Narcissus unfold joys of spring

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel, January 24, 2010)

My kitchen smells like springtime. The flowery aroma isn't due to some artificial air freshener, incense or cleaning product. It's the result of three bulbs and a bowl of sand. The sweet smell of narcissus is scenting the room.

The narcissuses were a gift hand-delivered by my son from his 93-year-old grandmother in Seattle. My mother-in-law is an avid gardener. During the winter, bloom-filled containers face the picture windows overlooking Lake Washington. Mary has a green thumb, a trait inherited by our 26-year-old son, who lives with her in Seattle.

Timmy gave me the narcissus bulbs a few months ago when he was home for a visit, but for several weeks I did nothing with them. The brown papery bulbs sat on the window seat inside the paper bag they came in. Unlike my husband, who grew up in a home where forced bulbs were a seasonal norm, my childhood home was devoid of interior gardening. Perhaps that's why my confidence for growing indoor plants has always been shaky. Nonetheless, I decided to give the bulbs a go. How hard could it be to force flowers to grow?

As it turns out, it wasn't hard at all. One day, with a burst of optimism, I took down a glass bowl from the shelf, went down to the lake and filled the bowl with sandy soil. I then took the three bulbs and pushed their pear-shaped bodies into the sand until about half of their brown surface was submerged. I filled a jar with water, gave the potential blooms a generous drink and set them on a windowsill in my kitchen, where I could see them daily and add water whenever the soil became dry to the touch.

It didn't take long before green leaves began to appear. Day by day, more leaves sprouted, grew taller, fuller and more and more verdant. When the leaves stretched over a foot tall, I began to wonder if greenery was all the bulbs would ever produce. Where are the flowers? I asked myself. Did I do something wrong? Should I have used dirt instead of beach sand? Was I supposed to refrigerate the bulbs before planting them in the container? So many questions popped into my head. So many doubts crowded out my budding enthusiasm.

Then the other day, as I was washing yet another sink full of dinner dishes, an unfamiliar but pleasant fragrance drifted my way. What's that? I wondered as I looked about. It was too pleasant to be coming from the compost bucket sitting on the counter and too floral to attribute to the ripening hand of bananas hanging nearby. I wondered if it could it be the bulbs. My eyes glanced quickly toward the windowsill.

Sure enough, that's exactly what it was. At the tip of two of the three bulbs were clusters of small white flowers. Although the blooms had not yet completely opened, the dainty petals already emitted a heady essence. I buried my nose in the cup-shaped flowers and inhaled deeply.

Suddenly I was no longer in my kitchen cleaning up the remains of the evening meal. I had traveled back in time to a place where daffodils grew wild. I was on Cape Cod. I was in the yard surrounded by fields of paper whites, narcissuses and daffodils. It was springtime, and it felt wonderful to be outside at last in the warm, flower-filled, sweet-scented air.

Back in my kitchen, I opened my eyes. The view from the window in my Central Florida home looked oddly similar to the long-ago view from my Cape Cod kitchen. The recent cold snap had zapped the color from the foliage. The same sense of one season giving way to another prevailed upon the landscape.

It's amazing that something as simple as a narcissus bloom can trigger such sensual and visual memories. I'm glad I unpacked the gift my mother-in-law gave me and took the time to plant the bulbs in a bowl of sand. The effort on my part was minimal compared to the rewards I received. It was proof once again that you don't have to inherit a green thumb to reap the benefits of a floral display. Gardening is a pleasure anyone can enjoy.

Wild turkeys join wildlife menagerie

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 17, 2010)

On the first day of 2010, a flock of wild turkeys wandered out from under the banana trees and headed up the hill toward the citrus grove. I was in the kitchen looking out the bay window. At first I saw one turkey, but by the time I grabbed my camera and slipped outside, three more birds had appeared.

Wild turkeys, Meleagris gallopavo, are one of nature's success stories. Rather than declining in numbers, turkey populations have increased gradually over the past 80 years. That wasn't always the case. In the early 1900s, hunters had killed so many gobblers that the species was on the brink of extinction.

Things changed in 1937 with passage of the Pittman-Robertson Act, which imposed an excise tax on sporting arms and ammunition to help pay for wildlife restoration. Once preservation efforts were in place, turkey populations rebounded. Today more than 7 million birds wander the woods and fields of North America.

Florida is home to the Osceola, one of five subspecies of this native North American game bird. The four turkeys I saw appeared to be females. Males, called toms, have distinctive spurs on their legs and beards — tufts of modified feathers — growing out of their chests. I didn't notice either feature on the birds I observed, which led me to believe they were all hens. All four were a similar size, about 30 inches tall. Males tend to be larger than hens, weighing a good 10 pounds more than their 8- to 12-pound counterparts of the opposite sex.

It puzzled me that I saw only females. Because this was only the second time in 19 years that I had spotted turkeys on the property (and the first time occurred only a couple of weeks earlier), my knowledge of turkey behavior was limited. To learn more, I explored online sources such as the National Wild Turkey Federation and the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. From those sites I discovered that before mating, female turkeys segregate themselves from the flock and gather in small groups. Because mating season for Florida turkeys begins in February, it may be that the flock of hens I saw was exploring our property in search of potential nesting sites.

Whatever their reason for passing through, I was elated to observe turkeys on our property. In the past few years I've seen more wild animals than ever before. In 2009, in addition to the usual suspects — armadillos, raccoons, rabbits, squirrels and possums — I observed coyotes, bobcats, foxes and otters. Ralph and I watched turtles lay eggs and a pair of sandhill cranes raise babies.

During our walks we've encountered numerous snakes, spiders and butterflies. One day a peacock wandered through our nursery, and every night an osprey roosts on a perch my husband placed in the middle of the lake. Water birds feed daily on fish in our lake, and songbirds flit from one flowering plant to another.

In early spring we enjoy the song of whippoorwills, and I'm always attentive to the cries of hawks, nightjars, killdeer and kingfish. We even have a resident pair of screech owls who (hoo?) annually nest in an old mailbox mounted beneath the porch eaves. I love the menagerie of critters that wanders through our property, and I was delighted to have a flock of turkeys join the parade.

When we bought the land in 1991 it was raw and barren. Over the years we've worked hard to repair damage done by a peat-mining operation. We've nurtured the soil, replanted the land and resculpted its contours. Our plan has always been to create an oasis for people and a sanctuary for wildlife. On many occasions we've wondered why we chose such a huge project, but then a flock of wild turkeys wanders by and the reason for our undertakings seems suddenly clear.

