Turkey Talk

I've been seeing wild turkeys in my yard almost every day lately. Usually Stormy spots them from the bedroom windows and alerts me. I've been trying to get some photos, but so far, no luck. There are just too many trees, bushes, bird feeders, etc. in my way. So, I'm inserting some pics that I found online.


Now, that's a gorgeous gobbler. Note his beard dragging the ground. He's definitely a mature male, although a small percentage of hens sport beards. There are so many interesting facts about turkeys. For instance, you can tell the difference in hens and gobblers by looking at their scat. I don't know why, but gobbler poop looks like a single line, usually "J" shaped, whereas hen poop will be a mound. Actually, the hen poop that I've seen looks like a piece of divinity candy with a chocolate chip on top. O.K., that's probably more that most people want to know.

Well, what about caruncles, wattles, and snoods? I'm sure we've all seen some people with wattles, so that should be self-explanatory, but just in case--those are the folds of skin underneath the neck. I pray Lord, don't give me wattles. Caruncles are those wartlike protuberances that are oh, so attractive.

In this photo, the snood is obvious. That's the fleshy, fingerlike extension growing down over the beak. Why? I just assume that God has a great sense of humor. Maybe the girls like them. I don't know.

Turkeys have no feathers on their head and neck. The skin changes color from red to bright blue, depending on the turkey's mood. Red would indicate a not-so-happy camper.
These are Eastern wild turkeys. There are five subspecies in North America--Eastern (by far the most abundant), Osceola, Rio Grande, Merriam's, and Gould's. In the 1930's the turkey population had diminished to the point where turkeys were considered endangered, but we now have over 7 million. 5 million of these are Easterns.

Boy, this guy really has a long snood. And, perhaps, he's feeling good about it (blue head). I'm always amazed at how big these birds are. The males are 3-4 feet long and weigh in around 20-30 pounds. The hens are slightly smaller.

They may look a little awkward, but don't let that fool you. They can run up to 25 mph and fly up to 45 mph. Yes, wild turkeys fly. They roost in trees and they don't climb ladders.

I am so fortunate to be able to watch these glorious creatures from my home. Last year, I was awakened on numerous mornings by gobblers calling out. Just this morning I saw and heard a hen clucking in my driveway. Living in the woods has some fantastic perks.

Thank you Mother Earth for providing me with such inspirational entertainment.

Playing for the Universe--Access Denied

I've been trying to play piano again. I lost about 3 months because of my silly, slightly dysfunctional brain. Reading music is a sure-fire seizure trigger for me. Anyway, since I'm feeling better now--thank you very much--I thought it was time to get back with the program.


I had this idea that perhaps, I should only play my own music. Surely I can handle that. I saw someone on TV saying that he learned at an early age that it was much easier to write his own songs, than to learn someone elses. No shit, Sherlock. It only took me a lifetime to figure that out.


My grand scheme is called "playing for the universe". I will weave beautiful melodies to send forth into the ether where spirits and energies cavort and collide. I will make a simple offering of peaceful harmonies, including some bits of pathos and discord for contrast. For, how can you recognize joy if you've never experienced sorrow?


Well, it's just not happening. Ten minutes at the piano and my head is spinning for hours. For now, the songs that I write in my head will have to stay there. Will it get better? If I keep trying, will my brain form new, healthy connections? Does "use it or lose it" apply to this scenario? I really don't have a clue.


Perhaps the universe is telling me to focus on something else. I've never been good at deciphering subtle hints, but being hit with a sledgehammer can be pretty persuasive.


Still looking for directions,
Serena

Appalachian song

On my last library visit, I was too dizzy to make coherent choices, so I let the books choose me. I got lucky with The Songcatcher by Sharyn McCrumb.

