By Bob Gaydos  

The pond in which the frog plopped.
RJ Photography

 I took the day off yesterday. Social media told me it was May Day and, in honor of workers, there was a nationwide strike called for to protest against the Trump administration‘s economic policies. Indeed, all of its policies. We were supposed to not work and not spend money on anything.

   Full disclosure: I actually had planned to do very little writing, but I was definitely looking forward to going out for lunch. Lunch got canceled, not by me. It kind of threw my whole planned schedule out of whack.

    Then I remembered something else I had seen in my social media feed – a post from my old Times Herald-Record colleague Brendan Coyne about Maurice Sendak, legendary children’s book author.

   Sendak, at age 83, was watching his partner of 50 years slowly dying and told a reporter, “I did not want to die with him.“ He said that’s why he had written his latest and final book. He said he wasn’t sad about growing old, but rather about the people he missed. In fact, he said it was a blessing to grow old and to be able to enjoy books, music, quiet moments and the trees outside his window. He gave the interviewer this bit of advice: “Live your life. Live your life. Live your life.”

    So I took a walk out back. Actually two, one with each dog. I enjoyed the welcome sun and the slight breeze. The dogs ran and a cardinal, blue jay and red-winged blackbird peacefully shared the spilled food together under a bird feeder. Would that humans could do the same, I thought.  A woodpecker hammered away.  A frog plopped back in the pond.

   I came back in the house, gave the dogs and myself some water and sat down to write this. I guess this is what I call taking the day off in retirement. 

   Sendak died a few months after that interview. His book, “Where the Wild Things Are,” was one of my sons’ favorites. They’re in their 30’s now. A friend I miss from long ago used to say, “Isn’t it great to be present in your own life?” Yes, Victor, it is.

  It pays to pay attention. Back to work tomorrow.

  Thanks again, Brendan.

Wait your turn.
RJ Photography

By Bob Gaydos

“Fill the feeders!”

A request? An order?

Either way,

                a reminder.

‘Tis November.

     When nature’s shelves go dry,

Be kinder.

By Bob Gaydos

Ruby-throated, hummingbird
RJ Photography

Back-burner, bozos!

The news of the day can wait.

Haven’t you heard?

They’re here. The birds.

The ones that hum.

They’re back.

The ones that flit and dart

and go and come.

They’re back in town

from hither and yon

and even farther.

On course again to delight

with their frantic flight.

A feathered tour de force.

***

‘Tis been a while,

half a year or more,

since they fled for warmer shore.

No notice.

No goodbye.

Just pack up, flit and fly.

Sad to see you go, said I.

Bye bye. Hope you enjoyed the hospitality.

See you next year.

***

And now they’re here.

‘Twould appear, to stay

At least for a while.

For the summer.

For the smile.

For the sugar.

For the nesting.

Though there’ll be precious little resting.

It’ll be mostly flitting

and flying and zigging

and zagging.

Some hovering, too.

Looking, ever, for the nectar. So Sweet.

All the while humming

to a frantic wingbeat.

***

Did you hear?

They’re here.

They’ve come.

The birds. You know, the tiny ones that hum. The greens and blues and purples and reds.

And our very own ruby-throated.

Dear Feathered Friends,

Welcome back.

Have a drink. Try to relax.

Your arrival

has been duly noted.

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.)