Refilling the Feeder

My hummingbird is happy for the change…in me.
A newly cleaned and freshly filled reservoir hangs, brimming with cool nectar, in what feels like September’s first fall breeze. I’d gotten lazy in my tending of the small, plastic globe suspended from the eave of the upstairs front porch and blamed, instead, the awful August heat for the mildew-blackened holes and clouded liquid of the neglected hummingbird feeder.

The demands of summer ran away with me. Carefree hours spent on the porch watching hummingbirds dart in for long drinks or perch quietly within firing range and zoom back around in defense of the plastic flower soon dwindled to nothing. And as the birds themselves disappeared in my neglect, so did my desire to spend time porch-sitting.
Before long, a faded and revoltingly dirty (and unhealthy) feeder was the only hint that remained to suggest that this had once been a place of great joys.


A couple of weeks ago, I spent a few days with a friend.
The hum and whir of birds outside her doorstep began at dawn and continued through the day until dark. Back and forth they’d travel by the dozens to the sizable reservoir—hers always fresh and full—hanging near a copper bucket tucked and fastened beneath the eave.




Flowers filled her yard.
As you’d expect from one whose life has been largely devoted to caring for and nurturing even these tiniest of winged creatures, many plants had been chosen as natural nectar sources. But the artist’s eye and poet’s soul had gone beyond to create a beauty so lively and rich, that it remained after dark, afloat on the air of a night lit only by full moon and fireflies.

And I drank it in.





And remembered the places and stories that had first registered those feelings of connectedness, the inspiration that flows with her words from the page.



The friendship that I can only describe as a ball of yarn--
cords wrapped this way and that, intertwined one with another,
until I can no longer tell where it began.
I only know that, with time, it has gotten bigger.



Dropped back into my daily routine from this refresher of sorts, I began with an overhaul of the feeders.
After all, I know what it is to be thirsty.

Chet Baker

The road to a friend's house

From the southwestern corner of the state, I drive east, along a highway laid straight between planted farm fields all around. Flat and sprawling acre upon acre, they are green now with corn and beans or stand bare while the glossy stubble of harvested wheat fades to gray beneath the bleaching rays of the sun.

Mile upon mile, as distant clusters of barns and sheds tucked neatly between the broad expanses slowly disappear from view, a heavy flow of traffic travels this long straight path—a racing river of cars and trucks linking Ohio’s largest cities. Until on the horizon, from behind a row of trees, the hint of eastern hill country first appears in rolling pastures, steep slopes bathed in the amber glow of a summer evening, the steeple of a small white church that rests amid a stand of pines stepping down the ridge.

One after another, fellow travelers exit the highway. Four lanes have dropped to 3 and before long, shrink to 2. Aside from the few cars that trail behind, the road is mine now as it rises and falls along its heavily treed course toward the Ohio River.


From here I will take a smaller road that winds and dips, plunging into the hollows and returning to ride the ridge. Then meet the worn gravel road flanked by hay fields, sweeping a wide arc beside the uncut grassy meadow.


Because the road to a friend's house is never long.



Surrounded by a wildness that with each season brings new beauty—
by woods adorned with spring’s first wildflowers,
a meadow ripe with summer song,

katydid in grass

smooth sumac, Rhus glabra
in flower

flowering spurge, Euphorbia corollata

she surrounds herself with flowers that tell of her great spirit--

keeper of the innocent,

one who is gentle and kind,

one who is bright and warm.
(and smart and funny and strong...)

No, the road to this dear friend's house could never be too long.

Julie Zickefoose

.

I Know it's Itchy, but...

Much of our property grows wild.
And, aside from the few gardens bordering the house, is left to its own devices. The vines of the woods, trumpet creeper, wild grape, and Virginia Creeper, grow freely, draping themselves in sheets from the tops of the trees. Knitting their branches into the canopy beyond our door.

At times, I’m envious of the homes bounded by the more trimmed yards.
Their color-coordinated beds of flowers.
Their beautiful landscapes so demanding of time.

This afternoon, after walking our trails under passing clouds, searching the fields and woods for the migrant warblers, I returned to the house, disappointed. And sat for a moment on a sun-warmed stone on the river rock wall of my herb garden.

