My sister and I are driving from Chicago to her home in New Glarus, Wis., a little Swiss-like town 2 1/2 hours over the Illinois border.
We sisters talk for the first hour, prattling on about not much of anything and the drive is good.
There is a lull in the conversation and as we near our destination, I remark about the small towns through which we pass. The houses are set back from the road with nary a walk-to neighbor.
“Gosh,” I wonder aloud. “What do these people do with their time? Where do they work? Where do they go? Where is the pizza parlor?”
I am distressed, thinking I will not be able to go out or call any hour for whatever. Even though I never go out or call at home, I feel constricted thinking if I wanted to, I couldn’t just find a person or noise close by.
Soon I am standing at her kitchen sink looking out. My eyes dart from this to that not knowing quite where to look first. There is a wisp of smoke curling from some chimney half seen across the vista. And then closer are the bird feeders–six of them, all squirrel-proof.
The feeders are full of birds. Juncos with their fat white bellies, puffed up against the cold.
There are yellow finches, and purple/red house finches. They pretend to be hummingbirds, vibrating mightily to stay close to the feed even though they cannot get a “perch,” as there are so many in line.
There is a redheaded woodpecker pounding away at the suet, arguing with a blue jay twice its size over who will be first. The woodpecker wins and the jay flies off to wait his turn.
Suddenly there is a flash of bright red and before me is a cardinal, his lady wife, less flamboyant, close by. They nod and peck at unseen bits hidden in the snow.
Sparrows flit about, chattering among themselves.
I step away from the window as my brother-in-law moves to begin the dishwashing. I am startled as he yells for my sister.
“E,” he calls, “come quick. There’s a fox.”
She comes, as I do, and we cluster together at the window watching the thin-tailed red fox slink and pounce in the snowdrifts in its quest for food. We watch its little dancing ritual as it moves away down the hill and out of sight.
I sigh as I take up a towel to begin the drying of the dishes. This is how they all–birds, foxes and people–fill their country days, among other country things I am not privy to. I think I am missing something here. Surely no foxes in my backyard.
