Writers are also readers

Most writers are also voracious readers. Lately, I've had a run of good luck with books--finding some gems that I would not have ordinarily picked up but for Borders' $1 book sale and discount bins. Only one of these is a recent offering, but that's not important. I've rated the books on the 5-star system, five being the best, one the worst. * - *****.

The Beautiful Miscellaneous by Dominic Smith (Washington Square Press,2007). A finely crafted work about Nathan Nelson, an ordinary, average young man who has a terrible auto accident and wakes up from a coma with new and amazing mental abilities, including eidetic memory and synesthesia. Nathan has grown up in the shadow of his genius/scientist father's enormous expectations for his life, and has never been able to live up to them--he knows he's not exceptional, but he can't seem to convince his father or his mother, (who spends most of her time detaching from her incomprehensible husband and distant son,) that he is truly only ordinary and happy to be so. When he comes out of his coma, he is shoved even further toward the edge of the inevitable confrontation with the things his father wants, or seems to need from him, and the things he aches for within himself. The writing is somber, the characters well-realized and the story will be familiar to anyone who has ever been told they were an "underachiever." It's a thoughtful and absorbing read. ****

Dead and Gone, (Sookie Stackhouse #9) by Charlaine Harris (Ace Hardcover, 2009) The ninth offering in this popular series finds Sookie torn between her sense and her emotions, as per usual. This one is not the best of the series, unfortunately, but it is the one where you finally get to know Eric, though that might have been handled a bit better. Overall, the tone of this volume is one of confusion and moroseness over losing a grandfather she hardly knows and hasn't' spent much time getting to know. I love the series--I love the characters, and I wish that Harris had put some more time and effort into making this offering better--but I also felt that way about Dead in Dallas (#2) and the series picked up from that slump just fine. I'll try the next (and any that come after, of course!) but this one didn't leave me hungering for the next installment, as I expected it would, as the other installments had. Still, it's Sookie, it's Harris, and it's what happens next. ***

The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier (Vintage, 2007) This is a little gem of a book, which has seemingly gone entirely unnoticed. The story draws you in immediately, and absolutely refuses to let you go until you've reached the conclusion--which you will not see coming. It's basically an apocolyptic story: a virus is spreading through the world, wiping out the population. The narrative jumps between the only human left, a woman at the South Pole doing research, and the actual dead themselves--who live in a city and are carrying on their lives as if they were not dead--making relationships, opening businesses, eating breakfast, playing music, adopting pets--their very existence is puzzling, but something rapidly becomes clear: that it is entirely dependent on the memories that those still living have of them. This story will haunt you for a long time after you're finished with this small, wonderful little book. *****

Nothing with Strings by Bailey White (Scribner, 2008) Any time Bailey White comes out with a book I snap it up like it was water and I was in the desert. This woman is such a fine and amazing writer that she can make things like the dirty house of an elderly woman a fascinating odyssey into the end of one's life, and bring tears to the eyes doing it. This is a collection of her NPR "Thanksgiving" stories, and it is simply luminous. I am at once frought with writer-envy and a deep-seated need to re-read the entire thing after I finish the last sentence. *****

The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series by Alexander McCall Smith (Anchor, 2003 and later)
I am late to this series, having passed it up a number of years ago because I honestly did not think it would be very interesting or something I might enjoy. I take it back--and gratefully so. These are small jewels in my library--I'm up to book 5 with 5 more to go (so far!) and I hope they never end. My only complaint is that these books are far too short, but rather than complain, I just keep putting my money aside so I can buy the next one. They revolve around a small cast of characters from Botswana: Precious Ramotswe, the owner and founder of the titular agency, her love interest, Mr. J. L. B. Matekoni, who is the owner of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, a fine place to fix cars, and Mma Ramotswe's secretary, Mma Makutsi, who is incredibly conscientious and ambitious enough to not only become indispensable to the Detective agency, but also to the garage, her dying brother and herself as well! These are unforgettable and LOVABLE characters without being overly sentimental, or having a rose-colored viewpoint. These books do not sugar coat the world--the detective agency must investigate everything from witchest who kill children to make "medicine" for rich men, to philandering husbands (and wives!) and even beauty contestants! I probably would never have read them had I not seen the HBO series by the same name--and fallen in love with the country, the portrayal, the people and the stories. Smith is a master at telling stories and evoking a culture at the crossroads between African tradition and modern life in his folksy, round-about way--and the skill with which he writes will etch these tales on your heart and mind. ****

