Little Gifts
Diary of a week
Monday, May 27
Mama robin tugged a worm from the soil, flew to the fence top, and landed. She cast sharp eyes about, checking for danger, then flew to her nest, a nest that was tucked into a hollow of an old cottonwood beside the creek, a nest that I’d walked past every day this spring and didn’t know was there. At her arrival, two speckled babies went wild with excitement over the wriggling breakfast dangling from her beak, one nearly falling overboard in the frenzy.
Tuesday, May 28
Rhubarb, slow-roasted yesterday evening, chopped and swirled into a Danish cake this morning, to enjoy together with friends - two sisters - one who lives here, one who lives far away. It seemed appropriate to serve something made with this year’s crop from the rhubarb start that came from their mother’s garden years ago.
Wednesday, May 29
It’s fledging day! In my haste across the lawn, I looked up just in time to see baby robin take off from the lawn in front of me, execute a short, wildly out of control flight and crash land into the soft, wilted weeds and dandelion puffs in the bed of my garden wagon. He sat there, dazed and confused. His parents landed nearby, clucking their delight.
Thursday, May 30
It became a thing before we even realized. When my out-of-town friend and I see each other, we exchange little gifts. Our relaxed way about this requires only that the gifts we give are something we already have, or can easily gather, such as jars of homemade preserves, an envelop of flower seeds, or a cloth bag stuffed with curly wood shavings from the floor of a woodworker’s shop. This time? I brought her a bundle of fresh rhubarb and two cotton cleaning cloths. She gave me two pairs of wooden knitting needles and a dozen fire starters she’d made from beeswax and the curly wood shavings I once gave her.
Friday, May 31
Tucked into a copse of trees in the foothills of breathtaking mountains was the stage. The colorful crowd gathered around, standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the ground, picnic tables, tree stumps, and benches, to listen to three hours of folk-infused bluegrass spilling from a mandolin, banjo, upright bass, and acoustic guitar. There was as much entertainment in people watching as there was in the music, we decided. Our favorite, we dubbed Mountain Man. He had wavy, shoulder-length hair and a bushy beard, and wore a plaid flannel shirt and grubby jeans held up by red suspenders. There was even a battered bandana hanging from his back pocket. He did a mighty fine dance in his old work boots atop a four-foot tall stump, his fists perfectly punching a bam-bam-bam into the air in time with the music.
Saturday, June 1
With two hundred miles of highway behind me, just as the evening shadows were growing long, I arrived home. Home. After carrying in boxes and bags, I settled onto the sofa with a kitty (she insisted), my laptop, and a cup of tea and wrote and published June’s Letter for you, just in time. My goodness, I love those dancing pictures!