July 10, 2008

Naughty and nice Angelkeep visitors

When the yard work is complete the time is ripe for a tall glass of iced tea—sugarless—with at least a full tray of ice for the chilling. The taking of the tea, as rewarding but not as spiritually uplifting as communion, happens on the official Angelkeep patio swing. God’s granted another perfect day.

Thin high cloud cover gives the sky a whitewashed tint of blue. Yet the sunshine barges through causing shadows to now turn and begin their summer afternoon growth toward the east. The new cut grass about Angelpond raises fragrance in the unseen vapor rising off the ground. Yesterday’s rain soaked it good.

Hoosiers are known for new mown hay inspiration. Fresh cut grass is similar. It’s about one rung down on the ladder of summer bliss.

The green bird feeder is again amiss. Constructed from a cylinder of mesh, it has a green bottom plate connected to a duplicate for a lid. The connecting rod goes up through the oil sunflower seeds captured inside the mesh.

Something has been repeatedly (daily) attacking the feeder causing the connecting shaft to lean. This causes the lid to sit ajar like a six-year-old lad with his baseball cap askew.

Redwings, finches, cardinals, and jays can’t do that. It surely must be a squirrel taking early breakfast long before patio humans arrive. Squirrels have been seen many a time climbing the shepherd’s hook. The skip to the feeder is child’s play, like a trapeze artist at the circus.

The greedy brown fuzzy thieves gorge and fill their cheeks prior to a leap to the ground. They take their time walking back to the woods figuring “they” own the place.

Even squirrel bandits, black, gray or brown, add to the joy of Angelkeep. It’s a place that is often silent as a stone. Except for the songs of birds. They ripple sounds overhead making an audio crown over such a quiet haven.

Indianapolis writer, Myrtie Barker, a lady with respectable opinions, felt all were blessed who had a haven “miles from nowhere on a path traversed only by deer.” That’s almost Angelkeep. “A kind of Limberlost cabin.” (Myrtie lived when Limberlost swamp yet existed in Indiana.) Almost Angelkeep. “Perhaps the only sound would be the scamper of squirrels in the trees.” Not quite Angelkeep, “Here comes another black bushy tail burglar.”

Human presence in the swing of the patio changes “Squirrelly Thief’s” mind on this afternoon’s heist.

Instead, a bird with a red bib stops on the green (now repaired) feeder for a meal. It’s a new bird to Angelkeep. Is it new or am I just becoming more aware?

The new bird is black and white with just a bit being red. It’s like a new twist on the old riddle “What’s black and white and read all over?”

It’s also a new twist on a bird’s red location. Red headed woodpeckers are similar but with the red being on the head, not the throat. That red is cadmium red—quite different, as you know.

This bird’s red is purer, deeper like a geranium’s red color. It’s like a downy or a hairy. But again there is the displaced red splotch. Downy and hairy woodpeckers wear red like a cap, not a bib.

So who is this distinguished new visitor discovered on the green feeder? A quick fan through the pages of an Audubon field guide identifies this Angelkeep dining rookie.

It’s a rose-breasted grosbeak. Aptly named with its oversize facial protrusion. It reminds me of the Daugherty nose, a trait handed down through generations of spud lovin’ Irishmen.

Actually the newcomer is not gross at all. It’s quite beautiful. It stays and has its fill. Hopefully it will return often to Angelkeep. The guide says it’s seen most frequently in early May.

It’s a farmer’s helper. It loves to eat potato beetles. Ah-haa! A potato link. That might explain the gross beak on the grosbeak. Perhaps Irish heritage?

O’Angelkeep can’t provide a tatty field for a potato beetle feast. But we will provide unlimited sunflower seed. So come on back, Mr. Grosbeak, and bring along Ma. There’s aplenty.

Enough, provided that squirrel gang of marauders ceases their every morning raids.

The fine afternoon peaks into evening. Birds and squirrels rest in the shade. All is quiet. Even the new mown grass is silent, whispering only its scent.

“I breathe an atmosphere of sweetness, like a confectioner’s shopboy.” George Bernard Shaw. Of Irish heritage. 1856—1950.

Mr. Daugherty is a Wells County resident who, along with his wife Gwen, enjoy their back yard and have named it “Angelkeep.”

by ALAN DAUGHERTY

Talk about this story in our forums!