debbieburton.blog

The Bird is the Word

Yes, that’s right, bird is the word for today. I used to underestimate birds. Maybe that’s because they’re so small and numerous. Oh, there’s another bird flying by… big deal. My ambivalent attitude ended when my husband started using a Nikon Coolpix Superzoom camera. Initially he bought it to photograph larger wildlife. But he needed some practice, so he started zooming in on birds. After all, birds are all around us.

Fast forward to our recent Colorado vacation. We attended our first bird watching event in Great Sand Dunes National Park. I discovered bird watching is a relaxing way to spend an hour or two. Of course, in order to see birds one needs to be an early riser, which might leave a few people out.

The main point of birdwatching is to identify birds. In order to accomplish this goal it’s important to pay attention and listen. Wow! Those two things might leave a few more people out. But if you challenge yourself to watch and listen at the same time here are the five elements necessary to identifying birds.

Size
Color (which includes individual markings)
Habitat
Flight pattern
Song (when walking in a dense forest it’s hard to see birds in tall trees)

Resources are available to help anyone get started. Our guide recommended a book, Sibley’s Field Guide to Birds, for either the Eastern U.S. or Western U.S. depending on your location. And as you can imagine, there are iPhone apps to help you learn the songs of birds. If you are interested read this review for more more information. Our guide recommended using bird call apps responsibly when you are in the field because they can disturb whatever birds might be in the vicinity.

During our bird walk I learned to identify the call of a chickadee.

In addition to attending a bird watching walk, anyone can set up a bird feeder in their backyard to watch birds at home. During our trip to Colorado we saw numerous hummingbird feeders at restaurants and hotels. After several encounters, we identified different varieties of hummingbirds and discovered some are very territorial. One kind, the Ruby-throated, hid in the bushes until the Broad-tail hummingbirds settled at the feeder. The Ruby-throated bird rushed out of its hiding place. It perched on top of the shepherd’s hook, then buzzed all the other birds until it had the feeder all to itself.

Enjoy my video of the cut-throat competition among hummingbirds.

I must say my first attempt at making this video was cut short because one aggressive hummingbird buzzed me!

Bird watching is an educational family friendly activity. Now you know why the bird is the word. If you like birds check out my previous post Cardinal Virtues.

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Vernal Falls

Trudging up the mountainside

following the trail

Climbing high with every step

hope my feet don’t fail

Although the way is difficult,

the cool breeze is my coach.

The towering trees above me

applaud my slow approach.

Now I’m getting closer

I hear the rushing roar

I smell the fragrance of the pines

My heart begins to soar.

The water is before me

It sprays against my face

A rainbow rises in the mist

to speak of heaven’s grace.

Abundant life is here

Fresh green moss abounds

My weary spirit is revived

Ready to go back down.

Are You Focused on Achievement?

I’ve always been a goal driven person. I set expectations for myself and work hard even though I’m retired. Give me a block of time and I’ll fill it up. Yet, if you ask me what I’ve been doing often I can’t remember. I do know this; I haven’t cleaned house very much.

As you are probably already aware, I love to write. Even if I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. Building a following for this blog has been my passion. I believe it’s important to try post something each week and I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read my stories. Many of my posts involve research, interviews, and digging through personal photos. Now it’s July and the calendar is telling me its time to breathe in. Breathing in means taking time to seek inspiration.

Today I’m sharing a poem I wrote awhile back entitled Achievement.

Slick rock beneath my feet,

hands fixed on sympathetic boulders,

I fight to gain traction and climb.

My heart rate elevates with the altitude.

Gasping for breath,

I reach the summit and revel in my achievement.

The vista reveals a sandstone canyon.

A painter’s palette

of deep reds, tawny yellows, and burnt oranges fill the horizon.

Each layer of rock illustrates a chapter in “Earth’s Biography.”

Far below, the author continues to write.

the mighty Colorado River

snakes back and forth in a quest for sea level.

It too, pushes against obstacles,

but creates a masterpiece.

