Time to Fly (just about)

It's getting a bit crowded in the nest. The baby finches were squawking and pushing, so I decided it was time to capture them on film before they fly. Momma arrived on our wind chime to scold me and warn her babies to be quiet. They literally froze, for minutes, until I left. Haven't yet gotten a photo of the third and fourth ones. 

Guardian of the Nest

 

Urban Duck in Lake Michigan

Spied this guy swimming free in Lake Michigan just a few paddles away from the Shedd Aquarium. Image taken during husband's academic conference in Chi-town.

Last Breaths

A sadder moment of vacation at the cabin on Sweet Lake was when this sharp-shinned hawk crashed into an upper window and broke its neck. Sam and Tom sadly witnessed it taking its last breath. We buried it in a pile of leaves in the woods. 

The missed shot

I was checking on our blueberries when I noticed this young robin sitting in one of the bushes. He didn't seem to mind as I quietly observed him. In fact, he had barely moved in the time I walked back to the house, grabbed my camera and returned.

Several minutes later, however, he sent off a squawk when my husband reached for a few blueberries on his way out to the garden shed. "Help, I'm being attacked," I heard, rushing out the back door to see two adult robins squawking and flying wildly around my husband. One actually hit him on the head. The young robin, meanwhile, made a low escape through our backyard gate.

Too bad I didn't still have my camera in hand.

The blue robbin

I stepped out on the front porch to await my son's arrival and was astonished to see what looked incredibly like a blue robin. It flew from our stair railing to that of our neighbors', as I admired its bright colors and marveled at how much it looked like a robin.

As the school bus growled to a stop on the corner, a half-dozen of the birds flew across our yards and up into the trees. My friend joined them.

I greeted Sam with the news of the "blue robin." Upon consulting the bird book, I read about the sialia sialis or Eastern bluebird. Sharing openly my naiveté at "birding," it was my first sighting.

Back at the birdbath

My crow has returned.

He's the huge black bird who would eat his breakfast on the edge of my birdbath every morning, dipping his food in the water and sometimes leaving greasy bones behind in the bowl. (See Breakfast on the birdbath post.)

He was out there this morning, pecking hard with his beak against the frozen water to no avail. He jumped up and down and few times on the hard unyielding surface, cawed loudly and then flew off.

Our grape harvest

Our Concord grapes were beautiful, delicious and plentiful this year. But because they have seeds, I wasn't quite sure what to do with them all.

Researching my options, I ruled out buying canning supplies and making grape jam. It just seemed to require too much of an investment of money and time for the few jars that would be produced.

I decided to freeze some. But after cutting several bunchs of the small grapes in half and removing their seeds, I decided this required too much work and time. I did get one full container in the freezer.

Ultimately, the solutions presented themselves:

I took several bunches in for "junk food" day at work. Although they didn't fit the category of junk food, my co-workers with dietary restrictions were happy someone brought something they could eat.

My son entered a bunch in his school's harvest festival, winning a red ribbon.

My husband took several bunches to a colleague who made grape jam with them. We ended up with one jar; the colleague got two.

And the birds polished off the rest.

Way cool

It happens every year.

Some birds think our porch posts would make a nice nesting spot.

They usually begin building on the post that's closest to our front door, then quickly abandon that nest and move to the other post. Eventually they abandon that nest too and end up on our neighbor's porch, which is longer, offers better shelter from the wind and receives less traffic.

I first noticed a mess of dried grass and dirt that had fallen onto our porch steps. My eyes proceeded upward to see dried grass and twigs hanging precariously from the post. Looking toward the other post, I spied a more developed nest. I showed my son, took some photos, then left things alone for a few days.


When I was certain the birds had moved on to more secure accommodations, I asked my husband to take down the nests. Our son was convinced they would be good to take to preschool on his sharing day.

We put the more developed nest into a plastic container so he could show it to his classmates.

It was a hit. The kids thought it was "really cool" and smelled "kind of gross."

Once in a lifetime

A bald eagle visited our neighborhood this morning.

My husband awakened me from dream sleep. You've got to come downstairs and see this, he said, excitedly reporting the details. "It's once in a lifetime," he stressed, noticing that I had barely moved.

I opened one eye to a slit and managed to make my way downstairs. I peered out the back door window, trying to open both eyes at the same time. I noted that it was at least a full hour before my son usually awakens.

