It's Spring -- Bless the Baby Birds!

I couldn't resist sharing a childhood experience with you. The story probably accounts for why I love birds and delight in painting them.

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He was pink, blind and featherless when I found him lying in the bright spring grass. His lifeless three-inch body brought back a rush of memory and I was eight years old again, looking down on another fragile baby bird.

"Tufted Titmouse" drawing

He had fallen so far from the nest that I convinced myself his mother would never miss him. Carefully, and with a modicum of shame, I scooped the tiny fledgling into my cupped hands. I would nurse him back to health and become his protector. In turn, he would be my friend, my pet. He could perch on my finger and I would teach him how to do tricks. He could sing for his supper. Surely mother would let me keep him.

"Courtship" pencil drawing

She shook her head when she saw him; a bad omen. But when she gave me an empty matchbox, I grew hopeful. We stuffed the matchbox with tissue and laid the bird gently on the soft white sheets. His head wobbled back and forth as his tiny body struggled to get up. The dark swollen eyes were closed, but the hungry beak gaped wide in a perpetual state of readiness.

My mother went for the “crumb jar;” the kind you fill up with leftover toast or stale bread until there are enough pieces for croutons or crumbs on a casserole.

We moistened a small chunk of bread in warm milk; and while mother left to prepare dinner, I dropped soggy snippets of bread into the bird’s open mouth. The feeding lasted until the tantalizing smells from the kitchen and the clatter of dishes distracted me.

"Berry Picking Time" 16 x 20 acrylic on panel

It was nearly bedtime before I remembered. I skipped to the back porch, half expecting birdsong to greet me. Instead, I slammed into a cold wall of silence. I held my breath and peered into the matchbox. The bird’s too-large head lay angled against the white tissue, his pale colored beak hung open. The bread I had pushed down his throat earlier was now stuck like a gummy wad of dough. I yelled for mother.

"Hut Two Three Four" drawing

She came quickly with tweezers in hand. “He’s too weak to swallow,” she said, making one final effort to remove the dough from the tiny gullet. “He’s not breathing,” she muttered to herself. And then seeing my tears, she added, “It’s not your fault. He’s too young, that’s all. His eyes aren’t open. He has no feathers.” In spite of her words, I cried. Sad lesson learned -- end of story, or was it?

Returning to the present and my adult moorings, I studied the baby bird at my feet. If I left him here, a neighbor’s cat or a hungry hawk would surely destroy him or a child’s bicycle could crush him unawares. Impulsively, I scooped him into my hands. I had to give him a second chance. Who knows? This time I might succeed; and, perhaps, redeem my childhood guilt in the bargain.

"Star Billing" mixed media on 14 x 18canvas

The Mating Game is a Fascinating Dance of Chemistry and Attraction

"This will be perfect!"

I'm not a photographer, but sometimes I get lucky and come up with a winning photo or two. I decided to repost one of my favorite blogs with photos.  

Mating season is underway here in Florida. The other day, I drove into a parking lot and nearly mowed down a great egret that was wandering about in a drunken erotical swagger. In the movie Bambi, Disney’s Thumper called it “twitterpated;” and by the flashy green down between the egret’s eyes and bill, I had to agree with that spunky rabbit. 

Being twitterpated is not limited to birds. Alligators get downright mean and nasty when the urge to mate overtakes them. One lusty gator saw its reflection in the sliding glass door of a local resident and pursued the image aggressively thinking it was a prospective mate. The terrified homeowner called animal control when the twitterpated reptile stood upright against the glass to “get a little closer.” Lucky for her the door held until local authorities arrived. 

One memorable morning, a “testy” gator proceeded to crawl across the road in front of me. Apparently a grate at the edge of the pond prevented the gator from swimming under the roadway to the other side, presumably, to meet its prospective mate. The gator drew quite a crowd as it hissed and snarled across the asphalt, warning passers by to stay their distance.

"This will be a fine nest."

Even anoles get in the act; pumping their bright red throat fans to impress the opposite sex. This undulating process goes on all summer and into fall as these lizard-like creatures mate and nest. During the winter months, anoles and lizards hibernate, and I rarely see them scurrying across my path.

Love bugs are another southern phenomenon. These red-headed black bugs spend their entire adult life copulating. The male and female attach themselves at the rear and remain that way even while flying. They splatter themselves over windshields and car radiators from April through May.

Shortly after mating, the love bug male dies; but that doesn't dampen the female's incredible urge to reproduce. She simply drags her dead mate around until she lays her eggs in the grass; and then she dies, most likely from exhaustion. Her eggs will hatch in the warmth of rotting grass mulch and become the next season's wave of love-bugs.

