OWL SONG

 

 

The owls are doing their spring routine, singing (if you want to call it that) since January. I know this because there is a decaying silver maple near my bedroom window, and because I am a light sleeper. These are not the small shivery-voiced owls, but the magnificent Great Horned, who has a deep voice. This vocalization always becomes a duet after a few minutes, because invariably another owl shows up, parks (himself? herself?) in a nearby tree and begin a call and response. A-Whoo-Whoo-Whoo! A-Whoo-Whoo-Whoo! Sometimes it goes on for thirty minutes, but I never get tired of it.

Remember those marvelous Farside cartoons, created by a wildlife biologist? I acknowledge that he is the author of these quips, but as I lie there in the moonlit semi-darkness imagining their conversation, it becomes either something along the line of “Hey Baby! Hey Baby!” if they are male and female--or, if male, it's doubtless the classic turf war of taunts and insults:  “You and what army?” 

I love lying there, hearing, even in surroundings mostly cleansed of original flora and fauna, that something of the old natural world survives. More than that, it's still ongoing, and letting me in on the ancient game of love and war as it begins again. After a little, though, as the song continues, I also worry. If any cats are out, I have to get up, navigate the staircase while half asleep and open the door. Usually, whatever feline is out has been prudently hiding on the porch and doesn't waste time getting inside. Bubo Virginianus isn’t nick-named the “winged tiger” for nothing.
 

 

 Also, in the same line, this area is in a migration zone. At certain times of year, we have lots of different birds passaging. Right now, it’s the Snow Geese. If you are lucky enough to see a massed gathering, it’s  a wonder you almost have to see-- and hear--to believe. For a little, out in the spring mud of the fields, there are thousands upon thousands of them. When they fly, wings glancing white against the cold blue of a February high, they, like all geese, call out to one another. Unlike Canada geese, which we have all year, the snow geese have sweet whispery voices, like ghosts slipping overhead through the ragged clouds. It's a sight which lets you know, standing there in that thin sun, that yes, spring is really on the way.
  

 

Nature reminds us of her presence, assuring us that, more as less as the groundhog predicted, winter will soon be just a memory.

 

 

In town, a lawn full of crocus is in bloom, one that was planted by some long-ago owner. Even the tulips and daffodils are giving it the old team try, poking out their green heads. All these “Simple Gifts” from the planet we are lucky enough to live upon fills me with happiness.

 

 

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

All my Historical Novels
http://www.julietwaldron.com


 

Hop on over to these other talented Books We Love Authors:

 

http://triciamg.blogspot.com/

http://mizging.blogspot.com (Ginger Simpson)

http://connievines.blogspot.com.au/ Connie Vines

Possum Soul/From the Bottom of the Bin

We're at the bottom of the bin, yes we possum are. Sometimes this bothers us, sometimes not. If I can borrow the royal (or insane) "we," I'll talk possum to you. I've been slogging away out here, serving the muse to the best of my ability, writing, and "scribbling, bibbling," as Amadeus had it, for many years now. My life feels like the movie 9-5, as others, newer to the game, vault over my back and climb the ladder to glory. I, instead, scuttle about in your moon lit backyard and hope that some drunken late night kid driver doesn't run me over, just for laughs.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. This is happening to my cohort right about now. We were born just before the "baby boom," which has been following us around on big loud feet ever since we saw the light of day. At first, we were remarkable, because we were the tail end of the "baby bust." Depression and a World War had left children scarce on the ground, but then, suddenly, we were a cool rarity no longer simply because we were young children. I remember this feeling of sinking popularity, so can relate to old Hollywood actors whose glory days have come and gone.  By the fifties, everybody had a hoard of little brothers and sisters, except of course for me, the lonely only. I early learned that a mysterious Something called The RH factor had removed that possibility, though I'm not entirely certain either parent was interested in more than the one semi-obligatory child.

