THE BIRDS

In the late afternoon on Saturday, Michael drove me an hour and half north to see hundreds of thousands of birds. And it was spectacular. I did not see a single Canadian goose for once. Instead, we saw swans, little ducks that I think were surf scooters, eagles and so many snow geese. There was a grass fire and hundreds of thousands of snow geese flying around which made for some dramatic shots. I took a lot of pictures, standing outside, hanging out the truck window, standing in the sunroof. We also passed a number of other photographers, often set up on tripods in various places on the driving loop.

This is when I realized that I am not a wildlife photographer. First of all, I don’t have the gear for it. I could easily spot the photographers who specialize in wildlife photography by the size of their lenses and how they were camped out with plans to be there for a while. I saw one guy remove a lens from the back of his SUV that was the size of a bazooka gun. I was not envious. I was just as happy taking a picture of a lone dead tree in a mostly empty marsh as I was taking pictures of birds. I also really lack the patience for it. I’m not one for camping out for hours to get the “perfect” shot. I’m not mad about any of the pictures I took, but I am not delusional enough send anything off to National Geographic.

And I am perfectly at ease with this knowledge.

I didn’t plan this excursion solely on photography. I wanted to see a million birds in one place, which we did. Every time Michael stopped the truck and we got out so I could take pictures, the thing that hit me was the sound. The honking and chatter of geese was the only sound to be heard, but there was so much more. You would be standing there, mesmerized by a white sea of geese, all noisy and then suddenly the sound would stop. The honking would be replaced with a ‘whoosh’ as all of the birds would lift up out of the water and take flight. There would be almost an absence of sound as they all flapped their wings. It was if they were pulling the sound up and away with them. They would swirl around in the air for a minute or two before they would all land and settle in, sound returning to honks and chatter. It was a complete sensory experience. We left the wildlife refuge and stopped in St. Joseph for dinner at Cajun restaurant, where went in with low expectation. I mean…St. Joseph is a little too far north for southern cuisine. We were seated at one of the best tables and served fired oysters that were breaded and fried like how my mom would make them at Christmas. They didn’t have an extensive list of daiquiris or Abita beer on the menu, but we were happily surprised by the authenticity of their dishes. We left with happy full bellies and then we were home in time for SNL reruns.

When we finally made it back home, Michael asked me if I had a good time. I responded with ‘yes’, but then flipped the question back on him. He said that he had really had a nice time and then he said “More of this, please.” I wrote something in my book club journal yesterday when I was trying to write down responses to “I’d ask _ for a _.” We were supposed to be asking men we knew for something and like many of the women in my book group, I was struggling to think of the men I know/knew and what I’d want from any of them. I finally gave up and started writing my thoughts.

Michael will do anything I ask him to do. He may not do it without grumbling first or with an open heart, but he will do it. I just have to ask.

I asked to see a million birds in one space and he took me to see a million birds in one space.

BIRD SEASON

Sunday morning looks different in the Spring

6 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Sunday morning looks different in the Spring"

I was up at 6:00 AM on Saturday morning. The sounds of a bird in distress makes a pretty good alarm clock. I don't know if it is a skill I should be proud of, but by now I can tell the difference between bird and rabbit distress calls. I don't know about squirrels. They never make it into the house alive. The rarely make it into the house with their heads still attached. On this particular morning, I opened my bedroom door and then followed the trail of feathers to the kitchen where the cat had the bird cornered between the back door and the refrigerator. I told the animals to scram, dropped a dishtowel onto the bird and then scooped him up. I carried him to the front yard and I could feel his wings trying to flap. I just relaxed my grip and he flew off and up into a tree branch in the neighbor's yard. Then immediately after he landed, another bird tackled him and they both fell to the ground. I have no idea what happened to him or if he was the same bird I "rescued" at 4:30 this morning. 

I'm sure the bird from this morning didn't make it.

Since I was up at six on Saturday, I went ahead and got showered and dressed. Then I cleaned the kitchen and scrubbed the stove because a bird had pooped on it. I gathered my grocery bags, the list, my journal, my purse and my glasses, locked the door and stepped out of the house. With out keys. I stood there for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do. I banged on the front door a few times knowing that there was no way Micheal was going to hear me from his cave in the basement. I stepped around to the Cabbage's window and started banging. She pulled the curtain back with squinted eyes and I asked to her to go open the front door. She had a moment of panic when she didn't think she could get the door open, but I talked her down and said that all she had to do was turn the lock. I opened the door and told her to go back to bed. Later on, Michael went into her room and she said "Why did you lock Cindy out of the house?!" He didn't know I'd locked myself out or what the Cabbage was talking about.

That's probably the first time I've ever locked myself out of that house.

The rest of the weekend went just fine and dandy. My massage therapist removed a giant knot from my right thigh. I pulled up old dead plants and planted new vibrant living plants. I made the kind of guacamole that you never want to stop eating because it's laced with crack (not really, but I make some delicious guacamole). I spent time reading while swaying gently in my hammock. It was real nice. Some time between Saturday and today, I dreamed that Albus dragged a goose into the house. The house was a wreck with goose poop and feathers. It was like we'd used our living room for rituals. After that dream, I really studied the dog door. Could Albus even fit a goose through that door? Maybe. Yet my thoughts keep drifting back to the Saturday morning bird. He was a living breathing metaphor. I saved that bird from the clutches of a gruesome death only to release him into a different kind of gruesome death. It's like all those videos people post of releasing the trapped mouse into a field and then watching as a hawk swoops down and carries it off for it's dinner. 

It's really true. There are some things that are just out of your control.