Susan Writes

The Whole Story

Posted on June 20, 2013 by susanrray

“Gran, remember when I jumped across the creek? You were scared!” my eight-year-old Grand said as we stood on the bank of the creek in my back yard.

“Yes, I remember. But I wasn’t exactly scared,” I said.

“You thought I’d fall!” David said. His next question cut me to the quick. “Did you ever write about it? That’s when I was 5.”

One cool, early spring morning David and I had played and worked outside. Kicked a ball. Blew bubbles. Picked up sticks. Threw rocks and leaves into the creek. The creek was about three feet wide and the foot-deep water flowed swiftly over rocks, carrying leaves out of sight. We stood on the 4’ bank and wondered why one side of the bank was high and the other just a few inches above water level.

Suddenly, my Grand bent his legs and sprang across the creek. Jumped high to low and landed on stable ground. His grinned and looked at me as if to gauge my reaction. “I didn’t expect you to jump!” I said. “Can you jump back?” He leaned forward and stretched his arms toward me. The bank where I stood morphed into a mountain. The creek became a river.

David pushed the legs of his jeans up to his knees, took off his shoes and socks, and stepped into the water. “That’s cold!” He jerked his foot out. “What if my clothes get wet?” Fine with me, but I didn’t have dry clothes for him. My Grand put on his socks and shoes and walked along the creek edge, presumably searching for a narrow place where he could jump. He swirled the water with a stick. And then he saw a log across the water. A 12” wide uprooted tree that connected banks about eight feet apart and four feet over the rocky-bottomed creek. “I’ll walk across!” he announced.

I expected to deal with wet clothes, but I didn’t want to call my Grand’s mother to report a broken arm. “How about you sit on the log – like riding a horse – and scoot?” I said in my sternest grandmother voice. David wiggled across the fallen tree and leaned sideways faking a fall, just to make me catch my breath. He laughed. I hugged him and he immediately turned away from me and crawled back across the log. “I’m going to walk next time. Take my picture!” I smiled, hoping to hide my concern. I snapped his picture as he stood in the middle of the log. It would be proof that the log really was wide enough to walk when I showed it to his mother in the emergency room.

“Come on, Gran! Walk with me!” David said. He pranced across the log a few more times while I stay planted to the ground, and when I said that it was time to get off the log, he didn’t argue. Later that morning as we he’d kicked a soccer ball around the yard, he’d asked, “Are you going to tell Momma what I did?”

So now, David, your momma knows the whole story. Not just that you scooted across a log over the creek.

Filed under: Grandchildren | Tagged: creek, Grandchildren | Leave a comment »

Grocery Shopping – It can be an Adventure

Posted on June 12, 2013 by susanrray

Walking shoes, with orthotic inserts, laced and tied. Car keys, purse, reusable shopping bags, coupons – all in hand. Grocery list made and on my clipboard. I was ready. Or as ready as I’d ever be for senior citizen discount shopping day at the grocery store.

Once, years ago – long before I was eligible for a senior discount – I ran into this same grocery store to quickly pick up a few items. I couldn’t get to the milk cooler because three grocery carts blocked them, and three gray-haired shoppers held tightly to their carts as they discussed their doctor appointments. A conversation that convinced me to never shop this store on senior shopping day. Until last week.

I really meant to shop on Tuesday, but somehow, Tuesday dwindled away. And although I shop at several different grocery stores, only one carries the cottage cheese that my Grands and I like. And I really hate to drive around town shopping here and there, especially on a rainy day. I’m a task-oriented person when it comes to shopping. Get it done and get out. So I gave myself a pep talk. ‘This is an adventure. Something you’ve never intentionally done. And everyone should do one new thing everyday.’