There are many ways to measure success. For Meleagris gallopavo Osceola, success can mean the resurgence of a breed once hunted to near extinction. To a landowner with the intention of preserving nature, success can be charted by individual gifts. On New Year's Day I received such a gift. You might say, "It's just a turkey." I say, "It's a treasure — another of nature's precious gems in my own back yard."

Palm fronds top beautiful bamboo gazebo

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 10, 2010)

Until recently, I hadn't paid much attention to palms. I knew there were different varieties, each with its own characteristics, but that's about all I knew. I might have remained palm-ignorant if not for our newly constructed bamboo gazebo.

"I'd like to thatch the gazebo with palm leaves," I told Ralph at the project's beginning. "I've seen it done at a number of places, and it looks beautiful."

"But will it last?" Ralph asked rhetorically.

He was sure it wouldn't. I insisted it would. I explained how the Seminole Indians had been using palm fronds on chickee huts for hundreds of years. Thatched roofs, I had learned, not only stayed dry in downpours but often outlasted conventional roof coverings during hurricanes. I didn't succeed in convincing my skeptical spouse. Ralph refused to believe that a roof covered with leaves would work. After a while, I began to have doubts myself.

To seek alternatives, I went online and came up with two possibilities: a custom-made canvas cover and a Tahitian-style rain cape called a palapa. Both options had merits as well as disadvantages. The canvas cover wouldn't have the natural look I was after, and it was expensive. The palapa was aesthetically pleasing and a bit less pricey, but it wasn't durable. We'd have to replace it every year or two.

The more research I did, the more confused I became. I didn't know how we'd cover the gazebo until Ralph and our builder, Robbie, got talking.

"A long time ago, I thatched a roof out of palm fronds," Robbie told Ralph, "and it lasted for more than 14 years."

Robbie's revelation did what I was unable to do — convince my dubious spouse. The next morning, Ralph was eager to experiment with palm fronds.

"Why don't we try doing it out of palm leaves?" he suggested.

Suppressing the urge to shout, "That's what I said in the beginning!" I quietly agreed.

The next day we took a walk around the property looking for palms. Although our trees are predominantly oaks, pines and bamboos, a few palmettos dot the landscape.

We noted where the palmettos were growing, cut a few fronds and brought them back to see if Robbie could use them. That night Ralph made some calculations. To cover a 14-foot-diameter roof, we'd need about 700 palm fronds. On our property, we have less than a dozen small palmetto bushes. Clearly, I needed to discover some new sources.

After Robbie gave us the go-ahead, I began searching for suitably sized palmetto fronds. What I discovered was a wide variation in both stem thickness and leaf spread. Some palms have broad stems, while the stems of others are too slender to secure with screws. Still other varieties have stalks with needle-sharp spikes or sawlike teeth. Because I was looking for a pain-free experience, I concentrated on spike-free scrub palmettos.

Sabal etonia is a low-growing palm with fan-shaped leaves that spread about 3 feet wide. Native to Central Florida and prolific in undeveloped areas, the palm has a thick stalk that extends through the middle of the leaf section, providing a thick, sturdy arm quite suitable for securing to roofs.

It took about 20 hours to gather, set in place and secure all the palm fronds we needed to cover our roof. The finished product looks beautiful, smells wonderful and even sounds nice in a breeze. During a recent daylong downpour, the thatched roof effectively shed water, proving to skeptics like my husband that a leaf roof can keep an area dry.

I'm delighted with how things worked out. In my house of bamboo and leaves, I've found an easy peace, an escape from the stress of everyday life. When I'm sitting beneath the gazebo's thatched roof, I feel like I'm inside an upside-down bird nest, as interwoven with nature as the palm leaves are with one another.

In the course of a few weeks, I've been transformed from a person who ignored palms to someone fascinated by this lowly plant's many attributes. When I drove to town this morning, I kept noticing how many palms I passed. My eyes may have registered beauty, but my mind was of a different bent. It was cataloging sources for future frond-foraging trips.

40+ years and still jumping

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 3, 2010)

Many people own trampolines, but I wonder how many families are as committed to their trampoline as we are. Our backyard bouncing station came into my husband's possession during his teen years, and it has been with us ever since.

"My sister and I used to take gymnastics lessons," Ralph recalls. "Our favorite part of class was always the trampoline portion."

Trampoline time in gymnastics class was limited, but Ralph's parents overcame that obstacle when they purchased an 8-by-14-foot regulation-size trampoline for their children to use at home. The same metal-frame structure sits in our backyard today. Recently, Ralph replaced the trampoline bed, which has needed replacement only three times in more than 40 years. With its taut new bed, the structure is just as sturdy, reliable and full of bounce as it was in the 1960s.

"Do you realize the bed I just replaced only cost $10 more now that it did 20 years ago?" Ralph said this morning. "That's pretty amazing when you think of how much more expensive most things are today than they were in 1990."

What's just as amazing is how quickly my husband was able to put his finger on the two-decades-old invoice from All American Trampoline and Swing in Ogden, Utah, and that the company is still in business. Not only was Ralph able to produce hard copies of those previous invoices, he also has the company's printed catalog in his files.

"The price of the trampoline bed increased by only 6 percent since 1990, but the shipping cost increased by 50 percent," he said, studying the two invoices.

While my husband marveled over the company's frugality, I found myself fixated on the longevity of our relationship with a piece of exercise equipment. That trampoline has been a part of my husband's life longer than I have. Like the aluminum rowboat my parents gave me when I was 13, my husband's trampoline is one of his oldest and dearest possessions.

It also may be one of his bulkiest possessions. An 8-by-14-foot trampoline is a cumbersome piece of equipment, but that never stopped us from toting it from one residence to another. Since 1970, Ralph and I have moved the trampoline seven times.

Not only did we continually dismantle and reassemble this goliath of exercise equipment, we took the installation process a step beyond what most people do. We dug a deep hole at most of those locations and sank the metal frame into the ground. It takes more work to do it this way, but the extra effort goes a long way toward preventing injury. An in-ground trampoline is much safer to jump on than one perched several feet above ground.

For more than four decades, our backyard bouncing equipment has provided us with entertainment, exercise and unexpected benefits. I always knew it would be a source of fun for the kids, and I wasn't surprised to discover how much our whole family enjoyed the bed's springy surface as a place to rest, read or watch the stars. What I didn't anticipate was discovering how beneficial regular bouncing could be for my health.

