Tag Archives: Slice of Life

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“Warbling”: A Photo Essay

Looking for warblers, or what I call warbling, is one of my favorite things to do early in the morning on spring weekends. According to Oxford dictionary, warbling technically means to sing with a “succession of constantly changing notes”. I, personally, prefer to think of warbling as wandering around on an early morning, neck craned to look upwards, eyes flitting about from tree to tree. I’m not alone in this pursuit, as in birding hotspots, you’ll find flocks of like-minded folk, binoculars pressed to their eyes, cameras at their side. I often think we look like our own odd species of bird. You’ll even hear whispers and fragments of our customary calls: “Oh, there’s one!” “Did you see….?” or “Darn it!”

So, if you’re not a bird of this feather, it would probably help to know that warblers are small, often colorful, active birds that migrate in the spring. I’m still relatively new to birding, and I only recently learned that most birds migrate overnight. Isn’t that the coolest thing!? I love to think of waves of warblers moving through the night skies while we’re sleeping! In the morning they’re hungry from all their exertions and need to fuel up for the next leg of their journey. As the sun warms the treetops, they glean insects from the newly emerging tree foliage. In pursuit of prey, they rarely sit still–or at least when they’re not blocked by a leaf or a branch! Spotting them, much less identifying them is a challenge!

poster illustrated by Jada Fitch

Trying to take photographs of warblers is an exercise in patience and optimism. You spend a lot of time looking up at this…

or at suspicious looking clump of leaves like these…

hoping to see a flash of movement or a splotch of color like this (though preferably when one’s camera settings aren’t off!)…

indigo bunting (messed up my camera settings…again! lol)

And then (if you’re lucky!) there are lots and lots of birds around and many “almost got it!” moments like this (unlucky timing, poor camera settings, bad lighting, etc)…

backlit kinglet
branches get in the way…a lot!
backlit redstart
camera shy palm warbler
mystery shadow bird
oops…the backside of a northern parula
backlit yellow warbler in motion

Still, there are many consolation prizes. You get to spend time here…

and here…

and here…

And sometimes you bump into some other old friends along the way…

Both feathered…

osprey with breakfast
chickadee
Savannah sparrow
cormorant
American goldfinch

and not…

If you’re really lucky, you get a few pretty good warbler photos to show for all the effort…

northern parula
flycatcher?
blue headed vireo (camera setting issue again–but this was a new one for me!)
blackburnian warbler
yellow warbler

and then sometimes a few that feel deeply satisfying…

palm warbler
northern parula with breakfast
yellow rumped warbler
black and white warbler

All in all, whether you get a photo or not, it’s a wonderful way to spend a spring morning.

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Tribute: James Dennis Hogan, 11/3/40-11/25/21

My father died on Thanksgiving Day. He had just turned 81, and after 80 healthy years, he had spent the last seven months of his life battling pancreatic cancer. We’ve spent the last four months or so trying to pick up the pieces. This past weekend we paid tribute to my Dad, traveling to Ohio to celebrate his life with family and friends. When it was my turn to share, this is more or less what I said:

When I started teaching fourth grade about five or six years ago, I had to teach students how to write five paragraph essays. The curriculum guide suggested writing a model essay with the claim: “My Father is one of my most important teachers.” At the time, I kind of shrugged and thought, well, I can work with that. But year after year, as I thought about this claim and searched for reasons and evidence and wrote about it, I came to realize that my father had taught me more than I had ever imagined.

First, Dad taught me to think of others. He was unfailingly polite and could be quite a charmer. He enjoyed chatting with people. More than once when I was wandering around talking to medical personnel, trying to track down some random schedule detail or information, the person helping me, upon hearing my dad’s name, would say, “Oh, I remember your Dad! Tell him I’m thinking about him. He’s such a nice guy.” In a word (or two), he was ever affable and gracious, and everyone enjoyed interacting with him.

Dad also taught me to work hard and to get through tough times. Whether it was professionally or personally, Dad didn’t shirk. He reinvented his professional life multiple times, rising above some big challenges. He didn’t moan or groan about it, he just got done what needed to be done. Only as an adult could I begin to appreciate how challenging some of those times must have been. On a lighter note, I also distinctly remember him out mowing the lawn at our home in Pittsburgh, even though his allergies always kicked into gear. He would repeatedly stop to pull out his ubiquitous handkerchief and blow his nose. Then start mowing again. Stop. Blow. Mow. Stop. Blow. Mow. Getting the job done. Meanwhile, I was often cooking him a cake in my Easy Bake oven. Now that’s a memory that still makes me smile.

