Northern Rhythms Revisited

Photo by Marjorie Garrigues McCoy
(c) August 2014

I arose quietly at 5 AM and felt my way out of the dark and crowded bedroom, maneuvering past the prone, snoring hulk of an eighty pound German Shepherd who was pressed protectively against the lower bed frame. I toed my way by discarded dress pumps and my grandmother's antique oak side chair pushed out from the dressing table.

The nightlight in the hall bathroom served as my soft beacon to the stairs and I slid my hand down the familiar pressed paneling to steady myself as I descended. I made a left at the bottom of the steps and crossed the short expanse of living room to the large picture window. I scanned the front lawn and woods beyond the muted glow of the yard light in our driveway, hoping I would see what I searched for each morning....a white-tailed deer. There were none this day and I moved to the kitchen for my morning mocha, pausing to peer out each window as I passed, still hoping a curious and hungry deer might drift in.

Coffee preceded shower, then breakfast, bag-packing, and hurried good-byes came close behind as we piled out of the house to work and school, yet the hope of tomorrow's sighting always lingered. Unashamedly awed by nature, I set my inner clock by its seasonal rhythms.

Photo by Marjorie Garrigues McCoy
(c) November 2014

Scraggly tan and white hares, and gaunt yearling deer would predictably wander into my iced-over yard in late winter, hoping to find something to tide them over until spring thaw and the arrival of new blossoms. I never disappointed them as the self-appointed chef and Mother Nature persona to the local wildlife. Chipmunks, raccoons, squirrels all moved in as if on a preset schedule, partaking of the feast of cracked corn, oiled black sunflower seeds, and homemade suet blocks. Occasionally the diners were joined by the little-loved skunk and before long, he was dining alone.

Enter spring. A blur of yellow flashed by the picture window, breaking my after-work reverie. Nodding in affirmation, I silently welcomed back the "advance man" for the long-anticipated goldfinch freeloaders who returned to my yard each March. Within days, black and yellow would dance regularly against the slowly thickening mountain ash and birches, and were joined by swashes of red, white, blue, and grey. Rose-breasted grosbeaks, bluebirds, cardinals, orioles, and purple finches willingly performed nature's choreography for my pleasure.

Photo by Marjorie Garrigues McCoy
(c) February 2015

In the evening hours, pesky bandits, belly-rounded awaiting offspring, challenged all intruders, and hung from tree limbs to rob the bird feeders and fend off any grounded opposition. I would stand, as always, in the darkened window, grumbling about porcine habits, inconvenience, and broken feeders, yet inwardly smiling at the privilege of serving these creatures. In the morning, the snub-nosed pliers and wire came out, and the feeders were repaired, refilled.

The fullness of summer emerged with its white hot days and humid nights, so the visitors came later, drinking from puddles left by sprinklers and enjoying pruned grass dampened by the evening dew. I changed the buffet to include oranges and berries with an occasional sprinkle of commercial meal worms.These creatures didn't need my handouts as nature itself was providing
adequate fare, but I felt certain they enjoyed the company as I did. Their continued presence insured their feeding throughout the seasons. I secretly promised to not let them down.

Weary, I sank down into the over-stuffed chair after arriving back home, running my hands along the worn padded arms. Reflecting on the obstacles inherent where I lived, I wondered then as now why I was not deterred by the endless need to plan carefully and yet remain flexible. Nothing was ever so urgent it couldn't be rescheduled and to that end, my family often sacrificed lower prices, variety, and availability. In my estimation, however, it was an even trade for what we received in return. Cheaper gas prices or the choice of three bookstores didn't trump the unabashed priceless beauty of nature.

During those two decades I lived in northern Michigan, I was not held captive by tandem diesels and the frenzied rush of cars moving to and from destinations too important to wait. My sky was clear of multi-storied buildings, circling air traffic, and the haze of pollution. Instead, throughout the seasons, I was part of the migration of Canadian geese, and the relentless birth-to-death cycle of species that boldly drew closer to humans more than any other place I have lived. Yearly, that first night we heard the measured thrum of lovesick toads venturing to the edge of swamps in search of companionship we didn't complain. We all sat in our darkened bedrooms and smiled, feeling all was right with the world - our world.

I pushed myself up and out of the chair, then climbed the steps to the second floor. As the light faded and I prepared to bring the day full circle, the night owl sent out his call. I crawled into bed, anxious for morning so that, once again, this silent voyeur could rise and witness the rhythms renewed.

I now live in Northwest Ohio and while I am close to eighteen library branches, innumerable box stores, upscale malls, airports, and cloverleaf-twisted expressways, my feeders are still out and filled, and I stop and stare when the Canadian geese fly in formation overhead on their way to a local Metropark. And when I really need a country fix, I turn my car away from the lights and busyness, and drive far enough to find it. Every time, anywhere, any season, it is a homecoming.