The "Red Bellied Woodpecker" does, in fact, have a small red patch on its belly, just before its tail. While it does have a white breast, my previous blog was mistaken in taking umbridge with the name "red breasted woodpecker" because that, in fact, is not its name.
The Cardinal/Wren lovechild may, in fact, be a Purple Finch. In this case, I once again have to wonder at the naming of birds. According to Mr. Audobon, the Purple finch is brown in its body feathers with a maroon head that turns more reddish in the summer. So where does the purple come in?
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
autobiography installment I
I was born on November the twenty-third, 1979, at Ball Memorial Hospital in Muncie, Indiana. I was too young to remember it at the time, so there’s not much I can tell you about that. All I really know about it comes from threats and insinuations my mother made over the years. Threat: “When you were born, you came out the wrong way-- face up. You gave me back labor. Just wait until you have babies.” Insinuation: I somehow did this on purpose to cause her pain. Threat: “The doctor said you had a head bigger than ninety-five percent of babies. Just wait until you have babies.” Insinuation: Well, I don’t know. Perhaps the thought is that my head is still bigger than ninety-five percent of heads out there; a thesis supported by the fact that ninety-five percent of pairs of sunglasses I try on squeeze my head unbearably. I think I’m getting off point.
My parents are not classical reminisce-ers. In addition to what Mom told me about my being born, Dad told me that he was surprised by me. I have an older brother, the advent of whom apparently convinced Dad that only male babies come out that particular chute. Thus, the introduction of a girl was of some small shock to him. I guess he got over it eventually.
It was actually my older brother who had the most adjusting to do. When I was brought home from the hospital, he was an eager two year old. “Can I hold it?” he asked. But I think he quickly found what a trial baby sisters can be. Perhaps the first time Mom took one of his toys away because he bashed me with it, he had some inkling of the difficulties of siblingdom, but I think the aggravation really set in when I was old enough to talk and insisted on calling him “Joelly” every time I addressed him.
Other than these few shared recollections, my first couple of years were largely uneventful. The usual diapers were changed, blankies were loved, smashed foods were gummed, and I grew. When I was about sixteen months old, my maternal grandfather succumbed to a heart attack, to the surprise of my family. He was quite young when he went, and my mother says that it was a comfort of sorts to have me toddling around, babbling at the funeral. But this, like other early events, is only an image in my imagination.
Somewhere in the space of those early years, I split my head open on one of Joelly’s toy trucks and had to have stitches. I also fell in love with my elderly neighbor’s miniature house. Not that they lived in a miniature house, but they had a miniature house full of miniature items that I loved to look at, to the point of venturing over there to look at them once when I was about three without first telling Mom where I was going. I guess you could say I ran away, but only next door. This is an incident I do have strange, waivery memories of. It seems as though I look at my small self through air that shimmers like it does rising off of the pavement on a very hot day. The living room ceiling in Jim and Treeva’s was textured with precise, swirled brushstrokes, and I have an impression of the room being blue. I recall the doll’s house in a small room off of the living room that may have had yellow walls. I was fascinated with the small house with its tiny chairs and little light fixtures, but I had a strong impression that I must not touch it. Instead I watched it with a hushed reverence that only very small children truly have. I also remember being aware that I might hurt Treeva’s feelings if I seemed to be there only to see the doll’s house, and trying to show interest in Treeva herself out of a sense of politeness. But I wonder where these memories come from. They don’t seem like thoughts of a three or four year old mind, and yet I couldn’t have been any older.
I don’t remember much about the home I lived in before the age of five. It was on the corner of Nebo Road and I-don’t-know-what. There was a mulberry tree on one end of the house. There was a garden with a small shed out back. A woods bordered the property. There were huge pine trees around the neighbor’s house, and I often saw dragonflies there.
