Wednesday, December 25, 2013

A Christmas Story

Foster Dachshunds, Wren and Sassy.  Photographer, Stephanie Landis


Merry Christmas!!   

If you are hoping for a perfect Christmas day story, well look elsewhere!  Keeping it real, here. Christmas Eve brought cold and wind.  Doxies wouldn’t go outside; they were too terrified of the sound of air blowing through the trees, around the corner of the house, and bumping bits of tin on the shed roof.   

Christmas Eve day, I tried attaching a leash to the doxies’ harnesses, coupling them together since they move as one when stressed.  Of course, they did the opposite!  They pulled apart, reached the end of the line and froze in a T at the end of the leash.  No amount of gentle talk or petting unfroze them.  No treat coaxed them to move.  I had to remove all the trappings before they relaxed enough to walk away.   So disappointed!  

Dogs were discombobulated enough that Sassy marked the rug by the kitchen door. I yelled no and crated her.  As I was cleaning up the marking, Wren marked right beside me.  Sigh. 

After dinner, some of the family came over to watch the Muppet Christmas Carol.  Both doxies growled at the littlest human, so into their xpen they went.  Sassy soon settled, became curious, and earned the right to lie on daughter, Stephanie’s lap.  Wren rumbled on and on, just the sight of the happy, dancing 2yr old made her quiver, so into her private crate she went. After awhile Sassy stressed and went into her crate too. Both dogs were stressed from Christmas Eve festivities but only Wren wouldn't go outside to relieve herself once everyone went home.  She held it all in for 18hours.  Her record hold is 2 days so I figured she wouldn't explode.    

Halfway through the puppet movie, I went with Jude out to the kitchen.  He pointed to the freezer so I opened the freezer door to see what he wanted.  I couldn't make out his words so I leaned down to pick him up so he show me, somehow in the leaning over my right eye collided with his finger; his finger went up underneath my eyelid.  He shot my eye out without a Red Rider BB gun!!  The eye poke was bad...eye swelled, watered nonstop, oh how it hurt and burned!  I cold compressed it for hours. 

Early Christmas morning, Wren still won’t go outside because Jay is loading the corn/wood pellet furnace; she fears all those sounds. Okay, back in the crate until the scary sounds stop.  Later, both dogs run wild in the sunny back yard, ears flopping, long bodies hopping.  Sheer joy on Christmas morning!  In all my smiling I forget the pain in my eye. 

Burren opens her wrapped gift first.  She digs out the hide-a-squirrel and pounces with glee.  She bites it so hard I have to slow her down.  Gentle biting rewards her with pulling a squirrel out of the log.  Then, onto her stocking.  Filled with excitement she almost rips it in half so I open the sock for her nose to reach in and grab a squiggly toy, which she promptly tosses away.  She goes back in for the gingerbread biscuit and dried hamburger bone. 


Sassy gets her stocking next.  She too almost rips her in half until I help her grab a toy and then her biscuit and bone.   I offer Wren a sock; she snatches it and takes it to her den behind my chair. When I hear ripping sounds, I follow her and help her get out the treats.  She wolfs down her biscuit, then darts out to snatch Sassy’s bone and sock and toy while Sassy is chewing on the biscuit.  Sassy is oblivious, only focused on the yummy gingerbread.  Wren’s second nickname is Snitch! 

It’s 9:30am on Christmas morning.  All dogs are fed, tuckered out, sleeping in their beds. I’m listening to the Ephrata Cloister Chorus.  My dear husband is cutting boughs of greens to adorn the nativity sets we put up on this day.  The song, Still, Still, Still comes on and I remember my sweet mother who loved this song.  She is gone now, so is my Dad. My left eye waters now, along with my right.  I’m shedding tears of pain, love, memory, and joy.  I await my family gathering later in the day, will continue to celebrate love, despite painful eye pokes, loud ruckuses, dachshunds peeing on my floor, kids flying around, and the general joy and mess that is holidays.
Burren goofing off during photo shoot
For all that is, for all that has been, for all that will be, I open my hands and heart.    