I eased my mini van into the store parking lot. A long white sedan backed toward me. I threw the gearshift into reverse, backed up, and avoided being hit. A gentleman waved as he pushed a loaded grocery cart just two feet in front of my van. The parking lot was as full as the one and only time I shopped on the day before Thanksgiving. ‘Forget the cottage cheese!’ my brain screamed. I inhaled. ‘But you’re here and it’s an adventure – or maybe a risk.’ I parked, grabbed my paraphernalia, pulled my rain jacket hood over my head, and sloshed to the store’s open doors.

“Well, you look ready for the day!” A store employee greeted me as he shuffled wet shopping carts into rows. “The buggies are wet, but there’s plenty of paper towels to dry them.” Oh, great.

Inside the store, I looked at the customers milling around the fresh produce. They reminded me when my parents, both retired, decided to spend January in Florida. After two weeks, they came home to Tennessee. “There weren’t any kids near our apartment. I never saw one school bus or one young family. Just people as old as me,” Mother said.

I fit right in with the people at the grocery store. I chatted with two friends I rarely see. I visited with a former student, who was assisting his mother with her shopping. When I realized my grocery cart was blocking a man’s view of birthday cards, I apologized and pulled my cart toward me. “Oh, no. It’s okay,” he said. “I’m just perusing. My wife is shopping.” I moved at the pace of fellow shoppers. And when I saw the 10% discount on my cash register tape, I gloated.

I like discounted prices – that’s why I bought six containers of cottage cheese. Enough to last until the next senior shopping day.

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Filed under: Everyday Life, Food | Tagged: food, groceries, grocery shopping, senior discount | 3 Comments »

Jump! It’s Fun!

Posted on June 6, 2013 by susanrray

My Grand stands at the edge of the swimming pool. Arms across her chest, fists clenched, head bowed. Her teacher coaxes her. Lou sits. Her legs dangle in the four-feet deep water and then my six-year-old Grand slithers into the pool. Her teacher smiles approvingly. The two boys in the swimming class splash water out of the pool when it’s their turns. Lou motions for the teacher to stand close – at arm’s length. She squats, turns around, puts her hands on the concrete edge of the pool, and slowly lowers her body into the water.

My Grand has been splashing in a swimming pool since before she was a babe in arms. But she wouldn’t put her face in the water until recently when she and I played in the YMCA pool and she realized she could touch bottom. That day, she purposely went underwater. “See how long I’m under,” Lou told me.

Taking a deep breath, she said that day, “I’m going to swim. You stand here.” Here was about her body length from the edge of the pool. She pulled her goggles over her eyes, stretched her arms over her head, stuck her face in the water, pushed her feet against the side of the pool, and kicked. Immediately, she wrapped her arms around my waist. “You need to back up!” she said. I did. She swam to me. Again and again and again. Following her directions, I backed up a little more each time, until she swam as long as she could hold her breath. No fancy swim strokes. Face down, body prone atop the water, arms moving, legs kicking. I congratulated her after every lap and Lou raised her fists in triumph.

She stood on the edge of the pool. “How about jumping into the water?” I asked. (For the upteenth time that we’ve played together in a pool.) She adjusted her bathing suit straps and wiggled her shoulders. “Are you ready?” my Grand said. With arms stretched outward, I stood in the water, ready to catch her. She scratched her chin and stepped backward from the pool’s edge. “I think I’ll just jump from the bottom step. Maybe next time I’ll jump in from the side. Okay?” Lou said.

During today’s swimming lesson, Lou had eagerly volunteered to be first when the teacher presented each challenge. Until it was time to jump into the water from the side of the pool. Both boys leap on their third turns, splashing water over their teacher’s head. Lou steps off the concrete into the water. A tentative jump. On her fourth turn, she flings her body in a daring jump and comes up smiling! The boys’ mothers and I applaud.

After the swimming lesson Lou says, “Gran, did you see me jump!” I wrap a towel around her wet, shivering body. “You know what? I was really scared. But then I jumped and it was fun!”

Ah, Lou, a life lesson. Carry it with you.