And I am silent.

I’m sure you agree that nothing man creates compares to the beauty of God’s creativity. Until next time…

Rescuing Big Cats

This summer my daughter Jenny invited me to visit Big Cat Rescue in Tampa. I hesitated to go. After all, what would Buddy (our beagle) think? He and I share a common opinion; who needs cats anyway?

Jenny on the other hand, is the proud owner of two cats (the domesticated variety of course). In an effort to overcome my prejudice toward felines I joined her for a tour. In the process I gained respect for a cause I’d never really considered. Big Cat Rescue is a leader in the fight to stop the abandonment and abuse of exotic cats.

The main cause of exotic cat abandonment is the “pet trade.” This trade evolves around the misconception that big cat cubs make cute pets. People purchase lion, tiger, bobcat, leopard, or cougar kittens from breeders. The kittens are manageable for a year or two, but as they mature problems arise. Often the big cats only bond to one family member and are aggressive toward the rest of the family.

When the pet owners realize they can’t handle their “wild” cat who is growing bigger everyday, they may respond by chaining it up or housing it in a small cage. Eventually they might turn to Big Cat Rescue to take the animal off their hands. The sixty-seven acre property also houses big cats who have retired from performing acts, or were given up by roadside zoos.

During our ninety minute guided tour I learned the sad story behind many of these beautiful animals. I met a tiger named Andy who arrived at BCR in 2016. Andy came from Serenity Springs, a zoo in Colorado which was closing its facility. The zoo was known for offering tiger cub petting sessions and used Andy to breed kittens.

I was impressed at the volunteer staff who work tirelessly to feed the cats and clean their living quarters. Although fenced for protection, each living space afforded plenty of room for the cats to roam. Andy’s living space included a large pool where he enjoyed a swim.

Big Cat Rescue has its own animal hospital. A bobcat with numerous broken bones was discovered in Orlando laying by the side of the road on Christmas Day. She was taken to BCR and given the name Noel. BCR contacted a vet with the Tampa Humane Society who provided the necessary treatment. Noel spent six months recovering at BCR and was eventually released to live in the wild at Orlando Wetlands Park.

The Accidental Founding of BCR

Founder, Carole Baskin states, “I never set out to start a sanctuary. It happened partly by accident, then largely through a process of evolution.” Carole’s journey with exotic animals began at a llama auction in 1992. A man walked in seeking a home for a six month old bobcat on a leash. Carole’s heart went out to the young bobcat. She named her Windsong and brought her home.

True to her natural instincts, Windsong only bonded with Carole. Her husband wanted his own bobcat kitten and the couple set off for Minnesota to buy one. They found a fur farm which sold a few bobcat kittens for pets, but slaughtered any they couldn’t sell to make money in the fur trade. Carole and her husband were outraged to realize the kittens might be slaughtered and bought all fifty-six! They loaded all the kittens in their vehicle and drove them to their home in Florida. It was difficult to care for the bobcats in their home, so Carole and her husband moved them to the property where BCR is presently located.

Carole admits she and her husband made a lot of mistakes. Although they were trying to save bobcats from destruction, the couple was actually supporting the pet trade by buying bobcats and reselling them as pets. Their interest in rescuing bobcats grew to include additional species. Like many in the big cat pet trade, Carole believed she was preserving endangered species. Over time she realized she was dooming the animals to a life of captivity and abuse. Although she thought she placed kittens in “good homes,” many were returned to BCR when they were no longer cute.

A New Purpose

Since 2004, BCR no longer breeds or buys big cats and is a non-profit organization. The mission statement of BCR is to give big cats the best care possible and educate the public on the plight of these animals so that someday there will be no need for a sanctuary to exist.Today Big Cat Rescue has become a voice in support of increased legislation to insure that lions, tigers, and other dangerous big cats do not live in abusive situations or threaten public safety. For more info go to this link.

After my tour I can say I have a real sense of appreciation for the work of Big Cat Rescue. But rest assured Buddy, you are still number one with me.