May the Child of Love born this day, bring love, peace, joy and renewal to you and your precious families.

Joyfully,

Sharon





Saturday, December 14, 2013

Amid the Holiday Bustle Don't Forget to Laugh

Fun with the Grandies!







There are always laughable moments when during holidays and sleep overs with Nana and Papaw.  We took our three grandchildren to Landis Valley Farm Museum’s night of Christmas carol singing around the bonfire. And to a live nativity scene at the church next door.

Overheard from the back of the car while on the way:
Jude - (23 month old in rear facing car seat looking out back window):  “Hee mohn! Hee mohn!”
(translation:  see moon! see moon!)

Rae – (4yr old in a front facing car seat, not seeing what Jude is seeing):  “Hey, that’s my song.  I sing “A-men.” Not you.


Conversation on the path to see the live nativity:  
Nana – “Rae, do you remember the story of Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus?”
Railynn- “baby Jesus?”
Nana- “Yes, we’re going to see a manger scene, with baby Jesus and his family…..”
Railynn- (interrupting) “We’re going to see God!?

A second later, Railynn turns to Jude and tells him we’re going to PBS to see God.

On the way to the bonfire: 
After working our way through the crowd while anticipating aloud how cool the bonfire will be and towing along three young kids, the 6yr old girl knocking over a lovely luminary and the 4yr old girl saying, ‘but, Nana I don’t wanna burn in a fi-rah, and the littlest boy keeping up a running commentary as we pass buildings that all look like barns to him - ‘bahn mooo tracker hortie bahn cokadooiedoo tracker papaw hortie pap.’   We finally arrive at the bonfire and of course the 4yr old immediately has to go potty.  We walk back the way we came to the building with restrooms.  Signs direct us to the rear of the building so we make our way past window boxes of women’s dresses from the 1800-1900’s.  Railynn stops and stares, transfixed….




Then this no-frills, wear-what’s-comfortable little girl says, “These dresses are FAB-e-us!”


Later that night, we stand in front of the live nativity scene. Railynn doesn't get it.  She laments that she’s cold and wants to go home.  I distract her by pointing to the angel standing about 3 feet in front of us.  “Look, Rae, an angel!”  She doesn't see any angel, so I put my hands on the sides of her head and turn her face in the angel’s direction.  “He’s the man wearing white with the sparkly halo on his head.”  To which she responds, loudly of course, “That’s no angel. He doesn't have any wings!”  After expecting to see God this must be too great a letdown!    



As we walk away, Avery says, “I don’t think baby Jesus wore a coat and sucked on a Nuk.  But, it was too cold for the pretend Jesus to be naked.  He would have been cold and cried and that wouldn't have been good for a poor baby.”


Other random funnies:





I look around the house and see an explosion of toys everywhere. Forgetting I had an audience, I sigh and exclaim “What a mess!”   Avery shrugs and answers matter-of-factly “I guess you get to be a mother now.”
          











While playing with Barbie dolls, Railynn told Avery that her ‘dad’ is going to work at PBS.     (PBS must be delighted with all this endorsement!)


Hours after the girls left, I opened my freezer to pull out fixings for supper and found icicles.  Apparently, Avery came in from the snow and asked Papaw for a pan to put snow in.  
Papaw- “Why do you want a pan for snow?”
Ave- “I need a pan of snow to keep my icicles fresh!”
Papaw- “A pan of snow won’t keep them frozen.  They need to stay outside where they can stay cold.”
Ave- “But I can’t Papaw, I need to take care of them, inside. They are so cute and they are my little friends.”
Papaw- “Well, you can’t keep them in here in a pan of snow. You need a freezer.”
Ave- “Okay, Papaw, thanks!”   And she put them in our freezer.


