For some of us, observing nature is a way of life—something we do without thought, as automatically as taking our next breath. It doesn't matter whether we're ambling along a sidewalk, driving along a city street, walking across a parking lot, downtown, uptown, in the suburbs, or sitting in the neighbor's back yard. We don't even have to be outside! I've watched plenty of birds and mice and a few other critters while pushing a cart around the snazziest supermarket, trekking about one of the big-box home improvement retailers, or sitting in the middle of a crowded mall, watching the endless passing of bag-laden shoppers.
Wildlife and wild things are everywhere—from sparrows flitting about ceiling gridwork, to a sprig of chamomile growing through a sidewalk crack. You don't have to hike into wilderness, stroll about a city park, or even take a drive in the country in order to see nature-in-motion.
I'm still in the midst of our whole-house remodel, a long-term job that consumes practically every free minute when I'm not working on my columns. Free time to ramble woods and prairies has been nonexistent. I haven't been for even a brief a walk in two months, unless you count visits to Lowe's and Home Depot. Photographically, I've managed barely a handful of shots, mostly taken while accompanying Moon-the-Dog around on her peregrinations.
But I've still noticed a few things I'd like to report.
The first is a dandy little song sparrow [see pix above] who's been keeping me company while I prepare my materials. My outdoor work area is at the rear of the cottage. The pickup truck—loaded with sheets of plywood, 2x4s, various boards and trim pieces—is parked near the back door. My sawhorses are set up a few feet away—handy for offloading, as well as carting whatever I'm working on down the hallway.
As you might imagine, what with all the power sawing, drilling, sanding, routing, and hammering, it's a pretty noisy area. But the song sparrow doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he's gotten so tame he now sits within 5 or 6 feet of where I'm working, hopping about, rearing back to sing at the top of his lungs whenever the mood strikes. He's not even put off by the extended piercing howl of the circular saw. I find his company delightful.
Another workday companion is the large toad who apparently lives under the back door's 4x4 foot entryway deck. One minute I'll look and the deck is empty—the next, ol' toad will be sitting there, a nobby brown lump, benign and oddly Buddha-like, with alert gold eyes. This small wooden platform is located about 6 feet from where I'm working. I must step on it—and over the toad!—every time I enter and exit the hallway…a dozen or more times an hour, depending on what I'm measuring and fitting inside.
The third observation came inside, in the middle of the night. I'd finished building our new platform bed with storage underneath. We'd opened our king-sized memory-foam mattress from Bed-In-a-Box and were pleased by how it looked and fit. And now we were giving it the sleep test…well, Myladylove was, and I had been, until back pains drew me from my slumbers. Remodeling, with all its lifting, carrying, twisting, bending, and general body abuse is not the ideal activity for a man with a long history of severe back issues. But, if you want things to get done, you have to suck it up and push through the discomfort.
Sometimes, though, the pain wins. I'd gotten up with the intention of sitting in the recliner a while, and maybe popping a couple of extra-strength Tylenol—which is about as heavy duty as I go on pain meds, and that only rarely.
Anyway, I was up, 3:00 a.m., shuffling down the hall, past the kitchen toward the great room…when I see these flashes. Multiple flashes, coming from every corner of the kitchen—ceiling, walls, and atop the refrigerator. Lightening bugs! Maybe twenty or so, all intermittently winking their yellow-green tail-lamps.
How extraordinarily weird! Not weird because a few fireflies had found their way inside. We always seem to have at least one or two lightening bugs blinking around. They appear to be drawn to the cottage—though maybe it's just due to easy access. Because I generally keep the door open while I'm working outside so Moon can come and go as she pleases.
And to tell you the truth, I enjoy seeing fireflies indoors. Especially when I'm hurting and can't sleep, I'm mildly comforted by their friendly flickering in the long darkness.
Still, it was weird how they'd all gathered in the kitchen. Why?
After a moment's observation, I had the answer—though within it lies a bigger question along with a statement of how our evolving modern world can prove increasingly confusing to the love-life of such humble creatures as the lowly lightening bug.
Myladylove had recently bought a small ice-maker to keep up with summer's hot-weather demands for cubes to cool our iced tea. She'd placed the little stainless steel unit on the corner of the kitchen counter. And the ice-maker's tiny, blinking ready light was a perfect match in size, brightness, and yellow-green hue, of a firefly's built-in signal lantern.
Fireflies, as you probably know, do their courting via a series of flashed messages. Males query, females respond. A love-matching lightshow played out above the tall grass. Or in a cottage kitchen, when flummoxed by digital technology.
Whatever come-hither tease line that blinking ice-maker was feeding to her suitors, she had them locked on point and flashing like the neon marquee above a Vegas casino!
Can a lightening bug blow a fuse?
Worried, I did everyone a favor and unplugged the ice-maker.