Peas and a Baby Mockingbird
I tried to find the place just west of Nashville where that ocean covered Interstate 40 but all I could see was a few washed up trees in one low spot—no river, no stream, no rivulet—who would have guessed there would been that much water over the road. I stopped at Loretta Lynn’s Kitchen for a sandwich as a late lunch/early supper. A family sitting near the full size portrait of Loretta Lynn included two little girls about eight or so dressed in cheer-leading outfits and matching hair-ribbons. They stood in front of the jukebox and carefully selected several songs, and then pretended to have microphones as they sang along while standing in front of that portrait.
When I got home, I discovered I had peas a plenty. It took me nearly an hour to pick all those sweet snap peas on a row just five feet long. I filled a huge bag full of peas and then inspected the rest of the garden. Tomatoes are blooming, the lettuce has bolted, and the cucumbers are growing nicely.
Unloading and unpacking and putting things away after a trip is never fun—everything always feels so chaotic—and where did I put this or that—nothing is where I remembered it to be; plus going through the mail and the email, doing my laundry and getting ready for work—I feel incredibly behind.
Two days later, everything seems to be under control and I made my way back out to pick peas and check on the grass. There has been no rain since I left (in the rain) and the grass has not grown enough to need mowing. I see a few peas and decide to pick them for my supper.
Methodically I began on one end, there are not nearly as many as before, and then I see a bird only two feet away from me. Perched on one of the wire supports for the peas is a baby mockingbird hanging on for dear life. My hat blows off several times—and I try to pick peas far away from him, thinking he would see me and fly off. But he just sat there, looking at me, and I could swear he wanted me to somehow rescue him. Baby Bird rescue is not one of my skillsets and from previous experience with baby wrens in our laundry room, I decided to let him figure it all out himself.
No photos of that dear little fellow—I left my camera at home sitting right next to my cell-phone. But he was gone when I got in my truck to go home.