The Bluebird of Happiness

 I know all the birds of the hills, and all that moves in the field is mine. Psalm 50:11

In the spring a bluebird family returns to the birdhouse that I can see from my office, and it is true, bluebirds make people very happy.  The placement of the birdhouse is an ideal location to observe the life cycle of the birds from babies to adults because the nest is at eye level.  The baby bluebirds are so cute with their little beaks uplifted in anticipation of the next meal, but it’s their parents that are truly amazing to me. 

The bluebirds begin their task in chilly February by deciding if they want the little “apartment” located in our Texas Native Garden.  About a dozen bluebirds flock together under a large live oak and they take turns flitting back and forth to the birdhouse.  Finally, one couple claims the birdhouse as their home and they begin the delicate undertaking of constructing a nest.  It is delightful to observe these enterprising creatures carry sticks, grass, and other supplies into their abode as they prepare a soft bed for the eggs.

Every day the bluebirds return to perform the same rituals despite the heavy pedestrian traffic that passes by their little home.  People do not seem to bother the birds too much however; the birds flutter away to the safety of a tree or rooftop to create a distraction away from the nest.  When the area is peaceful again, the birds return to their tasks caring for the little ones or taking turns as a sentry.

My husband took a picture of the resident bluebird perched on top of the birdhouse, and in its beak is a bright green caterpillar.   I use the picture as the icon for my publications.  

Now, the stork is one of my favorite birds.  I like it because my son and BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) surprised us with wonderful news – their baby is due in October!  They are adding a precious addition to their lives and we are just delighted – it is the icing on the cake!

Life is Like a Cracked Windshield

I was in the car and returning home after taking our “granddog” to the vet.  As I passed a lawn service mowing the median between the lanes I heard a loud CRACK!  I silently hoped that a rock did not damage the body of the car.  The rock didn’t chip the paint instead; the rock hit the windshield causing a fissure across the top of the glass.

Oh, no!  Now I have to deal with my husband’s twenty question interrogation process.  He will want to know all the details of the incident to find out why I would let such a disaster occur; and it won’t help to say that I was just minding my own business driving down the road and the lawn service was just doing their business cutting the grass because he will want to know why flying rocks happen, why it hit our car and why I didn’t avoid it.

After three decades of wedded bliss I know my husband likes to know details.  One such event occurred when I went to get the oil changed in my car.  I don’t like car maintenance and usually avoid it, but the small store front seemed so welcoming that I decided to drive through one of its wide open doors.  I was adjusting the car around this little rack thing when a young man came running toward me, waving his arms, and yelling at me to stop!  I told my friend I would call her back later because the oil changing guy was going berserk and needed my attention.

I rolled down the window and the man seemed truly agitated and a bit frightened.  He asked me to get out of the car while explaining that my car was teetering on the edge of the pit and that I would need to call a towing service to get me out of the hole.  I never saw a hole in the floor and he explained the opening was under some metal device that was shoved aside when I pulled in the garage. 

Okay, so I called my husband to solicit his advice on the best procedure to extract me from the contrivance without too much damage or expense.  Well, you would have thought my car was already at the bottom of that hole the way he carried on!  He gasped and then started asking me how in the world did I get into such a predicament?  Let me tell you, he acted astonished that I didn’t wait for the service man to wave me into the bay area and he continued to quiz me by asking about the location of the pit, and he just went on and on about all the things he thought I should know about dingy old auto shops.

I had enough scrutiny about my actions and told him that I would handle it myself.  I got back in my car and asked the young man to direct me out of the garage.  He reluctantly stood in front of the car and waved to the right and left as I maneuvered the tires away from the pit.  My husband arrived at the shop just as I pulled safely out of the garage. He quietly shook his head in commiseration for the young man when I asked to be redirected into the bay area so I could get the oil changed in my car.

Whether in ignorance or by accident we know bad things happen and misery is as common to man as breathing.  However, I learn from my mistakes – from now on my husband can take the car to the shop for oil changes and windshield repairs!

Sweatin' to the Oldies

We joined the recreation center – again!  However, this time is different than previous associations because we are old enough to be members of the Senior Recreation Center.  It was so refreshing to have the center’s supervisor ask me how old I am to assure we could qualify for membership.  Yep, I am old enough to participate but still a spring chicken amongst the seventy and eighty year old crowd. 

