Mistress of all she surveys…

This time next week, Reid will be in London to begin his first international work venture.  He’s landed a short term assignment to oversee a digital something-or-other project.   His skills will indeed span an ocean.  Sure, he missed the queen’s 60th jubilee by a couple of weeks but in his spare moments he can wander over toward the Olympic venues.  I suppose there’s no bad time to be in Britain but this would seem a particularly great time.  The wheels are turning toward a short visit to the kid.  The letter written today will be the last he receives on paper for a while.  He’ll get his by email attachment while he’s across the pond.

I’m bored. Tend to my needs or feed me, one of the two.

Then there’s Emma.  The 24 hour all-Emma-all-the-time channel is still in the works, but the little wonder continues to elbow her way to the top of Ellen-Tim society.  She’s gaining weight, cementing her position as the mistress of all she surveys, and becoming accustomed to ruling the roost.  Gramps is all for that.  It didn’t take long for her photos to be displayed prominently throughout the house.

Fittingly, Reid and his niece highlight last week’s letter:

——————-

June 4, 2012

Ellen/Reid: The work week got off to a rocky start (as if starting at 6:15 Eastern every morning isn’t rocky enough) although things have smoothed out since the early pandemonium.  Still a few hours to go but the placid waters could change if someone else’s heartbeat quickens and their problem becomes my problem.  Actually, I do work with a capable bunch of good people.

I figured out why the little blue birds died.  They got drenched in cold water.  They adjusted the lawn sprinkler system, and two of the strong streams of water take a direct pass right over the hole in the bird house.  I didn’t notice that until this morning and that rankles me.  Water was literally running out the bottom of the box.  Blue birds were re-nesting, and they’ve gone away because the (^&%$@# sprinkler comes on twice a day.  I’ll take birds over a green lawn any day.

Man, Reid, you will be in London near the peak of Olympic festivities.  What an absolute madhouse that place is going to be for nearly your entire time there.  But I suppose that is half the fun, rubbing shoulders with the rest of the world.  I’ll send a note to Mike Hill to see if he’ll have time to have a cold one with you.  Not certain of my travel plans there but it would be a great short trip to take if you have a floor available for sleeping.  A couch with a pillow would be what I’m used to.  Still unclear is what the heck you will be doing over there by day.  I didn’t have my wits about me to ask you about that.  My bad to leave England off the list of countries you’ve visited.  No doubt it won’t be the last.

The photos of Emma should arrive any day now, and already I’m ruing the dull-headed lapse of no wallet size shots to foist on my friends who ask to see her.  What a dang oversight that was.  A lot of good 5×7 shots will do sitting in the house.  I’ll send the photographer a new order to ship some down this way.  That is certain to double the thickness of my wallet.  Nothing wrong with ample supplies of granddaughter photos.  According to informed sources (Felicia and others) it isn’t uncommon for babies to be cranky in the 5 – 8 p.m. timeframe.  She will get over that soon enough.  It’s just heartening to see she is gaining some weight and putting a little beef on herself.  This past weekend, one of the people who asked to see Emma’s photos said her daughter is expecting, but to break the news of the baby’s sex, the expectant couple will host a cake-type of unveiling party.  Their doctor gives the parents a sealed envelope containing the baby’s sex which the parents take to a bakery.  The baker makes a cake that is either pink or blue on the inside and covers it with white frosting.  The ‘sex’ is unveiled when the cake is cut.  Is there nothing that escapes the clutches of the wedding industry in its pursuit of making a fast buck?  It’s total insanity but I wish that was my idea.

The lettuce garden that has faithfully furnished lettuce every day for weeks is on its last legs.  That’s the way it goes.  It goes to bolt (seed) and that’s the end of it.  But the patio tomato plant is beginning to come on like gangbusters.  The fruit are about the size of a racquetball but that is a serious upgrade from the total, utter and abject failure of tomatoes in years gone by.  It provides a little bit of hope that for once there will be delicious BLTs at some point this summer.  In a tip of the hat to my doctor, the bacon will be of the turkey variety.

Okay, the call of work is still loud and clear.  It must be answered.  I’ll be in touch again in short order.  Emma and London aren’t such bad topics to talk about.

A lesson in the amateur naturalist world…

A boreal chickadee is a new, but now regular visitor, to the feeder just outside my kitchen window.

Birds have nothing to do with today’s post.

