A House Full of Boxes – Where Is That Key?

The world’s greatest packer here.

All boxes taped solid, each box marked—contents, how to handle and where to deposit.

housefullofboxesbyjo

I like order!

Contemplating the move from New Hampshire back to Maine, advice came in from all quarters:

  • Hire a mover.
  • Get a large box truck.
  • Sell it all.
  • Have an auction.
  • Hire my friend—and his truck—and his friends.
  • Pack books by theme and organize them—like a library.
  • I’ll be there, just call me.
  • Buy moving boxes and white wrapping paper. No newsprint!
  • I got a trailer you can use. It’s an open trailer, pack it all at once and move everything in a day—just be sure it doesn’t rain.
  • Move it all into the garage and move it out later.
  • Rent a storage unit.
  • Leave it all behind.
  • $9-10,000 is a good price for all you got to move. That should be the worse case scenario.

Sheesh!

Hubby and I stopped talking and got busy.

  • What! You’re moving it yourself?
  • Hire someone to pack. You don’t have to do that.
  • You’re too old to do all that work.
  • Hire a mover!

No one asked what we wanted.

Our concern? Others packing would be a disadvantage—our not knowing where things were. That “good price” was too steep. We’d moved before—no one helped unless we begged at the last minute. Those buyer walk-through days had been met each time. We were successful this time too! The house was empty in ten days!

Day two, we packed an open trailer and a relative hauled it leaving it in our new yard. Arriving a few days later with a very heavy load in our box trailer and pickup, Hubby and I unpacked both trailers and truck. The next day, we were off again to NH.

What made it work for us was a special condition agreed to by the buyer—leasing the garage at closing. We moved out of the house ten days, in time for closing. Now we had thirty days to clear out the two-story, four bay garage. We made it in twenty-nine days! We now have thirty days to clear out the sawmill building. At the end of this month, we will be home free! Done! C’est tout finis! Finiti! Terminado! Back to painting and writing!

Okay! Calm down.

Why so long? Hubby and I were the crew. We spent days sorting, packing and going to the recycling center (I call it “the dump”) to dispose of unwanted stuff. We sold a few big items by hauling them to dealers for consignment. Each trip was three hours, sometimes more. Back pain was excruciating. It was difficult and exhausting.

Advice was replaced with “I told you so” comments! A few poked fun at how we just loved to move the hard way. Why not be happy for us? Why not congratulate us for what we accomplished—by ourselves?

We didn’t know how in the world we could carry the heavy furniture into the house and up a flight of stairs. We had struggled to move it to the trailer from the house. While dreading how to move our last heavy piece of furniture to the trailer, our young neighbor volunteered! He was fantastic. Later, he informed us of his bad back gotten while on duty in Afghanistan, but not to worry! He was glad to help. Bless his soul. At the other end, we hired two high school boys who gladly moved furniture upstairs and down with ease! Youth and strength go hand in hand. One hauled lobster traps with his dad, that explained his ability to pick up what we could not. Bless their souls! And very nice too.

My step daughter is very good at cleaning out barns and selling ‘stuff’ of interest to

Pic_0422_680

Time for a break.

collectors. I snapped several photos to help promote the sale of the ‘stuff’ left behind.

One of the items we decided to sell was my old snow blower. They ignition key is packed in one of the boxes labeled KEYS. She needs that within a few days.

“Hmm. Hun, have you seen the box marked Keys?”

Hubby stares at the jungle of boxes.

No response.
________________________________

Share and tell us about your moving experiences.

 

 

I Won!

HappyMeerkatreviews  had a promotion for a book on her blog.

When I spotted it, I thought, “Nah. I won’t get it.”

My other self said. What’s the matter? You deserve it like anyone else who signs up for it. Give it a shot. So, I did—I also sent it a positive vibe.

I had, a few weeks before, finished reading Dr. Wayne Dyer’s book, The Power of Intention and have been trying to live by his doctrine.

It really works! Focusing on different situations in my life, I decided they needed another approach. His philosophy, change you mind and change your life, has a lot to offer.

I focused on what was possible based on the power of intention and voila, it works! We sold our home and are moving to another state and I won this wonderful book A Lucky Day by Carlos J. Server.

Perhaps you will say, “Yeah. Right! Coincidence. Nothing more.”

“Well then, who made it happen? The Universe is big and I am part of it all as you are. It takes the power of the Universe to help you along your way to the power of intention.”