These are only a few of the things I've enjoyed over the past couple months. I hope you will find them enjoyable as well!

More writing for sale!

My second novel has been published and has finally hit Amazon--The Goddess Loves Your Shoes!

This is the one I really want to be successful, because it has the potential for being the first in a series of books.

It's about Cassie Rivers, a 30-ish, okay-looking heroine, who has had a pretty rough year. Her dad died, her dog died and her grandma went beyond the pale--actually off the deep end (of the dock at the lake in her senior citizens complex!)--and she's just ended a long-term relationship with a soul-sucking organization that had elected her vice-president of its whiney, demanding membership. So she's sort of glad she has nothing to do except sit in the dining room of her friend Mirra's house, making beads and trinkets out of Sculpturific clay. Mirra's family is obnoxious, her house is filthy beyond measure, and her words don't always come out the right way, but she's a good and loving friend to Cassie; and so is their other friend, Gwen-Vera, who talks way too loudly, dresses way too loudly and thinks skull necklaces are cool (as long as the skulls have little red clown noses.) Mirra and Gwen-Vera think Cassie should go with them to the Pagan church--the Church of River And Pasture (C.R.A.P.) but Cassie thinks otherwise. Of course, that means she ends up going, and joining, and having the weirdest and funniest year of her life in the process.

Cassie picks a Pagan name: Alluvia--which is destined to be the name no one can remember or pronounce. She meets the denizens of C.R.A.P. at the local mental institution, where the church holds its monthly rituals in the community room: there is Sheik, the head of the Church, who weighs over 400 pounds, has rotten teeth, and minces like a girl, yet commands the attention of every female in the room; the Hareem--Shiek's two girl bodyguards--sisters both named Raven; Kitfox and Coalfire, a married couple who defy logic (and fashion sense) and who seem to run the place for Sheik; and eventually, Sheik's wife Demon (AKA Lilith) who is impossibly beautiful, sleek and accomplished, and has several personalities, including an 8 year old girl and a Frenchman. Of course, Alluvia becomes friends with her, to the great dismay of Gwen-Vera (who is inexplicably in love with Sheik!) and pretty soon she is embroiled in what can only be described as surreal intrigue: it will involve the FBI, Orthodox Indians, rented children, Babylonians, transvestites, Amish nudists, and a tornado before it's all over, and maybe even Love--with a tall, skinny vendor at a clothing optional festival. The bizarre and hilarious adventures that take Alluvia through the Wheel of the Year are pretty wild--but she copes because she has two great friends in Gwen-Vera and Mirra, a fairly resilient sense of humor, and a couple pairs of killer shoes. What else does a girl need to survive in this world?

I'd love it if you'd buy the book (only $16 on Amazon.com at the link below!) and review it for me. Let me know if you think Cassie needs to have further adventures, and if you laughed. And make sure you always have a pair of killer shoes when the chips are down!

Here's where to order the book:

http://www.amazon.com/Goddess-Loves-Your-Shoes/dp/1440484619/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1244413412&sr=1-1

Writing for Sale!

This is more an announcement than a blog post--I have just experienced the thrill of seeing my own words offered for sale on a world-wide market website! My novel "Obituary", written in November 2008, is now available for sale on Amazon.com!

What a great feeling it is to see my name in print--literally in print! I mean, I'm no stranger to the public view, or even to a very, very, tiny modicum of fame (locally, of course) and I've had many dealings with other famous people--but it's somehow different when you see your own works are up as a literary offering for others to read.