Even a very light workout of simple up-and-down jumps for 10 minutes a few times a week improves flexibility, coordination and balance. It also strengthens muscles, provides an excellent cardiovascular workout and does wonders for weight loss. I'm sure my husband had no idea back in 1964 that the gift his parents gave him would one day be part of his 58-year-old wife's exercise routine or aid in his own quest for increased stamina and a stronger heart.

When I think back about all the inanimate objects we've owned over the years, few rival the trampoline's longevity. It has outlasted every car, piece of electronics or appliance we've ever bought. Is it possible to feel committed to a piece of exercise equipment? Let me be the first to jump in to say: Absolutely!

Swapping used books is a win-win situation

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 27, 2009)

I've jump-started my New Year's resolutions by joining an online book-swapping site called PaperBackSwap.com. For years I've been meaning to do something with all the books our family has accumulated. Hundreds of hardcover and paperback novels and nonfiction books fill our assorted bookshelves. The overflow titles are precariously stacked on the floor or tucked away in boxes in the attic.

It's not that we don't like books — it's that we like them too much. Although Ralph and I find it difficult to part with even the most esoteric titles, there comes a time when enough is enough. You look at the untidy mess of dust-catching tomes and ask yourself why you still have every book you've ever owned. Why, for example, do I have two copies of Sue Grafton's A is for Alibi? How much longer need I hold on to Edinburgh City Guide now that my daughter has been back from Scotland for seven years?

Accumulation is easy. Getting rid of stuff … not so easy. But that's about to change now that I've discovered a win-win way to merge my love of books with my need to purge.

At PaperBackSwap.com, readers like me can offer books for trade, search for titles they'd like to receive and do it all from their computers. There's no membership fee, and you just pay postage ($2.38 for most paperbacks) on books you send to others. For every book sent, you earn one point. Points can be used to "buy" other books (one point equals one book), accumulated to buy audiobooks (two points for each audio book) or donated to charitable causes such as Books for Schools, which provides eligible elementary schools with one new book for every point donated.

Before joining PaperBackSwap.com, I did my homework. I spent several hours researching other book exchange sites, read user reviews and watched the how-to videos offered by some of the top sites. PaperBackSwap.com received consistently good user ratings, and I found it to be the easiest-to-navigate, best-designed site of the batch. Its book selection is also impressive, with more than 4 million books available to trade.

In the two weeks since I joined the club, I've posted 35 books and I've sent four to people who have requested them. PaperBackSwap.com makes the mailing process simple. When someone wants one of my books, I receive an e-mail from the Web site notifying me of the request. If I agree to send the book, PaperBackSwap.com creates a mailing label that doubles as a wrapper. All I have to do is print the label, add stamps and put it in the mailbox. Postage is pre-calculated, so I don't have to go to the post office and stand in line.

Trying to reduce the amount of unnecessary items we have around the house is a worthwhile goal. I'll be overjoyed if someday the bookshelves that line our walls contain only books I really want to own instead of the hodgepodge of miscellany they currently hold. It would also be nice to have a few audiobooks to enjoy and copies of some of my favorite titles to give as gifts and to share with my children and grandchildren.

Although New Year's resolutions often start out strong before fading away, I doubt if that will be the case with my book-swapping plans. I have far more than 35 books to post, and I look forward to adding titles as the months go by. I'm also excited to think that the books I post will be going to people who are happy to receive them. Thanks to the virtual library at PaperBackSwap.com, I have entered a new world filled with reading pleasure. If that's not motivation for a successful New Year's resolution, I don't know what is.

Traditional pie -- minus all that unhealthy stuff

(To see recipes, please scroll to the bottom of the page)

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 21, 2009)

Lately I've been in the mood for pie, so I've been baking up a storm. Sweet-potato pie and blueberry-peach pie are my favorites, but sometimes I experiment with other fruit combinations. Our son Toby really liked the cherry-peach pie I cobbled together when he was home from college. And not too long ago, when I had an abundance of overripe pears, I made a cherry-pear pie with a chopped-nut top crust that had Ralph begging for more.

Pie is such an easy and foolproof dessert to make. Even though I don't use any of the usual ingredients — no sugar, white flour, butter or shortening — my pies taste delicious, consistently earning requests for second and third slices.

Instead of using white flour, I bake with either whole wheat or spelt flour. I especially like the slightly nutty, sweet flavor of spelt flour, which creates a crust that is flavorful without being heavy. White flour (also euphemistically called wheat flour) is a refined food that has had two of the most nutritious parts of the wheat grain removed — the bran and the germ. Even the enriched version of white flour is sadly lacking in nutritional value, since it includes less than a quarter of the grain's original nutrients.

By contrast, spelt flour, a grain in the wheat family, is chockfull of nutritional value. It is high in protein and rich in B-complex vitamins, and it contains a carbohydrate that boosts the immune system. Although no one in my family is allergic to wheat, people who are often find the proteins in spelt easier to digest.

In place of butter, lard or shortening, I use extra-virgin olive oil. If you think olive oil is good only for salad dressing, think again. One-quarter cup of olive oil added to a cup of spelt flour and moistened with an eighth of a cup of ice water yields a delicious, flaky crust that has none of the artery-clogging fat of butter, contains no cholesterol and no chemical additives and is an excellent source of mono-unsaturated fats, vitamin E and beneficial antioxidants.

When I'm feeling ambitious, I make a special pie crust created by my friend Selena. Selena's crust combines a cup of flour — I use either spelt or whole-wheat flour — with a cup each of rolled oats and finely chopped nuts. (I like to use a combination of unsalted, raw almonds, walnuts and Brazil nuts.)

After the dry ingredients are mixed, Selena adds a half-cup of both olive oil and maple syrup, but I substitute two teaspoons of calorie-free stevia for the maple syrup. After the dry and wet ingredients are well blended, I press two-thirds of the mixture into a pie pan, with the remaining portion set aside to spread on top of the desired filling. Unlike my flour crust, which does not require precooking, Selena's crust works better when baked in a 350-degree oven for 15 minutes before filling.

