Thursday, June 1, 2017

First Fawn



There's a new resident of the fields and forests of Ozark County, and at our place, it's the first fawn of the year. We saw it a week ago, on what was probably its first day on the planet, a tiny thing with spindly legs, sticking to its mother like a teenager to her cellphone.




In one week, it's grown a lot and gained a little independence...




...and a lot of curiosity. Every blade of grass is a wonder to the small creature. 
Come to think of it, every blade of grass is a wonder.




This spotted adventurer can change direction in a hurry when its mother signals "dinner time".




It flies like an arrow out of a bow...




...back to its mother's side.

Life is good.



Note: In the images with 2 fawns, they are not twins, but blended photos of the same fawn.


Linking with Saturday's Critters

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Mother's Prayers




Our first roses are blooming, just in time for Mother's Day. This bush rose is Crown Princess Margareta. I cut one rose today and put it in a vase on the kitchen table, and the fragrance is exquisite.

I'm posting this Saturday night and hoping tomorrow at church we don't sing that Mother's Day song, If I Could Only Hear My Mother Pray Again. Not that it isn't a lovely song. I can usually manage to get through the first verse dry-eyed, but by the second verse I'm reaching for a kleenex, and by the third, it's all over for me. Why is it that the good memories are the ones that make us cry? 

My Mother would talk to God about everything. She expected Him to answer her, and He did. When I was in the fifth grade, our family moved from Washington State to Northern California, and I missed my old school and friends. When waves of homesickness washed over me at night, Mom was by my bedside, praying for me, and singing in her clear, sweet voice,
Oh, how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day; 
So when life seems dark and dreary,
Don't forget to pray.
It wasn't long until I had adapted to my new environment and made friends, and when I think of my childhood home, it's usually the California home I think of.

Mom talked to God about the dress I desperately wanted for Christmas one year, when new dresses weren't in the budget. She didn't mention it to anyone else, but shortly before Christmas, there was a package in the mail with the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. It was an off-white, A-line with bell shaped sleaves and lace. It was my size, of course, and brand new, from a cousin who didn't want it, but for me, it was perfect. 

When something got lost at our house, Mom prayed about it, because, she said, God knew exactly where it was. If it didn't show up right away, it did when we needed it. She prayed for her neighbors and her friends, and everybody at church, and she prayed for her kids. She prayed for her kids a lot.

If prayers are like a sweet fragrance to God, I like to think that my Mother's prayers haven't dissipated over time, as roses do, but continue on, wafting their perfume from the kitchen table in heaven.


First posted on May 7, 2011

Sunday, May 7, 2017

Send a Moses


A knot tightened in my stomach as I stood next to our pickup in the crowded hospital parking lot. It was in a tight spot, and as I watched an endless stream of cars detour around us, I searched the faces of the passersby, praying fervently that God would send help our way. 

It had been a long day. My husband, Don, was scheduled for shoulder replacement surgery the following day in St. Louis. We had set out from our small town in the Ozarks that morning before first light. We calculated that we could make it to St. Louis in 5 hours and arrive with plenty of time before the rush hour. We got our first indication of how well that plan would work not far from home. The clouds opened, and the rain came pouring down, beating like drumsticks on the top of the truck, creating small rivers on the pavement, and sending waterfalls gushing out from the tires. With limited visibility and our windshield wipers on full blast, we slowed to a crawl. Fortunately, our Tundra, with its new tires, seemed perfectly happy. It plowed through the water like a hippopotamus crossing the Nile.

Near St. Louis, 1-44 was closed due to flooding. A detour led us through the verdant green countryside along 2-lane back roads toward the city. We traveled in procession with the other vehicles that would usually have been on the interstate, including a slew of 18-wheelers strung together like boxcars on a railroad track. Our trip would have been quicker by pony express.

When we finally crawled into St. Louis, it was the rush hour, the cords of our necks were taut from tension, and we were numb with exhaustion. We located the hospital and pulled into the parking lot. All we wanted to do was find our hotel adjoining the hospital, grab a bite to eat and get some sleep. But first, there was the matter of parking. The crowded hospital parking lot looked daunting to a couple of country folk, but we had no idea what a trap it would become.

In our rural county, where most residents drive pickup trucks, the parking spaces provide ample room between the lines. However, in St. Louis, it was as if the fabric of the parking lot had been thrown into the dryer, shrinking the lines too tight to fit our wide truck. Don navigated the lot, spiraling up from one level to the next, searching for an empty spot that would accommodate us. He finally headed into one space between a black down-sized pickup and a Mini Cooper, which, next to our beast, looked more like a ladybug than a car.

