“Sum’ping happened to mine parrel . . .”
The squirrel is on the fruit and nut block again. I tap my fingernail against the glass. He looks briefly in my direction, then darts up the tree and out to the sunflower seed feeder. I give up on the window tapping and go to the sun room door and open it to encourage him to move on. He flits about in the upper branches, scolding and watchful. He makes me laugh and I go back inside. I have a hard time being venomous with the squirrels. 26 years ago when we moved to Shady Acres, the name, though old and established, was a misnomer. There was almost no shade. There were no wild animals to be seen, either. We moved from our house at the edge of the Andrewsville Woods and I missed the squirrels and birds and woodland fauna that surrounded our house there. A tree farm in its earliest stages bordered our new property, and held some promise, and Certain Man wasted no time in planting trees wherever he could imagine one growing. Over the years, the shade has made welcome inroads, the tree farm has been home to woodland creatures, and the squirrels are frequent visitors to the feeders and feeding stations around the yard. Certain Man will shout and scold them sometimes, but he also loves the fact that the environment is hospitable to the creatures.
This was a rainy morning. I took my camera and strolled about catching some pictures in the morning light. There were raindrops on my tulips, glimmering jewel-like against the rich colors.
And that whiskey half-barrel that has served me so well so many years really has given up the ghost. Last year, it showed signs of great disrepair, but I decided that its dilapidated state only added to its beauty, and I carefully nursed it through another year. I don’t think I can do that this year.
All around the yard, there are signs of spring and new life.
The tulips along the grape arbor are really putting on a show.
The bluebirds are building their nest.
As is some other bird in the blue spruce. I haven’t figured out what kind of bird this is. Usually a Mocker builds in this particular tree, but I don’t think this is a Mocker’s nest. Too messy.
This afternoon, our trusty helper, Grant Miller, is mowing the lawn. The smell of fresh cut grass is coming through the open window, and the birds are singing. Certain Man is home from work and looking at a busy and full evening. He has planted some of his vegetable garden, and there are some tender shoots making their way up. I cut my first cutting of asparagus a few days ago and lo! And behold! There are bunches more to cut tonight. Certain Man just said that I had better get at it. And so, I shall! The evening of this wonderfully ordinary day is moving in, and I give grateful praise.