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A Little Backyard Drama

It’s been about a month since we noticed the pair of robins flitting above our patio, fashioning a messy nest in the crook of a cherry tree near the backdoor.

I wondered then if the couple would abandon ship, once they discovered our curious puppy, our scaredy cat, the nightly ritual of my youngest daughter forcefully kicking soccer ball against garage wall. Its thunk-da-thunk has become the soundtrack to my spring.

But Mr. and Mrs. Robin remained.

As the pink confetti blossoms were replaced by a screen of green leaves, the Robin home was harder to spy. But we could see Mr. Robin coming and going, bits of worm dangling from his beak. He seemed a dedicated provider to his presumably growing brood.

Two weeks ago, soccer ball daughter climbed a neighboring tree and confirmed. “Babies!” she shouted (probably too loud for the couple’s comfort). “I see two, three? Little fuzzy white heads. Ohmygosh they’re sooooo cute!!”

We instantly became even nosier neighbors, delighting every time we caught a glimpse of downy feather or hungry beak.

It made us so happy, this window into a secret realm, this confirmation that the world was continuing to do what it was meant to. 

Then, in the midst of our reverie, the crows arrived.

We almost never have crows in our backyard. There is little for them to scavenge, I suppose, and a fair amount of disruptive activity (thunk-da-thunk).

But two swooped menacingly into the cherry tree. My husband heard the commotion from inside and banged on a nearby window. It was enough to scatter them.

They must have seen the babies, though. Because they returned. Again and again.

Every time we heard the crows’ caws and robins’ trills, we tore into the yard, waving our arms and clapping and shouting like crazy people.

The crows would fly off. But they kept coming back.

One dusk, as I ran outside squawking and flapping, I saw a crow lift off with something in its mouth. I felt sick to my stomach. The big bird had plucked a nestling. I had failed to protect my little bird family.

Mr. Robin flew off in pursuit. Mrs. Robin settled back on the nest to quiet the babies who remained.

But darn if the crow (was it another one?) didn’t dive-bomb the nest again! This time Mr. Robin and two mockingbirds successfully gave chase.

The nest was safe. But for how long?

Even after scouring the Internet, there is much I don’t understand about robins and crows and how their lives intersect. I get that crows need to eat. I know that robins are predators, as well.

But in the backyard drama I am telling, the crows are the villains, the robins the victims, and the grubs and caterpillars amount to nothing more than dinner.

The morning after the attack, a crow again dropped into the cherry tree. I was out of my bed at dawn shrieking at the bird. The crow loped away. But the nest seemed eerily still all morning.

I was fearing the family had somehow relocated in the dark of night -- or worse -- when Mr. and Mrs. Robin restarted their feeding relay.

Two nestlings had survived. There was work to be done.

Nearly every day last week we ate lunch and dinner under the cherry tree. We watched dozens of wriggling worms meet their demise. We took in a repertoire of birdsong. We tracked each day’s new feather growth, as the babies became increasingly hard to tell apart from their parents.

It has been the highlight of my spring, simply witnessing this season of these birds’ lives.

Then, last night between dinner and dark, a fledgling teetered at the edge of the nest. Her mother loudly beckoned from a fence nearby.

The little one leapt — and fell directly to the ground. Eventually she struggled to the fence and then off to join her family.

The nest was officially empty.

All that remains is a bundle of pine straw and the lessons these creatures taught me:

That we can never know when danger will flap its way into our carefully constructed world. When it does arrive, all we can do is fight fiercely, accept the help that is offered, and keep caring for those who need us.

Also this: To love something is both a beautiful gift and an almost unendurable heartbreak.

My newest podcast crush: The Ezra Klein Show. His guests are fascinating. The conversations are fast-paced. And the topics are wide-ranging. I really loved this episode on how we learn and this one on how to fix what's wrong with food.

When COVID send college students packing last spring, Penn State honors student Callaway Turner decided to focus her senior thesis on how her hometown arts scene was handling the shutdown, for what turned out to be the long haul. The result is an insightful and moving short documentary that beautifully captures the spirit of resilience that performing artists all over the world have had to muster. (If you look closely, you might spy my dancer too!). It's a real gem.

Every month, the Roanoke nonprofit LEAP (whose mission is to connect all eaters with more local food) sends out an email newsletter brimming with program news, farmers market updates, profiles of farmers -- and, as of April, recipes from Nourishing Stories. If you're a Roanoke-area reader, I absolutely encourage you to subscribe. So much good can come of it.
When a Doubleday publicity director reaches out to ask if you'll review a writer you've enjoyed for years, you absolutely say, "Yes!" When that writer has penned a delightful, funny and heartfelt collection of essays, you are thrilled to encourage everyone you know to pick up a copy. That's the story behind this review of Bring Your Baggage and Don't Pack Light. You want to pre-order. Trust me.

Also recommended are these titles I've recently reviewed for Publishers Weekly: Anita Diamant's Period. End of Sentence, a largely unknown history of how women's lives have been limited by their biology; and this oh-so-lovely guide to preserving what you grow, forage or pick, with a decidedly British bent. Both will be in bookstores this summer but are available for pre-order now. (Don't forget: when you purchase at bookshop.org, your dollars help support local bookstores across the country.)

The book I couldn't put down and can't stop talking about is Glennon Doyle's Untamed. It's not for everyone, but it spoke to me deeply. Have you read it? I'd love to discuss!

For a shorter read, dig into this look at mushrooms and this take on their super power potential to heal our planet. 

Though perhaps nothing is as cherished as cast iron pans....
This is the time of year when I sift through all my jotted notes and hastily tucked away plans and try to come up with a list of stories that I hope to write by the end of this year and on into 2022. I always have more ideas than I have time to write, but they're not always the best story ideas or the ones that most need to be written. I'd love to hear your thoughts: What stories should I be writing in the coming months? On food? Sustainability? Profiles of interesting people? Up and coming artists? Travel? For local publications? How about statewide or regional? What are national trends that are being left out of the conversation? I'd love to hear your thoughts....
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