*Cue Announcer*
We now return to our regularly scheduled season, already in progress…
Hummingbird Hopes and a Publication Note
A few years ago I spent several months filling, emptying, cleaning, and refilling three hummingbird feeders. Instead of hummingbirds, the feeders attracted wasps and ants. Disappointed, and convinced I had done something wrong, I put away the feeders.
Last year my hummingbird hunger stirred again when we lost our Fourth of July rose. Surveying the large gap in our yard, we decided to plant with hummingbirds in mind. After a bit of research, we filled the space with honeysuckle, bee balm, and Rose of Sharon. The honeysuckle and Rose of Sharon grew enough to open a few blooms over the summer and fall, but the bee balm was past its flowering season by the time we planted it.
All of the flowers survived our long, cold winter, and last week we added a few annuals to the mix (because it’s impossible to resist the instant reward of planting a flower already in bloom.)
All we can do now is wait. Will they come?
My last bit of news today is a Publication Note — three of my poems are posted at The Blue Hour! Many thanks to the editors!
Pollinating the Pear Tree
It happens every year, and every year I spend hours trying to capture it with my camera.
Every year I fail.
The pear tree’s spring spectacle is impossible to capture in photos. Or in words.
So many bees!
The nectar explosion brings a horde of other pollinators, too. Enough to keep a taxonomist busy for weeks. Today I became distracted by a handful of lady beetles that were burrowing into the blooms.
At first I assumed the lady beetles were eating aphids, or other insects. But after watching a while, I decided they were there for the nectar, like everyone else.
Everyone except me, that is.
I was there for the sunshine and the photos, and the riveting wonder of it all.
Review: My Beloved Brontosaurus
First, I have to confess that this is not really a review. It’s mostly a chance for me to visit one of my favorite topics. I have been fascinated by dinosaurs for a very, very long time. As I read My Beloved Brontosaurus, my fingers began to itch for the feel of my old plastic toys, the ones that roared through my childhood and paced across my shelves. They are (and were at the time) scientifically inaccurate. However, they were (and still are) great fun.
Unlike my battered collection of mismatched toys, My Beloved Brontosaurus is equal parts good science and good fun. Much of it is a journey through paleontology’s growing pains, exploring name changes, skeletal puzzles, and feather mysteries. Chapter by chapter, the book details how Brontosaurus became Apatosaurus, how the upright posture that once defined a dinosaur was discovered in non-dinosaurs from the same time period, and how evidence hints that many dinosaurs had feathers or protofeathers (sometimes referred to as dinofuzz.)
My Beloved Brontosaurus is the most fun I’ve had with dinosaurs in years. Not only is the science interesting, the book strikes resonant chords in each chapter with elements of memoir, personal essay, and travel writing. As I turned the last page, I was filled with a deep yearning to pack a bag and head off on a multi-state museum tour. A few minutes later, coming to my senses and realizing that travel is not my favorite way to spend time, I headed off to the attic in search of a dusty box full of memories.
(I don’t know how the woolly mammoth [definitely not a dinosaur] made it into this batch of plastic dinosaurs. Nor the sail-backed Dimetrodon. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I found a blog post, yesterday, explaining how “Dimetrodon is #notadinosaur”.)
Since I started this post with a confession, it seems appropriate to end with one. I don’t remember some of these dinosaurs. They mysteriously appeared in my collection when Mother mailed off several boxes of old toys as she attempted to de-clutter her house. I can’t say with certainty which of the dinosaurs were mine and which ones became mine as Mother packed the boxes, but I’m happy to claim them all now.
(As an aside, it’s somehow logical to me that cats might have had something to do with most of history’s extinction crises.)
Between Seasons
I had hoped spring would chase winter’s gloom into memory, but it hasn’t yet. Instead there are all these photos of hunger and snow, dating back to October.
Along with hunger and snow, this winter brought weeks of numbing cold.
I was glad I had left the bird houses hanging because I saw chickadees retreating into them at nightfall.
It’s not that winter was completely cheerless. The yard had a few winter blooms, and there were certainly days of sunshine.
But I’m ready for spring. Real spring, with hours on end of warmth and nest building and bird song.
I can’t be the only one who is fretful and impatient. Maybe that’s why it seems as if spring is embarrassed to be arriving so late. Instead of rushing in with thunder and rain-scented gusts, spring is edging into the yard like a guilty ticket holder who overslept and missed the opening scene. Bees are sluggish, the irises and pear tree bloomed while I wasn’t looking, and the house stays chilly despite bright sunshine and open windows.
I suppose I’ll be complaining about the heat, before too long, and wishing for a cool draft in the house. Because summer always follows, and fall after it. And then there will come a day, sometime in early September, when I will wish for winter. But for now all of my wishes are focused on spring.
Rae Spencer 