Stevia, the sweetener I like using in Selena's pie crust and for almost all my baking, is a plant-based product with no bitter aftertaste. A member of the Compositae family of herbs — the same family as asters, sunflowers and daisies — stevia is not an artificially derived chemical and doesn't raise blood-sugar levels. What it does do is add sweetness to food without adding calories. In its powdered form, stevia (also sold under the name Truvia) looks identical to sugar, but it's far sweeter. One teaspoon of stevia is equal to a cup of sugar.

One of the things I like best about baking with wholesome ingredients such as whole-wheat or spelt flour, stevia, rolled oats, unsalted raw nuts and extra-virgin olive oil is the lack of guilt involved. You can make foods, eat them and feel good about the entire process. There's not even guilt the next morning when you bite into a slice of leftover pie for breakfast.

Yesterday Ralph and I made short work of the two remaining slices of our sweet-potato and blueberry-peach pies, which means it's time to replenish the proverbial larder with another batch of tasty treats. Eating healthfully doesn't have to be about giving up favorite foods or eating a bland, flavorless diet. You can have it all — including pie — if you're willing to learn about more nutritional alternatives, experiment with different ingredients and open yourself up to new tastes and textures.

Tangerines add a tangy sweetness to the season

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 14, 2009)

I just came in with a basket full of homegrown goodness. Our solitary tangerine tree is loaded with fruit, and I've been taking full advantage of the bountiful harvest.

Picking citrus is a very "December" thing to do in Central Florida. Although navel oranges and grapefruits ripen a bit earlier, tangerines come into their prime at Christmastime. The bright reddish-orange orbs suspended from the limbs look like nature's own holiday ornaments.

Plant a tangerine tree near a dahoon holly and you'll have a ready-made display of seasonal merriment. Like citrus trees, dahoon hollies are also compact evergreens that produce an abundance of colorful fruit in the cooler months. By year's end, Florida's native hollies are dotted with bright red pea-sized berries, a sharp contrast to the tree's waxy green leaves. Although inedible by people, holly berries are favored by a variety of wildlife. All the dahoon hollies on our property are volunteers thanks to the inadvertent planting efforts of our feathered friends.

That's not how our tangerine tree began. We planted it and several other citrus trees shortly after we settled on the property 18 years ago. Although we've done well growing figs, papayas, loquats, pineapples, bananas, star fruit and Surinam cherries, our success rate with citrus has been less than stellar. Thanks to a combination of our inadequate knowledge of citrus-grove care and the occasional freeze, we've managed to kill about a dozen of the orange, lemon and kumquat trees we originally planted. The tangerine tree is an exception. Despite everything we've done wrong, the tangerine tree managed to survive. More than that, it's actually thriving.

I'm glad it did because fresh-picked tangerines are so much fun to eat. The fruit is juicy and sweet, yet tangy, too. Tangerines are easy to peel and just the right size for a satisfying snack. In December, when Ralph and I go for walks, I like to begin with a stroll past the citrus grove. Because they're so small, two or three tangerines can fit in my pockets. As we walk along, I peel off the thin skin, separate the segments and measure the miles by munches. I've found that if I eat slowly, I can finish two tangerines in the time it takes me to do a one-mile loop around the lake. Even though at about 50 calories per tangerine I'm ingesting about the same amount of calories burned off by walking a mile, I'm gaining a nutritional high.

Tangerines pack a powerful punch of Vitamin C, folate and beta-carotene. They also contain some potassium, magnesium and vitamins B1, B2 and B3, and they're high in fiber. Although some people might object to the fibrous white "strings" on tangerines, I've always enjoyed peeling off and eating the rutin-rich pith. I also don't mind the pits. Some tangerines are seedless, but the variety we grow contains a number of small seeds.

Ralph, who has never been fond of seedy fruit, has no patience with tangerines. "What do you do with the seeds?" he'll ask as we walk along.

"I spit some out and swallow others," I respond matter-of-factly. "It's no big deal."

It is to him. His seed-removing skills are pitifully lacking.

It doesn't take many trees to satisfy a family's needs for citrus. The one tree in our yard provides enough fruit to fulfill my citrus cravings, with plenty left over to share. For those without a tree of their own, fruit is available at roadside stands. In this season of giving, what better gift to bestow on those we love than nature's own edible holiday ornaments? It's a sweet, juicy way to welcome the New Year.

Working together, we build our lives

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 7, 2009)

Last weekend, Ralph and I worked on a building project. We spent several hours finishing off sections of a bamboo gazebo with two attached pergolas. Our friend, Robbie Taylor, had already done the hard part. He had built the roof and the main frame of the structure, a beautiful eight-sided outdoor room made entirely of bamboo poles. When Robbie went off for a weeklong cruise with his wife and grandson, Ralph and I decided to pick up where he left off.

For a couple of out-of-practice carpenters, we didn't do half bad. We had our share of Laurel-and-Hardy moments resulting in a few scratches, splinters and a bit of wasted wood, but overall the project came together much as we imagined. I'd like to say it was fun and, in a way, it was. We were outside together, doing what we do best — planning things out and then making them happen. But the truth is, we're not really carpenters. Ralph doesn't like working with wood the way Robbie does, and although I have a passion for designing structures, I'm impatient when it comes to completing them.

There was a time when we felt different. In the 1970s, we were an idealistic young couple eager to build the house of our dreams. Because we weren't trained carpenters and didn't have enough money to hire others, we decided to do the job ourselves. I drew up plans and paid a carpenter to put up the frame. Ralph worked alongside him, watching everything he did and asking endless questions. I've always admired my husband's ability to pick up new skills. He's a remarkably adaptable and capable person who doesn't get discouraged the way some of us do — me, for example — when their first attempts fail or their beginning efforts are less than perfect.

With his newly attained skills, Ralph worked his way through the remaining homebuilding tasks. He insulated, wired and put up drywall. He built and installed cabinets, put on the roof, installed windows and shingled the exterior. He was in charge. I was the gofer.

"Sherry, bring me the box of six-penny nails," he would ask, or "Get me the screwdriver with the Phillips head bit." Unlike Ralph, who never felt insignificant or bothered when he assisted the framer, I often found myself annoyed by his constant demands. That feeling resurfaced last weekend when we worked on the gazebo.

"I feel like I'm not doing enough just standing here holding the ladder and handing you things," I told my husband as we worked on attaching the pergola roof.

"You're doing fine," he reassured me. "It saves a lot of time with you there to help."

In my younger years, I might have dismissed that comment as condescending, but not anymore. I've realized the truth in those simple words. When you work together, you share responsibilities, acknowledge each other's abilities and do whatever is necessary to get the job done.

