My husband, Peter, is fascinated by hummingbirds.

This year has been a difficult year for hummingbird watching as there has been a lot of competition at the feeder. First, the ants wouldn’t leave it alone. Then a bear smashed the feeder to bits. Right after Peter replaced the feeder, wasps found it. Peter gave up for a while and took the feeder down, replacing it with a fancy wasp trap that worked surprisingly well. Wasps were lining up to commit suicide in this hive-shaped contraption that Peter filled with sweet liquid. I had to conclude that wasps are not very smart.

“Oh look! There are 200 of my dead companions all gathered together! This must be a great place to eat!”

Once the wasps were thinned out, the hummingbird feeder went back up, just in time for the annual migration of the Rufous hummingbirds. This is always an exciting time for Peter.

The Rufous is not a nice hummingbird -- and I don’t think hummingbirds are nice to begin with.

“If hummingbirds were 10 times bigger, we would hate them!” I tell Peter. He can’t disagree. From my highly unscientific observations, I would estimate that hummingbirds spend one-tenth of their time eating and the other nine-tenths trying to prevent other hummingbirds from eating.

The Rufous is even worse. The Rufous is marginally bigger than the other hummingbirds so, when they move in, they act like the Jets in “West Side Story” -- except they don’t even get along with one another. The Rufous snaps open its tailfeathers like a switchblade to scare the other birds away.

“I’m a big, bad bird!” the Rufous says, fanning its orange tail and looking tough. No one seems to get any eating done. It’s just a lot of posturing and fighting.

“Hummingbirds are dumb!” I tell Peter.

“Yeah, but they’re beautiful!” Peter says, looking at their shiny feathers and delicate beaks.

We have a long wire strung from our neighbors' shed to our house that we hang lights from. I would estimate there is room for 3,000 hummingbirds on that strand of wire but, according to hummingbird logic, more than one hummingbird on the line at a time is a crowd. They fight like mad for one particular spot on the wire while the rest of the space sits vacant.

“Hummingbirds are selfish!” I tell Peter.

“Yeah, but they’re acrobatic!” Peter says, watching them dip and dive to drive one another off the wire.

I’m sure someone smarter than me could explain what sort of evolutionary advantage all this fighting over nothing accomplishes. It seems utterly pointless. But, perhaps that’s how all fighting seems when looking at another species.

It is only as the sun is setting that the hummingbirds set aside their antisocial games. They seem to realize that if they are going to get anything to eat, they are going to have to do it before it gets dark. All the bravado and all the squabbling ends in the last moments of the day when they finally get down to business and take care of themselves.

For this brief period, right before hummingbird curfew, the hummingbirds forget their differences and sit together at the feeder -- nine at a time, side by side -- and suck down the nectar they will need to make it through the night.

“Better hurry up!” Peter says to the last stragglers. “Night’s coming!”

I think I know just how they feel.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It’s my birthday this week.

This is not normally cause for a big celebration, and this year it is less than usual. Still, unlike my husband, Peter, I actually do celebrate my birthday. I don’t expect anyone else to celebrate -- although it’s nice to know my parents remember I was born and still seem to think it was a good thing.

But I’m puzzled by reports of people my age who have huge celebrations, or pout if they don’t get a party. My grandmother had a big party on her 100th birthday, and I think that’s an appropriate time for a “blow-out” (as she called it). Otherwise, I think the only person who has any reason to celebrate my birthday is me. It’s good to have been given another year.

This year, Peter asked, as he always does, what I wanted on my birthday. The choices were more limited than in the past, but that really didn’t matter. It’s fun to receive one unusual thing that makes me happy. One year, I asked Peter for a new toilet seat. Peter saw nothing wrong with the existing one (he wouldn’t!) but cheerfully replaced it on my birthday.

“Just don’t go telling everyone I got you a toilet seat for your birthday!” he said.

But now I have.

This year, my plans are less grandiose. I was thinking about cheese, specifically, a big pot of melted cheese. I know, the weather has been warm, but the idea of fresh fruit dunked in a vat of nice cheese sounded irresistible.

“Fondue,” I told Peter. “I’d like fondue for my birthday.”

“Hot oil or cheese?”

