Orioles

Today the orioles appeared to me.  Last year I spent all of March and April wondering where they were.  In May they appeared one day everywhere I looked, and I realized that they simply hadn't returned from Central America yet.  This year I didn't start worrying about my failure to see any until last week.  My son-in-law saw some this weekend in Brooklyn.  I hope I showed him that I was excited.  I am certain I revealed my envy.

We were on Hunter Island in Pelham Bay Park, way up on the northwest corner near the peninsula that I think of as blueberry island.  There were three of them, way up high in the oaks, and they were hopping from branch to branch and dancing in the air.  I stood watching them and appreciating this blessing for a good long time.  Prophet eventually got bored and signaled his desire to move on.

Baltimore Orioles are by no means rare.  But my sightings of them seem to be.  They are not especially showy or grand, but they make me very happy.  Smaller than robins, they have similar markings except that their red is much more vivid.  They make me really happy.  Today I was reminded again that I have to appreciate everything that comes my way instead of looking for things -- like orioles -- that really amaze me.

On the west side of Hunter Island is a path through a marsh to a rocky point that was a smaller island before the construction of Orchard Beach shut down the tidal flushing.  I think of it as Strawberry Island because I used to go there to pick wild strawberries, starting when I was in my late twenties.  I gathered so many that I made strawberry corn bread.  Maya and I went there every June when she was small.  I read her a picture book (which is on my shelf above me now) called The First Strawberries.  I tracked down my own copy of Roger Williams's (founder of Rhode Island) A Key into the Language of America largely because of his observations about strawberries, including a quote from Dr. William Butler: "Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did."  One of our best trips out there was with Maya's grade school friends, the twins Makeda and Samori.

Prophet and I walked out to the edge of Strawberry Island and I looked at the sad remains of the strawberry patch, overgrown with briars and poison ivy, few strawberry plants visible.  Then I heard a bird call, looked up, and saw another oriole!  I had a lot of years enjoying those little wild strawberries.  Why am I bemoaning their loss when I have a smiling GSD at my side who gives me a reason for a long walk in the woods every day!

Hammering home that point is a fallen oak further down the west side of Hunter Island.  It used to tower over the marsh right next to the trail.  Maya and I sat on a rock near it with sketch books more than once to try and convey it.  I got a pretty good drawing once, which I should still have somewhere in the house.  I can miss that tree, just like I miss sitting and drawing it with my eight-year old daughter.  But that daughter is 32 now, and a mother.  I am a grandpa and retired from the schools.  And that oak is lying on its side in a marsh.

It is hard work for me to remember to appreciate my blessings.  Occasionally I am struck dumb by that realization and then the old glass-half-empty habits return.  At least I am no longer angry at myself for this.