The eagle was perched atop a tall pine tree. Crows were cawing and dive-bombing at the majestic bird, trying to shoo it away from their tree. It flew nonchalantly to another tall pine on just a bit higher ground. It stayed there for a couple of hours, plenty of time for all of us to focus the binoculars and get a good look.

Budding birder

I accompanied my son's preschool class on a snowshoe outing at Hartley Nature Center yesterday.

In addition to strapping on snowshoes and traversing across field, woods and pond to hear and see some birds, one highlight was the guest appearance of a black-capped chickadee in the nature center's classroom.

Their guide amazingly succeeded in getting all of the children to keep still, while she gently removed the captured bird from a white muslin bag. She placed its feet between her fingers and made her way slowly around the room, holding the delicate bird just inches in front of each child's face.

It weighs about as much as two pennies, she told them, as she answered a myriad of unasked questions of the group. Another guide showed how the trap, in which they had caught the bird earlier that morning, worked.

Then everyone stepped outside as their guide released the bird. It flew into some tall trees.

My son excitedly recounted the event to my layoff buddy who stopped by our house later in the day. He couldn't remember the name of the bird. "But wait," he cried and went upstairs.

He returned with "The Big Golden Book of Backyard Birds," paging through his book until he found a picture.

Sacred moments

We enjoyed our Shabbat dinner, a light meal of grilled salmon and asparagus with parmesan, on the back deck this evening. (Could summer actually have arrived?)

After dinner, my husband whispered for us to join him at the railing that overlooks our two ponds. A robin hopped from rock to rock, dipping his various body parts into the water until his bath was complete.

"I like him," my son said, each time the bird did something different. I could hear his appreciation for the beautiful bird with the bright orange breast and yellow beak. Eventually, the robin flew. We fed the fish.

And now, it's bathtime for you, I told my son. Yes, it is, he agreed.

Breakfast on the birdbath

Every morning, a crow alights on the edge of my birdbath, not to clean or preen, but to eat his breakfast.

At first I thought he might be attracted to the shiny glass beads in the birdbath. But no, the beads are still there.

The huge black bird stands on the edge of the little bowl, chomping away on his breakfast. Sometimes he drops his food in the water, then fishes it out. Sometimes he finishes it completely, then flies off to a telephone line or the neighbor's tree. And a couple of times, he has discarded what looks like greasy chicken bones in the water.

Which leads me to wonder, just where is this bird getting chicken bones so early in the morning?

On crossbills and finches

I was talking to my mother-in-law on the phone yesterday when I glanced out the back door. Three chubby brown birds with orange-red heads, chests and backs were sitting in my neighbor's small, leafless tree. Redpolls, she said, as I described them.

Carrying on my conversation, I moved to the living room to pick up my Birds of Minnesota Field Guide. Turning to page 76, I ruled the common redpoll out. No, I said, they don't have that much white on them. I returned to the kitchen, book in hand, but the birds had flown.

Maybe they're house finches, I said, thumbing through the red tabbed pages of the book. But these birds looked a lot fatter than the one pictured. Two pages later, I landed on the red crossbill. I declared them thus and finished my conversation.

But as I read more about the red crossbill (Loxia curvirostra), my certainty faltered, especially when I noticed that the map only puts them in our section of Minnesota during winter. I called my layoff buddy, who knows a bit about birds. She and I wavered between house finch and red crossbill. I rued that I hadn't taken better notice of their beaks. I don't always trust those maps, she said, finally. I renewed faith in having seen three red crossbills.

That night my son wanted me to show him all the birds I had seen. (I had told him about how my exercise buddy and I must have gotten too close to a killdeer's nest while we were walking on the Park Point beach that morning.) As I was showing him pictures of killdeer, ring-billed gulls, crows and robins in The Big Golden Book of Backyard Birds, I came across a picture of a house finch. This one was much puffier and looked eerily similar to the red crossbills I'd seen in my backyard.

Missing them

My exercise buddy and I hit the hiking trails of my favorite park today. We had limited our last two outings to the Lakewalk to avoid mud and snowmelt. But the glorious sunshine and promise of 60-degree temperatures called for a more adventurous venue.

As we set off from my house, I warned my friend that this could be a mournful journey.
Everywhere reminded me of Reba, my pretty, long-haired German shepherd I had to put to sleep winter before last. In my 12+ years with her, we had explored just about every trail and and deer path in Chester Bowl. A couple of hours before we went to the vet, I took her on one last promised walk up to the park.

