Getting my Ducks (and ducklings) in a Row

Heehaw, heehaw, heehaw. Do you really think that you can get that mama duck to follow you for a half mile? Honestly? Give it a try, but don't hold too much hope.

Dear Friends,

AWOL here. I know it, but I've had lots and lots of work to do and am just beginning to breathe easier. I sent in my entire manuscript, glossary, bibliography, author's note, dedication, epigraph, and acknowledgements. Anyhow, about 300 pages of work. A load off my mind.

I know that a picture is worth a thousand words, but sometimes you just can't get to the camera and take photos. So this time words must suffice.

I'd been working all day, and Jeff said, "Let's go for a walk and go out to dinner." He did not have to twist my arm. We got into the car and backed out of our driveway. Not easy. We live on a busy street near the freeway offramp.

Just as we were leaving, Jeff said, "LOOK!" Walking right in front of our garage was a mama mallard with a flock of little ducklings.

"Quack, quack, quack, quack." "Peep, peep, peep peep."

Oh no. They'd be creamed, crushed, run over by a car, eaten by a dog or a cat. We had to do something.

Jeff pulled over. I took off my sweater to use as a sling. He took off his jacket. We followed mama down the road and smack into a sheltered front porch where she promptly knelt down and called all her ducklings to her side. Great, but still, right along the road and at the home of a big dog and some fat cats. We tried to corner mama and catch the babies, but mama ran away, quacking like crazy. The ducklings took off in every direction.

I managed to net 11 of the ducklings and had to chase the 12th. Meanwhile, Jeff quietly stalked mama in the hopes of catching her so we could take her and her youngsters the half mile back to Cuesta Park and San Luis Creek. Impossible!

Our route. From the orange "A" marker on the left to Cuesta Park and San Luis Creek, the red arrow on the right.

What a zoo. Mama wouldn't let us close to her. Traffic stopped. Some college students helped. Ducklings peeped and fought to escape the net. Jeff grabbed a big box, and we put the babies inside, but I had to keep stirring them up to keep them peeping, which kept mama mallard following us (but not too closely).

We were getting desperate and knew we had to get them back to the park before nightfall or mama would fly away and the babies would have to go to Pacific Wildlife Care. We didn't want that, but we did want to get them off the road.

Light bulb. I asked Jeff to put up the trunk lid on the Saab and herd mama mallard my way. By this time, we were the laughinstocks of the neighborhood. So, there I sat, illegally dangling my legs over the rear of the car with a flock of ducklings screaming for their mama.

"Mama will follow us," I yelled to Jeff. Just drive slowly, and I'll keep the ducklings awake. 

He drove slowly. Traffic backed up. College students directed people, bicyclists, and cars past us. We had to make it a half mile alongside one of the most heavily traveled roads in the state.

Mama ran along, then took to the air, veered over the offramp of the freeway, YIKES, and flew back behind us, quacking wildly. 

I looked up, and there she was, about 10 feet off the ground and flying directly at the back of the car and traveling about 25 miles per hour. I wish I could've caught her in a video. 

I was rehearsing what to tell the police when they nabbed me.

Then things got scary. The ducklings settled into the corner of the box and tried to go to sleep. I kept having to stir them around so that they would keep peeping to attract mama.

Mama flew along behind the car, quacking, quacking, babies peeping, peeping. Then, mama veered off and took to the hills. The sun was setting, and as I told Jeff, "Wild animals just accept things. She is probably going off to sleep."

Then mama duck flew over us again, made another wide circle, and disappeared. I felt sick. We had one last chance before it got too dark for her to fly.

We had traveled the half mile from home to the edge of the park and the creek. Jeff dumped me at the top of the bank, and I slid down with the box.

A bunny watched our progress.

The babies were peeping wildly, and from somewhere above we could hear mama's answering quacks. I had to trust my instincts. We set the box down on the ground by the creek, and the little ducklings tumbled out, peeping to a faretheewell.

We turned and crawled up the bluff. We sat. We watched. The babies cried. Mama quacked. The sun set.

The babies peeped pitifully. Mama quacked like crazy. Mama looped high above us, dipped, and flew low over the sycamores and creek, quacking loudly the entire time. When the ducklings heard her, they answered. Mama landed somewhere by the creekside and called to her family. The babies quieted and lined up behind her.

PHEW!  

Four more ducklings are in the brush beside the creek. They quickly joined the parade behind mama.

Don't you love happy endings? 

Sending love across the miles,

Sharon

P.S. The winner of the random drawing for the fabulous Botanical Interests Sunflower seed collection is Dee Nash of Red Dirt Ramblings. Dee is a Grimy Hands Girls' Club member and will receive a bonus gift of Waterwise Plants for Sustainable Gardens: 200 Drought-Tolerant Choices for All Climates (Timber Press) by Lauren Springer Ogden and Scott Ogden.