Is this a great novel? Hell no. It's a good one. But I have no illusions. I'm not Fay Weldon, I'm not Anne Tyler, I'm not a writer who can bend words and make you cry. I might touch a chord here or there with this book, but it's really not supposed to be a good novel--it was written to be something else entirely, and just turned out good enough to publish.

I wrote the book for NANOWRIMO--and for you aspiring writers out there, you really ought to try this challenge, which happens every November. If you are up to it, you can find your writing muscle is a lot more developed than you thought. If you're not, then you don't suffer for it. It's sort of the ideal way to see about getting that book done. Nanowrimo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which is, as I've said already, November every year. You sign up for free--the website is nanowrimo.org. The challenge is simple: write a book in the month of November. You start on November 1, and end at midnight on November 30, and somewhere in that 30 day period, you should be able to write a 50K-word (minimum) novel. No, you don't have to stop at 50,000 words. (I didn't--mine extended to around 64K. Most go over a bit.) You aren't supposed to edit, or rewrite--just do a first draft, upload your encoded novel for official word-counting, and if you like, participate in the forums and community there as well. There are weekly/monthly/even daily pep talks by the Nanowrimo staff and guest writers, and tips and tricks to get you started, keep you going and keep you motivated. There is a place to notify your friends, join a local network, even meet up with local writers for face-to-face feedback and encouragement. It's a really great place to try to get a book done, and get help when you get stuck!

I loved the challenge, and found it easier than I had imagined. I also found that the end product I turned out was surprisingly good. That's why I took advantage of the publishing tools at Createspace.com to publish and offer it for sale. I was pleasantly surprised at the ease of doing that, as well.

Even if you think you have only part of a book inside you--even if you don't know what's there, but think you might like to try, I urge you to give Nanowrimo a try. I did, and it paid off tremendously! And maybe even will keep paying off--if the book actually sells!

Go look, go order, go review! Here's the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Obituary-Christin-Keck/dp/1442172843/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1243442719&sr=1-1

Back so soon?

I can't believe it's been over three years since last I posted to this blog. Funny how time slips away, ain't it?

Well, that's pretty much the way things go. I guess I stopped posting when my life took a turn yet again. It's always doing that--turning, that is. I feel dizzy from the spinning sometimes.

Since last I came, my dog has died, I've moved into an apartment instead of a house, I've been sick, and sicker, and better, I've been to France, I've had two novels published and am working on a fourth, lost a couple of good friends, and gained a couple more. My sons have both gotten divorced, and one has moved back in with me. This time it's okay.

Yep--my life is, as it is said in the Chinese Curse business, "interesting." As usual. I ought to be used to it by now, and I suppose I actually am. Miracles are a way of life.

Let me tell you about this latest set of miracles--the ones that got me to my present residence.
I owned a house last time I posted on this blog. A nice little house. A house on a nice little lot. I bought that house in 2000, the Millenium year, with a sizable down payment and a good mortgage, and set about making it the place that would net me a good profit in about five years or so. The market in my area was great--like everyone's market (read: inflated.) But who could have predicted the housing collapse? No one I spoke to, that's for damned sure. My town was a college town. Rents and payments were always going to be higher than everywhere else, because housing would always be at a premium. Our taxes were high. Our services were good. Our houses were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars more than other people's houses in "normal" cities. Yeah.

I'll spare you a lot of the evil details and give you the skeleton. Five years passed, I wasn't ready to sell yet. Too many things had happened: serious illnesses and surgery. Loss of income. Inertia. Children problems. And I had the opportunity to travel; opportunities that come along only once in a life and can't be passed up. So debt climbed, the house stayed and so did I. I refinanced instead. Twice. I knew I was carrying a load of debt, but I thought as long as I can dump the house on the market I'll be okay--the debt wasn't outrageous, not really.