With the truck halfway into the parking space, I clamored out to better look at the available room. But, basically, there wasn't any room at all. Moving forward one inch would squash the ladybug, and backing out would put a long gash on the black pickup, not to mention the Tundra. It was as if the jaws of a trap had closed around us.

Don had graduated at the top of his class with a master's degree in business and aced courses in math and language. Somehow, he missed the class that covered the finer points of large-vehicle maneuvering. I was no help, being even more challenged in that arena than he was. Half in and half out of the parking space, we felt paralyzed and reluctant to move. People in the car behind us assumed we were leaving and waited for our spot while a string of cars formed in their wake. I knew many drivers and passengers were on tight schedules, and I imagined them seething with impatience. I signaled for the first car to go around us and positioned myself to wave them on whenever the line stalled. Whenever the traffic started to thin out, 5 more cars appeared around the corner. We were hoping that when we made our move, it would be without a large audience. My mathematical husband was already mentally tallying up the damage to two vehicles and hoping it wasn't three. Externally, I was waving the traffic on, but inside I was praying as hard as I knew how.

One car paused in the procession, and through the window, a young man with a kind face mouthed the words, "Do you want help?" I nodded vigorously, hoping he could see the desperation in my eyes. He pulled over and parked his small car out of the line of traffic. Unfolding himself from the driver's seat, he walked toward us. He took charge of the situation,  giving Don some slight steering corrections that made the trap spring open. In minutes, the truck was out, free and unscathed.

Years ago, in our country church, one of our friends used to sing a song entitled "My Lord will send a Moses." It relates how God sent Moses to lead the Israelites out of Egypt and how God does the same for us in our time of need.

After our rescue last week, Don asked the young man for his card. He shrugged as he replied, "It was nothing." Then he climbed into his car and drove away with a wave of his hand. We didn't even get his name. But we think there's a good chance that it starts with an M.

Friday, April 28, 2017

Rockabye Baby


Early yesterday morning, as the sun emerged from the clouds over the horizon, the four note song of the Carolina Chickadee drifted through our window. The little birds looked as if they were doing their morning calisthenics, hopping from branch to branch. Only later did I wonder if their activity was a birth announcement.




They are nesting in a birdhouse located in the old dogwood tree near the front of our house. 
There is a quick glance out the door...




...before they take flight.




My first hint that the nestlings had hatched was when I saw the diaper disposal.
 Carolina Chickadees are very neat.


Carolina Chickadees in nest


Both parents feed the nestlings, and several minutes elapses between each feeding, so, like a bank robber timing the alarms, I calculated that I could get a look before the parents returned. As soon as one of the parents flew away, I set up a ladder, opened the hinged roof, and took a quick snapshot. In and out in 60 seconds.

At this point, the most predominant feature of the nestlings is their mouths, and considering how tightly the birds are packed in the nest and how quickly they get fed, it's good that the parents have big targets. The nestling's unopened eyes are only bumps on their heads and a few tiny feathers indicate their wings. Their are at least eight of them, and possibly one or two more.

Today we noticed that the branch that supports the birdhouse is rotten, and since rain and high winds are forecasted for tomorrow, we trussed the birdhouse up to a sturdier branch, while one of the parents looked patiently on.

We hope they sleep well as the wind rocks their cradle. We'll sleep better knowing that they're secure.


Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday




Friday, March 31, 2017

Stay Off the Menu


yellow wooly bear caterpillar


To the Virginian Tiger Moth on our front porch:

I remember last autumn, when you were a Yellow Wooly Bear caterpillar gorging on the plants in our flowerbed. Maybe you knew you'd be on a diet all winter. When your appetite was satisfied, you set out on the longest journey of your short life, trudging across the patio bricks with a purpose. You scaled the porch step, slogged across the porch, and climbed up the window frame all the way to the top.




There you found your perfect niche, and you constructed a fuzzy winter home.


Virginian tiger moth


This week, I noticed that the front of your dwelling had been opened, and that's when I saw you, 
pristine white, clothed in your miniature ermine coat. 


tree frog on window


You probably thought you'd chosen a safe place to rest, but I have a warning for you. On rainy nights, the green tree frogs that you hear singing from the pond sneak up to the porch to dine on creatures like you who are attracted by the house lights.

It's raining tonight. But don't worry, we'll leave the lights off for you.


Linking with Saturday's Critters