Oppositional Behavior Disorder

At our place, it's the resident male cardinal with oppositional behavior disorder.  He reveals it by repeatedly attacking his own reflection in whatever window is nearby.  I know he's at it again whenever I hear the sharp ping of his beak against the pane.  If I walk to where I can see him, he'll  be flying up at the window before his beak makes contact, and he falls back for a moment, forced to concede defeat.  Not for long, though.  His mate was waiting in the Locust tree by the patio this morning when he was engaged in his concerted efforts.  I wonder if she thought him foolish, or if she was proud of him.

Grant and Clarissa had told us about this cardinal.  That was the explanation for the big sheet of cardboard taped to one of the living room window panes.

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We have several other troublesome residents here--inside the house, and not nearly as beautiful as the cardinal.  I find some of them around the light over the kitchen sink in the evening, and destroy all that are too slow for me.  I always also prepare a final bath for them by putting an inch or two of water in the sink with a small squirt of Basic H.  In the morning I morbidly count the tiny floating carcasses and then dispose of them.

The other unwelcome residents appear in the form of gray shadows darting across the floor.  One of them was very small and confused enough when Hiromi spied it yesterday morning that it sat still while he went for a fly swatter to dispatch it.  We'd been warned about these pests too.

One warning has not yet proved to be a problem for us:  the mockingbird's singing at night.  I see the mockingbirds and am so happy they're here.  I hear lots of birdsong during the day, and assume it comes partly at least from the mockingbirds, although robins and kingbirds and orioles are contributing also.  The brown thrashers are no doubt doing a performance similar to the mockingbird's, being another member of the mimicking bird family.  It's been warm at night, and we have the air conditioner running and the windows closed, so that explains why the mockingbird's nighttime singing does not disturb us in the least.

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Overall, I love the quiet of this place.  At the farm I had a nice sitting place on the front porch, but it was in plain sight of any passing traffic.  Here, I have a small patio off the dining room, and I can sit there in my bathrobe and no one will see me.  The locust tree we planted almost 30 years ago shades the area perfectly and the shrubs and trees we planted between the house and the road shroud it in privacy, except for the wide-open view toward the east, where the sunrise beckons, and the green and gold fields spread a rich patchwork of color.

At my computer, I look out on the honeysuckle-covered mound of earth covering the cave cellar which serves as a tornado shelter also.  (That is, it will, just as soon as the door and stairway get replaced.  Right now getting there would entail a flying leap that I'm not sure even a tornado could force me to attempt.)  Sphinx moths and white butterflies feast on the honeysuckle blossom nectar.  I know they have nefarious roles otherwise (their larva are cabbage loopers and tomato hornworms), but I like watching them in the honeysuckle.

The bustle and liveliness of the farm had lots of appeal.  It was an inhabited place, full of productive farm animals, and growing crops, and the coming and going of their caretakers--an easy stopping off place for my dad and brothers and sons and nephews going to and from their farm tasks.  Even the passing traffic provided a welcome window on the world.  But this quiet contemplative atmosphere is welcome too, and I plan to enjoy it.

If my biggest problems here are cardinals at the windows, I'll be just fine.