it took a few sips from my feeder, but mostly it was tooling up on protein for its very long journey south.
I love it that people whose yards I know quite well from this daily walk are now watering their boulevard trees. We are again in a drought, and it's a crucial time for trees. They need to have moisture in their roots before the freeze; otherwise their roots may die and they'll meet the spring without leaves. Dead. Since our street has become a summer cathedral of arching green, I applaud tree care. Also because trees are our best defense against excessive heat and poor air quality, i.e. they're on the front line against global warming, breathing in CO2 and exhaling oxygen.
More and more, I think we're learning that our care of the land, air, water, soil, native birds and animals, bees and butterflies, fish and plants rebounds mightily on our own well-being. It also helps our neighbors--Lady Bird Johnson, years ago, was so right when she urged a clean-up and beautification of American highways. I love the sheets of stamps in her honor currently for sale at the P.O. Beautiful images of lovely landscapes and one of her as a handsome young woman. I think I might have to buy up a whole carton.
"My home is my castle" makes me think of an impregnable, guarded estate, high above the plebs. That might work for some city or suburban neighborhoods but not for mine in Saint Paul. Here with lots leaving about ten feet from the side of a house to the property line, we have a lot in common with our neighbors on either side. Not to mention the common boulevard which stretches down the block and around the corner.
The English who settled New England brought another form of commons to the "new world." A town phenomenon, not a plantation one, so not much visible in Virginia and points south. But I enjoy considering the New England commons as I walk about ten blocks west and back, crossing many property lines, noticing many boulevard trees, and enjoying a small "pocket park" with huge oaks. The New England settlers used a "commons" to pasture livestock, and possibly to cut hay. It was often land in the middle of a group of houses, thus allowing all the users to keep an eye on it.
Recently the Minneapolis city council has passed an ordinance allowing for feral cat "commons," as long as the humans in charge neuter and vaccinate and "chip" the feral felines. One council person opined that she had a bird guide and had learned to identify the English sparrow. Bird-lover that I am, I keep all my cats indoors. That wasn't always the case, I admit, but the more I learn about the enormous damage feral cats do to bird populations, the more firmly I support trapping and euthanasia for feral cats.
Here's a notion that occurred to me as I walked: Let's take the Mpls city council members on a bird walking tour. Let's remind them that the English sparrows are an invasive species (sort of like feral cats--neither has a predator sufficiently strong enough to keep their populations in check). Let's introduce these well-meaning council members to ten native and common American birds, starting with the robin, blue jay, crow, chickadee, nuthatch, and yes the humming bird (more of these in a moment), on to the adorable goldfinch, the slightly less adorable house finch, the beautiful singer the cardinal, and completing the list with several native woodpeckers--hairy and downy. All these birds regularly visit my back yard, which, as I say, is quite small, but full of eight varieties of trees. Plus, regular fresh water, suet, and seeds. You might say I have a bird commons.
Some falls (I think today feels like fall), I have seen maybe one humming bird passing through on its way south. This year, perhaps because I put out a sugar-water feeder with eye-catching red top and bottom, I've seen or heard maybe ten. This morning I stood in awe as one brilliant iridescent green mite hovered in the air, up and down, in and out, closer and farther from a huge silver maple. It was picking gnats from the air. Yes, it took a few sips from my feeder, but mostly it was tooling up on protein for its very long journey south.
I love it that people whose yards I know quite well from this daily walk are now watering their boulevard trees. We are again in a drought, and it's a crucial time for trees. They need to have moisture in their roots before the freeze; otherwise their roots may die and they'll meet the spring without leaves. Dead. Since our street has become a summer cathedral of arching green, I applaud tree care. Also because trees are our best defense against excessive heat and poor air quality, i.e. they're on the front line against global warming, breathing in CO2 and exhaling oxygen.
More and more, I think we're learning that our care of the land, air, water, soil, native birds and animals, bees and butterflies, fish and plants rebounds mightily on our own well-being. It also helps our neighbors--Lady Bird Johnson, years ago, was so right when she urged a clean-up and beautification of American highways. I love the sheets of stamps in her honor currently for sale at the P.O. Beautiful images of lovely landscapes and one of her as a handsome young woman. I think I might have to buy up a whole carton.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Margotlog: Blood Red
Margotlog: Blood Red
I'm lying beside a window which blushes red, dark, red, dark. I'm aware of myself as a watcher, almost a listener for the first time. This is an awareness of consciousness, of watching rhythm, color, pattern, and silence. Across the hall lies another being in the dark--my baby sister just born. It will be years before I have a memory of her separate from her relation to myself.