"Do I smell alll right?"

Squirrels in my neighborhood get downright silly during the mating season, which usually happens two or three times a year. They showoff, turn backward somersaults, and play games like “twitch” the tail and “tag you’re it!”

For two seasons running, squirrels built their nest in our cabbage palm. The mated pair cleaned and secured their nest in the spiked bark that protruded from the top of the tree. Their nest included escape tunnels and front and back points of entry.

During the gestation period, all was quiet except for excursions, in turns, by the parents to obtain food. After about two plus weeks of silence, three babies appeared. The youngsters brazenly crept to the edge of the palm fronds that made up their front porch and peeked over the side. Before long, they were chasing each other through the tunnels and playing “hump” games in preparation for future mating and nesting experiences of their own.

"It's a long way down, father. Will our babies be safe?"

When the squirrel mama decided her litter was ready for life outside the nest, she carried each baby by the scruff of its neck much the same way a cat carries its kittens. One by one the tiny squirrels were transported to a nearby live oak. The process was repeated until all three babes were safe. 

Two families of squirrels were born and nurtured in my cabbage palm, and then hurricane Charlie whipped through the area and scattered the nesting bark to the far winds. Many times the squirrels and their offspring returned perplexed, sniffing and searching my cabbage palm for evidence of their former home. I miss those squirrels.

"Three Newborns" (photo a little blurry -- they move around fast!)

Hunters actually shoot these adorable Partridges

"Northern Bobwhite" Drawing; prints available

When I spotted the two birds, they were running alongside the chicken wire fence, hidden beneath the Brazilian pepper, the hedgerow, and the Spanish moss which draped from their lower branches.

The birds saw me and a soft chortle started up in their throats as they ran for a hole under the fence to escape. They were so fast on their feet that I failed to capture the details necessary for identification.

Checking my Audubon Field Guide later, I tried to piece together my impressions: stocky round bird, reddish brown feathers, unique head markings or Mohawk haircut; a chipping or swamp sparrow I wondered? Naw! Too small.

It was a year later in March before I saw another pair scurrying along the fence line. This time I got a good look before they slipped under the fence and disappeared in the dry pasture stubble. 

Turns out, they were northern bobwhites; members of the quail or partridge family and indigenous to Florida.

When the mating season begins each spring, coveys break up and mates build their own covered nests in the grass. In late summer, families join others to form a new covey until the next breeding season.

My husband and I saw the bobwhites almost every day for several weeks. One lusty fellow searching for a potential mate flew to the upper branches of a live oak and serenaded us with a “bob bob white.”

On days when we didn’t see the quails, my husband would whistle his own rendition of the song and we waited. Sure enough, an answering whistle told us where the bobwhites were located that day.

When the spring rains came early that year and flooded the grasslands, our bobwhites disappeared. My husband whistled to see if they had returned, but so far, there has 

been no answering call. We have waited four long years for their return. I miss those bobwhites!

Mike Barr has one of the most helpful videos on painting a rainy day scene:  

Of Cabbages and Kings, of Toilet seats and Things

Springtime in Fort Myers -- an Art Show -- 2013 Bell Tower Shops

Florida living provides me with an endless supply of stories and artistic material for painting. Every day I see a wide variety of birds, animals, plants, and aquatic life.

Take this morning. I wasn’t expecting to see a black racer snake devour one of its own on my front porch, but I did.  And I don’t enjoy cracking the door ever so slightly when I leave the house to prevent a lizard, or whatever else is out there, the slightest chance of sneaking in; but I do.

I’m reminded that living in the tropics brings its own special joys and surprises; like the time I was caught in the buff by a thirsty green frog that was perched on my toilet seat. I don’t mind sharing, but not in this case.

I coaxed my mini-intruder into a glass jar and transported him outside, unharmed. If I can, I prefer to save life, even a frog’s. Lizards are another matter.

When I first moved to Florida, I couldn’t bear to kill anything. But after chasing several lizards through the house and having them hide under sofas and chairs, or behind the bookcase where they die a slow death, I’m willing to exterminate when necessary. At least lizards don’t stink when they decay. Like withered old soldiers, they just fade away, leaving a crusty carcass behind.

Today a pair of pileated woodpeckers landed on our cabbage palm; their arrival a breathtaking flash of blink-bright red and black. Observing their skinny necks and hammer-shaped heads made me think of another time and place, when prehistoric birds of Jurassic Park proportions roamed the earth; ancestors perhaps?

