Three Nice Mice

While visiting my daughter and her wife in Northern Vermont: 

These adorable creatures were huddled in the bottom of the compost bin when I opened it to dump in our kitchen scraps. I didn't have the heart to throw corn husks and sweet potato peelings on top of the cute little things, though they might have liked them. Instead I went inside for my phone, hoping they'd still be there when I returned. They were. And they posed for the camera as nicely as I could have imagined. 

Kodak moment over, I deposited the scraps in a different bin and recited a little poem about mice to myself, pleased I could still remember it.  It was first introduced to me in childhood by my quirky aunt, who was a professor of children's literature, and who is the model for a character in my unpublished middle-grade manuscript. I later used the same poem as a handwriting assignment on the chalkboard for my first graders. 

Chalkboard. That's giving away my age (as is my reference to the Kodak moment). When smart boards and iPhones came into our classrooms, I knew it was time to retire. 

If that's not enough, here's an even greater tell-tale example of my age: I can't help grieving that it is no longer in vogue to write clever, accessible, and easy-to-memorize children's poetry with rhyme and repetition like this one. What child wouldn't love "Mice," by Rose Fyleman?

MICE

I think mice

Are rather nice. 

        Their tails are long,

        Their faces small, 

        They haven't any 

        Chins at all. 

        Their ears are pink,

        Their teeth are white, 

       They run about

        The house at night.

        They nibble things

        They shouldn't touch,

        And no one seems

        To like them much.

But I think mice

Are nice.

                        ~by Rose Fyleman

Here's hoping the upcoming generations of educators will still recognize the value of rhyme, rhythm, and repetition for teaching children to read. 

~dkm 9-17-24 

Out 0f Season Backyard Camellias

Allow me to stray from my usual topic of backyard observations to tell a story about a watercolor painting by my dear artist friend Sheila, who left this earth too soon, in November 2019. One of my beloved inheritances from Sheila was a box of pastels and watercolors from her studio that her children were not able to take because of the sheer volume of her work. We sold some of them at an art show, I framed and hung some of them, but there are still way too many left to hang in any one person's home.  

When a Little Free Art Gallery went up not far from my house, Sheila's family and I agreed to begin posting the paintings there, one at a time, in hopes of spreading Sheila's art into the world for others to enjoy. The gallery, similar to Little Free Libraries, is a dollhouse-sized room mounted on a pole by a neighborhood sidewalk, made especially for sharing art.  

So, for the past year, about once a week, I've been placing Sheila's works in the little gallery. They are all unframed and most measure about 12 x14 inches. Every piece I've placed has disappeared within a week or so, leaving room for more. I've been curious to know who takes them but I've never been witness to any of the departures, until one day this week, when I was heartened by what I observed.  

 I parked my car and deposited in the gallery a beautiful 12x14 watercolor that Sheila had titled "Backyard Camellias." I wish I had photographed it, because to describe it as a few red camellias with yellow stamen in the centers on a background of green leaves does not do justice to its brilliance. 

After making my deposit, I latched the door of the gallery and walked to the post office across the street to mail a card. When I came out of the post office, I noticed a woman who looked uncombed, unwashed, and perhaps unhoused,  sorting through all the works in the little gallery. I wanted to run across to ask which ones she liked and encourage her to take the camellias, but somehow that seemed too invasive, so I waited and watched from across the street. 

I can't say why I was so moved by watching her, but something about that impoverished-looking woman carefully discerning which art she wanted touched me deeply. Once she made her selection, she glanced furtively up and down the street, perhaps unsure if it was okay to help herself to the art. As she tucked her selection inside her blouse, it flashed toward me long enough to see from across the street that she had indeed chosen Sheila's camellias and was protecting them from harm as she moved on down the sidewalk. 

I don't know if that dear woman had a place to display her newly acquired art, but it gave me joy to think about Sheila's handiwork bringing a measure of beauty to one who may have otherwise had little beauty in her life.  

~dkm 7-21-24

The Promised Story of the Four Raised Beds

My siblings and I were reared in a gardening culture in the middle of Kansas where sun was never in short supply. Full sun vegetable gardens were the rule in every side yard in our small town of Hesston, KS. If some gardens, like my grandmother's, displayed a few flowers, fine, but the main event was food production. We grew up helping in the garden from early spring to late fall. We ate home canned tomatoes, green beans, red beets, and pickled cucumbers all year long. 