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Eating High on the Hog (as my mother would’ve said)

Posted on May 29, 2013 by susanrray

Last week I ate way above my raisin’. Squash Blossom Salad. Shrimp and Grits. Pulled Bourbon Chicken with Peach BBQ Sauce. I savored every morsel. While visiting Charleston, South Carolina, with my college girlfriends, we chose restaurants that served some mighty good food.

Those squash blossoms could’ve grown into yellow squash and then been sliced and dredged in cornmeal and fried in a black skillet. But the chef at Carolina’s Southern Bisto stuffed the blossom with goat cheese, dipped it in a thin sweet batter and then deep-fried it. Melt in my mouth good. Served over blanched green beans and garnished with chunks of yellow beets and pickled ramps. Yellow beets? They taste just like red beets. I wondered if those ramps were the same variety as the wild onions that grew in my childhood family’s pig lot. “To preserve all those flavors,” the waiter said, “the chef sprinkles a light lemon vinaigrette.” After sopping the last crumbles of goat cheese with crusty bread, I considered cancelling my entrée and ordering another salad. It was that scrumptious.

South Carolina Shrimp and Geechie Boy Grits, Sweet Peas, Woodfired Fennel, Ramps, Poached Celeste Egg. The description on the menu at The Husk was too enticing to pass up. Geechie Boy Grits taste just like the Quaker grits. And sweet peas? Green peas. Ramps, again? “Just the bulb of the onion. Quartered and sautéed to the peak of sweetness,” the waitress said. The same with fennel. What’s special about the poached Celeste Egg that was served floating on top of the grits? Celeste raises chickens on her farm, just like my friend Karen who sells me her brown country eggs. Beautiful presentation, that matched the description, and delicious.

During a cooking demonstration, a young chef prepared Pulled Bourbon Chicken with Peach BBQ Sauce, and she proved to me that chicken thighs aren’t just for frying. But then any meat soaked in bourbon before baking is bound to be tasty. “And then pull it apart to look like southern barbeque,” Michelle, the chef, said. The recipe for the sauce included ketchup, apple cider vinegar, garlic, spices, and more – all the ingredients in any good barbeque sauce – with the addition of a cup of peach nectar. “Gives it a zing! Your family will think you’ve created a special barbeque.”

So I came home inspired to try my hand at these dishes. If you hear of anyone whose squash blossoms mysteriously disappear this summer, I raided the garden. The next time I make Shrimp and Grits I plan to announce, “Tonight we’re having Shrimp and Quaker Grits, Green Peas, Sautéed Onions, Poached Karen Eggs.” And I have all the ingredients for chicken thighs and peach sauce – I even bought a bottle of Willie’s Hog Dust that is a Charleston’s man’s own creation of BBQ spice. But, I’d never pass off chicken and peace sauce as barbeque.

All these fancy dishes have to wait. Right now I’m craving beans and cornbread and a bowl of turnip greens.

Filed under: Food, Travel | Tagged: Eating High on the Hog, food, travel, vacation | Leave a comment »

We All Need Help Sometimes

Posted on May 23, 2013 by susanrray

If I have lipstick on my teeth, please tell me. If my sweater isn’t buttoned correctly or my tee shirt is wrong side out, I want to know. One day last week while shopping and running errands around town, I greeted and talked with more than a dozen people, and then a friend pointed her finger toward her own teeth and simply said, “Lipstick.” And often, I’ve quickly fastened just a couple of buttons on a cardigan sweater and walked out the door. Never realizing that I look lopsided.

On my daughter’s wedding day, the florist called early that morning, before I was fully awake, and said that he couldn’t get in the church to decorate. So I quickly jerked on the shorts and tee shirt I’d worn the day before. A quick trip to church, unlock the door and come home, I thought. But then, my cell phone rang as I turned the key in the church door, and the caterer asked that I come by her kitchen to discuss a last minute menu change. And on the way home, I remembered that we needed a bag of ice so I stopped at the grocery. When I arrived home, my son said, “Hey, Mom, do you know that your shirt is on backwards and wrong side out?” There, right below my chin, a white tag hung on my dark green tee shirt. Hopefully, that was my only fashion faux pas as mother of the bride.

