The Corner of My Eye

The Corner of My Eye

This summer I’m obsessed with a creature that I usually only see out of the corner of my eye. Fast, furious, almost mythical, it shows itself randomly. I may wait for days and then it arrives and leaves so quickly that I’m never really sure that I saw it at all. A hummingbird.

This little bit chipped off in brilliance, as the poet D.H. Lawrence called them. He imagined them as they,

Raced down the avenues, before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
Whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems…..

He writes of them as huge prehistoric monsters that eventually became the tiny bits of jeweled feathers that they are today.

I blame my friend Nancy for this new love. She has always had a red feeder attached to her porch window that attracts hummers. For years I’ve wanted one as well, but I never took the time. Then last year we hung a pink-purple fuchsia outside our porch and watched amazed as a tiny bird hummed through its flowers. We never saw another one, so this year I was determined to buy a feeder.

I wandered around the huge store wondering which one to buy--- the intricate brass one? The multilevel bird-apartment building? The simple red plastic feeder that cost the least? Luckily I found a salesperson who told me that hummingbirds cared only for the color red and the nectar in the feeder. She discouraged me from buying the “special” hummingbird food, telling me to mix up my own sugar water and sent me happily home.

Steve and I filled our feeder, hung it outside next to the fuchsia, and foolishly sat down to wait. But hummingbirds come on their own schedule and waiting does nothing to encourage them along. We waited in vain. For days.

According to Wikkipedia, hummingbirds are,

among the smallest of birds, most measuring in the 3–5 inch range. They can hover in mid-air by rapidly flapping their wings 12–90 times per second. They are also the only group of birds able to fly backwards. Their name derives from the characteristic hum made by their rapid wing beats. They can fly at speeds exceeding 15 miles per second.

With the exception of insects, hummingbirds while in flight have the highest metabolism of all animals, a necessity in order to support the rapid beating of their wings. Their heart rate can reach as high as 1,260 beats per minute. They also consume more than their own weight in nectar each day, and to do so they must visit hundreds of flowers daily. Hummingbirds are continuously hours away from starving to death, and are able to store just enough energy to survive overnight.

Our feeder hasn’t been the riotous hummingbird success I had hoped for. Nancy tells me that they probably come when I’m not looking. I try to be patient as I peer out of my kitchen window searching for them as I might a long lost lover. Then suddenly one arrives and I stand holding my breath afraid to scare him off with any sudden noise. If I’m lucky he will visit the feeder and the fuchsia and then back to the feeder before speeding away. Once I saw two of them and I thought I’d die from happiness. Lisa actually heard the hum of their wings one afternoon when she sat on the steps to the porch. Lucky woman.

When we were at the Notchland Inn we saw myriads of hummingbirds come to their windows all day long and into the evening. I would forget to eat my dinner so enthralled was I with their constant dance. Though I realized that the inn attracted them because of their many feeders and expanse of gardens, still I was jealous of their surfeit. But then I realized that either I had to plant and care for a garden of my own or be satisfied with the few hummers that visited. Perhaps I’ll plant a few more of the flowers that they love and learn to accept the few that come, with joy.

All summer long I’ve been thinking that these birds remind me of something else in my life but I couldn’t think what until my mind wandered the other day. My other obsession this summer has been the students who will be starting classes in my GED school this September. I’ve attended meetings, gone to conferences, exchanged e-mails, and wondered all summer long how to attract them to school and more importantly, how to keep them there. That’s when I realized that they shared my hummingbirds’ attitude, outlook, flower-to-flower life.

My students--all energy and motion and flash, searching from place to place, school to school to find what they want—somewhere safe to return and remain to get what they need. They talk quickly and earnestly, rarely stopping, trying to convince me and themselves that they’ll do it this time, succeed where they’ve failed so often, stay still long enough to survive through the night and the next day. The predators are always there, violence and poverty, sapping their strength and resolve. And all I can do is hang out feeders and plant a bit of garden and be quiet so as not to startle them or frighten them away--always watching them from the corner of my eye.

