CITY BIRD FLIES THE COOP

YOU CAN TAKE THE BIRD OUT OF THE CITY,
BUT YOU CAN'T TAKE THE CITY OUT OF THE BIRD.

FRIENDS, ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END. Last weekend we went up to Chicago and I finally had to admit that you can take the Bird out of the City, but you can't take the City out of the Bird. It was an unseasonably gorgeous day, and we took Ursula to the beach. Can you imagine that they have a beach just for dogs? At first she was shy, sniffing at the edge of the water, jumping back when the waves lapped her paws, but when she saw that it was a dog party, a BIG dog party, she high-stepped into the lake, prancing like a circus pony. She barked and bit the water, jumping and frolicking. I thought, “this is home for her.” I've known for awhile that her self esteem has been suffering, since she doesn't get to wear her leash all the time, like the city dogs. I thought about how walking her twice a day would force me to get that exercise I'm always talking about. In Birdland, I only open the door and let her run outside any time. Where's the exercise in that?

WHAT I REALLY MISS
IS THE LAUNDROMAT!

 Speaking of exercise, we had to watch out crossing the jogging path. There is a wide ribbon that goes all the way from Uptown to the Loop, and beyond, in either direction. I've often thought how nice it would be to ride a bike along the beach, but then I saw something that made my heart sing: roller skates! I do have a pair of roller skates, but as soon as I got them home to Birdland, I realized that my driveway is gravel. By the time I got to the mailbox my teeth were rattling in my head. Sometimes don't you just get a hankering for pavement? Here, in Chicago, I could skate to my heart's content and never run out of road!

DON'T YOU GET
A HANKERING FOR
PAVEMENT? 

 I sat in my Uptown office (a grocery store coffee shop with free wifi) and considered. Some folks tell me that if I were ever to leave Birdland, I wouldn't be able to write these letters anymore, but I say Birdland is a state of mind. Sure, the country gives me lots to look at and write about, but the true heart of Birdland is in noticing small joys wherever we are. Birdland is a choice to be part of the rhythms and the cycles that make up the dance of life. That dance is most present in the natural world, but if we look closely, we can see nature even in the heart of the city.

 And speaking of nature, sometimes don't we just want to get away from it? In Birdland we've been opening the windows at night to let in the breeze, but I can hardly sleep with those spring peepers in my pond! The city is much quieter. You can hear the whoosh of the traffic, but it's kind of soothing. If you close your eyes, it sounds just like the surf of the beach.

You might think I’d miss hanging my laundry out on the line, but truth be told, I'm a little sick of it. What I really miss is the laundromat. The soft scents and the cozy warmth as I fold my clothes on the wide table reminds me of The Pink Lady of my youth. My little laundry line with shirtsleeves and pant legs whipping around in the breeze is for the birds.

Yes, my mind is made up. I have almost all of my arrangements in place. Ursula will come with me, of course, and I've found home for most of the chickens. The only thing I'm worried about is a pair of old hens that require just a little bit of special care. Their names are Lirpa and Loof. They're good hens, but they're dyslexic, so they won't come unless you call their names backwards. If you know anyone who can offer them special care like that, let me know.

Jest in Beauty; Prank in Peace;
April Fool!

A DAY IN BIRDLAND

IN BIRDLAND THE FIELDS ARE SHORN OF CORN AND BEANS. The air is crisp and chill this morning and the sky is bright blue, and empty, save the puffy white stripes of the ghosts of trips above the prairie, crisscrossing towards Chicago, New York, San Diego, St. Louis, Atlanta, all from parts unknown. Ursula tugs at her leash as we walk toward the aviary to let the chickens loose below, to cluck and strut in the yard for the day. Perhaps a traveler will look down from the window in the sky to see us, tiny bugs crawling along my green patch of lawn. My dog is friendly with the chickens, but a little too rambunctious. Maybe someday they will run together, but not today. Tomorrow it will rain, but we don't realize that yet, and go right ahead and do the laundry and hang it out on the line. Who knows how much longer we can hang it without freezing our fingertips. We hang the first load, and then, what the heck, start a second load too, of towels and bedding. Sometimes we have a little too much confidence in our ability to finish a project.

We hang the first load,
and then--what the heck-- start
a second load, too.