Above all, Dad taught me the power of a well-played word. He had a great vocabulary and a wonderful sense of humor. He enjoyed using his wit to come up with the perfectly timed quip to make people laugh. He was quick and often quite funny. He had such a marvelous twinkle in his eye when he delivered punch lines or slipped in the perfect jest. He loved using interesting words and finding just the precise word to say what he meant. For example, Dad often reminded me that my face was dolichocephalic. (dolly-co-cephalic) You can look that up. (Believe it or not, somehow that one came up in conversation more than one might imagine. )

Dad was also a terrific punster. One fond childhood memory I have was of taking road trips, usually to visit our grandparents in Ligonier, and asking him to tell the story of “Falling Rock” . Dad  had concocted quite a tale for our enjoyment about how Falling Rock was a young Indian boy who had strayed from his tribe. I don’t remember all the details, but I remember begging for the story. And I remember it ended something like, “And that’s why to this very day you still see signs that say “Watch for Falling Rock.”

Over the last year, Dad taught me so much more. He taught me how to handle the worst of situations with dignity, grace and humor. Over and over again when things were tough, he made the best of it. Throughout everything, he kept his sense of humor and dry wit at hand.

Toward the end of his life, he was talking with my niece on the telephone. She said, “So Grandpa, how are you handling everything.”
Dad, now restricted to the hospital bed in his bedroom, paused, and then replied to her, succinctly and true to form, “With style.”

One of my most treasured memories is of Dad and me sitting together this past fall, writing limericks. When writing limericks, Dad always included the name of a city and he was bold in his choices (I mean who tries to rhyme with Cincinnati!?). He also didn’t let rhythm and complete rhyme hold him back. So, it seemed only fitting to include a limerick today—and in honor of Dad, I’m including a city name and taking a little bit of license with the rhyming.

There once was a man from Aurora
who was a bold verbal explorer
Though not always loquacious
he was ever sagacious
And without him our lives are much poorer

Not long before Dad died, I told him about writing essays about him with my fourth grade students. I told him how I’d come to realize how much I’d learned from him. I shared all my reasons and examples and finally I thanked him.

Dad listened while I talked, and after I finished, he looked at me and said, in his typical, understated way, “Well, Molly, I never knew I taught you all that.”

Well, you did, Dad, you did.

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Countdown to February Break

Somehow this year I’ve managed to misplace my sense of optimism. Once in a while I find it, but then it just slips through my fingers. Again and again. As I write this, I’m realizing that saying I’ve lost my optimism is actually a bit too passive. It’s more like it’s actively engaged in a never-ending game of Hide-and-Seek that I never chose to play. And I’m always “it”. Oh, no! Actually, I think it’s more like that horrible “Keep away” game and I’m the “Monkey in the Middle” and optimism is always sailing just out of reach, over my head. It’s tantalizingly in sight, but I can’t ever get my hands on it. I jump around in uncoordinated leaps trying to do so. Exhausting myself. Until I just give up.

I always hated that “game.”

At any rate, I will keep looking or reaching for the catch, but in the meantime, I’m just looking ahead to the next break.

Countdown to February Break

I can make it
four
days.
Right?
Just
four!
One
two
three
four…
Can I make it?

©Molly Hogan

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Winter Consolation

People ask me sometimes, “How do you stand the cold?” or “Aren’t the winters long?” They look at me askance, wondering how I manage Maine winters. Or why I do.

To be honest, the hardest part of winter isn’t the cold, it’s the dark. In December twilight comes quickly. Walking the students out to the buses, the sky is already low on the horizon. Days seem to end before they begin. Later, you start wondering if it’s time for bed, since it’s been dark for hours, but then you realize it’s only 6:30 pm. And that’s if you’re lucky.

On the other hand, winter in Maine offers unique and meaningful consolation prizes for those willing and able to bundle up and get outside. Or simply when looking out the window.

In winter the beach has an entirely different feel. It’s vast, open and beautiful. There are typically a few hardy folk wandering and one or two joyous dogs, but mostly it’s a place removed. Somewhere to get away and lose yourself in broad swaths of sand and sky.

Or if you’re so inclined, you can visit the marshes where familiar grasses and serpentine waters are transformed into an alien world.

