Feeding the Wild Beasts

People rarely become addicted to anything overnight. It starts slowly and builds. That is how my addiction to feeding the birds came into being.

I can no longer recall the exact sequence of events. I do not know when I discovered the Wild Bird House store (my "dealer"), but it all started with a cheap hummingbird feeder that attached to the window by a suction cup. Living in a 1970's double-wide had its perks: the windows opened out and were easily accessible from the front porch. I could easily maintain the feeder with minimal effort, and I could sit comfortably in my living room enjoying a marvelous up-close-and-personal view of the birds.  That particular feeder had a serious design flaw that I discovered - repeatedly! One of the hooks that held the entire thing together would inevitably break when I tried to reassemble it after cleaning. After paying for at least three of those models, it occurred to me to buy a different style. (I do not easily adapt.) By the time I bought the third feeder, I am sure I was spending my money in The Wild Bird House.  

The WBH is dedicated to the back yard bird enthusiast, selling high quality bird seed mixed for the various types of birds you wish to attract. The seed is fresh, clean, non-GMO and of the highest quality. The "house mix" smells good enough to eat, and that is not an exaggeration.

I graduated from hummingbirds in the summer to feeding the wild birds in the winter thanks to the WBH. At first I was only spreading the seed on the ground in front of my house. I could sit by the front windows and watch the birds for hours. It does not take long before word gets around the neighborhood. Everybody is coming in for a bite!

From my close vantage point, I learned to identify about a dozen new (to me) species of birds. I observed that the handsome little titmice, with a top knot just like the jays and cardinals, are as fearless as the hummingbirds. Whenever blue jays arrive for the cracked corn, everyone else clears out - except for the little titmice. They swoop down, grab a kernel right from under a jay, then zip to a tree where they hold the corn against the branch to peck it into smaller pieces. They are the cutest little fellows!

I saw for myself the reason why the dove is considered the bird of peace. Even if a group of blue jays is commandeering the feeding ground, when a dove arrives everyone calms down and shares both space and food as if by magic.

I think my favorites are the little round juncos. They always travel in a little flock and they are absolutely the most industrious of all the birds. They are the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night, coming and going all day. They thoroughly comb the entire area for every little speck of food. They make the most lyrical small whistling among themselves while waiting for me to refill the containers.

The next stage in my addiction came when I purchased a small, two-perch nyger seed feeder for the American goldfinches. It was a six-inch long clear tube that had to be refilled every single day. Addictions always escalate! Just this year I purchased a finch feeder that is about 24" long and have started filling it with nyger mixed with tiny pieces of sunflower seeds. The flurry of activity around that feeder every day is amazing!

I could write forever about the observations I have made but the point of this entry in my magnificent blog is to relate how I became a wild bird feeding junkie. As I say, it started with the hummingbirds and then became a small amount of mixed seeds tossed on the ground in winter. Eventually, I was buying 50 pound bags of bird seed, just like the feed for the horses and the chickens. Then I added the nyger seeds for the gold finches. When I noticed rabbits were coming in at night, I added cracked corn for them. Here is how I know I am a full blown junkie: I am deliberately feeding squirrels now. The WBH sells a mixture for the squirrels - peanuts in the shell, huge sunflower seeds, and large whole kernels of golden corn.

As you can imagine, none of this is exactly cheap. The worst part of it is that the trees (spared specifically to shelter the winter bird feeding activities) are actually too far from the new house for me to even recognize the smaller birds, which is why I spend way too much money on those pesky squirrels. I can clearly see them from the front office windows.

I was buying cracked corn from the farm store for the rabbits and the blue jays. It was about $7 for 50 pounds of stale, dusty, and most likely GMO corn. If it is not GMO, it is surely grown in soil sprayed with tons of herbicides. The WBH knows its addicts! Yes, they also sell cracked corn - non-GMO, fresh, clean and in "designer" feed bags! It is $13 a bag, plus Topeka's 9% sales tax!!! (Oh my God!) None of that matters to an addict...

Designer feedbags!  Feedbags are a fact of life in Kansas but when have you seen any as fancy as this?

It is as clean as Orville Redenbacher's popcorn!

These have nothing to do with this subject.  I just wanted to record for posterity my homemade yeast rolls.  My Grandma would be so proud.

Learning to Meditate

For over five years I have been taking advantage of a series of meditation classes and book study with a teacher who lives "just down the road" - that is, about ten miles distant. I am not very disciplined to meditate every day though I have meditated enough that I have noticed some of the emotional and mental benefits of it. The most intriguing thing about meditation has been the merging of two interests: quantum physics and those major existential questions I have lain awake pondering my entire life.

