Thanks to so many of you for asking where WordScarab has been these past few months. Right at my fingertips is the answer but I’ve been up to my elbows in “other” and rarely touched the keyboard. Then recently I found myself missing you so, here we go …
Yesterday WordScarab was three-years old. According to the stats there have been 157 posts. Hard to believe, but who’s counting? Neither of us have time for that. We’ve got spring to celebrate, family to take care of, work to do, things to write, ceilings to paint, bikes to ride. (Weddings to plan!)
What brings me back this particular spring day is the recent juxtaposition of two ritualistic family events.
Last Saturday, we joyfully witnessed two robins take their first flights – one, then – painstakingly, the other.
Over a few short weeks we saw mom fluffing last year’s nest then sitting on her eggs. How many this time, we wondered. In about 10 days or so we saw her fly in with food.
Moody, awe man. She was fine when Aw’gy or others walked by but she didn’t like me one bit! Several times I felt her wings ruffle my crown? “I’m not going to hurt ‘em. Geeze!”
She fed them as I tended our spring garden, occasionally offering a live worm in hopes of keeping her out of my hair.
The kids seemed to grow up so fast. Isn’t that always the case.All of a sudden, there were two.
We caught them one Saturday morning – side by side in the family nest, looking at mom sitting about 15 feet away.
I imagined conversation: “She’s not going to feed us ya know. If you want it, you have to go and get it.”
I couldn’t help but picture nephews Max and Mike. Within hours, our family would gather for their high school graduation parties. Two more fledglings ready to leave the nest.
The birds watched mom on the hill. Number two inched onto the gutter, started shuffling its little birdie feet and looked back at the last one as if to say … hmmm. (We could hold a caption contest!)
The ritual will repeat itself two or three times this summer.
When the coast was clear I swept up pieces of nest. But the very next day, the mom – or perhaps another tenant – came back with dried grasses and a piece of plastic. A bit gaudy for my taste but then it’s not my apartment. I’m just the landlady and a grateful witness.