Winter sunrise brushes warm colors over a chilled landscape. It skates along the ice and highlights the shadows of leaf-bare tree limbs. Throw in the distant thread of a calling owl and there’s clearly magic in the air.

Keep an eye out, for winter is also the time when majestic snowy owls swoop in to visit from northern climes. These owls, used to long stretches of light in their northern homes, are often out and about in daylight hours. Ruffled elegance on a rooftop.

Bitter cold offers more enchantment. When the temperatures hover around zero, it’s time to visit the shore in search of sea smoke. Frigid air moves over warmer ocean water, forming tendrils of fog. If the winds are calm, the fog gathers, drifts, and swirls. Mesmerizing.

Winter ice storms glaze the world in ice. Summer’s left-overs become winter’s wonders.

Closer to home, on those bitterly cold days, blow bubbles and watch frost unfurl, transforming liquid bubbles to enchanted orbs.

Or check your windows, where cold kisses window panes and frost blossoms again into intricate patterns.

When the frost clears, look out the windows. With trees free of their autumn leaves, there’s so much more you can see. Birds gather, deer wander by and squirrels entertain with their endless antics.

Keep your eyes open.

Winter brings rich consolation prizes.

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Think Before You Speak

I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately, sort of slogging around through a toxic sludge of negativity, not super pleased with being in my own headspace. (Probably not thrilling those around me either, for that matter.) Overall, I’ve just felt primed to go dark. Here’s a small example: On the Teacher’s Room bulletin board, someone wrote, “What are you looking forward to in 2022?” Others had already responded, writing things like, “To thrive, not just survive” or “My son’s wedding” etc. My immediate knee-jerk response (internal thankfully, since the filter held this time and I didn’t say or write it) was “June 15th”. That just happens to be the last day of school. So, you get the picture.

Anyway, last week, I was walking down the hallway at school, stewing in my own negativity, when I happened to look up and see this bulletin board.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is img_3157.jpeg

I’ve seen it before, but this time, I stopped and read through it, line by line.

As I read, I thought about the things that have been coming out of my mouth lately: Complaints. Snarky comments. Pessimism. (Just to be clear, the audience to all of this is primarily adults–friends, family and colleagues (sorry, everyone!)– not students. But still.)

So I stood in front of the bulletin board and considered.

Think Before You Speak

is it True? Well, yes, what I say is generally true (though perhaps I’ve been catastrophizing a bit.)

is it Helpful? Um…maybe not so much

is it Inspiring? Oh. No question there. Definitely not.

is it Necessary? Probably not.

is it Kind? Well, it’s not un-kind …

Oh.

Hmmm….

I bumped into two colleagues a little while later and mentioned thinking about the sign.

“Oh, that’s a great bulletin board,” one of them said.

“Yeah,” I said, “I used to have it in my classroom. After reading and thinking about it today, I realized I find the poster and put it back up. I also realized that, in the meantime, I mostly just need to stop talking.”

They laughed.

But I wasn’t totally joking.

The next day, out of the blue, a text arrived with a photo from a distant friend (who courtesy of that distance honestly hasn’t been forced to listen to my negativity).

Clearly the universe is sending me a message.

I’ll look for the poster tomorrow.

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Beginnings and Endings

Last week, Ruth Ayres invited others to write along to the prompt “Beginnings.” There was a time when I would have kept what I’ve written in my notebook. Safe from other’s eyes. Private.

Times have changed.

With my father’s death fresh in my mind, I’ve noticed that every beginning is marked by an ending. Or is it that the endings herald beginnings? Or do beginnings presage endings?

All I know is that right now, my father’s absence colors each threshold. This new year marks the first time in my life that a year won’t have him in it. On my upcoming birthday, there won’t be a card. Or a call. Updates and daily news shrivel unspoken on my lips.

I’ve always hated crying, but I’ve gotten used to it now. I’ve stopped fighting the prickling onset of tears. The slight wobble in my chin. The quiver in my lips. I accept them as part of each day. Not something to lean into. Not something to lean away from. Just something that is.

Tears will flow. Sometimes they brim and overflow, sometimes they pool and tremble, then recede. Sadness reabsorbed. Perhaps they are a beginning of sorts. First steps on a journey?

Some beginnings are haunted by endings.

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SOL: A New Superstition

Birding Without Borders: An Obsession, a Quest, and the Biggest Year in the World by [Noah K. Strycker, Kenn Kaufman]

This year for Christmas I was given a book called, “Birding without Borders: An Obsession, a Quest and the Biggest Year in the World.” Intrigued, I immediately flipped it open to read the first sentence. “On New Year’s Day, superstitious birdwatchers like to say, the very first bird you see is an omen for the future.”