Sweet Land of Liberty

Like many of you, I’ll celebrate Independence Day this week. When I think about America I value the foresight of those who preserved our national parks. I never tire of exploring the natural beauty of the western U.S. From the rain forests of Olympic to the rock formations of Canyonlands, each park preserves treasured natural landmarks for future generations.

My reflections on America connect me to the pioneers who settled it. When I look at these wagons I imagine the creak of the wheels as they slowly rolled through the tall prairie grass. I think about the brave families ready to tackle anything life threw at them. Once they found a place they liked, the pioneers spent weeks chopping wood for the construction of their new home, usually a rustic one room cabin.

Can you imagine a life working from sunrise to sunset to survive? This settler had to walk to a stream to get water. Somehow the land doesn’t look quite hospitable to farming. Maybe he had mining for gold on his mind.

When I think about America I remember growing up in Ohio. I picture farmers plowing the land and producing a great harvest. I think of county fairs that celebrate the biggest pumpkins, best jars of jam, and beautiful patchwork quilts.

As a student in Ohio I reaped the benefits of a good public education. I’m thankful for teachers who taught me how to read and write. I’m thankful for the opportunity to attend The Ohio State University.

Go Bucks!

My feelings of thankfulness take me to my present home in Orlando. I picture the busy city streets. I see the millions of ordinary people who do follow the traffic laws and I am amazed when I realize most Americans are just out there trying to do their best. I’m thankful for the workers who designed and built the roads we all drive on.

A replica of the Mayflower, Plymouth Mass.

America began when a little group of Pilgrims sailed across the Atlantic in search of freedom to worship God. I marvel that the same freedom is available to me today. I have the freedom to travel where I want. I have choices about what I want to buy, eat, and wear. I appreciate the freedom to read what I want, and think what I want. As a child born in the 1950’s I have never experienced what it is like to live in a combat zone. Unlike many countries, no wars have been fought in my homeland during my lifetime. I have never known what it might be like to go hungry.

When I think of Independence Day, I picture neighbors getting together for backyard barbecues and kids running three-legged races in the park. I imagine bands playing patriotic music while I wipe the watermelon juice off my chin. When night falls I ooh and ah at spectacular fireworks.

All of this is America to me. Happy Birthday America.

Always Be Celebrating

Last week I received a beautiful card in the mail for my birthday. The sender recognized my affinity for nature and knew my favorite colors. The card meant a lot to me. Each year, as my birthday draws nearer, I tend to reminisce a little about past birthdays.

When I was a child I didn’t like the fact that I was born in June. Usually school was out for the summer. My school friends were often away on vacation. Sometimes my family would be on vacation as well. Even so, one birthday memory stands out from all the rest.

My tenth birthday was celebrated at a campground in the Smoky Mountains. As a family, we were busy living the camp life and I thought my birthday would be ignored. Boy was I surprised when out of nowhere my mom presented me with a cake. We were miles from a store or a bakery, and she had no oven in our little trailer.

Children always look forward to their birthdays with excitement. They feel as they grow older, each year brings new freedoms. Their parents might consider them old enough to care for a pet, date, drive, or eventually move out.

All of us keep birthday traditions. Our celebrations include a cake with candles, the song, “Happy Birthday,” and making a secret wish before blowing out the candles. If we don’t blow out all the candles with one breath, our wish will not come true.

But how many of us remember all the wishes we’ve made? I guess if we did, we wouldn’t tell anyone about it. After all they were all secret wishes.

As the years roll on.. birthdays are no longer a rite of passage. And by the time we enter our retirement years we would rather slow life down instead of speeding it up.

Women especially, go through a lot of inner turmoil about growing older. We experience a season of not wanting anyone to know our age. When I hit sixty I didn’t care anymore. On good days I feel proud that I can still do many of the things I’ve always done. At other times I use my age as a reason to excuse myself from activities I’d rather not do. I no longer feel a burning desire to spend a whole day at a theme park.