I am happy. I will read a happy book about a lucky day!

Thanks Carlos and HappyMeerkat. 

I Had To Put It Into Words

What is River Fork?

A coming of age YA story.

Why did I write it?

As a former teacher, I encouraged my high school students to write. One  particular assignment required an autobiography titled: “Fact, Fiction or Fix-it Autobio.”  Over the years my students, because of the title, felt comfortable enough to share stories I would never have been privy to.

tbwavestandbyjo-2017-72dpir

comment to beta read

I empathized at how much some had suffered in their short life. In particular was the loss of a parent, sibling or  a friend.

My mother died in a fire — my sister and I witnessed the event. I was five, my sister was seven. Needless to say, we never forgot. It is indelibly etched in my memory. So much detail for such a young mind.

Being aware of my students’ stories, a story evolved in my head for two years. My brain cranked out scenarios. At first it was a morass of imagery. How would I best present my idea. Picture book? Children’s book? Family story book? I wasn’t a writer. I wrote poetry and still do and tuck it away in a briefcase. But writing a book?

Since I am an artist, I began with cute pictures and stories. Then the story grew. It didn’t need to be cute — loss is not cute. I needed honesty and a theme, a plot, etc… . What did I get myself into?

I had to put it into words. As I began the writing process, I adjusted the length and breadth of the story. Years later, I found time in my retirement to finish the MS.

These last four years were devoted to researching the writing craft, improve my writing skills and understanding the different publishing options. Needless to say, the times have surely changed the publishing process since I first put pen to paper.

The story:

  • Timeline: 1957
  • Theme: the loss of a parent.
  • Setting: fictitious town of River Fork, NH.
  • Characters: Three neighboring teens who live in  a farming community.
  • It is about coming of age, death, forgiveness, hope and faith, budding romance.
    • It contains a bit of paranormal (no magical potions, witches, vampires, violence, etc…)
      tbwavestandbyjo-2017-72dpir
Are you a beta reader?

The MS has been line critiqued and gone through several revisions

Presently, I need a critique from a few beta readers willing to give me an honest review. Comment if interested.

If you wish to work with me in this endeavor, your name will be mentioned in the credits and I will gift you a digital copy of my YA novel once it is published.

 

I’ve since begun a sequel—Roach’s story.

Please like, comment and share this post.
Thanks.

 

I Think I Got It … Kinda.

pic_0422_680

Yes, I’m really here… 😉

 

Been writing for a while.

Blogs, that is.

I do have a manuscript for a YA novel that I am interested in publishng as well.

But this is about social media.

I find social media protocols strange. Some give an option, then it really is not what I think it will be.

Two days ago, I clicked on that ‘bell’ located at the top of my WP window. This time it worked! All the other times nothing happened. So I had given up.

Like I said, I clicked it the other day and there  was a list of people following me. My Twitter account had notified me I had these followers, but I couldn’t find them in the Twitter followers listing. Perplexing at the time.

Here they are in my WP account. Beautiful!

I experienced an epiphany. Things started to connect. So that is how it comes together. Now to make it work for me.

I did redirect my website to my WP account. It is http://www.jmorise.com . And, I am the one who solves a lot of issues for my hubby’s computer as well as mine. I taught computer science for 20+ years. Therefore, give me a break before judging me. I retired just as social media was coming of age. I was not interested at the time. I was busy painting and writing my MS and fulfilling a whole lot of obligations. Retirement finds me just as busy as when I was employed.

Does anyone else out there find social media difficult to digest?

I’m not talking about posting a picture and requesting likes. That is what I call a scrap-book or a family album.

Comments from like-minded participants as well as likes are my goal.

As I said, I think I got it… .

Leave a comment, a like and please share.

Thanks.

It was just an idea… .

the-ideaAn idea brewed in my brain for two years. Like a bug, there was no cure other than a pen and a piece of paper. So, I began to write.

Where did my idea come from? Somewhere deep in my stream of consciousness I suppose. When I read or listen, my head makes associations. Some are  interesting, others strange yet possible, and some are outright dumb.

Years ago, as a high school teacher, I assigned projects that included lots of graphics and lots of writing. One assignment was called “Fact, Fiction or Fix It.” Each student had to create a newsletter layout with stories, ads, gag cartoons, strip cartoons, interviews, research, etc. Finally the editorial page assignment was an auto-bio.