It starts in present day Appalachia, then travels back to 1751 where a nine-year-old boy, Malcolm McCourry, is abducted from his island home, the Isle of Islay, near Scotland. The tale chronicles McCourry's life and his descendants, moving ever closer to our time frame, while jumping forward intermittently to reveal the present day drama unfolding in yet another McCourry's life. Binding the story from beginning to end is an old Scottish ballad, "The Rowan Stave".

I didn't know (or had forgotten I knew) that George Washington had his troops inoculated against small pox. Of course, during the Revolutionary War, vaccinations were not what they are today. A scratch with a bloody needle contaminated with weakened smallpox germs had to be a scary prospect. Some got sick, some died, and some carried the contagion back home to their families. Still, a potential epidemic was avoided.

McCrumb adds interesting vignettes from the Civil War as she moves us forward in time with Malcolm's descendants. She, also, taught me about cosmic possums. I'll let you look that one up. I don't want to spoil all the fun.

The best part of the book for me was found in the Afterword when McCrumb revealed the main characters were real people she found while researching her genealogy. Yes, the amazing life of Malcolm McCourry actually happened! "The Rowan Stave", however, is not an authentic Scottish ballad, but was written for the book. I guess that would have been too perfect, altogether too much to hope for.

McCrumb corrected my outsider's pronunciation of Appalachia. I strongly believe that names should be pronounced as their owners wish. "Appalatcha" just doesn't roll easily off my tongue. I've heard and said "Appalaysha" far too long. I remember meeting a family whose surname was Taliaferro. "What a beautiful name!" I exclaimed, only to be met by puzzled stares. This family pronounced it "Toliver". Okay, their choice, but Taliaferro--Toliver? Some things are beyond my understanding.

For an interesting weekend read with a little history thrown in, try The Songcatcher.

Toads

This is Toadie, our resident porch toad. He's been hangin' out here this summer along with Jade, our porch kitty. Thank god, Jade doesn't see him as prey. Perhaps, she had a bad toad experience earlier in her life. I talk to him, but I can't say that he gets much out of our conversations. If I get too close, he hops away. My presence can't be good for his hunting. He probably just wants me to leave him alone, if he's even aware of me at all. O.K., he must be aware or he wouldn't hop away. Toads don't perceive objects the same way that we do. Their brains aren't set up like ours. They see what they need to see and react accordingly. I wonder what's out there that we're not seeing. Hmmm . . . .

This is one of our many back-yard toads. I haven't given him a name, but I guess I could use the same nomenclature for all of them. I do that with squirrels. All the squirrels in my yard are called "Charlie". Anyone care to suggest a toad name? It would have to be more original than "Toadie". Unfortunately, the dogs aren't as smart as Jade. I've had to wash Gracie's mouth out several times after she tried to catch toads. When I see puddles of drool dripping from her mouth, I know she's caught one. That hasn't happened in the last few weeks, so maybe she has figured out that toads just aren't as much fun as snakes. Anyway, I do love our toads.

All creatures are precious and beautiful in their own way. Look closely. Amazement and awe are guaranteed.

With love,
Serena

My Beautiful Day

I'll start with my visit to a new doctor, hopeful of starting a collaborative relationship which would lead me to a renewed state of health. This was not to be. Instead, I perused slick magazines in his waiting room for  two hours, then after a brief consult witih the man himself, I cut the interview off and walked out. It was an amicable parting. I apologized for wasting his time, my money was refunded (amazingly!) and I drove home feeling a bit shocked at things the doc had said, but proud of myself. It seems that I have learned something over the years. If a relationship isn't working for you, especially one that involves your money and your health, it's best to nip it in the bud. Just walk away.

The best part of this day was spent at home. I planted my grapefruit tree in the yard. This tree began its life as a sprouting seed I found inside my afternoon snack two years ago. The planting was sorely overdue, as she has been feeling sad in her oversized pot these past two months. I'll have to be diligent about watering her until she adjusts to the new locale, even as I imagine her roots spreading and rejoicing in her new-found freedom. Her old pot I filled with a peace lily rescued from work (while our porch toad kept a watchful eye). May they lead happier, more fulfilling lives.

