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The Bunny

The Bunny

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I’d heard a bunny had been spotted, a creature new to these parts, but until last Saturday I had yet to lay my eyes on him. I was mulching the knockout rose and digging up day lilies when I caught his slight movements from the corner of my eye. 

The rabbit was about eight inches long, with perfectly upright ears that perked up at the slightest noise and strong little jaws that would, if they could, eat all the flowers we’ve fenced off from the deer. At the time, though, he was only nibbling harmlessly at the weedy grass on the garden’s border.  

I watched him for several long minutes, pondering the nature of cuteness, how much of it has to do with the size, shape, fluffiness and configuration of the tail — long and thin (rats) creepy; puffy and white (bunnies) adorable. 

Though we have squirrels, chipmunks, deer and even the occasional raccoon and skunk in these parts, rabbits are rare. Which gives them a luster — and a free pass — that other creatures lack.

Were the bunny to procreate, though (which bunnies are wont to do), he might lose a lot of his charm.

Growing Family

Growing Family

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At my house, the longest day passed in a blur of baby giggles, burgers and corn on the cob. Not the most elegant Father’s Day repast, but one suited to young families.

These days are golden, and when the last toy is collected and stuffed into the diaper bag, and the cars disappear down the street, I’m left marveling, as I always do, at how our family has grown.

It will always be miraculous to me, which is, I suppose, how it should be.

(The elephant ear family is growing, too.) 
Empty Tables

Empty Tables

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There’s a mournful tune from the musical Les Miserables, “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,” that describes the way I’m feeling about our bird feeder today, closed at the request of numerous local authorities in response to reports of sick and dying birds in the area.

Birds flock to feeders and spread the disease as they eat. Removing the feeders removes at least one source of contagion.

But it also removes the pushing and the preening, the darting and the chirping. It takes away the front row seat we have on avian life and the chaotic, swooping joy of it.

A downy woodpecker just landed, hopped on the deck railing, then flew away. A few minutes later, a confused chickadee perched on the bird feeder pole, gave a forlorn chirp, then zoomed off to a nearby azalea bush.

I know it’s for their own good,  but I miss the critters … and I like to think they’re missing us.

Love Bites?

Love Bites?

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Skin: For so much of the year it’s just there, boon and barrier, boundary between world and self. 

In winter it may chap or dry, nothing lotions can’t handle. But in summer, ah, in summer — well, I forget every year that I’m not the only one who likes to be outside all day and into that evening, that there are skeeters and spiders and no-see-ums that leave their marks.

In time (starting day before yesterday!), I’ll spray on repellent if I venture beyond the deck. But up until then I’ve weeded and bounced and walked with springtime abandon, forgetting that the insects are out there too, biting and stinging their way into summer. As a result, I’ve been making liberal use of the hydrocortisone cream. 

On the other hand …  it’s finally warm. My sweaters are packed away with cedar balls.  I don’t exactly love the bites — but they’re worth it.  

(Photo of cicadas, which do not bite but which may confuse your arm or leg for a tree trunk.)

Japanese Garden

Japanese Garden

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As May gallops to a close, I’m immersing myself once again in the calm oasis of Portland’s Japanese garden. Yes, it’s 2,800 miles away now, but I have it right up here in my noggin, sloshing around with today’s to-do list and other trivia.

It wasn’t difficult to take decent photos at the garden. Everywhere I pointed my phone camera was a beautifully framed shot. From artfully raked gravel plots to gently cascading waterfalls. 

That’s because, in a Japanese garden, beauty is cultivated most of all. 

Margaret’s Garden

Margaret’s Garden

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Years ago, there was an iris and day lily farm a few miles from here. Gardeners would flock to the farm this time of year to enjoy the blossoms and perhaps buy a few bulbs, which would be delivered weeks later in a brown paper bag. 

Margaret Thomas was the gardener. She was a relic of the old days, of small farms and neighborliness. She lived in a green house with a picturesque shed out back, half falling down. Artists would set up their easels in her garden and paint the iris with the ruined shed in the background. 

Our Siberian iris come from Margaret, and though they share the garden with their showier cousins, they are the ones that catch my eye every spring, their delicate beauty I seek when winter’s done. 

As for Margaret’s garden, it’s now a subdivision: Iris Hills. 

Weed Whisperer

Weed Whisperer

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It’s the golden season for weeding, a precious period before the arrival of stilt grass and the more noxious undergrowth, when I can (and do) plop myself down and gently remove the crabgrass, wild strawberries and dandelions from the periwinkle and forget-me-nots.   

Weeding at close range can be a meditative occupation. It feels less like banishing what I don’t want and more like welcoming what I do. It is garden shaping rather than green demolition. And it’s a chance to be part of the landscape, one with the clematis and creeping jenny and bleeding heart.

Before long the tenacious troublemakers will move in, the invasive grasses that seem bent on making the world their own and require a full-scale assault to stop them. But until they do, just call me the weed whisperer.

They’re Back!

They’re Back!

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The hummingbirds are back! Once again, for at least the fourth time, exactly on April 28. Where have they been?  And how do they make their way from other climes and latitudes right back to this suburban backyard?  I don’t understand them — and perhaps that is part of their charm.

Seeing them again — at first just a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye — completes the season in a way no blooming tree or flower can. 

Because these tiny creatures aren’t rooted here; they return voluntarily. And they bring with them the jewel tones of the tropics, a whiff of the faraway.

(The photo is my own, but not from this year. And because it’s a female, not as jewel-toned.)

Petal Storm

Petal Storm

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A wild wind blew in from the west yesterday, bending the bamboo and sending Kwanzan cherry petals flying over grass and street. 

It was a veritable petal storm, as the wind continued through the night and into today, sending overnight temperatures below freezing and forcing us to bring in the few plants we’d set outside. 

I’m telling myself that it’s only a temporary retreat. Spring is on the march this Earth Day, and it will persevere in the end.  Until then, I’m watching the petals as they fly. At least they’re not snowflakes. 

A Triumph

A Triumph

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I’m writing this on the deck, pushing it a little since the thermometer says it’s 44 , but doing it anyway because it’s so gorgeous out here that I don’t want to be inside. 

The grass is bright green and striped with shadows from the still-low sun. The trees have their earliest leaves, tender and golden. 

The azaleas have burst into bloom — the lavender one along the back of the house, the bifurcated pink one beside the trampoline, and the fuchsia one in the middle of the garden — a mistake in terms of landscaping but a triumph from the azalea’s point of view. 

Knowing how rare such moments of perfection are, I plan to sit here a moment, sip my tea and be grateful for every bit of birdsong.