A Rainbow Over the Gray

Now that fall is coming, I can see that there really are a lot of deciduous trees here. They are turning yellow—not the glorious reds of the east, but it is still very pretty.

Mike has been very busy planting. He has turned a barren, sandy hill into a beautiful garden in a little over a month. The soil is glacial till—a strange mixture of sand and clay that is absolutely worthless to grow anything in except thistles. I have lost track of how much top soil he has bought at Wal-Mart--I really don't want to know!  The effect is glorious, though. When we eat breakfast, we see a visual kaleidoscope of  colors and textures: heathers, hibiscus, Japanese maples, fuchsias--tubular flowers that the hummingbirds love-- and a few palm trees, one of those tropical plants he is so excited to be able to grow here.

A FedEx lady came to the door. "I've been watching this landscaping change. It's amazing!" She is disappointed when I tell her that my husband is the gardener, and I can't tell her the names of all the plants. So we talk about birds instead.

 The thistles brought us a wonderful gift in July, the first month we were here. I put a bird feeder at the edge of the cleared area, at the top of the hill, and on the uncleared slope below it were thistles, just going to seed. Goldfinches, Washington's state bird, flocked to the thistle seeds, and one male found my bird feeder filled with sunflower seeds the first day I put it up. For the rest of the summer, we watched several dozen goldfinches patronize the feeder. They love sunflower seeds. 

At the local bird store, the clerk told me that I should be feeding them thistle seeds in the summer, for the protein. Sunflower seeds are for winter, because they provide the fat they need for the winter.  I didn't buy any seeds there, because they were a bit pricey. "Of course," she said with a laugh, "the birds will always eat sunflower seeds!"

With fresh thistle seeds just below the feeder, that they should have been eating for their health, they still preferred my fattening seeds. Libertarian finches, I guess.

We watched them from the second-story deck. It disturbed the birds to see us on the same level as they were, in the tall western red cedars a few hundred yards away. It bothered them even more when our Siamese Jubilee joined us on the deck. The birds would sound the alarm: “Cat! Cat!” It took them a while to learn that the cat was no threat to them. They learned that even when Jubilee was on her leash, level with the feeder, they didn’t have to worry. The squirrel learned that, too, which was why he was shocked to find kitty in full attack mode when he sneaked into our kitchen!

The squirrel ran around the kitchen, jumping up on the table, trying to get out the window. The door was open, but it couldn't find it. I stood in the middle of the room, wanting to prevent it from running down the hall into the bedrooms or up the stairs. Finally, I opened the kitchen window, and he escaped. Jubilee stared out the window, and cried. It was the most fun she'd had since her arrival in Washington.

Another summer bird is the tanager, a red and yellow bird which is the West’s substitute for the cardinal— thought to be related to the cardinal, but a poor substitute for someone who is used to seeing dozens of redbirds. Stellar’s Jays are pretty, though. They are larger than the Blue Jay, and have no white. They have a raucous voice, like the Blue Jay, and are quite shy birds despite their size. I am happy that they have become less skittish as they get used to our presence

.

When the big birds leave, familiar little sparrows, nuthatches, and chickadees come to the feeder, while we stand only a few feet away.We are less threatening than the big birds!

In September, a new bird came—the banded pigeon. These 15” birds dwarfed the Stellar’s Jays, and scared everything else away (except the squirrel, who is afraid of nothing). They are a native bird that eats fruit and seeds. An abundance of wild blackberries grew among the thistles, and probably attracted the birds to our lot. By October, they were gone, probably headed south for the winter. Seasoned bird watchers here tell us they have never seen the pigeon. We were honored with beginner’s luck, I guess.

The winter birds are juncos and white-crowned sparrows, familiar names but unfamiliar birds of western races. The Pacific race of sparrow has a tan-striped head instead of white stripes, looking something like a large song sparrow. The junco is the Oregon race, with a gray head and rose flanks. A Canadian Rocky Mountains variant, with a black head and slate-colored sides, drops in occasionally.

The gray and rain of winter is here to stay. I'm glad I can see some color and life outside the window. And then--over the bay, the largest rainbow I've ever seen.

October: No longer Indian summer

October 4, 2012: A strange, sad sign that we have become residents of a new place: I opened up my email this morning to read that a member of Sequim Bible Church has died of a heart attack. Less than two months ago, I had never met him. Now I am grieving the loss.

The Indian Summer of September is gone, and it is chilly.  But it can still get hot in the sun. I may start out in the morning in a medium-weight jacket, and then take it off, go to a sweater as the sun comes out, and if the sun stays out, I'm in short sleeves by afternoon. This is so different from the maritime climate I experienced in London. Flowers bloom lushly, like they did in England, but in gray, sandy soil of the American West.

Mike planted some tubular flowers, and a little hummingbird found them. I expect that soon the hummingbirds will fly south. The coming of the juncos, what we used to call "snow birds" in Missouri signal winter is approaching. They are the Oregon race--more colorful than the Missouri juncos. Stellar’s jays and mourning doves will stay all winter; they are the most abundant birds at the feeder. A few chickadees and nuthatches, and a sparrow or two I can’t identify.

Red squirrels are also frequent visitors, especially one. I have watched him chase away birds—even the jays that are bigger than he is—and the little Townsend chipmunks. Another squirrel came last week, and the first squirrel sat under the feeder screaming at the intruder, until it finally left. He isn’t afraid of human, either, or of the cat we let out on a leash. (Outside cats become coyote food.) The birds and squirrels used to let out a warning when they saw her, but they learned she is no more of a threat than we are.

“Our” squirrel thinks our feeder is his winter stash, and he buries seed all over the yard. The seeds germinate and sprout, so we have a crop of sunflower seedlings among Mike’s plantings. The brazen little rodent soon figured out that we kept the sunflower seed bag in a bin on our kitchen porch. He ran up the steps to look for spilled seed, and tried to chew a hole in the plastic bin. So we moved the seed off the porch and put it in a more secure container.

Hope springs eternal. The squirrel kept coming to the porch, and when I left the door open for a minute, he scurried into the kitchen. Jubilee, our inside cat, immediately took chase. They dashed around the living room, and I tried to guide the squirrel back to the door, making sure he didn’t run up the stairs. He couldn’t find it, jumping into mirrors and windows instead. He climbed onto the kitchen table and ran along the window sill. I figured the only way to get him out was to open that window. Window now open; the squirrel had disappeared. I searched around the room. No squirrel. He must have exited unnoticed. Jubilee searched the room, crying.

It has been quieter at the feeder. “The squirrel was taken down a peg by our attack cat,” I said to my husband. Notice he’s not bothering the others any more.” He laughed as Brazen Rodent suddenly lit into a jay. Well, not reformed, but a little more scared. Kitty is a threat after all!