What could a high school student write about? I realized many of them had stories never expressed that would probably spill onto the editorial page. So the theme “Fact, Fiction or Fix It Bio” would be a safety net for them to open up.

Upon reading each story, I was stunned at the pain some of my students suffered in their short life span. In particular was the loss of a parent, sibling and a friend. I could relate because at five years old, my mother died in a fire — my sister and I witnessed the event. Needless to say, we never forgot it.

My brain cranked out scenarios. At first it was a morass of imagery. How would I best present my idea. Picture book? Children’s book? Family story book? I wasn’t a writer. I wrote poetry and still do and tuck them away in a briefcase. But writing a book?

Since I am an artist, I began with pictures and cute stories. Then the story grew. But it didn’t need to be cute — loss is not cute.

Friends made recommendations. I was not an English teacher, so I took their advice. I wove a beautiful, wordy story. It sounded great. The story got longer. I was lost in my own words and characters. I needed another character. But who? It was necessary. A girl with trouble, like the two boys I had wandering about in those pages, would make it a better story. That required a re-write.Image result for free crumpled paper graphic

After four years and many re-writes, and retirement from a teaching career, I had the courage to join a writer’s group.

There I learned about fiction writing and I trashed a lot of my flowery words. A few critiques  helped me grow and encouraged me to continue writing my story.

Meanwhile, as an artist, I promote my art to galleries and display my work in group and solo shows. However, my story is still alive in my head. I read about writing, attend writer workshops and talk to authors. I read YA novels and joined a national writers/authors group. I continue to re-write whenever I have the chance.

Publishing has gone through a lot of changes since I committed myself to this story. After much research and comparisons, I have decided on indie-publishing.

The idea came to me fourteen years ago and now it is a complete story. My target is the YA audience.

Therefore, I am now seeking beta readers. If you are interested in beta reading my YA story, please write to me. Request to fill out this FORM and we will talk. You will receive a free copy of the book once it is published and I will mention you in the credits page.

Please share this post and leave a comment.

Summer is O – V – E – R – there. Somewhere.

Pulling out the old linoleum flooring was a chinch. Happy about that.

Pulling out the old linoleum flooring was a chinch. Happy about that.

Didn’t we just notice spring arriving and how hot it got in July. New England got damned hot.

Yeah, I know. I chose to used two different patterns from kitchen to dining. I like it. A dividing point instead of a wall.

Yeah, I know. I chose to used two different patterns from kitchen to dining. I like it. A dividing point instead of a wall.

July-August, I was cutting tiles for our kitchen  floor. Man, it was like standing in a hot oven as I cut tiles outside on a wet-table tile saw. No shade. The sun’s glare on a wet, shiny tile demanded sunglasses. It took several minutes to regain my vision as I stepped back into the house from each cut—many cuts.

August, we installed interior doors solid panel as well as french double-doors. Painting the woodwork and touching up was a joy. Uh huh. Right!

My easel is just beyond that doorway. Waiting.

One french door was too short. Fortunately, I had a remnant from another door, so with a little surgery and sanding and painting, I successfully ‘grew’ the too short door with a transplant.

I’ve seriously pondered such surgery. Three or four inches taller would be just right. I was ‘normal’ height in high school. I prayed I would continue to grow. Years later, I conceded that I was deluding myself.

Sutdio doors. Patient on horses awaiting surgery.

Sutdio doors. Patient on horses awaiting surgery.

Back to my door transplant. Hubby was impressed and promised to help with the installation. Once the paint was dry and the glass surfaces scraped clean, he helped carry the door upstairs. French doors may have less wood, but they are still  heavy. Since Hubby was not home, I installed the door myself. Difficult, but doable. The light shines through the glass door and illuminates a dark hallway at the same time. Just what we need.

September, it was sheet rock and mudding. Then, I noticed the kitchen ceiling—cracking? Grab the step-ladder, tape and tools and keep mudding until it looks smooth. That took a while. And yes, sanding and priming and painting. My neck hurt from hours of looking up.

October, finish work with door molding and thresholds and ahhh—some more damned sanding, painting and touching up.

“But you’re an artist. You must love doing this,” said Hubby.

Yeah! Right.

My finished doors and the patient now standing about 3 inches taller. Waiting to go upstairs.

My finished doors and the patient now standing about 3 inches taller. Waiting to go upstairs.