I do not pretend to understand quantum physics. I have only read layman's explanation books for the theory of relativity and for quantum physics. I do not hope to ever understand but it is fun to attempt to understand. Little did I know those books were actually laying the groundwork for an entirely new synthesis of thought born into the world via the tragic Chinese invasion of Tibet. The knowledge of centuries of sustained Buddhist inquiry fleeing the genocide unavoidably met with Western science, thus providing a dizzying array of validations for what the Buddhists already knew.

It is far too complicated and I am certainly not qualified to explain any of it. There are excellent, well written books by numerous exiled Buddhist monks who have learned English and have focused their well trained, analytical minds on the findings of Western science in various disciplines. Perhaps this is the new road for humanity - a new vision born of two schools of incredibly disciplined inquiry into the reality of, well... reality. Consciousness and the nature of reality. Maybe there is still hope for us.

"No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path." Buddha

Probabilities

I spend so much time alone driving in my car that I believe I have examined my life from every angle at least ten times over. Much of the inspiration for my poetry occurs when I observe something in passing, or when my mind wanders toward a different view point regarding something I may have relentlessly turned in my mind for years/hundreds of miles. I can often find a better way to think and feel toward someone I have had a dispute or misunderstanding with. Occasionally I reach the inevitable conclusion that I am a total asshole. Most often I find it to be that the other person is an exceedingly outrageous and egregious asshole. (I am simply sharing a few of the outcomes of my vehicular musings here.)

From the driver's seat I have witnessed amazing weather events or other natural spectacles, some of which I have either written about or posted photos here. I had never seen a fogbow nor even knew such a phenomenon existed until I witnessed it first hand one brilliantly lit winter morning travelling north on Vera Road. I photographed the largest flock of migrating geese I have even seen, happened upon because I chose to drive home a different way that evening. It was mere chance that I was at the right place and right time to witness both amazing events. What are the laws of probability that govern such moments in any one's life? I think about such things driving.

So, the idea of probability leads to the evening I came to halt at a major Topeka intersection due to a red light. I noticed two identical cars side by side in front of me. I had to time to examine the cars in every detail. They were both white Hondas, apparently the exact same year and model. The only differences were the dealer's identification on the rear trunk. I remember thinking to myself, what are the odds that I would be stopped behind two absolutely identical cars in a small city like Topeka? I thought the odds would be good that I would stop behind two very similar cars but significantly longer odds to stop behind cars exact in every observable detail, sold by dealers in two different states.

I likely would have forgotten about this small coincidence by the time I got home that evening but about one mile later, I came to a stop at another intersection behind two identical black cars. Not only were the black cars also identical in every single observable detail, they were the mirror images of the two white cars I had just noticed a few traffic stops ago. What would the odds be of that happening, I wondered? What are the probabilities of two identical cars being at the same stop light, side by side? Probably not astronomically high. But what are the odds I would observe four identical cars, two white and two black, on that day, at that time, in Topeka, Kansas? If that could happen, does that mean I have a good chance to win the big lottery?

The extent of my probability education arrived and departed in one of the interminable math classes I suffered through in high school. Remember the old white socks/black socks in a drawer lesson? Yeah, me neither.

Facebook Makes First Positive Contribution!

Some weeks ago, I saw a Facebook post of a very clever idea to build winter shelters for feral cats. It involved placing a styrofoam cooler inside a plastic tub, cutting an entry through both, then stuffing with hay. It is the only time I can think of when Facebook served a genuinely useful purpose in my life.

Because there simply are not enough chickens to defend their territory, the chicken coop has been co-opted by black snakes in the summer and now by pack rats in the winter. I evicted a pack rat last year by raking out his huge nest of leaves and sticks and leaving the big door wide open. I tried to do that with this new tenant but he is not deterred. He diligently gathers up his scattered nest material and rebuilds it overnight! The disturbance does not bother him in the least. Consequently, the last surviving little hen will not use the coop. She spends her nights perching on the Dr. Seuss structure I constructed in the early days of Chickenry at Spiritcreek.

If I forcibly remove the pack rat, he will surely build his nest beneath the hood of my car. This happens often in the winter and causes hundreds of dollars worth of damage. It cost $300 to replace a valve that controls air into the fuel system last spring. I assume the rat also caused the digital temperature to read a perpetual 50 external degrees as well. I have no heart to trap or kill or poison the rat. He has as much right to his life on this earth as I have to mine.  I admire his industry. Every single leaf I raked out of the coop has been retrieved from the ground around the coop and placed back into his nest.