What is it that makes us who we are? Years later, I will marry for the second time. On the first date with this eventual mate, we will argue about Lilian Hellman's writing. Sitting in a spring Sunday restaurant, he becomes argumentative. Not harsh or cruel, just engaged. Now I remember only the general subject and the fact of each of us taking a stand and arguing about it. I am also aware of my continuing surprise that from this beginning we evolved into mates.
Why? Because my father's arguments ricocheted through the house of childhood, leaving me stunned, with my back turned to him. I was a child then, and he was arguing with my mother about whether there was a spot on his uniform. Typical work-day anxiety but at exhorbitant decibels. He was racked with anxiety. Later I faced him in our Carolina kitchen and talked back, told him "colored people" were not massed outside our door, ready to murder us in our beds. Talking back--a crucial effort to sustain sanity and the worth of my own opinion.
Blood red. Not a color I would ever choose for a car, but my second husband has bought a number of red cars and drives one now. Recently it occurred to me to consider when I've encountered women writers describing the cars driven by men. Trish Hampl in A Florist's Daughter considers her father's Oldsmobile, a car for the wealthy, it seems to me, and in this case, also of a man edging toward death, and buying himself something fine. Women, as a whole, do not fixate on cars. So I notice my noticing of this red car parked outside our house.
I'm guessing it was six summers ago when I was yanked out of writerly solitude on the North Shore by my husband saying to me over the phone: "My left leg is swollen." Remember how we argued on our first date. He has shown himself to be a man who almost reflexively responds with disbelief when I assert something. A form of argument. In this case I was so concerned that I phoned back the next day. The leg was more swollen.
You perhaps have guessed what I began shouting at him long-distance. Finally after several more days, I packed up and started the five-hour drive back to the Twin Cities. When I arrived, he was not at home. But I tracked him via cell phone to the emergency room where he was waiting to be seen. Quite a bit later, he appeared at home: he had a blood clot in that leg, he had a prescription for a blood thinner and a return appointment in a few days.
Thick blood. Blood is thicker than water. Thick head. Argument is thicker than assent. Three or four years passed without blood trouble, our pattern of assertion and denial, assertion and denial, with me insisting and he usually, though not always, taking the action I urge. Telling it this way makes me sound like a bully. I hasten to add that many times he will assert something, and I will argue back. Oddly enough, given the pattern of our first date, he is not as determined in his stance, or at least he doesn't desire to pursue a point the way I often do. This makes him seem like a softie, which he is not. Result: we occasionally have quite bitter exchanges, arguments, fights--whatever you want to call them, because he has finally had it and let me know. Then I often capitulate. Or not capitulate but come over to his way of thinking. Or act as he wishes because it is he who wishes it.
Blood red. When blood hits the air it is rich, vibrant red, but it soon turns darker. Think of a scab, almost black on your leg. Two summers ago my husband and a guy friend took a baseball driving trip to Kansas City. They were supposed to be gone three or four nights, a long weekend. I invited some friends over for the dinner to keep me company the night before they were supposed to return. That afternoon my husband called and said he was not feeling well and they would be home around 5 p.m. Not to change my plans, he urged, he was going to bed.
He crawled through the front door. I could not believe my eyes. "My stomach feels terrible," he said. "I was afraid to stand up because I might faint." With his friend's help he got upstairs to bed. I brought him some ice to suck on--all he wanted. And a basin in case he vomited. Then I went downstairs and had my little dinner party.
Over the next few hours, he vomited blackish stuff. Argued that his stomach was upset and it was probably the ribs he'd eaten in Kansas City. I went to bed. Around midnight I was aware that he was not beside me. Going into our large bathroom, I found him on the floor. He was not very articulate. I felt the rise of anxiety and decision. I called 911. The paramedics came within minutes and took his vital signs. "You know, his vitals are all normal," one told me. "We usually don't take someone in if that's the case. Call us if things change."
Two hours later, after sleeping and waking to sharp awareness, I found he'd vomited. This time it looked like blood. The paramedics worked upstairs while I gave all the pertinent information by the front door. I saw him carried out, so weak he couldn't hold his head up. They had him in a sling.
I often wake very alert around 3 in the morning. The city streets were eerily lit and very dark. By the time I reached the emergency room, he was being pumped full of blood. He'd been bleeding internally. Various doctors had inspected him. But it was the team of emergency-room nurses that saved his life.Their concentrated and knowledgeable efforts, and the blood that replenished the many pints he had lost.
Several days later, after an endoscopy showed a tear in the esophagus, he admitted that he and his buddy had been drinking quite a bit during their baseball adventure--beer in the ballpark, then several or more shots of the hard stuff in the motel room at night. For someone on blood thinner, alcohol in more than one drink is very dangerous because alcohol also thins the blood. The tear in the esophagus probably resulted from various kinds of acid reflux and eventually vomiting. It's a phenomenon common to hard drinkers.
