Category: Bottles of Hours

“Aw, c’mon,” my camera said as I picked it up. “Can’t we do something besides snow and birds?” (Of course my camera doesn’t really talk. But we’ve been together a long time and we definitely understand each other.) I had to admit that I was ready for a change, too. Besides, I had already put on all that winter gear once and climbed the slope to deliver the day’s vittles to the Little Pine Cafe. I left plenty to get my feathered friends through the day, and I really didn’t want to go outside again.

“Okay,” I said to the camera. “Let’s find something fun in here.” Just then, my eye fell on one of my paper weights. It had been a while since I gave it any attention. So I grabbed it and one of its cousins and few pieces of cut glass and took them to my studio. The light was good and varied in there.

As I glanced out the studio’s window, the snow on the roof below caught my eye. It would be the perfect background for the pieces. I opened the window, set one of the paper weights in the snow and turned on my camera. It giggled.

We played, losing ourselves in alternative worlds. It felt as if we had stepped into an entirely different dimension. I can’t tell you how long we were there. Time simply disappeared. But here are some of the treasures we brought back . . .

After the ice storm, the sunflower seeds just slid right off the rocks where I’d been putting them for the birds. I had to find a new location.

I had noticed that the cardinals and several of the smaller birds liked to hang out in the branches of the young pine at the curve of the retaining wall at the back of the yard. They would grab seeds from the rocks and take them there to eat beneath its protective branches. So it seemed a fine spot for opening a new diner for my little friends,

“Here you go!” I sang to them as I scattered seeds beneath the tree’s boughs. “Little Pine Cafe is open for business!”

The grand opening was a success. The juncos and chickadees rushed right in. Then the cardinals came, followed by the doves, the woodpecker, and, at last, the jays.

This morning a second pair of cardinals came, newcomers to the yard. The place was full and reminded me of the donut shop in town where the old men gathered to gossip over donuts and coffee in the morning.

Then, to my surprise, a final guest arrived, a fellow rarely seen in these parts. The jays scattered at his appearance, but the cardinals and the little birds paid him no mind at all. He was quite splendid I thought, in his gray snowsuit with his whiskered face and bushy tail. He ate his fill, then scampered away.

The word, it seems, is getting around.

I spent the first hour of my morning listening to a conversation between two physicians about the latest reports on vax injuries and on the content of the shot itself. In the comments section of the video someone listed the statistics on the increases in various medical conditions reported by the US Department of Defense: 300% 500%, 600% 1500% in 2021 versus the past five year averages. It’s an extensive list. And now we’re giving this potion to our babies!

Meanwhile, in Ottawa, the police are going to arrest anyone who supplies fuel to the truckers who are standing against the tyranny of the mandates.

I finish my cup of coffee and remember that the birds are out there in the cold waiting for breakfast. The temperature has risen to 30 now, and as I step outside I am struck by the sight of the treetops, gleaming with ice and quite stunning against the blue sky. The powdery snow sparkles in the sunlight. The birds call from the branches of the spruce.

“Ah,” I say to myself with a sigh of welcome relief. “There’s still this. There’s still this.”

They roll with the punches. They know how to cope. They’re tougher than you might think.

They have friends in the background who cheer them on and sing, “Hang on! Hang on!”

And besides, somewhere deep within, they trust that they were made for this day.

In the afternoon I tried to nap but couldn’t sleep. The kid in me is too full of anticipation over the coming storm. We’ve had freezing rain all day. The spruce boughs are heavy with its crystals. It taps against the window panes as if someone is hurling thousands of needles at them. But I am waiting for the snow. Once it starts, they say, we could get an inch an hour.

I wasn’t even a teen yet when I adopted the Girl Scout motto: “Be Prepared.” I’m ready, as best I can be, for whatever the storm may bring. My highest hope is that I’ll wake in the morning to a warm house and electricity. I pray for all those who won’t, and for those who will brave the ice and snow to restore life-saving power where the storm takes it down.

I am moved by the courage and compassion that people show in emergencies and when they must rise to defend and protect the things they hold dear. From all over the world, stories come in now of people taking to the streets to reclaim their freedom from would-be tyrants. It stirs me to my core.

Whatever storms may come, we will rise to the occasion. Whatever power is lost will be restored.

I woke to the news that Punxatany Phil saw his shadow. (How could he not, with all those TV lights!) meaning Spring is still six weeks away.

But I saw an awesome flock of Canadian geese flying north, honking and honking, and honking.

And even the date joins in their song: Oh Two, Oh Two, Two Oh Two Two

Honk.

At 2:30 in the afternoon the sun was behind the south hill, but the day was unusually warm and bright. I went out to bring in the rest of my firewood. Starting tomorrow night, they say, we’ll get between three to six inches of a “wintry mix” of sleet and snow, topped with a glaze of ice. It’s the kind of weather that brings down power lines and trees. It’s best to be prepared.

Before I turn to take the last log into the house, I ask Mother Maple and the Hawk Tree to protect me and all their children, as if they had such powers, and send them wishes to fare well through the storm. Both of them have seen many storms before. This is nothing new either for them or for me. And truth be told, it will impact other regions of the country far more than the one where we stand. I say these things to the trees only because we have spent many years together and they hold a special place in my heart.

The good news is that tomorrow is Ground Hog’s Day, and the coming storm’s approach means the sky will be blanketed with clouds. According to the legend, when the ground hog doesn’t see his shadow on the second day of February, it portends an early spring. In my book a little storm seems a small price to pay for such luxury. Bring it on.

In the light of the afternoon sun you can see that deer have passed by, that the little juncos were out pecking through the snow for seeds. The long shadows of the trees follow the curves of the hill down its slopes. And the snow itself glitters as if a choir of angels had spent the night sprinkling diamond dust from the heavens.

“This is your reward,” I think to myself as I climb the hill. The snow rises in glistening little clouds around my boots. I stop for a moment and listen to the silence of the woods. The birds have had their breakfasts and are resting now, conserving their energy. I’m as grateful on their behalf as I am for my own sake that the sun has reappeared with its gentle winter warmth. We needed this.

 I notice that my face is wearing a smile as I continue my climb, adding my tracks to those the animals made. They seem to link us together somehow, these signs that we were here, on this hill, in the shimmering snow at this moment in time. “Every now and then,” I sometimes say, “a moment comes along that makes all the rest of them worth it.” This, surely, is one of those.

“This is not about freedom or personal choice,” he said.

He was wrong.

That’s exactly what it’s about, and has been, since the very beginning.