Feed Me!

There are three baby robins, now four days old, in this nest.

"Feed me!"

They're not making any noise, but those mouths seem always open, and all day long, the parent birds fly to and fro delivering food: worms plucked from moist earth, and moths and other insects from plants and bushes.

Hard to get any work done with these sweet things so near . . . although maybe watching is part of my 'work.'

New Books, New Birds

I keep a running list of books that I'd like to read, and if the titles still resonate a week or two or three later, I buy them. Above are the most recent purchases and it feels like Christmas--wow!

Along with the new books came three new baby robins–hatched yesterday–in a porch nest. Two are seen here:

They remain in that position all day, mouths perpetually open, waiting for the parents to bring them morsels.

New books, new birds: feasts for the eyes, the mind, the soul.

Ciao, bellas. . . .

Translations

Students always seem interested in the look of foreign editions. For all the years we lived on boarding school campuses in England, Switzerland, and New Jersey, students could come to our house and see these editions spread out. They liked to choose their favorite covers and try to read the titles and my name in all the different languages. Since there were international students in all these schools, often students would find translations in their own languages.

Above and below are most of the translations of The Wanderer. In the photo above, the top book is from France. Second row, left to right: Italy, Germany, Taiwan. Bottom row: Slovakia, Latvia, Spain.

In this second picture directly above, the translations are (top, from L to R): Thailand, Netherlands, Germany; (bottom L to R) = China, Russia, Spain (Castilian), Korea.

I may have a few of these wrong. Feel free to correct me.

Below are the American (at left) and British (at right) editions:

I'm not sure if you can see the covers clearly enough (click to enlarge all photos) to choose a favorite, but if you have one, I'd love to hear what it is.

Beauty

I would like to write a book as pure and beautiful as this single dogwood blossom. It is not too showy, nor is it drab. The colors are soft, muted. The symmetry is appealing. It is framed by its green leaves and offered up in a simple, elegant white vase.

Makes me marvel, makes me smile.

Birdhouse Wings

My husband's sense of humor . . .

My husband and I spent nearly twenty years working in boarding schools in England and Switzerland, and another eight years at one in the U.S.  When new buildings were built on these campuses, fundraising campaigns sometimes offered large donors (size of donation, not size of donors) a chance to have the building named after them.

For my birthday last year, my husband put up these signs (click to enlarge) on the birdhouse on the front porch.

haha.

For another view of this birdhouse/townhouse see last week's post below.

So: question for you today. If a building were named after you, what sort of building would you want it to be?

Porch Residents

This birdhouse hangs on our front porch and was first used by finches, who raised their young and then vacated. The chickadees then swooped in and pulled out all the nesting materials of the finches and 'redecorated,' raising this current flock. (Click to enlarge.*)

The nest on top is from a robin who moved in above the chickadees after already raising one brood over a nearby porch light. The robin apparently prefers this real estate for her next brood. The chickadees do not seem amused and occasionally there are squabbles between the chickadees and robins.

I've had to go out there a couple times and ask them to knock it off.

Microcosms

So much world in so small a space. Look at that amazing dandelion. Each of those little white threads ready to fly off, each carrying its own world.  Boggles the mind.  Well, my mind, at least.

I like seemingly simple things: clean close-ups, small impressions, single flowers, 'ordinary' people, though no person is ordinary if you zoom in for a close-up, just as no flower or stone or weed is simple if you lean in and focus.

I like this lettuce, grown right outside my door, so delicate and astounding:

I like this birch bark, with all its convoluted curls:

Many years ago, I read a slim book about an ordinary man, Marcovaldo, by Italo Calvino, and while I was reading I felt as if this book was a doorway with a sign saying, "Come on in," for this was the sort of story I knew I would write--stories about seemingly simple, ordinary people.

If you write, was there a book like that, that opened a door for you?  If you don't write, do you like the simple or the complex?