Instead of getting upset because I wasn't the one in charge, I used the time to stand back and admire the man I married 39 years ago this month. As I stood there on the ground, watching my husband sacrifice his time to give me a structure I wanted, I realized how far we'd come since that first carpentry project in the 1970s. Working as a team, we've not only built and renovated dozens of houses but, more important, we've constructed a life that reflects our dreams.

Building a long-lasting marriage is a lot like framing a gazebo. Someone has to be willing to pick up fallen nails, steady the ladder and get the necessary tools to make the structure stronger. You don't have to be a master carpenter to whittle together a satisfying life, but it helps if you can share the work with someone you love.

A little bird told me … wake up!

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 30, 2009)

For a small bird, the Carolina wren has a big voice. "Tsk ... tsk ... tsk ... tsk ... tsk," it scolds in a deep bellow that belies its diminutive size.

For several weeks I've awakened to the songs and chatterings of these buff-colored birds with the distinctive white stripe above their beady black eyes.

"Do you know what's making that noise?" I asked Ralph one morning while we were still in bed.

"A frog?" he suggested, "or some kind of cricket?"

"Nope," I said as I slipped out from under the covers and walked to the porch. "It's a bird — a tiny bird with a loud mouth."

Sure enough, I spotted a female wren hopping from the lower limbs of a crape myrtle to the protective cover provided by a bed of yellow-flowered wedelia.

Although it weighs less than nine dimes, a Carolina wren is a powerhouse of activity. From dawn till dusk, these adaptable dwellers of farms, fields and gardens scour the ground and lower limbs of bushes and trees in search of the foods they like best — insects, spiders and the occasional berry.

From years of observing these charming chirpers, I've concluded that they rarely partake in any activity without a good deal of vocalization. What I didn't realize is that while females chatter, only the male birds sing. Males fill the air with a steady stream of high-pitched, whistled melodies while their female counterparts engage in a series of repetitive mutterings.

Scientists who have studied captive Carolina wrens have documented as many as 3,000 different songs by a single male in a day. With such a strong desire for self-expression, it's no wonder I find myself roused in the early morning by a bird-song serenade.

Carolina wrens are terrestrial creatures that tend to use their wings more for assistance when hopping over large objects than for actual flying. When they are not busy building their beautifully woven cavelike nests, these mate-for-life birds expend considerable energy defending their territory and warning each other of potential dangers.

In addition to the ever-present threat posed by domestic cats, predators of the adult birds include blue jays, hawks and owls. Because the parents prefer nesting sites less than 10 feet off the ground, the oval-shaped eggs are particularly vulnerable. Squirrels, raccoons, snakes and fox all feed on the cream-colored, brown spotted ova.

Although Carolina wrens are notorious for their loud songs and persistent chattering, they are also famous for their unusual nests. No abandoned article of clothing or footwear is safe from these clever weavers of twigs, weeds and found materials. Carolina wrens are just as likely to build their nests in a forgotten pair of boots, the pocket of an old shirt or an upturned garden hat as they are to use natural settings such as an old stump or a tangle of vines. I've discovered their handiwork on a shelf in our garage, inside a flowerpot filled with rain lilies and in the hollow belly of an old mailbox.

Lately I've been wondering if nest building is on the mind of the bird that has been waking me each morning from my slumber. There is a definite pattern to its beseeching cries. The sounds begin about the same time each day, come from the same part of the yard and are intoned with the same sense of insistence and urgency. If I wasn't still so tired during this daily deluge of avian verbosity, I might follow the bird and figure out what it is doing.

Most mornings, however, I'm too sleepy for all that. It's all I can manage to pull the covers over my head, nestle into the pillow and strive to re-enter a dreamlike state. Unfortunately, that tactic is rarely successful. Although I admire the little chirpers that inhabit my yard, their admonishments for my sluggish behavior inevitably drift into my sleep-muffled head.

"Tsk … tsk … tsk …," they seem to say. "It's time to get up."

Who needs an alarm clock when you have a back yard filled with birds?

Thank you, dear readers, for being there

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 23, 2009)

Thank you … two little words I don't say as often as I should. In the spirit of the upcoming holiday, I'm devoting today's column to words of appreciation. I'm addressing you, my reader, to thank you for being there, to thank you for listening.

I've always been a person who writes. From childhood on, my most comfortable means of expressing thoughts, feelings and observations has been the written word. I grew up in a picturesque setting in Pennsylvania that primed the pump of my imagination. The poems and essays that flowed from the wellspring of my youth were filled with ponderings and pronouncements inspired by the world at my doorstep.

Although I left Yardley years ago, I never outgrew my love of nature. The wonders of the world around me still fill me with awe. Over the years, I've poured out my feelings through stories, songs, poems and essays. For the past three years, I've been grateful to have a vehicle — my column — to share my thoughts and observations with you.

I am especially grateful to everyone who has supported my efforts. So many people have taken the time to send e-mails or to call and share personal experiences that often mirrored the subjects of my writing. Occasionally you have asked me to speak to groups, and at those times I've been able to meet you in person. As a writer who works from home, I find such meetings to be a rare delight with special meaning.

Recently, I published my first book, Rowing Through The Mist: The Everyday Pleasures of Simply Living. This 164-page collection of 42 essays and 43 photographs focuses on the things I know and love best —nature, family life and the changing seasons. Although publishing a book has been a lifelong goal, I plan for this book to be the first of many. My mind overflows with thoughts and ideas. There are many more words waiting to be written, printed and shared.

In these difficult economic times, when so many people are hurting financially and emotionally, it is especially important to remember the goodness. From birdsongs to sunsets and everything in between, we live in a world surrounded by beauty. Even in the darkest of nights, there are shooting stars to brighten our outlook, spark our imagination and encourage our wonder.

For me, the magic lies not in the blatant glare of the latest techno-toy but in the everyday treasures we tend to overlook. I see it as my job — and what a wonderful job it is — to focus attention on those simple pleasures, the little things in life that help us regain our perspective and improve our mood.

Because of you, my reader, I am encouraged to continue finding ways to express that magic. Your response to my writing has been a most generous gift, and it's now my turn to return the favor. So, in honor of Thanksgiving, a holiday dedicated to expressing appreciation, I offer my most heartfelt thanks. Without readers, a writer is a silent voice. You give me the means to make myself heard, and for that I am humbly and most sincerely grateful.