Last year I wrote a poem about turning 64, entitled…

“Wishful Thinking”

hot pink candles

drip wax on swirls of chocolate frosting

everyone smiles as

the usual off key voices

sing the last note of the classic melody

panic stricken

what to wish?

For an encore allowing more time to think?

Or perhaps more years to live?

I inhale until the pressure forces me

to let go

What do birthdays mean to you? Do you have a special birthday memory? Leave a comment. You might be interested in two other age related posts: Now I’m Sixty-Four and Redefining Age With Valerie Ramsey.

Have You Abandoned Cursive?

On Father’s Day my family had an interesting discussion about cursive handwriting. My husband said he practiced cursive with a fountain pen. This laborious method involved dipping the pen in a bottle of ink. He continued to write in cursive throughout grade school. Now his handwriting is practically illegible. He tells me, “I can read it right after I write it, but if it sits there awhile I can’t understand it.”

As a parent, I forced my son to practice cursive every day for a whole summer, yet none of those exercises improved his penmanship. I remember being embarrassed during a parent teacher conference. A middle school teacher described his handwriting as primitive. Today he’s a successful attorney who signs documents electronically with an x.

Prior to the adoption of Common Core Standards, cursive was a large part of the third grade curriculum. My featured photo is from a worksheet I distributed every year to my third graders. Prior to retiring in 2013, I loved teaching cursive. Most of the children were excited about learning it. I remember spending hours grading their handwriting. I proudly displayed their excellent work on a bulletin board. Today I wonder if any of them still write in cursive.

For most schools, cursive is out and keyboarding is in. My husband and son think cursive should not be taught and view it as a waste of time. I can’t imagine living without cursive. I journal, take notes, make grocery lists, and sign my name in cursive. I think of it as a more efficient way to write.

My mom, age 85, joined our discussion. “What about people’s signatures? Isn’t that important?”

“Not anymore, Grandma,” my son responded. “Who writes checks? I pay all my bills online.”

Grandma shook her head. “Not me.”

In the distant past, cursive was considered a trademark of literacy. Mastering this skill meant you could not only write, but read other’s cursive. If cursive is no longer taught, future generations won’t be able to read historical documents. Journals and letters written by family members who’ve passed on will not be understood by their children. I imagine technology already exists to scan cursive and turn it into print. And the reverse, creating script from print. This seems so impersonal. A person’s handwriting used to say a lot about themselves.

What will become of people who analyze handwriting? According to graphologist, Kathi McKnight, cursive gives a good indication of our personalities. She asks people to write a simple sentence in cursive. A right slant means you’re open to others and like to socialize. A left slant means you like to work alone. No slant at all indicates you tend to be logical and practical.

I guess graphologists will be out of a job. Too bad, Kathi.

I’m afraid cursive has become an ancient artform. Its continuation now relegated for parents to teach at home. By the way, Amazon sells workbooks for adults and children. But what child wants to spend their summer vacation practicing cursive? Ask my son. It didn’t work for him.

Have you abandoned cursive? Do you think teaching it in school is a waste of time? Leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you. I’m growing my audience and would love to have you as one of my followers.

The Blue Spring Experience

Salutations! It’s me, the poet on blueberry street. I ‘ve upgraded to a new domain. All part of growing as a writer, I’m told. To those of you who have been following me, thanks. You’re in the right place.

Welcome back to part two of our camping season finale. In last week’s post, I shared how Herb, Buddy, and I arrived at Blue Spring State Park after driving three hundred miles out of our way. I have to say Buddy, our beagle, did very well in the car. He’s a good traveler.

Our campsite was dry, but not level. The fire ring looked like it was sliding off into a ditch. Herb did the best he could with the leveling jacks on the Viking, but when I sat at the dinette to eat, I felt like I was sliding off my seat. Oh well, we thought, at least we can sit outside without swarms of mosquitos buzzing around our ears.

