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| Mitty (L) and Cuddles (R) watch a male robin defend his territory |
The
season of the red-breasted robin calls our curiosity to the dining room window
with a crash against the glass.
The bird’s instinct to protect his territory causes such
bizarre behavior. He thinks his reflection is his foe. And his show’s running
on two weeks now.
Mitty and Cuddles sit captivated before the window with
whiskers upward, tail curling at the tip. Their carnivorous instinct sees a
bird under their paw.
Poor kitties. At the sound of a hit, they run to the
window and watch as long as the bird persists.
For several previous springtides, cardinal males
dominated the upper branches of the same white pine. Meaning, for weeks the
cardinal fought his reflection in the bedroom window upstairs. Now, the male
robin claims the lower branches for his family’s nest.
Mitty’s patience astounds me, watching
the robin without a blink. Cuddles is the first to capitulate and take a long
nap. It’s less effort to dream about catching a bird.
I’m with Cuddles in one respect:
the robin show is old.
I’d rather be outside weeding, planting, pruning, and spraying
fruit trees. Tracing birdcalls and songs to bluebird boxes and fen.
Burning piles of yard waste to tidy up the back forty.
Planting another magnolia tree to accompany my Mother’s Day magnolia from last
year.
And yes, the gratification of green garlic stems
poking through oak leaves contrasts with woodpecker and carpenter bee damage
done to the pavilion’s soffit.
There’s always something to do, and I’m glad of it.
For I remember the unsettled years of 1970 to 1975.
Mel and I wandered with our two babies to rentals in Bay City, Rosebush, Clawson,
Westland, and Warren before we purchased our first home in Berkley.
Never did I think of pulling one weed, planting a
flower, or harvesting a basket full of homegrown asparagus until we moved into
our little bungalow on Cummings Street.
There, our little backyard called my name. Changed my
life.
That’s where I met Burt on the south side of our
fence, Bud on the opposite, and their impeccable landscapes. Burt spent one
summer tapping white bricks into a meticulous border along his prolific rose
garden.
Tap, tap, tap, while my girls played in the sandbox, swung on the
swing, and swam in the swimming pool.
Inspired by Burt’s roses and Bud’s vegetables, I mail-ordered
one bare-root Tropicana hybrid tea and asparagus crowns from Jackson &
Perkins. While waiting for their arrival, per directions on the morning glory
seed package, I ran a serrated knife across the seeds and soaked them twenty-four
hours before planting.
My goodness! What fertile earth! Those blue morning
glories draped the fence we shared with Bud.
“Berkley was once a bog,” he said one day over the
fence. “We can grow anything.”
Dear Reader, I remember the asparagus ferns taller
than Burt, the tangy scent of my Tropicana rose, her slips my neighbors took
home to propagate under a quart canning jar.
I remember their instinct to grow.