I hadn't been fully out on these trails since Reba's passing, partly because I no longer am protected by her presence in more isolated parts of the park and partly to avoid the painful reminders of my lost companion. I thought a lot about her today.

I missed the tug of her leash, helping me to climb the hills. We often would sit side-by-side on the rocks at the very top of the park, me taking in the breathtaking view of Lake Superior and she alertly listening for other creatures. Sometimes she would raise her nose into the wind, smelling deeply. I would stroke her sun-warmed fur. Inevitably, someone or something would break our reverie and remind us it was time to return home.

I thought a lot, too, about my husband's grandpa, who is memorialized on a headstone near the old tennis courts. He was a champion ski jumper in his day. As a boy he leapt from daring heights into the Chester Creek swimming hole on hot summer days. When first married, my husband and I would walk Reba over to Grandma and Grandpa Storm's house on Chester Parkway. We would eat chocolate chip cookies and listen to their stories while Reba waited on the front porch.

My friend and I startled four deer as we approached the top of the hill, just like Reba and I had done many times past. We closed our eyes and breathed deeply at one of the peace poles my husband's uncle planted. On our way out of the park, I plunged my hand into the cold water that rushed over the dark rocks. We paused to watch a black-capped chickadee flit from twig to twig and a downey woodpecker with a touch of red on his head do a quick high-wire act on an unsteady branch.

It was time I returned to this home.

Chickens (part 3)

My kosher chicken did arrive -- around 1:30 Wednesday afternoon. It was too late for my matzah ball soup, of course, as my chicken stock was cooling already in the refrigerator.

To be fair to the kosher meat man, whose efforts we truly appreciate, he forgot my chicken on Monday, then got home from work and running errands with his wife way too late on Tuesday to drop it by our house.

No matter. My soup received rave reviews from the other seder guests -- "matzah balls so light they float on air". And my family and I enjoyed an excellent lunch of grilled chicken on Thursday.

I'll be sure to let you know when I pull that kosher pullet out of my freezer.

More about those chickens (part 2)

So.... I happened to be in the office of the education director while he was placing the order with the kosher meat man for the synagogue's second night seder and his first night seder. "And a cut-up chicken for Mrs. Buck," he added, knowing that I had matzah ball soup detail for the first night seder my family was attending.

The synagogue's order arrived late last week -- sans cut-up chicken. The education director, concerned about us keeping kosher on Passover, set aside a frozen whole pullet. It was waiting for me Saturday morning. I took it home and put it in my refrigerator to thaw.

Then the kosher meat man called. He would deliver my cut-up kosher chicken to my house on Monday, sometime after 7:30 or 8. I put my nice, plump, still-frozen kosher pullet back into the freezer. Monday came and went. He must have gotten behind, I thought. He's sure to drop off my chicken after work on Tuesday. That night, my husband called the kosher meat man. No answer. He probably already left town for second night seder with his relatives, my husband theorized.

How goes that saying, "a bird in the hand?"

Up with the chickens (part 1)

It's 5:20 a.m., and I'm off to the grocery store to buy an Amish chicken.

I wasn't going to get kosher chicken for the matzah ball soup I'm fixing for Passover. That would have required a drive to the Twin Cities. And my Passover seder hosts had assured me an Amish chicken would do just fine.

But then two men offered to assist me in getting a kosher bird. It's a complicated tale that I will return to once my chicken is stewing on the stove.

Waiting out the storm

I noticed her around 7: 30 a.m., when I checked on Tuesday's snowstorm from my living room window. The female rock dove (Columba livia) was hunkered down on the southern side of our porch post ledge, struggling to stay out of the snow and wind. I pulled the window blind all the way up so my son and I could check on her while we finished re-reading Peter Pan.

"There's another one," my son cried out excitedly. A male rock dove had landed on our porch roof, awaiting an invitation from the female. They huddled together on the ledge, her head often buried under his wing, as the snow swirled around them. They stayed for about 5 1/2 hours. During that time, my son and I marveled at the different markings on their feathers and the delicateness of their tiny beaks.

They left during a lull in the storm. The female stopped back a couple of times today. But the feeling of connectedness is gone. They're just a couple of pigeons we pitied during a storm.