Flowers and Frogs

           Flowers are blooming and peepers are peeping! Both sure signs of spring!

           On the opposite side of the road from Sally's house, crocuses have escaped from her garden and are now in full bloom on my bank.

          Something else that’s in bloom is Colt’s Foot. The dandelion-like flowers bloom first, before the leaves appear, earning it the nickname "Son-before-the-Father". Once the flowers are gone, the leaves will come on and they’re shaped like — yup, you guessed it! Like a colt’s foot!

          In folk medicine, Colt’s Foot, is used as a remedy for coughs, bronchitis, and other respiratory ailments. It has expectorant and soothing properties and often brewed into teas or syrups. It can be made into a poultice and applied for minor wounds and skin irritations.

          Colt’s foot leaves and flowers are edible and can be added to salads, cooked, or even used in pancakes. Dried leaves were historically burned to create a salt substitute.

          Having said that, you need to be careful with any wildflower you’re gonna fool with. While Colt's Foot is edible and has medicinal benefits, it contains compounds that can be toxic to the liver if consumed in large amounts. Modern herbalists recommend using it sparingly.

          Mike was hungry for an omelet and an omelet maker I am not. We’ve been to Perkin’s before and gotten a decent omelet, so that’s where we decided to go. It was early when we left. The trees lining the top of the hill like a picket fence tickled me.

Man, oh man! What a disappointment our breakfast was! Mike’s omelet was small, and they had sautéed some onions and green peppers and dumped ‘em on top.

          “My toast is stale,” Mike said.

          “Mine is, too! Who knew stale bread made stale toast?” Besides that, my pancake was really little. “If I’d’ve known how little it was going to be, I’d’ve ordered two!”

          Since Mike didn’t get his itch for an omelet scratched, we went out for breakfast a second time this week, which is unusual for us. We may go out for breakfast once every two or three months, so twice in the same week is noteworthy. This time we went to a little local restaurant called The Pink Apple. When we drove up, we weren’t even sure they were open, despite there being a truck parked in front. The lights were on, the door was open, and we went in. There was one man, sitting alone in a far corner.

          “I would’ve thought it would be busier for a Saturday morning,” I said. We seated ourselves and waited a few minutes for our waitress to appear.

          “What can I get you to drink?” she asked Mike.

          “Just water,” he answered.

          “How about you, honey?” she asked me.

          “Wait! What about me?” Mike asked. “You didn’t call me honey!”

          She laughed. “Okay sweetie. You can be sweetie and she can be honey.”

          Banter aside, Mike ordered his omelet, and I got my usual breakfast of eggs, fried hard (I slip it between my toast and make a sandwich out of it), hash browns, bacon, and a pancake on the side.

          “What’s your name?” Mike asked as our server went to turn our order in.

          “Becky,” she replied as she walked away.

          “What did she say,” my hearing-impaired handsome mountain man asked. “Peggy or Becky?”

          “Becky,” I said. He heard Becky as Peggy which explains all the times in my life I’ve been called Becky.

          The breakfast was a big improvement over what we were served at Perkin’s, but it was expensive. The days of fifteen-dollar breakfasts are gone.

After breakfast, we went on into Tunkhannock to pick up a couple of things. There’s a hawk that hunts in the area where the road splits. I’ve seen him there five or six times. He was there this morning, but he’s looking in the other direction.

Wednesday gave us a day of big fat snow flurries. Mike had an appointment for a haircut, so I rode along.

“We can take the back way into Wysox afterward, if you want,” he said.

Now, that’s something! Mike hates that road, so we don’t travel it often.

We crossed the bridge over our pretty little creek and there sat ol’ Mr. Kingfisher, hunting for breakfast in the snow.

The snow didn’t last and didn’t stick. It just made the roads wet.

Can you say road pictures?

A new roof — minus a sheet lost to the wind. Maybe windows are next?

          It did flurry on and off all day.

          “Is he rushing it?” Mike asked. We were stopped at a red light as a motorcyclist zoomed past.

          “Maybe it wasn’t snowing when he left the house,” I guessed.

          We noticed, when we left the house, that there was a detour sign. Coming home, we see a sign that explains the detour.

          “Bridge out,” I read.

          “Which bridge is out?” Mike wondered. “Not the new one they put in at Turrell’s Corners, is it?” Mike asked.

          “I don’t know, let’s go see.”

          It’s just a small bridge over a small creek but it’s big enough to cause all kinds of problems. I’m not sure how the detour is routing people, but the locals know they can use our road to get around it and traffic sure has picked up on our road!

          An eagle!

          Crossing back over our pretty little creek, I see something red.

          “What is that?” I asked. Mike didn’t know.

          I was thinking some kind of exotic critter and it’s not. It’s trash. I took a picture of trash in our creek.