Then, eight years into my ownership, on a crisp, October day, the hammer dropped.

I turned on the furnace.

And--------nothing.

The verdict: broken. The solution: new furnace. That was going to cost me more than I could afford. My dreams of putting my house on the market in the spring were beginning to evaporate faster than a summer rain on a hot cement sidewalk. Instead of buying the entire heating system my HVAC guy recommended, I opted for the quickie fix--much much cheaper, but much less reliable--and decided to go ahead and put the house up for sale now. Let the new owners deal with it. I'd take the loss.

But I was not prepared for the amount of loss I was actually going to be hit with. After an appraisal, I discovered that the house I'd mortgaged for $xxx,xxx was only really worth $xx,xxx. That was a beeeeeeeeg hammer.

My house was appraised at over $50K LESS than it was mortgaged for, and there was absolutely NO hope of fixing that. Furnace notwithstanding. Even with all the updates I could afford (hardly any) it would never--EVER--be worth what the mortgage company had loaned me. The market had shifted and sand was running out of the bottom of the hourglass faster with each passing day.

Desperate, I went to a lawyer. He charged me lots of money to tell me the simple truth: that I had no choice. It was stay there and struggle and go further and further into debt with no way to climb out, or wipe the slate.

I grabbed that eraser, and started wiping.

It's a year and a half later as I write this now. I have no more debt. I have no more credit, either--but I have no debt. I live within my means on my paychecks, and I am living in the first of a series of miracles that brought me back to where I needed to be.

And, it was during those dark and uncertain days at the beginning of the foreclosure/bankruptcy proceedings that I finally gave up trying to engineer things and threw myself on the mercy of the Universe andcalled out to the Cosmos: "Okay--you got me. Now take care of me." I don't know what I thought might happen, but whatever it was, it didn't. Instead, the simple act of NOT trying brought me to a place where I found everything I've ever wanted, and more. The Taoists always told me that's how it worked.

I lost my house: I found a better place to live. One that not only was much larger, much nicer, with straighter walls and a better heating/cooling system, but also a fireplace, a terrace, a lovely gothic porch, four huge bedrooms, a full basement, carpeting, a study with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases, wonderful light, an attached garage/shed and a dishwasher--none of which I had in the house I owned. This place is beyond nice--it's incredible. It's also the rectory of a church. And this church happens to be the church I was baptized in when I was six years old.
If that's not weird enough for you, I don't know why. I found this place by attending a swimming class--water aerobics--at a local gym. Our teacher was a lovely woman, a teeny bit older than me, very lively and witty, and extremely attractive. We hit it off because she was also extremely personable. And in the course of talking about our lives, I mentioned that I was going to be looking for an apartment soon. She told me she knew of one--but I probably wouldn't be interested because it was in a church. That intrigued me (but I actually thought she was probably right.) Yet, the opportunity loomed--and so indeed I said I would look at it. Especially when she told me the price. (less than half of what my mortgage payments were!) It was when I learned the name of the church that I began to feel as if there was another hand in this process--it was the church my mother had chosen for us when I was six--and where I was baptized lo, these many decades ago!

It was literally coming home. The church, when I visited, had not changed one iota. The rectory was amazing--and they let me keep my cats. Of course I signed the lease.

I could hear the Universe giggling behind her hand, as she watched from above--and I swear to you--really--the day I moved in, She said in a quiet, impishly delighted little voice: "Well, hello there--back so soon?"

Gotcha!

I was outside at dusk, uncoiling the hose and fiddling with the water, trying to give my potted plants and flowers a good soaking, since it hadn’t rained for over two weeks. It came on suddenly, and completely unexpectedly--the pain was amazing.