 The harvest is in, but Jim and Sean are out in the fields again, the big tractors crawl across the stubble in the distance, pulling tanks of fertilizer. Farmers are always busy, like bees. I hang socks and jeans and dish towels, and they dance in the breeze while the tractors crisscross the fields, and the jet trails dissapate above. The mellow weather and the gentle wind make me feel optimistic, and I go to the basement to pull red tomatoes from the upside-down vines I hung under the stairs last week. They were green when I hung them, but they ripen one by one, so quickly that I have to make sauce every other day to keep up with the basement harvest. I use the lazy, crock pot method—quarter them and puree in a blender with half an onion and a clove of garlic, pour into a crock pot with herbs to slowly cook down to a thick sauce. If I weren't so lazy I would have jars of sauce lining my pantry shelf, but instead I pour it into plastic containers to freeze. Not as picturesque, but easy-peasy. The smell of tomato sauce fills the house and makes me think of pizza, so I start some bread dough, and then the rich, yeasty aroma adds to the party atmosphere. I get lonesome for my sister, so I call her. The next thing I know, I'm walking down the road toward the grass waterway, we chat about our plan to send cookies to the kids next week. Ursula tugs at her leash and I let her lead me, so involved in my plans that I don't notice when we turn into the waterway. Suddenly I see we are in the field, and my dog is rooting up fallen ears of golden corn from the stubble and husks. I pick up a few snaggle-tooth ears, trying to carry them in the crook of my arm as I juggle the dog leash and the phone. I find more—too many to carry back—I'll have to bring a sack next time. I'll toss these ears in the yard as a treat for the chickens, maybe shell some it for winter. It would look nice in a jar.

Chicken Dark

 I realize it is chicken-dark—that time of day when the chickens go in, and we turn back toward the house, going right across the field still talking with my sissy. If I hurry I can use the corn to lure the chickens back into the aviary for the night. Just yesterday we lost Michael's favorite chicken. I noticed she was missing and found a pile of light brown feathers under the apple tree where they like to roost. They go after the corn, and I count my feathered friends. I can never remember exactly how many we have, and anyway they're always moving, so I have to count like a chicken: Two roosters: check. Two barred rock, one little silver spangled: check. Only one :( light brown one left: check. Two white leghorns: check. Three French Hens (I don't know what they are, but that's what I call the three sisters): check. Yep. All there. I latch the door and let Ursula off leash. I make a fateful decision that I will regret in the morning, to leave the laundry hanging so Ursa can chase the frisbee in the darkening evening.

Count Beauty; Collect Peace; Blessed Be.

Last Laundry

For the past few weeks in Birdland, hanging laundry has been a little chillier, a little riskier. It takes a little longer to dry, and sometimes isn't dry even as the sun sets. I have to gauge the probability of overnight rain, decide whether to leave the laundry up or take it down to finish in the drier. So far, I've opted for leaving it up, and always seem to luck out.

Hanging laundry in November is quite different from hanging laundry in August. First, let me explain. I love doing laundry. It's one of my many quirks. I don't understand people who think it's a chore. It's easy and satisfying. I don't have to think, just keep in the rhythm of hanging and folding, so my mind is free to wander. It takes some time, but the job has natural built-in breaks to it. The rhythm of the task encourages a quiet meditation, and I find satisfaction in folding the familiar clothes, now clean and soft, and ready to wear another day. Creating order from a pile of dirty clothes suits me.

Hanging the laundry takes me outside to enjoy the nice day—the breeze and the sun. But in November it begins to get tricky. I wear a heavy sweater, but I can’t keep my fingers warm. This makes it both more difficult to hurry, and more important to finish quickly. Laundry in November holds a little tinge of sadness. Winter seems to be late this year, yet we know it is coming. The gray skies hold snow, and the evenings come early. In the summer I can wash three cycles of clothes and have them dry and folded before supper. In November, I have to rush to finish even one load. As I struggle to hurry with the wet clothes, the late autumn air cools them. My damp fingers pull in the chill, and soon they are numb and aching, both at the same time. Now my fingers are clumsy, and my mind is no longer free to wander. Now I am wondering if this is the last laundry I will hang on the line. Will winter stop teasing us and settle in seriously now? Will the blizzards come, the temperature drop? Will my laundry freeze on the line into stiff cardboard cut-outs of shirts and pants? Will I be dispatched to the drier until Spring?

This week my laundry luck ran out. I left a batch of still damp clothes on the line one evening, and it rained for two days. Today the sun has returned, but some of the clothes are streaked with mud, blown across the yard from the field, I suppose. I’ll have to take it down to rewash. I wander around the yard, checking on things I should have taken care of before the frost. A basket of weeds sits in the middle of my half-weeded path; the rain barrel is full of ice, the sillcock frozen shut, so I can’t even open it in case of a thaw. I’ll need to weatherize the aviary outlets and plug in the lights and winter water dishes. All this would have been easier to do before the freeze hit, but every year I get lulled in to thinking Autumn will last forever, or at least one more day.