I just may keep those friendly icles in my freezer all winter as a reminder to love and laugh..... 

Joyfully,
Sharon

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Little Bits of Truth

 
 
This morning's errand running is a lot more fun because someone left WXPN (FM 88.5) on the radio.  The station is playing 885 Countdown- the greatest songs of the new millennium.   You are in for a treat if you check it out today.   http://www.xpn.org/music-artist/885-countdown
 
I forgot how much I like this station.   Great song writers, great singers, some thoughtful lyrics and interesting music composition happening on WXPN.   I am not super partial to music styles as I like just about anything, yet WXPN intrigues me because it's more than fluffy pop tunes and mindless lyrics all day long.
 
As I am driving, tapping my finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the music, I heard phrase after song phrase with the word, God,  or references to Bible stories.  Like 'no one laughs at God'...'deep in the belly of the whale'... 'when God left the ground to circle the world.'   Interesting!  
 
My ears become giant receptors filtering out all other sounds in order to magnify the God speak. Despite so many worries that the world is becoming Godless, that others aren't following the right religion, the right political party, the right way......artists, philanthropists, lovers, theologians, philosophers, scientists and comedians quietly and not-so-quietly go on writing, singing, loving, creating things having to do with 
           
            wonder
 
                                love,
 
                                            God,    
mystery, sometimes even using sacred scriptures or lines from parables and myths.  Sometimes I smile with over what I hear. Sometimes, I question, often I cringe.
 
Yet, I find myself intrigued, happy even, that folks are still writing and pondering God. I like to think God hides God's self in the place few people ever bother to look: deep inside themselves.  Deep inside every single being.  Every one, every thing has a little bit of God, a little bit of Truth. 
 
Following are my two favorite songs from the morning.  The first because I love the lyrics as well as the music and singer's voice.  The second because I have no idea what the song means.  I'd love to hear what you think.
 
Enjoy!
Sharon
 
 
 
 Laughing With
 
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor
 
No one laughs at God
When the doctor calls after some routine tests
No one's laughing at God
When it's gotten real late and their kid's not back from the party yet
 
No one laughs at God
When their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake
No one's laughing at God
When they see the one they love hand in hand with someone else
And they hope that they're mistaken
 
No one laughs at God
When the cops knock on their door
And they say we got some bad news, sir
No one's laughing at God
When there's a famine or fire or flood
 
But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke
 
God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious
 
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they've lost all they've got and they don't know what for
 
No one laughs at God
On the day they realize that the last sight they'll ever see
Is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God
When they're saying their goodbyes
 
But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke
God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious
 
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one laughing at God in a hospital
No one's laughing at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor
 