I felt it in my hand first, at the base of my thumb. It was like a small knife was being slowly and cruelly pushed into my hand; instinctively, I used the water hose to dampen the pain that was growing so fiercely. That seemed not to help at all-—time slowed down and every second became like an hour. The pain in my hand grew, I cried out-—dropped the hose-—shook my left hand thinking I had some sort of strange nerve spasm, and maybe the movement would make it stop—but it did not—it seemed to go on and on and on. Then another pain, this time in my lower back, identical to the pain in my hand, but harder to get at--and then, a slight buzzing sound at my ear, and something brushing against the side of my face, and I knew I’d been attacked.

But by what? I couldn’t see anything. There was nothing flying, nothing felt like it was crawling—even though my hand had already begun to swell and was starting to tingle also. What had bitten me? Why did it hurt so much?  Was it a spider? Had I disturbed a black-widow nest when I uncoiled the hose from its hanger?  I ran to turn off the water, and then ran into the house, into the light, to see what it was that had gotten me. The knife-like pain was increasing by the second. Every movement made it worse. There were two large hot lumps on me now, one at the base of my back near my left hip, and one on my left hand at the bottom of my thumb-joint. My arm hurt—my whole back hurt. I still had no idea what had bitten me, and I was getting worried. What if it was a poisonous spider? There were lots of those outside on that side of the house. I’d seen spiders out there that you could hear walking on the porch boards. Some of them were those muscular “jumping” types—they spun webs but in the ground, and they could leap into the air. Had to be one of those, I thought. But this pain! I’d never felt anything like it!

I examined the lumps-—no stingers visible. So not bees, thank the gods-—I’m allergic. Last time I had a bee sting, it sent me to the hospital and I couldn’t walk for a week.  I replayed the whole scene-—hose, water, spray, pain. Hose water spray pain. Hosewaterspraypain. No spiders. No webs. Nothing crawled on me, not that I could feel. Nothing flew at me that I felt. There had been that odd buzzing, but it was short-lived, not humming-—not a bee. Not a mosquito. Lightning bug maybe? Cicada? Not important-—the pain was in my hip and back and my arm now-—all the way to the elbow. It was spreading rapidly. I was swelling rapidly. The lumps had small holes in the middle—one hole. Not spiders, then. They leave “fang” marks usually. Two holes, side-by-side. Usually not very visible, either. These holes were large, and even had a little blood-spot in the center. What the hell had gotten me?

I was worried. This really, really hurt-—unbelievably so. Amazingly so. Hugely. I was swelling more and starting to panic, so I called my friend C__ to come over and check it out for me. She came. We looked, I told her what happened. She suggested we head to the ER before it got worse. “Can you drive?” I asked sheepishly—-I really could not lean my back against anything—-it felt like it was on fire. And my left arm didn’t seem to be working at all!  All the way there, I debated whether or not I wanted to even go to the hospital—it was obviously an insect bite of some kind, and who goes to the ER for a bug-bite? I wasn’t allergic to whatever it was, but I also had no antihistamines in the house—I couldn’t even treat this at home. Of course, I could go to the pharmacy, but maybe it was a brown recluse spider? Maybe it had been a snake? Maybe---the possibilities began to panic me and I started to breathe hard, my heart pounded.  I’d already been to the ER once this summer—for leg cramps that would not stop. I was dehydrated. I drank more water, and they stopped. While there, however, they told me my glucose readings were too high. All else was normal, the glucose was high. That  was worrisome. But forget that for now; what would they do for this poison that was swelling up my arm, making it impossible for me to sit in a chair, still feeling like there were small toxic missiles traveling along my nerves?

Three hours later, I found out. They gave me—antihistamines. And a 3-day supply of steroids, to enhance their  effectiveness. And an ice pack. And by the time they did all this helpful stuff, the pain and swelling had subsided to almost nothing.

But they didn’t give me something I was hoping for: the identity of what had stung me. Ah well.  I went home, went to bed.  

Next day, I examined the area where I had been stung. And there it was: the nest. Ground wasps—yellowjackets. A large hole at the end of the porch, under the squash vine. And the little buggers darting in and out as if nothing had ever happened.

