Everything Happens at Once

One of the things that makes me delirious about spring is that everything happens at once. It would be nice, for instance, if the orchid collection that's crammed into the windows of the east bedroom would bloom from, say, November to February. The gray months. Could use a little color then. But noooo. It's got to go absolutely bonkers when? In late May. When, to be quite truthful, I need blooming houseplants the least. I mean, I'll take them; I love them, but come on. They're tropicals. They could bloom any time. Why do it when the roses and perennial beds are going crazy too?

But look at this. It's ridiculous. Encyclia cordigera, stinkin' up the place with clove scent wonder, in the forground. Three different Phalaenopsis, including little red Lava Glow. A Cattleytonia. A pink and yellow Encyclia/Laeliocattleya cross called Pixie. Pink Australian rock orchid, Dendrobium kingianum, with impossibly fragrant tiny purple flowers, way in the back. You walk in the bedroom and it hits you like a wall of mixed tropical fragrances. It's DIVINE. But why in late May?

Because. That's what they say. Because.

More. A white Dendrobium phalaenopsis in the foreground. Iwangara "Apple Blossom" just to the left. A giant blush pink Phalaenopsis, two other Phal's, two slipper orchids (Paphiopedalum) about to burst, and good old Psychopsis mendenhall "Hildos" dangling two yellow kabuki lobster guys off to the left border. Those same stalks, blooming since June 2008. Amazing, amazing, all of it. They like me. I like them. The rare ones that die I toss out and I rarely think twice about it. That means they and I weren't meant to be. The ones that live, live and live well.

Bill Thompson Jr's grave out in the orchard. Geepop. S.B. To Bill, Dad. Those are purple coneflowers and field daisies. And the broad-leafed paler plant in the left foreground is a royal catchfly, a super rare Ohio native that somehow has deigned to grow for me, here, where it's needed. It bloomed last year, its second spring, and I hope it will bloom this year, too. I saw one taller than me in Dayton a few years back, and bought three tiny seedlings on the spot. One has lived. That's a victory. Still no sign of the gazillion rose gentians I seeded on the bare ground. Kind of holding my breath on that one.

And in the nest boxes, six Carolina chickadees snug in their mossy nest in the house out by the oilwell, the same one that raised titmice last year. 

Some better developed than others, but truly only hours apart in age. Hours make such a difference in birds.

In a bluebird nestbox by Geepop's grave, a bluebird pellet. A hard beetle elytra (wing cover) encased in indigestible bugbits. This is not a dropping, but a regurgitation event. Just like owls do, so do bluebirds make pellets of things they can't digest and pass any other way.

In the side yard, another brood of lovely bluebirds. Tree swallows pierced their first clutch, so these birds moved to the side yard box and are raising five young. The tree swallows, seemingly satisfied by routing their neighbors, laid six eggs in the box next door, then mysteriously abandoned them (unheard of) and moved to a martin gourd in the front yard. They're copulating like mad and building another nest while six perfectly good pink eggs lie cold in the first one. I've never seen the likes of it. For all I know the incubating female tree swallow was killed, and this is a new one starting over with the same male. I'll never know.

Judging from the gabillion questions I get on Facebook, there are a lot of such weird bird goings on this year. Abandonments. Disappearances. Piercings. Things like that. I'm saying "I dunno" a lot.

It seems that this is the spring that I realize that having almost 3K friends on Facebook has become an actual, demonstrable liability. That many people translates to a lot of questions. A lot of requests for help with baby birds, bats, injured wildlife. What do I do? Should I remove the nest, throw out the cold eggs, feed the baby bird? What do I feed it? How often? Where do you get the food? How do I find a rehabilitator near me?  How do I keep this baby bird away from my cat? Can you take this baby robin?  How do I keep finches off my hummingbird feeder? How do I keep woodpeckers from pecking holes in my house?  Where are all my hummingbirds? My husband sprays our lawn. Will that hurt my bluebirds? Would you take this for me? It's hurt and I don't know what to do. Ack. As if the phone ringing all day long weren't enough, there's now a fountain of Facebook and email messages, too.

I'm not a veterinarian. I don't run a wildlife rehabilitation center in my spare time. I never did. I can't fix snapped bones, suture wounds, put broken turtles back together. I can't take wildlife in when I'm traveling constantly. Even if I weren't traveling constantly, running a wildlife rehab center is not my career objective. It's not even close to my idea of fun.  I would love to pass the job of Sole Owner and Operator of Wildlife Problems Hotline to someone else. It was a job that came by default, by putting myself out here as some kind of factotum, I guess. By having this presence, this Googleability, by showing myself feeding bats and festooned in fledgling birds. And as anyone could have predicted, it's gotten way out of control, because one person can only do so much all at once. So I'm left with answering what I can.  It all takes time. It goes back to everything happening at once in spring. Thousands of things, tugging at my sleeves all day long. My things, their things. Everything. All needing attention. If I sit down, something might die. I'm chuckling as I write this, but it feels all too true.

 Sorry for the rant. I get frustrated because I can't help everybody at the level they want me to help, and this time of year my heart gets run over about ten times a day, along with the turtles and the birds. The guy from Athens who called and left a message about a cat-grabbed hoary bat with a broken wing, and then never returned my call. The baby hawk wandering around a front yard. Should I just shoot it? the wildlife officer asked. Umm...no? Return call. Please don't shoot it. Call me back...The turtle found in pieces in West Virginia. They all haunt me.

I think about disappearing. I do, each morning...Changeable weather, changeable skies, and my running route is never the same from day to day. I love it because it's empty but for Chet and the birds and the occasional deer bounding across the road. I can hear myself breathe.

 Healthy bluebirds, who lift my heart:

Back in the yard, Rio Samba has fifty flowers. Fifty. I can't get enough of gazing at her, burying my face in her blossoms. We've had this rose almost 20 years and it just gets bigger and more beautiful each year.

It's a color changing rose, going from yellow to coral to deep pink as it ages. Excellent choice for an inveterate color junkie with a touch of ADD. Oh look! A pink one! A coral one! A yellow one! This one's red! All on the same bush. Like those crazy Burgess Nursery plants that claim to have pears and apples and cherries all on the same tree! Right.

Doesn't cut worth a darn, usually wilts like wet tissue paper when put in water. A mandala rose, meant to be loved while alive, I guess.

She grows where she's planted. Oh, to be a rose.