I don’t mind doing it a little bit. But this has been going on since I was a little kid helping my parents with each house project. Then my first husband proved inept with a hammer—to install little blocks of wood outside the window for drapery rod extensions he sunk the hammer head  deep into a plaster wall. So, I became the architect/carpenter/painter, et al. I’ve constructed additions, designed homes, built homes and two-story, 4-bay garages, an eighteen sided home and now this. It is going to stop.

My manuscript is in my computer just inside my studio, reminding me to finish the editing I promised myself to finish last spring.

Summer is over there. In my kitchen, on the floor, the ceiling, around doors, in doors and thresholds. Oh yeah. Almost forgot. We cut trees and split firewood and I helped Hubby design and build a retaining wall to support the fire-wood in the basement. He feared the stacked wood might fall atop our little VW. I assured him it would not. Hubby worries about stuff like that.

Hope your summer was fulfilling as was mine. 😉

Hello? Somebody Is Here. I Think I’ll Take a Nap

Charlie taking a nap.

Well, I’ve recovered from the foot thing. Walking normal again. Meanwhile, I have been busy as usual.

I can’t imagine being bored. I don’t seem to have enough hours in a day. As a child, I remember Dad trotting off for a nap on the living room sofa after Sunday lunch. Sitting and watching him from the kitchen, I wondered why he chose to waste so much time sleeping at mid-day. After all, he slept at night as did the rest of the family. Even as a child, I felt the days were too short.

Today, sitting here, I am tired. I want a nap. But I’m too stubborn to do so. My eyelids drop every once in a while and it is mid-afternoon.

Last night, at about midnight, I awoke for a drink of water and returned to bed. The full moon illuminated my path so as not to bump into furniture. Soon after closing my eyes, a voice called, “Hello? Hello?”

Was I dreaming? I closed my eyes.

“Hello?”

I got up and rushed to look down at the front door from the stairway. Closed. No one there.

“Hello?”

Where? I call to Hubby, “Someone is here!” I rushed downstairs to the kitchen. No one there. I opened the cellar door to find the light on. It had been turned on hours ago to assist my company in maneuvering the stairs with a platter of barbecued burgers and rolls. If the light was still on, the garage door might be open as well. I sucked in a breath and answered, “Hello!” at the top of the stairs. “Hello?” came from below. A male’s voice.

Barefooted, I  quietly stepped down the stairs, hesitating at the bottom. Should I go around the corner into the basement and see this person inside? Perhaps he was outside in the driveway. “Hello!” I called. “Hello” replied from outside. Stepping into the lit basement I walked toward the open garage doorway. A man of about thirty-five appeared with a flash light glowing from his smart phone. He seemed sober, standing about fifteen feet away. He stayed put.

“I’m sorry to wake you. But I’m not from around here and I’m lost. My aunt was driving and she was picked up on a DUI and the police told me to walk. I’ve walked over two miles and I don’t know where I am. I finally saw your light and thought I could ask for your help. Can you help me. I’m not used to all these trees and woods that are around here and I’m really scared of wild animals coming out. Don’t be afraid of me, I’m a good guy. I won’t do anything bad. I’m just scared and I don’t know where I am.”

Asking him to stay in the driveway for a moment, I returned to the stairs finding one of our guests at the top with a quizzical look. Hubby appeared next. “I need a man down here. Please,” I whispered. My urgent request moved Hubby and the couple visiting to descend and investigate.

Returning to my midnight guest, I grabbed a chair just outside near the garage door and offered him a seat. My goal was to have him in a position where he could not easily lunge at us. He accepted. Upon questioning, we debated what to believe and what to do. My male guest said, “Tell him to get out of here. Get going down the road.”

His name was Robert, He wanted to get back home after a day at the Lobster Festival. We determined he was about four miles from his destination. His phone had no service and displayed his eleven unsuccessful attempts at calling his wife.

Being the good Samaritan, I called 411 for a taxi. 411 was not available. We couldn’t find the local taxi in the phone book. So I called 911. I explained the problem. The officer asked what the emergency was.  No emergency. “You do NOT call 911 for a taxi.” I apologized asking him who to call, he gave me the sheriff’s number and hung up.

Sympathetic to our situation, the sheriff’s dispatcher gave us a number. Meanwhile the plan changed. We decided to call Robert’s wife. After several attempts, she finally answered. She knew Robert. Handing Robert my phone, he spoke begging her to pick him up.

