Signs of spring

    It's a sure sign of spring when robins start building their nests. When I was a little girl, a sassy little robin built her nest on the window sill of the bedroom that I shared with my two older sisters. My sisters and I watched her build her nest, lay her eggs, hatch her chicks and feed them. Through the window, we watched her and she watched us. That robin must have found the comings and goings of three little girls equally as fascinating as we found her. Perhaps that's why she chose that spot to build her nest.

    I was in kindergarten, so I got home earlier than my two older sisters. One day when I came home from school, my mother told me that  "company" was coming to visit. I found that strange. Who comes to visit in the middle of the day in the middle of the week? Especially when my dad was at work, my older sisters were in school, and it was my younger sister's nap time? Well, "company" just happened to be a photographer from the local newspaper. Apparently our family of baby birds was a feel good human interest story, and an encouraging sign that spring had arrived. If you have ever experienced a  Western Pennsylvania winter, you understand that this certainly is reason to celebrate.

    The photographer wanted a picture of me feeding the birds. My mother opened the bedroom window and gave me small chunks of bread to give them. I stood on the bed so I could reach out of the window. The nice gentleman from The Times positioned himself on the porch and started snapping pictures. I didn't give a rip about having my picture taken, or the possibility that it might be in the paper. All I cared about was the opportunity to feed those little birds and get a closer look at them. When he was finished, he and my mother engaged in adult conversation while I basked in the glory of feeding the birds.

    The grown ups forgot about me and the birds as they continued to talk. That's when the real excitement began. One of the birds hopped out of the nest, over the window sill, and fell onto the bed. I squealed in delight, my mother screamed in horror, and another baby bird followed his brother out of the nest and onto the bed. My mother and the photographer ran into the bedroom and tried to catch the birds. I continued to squeal, my mother continued to scream, and the poor photographer ran around in circles as the entire nest of birds made their way into the bedroom. And, as birds often do, started dropping birdie bombs everywhere, if you get my drift.

    My mom and the photographer kept running into each other as they tried to catch the birds. In all my born days I had never seen so much chaos. Or had so much fun. Just as soon as one of the adults came close to catching a bird, it managed to slip away, start hopping, and poop some more. All four of them made their way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen and dining room. I was only five, but even I saw the wisdom of closing the bedroom door to confine them to one room. I sure was glad the adults didn't think of that. I could have told them, but where was the sport in that? Besides, who listens to a five year old? Anyway, it wouldn't have been nearly as entertaining or as much fun for me.

    Eventually, all of the baby birds were caught and safely placed back in their nest. I can still see the look on my mother's face. The photographer was sweating, his glasses were crooked, his tie was twisted, and he had stepped in bird poop. The two of them looked at each other and eventually started to laugh. He offered to stay and help my mother clean up the mess, but she pretty much had enough company for one afternoon. By the time my sisters got home from school, my younger sister woke up from her nap, and my dad came home from work, there was no sign of the fiasco that had taken place that afternoon. However, my mom and I had a fine story to tell at dinner that evening.

    The picture did make the front page of the local paper. I guess The Times felt they owed it to my mother. Soon after that, the birds were gone and all that was left was the empty nest. Eventually, the nest was gone as well. I was left with a splendid memory of a very exciting afternoon, and a story that my mother and I shared and laughed about for the next fifty years.

    I learned that it's a fine thing to celebrate spring. It's good to have company over, even if it is in the middle of the day in the middle of the week when nobody else is home. It's important to feed the birds. And if you ever have baby birds in your bedroom, you might want to close the door and confine them to one room. Unless, of course, you have a five year old around.
 

Be healthy!
Cheryl Ilov, PT, GCFP

Stop and smell the lilacs.

 
    It's late April. The birds are singing, the grass is green, the weather is beautiful. And I'm down in the dumps. Yesterday I took my bad mood outside to sit in the yard and listen to the birds. I realized it was a glorious day and I shouldn't miss out on it, in spite of my low spirits. At least the birds were in chipper mood. I settled back and closed my eyes. The breeze shifted and the smell of lilacs swept over me. The smell of spring and the feel of the warm sun quickly began to improve my mood. I started to smile as I drifted off and somehow made my way back to April two years ago.

    I was visiting my parents. The weather was absolutely beautiful, the trees were in full bloom, and the colors were glorious. With the change of season, and at my mother's request, I pulled out her summer outfits and put away her winter ones. She inventoried her wardrobe, looked at me and said, "I need new clothes." Then she spoke those magic words, "You have to go shopping for me."  And a choir of angels began to sing. What girl just doesn't love to go shopping? And not only did I GET to go shopping, I HAD to go shopping!

    There are some of us who love to shop. Then there are those of us who regard it as a sacred art, and have developed a level of skill and proficiency that make the average shopper look like bumbling amateurs. I consider myself in the latter category. My mother warned me that I would have a difficult time finding clothes that met her specific critera. More music to my ears. I love a challenge. I meticulously planned my strategy as I drove the familiar road to the mall and headed straight to Macy's.

    Two short hours later, I staggered to the check out with piles of clothes in my arms. All the sales clerk could see were my eyes, the top of my head and the tips of my fingers. Triumphantly, I plopped the merchandise on the counter, and told her, "These aren't for me. They're for my mother, and I'll be back tomorrow to return what she doesn't want." I took the huge bags home and had a great time playing show and tell with my mom. We organized the clothes into three piles as she tried them on. You know, the "yes" pile, the "no" pile, and the "maybe" pile. We took a break to admire our work, and then we put our heads together to plan my strategy for the following day.

    After another successful day at Macy's,  I brought the fruits of my labors home. More organizing, trying on, mixing, matching, and the piles of "yes", "no", and "maybe" grew larger. We were on a roll. Ahhhh, shopping! By this time my father was so impressed with my level of skill that he got in on the action and placed an order for himself. This was getting better and better. Just listen to those angels sing!

    I went back to the mall the next day, and the next day, and the next. By the fourth day all of the sales clerks knew my name and I knew theirs. I called them by name and waved to them as I worked my way through the store. I was surprised they didn't put me on the payroll. Some of the sales staff thought I actually was on the payroll. My Macy's card never saw so much action and it sizzled from the activity.

    By the time I left to go back to Denver, my mother had a well organized new wardrobe. My father had new shorts and shirts. I had a whole group of new friends at Macy's. I did my part to boost the local economy, a practice that my sisters and I would continue over the next several months, but that's another story.

      I came out of my reverie. I wasn't in my childhood home, I was in my own yard. I wasn't at the mall, I was in my lawn chair. But for some reason, I was in a much better mood. Sometimes, all you need to do, is stop, and smell the lilacs.

Be healthy!
Cheryl Ilov, PT, GCFP