After cleaning the bird bath, I was ready to head inside for a much needed shower when inspiration struck. I was holding a water hose, right? I tried to talk my hubby into some wild waterplay, but ended up dancing alone in my undies under the cold spray. For a few minutes, I was 8 yrs. old again, reveling in the magic of sunshine and waterdrops. Yes, there are advantages to living in the woods and thankfully, no photos were taken to capture the event.

There was more magic to this day--
I watched two lectures on The Brain from The Teaching Company, started a new book, walked my dogs, etc. A male hummingbird came to my window, alerting me that the squirrels had emptied his favorite feeder yet again. Just what we need--more squirrels hyped up on sugar water. Geez! As the day was dimming, I refilled all the feeders and heard geese honking their way across the sky above. What an altogether glorious day.

Happy to be,
Serena

Unconditional love

The word "love" has been so abused and misused. Are humans really capable of unconditional love? Most of the love we hear about is the romantic variety based on need and narcissisism. That isn't love at all. If you feel an emptiness inside and want someone else to fill it, that isn't healthy. So often, we mistake our hunger for fulfillment as love for another person.

Meet Stormy.

He is love. All he wants is a daily walk, food, a chance to play and snuggle in my arms. If I neglect the first two, he'll still be happy to curl up beside me. I send love to him and it bounces right back to me. The act of creating love within myself fills me with so much joy. I said "He is love." Actually, I become love by giving it. I think so many of us have pets because we don't share this type of love with each other. We can.

We have to start by loving ourselves. Be quiet. Shut off your mind and just feel how truly wonderful you are. When you experience unconditional love for yourself, it expands outward to include everything in the universe. You can direct it to others, focus on our Mother Earth, on your healthy body and mind. Make

your thoughts reflect this love for yourself. Let go of negative attitudes and realize that anything is possible with real love.

Brainworks

I finished reading Uncle Tungsten: Memories of a Chemical Boyhood  by Dr. Oliver Sacks. I am astounded by Dr. Sacks' intelligence. The man is truly amazing. The book chronicles his childhood, growing up with an extended family of scientists and doctors who were willing to share their knowledge with this little boy and allow him to pursue his interests with few restrictions. Why he didn't blow up or burn down his home, I don't know. Lady luck and perhaps, a higher power were smiling upon him, knowing that he was destined for greater things.

The book deals mainly with his pursuit of chemistry, but he had far ranging interests. He very briefly touches upon his family's musical ability. Everyone played an instrument (or several) and music was an integral part of their daily lives. He talks about staying in a fancy hotel in Switzerland after the war and how he decided he wanted to give a piano recital. Although he had not played in over a year, he knew all of Chopin's mazurkas by heart. I'm talking about a child of about 11 years old (I don't have the book to refer back to, so my memory, which isn't as amazing as Dr. Sacks', may have his age slightly off). Anyway, his parents talked to the hotel management and they agreed to put up announcements for the young English pianist to perform in their ballroom. Dressed in his best suit, he played his first and only concert, mightily enjoying the applause and audience interaction.

Now, what boggles my mind is the fact that playing piano was really not his main interest. This performance was just something that he did for fun and on a whim, more or less. Still, he possessed the ability to pull it off. This is why I find the human brain astonishing and frustrating. Frustrating, because we don't get to choose our abilities and match them with our passions. I've wondered all my life why I was given such a desire to play piano and yet, was given no natural ability. My brain isn't wired to easily play and memorize music. I have tried to ignore and put aside the longing, but it just doesn't go away. My solution is to keep plugging away, playing for myself, hoping new connections will form inside this brain of mine.

Dear Dr. Sacks, although your life has not always been easy (particulary those years in boarding school), you have been truly blessed with a wonderful brain and you have used it to help countless people. I am so grateful that you have chosen to write books which stimulate and inspire us.

Enjoy life to the fullest!