The Kid

I watched through the drizzle as the small herd edged closer to our bird feeders and to Mary’s beloved forsythia. They’re a bold bunch here, not terribly afraid of my shouting or waving, but wary enough to walk away should I physically infringe too far into their personal deer space. Already low on sunflower and with the forsythia’s early blooms looking tasty, I resigned myself to another soggy intercession and reached for my muck boots.
 
But before I could slide into the galoshes, the herd, as one, lifted their heads and peered into the woods just outside of my view, around the corner of the house. There was no tension in their posture, as might be caused by a coyote or stray dog, but, instead, a wary interest. I, too, paused to see what played out. But several minutes passed with the herd’s distraction unwavering, so, tired of waiting, I walked through the house to an east-facing window to see what was holding their attention. It was The Kid.
 
I’ve spotted The Kid a handful of times as he’s limped through the woods, his malformed right foreleg hanging loosely as he forages. He’s a young spike buck with either a birth defect or an early injury that’s arrested his peg’s development, leaving it several inches shorter than its counterpart and with questionable sturdiness. I’ve seen him attempt to use it for support but once, while bending low to root in the leaves for food, and it wasn’t pretty.
 
As he approached, the herd (a collection of does and yearlings) began to move slowly away, in time with his awkward advance. They wanted nothing to do with him. As to whether their rejection was due to his gender or his disability, I cannot say, but I anthropomorphized it as both. He’s always alone.
 
I love observing the wildlife here, but it’s the unfortunates that really take my heart. Last summer it was a house finch whose limited flight was painful to watch, day in and day out. Like The Kid, the bird was perpetually shunned. I think that’s what affects me most deeply here of late. More than their imperfection, their isolation. Life’s hard enough when one can’t fly well or is hobbled profoundly, but to be left an outlier for it is cruel and beyond my understanding. It’s one of nature’s brutal truths, I can’t deny, survival of the fittest, but it’s difficult to swallow. I feel their loneliness.  
 
As the herd melted back into the woods and The Kid continued towards the house, I slid the muck boots back under the desk. I wouldn’t be chasing him away as I would have the others, even if he eyed the forsythia. And after some thought I stood by the window, quietly, where he could see me, hoping he might get used to my presence; that he might have some company, odd as that seems. At my appearance he paused and considered my intrusion for a moment, then resumed his clumsy march to the feeders, scattering the mourning doves as he arrived. 
 
 

The House Finch

I’ve grown attached to the little guy, a regular at the feeder for the past month or so. You might wonder how I can tell this particular house finch from the swarms of others that come and go from this station, but he’s not hard to pick out. There’s something not right with him.

At first glance I thought him a fledgling, small, just out of the nest and not entirely into his wings. But as he’s come and gone over the ensuing weeks his movement has never improved. There’s no glide in his flight. He struggles to stay in the air, moving in short, frenetic bursts, forward and upward a foot or two, falling back half of it, and repeating until he slowly works his way to his next uncertain perch. More butterfly than bird. I walk faster than he can fly. But he gets there, usually. It’s not clear whether his impairment is physical or neurological but staying airborne seems terribly hard work and it breaks my heart to watch. For him, it’s supposed to be effortless.

He must roost close by, somewhere at the edge of the woods that surround our house, for he’s clearly incapable of long distances. And he’s always alone as the other finches shun him, even chase him away from the feeder which is hard to watch. Surprisingly, he’s not intimidated by the bigger birds – the doves, the cardinals, the woodpeckers of various sizes - that come and go as he sits at his meal. He’s even tolerant of my presence as he's the last to flee when I approach to replenish the seed. He takes to the air only when I get within arm’s length. I interpret this as courage, but it may be that flight is so difficult that, despite the fear, he avoids it until there’s no other option. I suppose there’s a fine line between the two, if one at all.

He seems happy enough, though, sitting for long stretches at the limitless flow of safflower. He’s a sympathetic little fellow and for him I’m careful to keep the hopper full. I worry that he won’t be around for long.

At first, I assumed that my attachment was purely compassionate, that I felt sorry for this poor little creature and his handicap. But as these difficult Covid weeks have passed, I’ve come to realize that there’s more to it than that; that we’re birds of a feather, this finch and I. My flight, like his, is impaired; my range also limited by circumstance. We now both stay close to our feeders, leaving them only when absolutely necessary, invoking that odd mix of courage and fear. We are each removed from our breed. And, at the end of the day, I’m concerned for both of our futures.