Obviously they hadn’t appreciated being doused with water, even after bedtime when they’re quiet. And it was a lucky thing I had gone out after dark—if I had squirted that nest during the daylight hours, they might have swarmed and stung me to death. I know if I’d gotten many more than two stings I’d have been unable to stand the pain.

I cursed them, and I knew I’d be getting rid of them, but I also thanked the Powers that Be for my luck and good timing. It probably saved me from a longer hospital stay. And now the yellowjackets are gone.  It took two cans of the stuff that shoots up to 25 feet away. It also killed my forget-me-nots, and part of the columbine.
But my garden is once again safe, and so am I.  

And oh, yeah—the high glucose reading? I also found out I’m diabetic.

Gotcha.

An Overdose of Time Off?

July is my month.

I always take a week of vacation around the first week in the month. Three things concur at this time: Independence Day, my birthday, and an activity slump at work. Even the name of the month is like cream rising to the top of the pail, like an endless blue sky and a quick thunderstorm rolling in; the first fireflies, the blooming of the day lilies; an endless white sand beach.

I wait out the month of June to take my first time off in July—my month. June has always been too early for me and vacations; it’s not my favorite time to take leave.  I suppose that’s a holdover from my “two vacation weeks per year” days, many years ago when I worked all year to enjoy that paltry two weeks. Well, it didn’t seem paltry then. It was that deliciously anticipated time; you had to pick exactly the right time to go, or you’d be stuck indoors while it rained, or unable to get to all the places you wanted because of the schedules, or it wouldn’t be warm enough to swim.  So June, as tempting as it is to jump right off the springboard edge of her into the Summer, wasn’t my month to vacation. There was another reason, too—once that two weeks was over, that was it. You got nothing more. No matter how long and hard you worked at your job, you only ever got those two little weeks--why blow it all at once at the beginning of summer, then have to wait out the rest of the season in your stuffy, indoor office watching everyone else take their vacations?  No, I liked having the last word—the final say-so on time spent off work. I liked being the one that went after everyone else had scheduled and gone and returned with their sunburns and pictures. So, I usually took one week at the beginning of the month for me, (usually getting a couple of extra days because of the Independence Day holiday, ) and one week at the end of the month, to lord over everyone else. It  bracketed  my July in glorious, lazy vacation days and made my month feel extraordinarily decadent.

There is something really wicked about only working half a month; allowing your co-workers to pick up the ball for you not once, but twice; coming in to work with your sunburn just beginning, and blurry pictures of fireworks, or fat from birthday cake and picnic food; then quietly sitting there doing your job for two weeks, knowing full well that the last week of the month you’d be off again, while they sat there bored and hot and envious. It’s a powerful summer-phrodisiac.

But as I discovered, this system has its drawbacks. Sure, it’s nice to have the extra vacation time around the holiday—but that’s also usually when we get one whopper of a storm. I truly cannot remember a Fourth of July when it did not rain or storm like the gates of hell had come loose and let all the weather demons out. And if by some miracle we don’t get it then, we do get it at the end of the month.  So one or more of my vacation weeks was always spent wondering if my tree would be standing at the end of the week, or watching TV for tornado news.

I still don’t mind. July is my birth month, and therefore, I have always had a bit of a romantic attachment to it—and almost nothing can dampen that.  Not even an Ohio tornado.  

But over the years, things changed. Now, the longer I work, the more vacation time I build up—and now I actually end up with six weeks of vacation per year! Talk about decadence! I can take a trip around the world! Go to Asia and back! Plan a leisurely train ride through the Rockies or a slow cruise through the Northwest Passage! Go to Europe! Plan a real home-improvement project and actually have the time to finish it and still go somewhere! It’s unbelievable.  I still get goose bumps when I hear my personnel secretary call and tell me I have to “use or lose” a week of leave that I didn’t even realize I’d accrued. Of course I use it.