My bedroom at Nebo road had Cookie Monster-Blue carpet, and was the first door on the right down the hall from the living room. In that bedroom, I used to have recurring dreams. One was a nightmare wherein I would walk out into the living room and suddenly from all angles giant donut-like objects would roll towards me and try to smash me. They were colorful, and always rolled in the same pattern in the dream. They seemed to emerge like ghosts from within the furniture rather than hide behind or under it. I would run away from the donuts in a set pattern, finally escaping from the living room to find Mom doing dishes at the sink in the kitchen.
Did I have these dreams more often when I was sick? I remember having what Mom called “adrenaline attacks” when I was sick as a child. Always during these attacks, the room seemed to distort. Suddenly the door would seem to be hundreds of feet away, and I unable to move. I lay disconnected from my body in my bed above the blue carpet feeling painful fear until Mom came and with calm in her very presence.
My parents are not classical reminisce-ers. In addition to what Mom told me about my being born, Dad told me that he was surprised by me. I have an older brother, the advent of whom apparently convinced Dad that only male babies come out that particular chute. Thus, the introduction of a girl was of some small shock to him. I guess he got over it eventually.
It was actually my older brother who had the most adjusting to do. When I was brought home from the hospital, he was an eager two year old. “Can I hold it?” he asked. But I think he quickly found what a trial baby sisters can be. Perhaps the first time Mom took one of his toys away because he bashed me with it, he had some inkling of the difficulties of siblingdom, but I think the aggravation really set in when I was old enough to talk and insisted on calling him “Joelly” every time I addressed him.
Other than these few shared recollections, my first couple of years were largely uneventful. The usual diapers were changed, blankies were loved, smashed foods were gummed, and I grew. When I was about sixteen months old, my maternal grandfather succumbed to a heart attack, to the surprise of my family. He was quite young when he went, and my mother says that it was a comfort of sorts to have me toddling around, babbling at the funeral. But this, like other early events, is only an image in my imagination.
Somewhere in the space of those early years, I split my head open on one of Joelly’s toy trucks and had to have stitches. I also fell in love with my elderly neighbor’s miniature house. Not that they lived in a miniature house, but they had a miniature house full of miniature items that I loved to look at, to the point of venturing over there to look at them once when I was about three without first telling Mom where I was going. I guess you could say I ran away, but only next door. This is an incident I do have strange, waivery memories of. It seems as though I look at my small self through air that shimmers like it does rising off of the pavement on a very hot day. The living room ceiling in Jim and Treeva’s was textured with precise, swirled brushstrokes, and I have an impression of the room being blue. I recall the doll’s house in a small room off of the living room that may have had yellow walls. I was fascinated with the small house with its tiny chairs and little light fixtures, but I had a strong impression that I must not touch it. Instead I watched it with a hushed reverence that only very small children truly have. I also remember being aware that I might hurt Treeva’s feelings if I seemed to be there only to see the doll’s house, and trying to show interest in Treeva herself out of a sense of politeness. But I wonder where these memories come from. They don’t seem like thoughts of a three or four year old mind, and yet I couldn’t have been any older.
I don’t remember much about the home I lived in before the age of five. It was on the corner of Nebo Road and I-don’t-know-what. There was a mulberry tree on one end of the house. There was a garden with a small shed out back. A woods bordered the property. There were huge pine trees around the neighbor’s house, and I often saw dragonflies there.
My bedroom at Nebo road had Cookie Monster-Blue carpet, and was the first door on the right down the hall from the living room. In that bedroom, I used to have recurring dreams. One was a nightmare wherein I would walk out into the living room and suddenly from all angles giant donut-like objects would roll towards me and try to smash me. They were colorful, and always rolled in the same pattern in the dream. They seemed to emerge like ghosts from within the furniture rather than hide behind or under it. I would run away from the donuts in a set pattern, finally escaping from the living room to find Mom doing dishes at the sink in the kitchen.