Poor little house finch. I wonder if he dreams of soaring. I know that I do.

The Photo Bin - August 2015

They flew in from Chicago, our big-city kids, and spent a week here at Camp Redbud. A week away from the hustle and bustle of Gotham. A week in the woods. A week without Mom and Dad. A week without video games. A week where a traffic jam is three whitetail on the gravel road. A week of, well, let's just see.

Oh dear God. He's not going to post a bunch of pictures of his grandchildren, is he?

Yes. Yes I am.

The centerpiece of the visit is always the pond and the kids love it. At six and eight, they're both terrific swimmers and, with a couple of noodles (and when the bluegill aren't nipping at their appendages), they could stay in the water all day. That's fine with us.

And when you're too tired to be in the water, you can simply be on it, exploring the back corners of the big swimming hole.

And then there's the new tree fort that Grandpa threw up the week before. Just above the house, up the ridge a-ways, it's a great place for picnic lunches, card games, and a night under the canopy.

Photo by Mary York

But Camp Redbud is not just about swimming and playing in the woods. There's also some cutthroat games of Sorry...

...and blowing spit bubbles at the Durham Bulls ballpark...

...and watching Star Wars with Aunt Mel...

...and having just plain silliness with Uncle Amo and Zeppelin (who, by the way, has finally given up trying to herd the youngsters and simply has fun with them).

But all good things must come to an end and the ten-hour drive back north was quiet, contemplative,  and uneventful. (Okay, the iPad helped).

Photo by Mary York

But they'll be back. Oh yes, they'll be back. Camp Redbud always awaits.

What is a Photo Bin?

The Photo Bin - August 2013

Allow me, if you will, to interrupt my summer-ending swing through the northern heartland so that I might sneak in an August photo bin. Got to keep the string alive, if you know what I mean.

It's been a tough summer on the garden. Our meteorologicals simply haven't been playing according to Hoyle. Even the sunflowers, hardy as they are, didn't measure up. Our nine-foot best was easily outclassed in the neighborhood sunflower contest by an entry twice its height (though Kitty apologized to everyone as her winner was actually a volunteer at the edge of the woods). Luckily, the tiger swallowtails didn't begrudge us our diminutive stalks and were around in great numbers; the only bumper crop of the year.

And as scrawny as the garden was, the deer still coveted it. Good fences make good neighbors so they had to be content mowing my grass for me. What little we have...

Change of subject. I am not a big fan of the selfie. They seem a bit vain, but perhaps that's just me. So it's odd that I turned the camera around for this shot and odder still that it amuses me. And I'm not exactly sure why I like it. Maybe it's the goofy grin. Maybe the floppy hat. Maybe that it's in my happy place on home waters. But mostly, I suspect, it's because of the tilted horizon which I know will make my buddy Chris crazy.

Yeah. That's it.

And speaking of happy places, we found one on Bald Head Island last month. A few days on the beach with the usual suspects was just what the doctor ordered. Here's Sam holding down the fort while the rest walked the beach. Good man, that Sam.

And watching the "stuff" is hard work so he retired back to the house for a little reading, a leisurley nap, and an escape from the evening's noseeums, snugly ensconced in his hammock.

Of course, we had some rain. What stay at the beach would be complete without it? And honestly, there's not much better than sitting on the porch watching it fall. A total and guilt-free capitulation to doing absolutely nothing.

As if I needed an excuse.

Well, thanks for your indulgence and your patience. Time to get back across the Mackinaw and return to the adventure.

Cheers!

Playin' Possum

I'm often asked how I fill up my day
now that I’ve retired
Never quite sure what to say

Perhaps I should write a series of posts
that tries to explain
and call it
Silly Shit That Mike Does

Today
for example
instead of splitting wood
as planned
I played cat-and-mouse with a baby possum
in and around the woodpile

Maybe some other things too
I forget

But distracted
I was
from what was meant to be done
and it really didn't matter

I simply played possum
'til tomorrow

The Photo Bin - March 2013

Spring's just now beginning to get a toehold here so March wasn't very pretty. But where the flora fell short, the fauna made up for in spades. This month's bin is a handful of images of some of the critters that have wandered by over the past couple of weeks. It's not necessarily great photography, but it's life as we know it here; unexpected wildlife visits and hasty attempts to photograph them with whatever gear is within reach.