Sometimes the past is larger than the future. Very long ago--oh, eons--we marsupials were forerunners of that wildly successful line of placental mammals who have taken over this planet. We possum, parent tribe, alone remain in the West, tenderly snuffling about in hedges for bugs. slugs and worms and the lump of cassarole the old woman next door so thoughtfully threw out. We also like persimmon trees, grapes, berries, and fallen fruit in orchards. Sour or slimy or sweet, it's all grist to the old mill. Maybe, after the killer apes have finally blown themselves to smithereens, a few of us, the ancient possum, will still be shuffling about, nosing quietly through the ruins of what is so saucily termed "civilization."




~~Juliet Waldron

http://cronehenge.blogspot.com
http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

Characters that Keep Coming Back, Or, Blumchen slips in the Window Again

The character who keeps coming back; most writers have them. The book that can’t or won’t be finished--those too are endemic. My particular dark horse always returns in the first warm weather, this year occurring in April. She’s here, sucking up my waking hours. Needless to say, I’m reediting and reimagining scenes and conversations I’ve visited many, many times. Wearingly I’ve journeyed to this imaginary world over a period of almost thirty years.

To explain more clearly, a reworking doesn’t take place every year, at least not since the first decade. “She” is the first book I ever completed, although a satisfactory ending, I think, still eludes me. Like Constanze of Mozart’s Wife, this young heroine insists on speaking in the first person, which both narrows and deepens her POV. It’s like writing from inside the confines of her 18th Century dress.

I’ve heard authors talk about having a “channeling” experience with their characters. There are many tales of automatic writing and spirit dictation, which sound as if they should be taken with handfuls of salt. However, after the experience I had writing this old and perhaps never-to-be-finished novel, I know it can happen. Ordinarily it takes a period of work to make your dolls get up and moving independently, but in this case, it seems I was the vessel chosen by a voice from the past—for at least a part of her story.

So began tulip-time April, and now burgeoning green May, and her voice is back again, calling for rewrites and stringent editing. She insists I do my best work, despite the fact that the story is “romance.” I hasten to add that it’s “romance” and in the truest sense of the word, in the way Romeo & Juliet is romance. I’m not using the modern commercial sense of the word, but am talking about the old-fashioned bloody insanity, which can so easily end in tragedy. It’s the true nature of the beast, which makes completing a tale of a hopeless passion so difficult. I don’t really want to know the end.

Serial Bob

We have a bulkhead next to a small extension at the back of our house. Between bulkhead and laundry is about a foot and half of pavement. This has become the place where our local serial killer lays out his victims. I tend to let cats in and out at this back door, where I’m sort of tucked inside, facing the patio and a fence. This is often the first view of my yard I have in the morning, but I’ve learned not to look around the door at the area between the bulkhead and the house until well after I’ve had my coffee.

Our ex-stray cat has decided that this is the place to leave displays of his night’s work. Right now, fortunately, he’s apparently on hiatus, but earlier this spring when everything was young, tender, and frisking with joy, he was busy. The “work” that always impresses us most is the squirrels, full grown ones that he lugs in for us to admire. He used to eat them whole back when he was on the lam, but now just the head seems to be satisfactory. What’s the zombie joke? “Brainssssss!”

Anyway, he caught four squirrels this spring, great big plush grown-ups who should have known better. I don’t feel too sorry about them, because we’ve got a ton of squirrels who are up to no good with my bulbs and gardens. I do mourn the bunnies and chipmunks he catches, but what purely I hate, what I yell about, are the song birds.

Worst and most heinous of all his crimes, he ate my adorable jazz-master catbird in his fine, gray Wall Street suit. He crunched house finches around the bird feeder like potato chips, so that I gave up putting seeds into it. He brought me a darling Carolina Wren in his mouth, held so carefully that when I coaxed it away from him, the wren took flight straight from my hand. I hope very much that his/her rattling little bold scolding self survived the ordeal. This cat of mine could give Sylvester a bad name!
Web Site: Juliet Waldron