Gosh . . . .

Still here . . . .


Just a little preoccupied . .



You good people. I've not read my comments for a month. Thank you. Thank you. Things have been a little rocky and then whilst on Cape Cod my computer gave up the ghost after my shoulder 'went'.

Long story short: the Cipro for the GI business caused a tendon rupture. Please know that I know that despite the bod's infirmities - I am blessed, blessed, blessed. And now I'm afraid of being a bore, bore, bore as my shoulder issue becomes the center of the universe.

You are missed. You are wonderful. Wishing you a sun-drenched August, soft summer evenings, lightning bugs and all the languid, joyous things you dreamed of last winter.

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Sweet June

Nuff said?


















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Purge-atory

Oh my friends - if you could hear the rumblings. Tomorrow is roto-rooter day. One bottle of Fleets Phospho Soda down and one to go. And I do mean go.

Step back in time with me when this blog spouted poetry and pictures. Remember the romps through indignation and delight, memory and mischief.

Now you are consigned to the complaints of an aging alimentary canal.

But after tomorrow and what I'm sure will be a clean-bill-of-health (with caveats) - I'll be up like the rosebuds (clematis, actually) high on the vine in my front yard and back to visit your merry blogs.

Seriously. Your kind and supportive comments mean more than I can say. Thank you, dear friends.

UPDATE: It's over. Wooohee. The prep was a cinch . . . the procedure . . . well I was one of the lucky ones who get a 'spasm' - the joys of which are fairly similar to childbirth replete with vomiting.
BOTTOM LINE (Har!) : No cancer, but facing life with a crabby gut and the great desire not to bore the snot out of people with the further adventures of Cathy's GI issues. You are all the greatest!

Isn't It Romantic? Not!

Before I finally succumbed to the 'thing' - I snapped this Tundra Swan.


My last day birding I spotted this female yellow-headed blackbird.



A black-throated blue warbler sporting a different look.


To those of you who wander back to this abandoned little outpost in northwest Ohio - my sincere gratitude and apologies that your journeys have been for naught.

I know you've all heard of that tombstone in the Florida Keys that reads: "I told you I was sick".

Well. Mercy me. Now I have an answer as to why I just didn't feel good. It took a really miserable event to land me in the emergency room and into a CT to determine that the old gray mare has developed (I'm whispering this now) diverticulitis.

So more drugs and procedures are scheduled whilst I lie here behaving myself on bland food. I will not even create a link to this condition. Just don't get it. Ick.

Meanwhile the spring migration of warblers is passing over my head and I'm not on the lake to celebrate with the other birders. Poor me.

Actually, I'm just so grateful to have a diagnosis that I'm not indulging in a major pity party. It's OK to be on the receiving end of TLC. Really OK :0)

Hope all is well with you. Happy Spring. Happy Birding.

Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water

Spring has been a little slow arriving.


It's a cliche, but no less, true: It's always darkest before the dawn.



It's the smiles of others that can bring you around. (Particularly if you're out for Woodcock viewing)


The sweet face of my grand-niece, Katie - makes me smile.



The promise of spring is found in the humblest places.



My front yard ducks bring a smile.



Or a sweet niece and nephew lending a hand to their ma and pa.



There's always someone or something out there to help launch your spirits.


Sometimes all you need to do is lift your hat and look around.

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Curiouser and Curiouser

My Double Bloodroot

Seems I'm shifting gears rather sluggishly, this spring.
I was spurred to post today because a curious thing occurred. Someone read my letter to the editor in the Wall Street Journal and moved by my "uncommon common sense" - sent me a book. Now imagine that: $15.00 plus postage to a stranger.

It's Mark Cahill's One Heartbeat Away. The query on the back cover asks: Is that all there is? This life and nothing more? It's a call to come to faith.

Well. Having spent too many hours in the last two days, sending comments to all the venues covering the Aliza Shvarts horror - and wrestling with that grubby little cloud in my head . . . well, I found the timing rather interesting.

I know that a few of my blogging buddies are people of faith. I've envied them that certainty.

I've not dropped by any of your blogs, recently, and hope that you're all so busy 'springin' that I'm not missing too much. In following the Shvarts story I followed an eloquent statement to Julie's blog, A Work in Progress. I needed the respite.

Anyhoo. Wishing you sunshine and puddles of daffodils and magnolia petals drifting down into green green lawns. I've cracked the door. The air is soft.

UPDATE:

A couple of you inquired about my WSJ letter. I was compelled to respond to a March 26 front page article about the increasing violence in black funeral parlors: "Deadly Business: Violence Roils Black Funeral Parlors". It really made me nuts because it dodged some of the very real problems confronting the black community and tried to correlate violence in black funeral parlor to the the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq. Huh?

Here's the wee bit of my letter they printed in their April 3 Letters To The Editor section:

May I suggest that the experts take a look at the entertainment culture?
How can one seriously wring one’s hands about the killing and turn a blind eye to the insidious, pernicious message from the dark world of much of gangsta rap music? The eulogies will continue and the fear and blood will not abate as long as we avert our faces from the corrosive effect of that part of the black youth culture.

Re-emergence

The sun is back.



The Robins are back and singing despite the snow.


Two weeks ago I saw these tracks and knew my possum had stirred from under the shed.



Sure enough. There she is. Awwwww . . .(Really, she is there - just through the screen, beyond the dogwood trunks and drinking from the heated birdbath.)




My backyard ducks are back.



The Goldfinch's 'true colors' are re-emerging.



I shared my breakfast with the first fly of the season. He flew through my open car window as I relaxed in the local park.



That's Spring - sunshine and sitting on the porch to visit with newly emerged neighbors over a cup of coffee or a bit of toast. My license plates read: MI PORCH

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A Poem On Winter's Departure

Deer hooves left muddy splashes as they crossed the brook.



Tracks indicated that someone made it home to safety . . .



. . after a narrow escape






Leavings

With winter's leaving

we will not see as clearly

where the deer stepped across the brook,

where the rabbit spun

toward home.

We will not remember

so clearly

the ice that climbed the broken stalks

and sparkled from a tuft of fur.


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Shrugging It Off

It's time to turn over a new leaf. We're ready for new leaves.



The garden angel is tired of her ermine hat and shawl.



All winter she's shared her cape with the Virginia Creeper that crept beneath it for shelter.




I envy her her patience.



We've all been clinging to thoughts of Spring.



Through the cold and snow - some of us have retained a rosey countenance.



Some of us have just been able to shrug it off.


Getting tired of shrugging? Do click the pix :0)


Had enough, yet?


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YEA! SNOW! AGAIN!

I think I can say I speak for the Robins when I say, "Whhaaaaat?!"



waiting . . . waiting . . waiting. . . (cuter, clicked)



Hard water



Whose woods these are? The wonderful Toledo Metroparks.



White, white, white . . ..



All winter, frozen water has held nature fast.



Even the air is locked in ice . . .


Praying Mantis egg case

Everything is waiting . . for the warmth that will cause the little stirrings of the heart.

Well? If you can't lick it . .ummm . . . 'en-join' it?
After all, it can't last.

As Robert Frost said in his poem "Onset":

Yet all the precedent is on my side;
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth, but it has failed . . .

.