Early Summer

Birds, board games, and ah! bright wings.

“Early summer days are a jubilee time for birds. In the fields, around the house, in the barn, in the woods, in the swamp–everywhere love and songs and nest and eggs” - E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

Gracious goodness Esta, enough with E.B. White.

This isn’t a Charlotte’s Web Substack, I promise. I partly picked that quote as a joke, but I couldn’t resist because it is true.

Early summer is a jubilee time for birds.

While drinking my morning cup of black tea I watched a Black-capped Chickadee carefully pick a black sunflower seed out of the feeder. He pinched it delicately between his two feet, pinning it against the metal perch, then carefully bent over and pecked through the hull, nibbling at the seed until it was empty. Once he was satisfied that no pieces of kernel remained, he tossed it to the ground. He selected another seed and repeated the process over and over. I sat and watched for a long time, held by his precision and daintiness, fed by the smallness of the moment.

Our feeders have been busy, swarming with Lesser Goldfinches, Black-headed Grosbeaks, chickadees, House Finches, Red Finches, House Sparrows (alas), and several variations of hummingbirds. The doves waddle below them and robins fling garden mulch to disturb the bugs beneath. The swallows skim the grass in the evenings, snatching insects, then swoop high before coming around again. Hawks and Red-wing Blackbirds haunt the fields. On my daily walks the killdeer mothers are frantic, feigning injury and scurrying around in a panic. I feel jittery just watching them.

One evening at sunset we watched a male Rufus Hummingbird perform a love dance outside the living room window for his lady. With stunning speed he dove, hovered, and swooped. Both of them cheekily darted around the feeder, flirting. When the fading light hit the breast of the male just right his beautiful orange iridescent breast was transformed into glory— a glowing, radiating intensity of burnished copper that made us all catch our breath.

Peter has responded to all this activity by drawing birds anytime he can. I resist the instinct to instruct or intrude. But we have joined him here and there, on the living room carpet, at the table with pencil and watercolor. I can’t force attention, but I can protect it.

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Early summer days are a jubilee time for cousins.

Every June the Doutrich cousins from Ohio come for a week. All year my children talk about their arrival and anticipate their coming. And then for one week we clear the calendar and spend most of the waking hours up the road at Grandma’s house where there is a freezer full of desserts and fridges full of cold drinks.

The smell of freshly windrowed grass blows across the yard while nerf battles are fought down under the scrub oaks. The golf cart full of cousins bounce down through the hay field and the endless “kkkkkk, kkkkkk” of hands digging through Lego bins echoes through the garage. The teens are gracious with the younger cousins, joining and including, despite the age gap.

Brendon and Justin, the two grown brothers, help their dad with projects while Ruby and I visit in the shade, catching up on a year’s worth of family news, comparing notes on speech therapy, juggling schedules, and navigating relationships in these middle years. We help with meals but it’s my mother-in-law, Rachel, who has carefully planned the menu, tucking away ideas and freezer meals in the weeks beforehand.

My children are wild-eyed with trying to squeeze every last moment out of the fleeting week. Our own house turns into a wasteland, with piles of wet, sandy laundry from the coast and unpacked backpacks from hiking strewn about, since we are never home long enough to set things to right. The pool noodles from swimming are tossed in a pile and crab pots accidently left in the trunk make the whole Toyota smell like fish. I have no idea what is on the schedule next week. All I can focus on is keeping up.

I know these days are invaluable, linking my children to a sense of belonging and shared history that will help carry them through the disorienting twists of their own stories. I can’t control the course of my children’s relationships, but I can honor and celebrate the good ones now.

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Early summer has been a jubilee time for me and board games.

Rejoice with me, friends, for I have enjoyed unbelievable winning streaks. For a while I was truly undefeated, but eventually I lost a game here and there. My sister-in-law Ruby beat me in Splendor and Kenny and Justin beat me in Timeline. But still I am winning more than I am losing.

I’ve invented some unique victory dances to commemorate. And when I accidentally let out a tired-mom-sigh or a overwhelming-sense-of-dread sigh and my family asks me what’s wrong I just say, “It’s such a heavy burden being the only one who wins board games around here.”

Justin says I have become insufferable.

“Start winning then,” I reply.

Merek read this over my shoulder.

“You are writing about this on the internet?? This has gone too far!!” he shrieked.

I know I’ll go back to my mediocre strategy skills any day now and slide back into board game obscurity, leaving the dopamine high for Merek and Justin to reclaim. But I’m afraid I shall remain insufferable until I do.

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Early summer has been a jubilee time for thrifting books.

The Doutrich ladies went thrifting one afternoon and although I’m on a self-imposed book buying ban (ish) I did wander over to the book section of St Vinnies while we were waiting for Ruby to finish shopping. Within ten minutes I found this stack—Goudge, Milton, Tabor, and Berry!

The prize of the day (of the year?) was a beautiful vintage copy of Pilgrims Inn with the dust jacket. Most contemporary Gouge covers are awful, so even a vintage hardback is welcome. But with the dust jacket? A treasure. And for a mere $3.49!

I already own the volume of Wendell Berry poetry but couldn’t just leave it, obviously. In my daily life I am known to force thrifted books upon people because of just such an impulse.

Which brings me to a question for you. I would like to make it a semi-regular practice here to give away thrifted books, like this Wendell Berry collection. I want to do it for the fun of sharing books, not for any publicity or engagement reasons. If you have ideas on how this would be best done, let me know. My initial idea is a low profile giveaway occasionally at the end of a regular post, with a comment mentioning the book as the way to enter, but I’m be open to suggestions on how to make it simple and easy for you, the reader. Let me know what you think.

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Well friends, the wildflowers are blooming at Horse Rock and on the vast, sunny slopes of Mary’s Peak thousands of plump wild strawberries lay tucked together under fuzzy green leaves. The scent of the harvest wind on a Valley summer night is the smell of our early kisses under the stars. It doesn’t take just my misfiring brain to serve up a hundred reasons to feel despair these days. I’m sure you understand. But these early summer gifts are just as real. I guess I’m with Hopkins on this one.

"And though the last lights off the black West went
    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings."

May you catch flashes of bright wings too.