Then a tiny green hummingbird lands on our floppy comfrey plant, dips into its purple flowers, hovers above it, and leaves.
Okay guys, I’m back, hose in hand, ready to water.
POPPIES
Everyone in Boulder had poppies—masses of poppies—everyone except us. “Take ours!” neighbors implored. “They’re like weeds!” So I picked a few and tried to transplant them in different parts of our meadow. No luck. Then I sowed their seeds and waited for spring. Still no luck. Finally, after three years of poppy mistrials, we planted the seeds in the right place at the right time and up they popped.
And once up, they were unstoppable, producing more and more each year. I love to see them from my office window, a splash of orange against green grass and blue sky. But it’s up close that they’re outrageous, with their huge, ruffled petals, shiny black design, and a flurry of seeds circling one purple star.
The Buddha said, “If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.” I think he was looking at poppies.
SIMPLE PLEASURES
It wasn’t until I moved to Boulder that I discovered the joys of a clothesline. When John first asked me to leave Manhattan and join him out West, I pictured him fetching me in a covered wagon. Leaving the city that never sleeps for what was then a sleepy town made me feel like a pioneer woman (“Rivvy of the Prairies”), and so did using a clothesline. I guess I was finally learning the simple tasks of daily life. And after years of urban living, I relished each old-fashioned chore.
I loved standing barefoot in the grass, using wooden pegs to hang our sheets. I delighted in watching them blow in the wind as the sun and air naturally dried them. And later, when I made our bed, I savored their fresh, sweet scent and remembered how, as a child, I would walk between and smell the sheets my mother hung to dry.
Now, I admit it: The clothesline broke and I reunited with our electric dryer. No worries, I told John. We can still save energy. I’ll just wash less often . . . and vacuum less too!
But now and then, I still hang something out to dry, and that always feels right. And when we’d phone John’s ninetyseven-year-old mother in England, she’d often tell us she was just outside, hanging the wash to dry. She never did anything but. So this one’s a recipe from Dorothy Wilcockson (“Dorothy of Mole Valley”), who knew the joy of simple pleasures.
THE BIRD CONNECTION
Few things cheer me as instantly as birds. When a flock of them rise all at once from a tree, chattering away as they soar ever higher, I can’t stop myself from smiling.
Sometimes I sit on a bench in our yard, listening to the songs of our neighborhood birds and noting what they’re up to. I’ve seen small birds hitch a ride on larger ones. I’ve seen robins courting, the female flirting but flying away once the male approaches, in some ritual that’s not unlike our own. And I once saw a gang of magpies chase a squirrel who dared to bother them while they were eating.
To witness all this interaction feels humbling: Our world is so rich, there’s so much I don’t know. Bird watching is a way to learn more.
The fun begins by sitting still and being allowed into their world. There’s also the pleasure of using a field guide to discover the names of birds you don’t know. Flipping through the pages is like doing a puzzle . . . and then, aha! This picture and description fit the bill (so to speak). That handsome black bird with red on its wings is a “red-winged blackbird.” Well named! I say it a few times and write it down, grateful that some people actually recorded the names and traits of thousands of species.
Once you get to know your birds better, you start to notice their different ways—they’re not just all “birds.” And, just as with people, you will have your favorites.
I’m partial to robins because they seem more trusting. Most of the birds that hang out in our garden fly away fast when I appear. But when a robin is around doing its business (usually digging for worms) and I come out to do my business (usually digging for weeds), the robin cocks its head as if to say hi and doesn’t fly away. We’re there together, muy simpatico, each doing our own thing.
On the other hand, I was never too crazy about grackles. They make a crackling (grackling?) kind of noise and appear to be mean. Grackles first came to our bird feeder one May morning and immediately started bombing down on smaller birds—sweet finches, innocent sparrows—to scare them away. In a few days, the turf was theirs. I was not pleased. All my joy of watching an array of birds at the feeder was being ruined by a few neighborhood thugs!
I called our local Wild Bird Center to complain and see what I could do. The man who answered informed me that grackles are not native to Boulder but started coming here after some folks planted trees that are not native, trees from back East that the grackles prefer—namely, Austrian pines. Yes, I confessed, we planted two of them right by the house, and they were now twelve feet tall, elegant, and strong.
“So,” I asked, “how can I get rid of the grackles?”
“Cut down the pines,” he said.
Right. Thanks.
“Why do you want to get rid of them?” he asked, sensing I was not about to grab an ax. “They have a right to be here, as much as all the other birds.”
“They’re pushing out all the other birds,” I argued. “They’re mean and aggressive and greedy.”
“Hmm,” said their defender. “They probably built a nest nearby and they’re protecting it. That’s why