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God
 
Songwriter:
Regina Spektor
 
~~~
 
Boy With A Coin
 
Boy with a coin he found in the weeds
with bullets and pages of trade magazines
close to a car THAT flipped on the turn
when God left the ground to circle the world

Hey--- Oh----

Girl with a bird she found in the snow
that flew up her gown, and that's how she knows
that God made her eyes for crying at birth
then left the ground to circle the earth

Hey--- Oh----

Boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans
then making a wish, and tossed in the sea
then walked to a town that all of us burned
when God left the ground to circle the world


Hey--- Oh----
Hey--- Oh----

                             Iron and Wine

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Pumpkin Patch Outhouse


No, no, NO!  No ucky potties!” 

 
Three year old Railynn has no holding power left.  She wails loudly as tears fall in torrents down her sun reddened cheeks.  We are standing in front of two port-a-potties.  Rae loudly repeats her disdain for ucky potties just in case I hadn’t heard.  She is very close to meltdown.  She has to go badly and she will not, under any circumstances, go in a port-a-potty.  Even standing near one dissolves her into a puddle of horror. I remember utter dread of our cabin outhouse, when I was little, so I sympathize.

I'm horrified now too, for other reasons.  Not only am I baffled about what to do, but I can’t believe we’re reliving this exact port-a-potty drama from last year's foray into the pumpkin patch.  Back then, her 2yr old wails flustered me so much I was almost rendered useless.  It happened near the end of our adventure so we just made a mad dash home after foiled attempts to find relief. 

This year, I reminded her about the no bathroom policy at the pumpkin patch and she made sure I observed how she took care of business before getting in the car.

And yet, here we are in front of the ugly boxes of dungeon-toilets.  Again.  Again, I am pondering the options. Duck into the corn field and risk getting chased out by the barrel train driver like last year.  No thank you! Have her squat right in front of the port-a-potty. Don’t think so. Tell her to hold it, and hope she can!  
Stupidly, I choose the last option.

“Oh Rae, I’m so sorry but if you can’t go in the port-a-potty, you’ll have to hold it.” I lead her away from the horrid outhouses.  She cries harder.

“The gwass, Nana, I’ll pee in the gwass. Wite here, Nana, please, I can just go in the gwass.” 
“Railynn, you can’t just pee on the grass.”

But, I’m so tempted.  Thoughts ping pong in my head.   Who cares if a little kid pees on the grass?  She’s three; not two anymore – there’s less grace for a 3yr old. What is worse – a 3yr old girl going on the grass or wetting herself in public?  People will think I’m an incompetent grandma.  People will know it’s an emergency. It’s only been an hour since she went potty back at my place – she can hold it.   
We make it halfway up the barn hill. Ahead of us the open barn is full of kids slopping paint or blasting glue all over pumpkins, covering them with color, pompoms, pipe cleaners and sequins. I make eye contact with Papaw, imploring him –please help!-  he shakes his head.  He’s busy juggling 6yr old Avery’s demands for exotic paint colors with toddler Jude’s desire to pull the glued pompoms off other kids’ pumpkins.  

Rae yanks me to a stop, pulls at her jeans and screams.
“Nana, wite now, I have to go wite now!! ” 

I’m in a panic. We're too far gone to dash home. I glance around desperately – there has to be creative way to end to this crisis. To our left is the hay tunnel.  No, don't even think about that.  She won’t go in there anyway, without a flashlight.  To our right is the food stand, no possibilities there. Behind us is the barrel train. One part of my brain frantically scrambles for a solution, another part is paralyzed like I'm the one about to wet myself. Who is watching this melodrama?  Are the sweaty, tired moms and dads noticing and feeling my pain?  Are the other grandparents tsk, tsking?  
Suddenly, I don’t care about anyone but my grand-daughter.  I know exactly what to do. I march her down the barn hill and tell her to sit in the grass.

“Wait one second, honey,” I say as I quickly arrange some things.
“Huwway,  I have to go weally, weally bad. Huwway.”

I shield her left side with Jude’s diaper bag, and use my own body to shield her right side.  Her backside is shielded by the bank of the barn hill.  She helps me wriggle her clothes down and out of the way.  
“Ok, GO.” I smile encouragingly. 