Cow encounter is unexpected and unforgettable

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 15, 2009)

I'm always on the lookout for wildlife. I look for snakes and turtles, rabbits and armadillos, raccoons, foxes, bobcats, coyotes and birds of every shape and color. Whenever I walk into my kitchen, I find myself peering out a bay window that offers a long view of the yard, a path through the woods and the untamed acres beyond. I look because that vantage point has often rewarded me with wildlife sightings.

That's what I did the other day. Ralph was taking his midday siesta, which enabled me to anticipate some quiet "alone time" in the kitchen. My plan was to fix a nice lunch and eat at the kitchen table while sipping tea and reading Davita's Harp by Chaim Potok. It was a good plan, but it never happened. When I entered the kitchen, I did my usual glance out the window, and what I saw put everything else on hold.

Two cows were grazing about 25 feet away from the house. Although Ralph and I raise dozens of different bamboo, raising bovine is not part of the picture. We have no livestock, and ever since our dog and cat died a few years ago, we don't even have pets. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when I saw not one but two large farm animals using our yard as if it were their private pasture.

I put my novel down, picked up the camera and entered "wildlife photographer" mode. The cattle — one a brown-and-white female and the other a jet-black male that appeared to be the female's calf — seemed indifferent to my presence. Their big, round eyes focused on the sudden surplus of succulent greenery as I surreptitiously followed. My digital camera clicked away as the cows munched their way up the hill and down the narrow path above the clay wall that borders our driveway.

The female was definitely in charge. Her youthful counterpart trailed with a timorous curiosity. At one point when I approached too close, the black calf became spooked. After fixing me with a gaze that seemed to say, "How dare you come so near!" he bounded off in a gangling trot. The calf caught up to his food-fixated parent who, by that time, had moved on to a greener patch of weedy grass.

Long ago, in our pre-children days, Ralph and I raised a few chickens and a small herd of goats, but neither of us have had experience with larger livestock. I didn't grow up riding horses, and, before this encounter, the closest I'd ever been to cattle was when I interviewed Bay Lake resident Stephanie Copper for a 2004 Orlando Sentinel article. Copper, who is something of a cow whisperer, regularly sings and talks to her small herd of Barzona beef cattle. During the interview, I watched in amazement as the blond cowgirl communed with her tail-swishing charges. She even introduced me to an imposing bull that responded to her caresses with an indulgent patience that bordered on love.

I can't say I love cattle, but I did love chancing upon a bovine moment in my own backyard. The cows, who must have escaped from a neighbor's herd, seemed equally delighted with their own discovery. The adage, "The grass is greener on the other side of the fence," kept coming to mind as I watched the grazing duo meander from one patch of tall grass to another.

I tagged along for about 15 minutes before returning home to my own midday meal. I was still in the kitchen a short time later when a loud crunching sound caught my attention. The cattle were striding across the lawn right next to the house, their hoofed feet crushing the fallen sycamore leaves.

Although I'm used to seeing wildlife through the kitchen window, the sight of two cows right next to the house threw me for a loop. Just when I thought my days couldn't get any crazier, stray cattle appeared from out of nowhere to graze on my front lawn. The whole episode reinforced my belief in expecting the unexpected. It also made me rethink the phrase "wildlife encounter." Perhaps wildlife "en-cow-nter" would be a more appropriate spelling. However it's spelled, my midday interaction was a moo-ving experience that was udderly (sorry about that) unforgettable.

Fight litter with fines

(First appeared in Orlando Sentienl November 8, 2009)

The road to my house is trashed. Plastic bags, fast-food containers and a random assortment of tossed-away items line the county-maintained, two-lane road that takes me home.

I recently returned from a weekend trip to southeastern Pennsylvania, where roadsides were surprisingly free of litter. With my host in the driver's seat, I was able to enjoy the view instead of concentrating on street signs and directions. What I saw as we traveled through one small town after another were pretty houses, harvested fields and neat yards. What I didn't see were plastic bags drifting across those fields, snagged on fences or fluttering from tree limbs. I didn't see piles of used tires stacked along streets, nor did I see the remains of yesterday's pick-up-and-go lunch.

In Florida, a more appropriate label for such fast-food fare would be a pick-up-and-throw meal, because so many residents of the Sunshine State treat the landscape like their personal landfill. When a beer can is empty, a cheeseburger consumed or a soda slurped, car windows get rolled down and those empty bottles, bags, cans, cups, straws, papers, plastics and cigarette butts get thrown away to join all the other litter lining our state's large and small roads. That seems to be the misguided mind-set of many Florida residents.

The curbed roadsides in small Pennsylvania towns such as Newtown, Yardley, New Hope and Wycombe didn't act as open-air receptacles for broken beer bottles or smashed soda cans. Even in Allentown, a small city (population 107,200) that's five times bigger than Leesburg, litter was a non-issue.

I wish it were a non-issue in Florida.

Crews from Lake County's public-works department spent much of October mowing the tall grasses that border the county-maintained roads. I watched as mowers hacked back months of overgrown weeds and untamed grasses. Unfortunately, while neatening the roadside, the machines chopped up and spewed massive amounts of trash. Hidden beneath the tall growth was a season's worth of garbage, and since mower blades can't differentiate between Bahia grass and broken glass, they scattered both.

I suppose that the remains of yesterday's fast-food lunch will decompose faster if shredded, but that doesn't make it any less of an eyesore. A drive down our county's roads is a portrait in ugliness, thanks to the inconsiderate actions of our fellow citizens.

Lake County has so much beauty. Our waterways, hills and small towns have a distinctive look unmatched by any other Florida county, yet we allow that beauty to be marred by litter.

Is it possible to change the way people act? How can we make litterbugs aware that what they do is wrong? Perhaps we can start by enforcing the existing Florida Litter Law, which carries community-service hours plus fines of $50 to $1,000, depending on the amount of trash dumped illegally.

Anyone who has received a ticket for going 55 in a 40 mph zone knows how effective speed traps can be. Driving habits change quickly when speeders face payment of hefty fines. Why not apply that same logic to litter? If police departments were to actively engage in an anti-littering campaign, not only would towns have a sudden source of new income but litterers also would quickly learn to stop breaking laws. If everyone who was used to flicking spent cigarettes out of car windows or throwing beer cans on the ground knew they stood a good chance of being fined, I bet we'd see a significant reduction in the amount of litter.