I take comfort in knowing that I’m not the only one who pulls such stunts. A teacher friend once wore one black shoe and one brown shoe to school. No one in her family noticed before she left home, but the keen eye of a seven-year-old immediately spotted his teacher’s unusual attire. The shoes were similar style, but different heel heights, which annoyed my friend all day and explained why she’d stumbled as she walked down the hallway.

A minister preached his first sermon, a trial sermon, wearing a brand new suit. His delivery was perfect. He raised his arms in praise, and he talked with his hands. After shaking hands with every church member in attendance that Sunday morning, he took off his coat and saw the white manufacturer’s tag attached to his coat sleeve. He was hired, anyway.

Today’s more casual fashions have wiped out some possible clothing mishaps. Because we women often wear pants, we seldom hear the words, “You’re slipping,” code words for ‘Your slip is showing.’ But then ‘slipping’ probably doesn’t matter, because the undergarments my mother taught me shouldn’t show are now part of an outfit. But I do have to remember to zip up my pants.

Lipstick on teeth. Tee shirts backwards and wrong side out. Unmatched shoes. Tags dangling from clothes. All mishaps. I like the advice that I first heard from Mother. If someone can fix something, tell her. I truly don’t intend to have red polka-dotted teeth. Just tell me, please.

Filed under: Clothes, Everyday Life | Tagged: clothing mishaps, lipstick | 1 Comment »

Sweet Strawberry

Posted on May 15, 2013 by susanrray

Our mission is to pick strawberries. Daughter wants two or three gallons. A couple of gallons for me. We have lots of help. Her children, my Grands, are experienced berry pickers. We travel across the county line into White County to our favorite strawberry patch, and we’ll know we’re there when we see the little red barn – actually a shed.

A big shaggy dog lies in front of the closed shed door, and a hand-written, cardboard sign announces, “CLOSED.” White buckets are stacked on a table. “Let me check this out. Maybe we can pick anyway,” Daughter says as she steps out of the van. Penciled directions on notebook paper reads ‘Help yourself to picking. A bucket holds a gallon. $9 a gallon. Leave your money in the cookie jar.’

My two-year-old Grand sits, like an overseer, in her stroller amid the rows of strawberry plants while Daughter picks berries close to her. Every plant boasts berries—a few are red. Many more are small and green. “Come this way, Gran,” 8 year-old David tells me. “There’s a lot here!” He swings a bucket, holding a few red berries, as he tromps past. Fifteen minutes later, his bucket is almost full.

Lou, age six, frolics in the wide space between two rows of plants. “There’s strawberries everywhere!” she says. She checks out each of them, some she picks and puts in her bucket. “Look at these beautiful flowers. Are they weeds?” She breaks a stem with miniature daisy-like blossoms. Four-year old Ruth stays close to her mother and chooses the reddest berries to fill her bucket. When her little sister squirms, Ruth rushes to her. “Here, Elaine, do you want a strawberry?” Ruth blows on the berry before giving it to her sister. Elaine’s first bite sends red juice down both her arms. Using a stick, Ruth draws lines and circles in the damp dirt beside her little sister’s stroller.

With one bucket full of berries and another half full, I call for David, who’s starring at a large strawberry he’s clutching, to help me. “Not right now. I’m waiting for him to take a bite,” he says. A bite? Who? “There’s a tiny little ant on this berry. Do ants eat strawberries?” Ruth left her post beside her little sister. “Look, Gran,” she calls to me. “I found three.” Assuming that she’s holding three strawberries, I hold my bucket toward her. “Three ladybugs!” she announces and cradles them in her cupped hands. A bucket of berries is spilled and picked up. A few soft, mushy ones are thrown. Shoes stick in the mud.