My father-in-law is a member of the same center and I told my son we were looking forward to the time he and our BDIL could join our senior club.  He just laughed.  Thirty years from now is a lifetime away and I know how he feels.  I never thought about aging when I was in my twenties.  Time has a way of truly flying by even when measuring it one year at a time.

We stay active at home and on vacations.  A few years ago we were with our friends in Colorado and decided to white water raft in the Royal Gorge.  Our friends are experienced rafters and said it was an adventure of a lifetime.  Well, wearing a wetsuit certainly was a “trip”.  I asked for the oxymoron size, it’s the petite-extra large, and then pulled the fitted outfit over my swim suit.  The wetsuit and the life vest smelled of mildew.

We boarded the van and headed to the river.  Our young guide assisted us into the wobbly rubber raft and as we settled in he begin a safety overview which included statements such as if you should bounce out of the boat or hit rocks, etc.  We sat listening to our college guide in stunned silence as he became more animated describing the dangers of white water rafting.  He paused, looked at his passengers and pumped us for enthusiasm.  I spoke up and told him that when someone talks to our age group about the thrill of dying then we have to wonder if our kids know where the Will is filed.

The river was exciting as our guide navigated through the rough water.  We experienced holes, eddies, pillows, and waves along the bubbly aquatic path.  My girlfriend popped out of the boat and was rescued by the guide, and our husbands were finally able to master paddling in sync. It wasn’t all rough water at the beginning so there was plenty of time just to enjoy the beautiful scenery.

However, I was getting hot and tired after three hours and happy to see the shore where lunch was waiting for us.  My rubber suit was uncomfortable and I was looking forward to removing it and calling it a day.  Imagine my surprise when I was informed we had signed up for the all day tour!  Another three hours on the water and the guide promised even more turbulence to come.  Oh, great.

We made it without mishap and really had a great time “risking” our lives.  Now it was time to return to the tour office and collect our personal items.  I handed the wetsuit to one of the employees and he tossed it into a barrel which prompted me to ask how they laundered the suits and vests.  He said they just swished the items around in the barrel and hung them to dry.  I suggested they add some bleach to the water to freshen the process along with some additional agitation to thoroughly clean the suits.  I saw the boy look over my head to my husband and my husband gave him the same sympathetic shoulder shrug that I have seen him use when I am helping my son understand something.

We are going to our new fitness club this evening.  I plan to contact the center’s certified personal trainer to get some additional support with my workouts.  They told me the trainer is an eighty-year-old man with a body of a thirty-something.  Good, sounds like he is up to a challenge and can help me take off a few pounds before my next vacation.   Let’s see, we have already climbed Mount Rushmore and gone white water rafting so I guess we can try scuba diving next but – only if they bleach the wetsuits!

FRUIT OF THE SPIRIT

The iris plants are blooming, the bluebird is nesting, and my husband is taking pictures of bluebonnets – spring has sprung!  It is the time of year when nature rejoices with its Creator recognizing that everything under the sun has a season and God is ever faithful year after year to bless us with His care and direction.  “Also, the sun rises and the sun sets; and hastening to its place it rises there again.” 

It was 8:00 on a Saturday morning and three generations of Campbell men were on the road making their way to east Texas.  The property is about a three hour drive from the house so they planned to spend the night in the trailer and return on Sunday.  It was a “working” trip which meant there were chores to do when they arrived at their destination.

They were planting fruit trees this time and hauling a small orchard in the bed of the truck.  It was their intentions to strategically place the apple, pear and peach trees along the fence line with expectations of enjoying fresh produce in a few years. My father-in-law is in his eighties, my husband is fifty-something and our son is mid-twenties.  It seemed only right to commemorate their heritage this spring by planting trees to mark each man’s place on the land.  Their toil and sweat testified of the tradition passed from father to son to work the land and thank God for the increase.

It was the youngest member of the Campbell team that decided to plant trees.  Our son has been interested in sustainable farming and looking for opportunities to invest in items that produce less dependency on the truck to grocery store living.  He is energetic about the future prospects of the property and smart enough to encourage his Dad and Grandfather to combine their efforts and cultivate the land.