Now that Winter has come, I’ll turn my attention inward. I’ll work on interior, warm projects—cleaning out closets and painting them, knitting, writing, fixing the thermostat. I’ll take brisk walks with the dog, collecting stones for my spiral herb garden, but I’ll just leave these in a pile until Spring. I’ll make plans, bake bread, sing songs. I’ll clean the basement. I’ll plant seeds for Spring.

Walk in Beauty; Work in Peace: Blessed Be.

Mary Lucille Hays lives in Birdland near White Heath. She is interested in cycles, common things, and her own back yard.

Garbage Old and New

Birdland is windy enough today that I think twice about hanging laundry before deciding to go ahead, using four pins instead of my usual three. The wind is warm, but the house has a residual coolness left from the spring chill of the past few days. I’m not complaining; I know that soon enough we’ll wish for a break in the heat. The flowers seem to keep a while longer than usual in this mild spring. Lilacs are just now fading, and Iris blossoms linger in their spiral wrappers. Grandma’s yellow roses have sent out small, tight bud. I have to remember to check often, because they hide behind the big lilac bushes, and only last a day or two.

We moved the chicks from the aviary to the chick creeper, where they can enjoy fresh grass. Today I’ll move the birds from the indoor winter aviary to their summer home. The chicks can venture out of their low, creeping coop, but can duck back inside if the big hens come to bother them. The Maples are dropping their helicopters and the leaves are pushing out. In just a few weeks the winged seeds grew from tiny, green mustaches to straw colored commas swirling down from the sky. I scoop them out of the little pond, but they still spiral down to float on the dark water.

The wind picks up and the dogs and I head for the woods. The Spring Beauty, Dutchman’s Breeches, and Dogtooth Violets that carpeted the forest floor a week ago are mostly gone, but the triple leaflets of Jack-in-the-Pulpit push through the fertile mulch. The double umbrellas of the 2^nd year Mayapple now each shelter a yellow flower. Ursula tugs at her leash and we make our way through the Teats Timber where we harvested lumber last fall. The undergrowth hasn’t come back yet, and the walking is easy, even with a leash. We come upon the little stream where folks used to dump trash. After a good rain, we can often find old bottles. I’ve been pulling antique glass out of that gully for years, and I keep thinking I’ve found most of them, or at least most of the best ones, but today, right on the surface are a cobalt blue Milk of Magnesia and a ketchup bottle—both perfectly whole and predating screw caps. I pick these up and carry them home thinking about trash, and especially plastic. I’m sure the people who dumped these bottles never imagined I’d one day comb these woods searching for treasures. Today’s trash is another story. I find plenty of modern garbage, too, which will never be any good for anybody. Water bottles, soda bottles, a child’s car seat have been washed down that gully too, thrown casually or deliberately from a passing car.

My mind returns again to that Pacific Garbage Patch, the plastic island of floating debris. For years I’ve been patting myself on the back about garbage. Most weeks we don’t generate enough garbage to fill our trash barrel. We recycle and try to buy things second hand. In the grocery story, I consider my purchases carefully: how much packaging comes with this product? I’ve never ever bought plastic garbage bags, using instead the plastic grocery bags that somehow collect in my kitchen even though I try to be diligent about bringing my own bags, or requesting paper, or even using the trick my friend, Mary B. taught me. When I’ve forgotten my canvas bags, I’ll put my groceries back into the cart without bags. It’s an easy transfer from the cart to the car, and at home, I can grab the bags from the kitchen to unpack. I’ve had some weird looks at the checkout counter. I think they’re getting used to me now, but back to the inappropriate self-congratulation. Until those grocery bags are biodegradable, they, too, might end up in the floating mass of plastic soup that could very well lead to our destruction. I know I can do better. No, I’ve never bought garbage bags, but I can stop buying plastic sandwich bags, freezer bags, stop using the free bags in the produce section to bag veggies. I can use more permanent containers and wrap Ellis’ lunchtime sandwiches in waxed paper, closed with a small piece of tape.

The dogs and I walk back to the road. I’m clutching my bottles, planning new challenges for myself. What if I went one month without buying anything with unrecyclable plastic? What if I did some investigation to find out how much of the plastic I take to the recycling drop off actually gets recycled? We’re all in this together. Small but important steps in the right direction may put us on the right path and give us courage to take large ones.

Walk in Beauty; Work in Peace; Blessed Be.