The large 18” birds circled the tree, hammering the shaggy palm bark with heavy silver bills in search of insects and grubs. Both birds used their long black tail feathers for balance, leaning on them like old rocking chairs. Suddenly, one of the pair fluttered to the upper palm fronds exposing white under wing linings, a striking contrast against the black flight feathers.

Someday I will paint the pileated woodpecker. 

 Robin’s are not particularly fussy about where they build their nests. I’ve seen a nest cradled in a wreath on someone’s door, and a nest wedged between a light fixture and the bricks on a friend’s front porch.

My friend watched over the nest like a mother hen; protecting first the blue green eggs that appeared, and then the tiny newborns that followed. Each time he stepped out on his porch, the mother robin swooped over his head and dive-bombed him to protect her nest. Little did she know that he was a staunch ally.

The robins’ precarious nest-building habits are not without risk, and many a nest topples to the ground following a strong windstorm. But when it comes to parenting, robins are seldom outmatched.

My acrylic painting “Robin Hood” was inspired by the apple blossoms in the spring and the sighting of a robin’s nest. 

"Robin Hood" 16 x 20 acrylic on canvas

On my daily walk, I watched a turkey vulture swoop overhead and land on a hot tile roof a few feet away. The buzzard spread its wings to soak up the sun and rest while it digested its morning meal.

A startled mocking bird stopped in mid-flutter to bombard the huge bird, diving at it with angry squawks and stabs of its beak, despite the fact that its enemy was ten times its size.

The indifferent vulture pulled in its neck, tucked its small red head between gangley wing blades, and stubbornly ignored the mocker’s tenacious thrusts.

Not to be outdone, the gutsy mocker continued to swoop and dive, until finally the exasperated vulture lifted its dark wings against the sky and flew off in search of a new perch.

I enjoy the antics of the Florida mocking bird, a slightly browner version than its northern counterpart. Its uproarious songs and saucy attitude inspired my acrylic painting: “Berry picking time.”

"Berry Picking Time" 16 x 20 acryllic on canvas

Love can’t be stored or saved; it’s best when given away!

Vikeholmen Lighthouse II, oil on 16x20 canvas

My dear friend Dorothy baked bread for as long as she was able. “Just like my mother used to make,” she lovingly boasted. Whenever I’d visit, she’d plop a fresh warm loaf in my hands and send me away with a smile and a part of herself.

I loved her recipe. You could make it at night, and let it rise in the refrigerator until the next day. Once, I put too much dough into my Tupperware bowl, and the yeast caused it to bubble up, open the lid, and spill onto my shelves and bottles.

Seeing the mess, made me think of a story about the girl and the porridge. She received a magic soup pot from a woman in the forest who told her what to say to start it cooking and to get it to stop. She would never be hungry again! But when the porridge was cooked, the little girl forgot the magic words to make it stop. The porridge spilled over onto the floor, out the front door, and into the streets of the village.

Love and creativity are like that, too. If you smother the urge, the inspiration, and try to keep it all to yourself it will find other outlets. Like yeast dough spilling from Tupperware or the magic pot bubbling over with soup, creativity (another form of love) spills over with sometimes unexpected consequences.

"Robin Hood" 16x20 acrylic on canvas

My coffee blog a few days ago is a good example. There are people who go to coffee houses and then create art or doodle with their coffee, drawing admiring crowds. These entrepreneurs paint with their fingertips and Stir Styx to create wonderful scenes in the chocolate and whip cream swirls on the top of their coffee. Creativity – you can’t hold it down.

When I lived in Kansas City, our favorite restaurant was Stephenson’s Apple Farm. An old apple cider barn and orchard made room for a wonderful dining spot full of antiques and dried apple dolls. Rather than let those withered apples rot when they fell to the ground, “creative’s” ingeniously made them into dolls. The withered apples became the heads after first carving a simple face into the pulp. As the apple dried, the features twisted unexpectedly into either smiling or snarling faces. 

They were so ugly, they were adorable. Each face had its own personality. Coming from an old Pioneer art form, the dolls attracted many tourists to the restaurant. Of course, their home style brisket, cinnamon apple slices and broccoli cheese casserole didn’t hurt their business either.

(In Progress) bird house; acrylic on 16x20 panel

Some people claim to have no creativity. I don’t believe it! You just haven’t discovered yours yet. What are the things you love? What do you enjoy spending your time doing? In most instances there’s a creative component, whether your joy is cooking, decorating, or having a flare for the dramatic. Capture your love and express it!