One of the best parts of March is that the bluebirds begin to nest. We have five bluebird houses around the place and I took my first walkabout of the year to check for activity in the various boxes. Not wanting a face full of sharp beaks and claws from startled moms, I make a lot of noise when approaching and then tap the sides of the houses before peeking inside. When thumping the box furthest from the house, deepest into the hardwoods, a momma did indeed flee, but not what I was expecting.

My knee-jerk response was "bat," but as the creature sailed to the base of the nearest tree I saw that it was a flying squirrel; the first I've seen in these woods. Having only my cell phone, I snapped the picture to the left from a distance, so apologize for the poor quality. I raced to the house and grabbed some better glass but when I got back the glider had returned to the box. Not wanting to disturb her again, I snapped the picture above as she kept a wary eye on me.

Sometimes, though, the wildlife is not quite so wary, though often direct contact with our newly cleaned windows has a bit to do with it. This chickadee took a while to rearrange his marbles, but was happy to be carried around for fifteen minutes or so while doing it. Mary took this shot of the bird and me contemplating one another; probably each trying to decide who had the bigger beak.

And speaking of birds and glass, I had to laugh when I saw this imprint on our bathroom window, invisible until I began to steam things up with a shower. Based on its size, it appears a mourning dove did a full-body beak plant. All I could think of was Wile E. Coyote and the cliff face.

To finish the bird theme, I offer the above. I was excited about this shot, thinking I had captured the image of a common redpoll perched on the garden fence; excited because redpolls aren't all that common in this part of the country. I shot a note off to my naturalist and photographer buddy Mike (who's starting a pretty cool blog of his own at the Road's End Naturalist) to report the sighting and he burst my bubble, suggesting that what I had actually captured was a... well, see if you can figure that out.

And no, it's not the model for the Angry Birds video game.

Our neighbors are not all cute little feathered friends. When moving some terra cotta pots around, I found this pair of garter snakes curled together under one of the larger ones. Startling, of course, but very, very cool.

And finally, a poor shot of a regular around here. I often see this brilliant yearling hanging around the lower ridge where our gravel road forks from the main paved artery through the "neighborhood", but I never seem to have a camera with me. I got lucky the other day, though the deer was at a distance and the lighting was extreme. Each year seems to bring a new albino or piebald fawn into the area. I don't know if there's a strong genetic predisposition in the local population, but, for whatever reason, there's always a ghost or two wandering these woods. Just one more of the many charms of living here in southern Heaven.

And one of the many reasons to always keep a camera close at hand.

The Photo Bin - February 2013

It seems the shutter finger has been taking a break this month. Who could blame it? February here in the North Carolina Piedmont isn't very pretty. It has all the dreary drab of a winter that's overstaying its welcome with none of the picturesque fluffy white stuff. Dull, dull, dull.

About the only color we get this time of year is a back yard full of bluebirds and I suppose that's as good a fallback as it gets. We fledge a couple dozen each year out of the boxes around the house so there's always a handful of young ones looking for food and shelter throughout the winter. Somedays, though, it's like a family reunion. There's nothing like a half-dozen or so feathered sapphires sitting in the snags around the garden to brighten a gray day.

And we do get our occasional bluebird-sky days, most striking at sunrise. Those who have been around here a while will shake their heads at this image. More bare trees...

But it's hard not to soak them in with a view like ours. Especially since, for the first time, we had a professional come and clean the windows, inside and out. (I, as a rule, keep my skinny butt off ladders.) The result was startling and we found ourselves glued to the panes for the next few days, marveling at the clarity. Both of the shots above were taken from this southern expose. It's breathtaking.

So just three images this month. Not even any good fishing pics. You get off easy.

But there's no promises for down the road...

Hitting the Glass

I hear the thunk from two rooms away and my heart jumps to my throat. “This window here,” Mary calls from the bathtub. “He hit pretty hard.” I worry that it was too hard.