We suggested to that he walk along the road to flag her down. As he parted, I said, “Don’t worry about wild animals. The only thing you have to worry about are the cars going by. But they will avoid you.”

Thanking us, he then lit his way down our driveway into the moon-lit night.

Koala sleeping on a tree top

Koala sleeping on a tree top (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hubby and I found it difficult to sleep afterwards. Eventually, I sat up waiting for Hubby to be in deep sleep. Light awakens him. I only turn it on when necessary.

The door being shut tight, I gently and firmly turned the knob. No squeak. I returned the knob to its original position. No squeak. I pulled the door open. No screaming hinges. Upon exit, I gently pulled the door towards me without shutting it. Success!

Quietly making my way to the downstairs living room in the dark. I decided to read. As I fumbled around, a light suddenly switched on in the hallway. I walked to the stairs to find our male guest at the top step, bent over, struggling to quickly don his jeans. Was he planning to run down the stairs to grab a “intruder”? When I appeared at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped in mid-pose. One bad move and I imagined him tumbling down the stairs—head first.

“Jesus Christ, Jo. We thought someone was in the house! Why are you walking around in the dark?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled his pants up, returned to the guest room in a huff and shut the door.

Chuckling to myself, and appreciating that he was ready to defend our home from an unknown intruder, I replied, “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”

Returning to the living room, I read for about an hour, then tip-toed back to bed where I finally managed to get four hours of sleep.

We were pretty tired this morning. Especially my male guest who had to catch a 6:30 AM flight.

Now I believe I will join Hubby for a little nap.

Damn—I Swear It’s OK

I’ve written my first YA manuscript and a scene comes back to me now and then. One of the characters is angry for good reason, why not let him swear?

Listen to me. I, the writer, give permission for a character to swear? I write the narrative, but the characters seem to have a life of their own. Perhaps they can swear because they really, really feel like it.  Perhaps they dictate the narrative and I just type it.

At first it was a children’s story? Naw. That didn’t work out. I tried different iterations  and each time, it was just too—corny.

English: Cartoon depicting little girl on beac...

English: Cartoon depicting little girl on beach talking to her mother. Caption: Her First Pair of Jumpers — “Am I a little boy now, mama?”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then one day, I just started writing. I had a sad scene and lots of sobbing—the protagonist, not me. It seemed okay. But how was I to make this work? First there were two characters ages 6 and 12 and their moms. Add another kid, a girl this time. My own motherly instincts took over. Lots of love and gentle ideas, well brought up kids. The works. Make all mothers proud.

Then one day, it sounded too—corny.

No one is this nice and able to deal with adversity at a young age without blowing a gasket. Young ones have to get mad sometime. And when things just don’t go as planned? Well, they get angry like everyone else. Wouldn’t they want to express it and feel in control? Feel grownup? In their angry sort of way.

SwearI am convulsing on letting little ones swear? Mothers would be not proud.

Then one day, I made the children older: 12 going on 13 and 15. But it had to fit. Chapters, many chapters written and I had to make sure the change would flow through. The protagonist had to sound and act his new age as did his friends. Then I created a diagram and a timeline for each character to make their stories fit.

Karakasa (parasol) in Japan

Karakasa (parasol) in Japan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember my first swear—whispered in anger—in my second floor bedroom. I arrived home from school, went to my drawer to fetch a small, silk umbrella. A gift from my uncle. A souvenir from his last naval trip to a land I didn’t know existed. It had a painted picture on the orange silk. I know now it was a parasol, not an umbrella.  I opened the drawer. The parasol was gone! I was aware a distant cousin visited while I was at school, I knew she had absconded with my parasol! In anger I whispered “Dammit” to the bureau drawer. A voice at the bottom of the stairs said, “I heard that. Don’t you swear in this house!”

Why not? My space was violated. I was robbed! I stomped down the stairs and asked my step-mother where the parasol was. “I gave it to Rachel. She visited with her mom this morning, so I gave it to her. You don’t need it.”

I felt devastated. This was not the first time Rachel went home with my toys. My step-mother seemed to enjoy giving away my things without asking me. I swore and I felt, even to this day, justified in swearing. It was my relief valve.