Skunked

Skunked


The day we brought Snoopy home from the animal shelter was memorable for all the wrong reasons. After years of hearing our two girls constantly harangue us with, “Please can we get a dog, please, please, please can we get a dog, please we’ll take care of it please!?” I finally gave in because Mariel worked so diligently at the Dedham Animal shelter putting her money where her dog was so to speak.

Years of reading Charlie Brown comics had convinced her that her pooch had to be a beagle and she would name him Snoopy, of course. I figured it would take months for anyone to bring a beagle into the shelter so I was safe. And I was until the fateful rainy Saturday when I got the dreaded call from Mariel, “Mom he’s here, he’s here, he’s finally here!” For a moment I was confused—who was here? The Messiah? Elvis?

Then suddenly before she answered I knew—“Snoopy mom! He’s at the shelter barking like crazy!”

Oh joy. Good fortune had whacked me in the head. I had hoped that perhaps a few years would pass by and Mariel would get over her dog fixation, but no such luck. The dog was here.

When I went to the shelter to meet our long awaited beagle, Mariel told me that we had to make our minds up quickly since there were two other people who wanted him. I almost told her that they could have him, but then I saw her face. A mom can’t go back on her word—like Horton the Elephant she’s faithful 100%. So I patted the yelping, nervous, skinny little dog on the head, looked him in the eyes and sighed, “Welcome to the family Snoops.”

The shelter expected us to take him home immediately but after much panicky pleading on my part they agreed that we could pick him up the next morning so that we could stock up on doggie necessities. When we walked into the pet store I had no idea what we were supposed to buy him—a receiving blanket? A trust fund? But soon enough our cart was filled with all kinds of requisite pooch stuff and the necessary Excedrin for me.

The next day, after a panicky night when I told Steve that there was no way I could take care of a dog, and he convinced me that if I had raised two kids I could surely deal with a dog, we brought him home. It’s funny that I have no memory whatsoever of the day but the night is burned into my memory never to be forgotten no matter how long Snoopy and I may live.

I took him out for his first night time walk around the block. He was no great pleasure to walk—always tugging at the leash anxious to smell the entire world immediately—when suddenly he went nuts, barking hysterically at something under a car. Before I could stop him he managed to get under and then I suddenly saw what it was he was barking at. There was no way this could be happening, I thought wildly. I haven’t even had the dog for a day and already he’s arguing with a skunk!! And before I could react, that unmistakable scent filled the air and Snoopy was right in the middle of it.

I dragged him home yelling, screaming and crying. Steve took one look at me and then the dog and just shook his head. The only thing that saved us was the advice that our friends, Wayne and Roxy gave us that night seven years ago. Forget tomato juice--Roxy gave me the only recipe for skunk deodorizer that works: one quart hydrogen peroxide, ¼ cup baking soda, one teaspoon dish soap. I scrubbed the shaking, shivering, scared-out-of-his-wits animal, wishing I could return him from whence he came.

Ever since then I’ve kept a supply of hydrogen peroxide around in case Snoopy ever decided to tackle another skunk, but thankfully he never has. Silly thing that I am I thought he had gotten older and so very much wiser in the ways of skunks. Then last week Shatz was letting him out for his final nighttime visit to the trees when I heard my husband yell, “Oh no! no! Snoopy! No!” I raced down sure that the dog had run into the woods but instead saw that it was much worse.

It seems that a skunk had been calmly feeding at the bottom of our bird feeder when Snoop took off after it expecting it to run as animals usually do when he chases them. I’ve often wondered what Snoopy would do if the animal he chased stayed put and didn’t run. I found out that night because this critter didn’t budge, just kept calmly munching while Snoopy charged head first into his hindquarters. And there it was—the odor that could sink a thousand ships—all over my dog’s head.

I told Shatz to keep him in the garage while I prepared the royal hydrogen peroxide bath for my idiot dog. As I scrubbed him down, I looked at my poor shivering Snoop and asked, “Don’t you ever learn?” Oh well. If it’s any consolation, at least he waited seven years to get skunked again. Tomorrow I’ll have to restock my hydrogen peroxide.