Ooooooh.

As someone who tries to say “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit” each month and wishes on stars and pie corners and loves birds, I loved this idea. However, I was slightly wary. The future has been unrolling some mighty unpleasant things these days. I’ve also never dared go to a fortune teller or palm reader. The idea of doing so sends shivers down my spine. I’m not sure exactly what I think will happen, but I’m pretty convinced I’ll walk in, they’ll look into the ball, or into my hand, and either scream, faint, or back away in terror. So, did I really want a sneak peek? Even through a bird intermediary?

New Year’s Day 2022 dawned.

I had an odd start to the day–first I woke at 1:30 am (at which time I whispered “Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit” and nudged my husband to tell him to do the same, since you can never have too much luck), then I fell back asleep only to wake up fully at 3 am. I got up, putzed around til about 5:30, fell asleep on the couch for another hour, then woke again. Later, I was settled in, writing, when I suddenly realized I hadn’t noticed the daylight steadily increasing outside. No doubt the birds were already in full swing at the feeders. I couldn’t really avoid seeing birds all day long, so I guess my decision was made. I was going to look.

What kind of bird would I see when I looked? What kind of year would I have?

Our typical feathered visitors are chickadees, goldfinch, tufted titmice, nuthatches, blue jays, cardinals and a variety of woodpeckers. Most of those seemed like they’d have a positive interpretation, so I felt like the odds must be in my favor.

Deliberately, I raised my eyes from my notebook. The first thing I noticed were three mourning doves perched in the birch tree. Not one. Not two. But three of them. (I guess that was in case I didn’t notice the first one. Or the second one.) So, we do have mourning doves around sometimes, but they definitely aren’t daily visitors. The symbolism felt obvious even without a google search and even though I knew this wasn’t a real omen, more of a fun game, I felt my spirits sink. 2021 had plenty of mourning in it and the thought of a year marked by more of it was discouraging, to say the least.

I half-heartedly googled “mourning dove symbolism” and found that a mourning dove is “a symbol of sorrow and mourning”. No surprise there. Then I read further: “The mourning dove is, above all other symbolism, a spiritual messenger of peace, love, and faith.” Peace. Love. Faith. A year marked with those would surely be a positive one, right?

Here’s hoping.

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Kindness

Last week I wrote about the kindness of a stranger at Target (here). This past Friday I received in the mail a note from friends who also follow my blog. They wrote because they were moved by that post about the woman who had bought a game for my classroom. They wanted me to know that, and they also enclosed a check to use “the next time you go to Target for games” for your students. Again, I was deeply touched. I realized how easy it can be to forget how many kind people there are in this world–people who actively try to spread kindness in small but oh-so-meaningful ways.

Then, on Saturday a bulky envelope arrived in my mailbox. Within was a beautifully hand-crafted book created by my writing group, the Inklings. They had filled the pages with bookmarks, stationary, and poems to comfort me as I grieve the loss of my father. I was left teary-eyed and speechless by their creativity and thoughtfulness. As I wrote them in thanks, “…just when life sends you reeling with a blow, hands reach out to hold you up.” Again, such kindness.

In her poem, Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye writes,
“Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.”

In these days as I traverse a raw grief, I feel all my prior losses reverberating in tune with this newest sadness. It can be easy to listen only to those somber notes, to sink into sorrow.

Nye’s poem goes on to say,

“Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.”

Kindness matters. From the examples above, to the outpouring of thoughtful words and gestures from oh-so-many. Though some of my days are filtered darkly through a screen of grief, kindness has clearly raised its head. I feel its presence beside me and it comforts me, alters the shape of my grief, lightens its load. Ultimately, it allows me to feel blessed as well as bereft.

Thank you, my friends.

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Thankful for Trouble

Early Saturday morning, I strolled listlessly through the aisles of Target, carefully checking my written list as I went. In the back of the store, there was a display overflowing with games, many of them familiar from my childhood. I glanced over as I passed. Sorry. Yahtzee. Chutes and Ladders. Wait…Trouble!? Oh. I’d loved Trouble! I picked up the box and looked fondly at that curved plastic center dome peeking through the center of the cardboard. I could still remember the feel of pushing it down and the click-popping sound it made as it rolled the die within. That would be a great game for indoor recess, I thought. I looked around in vain for a price tag. Well, I’ll just ask when I check out, I decided. If it’s less than $10, I’ll buy it.