“I’m going Nana, I’m going,” she sighs.
She smiles up at me all adoration and gratitude. 

My heart melts.  What a pathetic piece of grandmother, I am sometimes! This beloved tiny person is only three but she knows her body.   How can I be more concerned with propriety, or what others’ think, than her body wisdom.  Of course I’m not saying propriety is unimportant.   I’m just chagrined at how I just encouraged this little one to ignore body signals or feel ashamed of them.  I remember how I used to postpone my body’s needs for rest, nourishment, water, exercise, relief, solitude or stillness in order to be ultra-polite and not inconvenience anyone.  
By now, the young guy driving the garden tractor that pulls the kiddie barrel cars strains his neck to look our way.  Thankfully, there are no kids waiting to ride the train or parents lolling about. It’s only the driver gawking. I smile and wave, then make a big display of getting the diaper changing pad out of the diaper bag. He quickly looks away. He owed me a favor for ratting us out of the cornfield last year. 
Next year, if the grand kids want to do the pumpkin patch again, I’ll come with my own options.  Rae could wear pull ups (that might be a meltdown of another kind)  She could wear a long, pleated skirt. If she has to go, we’re walking behind the port-a-potty. There she’ll squat as I spread the skirt all around her and we’ll pretend to look at an incredibly cool caterpillar crawling on the ground.  If a long, pleated skirt, sized 4, can't be found, there’s always my beach sarong. 

Come to think of it, I'm signed up for a pilgrimage in two years.  A three day walk through French fields and woods.   No bathrooms or port-a-potties available there either.  I just might want to start looking for an extra wide, pleated skirt for myself.

 Cheers! 
Sharon
 
 
 

Monday, September 23, 2013

Bittersweet Mornings


sunrise on the beach

Dawn glows softly in 

    peach and pink...





looking out from my garden bench under the pine tree
 

























deep

      blue
 
             flowers 


shout glory of the morning,


 
 
 
 
 
Sunflowers  s t r e t c h  towards the sun. 
 
Oh, that I would do the same!
 
                                         Awaken my heart.   Awaken and open.


 
        
 
 
 
 
 


 
 
  
May beauty
 
always set me on
 
fire.
 
                        
          Set me
 
             AGLOW,
 
 
 
       
                                                 
      and stretching 
 
                   towards Love.
 
                                     I love mornings in the fall.  Bittersweet mornings saying goodbye to summer, anticipating the color of autumn.

Mornings are soft, secluded and peaceful under the pine tree where I do centering prayer while sitting on my prayer bench. I mediate. I send gratitude, joy and peace out to the world. I hope my kind thoughts touch people somehow, and those people touch other people, until kindness settles over the earth like the gentle morning mist. I pray for the expansion of awakening and kindness. Not knowing how such things work, I simply pray my little prayers and trust the Mystery. 

I feel frustrated over all the violence, the earth groaning with disasters, pollution, starvation and all the other ills affecting our world.  So I do what I can do, pray, and make sure I love the earth in my corner of the world, love the faces in front of me each day, including the one I see in the mirror.  

My best buddy, Burren, helps me greet each day enthusiastically.   


Isn't she darling?

                                                     



sad little angel dreads winter too :)
In the fall I always become fascinated with light and shadow. Perhaps I'm drawn to this as the waning light reminds of the lessening of summer brilliance; the shadows remind me of the coming darkness of winter. There is a time for every season under heaven.  

My body and soul know how to move in rhythm with  the seasons, even as artificial lights come on indoors and out, even if my mind refuses to slow down or acknowledge the shifting patterns of sun, moon, and darkness.   If I pay attention and heed my body's wisdom, hibernate a little more and push a little less, the winter doldrums aren't quite so overwhelming.  

Yes, I can embrace autumn; I can prepare body-mind-soul for winter!




I'll end this blog post with a few more morning garden photos....

Joyfully,
Sharon
Dawn lights up the garden glass tower

garden basket - so beautiful in the morning sun




Anticipated these flowers all summer. They began blooming in September, just in time for my birthday!
 
 
 