We like to hike in the mornings when we’re on a campout. At Blue Spring we walked the Pine Island Trail with Buddy. The trail coursed through a beautiful shady hammock into an open field. When we returned to the campsite, we sat down to enjoy our second cup of coffee and discuss our plans for the day.

“How about renting a canoe?” I asked. Herb thought that sounded like a good idea. When I changed into my swimsuit, I noticed a tick on my leg. “OH NO!” I panicked.

Herb tried to get the tick out with tweezers. Unfortunately part of its body was still attached to my leg. I felt upset with myself. I realized I’d let my guard down regarding hiking in Florida in the summer.

I wasn’t wearing clothes sprayed with Permethrin.

I didn’t spray my legs with insect repellant.

I didn’t check myself right away when we returned from the hike.

I didn’t take a picture of the tick.

I was a bad hiker.

So where did all those mistakes lead me? To the ranger station, of course. I walked up to the window and told a ranger about my problem. “You better get medical attention,” he said, “You could get an infection if the rest of the tick isn’t removed. We’re also seeing something new in the southeast now. People are getting the meat allergy disease from ticks.” He directed me to a walk-in clinic in the area.

Herb and Buddy waited in the car while I sought out help at the clinic. Can you believe it was my first day on Medicare? Luckily I had my card with me. I signed in at the desk and told the receptionist about the tick. “Glad you came in,” she said. “Have you heard of the meat allergy? It might not be all bad, you could become a vegetarian, and be hip.”

I liked her humor, but I didn’t laugh. I filled out the forms and waited. Two hours later the rest of the tick was finally removed. No, it didn’t cost me an arm or a leg in the process, thanks to Medicare. The nurse practitioner prescribed an antibiotic. So far I’m still eating hamburgers with no adverse reactions. Follow this link for more information about ticks. This trip was not our first experience with ticks. The pests tend to be more active during the Florida rainy season.

It’s not really fair to only write about ticks without sharing the beauty of Blue Spring. The campground is a five minute walk from the spring. One morning we saw a manatee. Campers have access to the area before the park opens to daytime visitors. Our last day in the park I rose early. When I arrived at the water’s edge the sun was beginning to light up the scene. The water changed to a brilliant emerald color. Every time a fish surfaced ripples radiated through the still water. All was quiet except for the call of a great egret on a limb. This sight helped me forget all of the bugs, heat, and humidity of the past few days.

I can’t leave without sharing the photo of the egret.

I’d love to hear from you. If you enjoy nature, or want to share any tips about ticks, leave a comment.

Our Season Finale in Florida State Parks

With the onset of summer, Florida campers face new challenges. Mainly, how to stay dry. If you’re not wet from the rain, you’re soaked with sweat. And you stay that way until October. Summer came early this year.

I joined my husband Herb, and our dog, Buddy, for our last scheduled trip of the season. In case you’ve just started following my blog, we’re a retired couple who aim to camp in every Florida State Park. On May 30 we embarked for Little Talbot Island State Park, located north of Jacksonville.

While we were driving I called my mom. “I know rain is in the forecast, but don’t worry about us,” I boasted. “We’re professional campers now. After all, this is our fourteenth trip in the Viking.”

“I hope you have rain gear,” she responded. Mothers are always mothers, even if their children are sixty. The funny thing is…many times they are right.

We arrived at our Little Talbot campsite in the pouring rain. Suddenly I had an ominous feeling. I felt like we were making a mistake. I slipped on my rain jacket, and stepped out of the car. Mosquitos swarmed around my head and hands. Yikes! It was only two in the afternoon. What would these blood suckers be like in the evening?

After dousing ourselves with bug spray, we decided to walk Buddy around the campground for his initial inspection. Maybe we would find a site with less vegetation, more open to the light…maybe there would be some place with less mosquitos.

We came upon a site that looked better. One side had no trees. I took a closer look. What’s out there? I wondered. “Oh, it’s wetland. Great, we’d be right next to where the mosquitos breed. A literal ground zero.”