When I got up front, there was only one cashier working. I settled into line with my few items, already beginning to feel the sharp stress nibbles of unfinished grading and incomplete report cards. Soon, a woman, masked as I was, got into line behind me.

“Wow, only one line open,” she commented, “but at least it’s not too busy.

We commiserated and chatted about this and that–the weird state of the world, how many people weren’t masked, Covid, etc.

“I have cancer,” she commented, “but I really wear my mask to protect others. I do love our governor, but I wish she’d mandate masks.”

I noted the dark circles under her eyes, her pallor and her thin frame. My heart squeezed a bit. Trying to manage a grave illness and navigate this Covid-altered world must be incredibly stressful.

The line moved forward and I started to unload my cart onto the belt.

“Oh, that’s a fun game!” she said, pointing at Trouble.

“I know!” I replied. “I remember loving this game as a kid. I’m a teacher and I thought my students would, too. I’m not sure how much it is though, so I haven’t decided if I’m getting it or not.”

We talked a bit about schools and how they’ve been managing these days, until finally, it was my turn at the register.

“How much is this?” I asked the cashier, holding up the game.

She scanned it. “Thirteen forty-nine.”

I hesitated, remembering my $10 mental limit, designed to stop me from overspending on my classroom.

“Never mind,” I said firmly. “I’m not going to get it.”

She tucked the rejected game under the counter and began to ring up my other purchases. A few minutes later, I paid and gathered up my bags. As I turned to leave, I heard the woman behind me say, “Oh, I’ll take that,” and saw her point to the Trouble game.

Then she turned to me, “Could you wait just a minute?” She quickly slid her card through the machine, then grabbed the game from the cashier and handed it to me.

“I’d like you to have it,” she said, “For your classroom. For the children.”

“Oh,” I stammered, “Wait. What? Oh. You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to,” she smiled, pushing the game into my hands.

I held onto it tightly, stumbling over my words. “But that’s so kind of you! Wow! The kids will love it. Thank you so much! “

“No,” she replied, “Thank you for all you’re doing.”

I thanked her again, and tears burning in my eyes, turned away, deeply touched by the kindess of a stranger.

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Fleeting

I heard the geese before I saw them, and the sound drew me across the room to the french doors. I looked into the sky over the pond and spotted them immediately. They flew low, a disorganized cluster, their calls loud and mournful. My mind reached for lines from a favorite poem, pulling up only a few of them.

“Something told the wild geese
it was time to fly.
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.”

As I watched, to my delight, the geese wheeled and turned, and then headed back toward the pond. Feet first, wings spread wide, they touched down in the water with great splashes. About a dozen of them paddled to shore and clambered up onto the snow-covered grass. I leaned against the cool glass, watching them. Every so often one of them would rise up and flap its wings, then settle back down. They ambled about socially. I wondered if they were cold. How long had they been traveling? Where were they bound? I thought idly that I could simply watch them all day long. Their presence soothed me.

I thought about my visit here three or four weeks ago. Then temperatures had been in the high 70s and low 80s and I’d been picking late-blooming flowers in my father’s garden. The geese had visited during that time as well, only a few, but still I’d enjoyed watching them until they flew away, their calls so evocative– Time is passing. Winter is coming.

So much had changed since then.

As I watched from the window, a neighbor from across the pond strode down the lawn, newspaper in hand, gesticulating at the birds.

Oh, no.

I straightened at the door, aware there really wasn’t anything I could do. I was a visitor in this neighborhood and her message was loud and clear. She flapped her arms vigorously and the geese heeded the warning. In a flutter of feathers and scrambling feet, they scrabbled into the pond. Within moments they had taken flight and moved out of sight. So quickly were they all gone, leaving only ripples of disturbance which quickly ebbed as the pond settled back into stillness.

I watched the neighbor trudge back up to her house, wondering what she felt she had accomplished. Sometimes I really don’t understand people. Geese are easier.

I remained by the window for a while, hoping the geese might return. Of course, they didn’t, but soon enough the sun shone through low clouds and lit the remaining foliage, dazzling my eyes. Within moments clouds prevailed again.

But oh, how beautiful the moment was while it lasted.

Something Told the Wild Geese
by Rachel Field

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered,—‘Snow.’
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned,—‘Frost.’
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,—
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.