Why, Oh Why, Can't I?

The last thing my husband said as he left for work this morning was "This is a house of basket cases."

Just then, the phone rang.

It was my friend, calling to say she'd been watching a pair of Eastern Bluebirds on her fly-through feeder, a first for her Life List. She'd never actually seen a bluebird in town before, though she'd seen them further south.

Suddenly, the day took a turn. For the better, for once. I raised my coffee cup (the one which reads "Father Time can really kick the shit out of you") and toasted one of my favorite pastimes (not that one, buttonhead, I'm talking birdwatching, here). I was thinking about when cardinals first began to appear Up North, far beyond their traditional range. We'd recently moved here from The City, Global Warming snapping at our heels.

Now cardinals are everywhere. Not to mention bluebirds, yuppies (are there still such things?) and Real Summers (snow gone by mid-May, as opposed to July).

Not that this is good news. But, these days, in the thick of this rationalized massacre they call Hunting Season, one grasps at any feel-good straw. (Hey...did you hear about the hunter who fell out of his bunk in Pennsylvania and impaled himself on a chair? True story. He died. I rest my case.)

So the Great Gray Owls are coming down from Canada and I finally get a decent tan. Not simultaneously. The tan occurred this past summer, the owls have been making an appearance for several winters now. Their food supply dwindles, they head south. So far, the Border Patrol doesn't suspect anything. The owls stake out the roadside ditches, scouting for mice and voles. On one of my daily runs last January, I counted nine Great Grays in the trees along the Shore, with those gold-coin eyes and Linda Blair head movements.

I could watch birds for hours, for days, for life. As thrilling as the rare sighting is...northern waterthrush, crossbill, osprey, Odd Duck...I'm just as happy hanging with the Usual Suspects. Chickadees, nuthatches, siskins, juncos, cardinals, and now, apparently, coming-soon-to-a-birdfeeder-near-you, bluebirds.

When I asked my bluebird-sighting friend what she thought the pair was doing on her feeder, she answered "Migrating," then launched into the song lyric cited above. Which I promptly copped for a title. Give credit where credit is due, is my motto, except at a Garage Sale.

I love to watch animals in the wild, too, only they tend not to stick around, smart as most of them are about the human species. I'm pretty smart about the human species myself. It's only a matter of time (i.e., until my daughter fledges), and I'm outta here. Toast. Toast Headed Straight for The Borderland...The Cabin...The Woods...Oh My! To be among my own kind.

In preparation for this great migration, I'll be holding The Garage Sale To End All Garage Sales. I may have to rent a hall. Make that a roller rink (are there still such things?). It'll take some time to sort through everything, the flotsam of several lifetimes. In fact, I should probably get started, the sooner the better. Because in the end, I'll be traveling light. Bringing only the important stuff...books, blankets, beer, binoculars, birdseed. And don't forget baskets, one for each of us.