“Cheese -- good cheese!”

We ordered long forks and are all set. Peter is making cheese fondue.

I celebrate my birthday for the same reason I journal -- to keep track of where I am in life. Peter says it would be better just to forget about that, especially as we get older, but I disagree. I like to know where I am and where I’ve been. I think that might be more important this year than ever.

I probably get this from my mom. She’s kept a journal every day of her life since she was in college. She claims it is a profoundly dull document. She famously described it as “an uninterrupted record of every dental appointment I’ve ever had.”

But I know this is not strictly true because she does look things up to see what she was doing a year ago or five years ago on that date. She tells me, from time to time, about something she wrote a few years back.

“Oh! We were worried about you,” she’ll tell me. I had no idea my parents were worried, but her journal knew.

My daily journal rarely records anything as exciting as my dental appointments. Usually, I am just trying to figure stuff out, seeing where I am, where I’m going, noting what I’ve done and what I’d still like to do -- both in the near term and before I run out of time for good. Journaling reminds me of how much I have to be grateful for. Birthdays do the same thing.

As an afterthought, I ordered a dozen cupcakes. I didn’t figure a cake made much sense since there was no one to share it with, but I thought it might be fun to distribute cupcakes to friends and neighbors. I’m getting one dozen red velvet cupcakes with buttercream frosting. I’m having mine with a scoop of peppermint ice cream.

If that isn’t a blow-out, I don’t know what is.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I’ve worn out a pair of slippers.

To be fair, I wear slippers quite a bit under normal circumstances, but over the past four months my slipper use has exceeded previous records. I was reading the news one morning (I imagine you know what that’s like). The takeaway for me was that I was going to be wearing slippers for a while. I looked down at my slippers and gave in to the inevitable. I ordered new slippers.

I’ve actually forgotten what shoes I own. I looked in my closet and it seemed kind of quaint. I had different shoes for different outfits! I had shoes with heels! I had boots of several varieties -- even a pair of red boots! They are now stacked up neatly in my closet. I haven’t worn anything on my feet but hiking boots and slippers in months.

My husband, Peter, and I have Alexa, the Amazon device that amuses us and annoys us in equal measure. I like her because I can ask questions when I’m baking. “Alexa! How many tablespoons in one-third cup?” “Alexa! When does the sun set tonight?” I can ask questions and play music with sticky hands and this seems to me one of the great advances in civilization made in the last century.

Peter is less sure. He quarrels with Alexa. He asks things in a way she cannot answer and when she says, “I’m not sure I understand your question,” Peter takes it personally.

“She’s a machine,” I remind Peter.

“She’s not an intelligent machine!” Peter replies.

Yesterday, Alexa was flashing away like crazy. This, I have learned, means she has something to say.

“Alexa! Do you have a notification?”

“I have one notification.” I waited with bated breath. (There really isn’t a lot going on at our house right now.)

“The notification is for Carrie: Your slipper has been delivered.”

“Oh my gosh! My slipper has been delivered!” I felt like Cinderella. I immediately went out and fetched the box from the stoop. I discovered that Alexa spoke the truth. In fact, it was even better than she said. Two slippers had been delivered -- one for each foot!

Since March, the only clothing I have purchased is two pairs of stretchy pants and a nightgown. I’ve been living in stretchy pants. New slippers were a very big deal.

I am amazed by how little I have thought about clothes over the past one-third of a year. I miss wearing shoes but now, glancing into my closet, I wonder how many of them I’ll want to wear again once the opportunity presents itself. It seems to me a lot has changed in four months, and a lot of these changes have happened inside of me.

I have a much greater appreciation for all the things I miss. I miss sharing experiences and having people I can laugh with. I miss chatting with my 90-year-old gal pal in church. I miss sitting with a group of strangers in a theater when the lights dim. I’d be happy to wear my stretchy pants and new slippers everywhere if I could get together with friends for an evening of fun.

I modeled my new slippers for Peter. He pretended to be impressed. (A marriage relies on a little good-natured acting from time to time.) I’m going to keep all my shoes, although I think I might have to dust them pretty soon. I’m holding out hope that, someday, I might have the occasion to wear a pair of red boots -- probably with a pair of stretchy pants.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION