So. Piddle. (is that a word?) My grandmother used it back on our farm in Appalachia when describing something trivial to me. Piddling. How fortunate that at this final leg of my life, to be able to sit quietly at my window in Maine and write about what I see. The simple pleasures. The piddly. It’s as if I have untrained myself to let go of the obvious. To listen to the trees, the birds, the silence. To be quiet. To look. To feel. To turn my thoughts inward. I am writing at the age of eighty-four, with a mind that thinks I’m still in my seventies, and a body that says, “Are you kidding?” I have acquiesced.
I no longer have the need to be something. Yes, I want to keep learning, but with a different urgency, not to prove anything to others or myself now. Not to “be” any one thing any longer.
But to merely be.
A quiet Sunday in Maine. Snow covers the outside patio furniture, the mugo pines, the stone wall, the flower and herb beds. Snowcapped rocks sit on the side of the hill and dark clouds hover over Maiden’s Cliff. It is time to go back to my writing studio, but I sit at the kitchen table after lunch a little longer, staring out the window at the five black crows that visit every day to feast on peanuts and stale bread I leave on the patio table.
Sometimes the birds are already perched in the tall Norway spruce in the yard. Waiting for me. Sometimes they are nowhere to be seen when I put the goodies on the table, and I call them. Caaw. Caaw. Caaw.
Anyone within hearing distance must think I’m surely crazy. Maybe she’s brushing her teeth and gargling? But the crows don’t think I’m nuts. They answer me. Caw. Caw. Caw. And fly down onto the lawn.
Even though they’ve been enjoying my generosity for more than a year by now, they still go through a testing process. One swoops down over the table, checking to make sure the peanuts are there. They all slowly collect on the rail fence, then suddenly fly off and land back in the tree. Not long after, each glide down directly onto the table, or the backs of the chairs, or on the ground near the table. The blue-black of their feathers pleases my sensibilities. I like to follow their eyes as they jerk their heads from side to side, checking to make sure the coast is clear.
Their movements are quick and fitful. I know they are the same five who come every day, and they know they have me trained well. Offenbach’s high-energy “Galop Infernal” dances in my head while these beautiful black figures hop around the table.
How each crow handles the peanut treat is much like looking around the family Thanksgiving table and seeing different tactics of cutting and chewing the same roast turkey. Different personalities perhaps?
One crow, a nervous Nellie, quickly grabs a peanut and flies back to her perch, returning soon for another one. The second crow, quite circumspective, gobbles the shell and nut whole while still on the table, stuffs two more in her beak to return to her post. A third, a glutton, stands in the middle of the peanut pile for some time, eating until she’s full, raising her head occasionally to check for interlopers.
One time, as I sat mesmerized, sipping coffee, there were only three nuts left on the table and a single crow grabbed all three. Another crow flew in and saw there were none left. I couldn’t believe what happened next, but I promise you this is true: the first crow walked over to the late-comer and dropped one of the nuts in front of her friend.
Sometimes in the evening, a frenzy of birds hover by the feeders in the yard, vying for seeds. Some birds are courteous and take turns. Some hog and bully. Every time the nuthatch comes to dine, he first hangs upside down on the feeder, perfectly comfortable. My theory is that he gets his circulation moving into his digestive system before he swings right-side-up to eat. I’m sure that an ornithologist could educate me, but for the time being, I’ll go with my intuition.
There appears to be a hierarchy. Who can be at the feeder and with whom at any one time. The chickadee goes straight for the meal, as does the goldfinch, the sparrow, Mr. and Ms. cardinal, all the different finches, and the evening grosbeak, though they appear less and less each year. The family of six hummingbirds doesn’t fool around. They each dart to the red hanging nectar holes without any competition.
Squirrels and chipmunks wait patiently in the mugo pines to dash in later for the dropped seed, while the dogs sit and watch the action. Then the fun of their pursuit begins. They never catch anyone. And I don’t think they care. I also consider the entertainment cheap and exceptional.
A red-tailed hawk sits high up in the pine tree, watching the euphoria closely.
With her one silent, swift dive, all the activity stops as suddenly as it started. The birds disappear into their hideaways. The squirrels scatter into the bushes and up the trees. The chipmunks call it a day and race towards the safety of their havens in the stone wall. The dogs run back into the house through the dog door. The hawk departs as quickly as she lunged. No dinner for her tonight. The dogs return and stretch out on the brick patio, cooling their hot, panting bodies.
Now the sensual shapes of the towering, one-hundred-plus-year-old maples and oaks form a panorama against the clear azure sky. No landscape designer drew this out on paper. We never have to look far to see the artist called Mother Nature creating the most impressive and profound canvases.
Scanning this painterly tableau, from the trees to the ridge along Maiden’s Cliff, to Penobscot Bay, dotted with its islands and then finally the infinite horizon line, is always breathtaking for me.
Years ago, I used to think no place on earth could be as majestic and beautiful as the Appalachian Mountains where I grew up. My grandparents’ home sat on the top of one of the smaller mountains, with three steep winding roads converging in front of the house. Off the backside of the house, my grandfather’s land dropped steeply into a hollow where his cows roamed, and there existed the most spectacular mountain peaks as far as you could see. I loved that vast wilderness.
But now, I live on a mountain in Camden, Maine, where I look at another wilderness—the vast and endless ocean. Having sailed it, I know of its glory as well as its fury. It draws me to it, just as a magnet catches metal paper clips.
I am that eighty-four-year-old woman at home on a mountain in Maine. Mostly confined. Looking outside while also turning inward. I, interiorly. (Is this also a word?) There are such sweet rewards to reap from the treasure of this final stage of my life. ▪
