61 and Counting
Sixty-One and Counting
Our little corner of the Driftless received some rain last night. Finally. It’s been over a month. Not much, mind you. Half-inch, if we’re lucky. But as we say here, beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve been hauling water out every morning to keep bowls and reservoirs full and clean for the various critters that share space with me here. Nothing too exotic, especially this time of the year. Nope. Just our resident house sparrows that stick around all year, along with other native avians with the temerity to brave this bioregion’s winters. Not that they’re much of anything anymore either. Warmer. Fewer “big snow events.” Ice storms seem to be more common than I remember. And aren’t welcome. Because, unlike much of Illinois’ topography, it’s hilly here, with some very steep grades on even the major highways that wind through these parts. Ice-Age glaciers that carved and flattened much of the rest of the Midwest bypassed us here, leaving us drift-less: little of the typical-for-the-area stone deposits and other debris can be found. So, the land has some rather unique qualities to it; and with me being outdoors a lot, I’ve done my share of exploring them, mostly on two wheels and two feet.
I was up at seven again, rousted by the cooing sounds of the two pigeons that I share my home with. My other two housemates are a common grackle and a ring-necked dove, both of whom are fosters for a local wildlife rehabber. Neither is releasable due to injuries.
I fell asleep watching “Pulp Fiction.” It’s funny how I can stay up all night reading a book but I often feel myself dosing off ten minutes into a movie, regardless of quality. And I have come to love “Pulp Fiction.”
But first thing first. After a sip of coffee and a bite of the veggie omelette that I’d hurriedly made, I was ready for release of the opossum caught overnight in the live-trap in the front yard. I’d set it for the capture and relocation of feral cats that have been terrorizing my resident bird population. So far, I got me one ornery white tomcat, a raccoon, and now the possum. The three toads I’d “rescued” last week from planters in Scales Mound, the two mice caught in live-traps indoors and my new prisoner were quietly released where I normally do. All were in fine physical shape and quickly left me to live the balance of their lives where God had intended.
Ya see…I’m literally the guy “who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
After providing food and water for my housemates, I threw a cassette into the stereo to provide some company while I cleaned. This proved to be the “B” side of a Minutemen/Big Boys tape that I recorded off of the vinyl probably thirty years ago. The sound quality has diminished a bit but still plays just fine. “Bob Dylan Plays Propaganda Songs” indeed….
Following some spotty house-cleaning, my glamorous life continued. Outside again. Only this time to provide food and water to the wildlife that hangs around my house in the front and back yards. This time of the year, house sparrows are in the greatest abundance of any critter. A few squirrels are regulars. Starlings, too. I heard a few robins and saw a pair of grackles earlier. But it’s mostly the sparrows that snatch up the bulk of the birdseed.
Along with birdseed, I also leave out small bowls that I fill with grape jam and sometimes scrambled eggs, if I have extra. The jam attracts any straggling ants, yellow jackets and/or bees. The eggs are eaten by any creature fortunate enough to find them. Suet is hung primarily for the feeding of woodpeckers but many other birds partake. Along with a few raccoons. Might be ones that I’ve rehabbed an released. Along with working a “corporate” gig at a local convenience store as a clerk, I volunteer with a local wildlife rehabilitation center, for which I transport, rescue and care for injured and orphaned wildlife. Like these:
I’ve been at this rescue thing for over a decade but my love for animals extends back to probably when I was born. My mom used to love telling the story of when I cried and cried over how she was killing the ants that had invited themselves to share a bowl of ice cream with me. I was only two-years old then. “And the writing was on the wall."