The night temperatures have started to fall below freezing now, and I have been worrying about shelter for the little hen. Enter Facebook. I could construct an insulated cooler house for her. In fact, that would be even better than the poor tiny little thing trying to stay warm in the relatively cavernous coop!

I made a trip to Topeka to buy a styrofoam cooler. Per the First Law of Dumbassery (failure to measure equals another trip to town) it was one inch too tall to fit inside the blue storage tub already on hand. Cutting the cooler down to size made a huge, irritating mess of statically charged styrofoam crumbs. I shored up the raw edges with my trusty duct tape (famously called "hundred mile an hour tape" by my Reser cousins from Barton County).  I packed the empty spaces with loosely crumpled newspaper, taped the two openings together, stuffed the interior with some of Ginger's hay, and voila: chicken shelter extraordinaire! I roped it to the Dr Seuss perch and it seems sturdy enough to not crash in a hard wind. It makes a cozy little nest for the poor little hen!

If I were to build this again, and I might have to, I would find a better fit to avoid damaging the styrofoam so the lid would fit snugly. I would also screw the storage bin lid on with four screws and use a drill to make holes along the bottom for drainage. I also do not know how well the hundred mile an hour tape will hold up, but I have a huge supply of that on hand at all times because the Second Law of Dumbassery states duct tape is the strong force binding the dumbass universe.

High Rise for the last chicken

It is ugly but serviceable.

The Mining Progresses

Strip mined across the entire frame.

Most of it is in a draw that runs to the north.

A little better idea of the true destruction.

Roughly the same view to give you before and after.

Though it is "reversible", it is still difficult to see.

A little closer.

It is difficult to judge the height of these mounds of disturbed earth.

Looking back north east.

Irritating Lumps of Biomass

Sometimes it does not matter what is going on in the world, everything makes me grumpy. Ginger, my bossy little mare, is the same way.

Last night at feeding time for the equine residents of my little "funny farm", Ginger was in a mood. Jake the dumb dog (who already knows better, having been repeatedly schooled by Wally scaring the bejeezus out of him) was right in the mix of galloping horses. Horses often take a warning stance before they kick the snot out of you, but if you are a dog like Jake, it is a wasted courtesy.

Ginger pointed her rear end toward Jake in warning and I tried to call him away from danger. He just stood there like the lump of irritating dog mass that he is. Kaboom! Oh, I thought Jake was dead. Ginger kicked again and he started yelping in pain and crawling on his belly. As it turned out, she must not have connected with him because he was fine - frightened but fine. While I was very happy he was not damaged, it was irritating that he was such a dummy!

Then there is the cable installation crews that have been installing flexible pipe for fiber optics service from the independent company that provides my phone and internet service. They sent their best ambassador to my home to "man 'splain" they would be boring from the road down to my service pole. I wanted to make sure they realized they would be boring across the ditch holding the electric line, water line and existing phone line to my home. It snakes randomly across my ill-defined "yard".  I do not know how some men do it, but they simply ooze condescension and patronizing bullshit. Come here, fellows - I would like to introduce you to the ass-end of a grumpy little quarter horse mare. She will school you on proper respect for the females of all species.

Some days I have little tolerance for the male gender's general failings - when men insist on being a lump of irritating human mass. (I am entirely aware that the female gender also has failings but we are not talking about that right now, are we?) After the perfunctory lecture from the boring company man, I consoled myself recalling that a scant fortnight ago, I was struggling to change my flat tire in the parking lot of Stuckys. One lady, not in much better condition than me, helped unhook the spare from beneath the Ford. The rest I was doing myself until I got to the world's most worthless car jack provided by engineers employed by Ford Motor Company. Probably all men engineers, I cussed to myself as I struggled with that piece of junk.

A truck full of men pulled in next to me. There were huge tool boxes on both sides of the truck. They would have a real jack! As they exited the cab, I asked if they had a jack I could borrow. They all looked at each other as if I had asked them for money, and for a second I thought they were going to be mere lumps of irritating human biomass of the male gender. Instead, they were hard working men at the end of a long day's work, who happened to speak English as a second language. Maybe they were not sure what I was asking because as they quickly sized up the situation, they said to me, "We will help you, M'am". For some reason, I almost started crying. There was so much kindness in that simple statement. I had wrestled with everything for a half hour, in a dress, while at least a dozen men came and went at the gas pumps. I was pretty sure people were getting a horrible view of my rear end as I bent over the rear deck of the SUV to unload the jack - when I crawled under the back bumper to lift the lowered spare off the dangling cable - while I struggled mightily to break loose the lug nuts - while I crawled under the side of the SUV in a futile attempt to place that worthless jack. The young men took over the whole operation and had the tire changed and the flat in the back in less than five minutes. I tried to pay them but they refused. An older gentleman remained in the truck, smoking, who could not speak any English. He would not take the cash I offered either.