Our feathered friends were not mentioned or alluded to in last week’s letter nor any letter in recent months.  I’d have to search (highly unlikely this morning) to find the last time a cardinal, common flicker or rufous-sided towhee or any other species – other than the Thanksgiving turkey – made a cameo appearance on any of the single pages.

Instead, last week’s letter lauds Reid for his pending trip to India and is hopeful for Ellen‘s current trip to Baja, Mexico, and other normalcies.

But I have a relationship of long-standing with birds.  The actual genesis of it rests with Ellen and Reid’s grandfathers, both of whom fed birds.   My dad, for most of the second half of his life, put out a daily spread year-round and enjoyed their visual company.  Heaven forbid a marauding squirrel would raid his feeders.  If dad’s aim was true (which it frequently wasn’t) the tailed robber would feel the sting of his aging BB gun.  Not powerful enough to inflict lasting damage (not what dad intended), but enough to teach a lesson.  Until the next raid.

My father never really shared with my brother or me how he came to adopt these friends or why he so warmed to keeping his feeders stocked.  As with many things you notice with your parents, you pick up the non-verbal lesson here and there.  One of the things my dad evidenced to me – and once I stopped shooting at game birds – is that there is something to tending to birds.  He was a back yard naturalist, he with his garden and his birds.

So now I have picked up on his practice.  And the kids know it.  They read short discussions about birds often enough.  Maybe they’ll pick up the unspoken lesson, too.  As I think about it, dumping a jar of black sunflower seed into the trough is one more lesson in their dad’s amateur naturalist world.  They need to see there is value to strap on a backpack, recycle plastic instead of pitching it, plant a garden and walk the golf course.  Just as their grandfather taught me.

—————–

January 9, 2012

Ellen/Reid: It is highly doubtful, Ellen, that this letter will make it to you before you and Tim depart for Baja.  In some ways it’s too bad that your Minnesota winter hasn’t totally sucked (i.e. unbearable cold and mountains of snow) before you shove off.  That way you could say you’ve left the worst of it behind for at least a few days of warmth and fun.  Still, it will be a good respite to get away and finally use sunscreen with plenty of SPF protection.  Both of you yahoos have nice trips coming up while your poor old man languishes in North Carolina, home to muddy, dormant Bermuda fairways and…  Wait, I can’t think of anything else bad (other than our politics).

Reid, I was wondering about immunizations before you shove off for India.  What’s the scene there?  What do you need to have, and what meds do you need to take with you in the event the local water or some strange food takes you down?  You should call up episodes of ‘Bizarre Foods’ with Andrew Zimmern that might deal with exotic foods in that part of the world.  It could be enlightening.  That would be half the fun to try local delicacies such as bugs and stuff like that as long as it looks cooked.  Your friend over there will be a good guide on that score.  And what’s the tourist dress code?  My guess is jeans and stuff won’t cut it.  Anything that you can rinse-and-wear is probably what will work best and travels well.  Patagonia will have some good nylon stuff that would do just the trick.  Minimal packed goods, one would think.  I just cannot wait to see the photos and hear the stories.  You really ought to try some Tweets or a blog if you can muster that while you’re over there.  Oh, to be a fly on the wall while you’re mashing about in the countryside or milling among the local street vendors.  I’m afraid as close as I’ll ever get to the reality that is India is “Slumdog Millionaire.”  That was a great flick.  Just make sure we know your total itinerary.

It’s cloudy and gray here today, with the threat of showers.  This is my sixth January in these parts, and knock on wood, this is by far the mildest of those six Januarys even though by Midwest standards this part of the Southeast is mild all of the time.  I bought an ice chopper in December just in case we get any of that damned black ice we are so famed for.  I hope to keep the chopper in reserve and unused.  The weather really has been sterling here and for more than just a few weeks, too.  That is probably the kiss of death to say that.  Now watch it really turn nasty.  Blame it on me.

Reid, some tragic news about Chicago with Charlotte ties.  The daughter of my golf buddy here, Tom, was not at home on North Michigan when a fire broke out on the 12^th floor of her building.  The woman directly across the hallway stepped out of her unit to use the elevator, and when the elevator doors open, a blast of 1,500F heat and flame immolated her.  She was the only death from the fire.  That could’ve just as well been Tom’s daughter.  As it was, hook and ladder units had to fight the blaze, and to do so went through her apartment.  All her belongs and possessions were destroyed or damaged too badly to salvage.  As I told Tom, all that other stuff can be replaced, it’s his daughter that cannot.  Tom and his wife are trying to figure out where their daughter will sleep, where she will live, etc.  You ought to look into some cheap renter’s insurance.  It can’t be very much per month, but even with your meager belongings, it would still be a good deal and worth some peace of mind.