Old Loves

Come on in for a visit.

Drafty, crooked,
Sagging, scratched,
This old house
Just can't be matched.

Lovejoy


I guess that is what I love about old houses. They have flaws, but to me that equates to personality plus. Right? And they have distinct personalities. Sometimes the doors of this house won't close, or, on hot, dry days, they won't stay open. I listen to the house creak and crack at night and wonder what stories it is telling.

Both sets of my grandparents lived in old California bungalows, which I think is why I have good feelings when I step into a cozy, vintage home. They may be impractical with their tiny closets, lack of storage, and single pane windows, but no amount of money can buy the charm and the extra touches that are a part of the package called an old house. I love them, right down to the doorbells and the old, time worn steps.

Just ring the doorbell or...

...tap, tap, tap the door knocker.

Clickety clack, let your heels click on the newly restored floor. Out with the brown, wall-to-wall carpet (Mare Betterley, you'll be happy about that) and in with the sander and polish. Nothing like mellow old floors.

Some people don't like the small rooms, but I find them cozy beyond measure. Our friends and family love crowding into this room around the old farm table. Now the floors are patched and refinished, cove ceilings mended, plaster repaired, old chandelier hung (found it at Homestead Antiques in Carpinteria, California), a new coat of linen colored paint. Thank you, Jeff, you are amazing!

Yep, they're single-paned windows, but they have a wavy surface that makes the world look like an Impressionist's watercolor. And think of the families, dramas, sorrows, and joys they've witnessed through the past 83 years.

My grands love to open and close this tiny window (which Jeff just rebuilt) and peep into the courtyard. They feel as though they're in an enchanted castle.

This is L.A. Claycraft heirloom tile from the early 20th century. I urge you (translate–beg you) to save any old tiles surrounding your fireplace. Too many of them have been lost when old houses are sold to unappreciative buyers, or, worse yet, when old houses are demolished and all the goodies are left inside them and reduced to rubble. Save the tiles!

Jeff restored the little fireplace to its original finish and colors, which had been thickly painted over many times. He worked for two years whenever he had a chance, using toothpicks, toothbrushes, and rags to clean it and redo it. I can't believe the patience and dedication it took for him to do this. He made the thick redwood mantel out of an ancient piece of redwood (probably two thousand years old) that I salvaged from a building they were retrofitting in downtown San Luis Obispo. They were throwing this gorgeous piece of wood into a dumpster. I begged for it unabashedly, and they said, "No, it is against company regulations." I said, "Turn around," crawled up onto the dumpster, and slid it out. Then the problem was that it was HEAVY. I had to call Jeff to quickly drive to town to pick me up.

Love these practical little built-in ironing boards. Use it and stow it. So easy. We built a laundry room and traded some windows for this entire cupboard and ironing board. The clothes pin bag belonged to my Grandmother Lovejoy and is filled with vintage clothes pins from the 1930s.

 A little phone niche in the hallway. This was plastered in and covered with wallpaper. Jeff found the arched outline of it, chipped it away, and re-did the plaster. 

No fancy dropped ceilings, big lights, or modern sinks, islands, or gigantic new stove; just plain old-fashioned comfort. Sink from Ohmega Salvage in Berkeley, California. Some of the antique lighting came from Let There Be Light in Stillwater, Minnesota; others came from Trifles in Wiscasset, Maine. 

The cupboard (under the apple sign on the wall) came from the fire damaged Tantamount Theater in Carmel, California (courtesy of Marston House Antiques, Wiscasset, Maine); the giant apple sign came from Timothy Mawson Antiques in Connecticut. Sadly, Timothy passed away.

Jeff designed everything in the kitchen, making sure he kept true to the time the house was built. Out with the 1980's remodel.

Kitchen doorknob.

All the kitchen pulls are true to the time the house was built. I love the old glass pulls.

The old hardware is still on all the doors.

Too much clutter?? Probably, but everything is right at hand. The counter tops are big pieces of maple, but they're not cutting boards. Would I do that again? Uh, maybe not, they're already due for a refinishing. I thought about marble, but it made the room way too cold.

Open shelving doesn't appeal to everyone, but it forces you to be somewhat organized and clean. I love them and have had them in my last two kitchens. 

Photographer Mark Lohman and stylist/producer Sunday Hendrickson are here today and are producing a photo shoot for an article for This Old House magazine. Stay tuned! I cannot write about it now, but will when the article is published. These two are HARD WORKERS. They arrived early and have been working non-stop all day. They didn't even stop to sit down for lunch. Dedication.

