The Trumpet Of The Swan

Cygnets, Cobs and Pens sneak their way into our conversations the way they alight in the harbour of our town each winter. My middle girls eagerly complete homework for their E.B. White study for The Trumpet of the Swan and I think it's partly because Mrs. Laird loves her subject matter. Their co-op English teacher oozes an excitement for the swans, and for E.B.White's writing, so the children search carefully for "juicy words" and signs of other animals lurking on the pages. She tends her flock of varying levels of students in one-room-school-house style, while mommas watch kids who had no interest in the creatures fledge with swan fervor.

 

In timely fashion, the Trumpeters land on the icy marine water for us to visit while reading. Of course, being a bird lover, I was thrilled that English could include an experience we already enjoyed.  

 

  

 

Swan love.

(I found this shirt for Emily at a thrift store the night before her class :)

 

Thank you, Mrs. Laird for bringing E.B. White's book to life for us!

 

He Doesn't Belong

I felt my heart leap as I raised my lens to snap fifty or so photos of this wee feathery guy. My son's "Life Bird" was pecking the seeds just ten feet from us and we couldn't believe our eyes. You see, he's not supposed to be this far north. His tiny body craves the warmth of the south year round and we don't know how he lost his way--no one does. Not even the professional bird-watching photographers who stood in awe beside us--bazooka lenses mounted on tripods, covered in camouflage--could hazard a guess.

 

Oliver bent low and marked the occasion in his bird file folder while Meg lifted the camera from my neck to capture a cheery cardinal who seemed to show off just a little and command some of the attention himself. All of us shivered in the -8 degrees, biting air. It was worth it. We'd not only viewed a beautiful miracle of God, but were also gifted the time to photograph him. Since that day, many prayers have been whispered for his tiny self to survive the days to come until he can rest easy in the warm Spring breeze or decide to migrate home.

lovely Painted Bunting (God must have had fun with this one, especially) 

 

Thanks, Annie, for sharing the email that led us to the little park where he had been spotted.

(Like we always say, "Springies Forever!")

 

Melting Like Ice Cream

There are signs of it--small signs--but evidence, nonetheless. We squint and gaze hard out the window each morning for a promise that it's really coming. Finally, we load up in the truck and go looking for Spring. It must be out there somewhere. We figure that maybe, just maybe, if we get in the vicinity of nature, we'll have us a closer look and validate our long-awaited hope.

 

Upon arrival at one of our favourite spots, we notice the creek has thawed and it curves and sinks around snowy banks like warm fudge poured over a bowl of cold vanilla ice cream. A bright red cardinal cheers as if to say he sees it too, and alighting on a branch jutting out from the snow, he becomes the cherry on top in this optimistic scene. The recently silent woods is now alive with calls, squawks and twitters practicing their chorus that expectantly welcomes old friends returning from the south. On this trip, we don't catch too many more signs except that we can now step across the little boardwalk that was buried in snow like piles of whipped cream just a few weeks earlier. That's enough for us. Hope springs up inside of us and we're grateful that the melting of that sweet, white offering we'd dreamed about at Christmas, is now dripping away, revealing new, delicious gifts.

 



 

This Longest of Winters

She tosses black oil sunflower seeds out over her snowy yard from the porch and in seconds, feathered ones from every direction flutter in for their free lunch. I watch from the window and I know that even though this little ritual cheers her heart, this longest of winters is taking it's toll on her. My mom's injuries from the accident have continued to grip her like a thick icicle that won't let go. The surgeon says she won't get well unless she has  invasive surgery that will perhaps put her out for a year. There are other complications to it as well, and so she waits and prays and tries to decide what to do. In the meantime, she does her best to walk the icy roads for exercize, drive with trepidation, and clean her home in stages, as not to incur too much pain. 

 

A good, full winter with its extreme cold and mounds of snow is normally her favourite. My mom prays for snow and her grandchildren are reminded of her when they hear the song, "Let It Snow". But this time, the relentless harshness of the season has been discouraging. And so, we feed birds, take photos and thank the Lord for how He cares for us like He provides for them. She smiles, watches carefully and exclaims when the cardinals return. They didn't come all summer and now she has a splash of red in her dark winter--the cardinals, saved for such a time as this longest of seasons. Hope flies in and God whispers that He sees her in that little chair, gazing out the window into the bleakness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More about her accident here.