This column, That Nature Show, is about the nature right under your nose: in our backyards, playgrounds and parks! Stop and look around, you’ll be amazed at what surrounds you.
Sunday is Mother’s Day. So, nu, have you bought a gift for your mother, or at the very least called her? I just yelled loudly, “Mooooom!” and she heard me because she lives only two miles from here, and has her ears always perked for the song of her chickadee. That’s what she calls me.
I used to call her Mama, then Mommy, then Mom, then, as an adolescent I referred to her as That Woman Who Grounded Me Because I Got A C In French, then in my 20s, in my discovery-of-my-Jewish-roots phase, Ema, Hebrew for mother, because I was engaged to a guy from Israel and was learning Hebrew in Jerusalem. Now I just call her Emily. We’ve reached this place, the mountain plateau, through lots of strenuous climbing.
We have a house wren nesting in window box of the shed. Its eggs are going to hatch by Mother’s Day. Can a bird have better Hallmark-card timing? It’s like a metaphor for the tender care I try to provide my kids. It has feathered the nest, sat patiently on the eggs (that is, when she was not disturbed by my son, 9, leering in to her abode. She flew out and almost hit him in the eye. Who wants to be the mother whose son was blinded in a bird-related melee? Not I. No Red Ryder BB gun).