Enough for now. I must return to the revisions on my new book to be published by Random House/Delacorte Press. I am so very excited about it. This Underground Railroad research is beyond fascinating, and I love all the letters you've written to me about the UGRR in your own home towns. Lots of information from Ohioans, and I love it.

Thank you for all your e-mails and letters. Also, thanks to you for your words about the inimitable Peter Workman of Workman Publishing. He will be missed more than words can tell.

Oh, before I sign off, the editor of This Old House offered a fabulous copy of their book on kitchens as my new give-away.

Kitchens are where the action happens, where memories are cooked up and reduced down, they are, what my dear friend Susan Branch calls, the heart of the home. Can you hear it? I definitely hear my kitchen's heart beat every time I walk through the door.

Just leave a comment ("Anonymous" comments must begin with "Sharon" to escape the delete button. Sorry. Too much spam) on my blog posting if you would like to enter the drawing for the This Old House Kitchens. If you're a Grimy Hands Girls' Club member and your number is selected, you'll also receive a copy of one of these fine books published by Timber Press. They're both excellent and filled with great information. Take your pick! 

Sending love across the miles,

Sharon

P.S. After my Grandmother Lovejoy died, my parents bought land and built a new, ranch style home. I did not like leaving the Pasadena area–the old, tree-lined streets, the mountains and hills, the perfect sidewalks for skating and jumping cracks. Our new home never felt like home, but it did provide my mother and me with a built-in network of young families. Mother spent time every day sharing coffee and stories with neighbors. Now, as I spend most days alone, I find that browsing your postings makes me feel like I have my own neighbors, just farther away, and not convenient for sugar borrowing. Most times I make a quick stop-by and leave, sometimes I take time to comment. I love your writings and families. It feels like a good neighborhood. Thank you!

A Little Birdie Told Me...

I love these words. This is the way I feel when I watch the birds in my garden. I am not interested in building a list of birds I've seen. What I want is to KNOW the birds–recognize their flights, their lifestyles, their songs. Putting a bird on a list, or checking a box that shows you've identified one, does not mean that you recognize them as you would a friend in a crowd. I want to know them like friends.

Our tiny laundry room is a perfect bird blind. Perched inside I can watch the birds without them noticing that I'm spying.

Adjusting the close-up setting. Darn it, the birds turned out blurry in so many photos. Patience, just like in gardening and writing, will turn out to be my salvation, but I have a long way to go before I get any good shots.

Sweet little Anna's hummingbird (male). They love the bubbling fountain and arrive there for morning baths (without fail) at 7 a.m..

In flew the female, who chased away the male,...

...who returned and chased away the little female.

My tame Western Scrub Jay, who knows EVERYTHING that is going on in the garden.

The House Finch is checking out the feeder, where...

...the White-crowned Sparrow picks through the seed in the nyjer feeder tray.

Goldfinches take over.

High in the olive tree the shy Hermit Thrush watches quietly. I don't know why, but I think this might be my favorite bird. So understated, but with a song that will break your heart. Check out http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Hermit_Thrush/sounds (scroll down) to hear some of the songs and calls.

This is a sweet, little 3 1/2 inch Bushtit. Tit comes from the Old Icelandic word titr, which means small.

These birds are sociable and always found in flocks. Within seconds of this one landing, the others flew down to join him. 

I call the Bushtits little bells, for their constant, ringing contact calls.

Often the Chestnut-backed Chickadees mingle with the Bushtits.

Chestnut-backed Chickadee on left, two Bushtits hide in the shadows, and a Yellow-rumped Warbler sits on the right side. 

A Townsend's Warbler bathes in my Nonie Clarke's birdbath. I bought the birdbath for my Nonie in 1965. When she passed away, it came to me. This is the favorite bathing/drinking spot of so many birds.

Upside down and caught in the middle of a shower.

I think that the elusive warbler on the left is a first year Yellow-rumped Warbler, but I am not sure. This was my first sighting of this bird in my garden. 

Here is what I hope for you. I hope that you nurture an interest and love for all the creatures that visit your garden–even the moles and beneficial snakes and spiders. Start learning about their lives, quietly watch them, photograph or draw them. You'll be rewarded by living a life that is far richer than you ever imagined possible. The birds and other visitors will become your friends, asking for nothing, but appreciating water, food, and myriad plants.

Enjoy every day,

Sharon

P.S. Husband Jeff here. Read the interview with Sharon in The Tribune. 

Listen to "The Morningline" on Newstalk 105.9, WLNI in Lynchburg, Virginia, Wednesday morning, January 30th, at 8:35 a.m. (which means we'll be up at 5 a.m.)

P.P.S. The winner of the fabulous book and gloves is FlowerLady Lorraine, a Grimy Hands Girls Club member. Congratulations, Lorraine!