Noticed it this morning. It was up too high to be hand-stolen by anyone but a seven-footer. So probably a squirrel. They are plenty aggressive little buggers at Neely’s Canyon. How they got over the greased pole, though, to boost the feeder’s hanging wire off the pole’s hook, I do not understand. Cannot see the feeder on the ground, either. Think it would take two cooperating to carry it away. That’s frightening organization.
Looking now at a squirrel-proof, motorized bird feeder that spins and whips the offender off the perch. Appropriately called “The Yankee Flipper.” It also doubles the hanging wire into a small circle over the hook which would seem to make it harder to get off. Alas, it’s $150. Marked down. It was $170. I can’t imagine paying so much, even to get revenge on the squirrels.
A wren landed on the tip of BE’s shoe and cocked his head to look up at her. Then it flew to a nearby tree and sat watching her while she told it how beautiful it was. Thanks, Deb.
It was a struggle to get the giblets out of the bird because, despite two days in the fridge, its guts were still frozen. But Bar finally did it and, covered with tinfoil, it went in the oven at 375 degrees at about 8:30 am. Mrs. Charm frequently had to struggle to get the turkey cooked. So problems with turkeys on their big day are no surprise.
UPDATE: Came out at 1 pm, foil removed and back in for browning for thirty minutes. Was splendid, or as splendid as turkey is. Not my favorite.
Bar has this app that records our sleep on her iPhone. Getting lots of coughing and snoring from both of us and talk from me.
The latest talk was a knockout we’re still puzzling: Me saying “My Wren,” followed by a Wren calling and afterwards me saying “My Wren” again. It was the call that was the knockout. It was loud, sounding on the recording as if the Wren was in the bedroom with us. But it wasn’t. And it didn’t sound as if it was outside, either. Weird.
As I was texting a medium we know about Mrs. Charm and our wren buddy appearances, Bar saw one land on our porch and check out a new bird house I haven’t hung up yet. I always feel Mrs. C sends them and I always tear up at the sight. The medium said it was awesome and a sign of love. Time to hang the bird house.
Bar this morning spotted Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal shepherding three baby cardinals through the branches of nearby trees and briefly onto the tiles of the back porch. Checkers the cat, from the back of the sofa, was wishing they’d all go to hell, Bar surmised.
“You want to see a bird graveyard?” he asked. “You just go take a look. A bird graveyard. Go under a windmill someday,” he said. “You’ll see more birds than you’ve ever seen in your life.”
Not to mention that the technology darling of the Green New Deal, heavily subsidized by the government in conception, manufacture and operation, will do what the little panel in the right sidebar labeled “windmills suck” shows without constant, expensive maintenance.
Alternative energy is just that, James Delingpole says, an alternative to energy.