Needless to say, we don't argue about how much he drinks any more.
I'm lying beside a window which blushes red, dark, red, dark. I'm aware of myself as a watcher, almost a listener for the first time. This is an awareness of consciousness, of watching rhythm, color, pattern, and silence. Across the hall lies another being in the dark--my baby sister just born. It will be years before I have a memory of her separate from her relation to myself.
What is it that makes us who we are? Years later, I will marry for the second time. On the first date with this eventual mate, we will argue about Lilian Hellman's writing. Sitting in a spring Sunday restaurant, he becomes argumentative. Not harsh or cruel, just engaged. Now I remember only the general subject and the fact of each of us taking a stand and arguing about it. I am also aware of my continuing surprise that from this beginning we evolved into mates.
Why? Because my father's arguments ricocheted through the house of childhood, leaving me stunned, with my back turned to him. I was a child then, and he was arguing with my mother about whether there was a spot on his uniform. Typical work-day anxiety but at exhorbitant decibels. He was racked with anxiety. Later I faced him in our Carolina kitchen and talked back, told him "colored people" were not massed outside our door, ready to murder us in our beds. Talking back--a crucial effort to sustain sanity and the worth of my own opinion.
Blood red. Not a color I would ever choose for a car, but my second husband has bought a number of red cars and drives one now. Recently it occurred to me to consider when I've encountered women writers describing the cars driven by men. Trish Hampl in A Florist's Daughter considers her father's Oldsmobile, a car for the wealthy, it seems to me, and in this case, also of a man edging toward death, and buying himself something fine. Women, as a whole, do not fixate on cars. So I notice my noticing of this red car parked outside our house.
I'm guessing it was six summers ago when I was yanked out of writerly solitude on the North Shore by my husband saying to me over the phone: "My left leg is swollen." Remember how we argued on our first date. He has shown himself to be a man who almost reflexively responds with disbelief when I assert something. A form of argument. In this case I was so concerned that I phoned back the next day. The leg was more swollen.
You perhaps have guessed what I began shouting at him long-distance. Finally after several more days, I packed up and started the five-hour drive back to the Twin Cities. When I arrived, he was not at home. But I tracked him via cell phone to the emergency room where he was waiting to be seen. Quite a bit later, he appeared at home: he had a blood clot in that leg, he had a prescription for a blood thinner and a return appointment in a few days.
Thick blood. Blood is thicker than water. Thick head. Argument is thicker than assent. Three or four years passed without blood trouble, our pattern of assertion and denial, assertion and denial, with me insisting and he usually, though not always, taking the action I urge. Telling it this way makes me sound like a bully. I hasten to add that many times he will assert something, and I will argue back. Oddly enough, given the pattern of our first date, he is not as determined in his stance, or at least he doesn't desire to pursue a point the way I often do. This makes him seem like a softie, which he is not. Result: we occasionally have quite bitter exchanges, arguments, fights--whatever you want to call them, because he has finally had it and let me know. Then I often capitulate. Or not capitulate but come over to his way of thinking. Or act as he wishes because it is he who wishes it.
Blood red. When blood hits the air it is rich, vibrant red, but it soon turns darker. Think of a scab, almost black on your leg. Two summers ago my husband and a guy friend took a baseball driving trip to Kansas City. They were supposed to be gone three or four nights, a long weekend. I invited some friends over for the dinner to keep me company the night before they were supposed to return. That afternoon my husband called and said he was not feeling well and they would be home around 5 p.m. Not to change my plans, he urged, he was going to bed.
He crawled through the front door. I could not believe my eyes. "My stomach feels terrible," he said. "I was afraid to stand up because I might faint." With his friend's help he got upstairs to bed. I brought him some ice to suck on--all he wanted. And a basin in case he vomited. Then I went downstairs and had my little dinner party.
Over the next few hours, he vomited blackish stuff. Argued that his stomach was upset and it was probably the ribs he'd eaten in Kansas City. I went to bed. Around midnight I was aware that he was not beside me. Going into our large bathroom, I found him on the floor. He was not very articulate. I felt the rise of anxiety and decision. I called 911. The paramedics came within minutes and took his vital signs. "You know, his vitals are all normal," one told me. "We usually don't take someone in if that's the case. Call us if things change."
Two hours later, after sleeping and waking to sharp awareness, I found he'd vomited. This time it looked like blood. The paramedics worked upstairs while I gave all the pertinent information by the front door. I saw him carried out, so weak he couldn't hold his head up. They had him in a sling.