Daughter gathers all the troops and suggests if everyone finds just ten more bright red berries, we’ll be finished. So in less than an hour, after putting money in the cookie jar, we leave the strawberry patch with five gallons of berries.

Mission accomplished. And so much more. Experiences and lessons. About trust and honesty and sharing and working together. Some weeds have pretty flowers. Ants eat almost everything. Ladybugs hide under leaves. All that makes the strawberries on my Cheerios taste even sweeter.

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Filed under: Food, Grandchildren | Tagged: food, Grandchildren, strawberries | 2 Comments »

Mother’s Day Picnic

Posted on May 9, 2013 by susanrray

“Oh, make it easy,” I told my family. “You know I like Kentucky Fried and a picnic.” My family, like most families, wanted to get me out of the kitchen on Mother’s Day.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out to eat somewhere?” Husband asked. I assured him that a picnic with just him and our children was my choice. “So where do you want to go?”

“Surprise me!” I said.

Our children, ages 9 and 11, teased me later that Saturday afternoon. “You won’t believe where we’re having a picnic. Guess. Like 20 questions.” Have we ever picnicked there? No. Have we even been there? Not really. Is this a place you think I want to go? Yes! Questions and answers all evening long.

Sunday morning, on the way to church, Daughter said, “Guess some more, Mom. You’ll never figure it out.” Will we have to walk a long way? No. Should I wear my hiking boots? Husband and Son raised their eyebrows and glanced toward each other. Yes. Finally, I refused to ask another question. It was time for clues. A place I really liked. I’d have to climb. There wasn’t a picnic table. There were lots of trees. There weren’t any bathrooms. We wouldn’t have to drive far.

On the way home from church, we picked up fried chicken – crispy, my favorite – and I got to choose the side dishes. At home, we changed from church clothes into shorts and tee shirts, and I put on my hiking boots. We gathered drinks, a roll of paper towels, a couple of folding chairs, and a quilt. “On the way,” Husband said, “I need to stop at the house to check on something.” ‘The house’ was the one we were building. The first level was framed, and the carpenters had just started on the second level.

Husband opened the back of our van and grabbed something. “I’ll be right back. You don’t need to get out,” he told me. Both our children followed him. A few minutes later, Husband motioned for me. “Come here. I want to show you something. The kids are upstairs where their rooms will be.”

I questioned if climbing the ladder to the second level was safe. Had he let the kids climb up? I clutched each rung as I carefully placed my big boots on the narrow ladder steps. The blue sky, with a few puffy cumulus clouds, opened wide. “Is there a floor up there?” I asked. Husband encouraged me to keep going. Just as my head reached sight of the second level, my son and daughter jumped up from the quilt they had been lying on. They stood tall; arms stretched high above their heads. “Happy Mother’s Day!” they shouted.

It was the perfect place for a picnic. A plywood subfloor, with no walls or roof. The only time I’ve ever dined among a maple tree’s high branches and looked down on the white blossoms of dogwood tree. Our own private dining room, and I didn’t cook.

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Filed under: Family, Food, Nature | Tagged: Mother's Day | Leave a comment »

From Sweatshirts to Tee Shirts

Posted on May 2, 2013 by susanrray

Good-bye, fleece pants and sweatshirts. Hello, shorts and tee shirts. It’s that time. Time to fill dresser drawers with summer clothes. So I asked Daughter in a text, “Can I help with changing out clothes?” She immediately replied, “Sure!”

Stacks of pass-‘em-down summer clothes, sorted by sizes, were piled on the girls’ bedroom floor. My three granddaughters, ages 6, 4, and almost 2, jumped over the stacks. “Let me have Elaine,” I said. I claimed a corner and sat on a bed where I hoped to keep my constant-moving young Grand corralled.