Both my brothers now live in sunny places and grow vegetables, but my sister and I settled in urban areas where the shade from the tree canopy restricts our gardens to mostly flowers. My older brother Dan and I have had an ongoing debate about whether you can call a garden a garden if no vegetables and only flowers grow in it. I say yes, living in metro Atlanta, where graceful flower gardens reign supreme. But Dan is of the veggie school. 

He insisted the mere four hours of midday sun I got in my backyard between the loblolly pines would be enough to manage some shade-tolerant radishes and greens. So one visit eleven years ago, he spent a full weekend building me four beautiful raised beds that would allow me to prove his point.

I tried. I really did, as shown by these photos of my grandchildren picking the radishes we grew that first year. 

 But across the years, as the trees grew taller and the sun time decreased, I've reverted to 100% flower gardening, and Dan sends me his homegrown tomatoes in the mail.

 Still, I want you to know, Dan, how much pleasure your weekend project of 2013 brings me every year, showing off different species of flowers. If I thought they'd survive the trip, I'd send you some of this year's snapdragons in the mail. 

~dkm 4/30/24

Kale Show Offs

 I love it when I plant something new in my garden, and it way out-performs my expectations. Enter the spectacular ornamental kale. How the species escaped my horticultural attention till now, I don’t know, but it did. I wish I’d taken a photo of these four little people when I first planted them last fall. Then only 6-inches tall, they were bushy, low, and all green. I chose them to finish out the back corners of the four raised boxes my brother Dan built for me a few years back. (That’s a post all its own for another day.) The tags said each kale plant would produce showy white foliage, and my nurseryman confirmed they’d be a nice backdrop to the snapdragons I was putting in the fronts of the boxes. That's all I knew at the time, but I bought them.

That was October. In November and December they bolted into 2-foot tall beauties with showy white foliage indeed. Bright white and 12-14 inches across, they look like a huge flower with a pretty border of green leaves all around the outside. I was beyond satisfied with their late fall growth, and I fully expected them to die out during the winter.  

Wrong. They soldiered on through our mildish December and January freezes and are STILL catching the eye of anyone who glances out my kitchen window. I learned they’ll continue showing off until the snap dragons bloom later this spring, but they won't survive our hot summers. AND, they're edible! Will we eat them?  Maybe, before high temperatures bring on their demise.

Meantime, I’m getting ready to hire a former first grade student of mine to turn our yard into a native species garden. I doubt if ornamental kale will make the cut, hailing from Europe as it does, but I’m enjoying it while I can. 

~dkm 3/4/24

Cedar Waxwings Galore!

Friends,

Warmer weather and a whistling flock of cedar waxwings (called an “ear-full” or “museum”) invited me outdoors yesterday, strengthening my resolve to return to daily outdoor longsitting and more regular blogging. You will hold me accountable, will you not?  

I'm a more whole being when my outdoor longsitting practice is indeed daily, as opposed to when I think I have time for it. I can't rightfully call it meditation, because I work to pay attention to (and wonder about) everything around me, but like meditation, it lowers my blood pressure and returns my equilibrium amid the busy-ness of life. One hour of longsitting, or even just fifteen minutes, is a worthy expense for the lift of energy it brings.  

So, thank you, dear cedar waxwings at the backyard birdbath––for prioritizing my to-do list!

 The more prominent sound in the video, of course, is not cedar waxwing whistle. It's caucophony of redwing blackbird, overpowering the pale sweetness of the waxwing whistle. Large flocks of both species are here in north central Georgia at this time of year. According to my monthly backyard birding journal of the past few years, the blackbirds are here from mid-November to late-February, the waxwings only in February and March. Both will soon be gone, enroute to their preferred nesting habitats further north. 

This means it's almost time to start watching for the mating shenanigans of our year-round residents, including my perennial favorite, eastern bluebirds.  

I learned today that the red waxy wing-tips, after which cedar waxwings are named, come from their near-exclusive diet of red berries, and that when the dreaded parasitic brown-headed cowbird lays its eggs in a cedar waxwing nest, the nestlings often don't survive, because cowbirds can't survive on fruit alone. Way-to-fight cowbird piracy, cedar waxwings! 

 The greatest gift of retirement is the time to learn about such wonders of nature. And wonder-of-wonders, heard at the end of today's longsit: a nearby murmur of mating bluebird. Ahhhhh. Spring. 

Be well, y’all!

~dkm 2-10-24