Several feet beyond, an unruly vine wrapped its winding way through a small tree—poison ivy.
The reaching arms bare of its fallen red leaves, and now bearing fruit, small white berries.
And Yellow-Rumped Warblers.

Yellow-Rumped Warblers, Dendroica coronata
feeding on poison ivy berries

What we lack in order, we make up for in vigor.

Third Strike

Our vegetable garden has suffered this year.

Weeding was replaced by wedding.
And soon, other home projects that demand we make progress in the few short summer months each year were underway. While already, the repairs made 15 years ago upon our arrival have been undone—others, yet unstarted, wait.
But, as much as the greedy old house steals time, we would not have it any other way.
“Building character,” we call it, and hammer away at our dream.

Rebuilding porches and repair to brick

Repointing around old shutter dog

At the edge of the woods, a small oak tree I walk past each day has suffered, too.
First, nearly consumed by a hoard of Datana caterpillars—arching into their defensive postures with the slightest nudge of the branch.

Datana sp.
before and after

Then, nibbled and trimmed by the bagworm, days later, his house decorated by the few remaining scraps he could find.

Bagworm feeding on oak
Thyridopteryx sp.

Today, what may be the final blow. Still too small to be seen well, but flattened against the bare narrow stems where others have chewed, still more have arrived to feed.




With each assault, I worry that this young specimen that dared step forward into the field may not survive. The others tower behind him, seemingly unaffected.
A sacrifice, perhaps?

A large unruly plant has sprouted from my compost pile and set forth across the lawn.
We mow around it.
Its leafy greenness hides my gardening sins.
And bears the only tomatoes we may see this year.

Hmmm.

There's a pest in my garden, though I never see him.

He leaves me subtle reminders that he's there.

Family portrait

I have a love-hate relationship with my garden.
I love the idea of having herbs just outside my back door, a pretty plot with stone shelves and brick walkways separating my carefully placed occupants--but the constant care required to keep it looking tidy, I dread.
As a result, my herbs hide beneath tangles of uninvited guests until I miss seeing them and undertake the massive chore of restoring order.
Yesterday, I dove in—and spent the afternoon deep in green.
Party-crashers thrown in a heap on the grass.

There’s lavender, oregano, sage, thyme, and chives—with each, a magnificent aroma.
Bee balm in the shady corner, its glowing red fountains for sipping.
Sweet white succulents to tumble over the rocks.




And a very irritated wolf spider, taking her children somewhere even more tangled.
Where a creeping, crawling large creature will not disturb them.

Family portrait
Wolf spider carrying young on back

(Click to enlarge photos)

Still life

Of all we reap from our garden, I'm always most thrilled with the butternuts. So sweet and golden inside--we'll choose the best ones for Thanksgiving dinner and scatter the rest throughout the coming cooler months.
Everything grew well this year, tomatoes, green beans, cucumbers, basil, beets and zucchini. And we enjoyed it all--freshly picked.
I've never gotten excited about canning. The idea of tending a steaming pot while the outside temperatures soar, is not for me. If we can't keep up with the ripening fruits, we pass them on to our non-gardening friends.

But the butternut squash will carry us into the winter months well. And with each savory, sun-kissed spoonful, we'll remember the warmth of this summer.
When all outside is frozen, and the skies are gray, there will be, still, life.

Tender heart

I walked the yard tonight--the first time since getting back from Maine. This weekend I'll be playing "catch-up"--getting back on top of what one week's neglect can do.
My herb garden that I had been so proud of restoring this spring, is now overgrown with phlox. At least it's pretty--even with bindweed lacing the tall strands together. And hiding underneath a very unruly mint-like creature is the re-emerging poison ivy I was sure I was finished with. The ivy, apparently, disagrees.
The weeks of summer sun have toughened the tender, green sprigs into leathery, stubborn ropes. I'm not looking forward to wrestling with it, but if I turn away--all of this spring's efforts will have been wasted. A garden demands an attentive keeper.
My new delphinium has started to blossom--icy colors on delicate, wispy petals that seem as if they'd fry in the late summer sun. There they stand. Trying not to be swallowed by their pushy neighbors.

Tenderness is rare in a late summer garden.


And in the field, although the milkweed has become old and toughened, a tiny caterpillar cruises along in search of a tender meal.


He seems to know that new, green leaf is meant just for him.
He's looked it over carefully--front, back and top.




But where do you take the first bite?