a change of scenery

I’m jotting down some menu thoughts for a brunch I plan to host. And I know that I’m only half-listening as I hear Beloved Husband mention something about the Autumn Blaze tree, the one on the empty lot at the corner, beginning to change color. I hear the school bus race past our house on her morning run, kicking up dust from the edge of our chip and seal roadbeds. She always seems in a rush, as if she is constantly behind schedule. Our running joke is that when she makes her stops, she yanks the children on board in the morning and boots them off with her heel on the afternoon return.

I look up and see Frank golfing, by himself as he does most Mondays through Fridays. He often reaches hole 5 (the view from our backyard) in perfect sync with the school bus. Frank lives in Texas and visits here each summer. He grew up not far from here, still has close family living nearby. Frank is a nice man, a successful lawyer, your typical local boy makes good story. Why, did you know he...

Beloved Husband disturbs my thoughts with a mention that there are five orioles at the jelly feeder. They are not, as usual, bickering or pecking at each other for first dibs. We listen as they whistle and chatter, as if in friendly communication. “Do you think they're discussing arrangements to leave en masse?” “Perhaps, perhaps. I do say, old chap, it would be quite advantageous to establish a friendly bond if one were to be traveling some distance together,” I attempt to speak in a stuffy British tone but break into a laugh before I can finish.

But, how do birds decide that it’s time to move away? Is it an internal longing for a change of scenery or simply an innate response to shortened sunlit hours? If I were a bird, perhaps I would be a cardinal, a chickadee or a downy woodpecker, or some type that is content to stay in one locale.

I step outside with Beloved Husband. The hummingbirds are arching and diving over our heads as we stand on the deck sipping coffee. But one day soon, I know that I'll look out of the window and realize that they have all disappeared. At first I'll notice that not one hummingbird has visited the feeder for days. And yet for a while, I'll have this feeling that I could swear I just saw them. And so I’ll continue to fill the now unused feeder with homemade nectar for another couple of weeks. Because maybe, just maybe one or two hummies will be dawdlers or procrastinators. I know well the feeling...

And I’ll recall one hummingbird in particular, a female hummingbird, who stopped by our back door, where there is no feeder nor is there a nectar-rich planting anywhere nearby. And yet she stopped at this same spot, three years in a row, hovering in place just long enough for us to notice her and her particular markings; and as she wafted in place she was looking directly into our house, where we sat fixated.  She seemed to say, “Good-bye and thanks again, guys. It’s been a great visit, but I’m heading for home.” For we, here in Privatopia, we are merely the temporary change of scenery she sought.

"What do you think, guys? Is it time to head back?"

better fuel up for the trip

their colors are most brilliant at their Spring arrival, methinks, or perhaps they dull their colors to make themselves less visible on their migration route home

stopping for a sip, or two

licks her lips, savoring, as she casts a longing glance towards home, so far, far away

buh-bye

jotting down ideas for brunch, why oh why, did I write banana sushi twice? ;)'

I don't post identifiable photos of our grandchildren, but I do love this photo of our granddaughter's back and her body language, showing her agony, as she watches her brother leave for summer camp "Please don't go!" she might be saying. Much as I might wail at the end of each summer, "Don't leave me!!! Stay or take me with you! But, please, please don't leave me behind!"

***

"There is something deep within us that sobs at endings. Why, God, does everything have to end? Why does all nature grow old? Why do spring and summer have to go?"

- Joe Wheeler