But I still don’t go in June. I wait out June’s quixotic temperament, and her undecided attitude, and I still take off my two bracketing weeks in July. Then, I have another two weeks to take—so I go somewhere in August.  August—the fat, laughing belly of the summer, sunburned and sand-covered and stuffed full of potato salad, hot dogs and Kool-Aid ®. It’s the best time to go anywhere—the last hurrah of the season before school begins again, before work picks up again, before the endless blue sky and the white soft sands and the scudding clouds retreat into memory, and the nodding heavy-petalled heads of dahlias stop blooming.  It’s hot enough, stable enough weather-wise, and everything in this hemisphere is still summer.

Then, once the summer has spent itself, I have two more weeks to spend. On whatever I wish. Whenever I wish.  Sometimes that means I’ll spend it at the Yuletide holidays. Sometimes I spend it piecemeal, adding an extra day to a Monday holiday or a weekend. By the time Spring rolls around, and everyone begins gearing up for summer again, I’ve usually got only a day or two left—which I sometimes add to that first week in July.

This year our office moved in the first week of July—so going back to work after my first vacation week was like still being on vacation. We didn’t have telephone service, or computer DSL lines, and even the coffeepot couldn’t be used, because I couldn’t find the coffee! I came in, spent an hour or two organizing what I could, then went back home again, because nothing else could be done anyway. Gradually, over the next two weeks, we got things on track again—and now, except for a largish pile of unwanted furniture in the middle of the room (which will need to be taken down via elevator to the dumpsters,) there’s now an office where once was only drywalled space. Phones are back up. Files put away. Even the coffee has been found. A routine has been established, and I’ve discovered the joys of walking up two flights of stairs every day. And, of course, as soon as it is all organized and put together, I’m off again for my last-week-in-July week. Then, when I go back after this one, we have a conference for a week—at a posh hotel in Cleveland—then, I have jury duty for a week!!  By this time it will be the second week in August, and I only have to wait out the month until it’s over and the four-day Labor Day holiday ends—and I will go on my “big” trip of the year--to France for 11 days!

It’s been a busy,  strange, and oddly arranged year. I figure I’ve only actually worked  for one month since the end of Spring, and that was June.  I’ll only work for two weeks in August.  And I haven’t even touched my last two weeks of the year yet!  

Can a person OD on decadence?

Fu Manchu Raiders

The other day at work, I was standing outside and noticed a strange sound. It was a high-pitched but soft whistle, repeated at regular intervals. It was not a bird call I’d heard before, so I looked around a bit and noticed two robins on the strip of grass that borders our parking lot. One was a male, and it was he who was doing the whistling, I could see—he was standing sentinel over a female, who was gathering grasses for her nest.

The female had a mouthful of grass that stuck out on either side of her beak like a Fu-Manchu mustache. It was rather comical to see her bend and pick up strands and add them to the sheaf of grass that she carried—she never dropped any of them, but kept adding to the bundle each time she dipped her head and eventually as I watched her, her bundle grew quite large for such a small bird. The male was obviously either encouraging her in her endeavor, or pointing out pieces she missed—hard to tell which. He stood a couple feet away, and would hop here or there, whistling that strange one-note call and wait until she found the spot he pointed out, then she would grab a few more pieces of grass. It was like watching a foreman oversee a work-site.

I thought at first it might be courting behavior, not really understanding (until I looked it up) what robins did during mating.  But no, these robins had mated already, and were into the home-decorating stage of marriage; it was a bit like a newlywed couple buying curtains or rugs. “What do you think, honey? Is the green one better than the brown one? Will this go with our living room furniture? Do you like the one with the roses, or the one with the stripes?”  The grass that the female wore like Fu Manchu was going to line her nest for her babies.