I have to slave on my church newsletter the next couple of nights.  12 pages of monthly penance.  Since my actions are still devious, I’ll have to hope the newsletter can atone for my missteps.  Beyond writing you two, it’s about my only creative outlet.  I guess the blog is too.  I’ll send you each a copy once it’s hot off the presses.  At least I’m thinking about atonement although, granted, I’m not very close to it.

See the birds, smell the roses…

Ellen and Reid are at different ends of the spectrum when it comes to the natural world.  Ellen lives where there are trees and rich black earth; Reid would have to ride the El to catch another train to Chicago’s western ‘burbs to see free-range trees and what real dirt looks like in lieu of city soot.  It was important to me as they grew up to instill some sort of respect for other creatures and greenery.

I’d hope they would set sufficient time aside from their respective rat races to see the birds and smell the roses.   Given the tragic news coming out of Japan, it’s more important than ever to align themselves with their surroundings – if we don’t ruin things for them first.

————————

March 21, 2011

Ellen/Reid: So Butler keeps playing the role of the little school that could.  I thought the Dawgs would get crushed like to many June bugs but they managed to hang in there vs. the Goliath that was Pitt.  Mack played one hell of a game until the final 2.2 seconds and at that point Butler appeared to be toast.  But that’s why they make people shoot – and miss – free throws.  Their next game will give me something to do this weekend.

The best thing about my little place is the rear windows open to trees and the green belt.  It’s the perfect bird’s eye view to the birds, the occasional deer and the even more occasional snake.  But this weekend Felicia and I watched a drama unfold that neither of us had seen before: a Mexican Standoff involving sweet little chickadees and bluebird bullies.

Back in late January we put up a cedar nesting box (advertised as ideal for bluebirds) on one of the loblolly pines out back with the small entry hole facing the kitchen windows so we could keep eyes on it with binoculars.  Of course, no bluebirds bothered to sniff it for more than a month.  But a chickadee pair, sensing the opportunity, set up shop about a week ago.  They hauled whatever it is they haul into a nest, and before you knew it you could see the female’s head in the entry hole as she sat on apparently what was her brood.  Then last Saturday all hell broke loose.  There, on a limb not 2” from the entry hole was a female bluebird; her bright blue mate was on another limb a few feet away.  And there they sat.  You could see they chickadee on her nest; her mate was flitting about in distress as the much larger bluebirds were apparently waiting them out.  This went on for a long time.  Felicia near demanded we put up another cedar box on a nearby tree but not too near the existing nesting box.  So off we went to Lowes to buy a second box.  When we got back, there were no birds to be seen.  We installed the second box about 60” away.

Sure enough, the next morning, the blue birds had won.  They usurped what the chickadees hath wrought.  I guess that’s just the way of the natural world; you have something I want and because I’m bigger I’m going to take it.  Try and stop me.  Cute doesn’t cut it.  I’d never seen that before ever so in that sense it was incredibly interesting.  Sounds like the corporate world, too.  Of course the birds had squabbled over the sunflower seed in the feeder but this nesting thievery was all new.  It’ll probably take a little while for the second box to attract some activity

Tomorrow is a red letter day to gauge my recovery.  It’s back to the urology guy for a six week check up to see how things are functioning.  I think they are functioning pretty good but his trained eye, and his invasive instruments, may tell a different picture.  So we’ll see.  I did a shakedown cruise on the golf course yesterday with my friend Tom and his young son, Jack.  For the most part it was easy shotmaking with a wedge and some chipping.  A fair amount of slow walking.  Nothing too strenuous until the doc gives me the green light which I hope is this week.  As distressing to me is the complete and utter loss of every ounce of conditioning.  That’s a real bummer.  Six years of sweaty work down the drain.  My waistline is the first to suffer.

I have my plane tickets for Grand Island (Easter) and for Des Moines (Steve Allen’s May 7 wedding).  I’ll kibitz with both of you about how to ship what needs to be shipped although you’ll already have some of it in hand, Ellen.  Reid, if you do not have the storage space, I guess I can send things to North Carolina for safe keeping.  Your call.  Maybe by that time Butler will have the national championship they missed out on last year.  Wish I could say I still say Butler is in my bracket.  I had them out by this weekend.  It’s an ‘oh ye of little faith’ moment.