It has been a long time since I dug out, from the back of the closet, my winter jacket on the third day of June, but it happened this year.
Though the day turned out bright and sunny, the thermometer refused to rise more than a degree or two above the freezing mark.
I found myself seated on a comfortable chair that was situated in a little alcove on our front porch that was out of the direct wind, yet catching the sun’s warmth.
The sky was the bluest of blue, yet scattered evenly with quite a number of fluffy, white clouds. Little gusts of seemingly warm wind kept teasing the six days of beard growth on my cheeks. Often I get lazy and don’t shave for a week.
As I sat there enjoying a second cup of coffee, I watched a couple of male robins vying for worm hunting rights on the front lawn. On occasion, they would flip in the air in each other’s faces, trying to sort the peck order that all avian creatures seem to find necessary.
In the meantime, a male and female blackbird, obviously a mated pair, kept crisscrossing the little patch of grass across the drive in a methodical pattern.
All of a sudden, a bird I’d not seen in years swooped down from the nearby spruce tree, did what appeared to be a back flip, and landed on its feet dead centre of the gravel driveway. What it was, was a crested flycatcher, and it had caught in its mouth a large insect that distance disallowed me to identify.
It proceeded to pound the insect by repeatedly pecking it again and again and again. Suddenly it stopped, and picking up a dislodged piece of the creature, it gulped a time or two and said morsel was obviously eaten.
When it flew off moments later, I could see that a couple of large pieces were left. One of which flipped over and over again when a gust of wind seemed intent on playing with it.
Nevertheless, said gust of wind prompted me to get up off of my lazy butt and, contrary to the warning bleeps of each worm-hunting robin and a flutter of blackbird wings across the drive, I went to see what the flycatcher had rejected for lunch.
What it was, folks, was the wings of a mourning cloak butterfly. Both neatly severed and rejected for brunch. The bird had probably just eaten more protein in that one mouthful than I had eaten with my toast and poached eggs for breakfast.
Does it not make one sometimes wonder who the dumb animal is?
And now, from my chuckle bucket, not exactly as I remember it, but close, comes this: Mary had a little pig. She kept it fat to please her. And when the price of pork went up, she put it in her freezer.
And, too, Mary had a little lamb. Her father shot it dead. Now it goes to school with her, between two chunks of bread.
Age has a way of making memory wander. Doesn’t it?
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105