Thirty Five Years

Thirty Five Years

Thirty six years ago Steve and I sat on a swing set in an Indiana campground discussing the impossibility of getting married. Actually I was the one talking impossible—Steve was trying to convince me of the possible. All I saw was us living on opposite sides of the ocean enmeshed in families and jobs that tied us to our homes. We couldn’t just get up and walk away from all of that—could we? Every time I would lay down the definitive argument against our being together, he would find a reason that we could and should. So what could I do but answer, “Yes I do” to his “Will you marry me?” then cross my fingers and hope for the best?

And it has been the best. During the years I have asked myself endless questions about my life but never have I questioned us. We’ve been so very lucky. I know it every time I’ve come home from days spent apart, or simply looking across the dinner table every evening. I must have done something awfully good in a former lifetime to have deserved this.

I was always sure that by the time we reached our 35th year together life would be easier--a leisurely winding down. Instead it has become more challenging. I’ve been thinking lately that maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. We’ve never been the sort of people who can relax for longer than a day or two. We enjoy moving, working, discovering, and discussing it all at the dinner table at the end of the day. In fact even Steve’s marriage proposal came at the end of a month long cross-country camping road trip.

We hadn’t thought of how we would celebrate this anniversary. There have been years when I thought it would be so wonderfully romantic to renew our vows, but lately that has struck me as very unnecessary. We renew our vows every time we wake up, go to work, walk the dog, have dinner, pay the bills. Our life is our vow. But then our family surprised us with a long week-end at a New Hampshire Inn. Have I mentioned yet how lucky we are?

When I looked up The Notchland Inn on the web, the pictures revealed something straight out of a fairy tale—a place where happily ever after is taken for granted. Lush gardens surrounded the house and spilled out along the paths and grounds. A hammock swung lazily on the front lawn, the White Mountains towered in the background—too good to be true, I thought. Some photographer knowing all the right angles. But I figured that if it was half as good as it looked I’d be thrilled.

Part of the package deal for this get away, was Matt and Lisa. While we were gone they would house sit their country home in Canton (who knew that a porch overlooking woods would count as country?) and walk and feed the Snoopster. So we took off feeling relaxed for the first time in a long while. We decided not to plan anything for the following days and simply do whatever we felt like at the moment. This was a new experience for us. Steve was the guy who had planned our Hawaii vacation down to the minute, including a bike ride up some mountain to watch a God forsaken sunrise on the morning that we landed.

It was also strange knowing that we could depend on Madame Gipps (otherwise known as our GPS system) to get us there. No maps, no AAA Triptix—it was all freeing and a bit frightening.

When we hit the switchback road in Franconia Notch we knew we had finally returned to the mountains. And when we saw our first sign announcing the National Forest we knew we were close. Then suddenly after a quick turn there it was—a Victorian granite mansion resting at the foot of the mountains. And yes, there were the gardens and the hammock and the gazebo—everything that had appeared in the pictures only lovelier. “This is going to be just fine,” I whispered to myself.

But it was when we were greeted by the two resident Bernese Mountain dogs that we knew the next few days would be everything that the web site had promised. Crawford and Felanie, two huge, furry, bears with eyes you could drown in, outdid even the Inn’s owners, Ed and Les, in hospitality. I would look for them when I woke up in the morning and search for them in the evening to wish them good-night. I almost snuck them in the car on the way home but Ed objected.

And so we had the most atypical week-end of our 35 years together. Unplanned, relaxed, pampered, and alone. We ate breakfast accompanied by the constant parade of hummingbirds that flew to the feeders hung outside the dining room windows, celebrated with champagne and strawberries in the gazebo, licked our fingers at dinner and sighed at the breezes that blew through our magnificent bedroom windows. And there were mountains in those windows—the White Mountains that were the backdrop for our anniversary week-end. But best of all there was quiet talk about our lives—where we had been, what we had done and all the years that we had yet in front of us—all our happily ever-afters to come.