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.
Of Mrs Charm’s passing. She’s been with us in spirit ever since. The dream visitations stopped about the time in 2018 that she gave me and Bar her blessing, but she’s still sending me birds. Wren buddies, mostly.
I’ll trek out to the cemetery this morning with
a rose yellow roses for remembrance.
Barbara Ellen first noticed the robins in the trees in the canyon off the porch at the mini-rancho. Two of them at first, then three, then four, then six. American Robins.
They usually aren’t found here in Central Texas until winter when they flee the cold in points north. And they do it in roaming flocks, hence the six we’re now seeing daily. But in November, not September. Why are they here so early and in the midst of a prolonged heat wave and bad drought? No wild berries to eat now, which constitute 60 percent of their diet.
Bar speculates that their early arrival means we’re in for an early and prolonged winter. Maybe. But first we’re likely to have a flood. Droughts hereabouts usually end that way.
UPDATE: Turns out there are wild berries in the vicinity. I spied them out with my trusty binoculars. So the robins ain’t starving while they’re here.
Mrs. Charm has been sending us lots of interesting birds, but especially wrens, which we used to call our wren buddies. They are the king of all birds.
The other day at Rancho Roly Poly, where I went to run the irrigation system to keep the lawn green in case our buyer bailed before closing and we had to start selling all over again, I hung a new bird feeder.
I asked Mrs. Charm to send a wren to inaugurate the feeder. Then the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. I looked back over my shoulder at the feeder outside and saw a wren perched on it chowing down.
That was cool but what’s even cooler are the wrens Bar saw a day or so afterwards on our porch at the mini-rancho. These wrens were standing on the cushion of the chair I usually sit in, which was odd enough. But these two were going at it like we sometimes see cardinals do. Kissing. By rubbing the tops of their longish beaks together. Ah, love, ain’t it grand.