“These are the size 2’s, but some are big and some are little. Just slip them on her and you can tell,” Daughter told me. Elaine held her arms high over her head and lifted her chin as I took off her long sleeve shirt. She willingly pushed her hand through a white, short-sleeve tee shirt with a pink flower on the front. “Perfect!” I said and stripped it off, over her head.

While I put that shirt in the ‘keep pile’ and reached for another, my Grand toddled away and grabbed a pencil in one hand and a Lego piece in the other. She’s always liked to hold things, and I knew she’d be happier clutching something, but there was no way that I was willing to navigate a pencil through shirt sleeves. Using my greatest negotiating ability, I convinced Elaine to swap her long pencil for a pencil eraser. I maneuvered her closed fists through the next shirt and the next and the next. One was too short. One too tight. One was just right. It was time for me to eyeball ‘just right.’ I stood Elaine on the floor between my knees and laid shirts across her shoulders and guessed ‘just right.’ “Try some of these size 3’s and here’s some shorts,” Daughter said.

“Okay, Elaine, let’s try on shorts,” I said. I put my hands under her arms to lift her onto my lap. She slithered to the floor. How does a kid know how to do that? She stretched her arms, flat against her ears, straight above her head and slid. She lay limp. In a ball.

I sang a silly made-up song, “Let’s try on some shorts. Let’s try on some shorts. Elaine, Elaine. Try on shorts.” My Grand responded with a smile. She only had to try on two pairs for me to determine which of the others would stay up and were the right length. I continued to sing silly songs, and I bounced her on my knees.

“Here’s a couple of dresses to try,” Daughter said. By now, Elaine wanted to escape. She ran from our try-on corner to a baby doll bed. I coaxed her back and quickly pulled a dress down over her head as she squirmed and wiggled. It fit. I lifted the dress off and Elaine again slithered to the floor. Dressed only in her diaper, my Grand lay on her tummy. Thumb in mouth.

I knew just how she felt.

Filed under: Clothes, Grandchildren | Tagged: clothes, Grandchildren, thumb in mouth, toddler | Leave a comment »

A Love Story

Posted on April 25, 2013 by susanrray

They were 19 and in love and wanted to marry. Doris planned to tell her dad while she cut his hair, but the scissors slipped and nipped his ear. It bled. She couldn’t say, “Hugh and I are getting married!” while her father wiped blood off his neck.

The year was 1943. A time when couples were often married by an elected official. A few days later, Doris told her father and mother about her wedding plans. They gave their blessings, and her sister made her a new dress.

Doris and Hugh had known each other all their lives and started dating during their last year of high school. She worked in a local restaurant and Hugh stopped by every day to see her. After high school graduation, she rode the bus to Nashville with a cousin to be trained for a factory job. A job left vacant by men who were fighting a war. After three days of training, Doris said, “I’m going home. I want to be where Hugh is.”

They dated for fifteen months and on March 13, 1943, Doris and Hugh travelled from their homes in Byrdstown, Tennessee, to Rossville, Georgia where Judge A. L. Ellis performed their wedding ceremony in his office. Doris and Hugh lived with his parents for six weeks – long enough for him to learn that he was denied enlistment in the Armed Forces because he had a perforated eardrum.

Hugh found work in Akron, Ohio, at the Goodyear Rubber Plant and lived with an uncle until he found housing for himself and his bride. As she rode the bus from Tennessee to Ohio she imagined their new home. A white cottage with a white picket fence. Hugh took her, by city bus, to their first home – a one bedroom, small upstairs apartment. It didn’t matter. Doris was happy to keep house and cook for her husband.

For the next seventy years, Aunt Doris kept house and cooked for Uncle Hugh. They lived in Ohio for sixteen years and then bought a farm back home, in Tennessee, where they moved with their only child, a son, fifteen years old. Hugh became a dairy farmer, and she worked in retail businesses. And she was well known for her chocolate pies and dried apple fried pies.