"We will help you, M'am." The kindness of strangers. I concede: we can all be lumps of irritating biomass at times, but not all the time.

Halloween

Shamelessly used without permission from the Englishkitchen.blogspot.com

I sometimes wonder how Halloween came to be a children's holiday in America. Death is no laughing matter! We are all going there sooner or later so would it not make sense to have a little respect for it, for our departed ancestors? Cultures far older than ours respect those who come before. Not in America. There are no such things as ghosts, or whangdoodles, or other ethereal entities. Of course, I beg to differ.

I have been plagued with ghosts and ghostly activity my entire life. If they cannot get to me during waking hours, then they sometimes chase me through my dreams. Just the other night I dreamed of my mother. She and I were holding hands but then a ghost grabbed my hand and would not let go. I knew I had to shout the word "NO!" aloud to convince the ghost to let go of my hand. In the dream I could not speak but I kept valiantly trying until, with all of my willpower gathered in the pit of my stomach, I shouted "NO" and woke myself up.

It was not a frightening dream and after I shouted myself awake, I thought it was funny. Like every human being ever born, I wondered what the hell that was all about, especially considering my mother is technically a ghost, too. Perhaps when they visit us here they seem like ghosts, and when we visit in their dimension we seem as ghosts there. Maybe some unfortunate spirit on the other side thought I was a ghost and was trying to rid its space of me, a most uncooperative entity.

I know that in some cultures, All Saints Eve is the one night of the year when the veil is thinnest and those on the other side can easily visit. I am confused if the veil is thinnest after midnight October 30, or at midnight October 31? Or is it all 24 hours of Halloween? I have not received a visit from anyone on Halloween yet. Given my family's aversion to any sort of holiday travel due to the crush of crowds, it does not surprise me. Better to wait until the crowds thin, for an off day to visit.

In honor of  Halloween, I humbly offer one of my true ghost stories:

Years ago, when my son was a little boy, I took wood carving lessons from a husband and wife team. She was the artist and carver, and he hand-made fine wood carving tools. Their studio was a small two-story house only a couple of blocks from my house. They had turned their interests into a wonderful business. Once a week during the winter months I took carving lessons. It was one of the most enjoyable experiences! Everyone, mostly old people (I SAID it was YEARS ago), sat at tables arranged in a big U, carving and bullshitting for two hours once a week. Bullshitting is the scientifically correct and appropriate term for the wonderful ebb and flow of companionable conversation that occurs when carving. I came to love those old people and their wonderful sense of humor and patience and graceful acceptance of life.

The house I lived in at the time was haunted and the activity was quite blatant and troubling but I did not dare to bring that up for fear of ridicule from these fine older people. Inevitably, ghosts came up in the conversation one evening. A woman shared that her father had been working at her house when he died instantly of a heart attack. She explained that her father's spirit continued to visit her and made himself known to her in various ways. Predictably, everyone guffawed and disbelieved, not very charitably I might add. Except for me. I knew exactly what she was talking about because similar things happened in my house all the time! In her defense I shared my experiences and received the same treatment from our carving peers. The discussion lasted until it was clear that ten people were true disbelievers and two people were true nuts. The conversation naturally came to an end and in the silence I heard someone walking upstairs.

In all the months I had attended class in that little house, there had never been anyone upstairs. The owners did not live in the house. The rooms the woodcarving business did not occupy were used as storage for all manner of other things and were filled to the brim. I assumed the upstairs was the same. I was so surprised to hear footsteps, to clearly hear someone walking across the floor, that I quickly looked at the owners. They gave no indication whatsoever that anything was out of the ordinary. I looked around at every other person in the room. Not a single other person acted as if they were aware of the loud footsteps. We had been together as a class for over two years and not one other single time had there ever been a sound from upstairs. There was no outside staircase on the house, so if someone lived up there we would have unavoidably heard them open doors or walk up the steps. We would have heard someone before and we would have heard someone after that night. I waited for someone else to acknowledge the unmistakable footsteps across the old wooden floors over our heads but no one even looked up from their carving. After a few minutes, the conversation picked up again, the footsteps ceased and I never again heard someone upstairs during class.

I told my brother that story. He said he thought some people see or hear things others cannot see or hear. Maybe so.