I often wake very alert around 3 in the morning. The city streets were eerily lit and very dark. By the time I reached the emergency room, he was being pumped full of blood. He'd been bleeding internally. Various doctors had inspected him. But it was the team of emergency-room nurses that saved his life.Their concentrated and knowledgeable efforts, and the blood that replenished the many pints he had lost.
Several days later, after an endoscopy showed a tear in the esophagus, he admitted that he and his buddy had been drinking quite a bit during their baseball adventure--beer in the ballpark, then several or more shots of the hard stuff in the motel room at night. For someone on blood thinner, alcohol in more than one drink is very dangerous because alcohol also thins the blood. The tear in the esophagus probably resulted from various kinds of acid reflux and eventually vomiting. It's a phenomenon common to hard drinkers.
Needless to say, we don't argue about how much he drinks any more.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Margotlog: Go, Musicians, Go!
Margotlog: Go, Musicians, Go!
This is addressed to you, the excellent musicians of the Minnesota Orchestra! Don't be a rhinoceros. Try instead the part of a gazelle. Yes, I know: gazelles are brought down by big cats, and rhinoceros can stand as long as they like in their wading pools without worry. They're covered with horny plates. But, consider this: gazelles can run forward. They can mauenver quickly. And they are not endangered. For all their vaunted impregnability, the fortress-animal rhinoceros is as easily shot from a distance with a high-powered rifle as a gazelle. And there are far fewer of them.
But this is not Africa, you say. True, and musicians with their bows and horns are not four-footed African animals. However, in the dark of night, it may interest you to know these are the comparisons that occur to me.
Your counterparts and competitors across the river in Saint Paul have not only bargained and settled with their management, but they are beginning a new season with a reputation burnished by their flexibility and by the outstanding support of their audience, personified in the organization Save Our SPCO! You, beloved musicians of the sister city, have just been offered a quite reasonable (my opinion, of course) proposal by your management. It's time to come out of your wallow and take action.
In the tides of public opinion, you musicians have received a great deal of compassion and concern. But tides turn (ok, now I'm onto another metaphor, I admit it!). And with such changes, you stand to lose audience members -- after all, they now can cross over to the other side, and it is not a dark side at all.
Yes, the SPCO is a changed organization, smaller and younger. Ten of its older musicians have retired on the package offered by management. But it has emerged from negotiation with two musicians on the leadership team (whoops, another metaphor), and a return of a former president, giving management a broader leadership base. My family is eager to return to our favorite fall/winter/spring arts activity: sitting in the audience and enjoying the SPCO sound.
You too have a loving audience, very eager to see you take up your instruments and play. It's time to bow to reality. Change will occur, with, or without you. If you care about the organization that has nurtured you for many years, and for the audience who have made your talents a high priority in their lives, it is time to negotiate and PLAY!
This is addressed to you, the excellent musicians of the Minnesota Orchestra! Don't be a rhinoceros. Try instead the part of a gazelle. Yes, I know: gazelles are brought down by big cats, and rhinoceros can stand as long as they like in their wading pools without worry. They're covered with horny plates. But, consider this: gazelles can run forward. They can mauenver quickly. And they are not endangered. For all their vaunted impregnability, the fortress-animal rhinoceros is as easily shot from a distance with a high-powered rifle as a gazelle. And there are far fewer of them.
But this is not Africa, you say. True, and musicians with their bows and horns are not four-footed African animals. However, in the dark of night, it may interest you to know these are the comparisons that occur to me.
Your counterparts and competitors across the river in Saint Paul have not only bargained and settled with their management, but they are beginning a new season with a reputation burnished by their flexibility and by the outstanding support of their audience, personified in the organization Save Our SPCO! You, beloved musicians of the sister city, have just been offered a quite reasonable (my opinion, of course) proposal by your management. It's time to come out of your wallow and take action.
In the tides of public opinion, you musicians have received a great deal of compassion and concern. But tides turn (ok, now I'm onto another metaphor, I admit it!). And with such changes, you stand to lose audience members -- after all, they now can cross over to the other side, and it is not a dark side at all.
Yes, the SPCO is a changed organization, smaller and younger. Ten of its older musicians have retired on the package offered by management. But it has emerged from negotiation with two musicians on the leadership team (whoops, another metaphor), and a return of a former president, giving management a broader leadership base. My family is eager to return to our favorite fall/winter/spring arts activity: sitting in the audience and enjoying the SPCO sound.
You too have a loving audience, very eager to see you take up your instruments and play. It's time to bow to reality. Change will occur, with, or without you. If you care about the organization that has nurtured you for many years, and for the audience who have made your talents a high priority in their lives, it is time to negotiate and PLAY!
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