Or, we can continue to do nothing.

We can continue to tolerate the bad habits of others. We can let ugliness and inconsiderateness rule. When it comes right down to it, it's up to us — people who care enough to say, "This must stop." After all, litter is not going to go away by itself. Adopt-a-Road programs help, but they don't do enough. The only way to rein in the downpour of debris flooding our roads is to attack litterers where they are most vulnerable — in their wallets.

Fining litterbugs would be fine by me.

An overdue bloom

SIMPLY LIVING

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 2, 2009)

My Mexican sunflowers are finally blooming. It sure took them long enough. Tithonia diversifolia must be one of the pokiest plants around. Although the buds started swelling a few weeks ago, the large, daisy-like blossoms only began appearing at the end of October. Drive through any neighborhood and you’re bound to notice a few of the tall, bushy plants peeking over fences and along property lines. The flowers, when they finally open, look like giant golden daisies. The bushes often tops out around 15-feet, tall enough to tower over hibiscus, oleanders and other ornamental shrubs.

I like Mexican sunflowers because the flowers are so cheery and because they attract a number of butterflies and bees. What I don’t like about them is how difficult they are to properly place in the landscape. I’d probably feel differently if tithonia bloomed for a longer time or looked more attractive when it wasn’t flowering. It would also help if the cold didn’t kill it back every year reducing the bush to an unruly skeleton of gawky stalks. Until the buds turn into flowers, tithonia is an ugly plant. It’s tall and leggy with rough, hairy stems and broad, unattractive leaves. In its pre-bloom state – which is most of the year - it looks more like a huge weed than an ornamental perennial. In some ways, that’s exactly what it is.

I planted my first Mexican sunflower near the house but Ralph was never happy with that location.

“Can’t you move it somewhere else?” he repeatedly asked. “How about someplace where it can sprawl without being in the way of the mower?”

My practical husband had a point. The tall stalks have a tendency to lean over, touch the ground and re-root. That’s a fine attribute for small plants but not such a positive trait when you’re talking about a 12- to 15-foot tall shrub that grows equally as broad.

Our son, Timmy, took Ralph’s suggestion to heart and relocated several tithonias to a spot alongside his vegetable garden. Unfortunately, Timmy then moved away, leaving the plants (and his abandoned vegetable garden) for us to tend.

“They’re still in the way,” Ralph remarked one day when the mower was attempting to whack that area back into a semblance of order.

I’d like to relocate the existing plants to a place on the property where they can sprawl as much as they want. In my ideal world, that spot would be within sight of my front porch so I can look out the windows and enjoy the massive clusters of golden blooms but it wouldn’t be in the forefront. I don’t want to look out and see the plant most of the year when it is not flowering and I especially don’t want it to be front and center after the first frost when whatever blooms remain have withered up and fallen off.

“How about planting it across the lake,” I suggested the other day. “That way, I could look out the windows and still see it but it won’t be in the way of the mower.”

Ralph agreed that the other side of the lake might be a good spot. All we have to do is cut back the existing clumps, dig them up and replant them on the other side of the lake in enriched soil. It’s a good idea but not something we’re going to do right now when the tithonias are finally covered in blooms.

I hope we get to it this winter. After years of growing Mexican sunflowers in the wrong place, it would be nice to finally get it right.

A sweet journey back in time

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 26, 2009)

I just finished eating a candy apple. October is my birthday month, and indulging in treats that I usually don't eat is one of my birthday traditions. This year, not only did I enjoy eating a bright red candy apple, I traveled to Pennsylvania to get it. Another birthday gift to myself was a return to my hometown, coinciding with my 40-year high school reunion. For my 58th birthday, I traveled back in time to my youth, revisiting old friends, driving down winding country roads and stopping by some of the businesses I frequented in my childhood.

My friend Megan picked me up at the airport, and we used the 45-minute drive from Philadelphia to Yardley to fill in the gaps since we last saw each other 23 years ago. After driving past both of our childhood homes, we stopped at Cramer Bakery, where I was hoping to find the pecan crescent cookies I was so fond of as a child. Unfortunately, the bakery — which looked amazingly the same as it did in 1969 — had sold out of those particular cookies. That's probably just as well. One lesson I learned from my birthday trip is that edible remembrances of times gone by are often sweeter than the treats themselves.

Megan drove me to the home of Mary Ann, another classmate I had known since kindergarten. Because Megan had opted out of attending the reunion, my plans were to stay at Mary Ann's house for the weekend and go with her to the reunion activities. Mary Ann and her husband, Harry, live in the small town of Wycombe in a historic home that they have lovingly restored. Even though we hadn't seen each other for four decades, meeting Mary Ann had none of the awkwardness one would expect after so much time. Despite the years, our interests and lifestyle choices were remarkably similar. We caught up with each other quickly and felt immediately at ease.

Mary Ann and I attended several pre-reunion gatherings with former classmates. A few of us met one morning at Styer Orchard, where I bought the candy apple. Like Cramer's, Styer's was around when I was a child, and memories of going there in autumn for pumpkin pies and candy apples flavored my youth. Another old familiar haunt was Goodnoe Farm Dairy Bar, an ice cream parlor where I worked as a teen. Although I rarely eat ice cream anymore, for old time's sake I ordered a sugar cone topped with a generous scoop of cherry vanilla ice cream.

All of our outings weren't about food. About a dozen classmates gathered at Bowman's Tower, a 125-foot-tall stone tower near Washington's Crossing that we used to frequent. Although we obeyed the rules and rode the elevator to the top (an elevator that wasn't there during our high school years), some of us opted to take the stairs back down even though a sign told us the stairway was off limits. We were, after all, the class of '69 — once a rebel, always a rebel. Another outing was to the artistic community of New Hope along the Delaware River, where we listened to the Sonic Falcons, a band made up of former classmates. Even though people there were friendly and the music was fun, I felt out of the loop at that gathering. The venue was loud and smoky, two qualities for which my 58-year-old body has minimal tolerance.

The reunion dinner itself was anti-climactic, in part because the chief organizer of the weekend events, a classmate named Sharon, fell ill at the last minute and couldn't attend.