Along the way, family and friends and laughter filled their home. They hosted hamburger cookouts, card parties, Christmas dinners, spaghetti suppers, church meetings. Their family grew. Two grandsons, three great-grandchildren. All loved to visit their Pa and Granny’s house – a home filled with acceptance and love and hugs.

When they reached retirement age, life barely slowed down. He hit the golf course and neither missed a trip. Together they followed their favorite sports teams and politicians. And they kissed good-bye when either left the house – even for a few hours.

Last month, Aunt Doris and Uncle Hugh were honored at a anniversary reception. Two weeks later, Uncle Hugh slid onto the floor and his heart stopped. Two weeks after that, Aunt Doris suffered a major stroke and passed away. Both at home. Both living their normal daily lives just hours before.

One of their grandsons wrote the following: If you are going to write the Great American Love Story from beginning to end, this is how it ends. A celebration of their 70th wedding anniversary with most of their dear friends, Pa heads out to get the permanent house ready, and then Granny comes home.

They were 89 and in love.

Filed under: Anniversary, Family | Tagged: aunt, Love, uncle | 1 Comment »

A Call for Help

Posted on April 18, 2013 by susanrray

When I stepped out of my car in the garage one unusually warm winter day, I heard a chirp. Another bird has flown into the garage and doesn’t know how to get out, I thought. A second chirp, high pitched and pitiful. Almost like a shrill groan. I hoped the trapped bird would fly out. Several pathetic chirps. Distress calls. Following the sound, I walked toward the open garage door. “Chirp, chirp.”

Beside my feet was an insect catching pad. A non-poisonous, glue pad that was put there to do away with spiders. A small wren lay stuck on that sticky paper that’s as thick as poster board. His feet completely caught and one wing spread wide as if he’d tried to fly, but instead, his wing stuck on the glue pad.

I can only imagine this little bird’s excitement when he spotted a buffet of spiders spread for his mid-day meal. Dead spiders touched his tiny toes, more slender than a toothpick. No doubt he’d hopped right onto the white serving platter, and then he couldn’t move.

I have no qualms that spiders crawl onto a sticky pad and eventually die. But I couldn’t walk away from Mr. Wren. He tried to flap his stuck wing and chirped loudly as if to say, “Get me off of this!”

I pulled on my outside work gloves and lifted the glue pad and wren onto the garage workbench. Using my most reassuring voice, I attempted to calm my patient. He wiggled and pulled, but all four toes, on both feet, were spread apart and stuck. I momentarily considered ending this bird’s life. How could I possible separate his tiny toes from the sticky pad? What if I cut the paper around his feet and he went through life wearing a pair of white paper snowshoes? He lay still, silent. Eyes looking at me. I had to try.

Working carefully with a sharp scissor blade (a knife would’ve been better, but there wasn’t one close), I pried the least stuck foot loose, and held it and his body, in one hand while cutting away the excess sticky paper. Mr. Wren didn’t move. He couldn’t have been a better patient. I freed his wing, every single feather. To convince myself I whispered, “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.” I cut around the bird’s second foot, hoping he’d try to hop on a dime-size paper shoe. Mr. Wren didn’t move. I finally cut away most of the paper, and he wiggled. When I set him on the outside driveway, he shook as if shaking off a bad experience. He tentatively flapped his wings and flew close to the ground to a shrub where he perched for a few seconds. And then he flew the way, into the woods. Gone. And I trashed all the insect catching pads that were on the garage floor.

This week the pest control man came to my house. He walked into the garage, pulled a glue pad out of his back pocket, and said. “I guess you want some more of these to take care of spiders and bugs, don’t you?”

He seemed surprised when I said, “No.” I didn’t have time to tell the story of Mr. Wren. Or that I look carefully at every wren that comes to my birdfeeder, but so far I haven’t seen one wearing one white paper sandal.

Filed under: Nature | Tagged: wren sticky pest pad | 2 Comments »

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