By Bob Gaydos

Dandelion greens salad with crumbled pretzels as croutons.
RJ Photography

“I’m a medium.”

The words came out matter-of-factly. That’s a size, by the way, not an occupation. I’m a medium. I used to be a large. Actually, I used to be an extra large and there are probably a couple of double X T-shirts in the drawer somewhere.

I’ve changed. Time. Necessity. Survival. Sanity.

I had a dandelion greens salad for lunch yesterday. Prepared for me with care. Made delicious with dressings, spices, lemon juice and who knows what else. Didn’t even ask for it. Here. Eat.

Funny thing is, I had just taken photos of the dandelions growing out back a couple of hours earlier. Lunch was not on my mind.

I’ve changed. I used to be a city boy. Now I’m a country boy. Well, actually, I’m probably a city boy who’s gotten comfortable living in the country. The quiet is nice if you don’t mind the woodpeckers and owls and coyotes and lawnmowers and four-wheelers.

And I’ve written about the birds ad nauseam – yesterday, goldfinches and bluebirds. Today, cardinals. The geese who came to visit. I noticed. I’ve changed.

Necessity. Survival. Sanity.

I’ve been writing about stuff for 60 years and I plan to keep doing it for as long as I can. Necessity. Survival. But for me, I’ve learned the sanity part depends on paying attention to the finches and the dandelions and the geese and the ridge always looming in the distance. On being grateful for the moment whatever else might be going on elsewhere.

To be clear, I hate much of what is going on, not only elsewhere, but all around me. In my occasionally humble opinion, it is an abomination, an assault on decency. Sometimes, I actually take it as a personal insult to me. How dare they screw up my world this way? What’s wrong with them? What are they thinking? Blue suit to the funeral of a pope! Idiot.

So I write about it, because that’s what I do and that’s what I’ve always done. So It seems. But I’ve learned that my personal sanity requires me to be grateful for what I have around me. And so, as assistant birdfeeder filler, I feed the finches and the robins and the wrens and the sparrows and the cardinals and the blue jays and the crows and the doves and the red wing blackbirds and whoever else might show up for breakfast. Woodpeckers.

And later I will go to my Amazon Prime account to find new summer T-shirts, size without frayed collars and regular shirts that fit. Maybe new shoes, too, to be delivered before dawn. Before the tariffs kick in. Because the world has changed without my permission. I stole that line from an old friend. Thanks, Jeff.

Sanity. … If I make this a mental health day, I’ll be ready for battle again tomorrow. Now it looks like rain, which is good for the peonies. Do I want pizza for supper or sushi? What a gift to have such a choice.

Somewhere on my phone I have a note that says, “There is no next.” I think it’s from Eckhart Tolle, but I can’t prove it and I’m not going to waste time googling to find it. Because the message is the medium and, as it turns out, I’m a medium.

By Bob Gaydos

    Wouldst it were warmer there would have been waves on the pond ‘stead of windblown trees waving frantically at me. Bending and waving. Bending and waving. More and more …

   Somewhere, there’s a metaphor, I thought.

    And, I thought, were I a poet, like Kevin, Mary or Zack, this essay would rhyme or soar with visions of Greek something-or-others. But, alack, I’m not, so it won’t.

    But this morning there’s ice on the pond, wind in the trees, and, oh yes, so many hungry birds to feed.

    The first, a surprise. A finch, its head and shoulders shoved as far as birdly possible up the feeder looking for… food! Please! I thought for a minute she was stuck. Good luck. Startled by me, she withdrew and flew away, leaving me to my chore.

      Feeder filled, in they all flew. Back came the finch. Then, Blue Jays and sparrows and yellow-bellied whatnots, red-tufted thingamajigs, one stunning creature with a bright, red head, many more sparrows, a cardinal, a red-winged blackbird, something blue, something new, and, wrens? I don’t know, but look out below! Here come the blackbirds. As always, ever more.

     On to feeders two and three. They are, the birds, I can tell, thrilled to see me. Manners have quickly gone with the wind. First come, first served. Plenty for everybody, guys! Eat the droppings off the floor.

     It’s a happy, bustling, wind-blown scene. Mission accomplished. Back inside go I. But wait, what’s that I spy? ‘Tisn’t spring, but I’m pretty sure those are croci. Yep, pretty sure.

    Because, what the heck rhymes with crocuses?

                                   ***

(Note to my numerous poet and bird-watching friends: With profound respect, I humbly apologize for this. Don’t know what came over me. Meant all in fun and wishing I knew more about both.)