We're Not Perfect: We Have Frogs in Our Window Wells

We're not perfect; we have frogs in our window wells. They have been accumulating for days. I can see them sometimes when I go down to visit my daughter in her room. Between sentences, the pale side of a frog's underbelly will appear at the edge of the egress window, a white silhouette giving all in a desperate attempt to scale the insurmountable for the hope of freedom.

I can identify with him. Trying to locate my daughter in her room on this side of the window pane can feel the same way.  Unmade bed, clothes strewn about, books -- large and small -- everywhere, gum wrappers, papers scattered, and in a sordid jumble of covers, my daughter's face shining in the flickering light of a computer screen. Together the scene seems like an entirely insurmountable obstacle to the hope of an uncluttered home (to say nothing of felicitous mother/college-age daughter relations). I feel the same urge to throw myself at the window to try to get out.

Until I demand, "You NEED to clean up your room!" It comes forcefully (if not as gracefully as the lurching frog) out of my mouth.

Failing to sense my urgency (just as the tireless efforts of the frogs have been long ignored), "I know, Mom," is all she says.

"How can you live like this?" I ask hoping to appeal to her sense of decency.

"I need to get this homework done," she explains as the changing computer screen alters the lighting on her face but not her expression.

"But your room smells," I reply.

"I know, Mom. It's the frogs," was her unimpassioned response.

I want to have the idealistic fervor (and I once would have) to shout out, "If you don't care about your room, what about caring about them? They are dying out there! At least your room would smell better." But presently lacking energy to fight this perennial battle, I turn around, quietly shut the door, and walk impassively upstairs, comforting myself by picking up crumpled bits of paper while engaging in wishful thinking.

Later, over thirty frogs rescued from one window well thanks to my son.
 One small step further along the road to perfection.

Football, Pining and the Present

Light fluctuates on blades of grass before me while leaves behind me bob in the wind, catching sunlight and then missing it. I've been called to be a spectator, lawn chairs set out before me, when all I really want to do is put pen to paper. But sun's warmth still inhabits the yard and eager faces plan whispered strategies, ball in hand.

I settle in feeling a little chilly on the sidelines in the shade. "Tith onya wap ," my dirt-speckled toddler says. It takes me a minute to decode.

"Oh, you want to sit on my lap," it was more a declaration on her part than a request. I guess my lap is doing nothing better so up she comes. My thoughts are not with the present, instead I am pining for the letter keyboard: thoughts, ideas, contemplations all clamor inside for expression. I turn toward the stroller now rolled alongside me, distracting me from my inner musings. Brown eyes and an instant toothless smile fill with recognition at the site of me. I am struck. Here is life. Here is hope. Here is the present in glorious personhood staring at me through baby's eyes. So worth my time...I am drawn into the moment. The small guilt of wishing for other things assuaged as I happily choose what is.

Then the game begins. Unfolding before me is another marvelous sight. Three of my sons and a daughter playing football with their dad.

Yard Football (taken with my phone)

I am immersed in the game: the huddles, the plays, the energy. It seems like a long time since the mingled ages in our family played a sport on the lawn.

The baby now takes the place on my lap abandoned several times over the course of a few minutes by my toddler who, after being ensconced in the stroller, was given Long Face, a kitten, to cuddle. Now Long Face is being used as a prop to pester my left ear and arm.

Suddenly my name is ringing out, I am being called into the game. Not eager to participate, I hesitate. But insistence on their part is greater than the lackadaisical resistance on mine, and so I join the game, taking the place of Daddy.

A little disoriented on the first play, I quickly gain my bearings in the game. Plays come and go. I run. I catch the ball. I stop the other side. My daughter on the opposite team expresses surprise over Mom as competitor. My heart is beating and I feel alive as the wind cools me and I breath it in. I've forgotten until this moment how much I enjoyed playing the game. Gratitude is released in my heart like air exhaled and along with it pining is replaced by the glorious present.

Walk Around Home

Sky blue horizons are crisp and clear. The hazy, warm air of August was replaced yesterday with air cool and dry. The sun sets toward the west looking as near as an apple on a tree, like it could be plucked off and held in hand. Its golden rays sparkle in my daughter's hair and in the weeds along the roadside.

In the distance, a trinity of my kids bounce up and down trying to mount an aging hay bail. Their noise is almost silent. Coming from the north a motor grinds from the lawnmower. But near me the crickets and sounds of the gravel cracking under wagon wheel and foot take center stage.

In this moment, I am at home; each breath, each sight, each sound resonates the feeling.

Our Time with Owls: Ended

I was nervous about taking on baby owls. Living on a farm, I have seen so often the tender balance of life and death, especially with very young animals. It is always heartbreaking to see the most vulnerable little creatures begin to fade away. What's worse is the feeling of being powerless to do anything about it.

That's how I felt about Oscar. On the day he arrived, one of his feet spread out farther than the other, unnaturally so. My friend pointed it out to me when she introduced us to him. As the days went on, I noticed that the foot was getting worse. It was discolored and and the nails on the claws were beginning to curl inward. I had seen it happen before on the farm dozens of times. The first small signs that Oscar was probably not going to make it.

Each time one of the kids and I took turns feeding him it was more and more obvious that the efforts we were putting forth to keep Oscar alive were in vain, and this morning Oscar died. With that sad news came the news that Eddie too was beginning to show signs of curling, discolored feet. Normally very energetic and eager for a meal, Eddie just laid there barely making the effort to open his mouth.

Just Eddie

I feel sad to think that the two thriving little owls we received have declined so rapidly in the five days we have had them. Also, disappointing is the thought that the birds incubating will probably not be hopping, cracking, and emerging fresh and soggy from their shells. The four eggs sitting in the incubator haven't changed at all except for one small crack that we noticed three days ago, but since then nothing.

Egg with cracking that started and then stopped.

Rescuing animals has its rewards and its regrets. My friend will be by tonight to collect her puppy (who is doing very well) and the less than hopeful remains of what is left of our time with owls.

Our Time with Owls: Feeding

When we received the owls, I figured the biggest hurdle would be to keep them alive. What do you feed baby owls?

Fortunately, my friend had that all figured out. She had asked a mutual friend, who has easier access to the Internet than she does, to do a little online research on feeding baby owls. It was he who said that raw beef was a suitable choice for baby owls.

Having an abundance of raw buffalo heart (because her family will eat most of the other cuts of buffalo from their farm, but not the heart), my friend decided this would be a readily available alternative to beef.

So that’s what the little red-skinned birds with white tufts of fluff are eating. Cut into tiny squares and offered at the end of a toothpick, the sustenance is eagerly consumed by the screeching critters.

What I find amazing is how a baby owl’s beak is designed, from birth, with a descending slope and a sharp tipped end that almost has a clawing affect. Once the meat is lodged in the beak properly (and sometimes it takes them a few tries) the owl’s pointed tongue swoops down the beak and manipulates the morsel down its skinny throat which is so narrow and almost translucent that you can see the food going down.

Here’s a video so you can take a peek at feeding time:

Disclaimer: I am only following instructions given to me by the owner of the owls. I am not a bird expert nor do I have expertise in caring for birds.