As many of my readers know, I have lived in Chatham County for the past five+ years. We purchased a spec home on a 2 acre parcel of dense woods with a creek. We were taken by the nature and especially the first summer, we were overrun (in a good way) with dragonflies, geckos, woodpeckers and humingbirds. My husband is fond of the birds and he has all types of feeders and feed that attract some very unusual birds. This week we are enjoying a new visitor to the garden, an indigo bunting. We feed all year and have amazing bird watching. I also have a perrenial garden and so we also see a lot of butterflies and tree frogs.
It is difficult to explain to people how beautiful Chatham County is. It is also easy to understand why so many people are trying to preserve the rural character and charm of the area. This brings the inspiration for this post; a poem that I read that I think expresses what we Chathamites all feel.
Previously published in the Chapel Hill Herald SunIn Praise of Chatham
May 19, 2009
Readers of this column
often find pointed critiques of matters that I think need attention
in Chatham County. Doubtless you will read such writings again, soon.
But Spring time has been so intoxicating that I must take this
diversion to also mention the solid core of wild goodness that is
Chatham County.
Regardless of calendar
time, for me, Spring begins when the Forsythia and Bradford Pear
burst their buds. Cardinals become my alarm clock, unless I get lucky
enough to have a Chuck Wills Widow perch in my backyard. I did strike
it lucky some weeks ago when that very bird chose our lot to light
and sing loud enough to raise the sun over the horizon.
The Dogwoods appear like
white butterflies in the forest. Being a small tree, the limbs are so
thin as to be nearly invisible at a distance. The flowers seem
suspended, floating almost, without any support the eye can detect.
This sleight of bloom lends an air of magic to the wooded hill barren
through winter’s cold.
Praise as well to the
Tulips, Irises and Lilies’; exotic shapes dandled on a breeze,
lightly sweet.
The Daffodils among the
early bulbs in varied sizes this year through the snow did push. Such
tenacity and strength.
The Pansy starts planted
by my neighbor withstood the frozen days and will now brave the day
long sun beating down on petals that appear so frail. No human could
take such extremes, yet we equate Pansies with the weak among us. Ha!
And again I’ll praise the
birds whose morning chorus swells each day with promise, contentment,
wooing, and the hope of chicks to feed. Bluebirds nest in the boxes I
bought from the credit union years ago. To and fro they go gathering
scraps for their nest. Before long both mom and dad are flying
sorties all day to feed the young who screech upon their every
arrival. Fiercely standing guard, alas, the bluebird is no match for
a black snake who senses an easy meal. One year Michele had to peel a
three footer off the tree and send it packing so the blue brood could
live to fledge.
The cry of the Red
Shouldered Hawk above the house is a frequent sound. Soaring, at
times harassed by crows or jays to be steered off their nests.
My favorites, the
Vultures, not comely I know, but nobler in sustained flight than
their local avian cousins. Surfing Spring breezes with not so much as
a flap of a wing, grace on the ethers searching out corruption to
devour. The ancient Egyptians held them in high esteem for that very
reason.
Each year a Meadowlark
makes its nest in the field on the community college campus.
Spring-of-the-year he calls thither a mate to pursue. Great
accompaniment to yoga practice in the sunny vernal morn.
Gentle showers and soft
breezes are also to be exalted. So ordinary, perhaps; yet so splendid
carrying coolness before Summer’s furnace. Not coolness only but the
scent of the Honeysuckle and her confederates Privet and Wisteria.
Through a cool Ante Meridian walk these wafting winds exhilarate the
brain with perfumed laced greetings.
I mustn’t forget the the
Peepers and toads, symphonic serenades soothing. They sing another
irrepressible vocal harmony in the ode to yearly renewal.
Not only the wild, but the
cultivated wonders of Chatham as well I must herald. The coming of
the farmer’s markets around. Tender lettuce, asparagus and
strawberries a bumper year we’ve had. Friends and neighbors greeting
and meeting at the focal point of local food grown by local people;
the common denominator of goodness, health and social cohesion.
Limited as I am by both
space and descriptive powers this praise of Chatham’s Spring must now
close. Until then allow me to encourage you to dawdle, tarry and
otherwise slow your days in what ever way you can to imitate the bee
and suckle the nectar from the Spring. Defy the tyrants who manage
your time, dirty your hands to plant a tomato, a bean, perhaps a fig
tree. Invest in life’s soil a harvest of bounty to take in the
Autumn.