After our ten minute walk with Buddy, we returned to our trailer to reassess our situation. We were shocked to see water rising around the Viking. While were away, two inches of rain had accumulated. Time to set sail, just like the Vikings in days of old. This was our adventure to unknown parts. Fortunately we had not yet dropped anchor–the Viking was still hitched to the car.

We drove over to the ranger station and informed the ranger of our decision to leave. He kindly refunded our money. By this time it was after three. What should we do now? Drive all the way back to Orlando? The reality of unpacking everything wasn’t very appealing. Herb suggested camping at Anastasia near St. Augustine. I agreed. We could make it to Anastasia by four-thirty.

But Anastasia had it’s own drawback. I thought about our recent trip in April. “Remember our friends, Donna and Geren? They had a terrible time with raccoons. We’ll need to keep a close watch on Buddy.”

I called Anastasia to see if they had any sites available. A lady answered the phone, “I wouldn’t recommend coming here,” she said. “A lot of our sites are flooded.”

A wave of dread washed over me. I regretted my boasting. I no longer felt like such a professional. We had already been driving since ten this morning and had no where to go.

“What about Blue Spring?” I asked Herb. “Can I at least call them?”

At this point Herb was ready to head home, but he relented. “OK.”

After a short conversation with the ranger at Blue Spring, we learned they did have sites, and none were flooded. However, we must arrive before the park office closed at eight.

We made it at seven fifteen. We had driven over 350 miles to get to a state park located forty miles from our home. Was it worth it? A picture is worth a thousand words.

This is part one of a two part series. Stay tuned for the Blue Spring experience. Until next time…

Coquina and the Castillo de San Marcos

Try to imagine what the city of St. Augustine, Florida was like in 1565. The little Spanish colony constantly suffered from Indian attacks, pirate raids, and foreign invasions. Every wooden fort they built to defend themselves either burned, collapsed in storms, or rotted away from damp conditions.

Finally, somebody discovered an amazing substance on nearby Anastasia Island. Enter, Florida’s rock of ages, coquina. Coquina is a sedimentary stone composed of tiny shell fragments cemented together with calcium carbonate. The Spanish colonists might not have known the composition of coquina, but they knew they’d found a rock. They were excited! At last they had a building material that might endure. (Maybe they heard the story of the third little pig and wanted their fort to last whenever the big bad wolf came to call. After all, bricks worked for him.) The colonists petitioned Queen Marina of Spain for funds to build a new fort. She authorized the construction of the Castillo and large scale mining began on Anastasia Island in 1671.

Looking at a piece of coquina, it’s hard to believe a rock comprised mostly of shells would be very strong. The Spanish learned that although coquina is soft when first quarried, the stone hardens as it dries. Construction of the Castillo began in 1672. There are over 400,000 blocks of coquina in the fort, all cut and set by hand. The people of St. Augustine weren’t playing around this time. They had one goal: survival.

The fort was designed by Ignacio Daza using a bastion system. Four diamond-shaped bastions project out from a walled courtyard. Each bastion contains a tower where guards can see in every direction. The second floor gun deck mounted over sixty cannons. The outer walls of the fort vary from fourteen to nineteen feet thick. The coquina rock was covered with plaster to seal out rainwater.

A drawbridge provides the only entry. Standing on the bridge, a person might think it once crossed a moat filled with alligators. Not so, the low ground around the fort was used to graze animals. The Castillo was built as a place of refuge for the townspeople of St. Augustine. Most Spanish soldiers lived in town and shared guard duty. In a sense, the Castillo was a castle, built to protect the community in times of war.

It’s amazing to think that the small courtyard housed 1,500 soldiers and civilians for fifty-one days when the English attacked St. Augustine in 1702. The rooms around the courtyard housed food and military supplies. Enemy cannonballs bounced off or got stuck in the coquina without breaking it. Their defense plan worked.

The Castillo protected St. Augustine for over two hundred years. Today the fort remains as a national monument to human determination. The monument is open every day except Thanksgiving and Christmas. Plan your visit to the Castillo de San Marco soon.

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