Throughout this Spring, I have been stalked by robins. Just the other day while mowing the lawn, I saw a very large male standing on my picnic table watching me as I mowed around the ash tree and up against the railroad tie wall that borders my driveway. He stood there and stared—it was rather disconcerting, really—and didn’t seem at all put off by the sound of the mower. I waved to him, said hello. He eyeballed me the entire time. I thought perhaps he was trying to tell me something, but couldn’t imagine what; after all, birds have their own agendas—nothing to do with us. Nevertheless, he watched me for the entire time I stayed out there mowing, following me from one part of the yard to another, always staying a respectful distance away, but always there—it was almost unnerving.

I didn’t know much about robins. So I did some research. Turns out, the female robin lays two or three clutches of eggs per season, not just one as I had thought.  Some of them mate with the same individuals season after season. They line their nests with soft grass, as I had seen the two at my office doing, and the male participates in the nest-building and lining, and will even sit on the eggs for the female while she feeds. But what did they eat? Robins are not feeder birds—I never see them at the seed trays or suet baskets. I assumed they ate bugs and earthworms, like most thrushes, but it turns out I was wrong about that too. Oh, they do eat seeds sometimes,  and worms as well—but that’s not their favorite food. No—their favorite food is fruit. In particular, strawberries. And the other shoe suddenly dropped. Now I knew why the large male had been watching me mow, and what he was trying to get across—the wall next to my drive is where I grow strawberries. He wasn’t stalking me, he was waiting—for me to get the hell away from his buffet.

I had never noticed robins eating my berries. I’ve raised a bumper crop of strawberries—everbearing type, very sweet and prolific—in a thin strip of plants next to my driveway, on top of the railroad-tie wall. I’ve had the patch for years. It’s a great little strawberry patch, and from this one 20-foot strip of plants, I actually get enough berries every year to freeze for the winter months. I don’t have much trouble with insects there, and haven’t even had a lot of slugs, since the wall prevents them from crawling to the fruit, and the good drainage keeps the soil from compacting. However, there are always a few berries I find with little “nicks” taken out of them, as if whatever ate them had a tiny paring knife and just wanted a slice or two of the ripe fruit. And once in a while, I would find one that had been completely bitten down to the stem it hung from. That had always puzzled me. I didn’t notice any insects other than slugs, and I wasn’t convinced that squirrels were doing the damage, since I have virtually no squirrels in my yard—the cats see to that for me. I chalked it up to night-time berry-eating animals, and let it go. I don’t use pesticides or soil treatments in the patch, and I don’t mind losing a few berries to Nature’s ways—I have plenty to share. But a berry with one bite taken out of it? That’s not slug behavior. They bore little round holes. Squirrels pick and run. And cats, as far as I know, don’t eat fruit.

And of course, robins are ubiquitous—you see them all over, everywhere, hopping through the yard after a rain, flying here and there—they become part of the Springtime and Summer landscape, doing their thing without interference. But not now. And especially not this year. The cool Spring we’ve had, and the large amount of rain, has managed to fill my berry plants to the maximum with buds, blossoms and sweet, red, ripe strawberries. I’m raising a spectacular number of strawberries in my little patch. And the robins know it.

My berries are a veritable gourmet feast for robins. The only thing they want to tell me when they sit and watch as I pick, or mow, or cultivate is to get out of the way—they’re hungry.

The evening after I saw the Fu Manchu robin picking grass, when I returned home from work, I saw them at work on my patch. Two of them—large males. Hopping along that very convenient railroad-tie wall, moving from one plant to another. They didn’t even flinch when I walked up to them as they ate. That evening when I went to harvest, sure enough there were little nicks and cuts in some of the berries. Not all, not most—but some. They aren’t that greedy, and besides—there is a wonderfully full blackberry bush not too far away. I’m sure they’ll find that almost as appealing.

It might be time for some floating row-cover, or bird netting. But not just yet. I’ve already enjoyed four quarts of berries from my strawberry patch, with more to come in another week. And the blackberries haven’t ripened yet—but they will soon. There are a lot of earthworms around now, and the grass has gone to seed, and the eggs have been laid and the nests lined; by the time they get ready to feed those babies, there will be plenty to share. I’m not greedy either.