Did I have these dreams more often when I was sick? I remember having what Mom called “adrenaline attacks” when I was sick as a child. Always during these attacks, the room seemed to distort. Suddenly the door would seem to be hundreds of feet away, and I unable to move. I lay disconnected from my body in my bed above the blue carpet feeling painful fear until Mom came and with calm in her very presence.
the bird tree
spring came and went again in mid-march at the haley holler. we were granted a brief respite from forty degree temperatures and rain. two weeks of shorts and tee shirt weather fooled all of us. i into planting flowers. the birds into coming back to the wooded countryside. i love the birds in northern ‘tucky. we all seem to revel equally in the benevolent warmth of springtime. it is a warmth that makes one forget that the air yet to come in late summer will drive us all into hiding with its choking, steaming humidity. still, though this fake spring induced fits of gardening optimism, i knew it was too early for the hummingbird feeders to go back out. even so, i found myself longing for birds. as a result, the tree in the front of my house has sprouted no less than three bird feeders; two with “song bird mix” and one just for the finches.
finches are not shy about visiting a well placed bird feeder, it turns out. they also like other seeds beside just thistle seed. on any given day, i can peer out my corner window at something like twenty goldfinches.
the songbird food has broadened the color range beyond the dandelion yellow of the finches. i got it hoping for cardinals, but i was in for a surprise. cardinals have come, but not as many as i thought might. in their stead, i have a faithful contingent of sparrows, cowbirds (a type of swallow with a dull brown head and handsomely glossy blue-black wings), mourning doves, and one lone blue gray nuthatch; ever amusing as his makes his way down the tree trunk head first to pick seed from the grass.
the real triumph of the songbird seed has been the woodpeckers. there are three magnificent orange headed, black and white backed “red-breasted woodpeckers” who delight me by hanging comically from the bottom of the feeders, craning their necks for seed. why they’re called red-breasted, i have no idea, since their breasts are white and their crowns red-orange, but that is what mr. audobon says, and i have no choice but to believe him.
i gave myself credit for a smart tactical stroke when i saw the blue jays had found the feeders. blue jays are big and often bullies for all their pretty coloring, but evidently three feeders in on tree are enough to satisfy even the greediest jay. they make the finches flit, but they don’t bestir themselves to chase anyone off.
perhaps my favorite bird of the motley flock that i’m currently feeding is the one i can’t identify. it’s the size of a finch, with a plain brown body like a common house finch. the delightful thing about it is its brick red head, complete with a tiny crest as though a cardinal and a wren had an illicit love child. true to form, i have only seen this bird once, and only one of them at that. perhaps the cardinal/wren theory is gaining strength?
finches are not shy about visiting a well placed bird feeder, it turns out. they also like other seeds beside just thistle seed. on any given day, i can peer out my corner window at something like twenty goldfinches.
the songbird food has broadened the color range beyond the dandelion yellow of the finches. i got it hoping for cardinals, but i was in for a surprise. cardinals have come, but not as many as i thought might. in their stead, i have a faithful contingent of sparrows, cowbirds (a type of swallow with a dull brown head and handsomely glossy blue-black wings), mourning doves, and one lone blue gray nuthatch; ever amusing as his makes his way down the tree trunk head first to pick seed from the grass.
the real triumph of the songbird seed has been the woodpeckers. there are three magnificent orange headed, black and white backed “red-breasted woodpeckers” who delight me by hanging comically from the bottom of the feeders, craning their necks for seed. why they’re called red-breasted, i have no idea, since their breasts are white and their crowns red-orange, but that is what mr. audobon says, and i have no choice but to believe him.
i gave myself credit for a smart tactical stroke when i saw the blue jays had found the feeders. blue jays are big and often bullies for all their pretty coloring, but evidently three feeders in on tree are enough to satisfy even the greediest jay. they make the finches flit, but they don’t bestir themselves to chase anyone off.
perhaps my favorite bird of the motley flock that i’m currently feeding is the one i can’t identify. it’s the size of a finch, with a plain brown body like a common house finch. the delightful thing about it is its brick red head, complete with a tiny crest as though a cardinal and a wren had an illicit love child. true to form, i have only seen this bird once, and only one of them at that. perhaps the cardinal/wren theory is gaining strength?
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