When I step out of the front door in the morning I step into Sydney's garden - he's the front garden Robin and he thinks it's his. We have a back garden Robin, Cyril, and he thinks that that is his territory. The two never meet because if they did it would be a fight to the death. Both Sydney and Cyril are utterly fearless and probably know the inside of the house better than we do, both being of an incredibly nosy nature. I'm quite convinced that we are only tolerated so long as we don't interfere with 'their' territory. |  |
Apart from Sydney and Cyril there's Little Wol (the Little Owl), whom you have already met, and Woody 1(he's the Greater Spotted Woodpecker), he's got a mate, Woody 2, but even when they're together I can't tell the difference. There's a whole raft of little birds clustered around the nut cages: blue tits, finches, great tits, coal tits, hedge sparrows etc., etc. They all pause when I go out and then seem to say 'Oh, it's only 'im' and go back to the nuts.
Woody usually flies off, being of a nervous disposition, but only as far as the damson tree from where he berates me for interrupting his breakfast.
Always in the background are the hedgerow terrorists, the Magpies, clacking away like demented old-fashioned typewriters. We don't like each other so they keep their distance; their habit of hauling baby fledglings out of the nests of other birds endears them to no-one. I wouldn't stop them, but I don't have to like 'em.
We have recently been adopted by a breeding pair of Sparrowhawks, they come swooping down between the house and the Hazelnut tree and frighten the crap out of the birds happily feeding there. They never seem to catch anything, but they do focus the little bird's awareness of the skies above, which is probably no bad thing 'cos even Little Wol has been known to snatch at the unwary youngster.
This morning Sydney came to say his usual hello, but something dramatic must have happened because he chatters on excitedly for ages. I don't know what happened 'cos my Robin speak is a little rusty, but it must have been momentous because he was breathless by the time he'd finished.
John Stocker, the postman, arrives in his little red van and we spend a few minutes putting the world to rights; John is a show-pigeon enthusiast and an authority on American Indian tribes! How many English postmen can you say that about? He's also the authority on the village gossip; if John doesn't know about it it ain't happening!
This little email provoked an interesting response whereby the recipients began to look, some for the first time, at the world around them:
From Sonora, USA - How lovely to read this drinking my cup of tea this morning, Fred. Living here in the Sonoran desert. A far cry from my home and garden located in Kent, England. It reminded me so much of what is actually surrounding me here in wild life. Indeed it is different to what I was used to in England.
I too have a "Wooden Bird" as I call him, who hammers away right at 6 am on my chimney. No good trying to bury my head under a pillow. Wooden bird gets the best of me.
Also I have a variety of beautiful humming birds. They feed off feeders I have hanging off of a tree outside my lounge window. The little jewels of the South West I call them, simply because they sparkle in the sunshine. Indeed I love the wild life here in this desert. But there is one little bird I miss being here and that is my "Henry" the Robin Red breast who would wait for me to un earth the worms when out gardening with my late Father.
Also I have a "Big horned owl" who frequents the rooftop most nights. Hooting and I am sure he wears lead boots as he is a noisy chap, when hopping around.Plus the Javelina wild pigs that often run through my garden in the early hours of the morning. One would think they are a herd of elephants not wild boars. To me Fred to be aware of the positive versus negative with all the wild life I have encountered here in SW and W coast of the USA has been spectacular. I so thank you for your stories and look most forward to reading more of them.
From Cayman Brac - The sun is rising a little later at this time of year, around about 6.30am. The dawn chorus is in full swing, bananaquits and warblers. Old Truss (Red Legged Thrush) is busy squawking around his territory,and a Southern Mockingbird serenades from the top of the nearby casurine tree that planted for my Uncle Reg in 1987, and is now 40 feet high!
The wind in the seagrape and palm trees and the sea (300 feet away) rustle and swish together, and a gentle breeze wafts through the house. If I didn't have to work, I'd just lie abed for a few more hours. But cats have to be fed, kids taught, bills paid, and so I must become more active.
As I drive to school I head down the sandy road to the main drag, passing Miss Lina, clearing up her yard. At 76 Miss Lina is one of those island characters I love so much. She also looks after our house when we're not here. We exchange a few words about this and that and I head towards school. As cars pass me going the other way, everyone waves their hand in greeting - it's always been a custom here. I hope it always will be.
From Point Roberts, USA - I open the front door to either blowing cold rain or the occasional sparkly, dewy fall day, and I am serenaded by a cacophony of bird song - chickadees, all sorts of LBJ's (little brown jobs), finches, etc., all demanding breakfast - and I go out in my nightgown to fill the bird feeders in the apple tree. Usually I catch a glimpse of a black or grey squirrel streaking up the tree trunk after raiding one of the feeders. This year is the best season the tree has seen in some years. Like Fred's apple tree, some of its branches are near to breaking from the load of what I think are pippins (the tree is at least 60 years old). Like Maggie, every time someone walks by and comments on the apples I dash out with a plastic grocery bag and urge them to help themselves.
Meanwhile, the crow's raucous calls punctuate the morning. They're not interested in birdseed. If I don't watch my step, I'll plant a moccasined foot directly in a pile of doggie doo-doo, deposited every morning without fail by the Rottweiler who lives two houses down the road.
The leaves are almost all down now, though a few trees are still wearing their golden autumn splendor. Thanks Fred, for inspiring me to stop and look around instead of rushing around in ever decreasing circles.