That one swear did not convert me to daily swearing. I survived. As a young girl, I never swore again. Weeks later, a friend kind of swore when she nearly missed the after school bus. She said it in French, but changed the pronunciation a little.  “Maudine!”

I found the word fascinating, but never used it for fear of retribution at home. I knew my  parents were old enough to decipher ‘maudine’ as a play on ‘maudite’, which is French for ‘damned’.

The things one remembers.

Swearing? I do believe it is okay to let my character use one swear. Actually, I may have him say it in French because… . Now here I am enabling him. He is old enough to decide.

So I’ll continue editing my MS and see what happens. He’ll let me know what he wants to do.

Pine Warbler 20110311

Pine Warbler 20110311 (Photo credit: Kenneth Cole Schneider)

The weather is gloomy, rain comes in showers, thunder now barely audible as it travels West. Thud, thud. What was that? I swung around and stepped to the large, glass, double-door in my office. It has to be a bird!

On the ground, a tiny figure with colorful feathers lies motionless. The cat! Where’s Charlie?  Inside. That’s good. Main Coons are great hunters. Lucky for my feathered friend it was raining. Coons—all cats—prefer dry homes to wet forests.

One wing is spread open as it covers most of the bird. As I pick it up, its heart beats rapidly and delicately against my palm.

Very dazed.

I coo, “Are you okay?” No answer—what did I expect? Around me a dozen or more ‘yellow’ birds hover and flit from branch to branch. “Your friend flew into my window. I’m so sorry.”

It silently opens and closes its beak. Its eyes do the same. It must have a painful head. I cover the poor bird with both hands as a precaution for panic or another fall. What can I do? The other birds are calling to their friend. I’ll help your friend! I’ll ice her little head to stop any swelling. Maybe that will help. Stay, don’t go away, we’ll be back. I step inside with the bird as Charlie steps outdoors. The bird doesn’t move. But she (I feel it is a she) is still alive. She opens her beak. Gasping?

Shelter.

My free hand rummages through the freezer, I settle for a small bag of ground coffee. It’s very cold, perfect as an ice pack for the bird’s head. After about a minute, I remove the pack and make my way back to the door. Oh darn! The others have gone. Did they give up on her? The bird opened its eyes wide and seemed to be recovering. I try my hand at bird calls. “Tweet. Tweet?” I can hear them in the distance. Are they watching? I open my hand a little more. The bird becomes excited and panics. I close my hand a bit and whisper, “It’s okay.” As I pat her feathers and head, she relaxes. I slowly open my palm again, she adjusts her foot, perhaps to be comfortable. Such tiny feet! Does she feel safe inside my hand, which provides a familiar cover from the elements?

Thanks.

After several minutes, the bird sits and is more alert. She watches my other hand as it moves. A mosquito finds my arm, she cocks her head to watch it bite. With a breath, I blow it away but it returns. I bring the bird’s beak to the mosquito to possibly feed her. Nothing happens. The mosquito is annoyed and leaves.

It is about fifteen minutes since the incident. I must either cage the bird or return it to nature. Perhaps a tree limb, away from Charlie. The cat! He is still outside! It has begun to drizzle again—he’ll come. I call, “Charlie! Kitty come.” Good, old Charlie comes running, unaware—I think—of the bird in my grasp. I step out, shut the door and whisper to my friend. I reach up high with palm open. She sits. “What’s the matter Felicia? Felicia means happy. You are a happy, little bird, able to fly thousands of miles with your friends. Felicia it is! So. Felicia, will you sit in the crook of this limb?” I gently move her tiny feet. I reach up high again to encourage her to climb into the pine tree.

I go now.

Felicia suddenly and smoothly glides down into the brush four feet in front of me. She is hidden by a blackberry bush and small saplings. I reach for my camera. As I stoop and focus, she busily scratches under her wing, flits back and forth on the branch, looks at me, then at the ground. She jumps into the deep of ground cover and away from my lens. No picture—can’t complain. We spent over fifteen minutes sharing a crisis, a moment and a recovery.

I hope Felicia will be okay. Will she find her friends? Can she call out to them? Not sure.

Take care Felicia. Come again on your next migration. Next time, a gentle tap, tap will do.

Charlie naps.

"Hooray"

Hooray!

Inside, Charlie naps as I Google ‘yellow breast’ + ‘birds’. There it is! A pine warbler! And it is female! I knew it. That’s my Felicia!

Felicia is a Pine Warbler