My husband and I, our son and BDIL, took classes in beekeeping and raising chickens last fall.  It was fascinating to see how a few investments in nature can help balance our environment and thrilling to see my son so receptive to the idea of planting, sowing and reaping.  Understandably, we will have to move to the farm before we can totally fulfill our “green acres” dream.  To quote an old television song “Green acres is the place to be.  Farm living is life for me!”  Although, we might be similar to the green acres couple and find living on the farm to be much more difficult than we imagined!

However for now, we substantiate our dreams with a few trees to refresh us with shade and fruit, but more importantly the trees represent one generation passing the baton to the next generation.  We rejoice in knowing – “There is an appointed time for everything.  And there is a time for every event under heaven.”

A BIRD IN HAND

I returned home from a visit with my son and BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) and before unlocking the front door I could hear chirping inside the house.  The noise continued after entering the house and I followed the sound of the “cheep, cheep, cheep” into the kitchen.  Looking around I saw a wren caught between the blinds and the window; pitifully crying its heart out.  I gently lifted the blinds to release him and the little guy stumbled into a clumsy run while attempting to jump start into flight.

The kitchen flight path was too short so he scurried around the house quicker than I could catch him. It became a comedy of errors as I swung a broom around the room while chasing the bird toward the open patio door.  He hid under the dining table, the coffee table, and the sofa.  He teased me to come get him from the perch at the top of the ceiling fan.  He hopped and skipped across the floor before bounding with a flying leap to the window and then quickly jumped away again.

Finally, I couldn’t see him and the only available clue was a faint peep to reveal his hiding place.  “Tweet, tweet”, he beckoned me ever so softly to come find him.  Twenty minutes later I found the bird tucked under a pillow on the sofa, which when discovered he greeted me with a chirpy hello until he realized the game was over and began squawking for dear life.

The bird quieted as I scooped him up in my hand.  Here was a helpless animal looking at me with the same innocence that is in the eyes of all God’s creatures.  It is not the same depth of revelation that is in a baby’s eyes, but there is a softness of hopeful acceptance in the eyes of created beings that do not have words to express their feelings.

I carefully cradle the little ball of feathers to the open door.  Outside I gently place the bird on the launch pad of the patio.  He tweets good-bye as he takes off toward the nearest tree.  I sigh in relief.  Surprisingly, it is the same contentment I have felt before when acknowledging that all is right in my world.

The tranquility did not stay with me when I stepped back inside the house because I could see the room was in a jumble from our hide and seek game!  Upon further investigation I begin to realize that minimum damage had occurred during the “struggle” to free the bird.  Although, I feel I have a better understanding of the nature of things as I am up righting overturned items and cleaning the bird’s white splatters of digested material off of the windowsill.  I realize the bird will probably only remember the trauma of the experience rather than feeling grateful for releasing him from “window jail” to fly away home.  My reward is a simple revelation – a bird in hand is worth more than a bird loose in my house!

CHRISTMAS CHEER AND WISH YOU A FIGGY PUDDING

I retrieved the metal measuring spoons from the utility drawer and a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me.  These are the spoons my Mother used for baking and the jangle of the utensils transports me to my childhood home.  And while I am reminiscing, I might as well recall when my son was a little boy.  After all, memories are the staples of home cooking and remembering makes all the shopping and chopping worthwhile.

We carry food memories and it’s these sensory reflections that make our holiday meals and family reunions special.  My kitchen musings include Aunt Charlene’s legendary pies which can’t be replicated unless pie is served in Heaven, and the same is true when it comes to grandmother’s chicken and rice or Dad’s fried catfish.

Of course, new foods are added every year to the menu and some become welcomed additions like the triple layer coconut cream cake my sister-in-law made this year for Thanksgiving.  I hope this cake becomes a regular addition to our holiday gatherings!  I didn’t ask her for the recipe because I would rather eat this complicated cake than make it.

Recipes are my favorite reading material and I collect mounds of clippings every year to store in the notebooks in my kitchen.  In a way, this collection has become our family memoirs by chronicling gastronomical accounts on paper.  I use the internet often for inspiration but really, nothing compares to the wistfulness when coming across old recipes that were composed in my Aunt’s legible penmanship on her lovely stationery or the hurriedly scrawled note on the back of an envelope written by my neighbor when she stopped chasing her toddler and nursing the newborn long enough to list the ingredients of a favorite casserole.

