Here in the suburbs, lawns matter. They’re to be green and weed-free, though many of them are not, ours included.
Driveways, on the other hand, should be as smooth and polished as ebony, well poured and thoroughly sealed. They should not require weeding at all, as this one (full disclosure, mine) so plainly does.
To which I can only say, as I have for so many other suburban transgressions … oops!
One of the tall old trees we lost last year was a prime display tree, the perfect reflector for the fading light of sunset. During numerous deck dinners through the years, our oldest daughter would stop the conversation, point to this particular oak, and say “look at the light on that tree.”
Its cousins might have been dark and nondescript at this point in the early evening, but this tree’s spot in the yard was perfectly calibrated for late-day light; it looked as if it was lit up from within.
The play of light on its trunk is one of the lingering losses from that oaks’ felling last September. More than the tree itself, I miss what we saw in it. Aren’t many losses like that?
Over the weekend, I caught a glimpse of this fellow, a Northern Flicker.
It was an ordinary Sunday morning on the deck — breakfast and newspaper — and I’d been keeping my eye on a couple of robins who were pecking around in the backyard. There were some doves back there, too, and downy woodpeckers at the feeder.
A sudden flap of wings and there he was: extravagant, debonair. I didn’t know what he was at first, only that I’d never seen him before. I marveled at his polka-dotted breast, his crescent-shaped black bib, his long beak and intelligent eyes, which for several long seconds seemed to be looking straight at me.
After he flew away, I flew inside … to find the bird book and identify him. It didn’t take long. He could have posed for this photo, although he did not. His stay was brief — but post-worthy.
(Photo: Courtesy Cornell Lab: All About Birds.)
In the woods, the little bridges are still there, but the streams they cross are running dry.
In the meadows, the earth is bare, cracked, hard-packed. My shoes scuff up dust. Even the grass has stopped growing as quickly as it usually does in June.
The climbing rose has come into its own, has come into and gone past it, if you want to know the truth. But it hung in there long enough for me to see it, even after I had the audacity to spend 10 days away during its peak blooming period.
I attribute the rose’s survivability to scant rain and wind — and maybe, even to profusion: with so many buds to bloom, the process takes time.
Now comes the season of deconstruction, of light pink petals falling gently to the deck, the railing, the glass-topped table, even into the dregs of my morning tea.
I keep a pile of petals beside me as I work. From time to time, I run my fingers through them and feel their velvety softness.
(The climbing rose seen from above and the pile of petals I kept beside me as I work.)
It’s a sunny afternoon on the deck as hummingbirds buzz the feeders, sparrows chirp and cardinals peep. In the distance, I hear a hawk cry and a bluebird squawk.
Turns out, all this bird listening is good for my mental health, according to two different studies published in Scientific Reports, summarized in a Washington Post article published today.
I’m not surprised. Hearing birdsong is one of the reasons I love walking and being outside in general. Turns out I’m not alone. Researchers asked 1,300 participants to answer questions about their environment and well-being through an app called Urban Mind. They found a strong correlation between hearing or seeing birds and a positive state of mind. Another study found that listening to six-minute audio clips of birdsong reduced anxiety and depression.
According to this, I should always be bopping around with a smile on my face because in addition to hearing outside birds, I also hear inside ones, Alfie and Toby, the parakeets who grace our house with their chatter and whose racket often prompts callers to ask, “Do you have birds?”
Yes, I always say, yes, I do, and they’re wonderful.
(Alfie and the late, great Bart.)
When I walk through the woods these days, or even when I look out the window from my upstairs office, the world I see is a symphony of green.
It’s happened so quickly, this greening. Less than two weeks ago, the forest was still a winter one, especially given that many of the early flowering trees are the ones people plant in their yards not the ones that grow naturally on their own.
But whether cultivated or wild, the world is greening, and I wish I could hold onto it this way.
For years it was the first commandment of outside living in my family. Close the backyard gate! Our frisky Copper dog was, as I’ve mentioned before, quite the escape artist, and he missed no opportunity to leave the only loving home he had ever known.
As a younger dog, he rushed the doors, both front and garage. Guests entering the house had to slide in quickly before he barreled past them.
But at least a couple of times he found his way out of the fenced backyard into the great beyond. One time he moseyed under the deck and squeezed through an opening we never thought could accommodate him. I found him calmly sniffing the hedges near the front stoop.
His most likely point of departure, though, was through the backyard gate, which is tricky to latch and was prone to being left open by the meter-reading man and other folks. We lived in fear that we’d forget to check, let him out the backdoor and that would be the end of it. Copper, of course, had no fear of cars.
This week I’ve walked through the backyard gate dozens of times. And every time, not just out of habit but out of reverence, I’ve made sure it’s closed behind me.
The Kwanzan cherry had barely begun to leaf this time last week. But the warm temperatures of early April have sent it into overdrive.
I’m spending some time this morning just looking at the tree, observing how the big-fisted flowers bend its branches to earth.
The Kwanzan is not as ethereal as the Yoshino cherry, which typically blooms a few weeks earlier. It’s an earthier, later blossom. It’s best photographed up close, I think, against a bright blue sky.
It’s the first post of the hammock season, which starts early this year. I rock sideways on the contraption, using it more as a rocking chair than a chaise lounge.
I perch above a bumper crop of wood poppies and within sight of several spectacular azaleas. To my right is a lilac bush that seems likely to produce more blooms than ever this year, more blooms than ever being a relative term, of course. I’m hoping to crack the double digits.
The poplar above me is barely leafing. Ferns are unfurling. A breeze ruffles the foliage and rings the wind chimes. Yesterday, there were 26 people in this yard. Today, only me. It’s a mellow Easter Monday. Let’s hope I can stay awake long enough to do some homework.
