Flashy

That handsome guy returned last week. I spotted him alongside the road as I was driving home. His red epaulets were glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Of course, there is no such thing as one Red-winged Blackbird. In the following few days, I spotted dozens more. Redwings are the most common bird in North America with an estimated population of 190 million.
I knew I was guy watching as redwings are dimorphic which simply means a 2 year old can tell the genders apart. The females look like large brown sparrows with long white eyebrows.
Understanding the importance of good real estate, the male redwings arrive before the ladies so they can stake out their territories. While the boys are braving our spring blizzards, the gals are enjoying an extended southern vacation.
Those girls are smart. As soon as they arrive up north, their lives will go into overdrive. Macho males will be fluffing out their red (and yellow) patches and doing some serious wooing. Once the females choose a mate, they will be stuck with all the nest building and egg incubating chores.
Red-winged Blackbird males are polygamists, or in the birding terms, a polygynous species. They loudly defend their territory from other males and predators that threaten their females’ nests and young. When not fending off enemies, the males keep an eye out for more females to add to their harems which may number as high as fifteen ladies.
In the early part of the nesting season, the new dads are too busy flirting to help feed their numerous offspring. As summer winds down, they invest more of their time in fetching bugs for their babies.
But right now the snow is piled high by our driveway. A lone redwing is walking around on the top of a snowbank and pecking sunflower seeds. The lush summer days of abundant women and juicy bugs is still a long way off.
Male redwing Female redwing
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Signs

Everyone here in the upper Midwest is yearning for any signs of spring no matter how small.

When I was a city dweller, the local custard stand was our harbinger of spring. The air could be frigid and the snow piled up in filthy heaps, but when the custard stand pulled up its windows for the season, joy was in our hearts.

Potholes of legendary size and strange objects (shopping carts, car mufflers, squashed traffic cones) sticking out of melting snowbanks were among our other urban spring indicators.

Living in the country now, I have a different set of markers. First on the list would be the appearance of the buckets. A grove of trees all sporting shiny buckets is a sure sign the sap is rising. Having neighbors who sugar off and share is a treat beyond compare.

The next best milestone occurs when our big rural mailbox out by the road survives two straight weeks without being mangled, disabled or flattened. The gigantic county snowplows eat mailboxes for lunch. Our box has spent hours this winter in the basement ER room being reconstructed.

The appearance of Lake Dennis is another portent of spring’s approach. The view from my kitchen window is a large field which has a low spot in the middle. Last year this ad hoc lake hosted a family of ducks. Might this year bring the installation of a pier and small boats?

Friends who are true naturalists tell me that hearing spring peepers is the vernal equinox made audible. Unfortunately, I can’t tell a spring peeper from a Virginia creeper. But I do know that the day I see Chippy scurrying under the bird feeders vacuuming up the fallen sunflower seeds is the day spring officially begins for me.

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Czech

St. Patrick’s Day is fast approaching, so it must be time for me to toast the Czech Republic.

I’ve often been chided about being a bohemian, but the truth is, I really am. My grandfather got off a boat from Czechoslovakia.

As much as I love the irresistible Irish, why do they get all the glory?

After presenting a program to a fifth grade class and referencing the Czech Republic, the classroom teacher asked me, “What’s that checkered thing you mentioned?”

In the interest of diversity, here are some Czech fundamentals. The Czech Republic is a small country in eastern Europe. The capitol, Prague, is one of the most beautiful cities in the world with a fairytale castle high on a hill in the center of town.

The country is famous for producing a curious list of products: firearms, puppets, the original pilsner beer and stunning hand blown glass.

The following incident gives insight into the collective Czech psyche. When Vaclav Havel, the dissident, poet and playwright, was President, his wife died. She was much loved by the Czech people. Havel remarried an actress who frequently popped up, sans clothes, in B movies on late night Czech TV. The Czechs were unfazed by this. But they couldn’t stand the second wife for a much more serious reason – she banished the first wife’s dog from the presidential palace.

The Czechs understand the meaning of irony. They went from Nazi control directly to a communist takeover and still managed to survive.

Don’t think I’m being overly nationalistic. If your ancestral country is as overlooked as mine – Estonia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Moldova or Albania, for example – it’s time for you to take action. You’ll need your homeland to provide a serviceable saint and a functioning brewery or distillery. Then round up a bunch of friends and celebrate your origins. The Irish will be green – with envy.

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Pig

I was following a gigantic, smiling pig down the highway recently. Considering that pigs turn into pork chops and bacon, he was putting a good face on things.

The pig I’m referring to was painted onto the back of a Piggly Wiggly semi truck. He is one of a gaggle of creatures created by marketing geniuses. I sincerely hope I am mature enough to be shopping at Piggly Wiggly (I do) and buying gas at the Pig Stop (I do) for reasons other than my love for a cartoon character.

America is awash in these advertising personalities. My daughter collects them when they achieve the ultimate success… being converted into “rubber men” toys. Her kitchen shelves are filled with them, and I defy anyone to walk into her kitchen and not smile. Click here to view.

She started out with the fat boy with the pompadour and the checkered pants. That, of course, would be the ever smiling Big Boy. Last winter my husband and I discovered an actual, surviving Big Boy restaurant out in a small town in the middle of the California desert. Naturally, we left with the 2007 incarnation of the rubber boy.

Just think of how many of his friends you personally know – The Jolly Green Giant, Snap, Crackle and Pop, The Dough Boy, The Marshmallow Man, The Campbell Kids, Charlie The Tuna, Tony the Tiger and on and on!
I must confess that there is one rubber man I would love to have. Unfortunately, I must have champagne taste when it comes to rubber people. My guy commands big bucks even though he is only 6 inches tall. His name is Bibendum. He’s the roly-poly Michelin Man whose body is all made out of tires. I find his smile and exuberant energy delightful. Rumor has it that he writes a great dining guide, too.
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Clubs

Driving home from work, I recently heard a great piece on National Public Radio. Some comedians were discussing the old fashioned institutions known as supper clubs.

“Those are the places”, they said, “that take 14 heads of iceburg lettuce, cut them in half, toss them in a canoe and fill the canoe with ranch dressing. This is called ‘the salad bar’.”

I nearly drove off the road laughing. Many wonderful memories immediately surfaced. My husband and I were teenagers dating during the height of the supper club craze. The Black Angus was the classiest place in my hometown, The Blackjack in his.

In retrospect I can give a perfect description of that restaurant genre. A supper club was a place where the food was judged not on quality but weight; i.e., the 16 oz. prime rib, the 12 oz. porterhouse, the 14 oz. sirloin and the pound of crab legs. “Filet” always meant meat, and sour cream came in soup bowls. The omnipresent first course was onion soup hermetically sealed with a lid of cheese. Desserts veered toward schaum torte or a quarter of a cheesecake per person. Hot fudge sundaes were also popular endings.

Like many teenagers, we desperately wanted to be adults, so my future husband and I considered the intimate supper club meal to be the ultimate date. And, in a way, it truly was. The two of us were dressed up, dining alone for hours and conversing privately in an ambient setting.

Although surf and turf is no longer part of our lifestyle, the fundamental things still do apply.

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