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Birding is NOT for Sissies


We sleep till the last minute.  Sleepily, hubby makes a pot of coffee and fills our travel mugs. I slap together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We’ll eat in the car. We grab our gear and head out.  No getting up early enough for the morning constitutional, no stretching, no waking up first.  We figure a short walk in the woods, the Nature Center with restrooms open, a no brainer all around.  It’s our first trip with the local bird club to Middle Creek. We’re ready for some easy entertainment.

After the parking lot gathering, the meet and greet, we set out high on anticipation.  The morning is misty cool and softly lit.  There is nothing better than quiet camaraderie with people, sans small talk, and beauty everywhere.  Meadows glisten with rain from yesterday’s storm.  We wander through the grasses and wildflowers
pphotography-blog.blogspot.com/20212/01/loosestrife
as dew and raindrops tickle our arms and legs.  Fields of color explode before our eyes like exotic ground fireworks, a spike of Goldenrod here, Purple Loosestrife there and off in the distance, a patch of pink Joe Pye weed.  Our guide begins calling out birds as he spots them.
 “Goldfinch, hummingbird, cardinal, downy wood pecker.”  
We’re right with him, binoculars up. Yes!   Cormorants perch on stumps in a pond far in the distance, wings stretch out, drying in the sun.  Nothing we haven’t seen before, but it’s wonderful to be here.  
“Over there, juvenile bunting, little bit of blue…or a male with breeding colors fading.”
I see it; marvel over new knowledge.   
Then up to the woods, climb the hill slowly, looking, looking.  Not so pretty up here, lots of mud.  Shoes getting wet. No birds.  Is it really possible to walk this slowly? Wait, what is that? Sounds like the rasp of a big bird.  Oh, the guide is making a whistle-whisper in an attempt to flush out birds. I lower my perked up eyes and ears and look around sheepishly.  No one noticed my newbie-ness; they are all looking through field glasses. 
Two hours later, it’s a hot, humid, steamy day in the Pennsylvania woods. We’re still on the same trail. The 30min trail.  We’re going slowly. 
S-l-o-w-l-y.   
The man ahead of me has interesting pants, pockets everywhere.  He has black straps all over his back and chest with handles and hooks, packing bottles, books, thermos, and binoculars.  Is he spending the night?  With all those harnesses he looks like a service dog.
“Oven bird on trail to the left,” guide says. 
Five people lean left and block my view. The big powerful binoculars I am so proud of now feel like they weigh 20lbs.  Arms and shoulders tightening, I trade with Jay; his binoculars are lightweight. 
“Ovenbird, now to the right.”

Six people move right, one steps on my toe.  We smile and excuse each other.  I move purposely off the trail for a better view and pocket man points to poison ivy five inches from my foot.  I move back quickly, to my no view spot, and wish I had pants with pockets full of anti-ivy wipes. I can’t maneuver into a good position, or spot an ovenbird. I can’t even spot the trail as the field of view in these tiny binos is microscopic.  My back hurts.  My feet hurt.  My whole body wants to break out into a strong hike. Standing in place is strenuous.  
The trail opens up into another meadow and we hear the guide calling, warbler. 
Thank goodness for movement! We all jockey for position.  Again, I’m in the back watching all the birders with big guns look first.  It’s rather pointless to try with this wretched little pair, anyway.  Hubs and I listen to talk about wing bars and yellow and song and finally the experienced decide the little bird is a Canada Warbler.  Once identified, the crew begins looking in other directions.  I move in.  I look and look.  And look and look.  The guide watches me and suggests ‘follow the dead tree branch right here in front, turn left, follow the vine up and the bird is at 9 o’clock’.   
Which dead tree branch, there are hundreds?  Which vine, there are thousands?  Is the tree top the clock face, is the whole tree a clock face?  A woman birder sees my blank staring and gently moves my binocular laden hands slightly to the left. She points and encourages.   She points again.  And again.  I must have birding dyslexia.  My eyes are locked, and so is my body.  I’m frozen, arms raised, neck cocked, head thrown back, hands gripping a pair of tiny binoculars, and sweating.  Oh the sweating!  Minutes pass. The woman shifts her weight around, despairing.  The guide makes uncomfortable noises and moves away.  She persists.  I imagine whispered prayers “Please God, let her see something…anything …and let her think it’s the warbler.” 