Mother anticipated our visit to her house last summer by placing a can of black olives on the table for me and her legendary chocolate oatmeal cookies on the table for my husband.  My Mom remembers the Christmas Eve of my childhood when I ate an entire can of black olives and the gluttony spoiled my appetite on Christmas Day.  Yet, olives and her cookies are still at the top of my favorite’s list and she thoughtfully included both items in her menu when planning for our visit.

This Christmas I am cooking a few favorites: cranberry-jalapeno relish (my husband’s favorite), sweet potato casserole (my BDIL’s favorite) and something chocolate (my son’s favorite).  I’ll also make a layered bean dip because my niece enjoys it and for my father-in-law, well, he is easy because he will eat anything I make and tell me it is good.  Family and food – the best combination to serve up some mighty good memories!

Cranberry-Jalapeno Relish

Make this a day ahead to allow the flavors to meld and the heat from the jalapeno to mellow.

1 Cup water

1 Cup sugar

1 (12-ounce) package cranberries

2 Jalapenos, chopped

1 Tablespoon fresh cilantro

2 to 3 green onions, sliced

½ teaspoon cumin

1 Tablespoon fresh lime juice

Combine water and sugar in a saucepan.  Bring to a boil.  Add cranberries.  Return to a boil; cook 10 minutes without stirring.  Cool.  Add remaining ingredients and mix lightly.  Refrigerate.  Serve chilled or at room temperature.  Serves 8.

TIME MARCHES ON

My little dog was acting agitated with something in her paw so I took her to the veterinarian for a check-up.   Kissy has a very gentle nature and never meets a stranger.   She greets everyone with a wagging tail in eager anticipation of their salutation and then she rolls over on her back for a tummy rub.  A visit to the vet’s office triggers all her senses because she is the guest of honor enjoying the attention of people and animals.   It’s just too much stimulation for the old girl of sixty- four (that’s how old she is according to the chart in the waiting room) so to relieve the pressing excitement – she makes puddles!

I apologize as the receptionist calls for clean –up assistance.  A smiling young man comes to the lobby and begins to mop up the mess.  He looks familiar and when the receptionist says his name I joyfully recall he had been a student in my first grade class.  We talk for a minute and I ask him about high school.  He tells me that he’s a junior in college and working part-time for his dad at the vet’s office.

Wow!  I knew this young man when he was a little boy and I thought it was an exaggeration to ask him about high school because surely it was only a few years ago when we last saw each other.   However, I have noticed that most adults measure time by other people’s children.  For example, we haven’t seen friends for a while and then bump into them again at a social event or at the mall.  We exclaim the obvious by remarking how the children have grown and then we ask for a confirmation of the number of years since our last visit.  The truth is painfully apparent when realizing the same passing decade that has done an awesome job on the children also shows a bit more wear on the adults that are becoming acquainted again.

I called my Mom when I turned fifty to let her know we were both old ladies now.  She told me not to tell anyone my age because she couldn’t believe I was that old and she certainly could not be old enough to have a middle-age daughter.  My father-in-law just sighed when hearing I hit the mid-century mark and wished he could be my age again.  Geez, my Mom thinks I’m old and my father-in-law thinks I’m young.  I guess that's why it is known as middle-age.

I have my favorite ways of measuring time such as looking at an analog clock instead of a digital clock. In comparison, the digital clock provides little reference to the past and only hints at the future whereas, the analog clock is a visual representation of twenty four hour possibilities.  I also prefer churches that have a cemetery on the property because seeing rows of headstones when exiting the building is a subtle confirmation there is a life in Heaven after our time on earth.

This year our son and BDIL (beautiful daughter-in-law) celebrated their first year anniversary and that was a happy measurement of time although, my sweet Aunt Wanda died and that has been a very sad measurement of time.  And so it is that time marches on, and in the meantime I pray “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom”.

There is a popular saying on the plaques in the department stores “life is not measured by the amount of breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away” or something like that.  It looks like Kissy and I just have to realize that old age is really a matter of perspective and – an occasional puddle of excitement!