 

          I got something much prettier than that at our pond. A Wood Duck! 

          Wood Ducks tend to be shy and cautious, especially around people. They prefer secluded areas near water where they can stay hidden and feel safe. If disturbed, they're quick to take flight or swim away to avoid danger.

Their wariness is one reason why spotting a Wood Duck feels like such a special moment — like catching a glimpse of something secret and rare.

I was still a long way off when he saw me and took flight. I was ready for him though and had my zoom on.

“Peg, can you tell us something interesting about Wood Ducks?” you ask.

          I can!

          Wood Ducks have a unique nesting habit. Female Wood Ducks often lay their eggs in tree cavities or nest boxes near water. Once the ducklings hatch, they perform an incredible feat — they leap from the nest, which could be high up in a tree, to the ground below. These tiny ducklings can't fly yet, but their light, fluffy bodies allow them to bounce safely, and they instinctively follow their mother to the water.

          Maybe I’ll build a nesting box some time and try to attract a breeding pair. I Googled it and found instructions. It also said to add a collar to keep predators out.

          That same day, on a golf cart ride on our back roads, I spot a nesting box at the lower bridge, and it had a collar.

          “I bet it’s for Wood Ducks,” I told Mike.

          Now, speaking of critters...

          After our last visit, and me talking about the black and white feral cat ... how he needs a name and how he fights with our cats, I have some news.

          “You could call him Hatch since he comes in the flap or hatch,” my editor suggested.

          Hatch it is!

          So he has a name.

          “We don’t want him fighting with our cats,” Mike said. “If you stop feeding him, will he move on?”

          “Probably.”

          So, I stopped putting food out — for two days. Then Hatch came to the back fence. I was at the kitchen sink when I saw him.

          “Hatch is out here,” I told Mike.

          “He looks hungry,” my tender-hearted husband observed.

          Guess who’s back to feeding the strays? 

          How about some arts and crafts news?

          This beautiful lady is Ruth. She’s the daughter of Charlie, our neighbor who died last year. Ruth and her sisters are cleaning out the house.

          “I had no idea he brought EVERYTHING from the old house when he moved here thirty years ago,” Ruth said. “And all of Mom’s clothes are still here, too!” Kathleen has been gone for ten years now.

          “He never threw anything away!” she said.

          Ruth and her sisters have their own homes with all their own things and they don’t really need or want much from the house.

          “I’d take some dishes and silverware,” I told Ruth, and she was kind enough to set some things aside for me.

          “What are you gonna do with that stuff?” you wanna know.

          One of the things I made with dishes and silverware is owls. Two of them. One for Jenn, my friend, editor, and daughter of the Kipps. She likes purple so I used purple beads for eyes. On the back I attached a spice bottle. It’s all ready to be mounted on a pole or garden stake. 

         The other one I made for this cutie-patootie.

         Two years ago, at a Christmas party and gift exchange at our church, everyone’s name was put on a slip of paper and dropped in a bowl. When your name was drawn you could choose a gift from the table or ‘steal’ a gift from someone else, then they got to choose another gift. The person's whose name was drawn got to draw the name of the next person. It was fun and some people didn’t want their gift to get ‘stolen’.

          I didn’t participate.

          At the end of the night, Addie came up to me. “You didn’t get anything,” she said and thrust her gift out to me. “I want you to have mine.”

          What an incrediably kind, thoughtful, and generous thing for this young lady to do.

          What she gave me was a set of four crystal candle holders.

          “They’re beautiful!” I told her accepting the proffered gift. “Thank you!”

          I’ve known for a long time that I was going to make a garden owl for her. It only took me two years to do it. You can’t rush this stuff, don’cha know?

I put two of the candle holders down inside the cups for owl eyes. The crystal catches and throws the light.

I wasn’t sure it would appeal to a young lady, but I gave it to Addie after church. She smiled and thanked me. A few minutes later I saw her showing it off. So I guess she really did like it.

When I was telling you about starting my artistic journey, I told you I started with colored pencils and went to ink. The other day I was putting clothes away and glanced up at some of my art hanging on the walls. It’s my early stuff. I tended to give my mom the first of whatever new endeavor I’d undertaken. When she died, I got them back.

My letter blog would’ve been more interesting if I’d’ve shown them these when I was talking about them! I thought.

“Show us now,” you say.

Okay! Okay!

My first colored pencil. As you can see, I didn’t get it centered very good. Momma liked it anyway and framed it.

And these two black inks are copies I did of art by artist Frank Frazetta.

All of my early work was drawn freehand. With the advent of home computers and printers, I don’t have to take the time to do that anymore, but as you can see, I can do it.

More recently, as in this week, I painted zebras.

And a cat on a window. 

Let’s call this one done!