From Africa - I check my email pretty frequently, but I'm always excited to receive people's 'Morning' impressions. Their 'awakenings' are extending further into their day and I'm learning a little more of people's lives - people I don't know yet, but would surely like to…
I'm going to try to stick to my morning. Don't know whether I'll be able to do that easily because Africa has so much more than just the morning and it's hard to decide whether that's the bit that really hits me first. When I think it's morning it could still be night. I wake early. Usually around 4.30am. We have a small lake at the bottom of our garden and during the day we are overwhelmed by the sounds of a myriad of different birds, all of them desperate for water around this time of the year. But in the morning, then it's the frogs. Millions of frogs, mostly croaking the same tune, but not one of them croaking it at the same time! It's noisy, but it's a sound.
From Northern Virginia, USA - It's cold in the morning but the sun is bright and the day ahead will be warm if we are lucky. Walking out onto the deck the leaves are already providing a colourful carpet to both the deck and the woods beyond. The sunlight is incredible as it filters through the canopy of very high trees. The light magnifies the number of different colours. Trees that were green in the humid summer are now red, yellow and all the shades of rusty red in between.
It must be cold because the usual sound of the cicadas and crickets are no longer there. They will come back later in the day. Many of the birds have gone. We haven't seen the bright red cardinal birds for a week or two, but we see the dozens of squirrels scurrying about, building their stores for the winter, which if like last year could be hard. We also have a family of chipmunks that have made a home in the lawn out front, but keep running round to the back to see if the cover of the pool is still there - in the summer they used to drink at the edge.
It is beautiful in the Fall in Virginia - we even have carved pumpkins outside the front door, and it is just about the best time of the year.
From Birmingham, UK - When I open my front door each morning I see the village pub. It calls to me in harpy like tones, drowning out the birdsong, triggering a flashback of last week's karaoke night. I rub my eyes but it is still there, a white palace framed by the dawn of a fresh new morn. Through the windows I can see the pump handles, their brass minarets glinting in the sunlight. Magic lanterns display logos of my favourite ales on the top of the bar.
I climb into my car and turn the engine before pulling off the drive. I have a choice, I can either press my nose up against the windows of The Winged Spur until opening time or join the Redditch to Birmingham Grand Prix halfway up the A435. Certain that my car used to belong to Homer Simpson, it drives itself into the pub car park, a journey of almost eleven yards on a clear day. I sit in the pub car park spewing diesel fumes into the crisp autumnal air until I have plucked up enough courage to brave the rat race again.
From this moment on I stare at the back of a GTI from home to eternity. BMWs speed past, lorries pull out regardless, cyclists choke, buses stop abruptly - why are bus stops not located in bus lanes? - red lights interrupt. And all the time I can't wait until the return trip and the sinewy wrist of Rosie, the fashionably underweight but over aged barmaid, flexing as the pump is drawn back and fountains of crystal clear beer splash into a tall glass and the foamy head settling without so much as a snap, crackle or pop.
Then I arrive at the office and Pete on security is beaming his Arsenal lost smile and all is well with the world.
From New York, USA - My first image as I walk ot of the door is a quiet hall with two elevators. We are eight stories up in a modern 30 story apartment house. As the elevator door opens I wonder who will be inside. Someone I know, a car full of children, or no one. Often a pleasant encounter - often the weather is a serious subject of discussion since we are usually heading outdoors.
Since the building is the residence of university academics and staff, the elevator is the place to hear many languages and half heard exchanges about work in progress and department activities.
The lobby is the final stop where we are greeted by a friendly doorman - outside on a grassy square stand a huge Picasso sculpture of a woman's head. Her eyes are strangely positioned and her hair is in a ponytail. I am so accustomed to the statue I barely see it.
As I walk down the walk on either side - in the fall the squirrels are busy burying acorns in anticipation of the winter. Most of the squirrels are brown except a few black ones.
In the mild weather, I am passed by young students in shorts and tee shirts, with racquets and sports gear jogging to the gym. Also older folks, grad students, gray haired academics and local residents also in exercise attire come and go.
The local bench is a favourite for the occasional derelict to sleep or sit and eat from a takeout box.
That is my morning view.
From Dorridge, UK - Kick my way to the front door through autumnal envelopes from the credit card tree. The door sweeps an arc like a windscreen wiper through bills and special offers that no-one wants.
I am late, the engine roars, the blipping throttle, back of the grid, the school 'Cannonball' run has begun.
Every car in front is 'wacky warehouse' on wheels. A writhing mass of arms and legs, screaming mums, blazers, rucksacks, comics, flapping ties, gymslips and crumpled socks round ankles with no bodies.
Cars weave to stay in the middle of the road. Half dressed drivers struggle to finger-comb hair, apply lipstick and mascara in side-turned rear-view mirrors.
Millenium is here. School! Cars parked like confetti, all doors ajar like stubby wings.
3'9" tall round lollipop lady with 9' foot lollipop patiently stops anyone crossing the road until a car approaches.
Moms pushing any child in reach through school gate, each complaining to no-one in particular that their man is worse than anybody elses and men always try to overtake because I am a woman.
I squeeze past the school. Tomorrow they will call for more traffic calming road humps, speed kills signs, road narrowing, white paint and radar. "Do you know this is a 5mph women only road, Sir?" "Really Constable."
Half dressed mum in nightie bends over. Silky bum stretched tight. All is forgiven. I am past, Right foot to the floor. Maniacal glee. I am free, free!
Unseen round corner, diesel belching, 40tonnes, eight wheels, driver scratching his crutch...
From Malvern, UK
The earth lay cool and still
When suddenly a tiny bird
Perched on my window sill.
He sang a song so lovely
So carefree and so gay,
That slowly all my troubles
Began to slip away.
He sang of far off places
Of laughter and of fun,
It seemed his very trilling
Brought up the morning sun.
I stirred beneath the covers
Crept slowly out of bed,
Then gently lowered the window
And crushed his flaming head!
(I'm not a morning person)
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