Sitting here, high on the ridge with lots of birdfeeders and lots of glass, window-rattling collisions are not uncommon. They’re mostly glancing blows, but occasionally the contact is solid and we fear the worst. In this new year I have surrendered a winter-tarnished goldfinch and a dipped-in-grape-juice house finch to their final nests, carrying them gently to the top of our ridge where they're forever surrounded by blue sky, placing their humbled husks in the depression left by a fallen oak. Back to the roots.

I seldom return dry-eyed.

The past few days we’ve been host to a swarm of pine siskins (my naturalist friend calls them an eruptive species; the term, perfect) and the envelope around the thistle feeders has been an air-traffic controller’s vision of hell. It was only a matter of time before bird met glass, at pace, and I’d be walking around outside, once again. Checking the ground.

“This window here. He hit pretty hard.”

Sure enough, under the large bathroom window, a small, unkempt wad of feathers lies in the leaves, blending into the woodland floor, but visible, nonetheless, for its awkward angles. With a sigh, I resign myself to another solemn procession up the ridge, but then feel the slightest of movements as I pick up the crumpled bundle. There's a flicker of life in the eyes, but no comprehension. Maybe there's hope.

I place the small siskin on the back woodpile, on some freshly split pieces so that I can see it easily from my desk, its tiny brown body more evident on the fresh, yellow grain than on more weathered wood, and leave it alone to recover, if it will. An hour later it's still there. Two hours, unmoved. With a heavy heart, I step outside once again and prepare for the somber climb.

It’s just a bird, you might say. Why the funk?

It’s not just the creature, you see, though there’s that too, but also the thought of being young and vibrant, riding the winds, gliding, soaring, to be dropped to the earth in the blink of an eye, by the unseen, the unexpected, the unfathomable. That strikes a little too close to home. That stabs a little too deep. For I’ve hit the glass in the past, a glancing blow, and survived. But there are those I have loved who have struck it full on. They've returned to the roots much too soon.

I reach for the bird, to carry it to its final rest, only to have it spring to life and take wing as my hand draws near.

And my heart takes wing with it.

Buck Sunday

Looked up from my desk a few moments ago to see five whitetail bucks wander across the ridge above the house, thirty or so yards from my window; a couple of nice eight-pointers in the entourage.



Look out ladies.



Fine way to start the morning.

Shoo!

There are still a few around. Young ones. We've considered pulling the feeders, sending the little buggers on their way, not wishing to keep them too late in the season. But the books say they'll go when they're ready so we continue to indulge the little rascals. If nothing else, they'll have a full tank for the long flight south.

Note: Between last Saturday when I composed this post and today's publishing, a cold front blew through. The hummers seem to have taken the cue. They're gone. Safe journeys, little guys. See you next tax day.

Neighbors in the Pool

Higher on the ridge, maybe thirty yards above the house, we have a small man-made pond, put in place as an incubator for the local spotted salamander and peepers of all sorts. But when the heat rolls in, some of the larger neighbors take advantage. This morning, Mom and fawn took a dip while I got this fuzzy shot from the front porch.

Obviously, they were as interested in me as I was in them.

The Photo Bin - May 2012

Sometimes you trip the shutter not knowing what's going to happen - how that small blast of light is going to impress itself on your film/sensor/whatever. Further, you don't know what you'll do with the image when you see it. An odd crop, perhaps? A creative twist? This is such a shot. The fantastic colors of the redbreast sunfish and the odd luminescence on the dark waters begged for something unusual, and fun.

That's what the Photo Bin is all about.

The second image is an update of the mid-April post It's a Boy, And a Girl, And.... Fledge day in the back birdhouse. Two youngsters had already departed and, within a couple of hours of this image, these three were in the air as well. As I type this, the box is once again holding sky blue eggs, as is the one in the woods below the house and the one by the upper pond. If all hatch successfully, we'll have helped to introduce twenty-three new bluebirds to the world this season. And the year is still young.

We finish this diverse bin with a portrait of me and my best girl at Prom. My step-son and his lovely wife hold an annual tongue-in-cheek black tie affair for friends in the Chicago area. This year the proceeds went to the new Freeman York Memorial Scholarship Fund at Georgia Tech, in loving memory. We simply had to make the drive.

Smiles, and tears, all evening.