redwing blackbirds

I've been had.  Looked out my window this morning to see my redwing blackbird sitting there with a pile of snow on his head.  Meanwhile, the Gang of Eight, (my resident blue jays) are just about falling out of the tree, laughing and jumping and pointing to the bedraggled 'harbinger of spring'.  "I cannot BELIEVE you fell for it" they squawked.They hopped around on the deck chair I had placed  on the deck in warm sunshine two days ago.  They pretended to ski down its back, they ice skated on the seat and in a final burst of hilarity, pooped on the picnic table. 

I put on my yaktrax and trudged to the woodpile, noting the sky filled with ducks swirling back and forth.    I have never seen so many.    Easily 60 in a fast count.   Are they coming or going?

redwing blackbirds

The redwing blackbirds are here!!  Let others ooh and aah over their snowdrops, let southerners tell me about their daffodils.  There is nothing to make our hearts soar more than the blackbirds' return to the marsh.  For a few days now the sky has been full of returning ducks but our landscape is still brown and beige with bits of ice clinging to northern slopes.  The ground here at Blue Skye is still hard as a rock and while our neighbours might have green bits sprouting up here and there, our first real sign of spring is the flash of red epaulets across the wetland and then the royal arrival, swooping in to the feeder just off the deck, scattering chickadees, sparrows, bluejays and other winter residents,  to take their rightful place as returning, reigning royalty.  Their whistle alone reassures us that we have survived another Maine winter and that softer times are just around the corner.  Peter arrived in the middle of breakfast service to tell me the news and to announce that he was going to 'fire up the tractor' and begin to collect debris around the grounds...so  many branches brought down by ice, chopped sumac that we didn't have time to stack before the first snow.  I'll pack up my yaktrax and finally retire my heavy boots, held together for the last few months by duct tape.  The chess board which has been on the kitchen table all winter might be put away because one gorgeous blackbird has told us that spring is here and that our confinement is at last over.

computer french

I found a scrap of paper in my desk on which I had jotted down a bit of French - something I'd come across in a novel and had meant to look up.  So, I thought to myself, I'll be modern, rather than go through countless french dictionaries in an attempt at a translation, I'll go on line and look it up.  I typed in 'french to english translations' and up popped numerous possibilities.  I chose one and typed, "En fin de compte - ca revient au meme - De s'enivrer solitairement ou de conduire les peuples."  The translation was immediate. 
"In the end - ca is the same- to get drunk paddy wagon or di lead the peoples". Oh really? I tried again.  I got "When all is said and done - ca di comes back to the meme - to become intoxicated solitairement or drive the people."  I have to say that to become 'intoxicated solitairement ' had more of an Iris Murdoch ring to it than 'get drunk paddywagon' but if it's all the meme to you, I'll look it up in a book, because en fin de compte, I am not modern.

Leap Year

I find leap year kind of creepy.  But that's another story.  I will simply tell you this:  we awoke to our 6am alarm this morning (February 29th) and lay there listening to the wrong radio program.  It was the BBC World Service with the wonderfully bad tempered and witty Dan Damon who usually is off the air by 6.  Then we noticed it was dark.  Very dark.  My husband reached for his flashlight, an enormous and heavy thing that would do nicely to bash an intruder after first blinding him with its laser like beam, and shone it at the radio.  The little electronic numbers (turned to low because their "glow" lights up our bedroom like Wembley stadium) said 6:04.  Now.  We didn't change the clock.  We know we didn't because WE DON'T KNOW HOW.  It has been set at 6am since we bought it ten years ago.  I confess to driving all summer on standard time because I can't set the clock in my car.  But I digress.  The fact it is, it was 5am.  The darkness told us that and Dan Damon was talking. But our clock said 6.  Peter says we are now in a parallel universe.  Suits me. 

An idea for Governor LePage

Today's Groupon offer is for a 'revolutionary UV self-sanitizing toothbrush for just  $28.'   I 'm glad now that I didn't go for the 2 Justin Bieber singing toothbrushes offered last week.  The sanitary or otherwise condition of my toothbrush is something I confess to giving less than full attention to heretofore.  But now I can't look at the thing without imagining all manner of unspeakable threats to my wellbeing.  I'm going to write to the governor. He's very concerned that poor sick people are costing the state too much money (isn't it annoying how unwell poor people tend to be?) and is proposing cuts to Medicaid.   If he took toothbrushes away from poor people, maybe they wouldn't get so sick in the first place.  Meanwhile, I'm going to boil mine. Twenty eight bucks? You must be kidding.

Fat Tuesday

I'm waiting for my guests to come to the table.  Tired of waiting and unable to find the new bag of brown sugar which I KNOW I bought last week, I've been killing a couple of birds with one stone with some satisfying payback thrown in, by bashing an old bag of brown sugar turned to rock with an iron meat cleaver.   Each bash of the cleaver is sweet revenge for the number of smoke alarm bleeps which emanated from their room through the night and will, I'm thinking, rouse them from their beds in short order.  I predict their arrival in the dining room any minute.  I'm confident that the sticky french toast will make things right. 
Blue Skye French Toast:  dip slabs of wholemeal bread into usual f.t. mixture.  As first side browns in melted butter (an iron skillet works best) spoon brown sugar and a bit of cinnamon on top.  Flip and repeat.  Top with finely chopped walnuts.  As this is Fat Tuesday, eat and enjoy.  We can diet through Lent together.

Jack Russell training tips

For those of you who live outside the US, it is a mystifying fact of American life that we are offered over 150 television stations with close to nothing of interest on any of them.  We have shows called, "Improve your Bust", "Say the Rosary with Sister Angelica", "Foot Health", and, my personal favourite, "Turkey Shoot".  We clicked on "Turkey Shoot" once when we first came here.  We'd just settled with a pizza and a glass of wine, turned on the telly and saw this big old turkey waddling through a forest, clucking and humming a happy turkey tune when suddenly BLAM he was SHOT. Blown up.  Exploded.   "Did you see that?" I shouted at my husband who was staring at the screen goggle eyed , mozzerella dripping onto his shoes.  SOMEBODY SHOT THAT TURKEY.What kind of a nature show is that?"

We therefore depend upon Netflix (order up dvds on your computer and they are delivered in the order you request to your postbox) for our winter viewing pleasures. I’ve just yaktraked up drive and across the road to reach our postbox  to post off 2 episodes of MI5, a British tv show to which we have lately become addicted . It concerns a team of 5 good looking  people who we are meant to believe work for the British Secret Service and who each week save the oblivious population from unspeakable perils using fabulous high tech equipment.  Bearing in mind that to us an ipod is high tech and the only perils we face involve ordering from the local Chinese Takeaway, we are enthralled.  Also, they keep knocking off lead characters which adds a certain exciting edge to the episodes.  "What?" I shriek.  "They've shot Adam?" And the screen went blank. “ SURELY they wouldn’t kill Adam.  Would they?  He’s the star!!!”   "Tell that to the turkey" said my husband.