And then there it is, a little yellow bird wearing a black dotted necklace.  Whooeee!  A tiny squeal escapes my lips and the woman breathes in sheer relief. I grin and sense her smile in response even as my eyes remain glued to the lens.  Amazing this extra sensory perception birders possess.  My first Carolina, uh, I mean Canada Warbler sighting.    
After more very slow walking, a chucking sound thrills me.  Oh, it's just the guide making noises again. 
An hour later we’re grouped in front of a cluster of trees.  Walnuts covered in wild grape, poplars, and pines. The guide calls out bird after bird: Nuthatch, Redstart, oriole, catbird, titmouse.  Warblers.   The experienced ones are all mumbling happy nonsense, seeing things.  I frantically search with minuscule binoculars, spotting leaf after leaf after leaf.  I glance at hubs; he’s not paying attention, shoulders slumped and head lowered, his binos dangle uselessly mid-belly.  He’s given up.  Or the weight of those high powered hunting binoculars is pulling him down.  
Good golly, when will this end?  My back kills. My legs are numb, can’t feel my feet except for the mud and slop covering them.  I can't lift my arms. My neck feels broken.  I need to find the girl’s room.  Much to my delight, someone says peewee and I picture an outhouse in the woods.  Pocket pants pulls a thermos from his leg and drinks.  The handsome man next to me notices my pinched look and explains a Pewee bird. Don’t any of these people have to go?  How long can they hold their coffee?  And, if we don’t start walking faster I’m going to die.
“Black and white!  Magnolia at 3 o’clock!”
What the heck is the guide talking about?  Black and white what?  Magnolia what?  And what, for cripes sake, is the clock?
I grip the binoculars and pretend to see.  I scan up and up and my lenses fog.  I’ve seen my own magnified eyebrow hairs through the lens before, am I now seeing sweat?  Peevishly, I lower the binos; rub the lenses with my T-shirt.  I take off my glasses and give them a rub too, stopping myself from asking pocket man if I could borrow some anti-fog spray. I’m positive he has some in his leg parts.  I adjust the knobs on my binos and have another look.  I see more fog.  Bugs are chewing the few spots of leg skin that isn’t numb. 
“Red Eyed Vireo song again.” 
I hear the song.  We’ve heard it many times during the morning and it’s still exciting. The woods have been almost void of sound.  I usually love silence but find it a little creepy crawling through brush with strangers and hearing no sounds.  Besides, I still hope to see this exotic sounding vireo. I never saw a song bird with red eyes. It has to be awesome.  I’m eager to get home and look it up. 
Finally, after three and a half hours on a trail that takes 30min, 20 at a brisk pace, we crest a grassy hill and I spot the best sight of all.  On the parking lot, all green with a red ball on the antennae, our Chevy Malibu at 6 o’clock! 
The guide and a few others are heading out to another place to watch for more birds.  The hubs and I express our thanks and exchange goodbye pleasantries. I try to keep my eyes from caressing the green bird with wheels.   We fairly fall into the car, gulp our stale coffee and inhale apples from the backpack I forgot was on my back the whole time, and wipe the sweat from our eyes. My back and neck may never be the same again.  Hubs is groaning something about his back between apple bites.
At home, we look up the red eyed vireo on Cornell Lab of Orthinolgy website, and snort.   That little brown bird is about as exotic as we are. Then we can’t help ourselves.  We pull out our list and gloat over the new birds added from this morning:  Canada Warbler, Common Yellowthroat, Scarlet Tanager, Field Sparrow, Red Eyed Vireo (okay, we didn’t see it but they say if you hear it and someone properly identifies the song, it counts).   We smile over all the repeat birds: cormorant, Green Heron, Indigo Bunting, Catbird, titmouse, woodpeckers, song sparrows, cardinals, goldfinches, orioles, robins, catbirds, flycatchers, nuthatches, wrens, bluebirds, jays, swallows.  We lust after the birds we heard about but didn’t see:  oven bird, redstart, white eyed and red eyed vireos, blue winged warbler, Magnolia Warbler, Black and White Warbler, Pewee, thrashers.

We look at each other and grimace.
 
                                     We simply must go birding again!
 
 
Joyfully,
Sharon
 
hubs and grand daughter birding