My birthday trip to Lower Bucks County provided no shortage of treats. I saw about a dozen deer and hundreds of geese. The leaves on the trees were in full autumnal splendor, something I haven't seen in such richness and intensity for many years. As we drove along picturesque roads, we passed beautiful stone farmhouses surrounded by harvested cornfields. Yes, I ate a candy apple, but far sweeter and longer-lasting than any of my edible treats were the friendships I rekindled. Getting to reconnect with Megan, Mary Ann, Sharon, Tom, Ron, Suzanne, Coreen, Bev, Betsy and so many others was far more special than any taste of artificial sweetness.

They say you can't go back in time, but this year, for my birthday, that's exactly what I did.

Aptly named beautyberry thrives

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 19, 2009)

Beautyberry earns its name in autumn. As a small deciduous shrub, Callicarpa americana is a blaze of brightness in an October woods. The fruit is the plant's most striking feature. Clusters of tiny berries the color of passion — a pulsating pinkish-purple — cling to leaf axils like beads on a necklace. In verdant woods, where greens predominate, catching sight of a beautyberry bush is like chancing upon an unexpected gemstone — its color dazzles.

Eighteen years ago, the property we live on had none of the attributes beautyberry requires. As an understory plant, Callicarpa americana likes a semi-shaded location where accumulated plant litter has turned the natural sandy or clay soil into a lightly enriched loam. When we first moved here, there were only a handful of trees and the soil was a rough and barren patchwork of clay, sand and peat. It took years of aggressively planting but eventually a forest developed and with that forest came an assortment of shade-loving plants, not the least of which is the lovely beautyberry. I can't remember when I discovered the first plant but I remember how excited I was to chance upon the berry's unusually colored fruit.

A few days ago when I was walking through the woods, I realized that our forest was no longer home to a solitary specimen of Callicarpa americana. Thanks to the efforts of birds and small animals, dozens of beautyberries have taken root in the forest's fertile soil. Unlike the thousands of slash pines, bamboos and assorted ornamentals that Ralph and I laboriously planted, we didn't play any part in the propagation of beautyberry bushes. Animals did the hard work for us. Armadillos, fox, wood rats and raccoons nibbled on the berries along with bobwhites, thrashers, cardinals, mockingbirds, robins, towhees and woodpeckers. The bush's abundant and long-lasting fruit is a dependable food source while some other animals, like white-tailed deer, prefer nibbling on the plant's tender leaves.

Because so many animals eat the berries and, in the process, help spread the seeds, some people think beautyberry is a nuisance weed. I'm not among them. I'm fond of volunteer plants — especially pretty ones with interesting features. I like the way they surprise me with their presence.

Although I have never done more than look at and appreciate the berries, Callicarpa americana does have medicinal and edible qualities. A tea made out of the plant's roots is purported to relieve colic, dysentery and stomachaches while old time Floridians made jelly from the extremely astringent fruit. Native Americans added fresh beautyberry leaves to sweat baths as a remedy for rheumatism and fever and some people use the bark from stems and roots to relieve itchiness.

I'm too lazy to attempt jelly making and more likely to munch on a piece of candied ginger if my stomach feels unsettled than I am to dig up a beautyberry root to make tea, but I like learning about a plant's history and the different ways it is used by people around the world. I also like watching my woods fill up with uniquely colored botanicals. The fruit of Callicarpa americana is different than any other color I have found in nature. It is not quite purple or pink but some entirely different shade. I call it passion pink, the color of excitement.

Beautyberries in autumn are an exciting addition to the changing landscape. These compact, symmetrically formed, drought-tolerant bushes are one of Florida's best excuses to take a walk in a late October woods. Callicarpa americana berries last until midwinter, when they eventually shrivel up and dry on the stems, but don't wait that long. Beautyberry fruit are at their peak right now. Visit a park or wilderness area. Go for a walk in the woods. Discover the passion this Florida wildflower inspires.

Autumn comes home to roost

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 12, 2009)

Seasonal indicators abound. Over the past few weeks, the goldenrain tree has burst into bloom, showering the sky with color. The deciduous tree's gold-to-coral display is one of my favorite signs that a seasonal shift is under way. Summer is on the wane. Autumn has arrived.

On the ground, stiff brown sycamore leaves have begun to gather beneath increasingly bare branches while a noticeably cooler breeze blows across the feathery faces of goldenrod plumes. Whatever bright-orange persimmons the raccoons missed now dangle from leafless branches. On loquat trees, fragrant white blossoms have emerged, promising a hefty harvest in February. And the other day, for the first time in several months, I actually had difficulty submerging myself in the lake.

"Gosh, the water has gotten cooler," I said to Ralph as we headed into the lake after being outside for a while. "I haven't had this much trouble getting in since last April."

All summer long, dipping into the silky smooth water has been as easy to do as snuggling under the covers. The lake has been a delightful escape from the intense summer heat, but now that the air temperature has dropped, the lake has cooled correspondingly. I did manage to ease my way in yesterday, but I did so with more reluctance than I'd felt in months.

I'm not complaining. The loss of one pleasure is just an opportunity for another to take its place, and my most recent delight has come from observing an osprey that I hadn't seen all summer.

I first noticed the large fish hawk on our lake last November. Throughout the fall and winter and into the spring, the white-bellied raptor perched on a bamboo pole sticking out of a submerged peat island in the middle of our lake. Every morning when I woke up, I saw the bird sitting there and, although it left during the day, it returned at dusk to spend the night on its precarious perch. The osprey became such a fixture that after a while I stopped paying attention to it. I suppose I took its presence for granted. Maybe that's why we were well into summer when I realized it was no longer there.

The summer of 2009 was so full of weddings, new babies and writing projects that I didn't have time for prolonged pondering about the osprey's whereabouts. Occasionally I wondered why it had gone away, where it went and when it would come back. I missed watching the broad-winged bird circle the lake, dive to catch fish, then devour its catch while balancing on the bamboo perch. I even missed hearing its piercing cry — the osprey's warning when I approached too close.

The day I realized it had come back was the first cool day in October. Before then, it had not occurred to me that seasonal changes had anything to do with the osprey's whereabouts. Because I was used to seeing ospreys year-round, it didn't dawn on me that some fish hawks are migratory, traveling thousands of miles annually to return to good fishing grounds.

I have no doubt that the bird that recently returned to our lake is the same osprey that was here last November. Ospreys are creatures of habit, and once a bird has claimed a suitable habitat as its own, it comes back every year.

I don't know where the osprey in my lake spent its summer, but I do know that its return is yet another indication that the seasons have changed. Autumn in Florida is a wonderful time of year, and having a resident osprey to observe only makes it better.