Lisa Schroeder and the Good Old Days

Lisa Schroeder and her husband, John, live one wooded thicket north of Doc Milly Willy on the west side of Maple Lane. Their beautiful home is set about fifty yards back, on the crest of the ridge above Maple Pond.

For several months before Lisa and her family moved in, they had the house completely renovated. At the same time they employed tree-specialists who cut out all the scrawny poplars and wild undergrowth in their woods.

In layman's terms, the junk was cut out, the woods was opened up, leaving only mature maples, beeches, and shag-bark hickories. The change in the property was startling. The house was both restored and improved. The surrounding woodland was renewed and tamed. All was made beautiful.

Once the work was complete, the long curving driveway swept majestically up to the lovely house, and dappled sunlight slipped bravely through the more-open slot of the canopy. And guess what?! The wide, grassy spaces alongside their long drive grew lush blue-green.

It appears I cannot get to the bottom of this disturbing lawnsmanship affliction. While it's difficult to determine who along Maple Lane introduced this conspiratorial golf-course-green ailment, nearly everyone along Maple Lane suffers with the illness. I alone remain uninfected. You may be assured I am fully inoculated.

But! All that aside, I confess I can't help liking Lisa and John, and their two young children. John and the kids're new to me. But Lisa goes back about twenty years. In the late eighties, she was one of those sparkly-cute, high-school girls who came to all the Friday-Night dances at John Glenn High School in nearby Bangor Township.

Of course, that was way back in that bravely idyllic period when there were such things as Friday-Night high-school dances, when various clubs did fund-raisers and such. Way back in those pristine days of my youth, Friday-Night dances were one of the the things that made the good old days GOOD. Unfortunately, some time in the early-nineties, kids got too cool for Friday-Night dances.

Still, before no-dance-cool flared-up and spoiled Friday nights, my wife and I were among the parents and teachers who chaperoned nearly every dance. We were the kind of teachers who would happily chaperon a dog-fight and bring along the bandages. What can I say? We just enjoyed watching kids play. And Lisa Schroeder was a treat to watch.

The boys all whispered that Lisa was hot. If hot meant she was self-possessed and bright, had a nice smile and a trim figure, carried herself proudly and dressed well, smiled brightly and greeted everyone warmly, knew all the current dances and bounced lightly around the dance-floor with her friends -- if that's what hot meant, then Lisa was, indeed, very hot. She was right outa "Happy Days." You just couldn't help liking her.

Lisa had so much going for her in good ways. She was bright and hardworking -- the kinda kid who completed her classroom assignments correctly and on time. She consistently got good grades. In a school chock-full of good kids, Lisa was one of the best. She didn't push herself. She rarely sought the lime-light. She was one of those common-sense kids I identified -- way back when I was a young teacher -- who was unique in that she was comfortable in her own skin. While kids said she was hot, teachers thought she had it all together.

In Lisa's case, we all had it right.

In fact, Lisa was one of those blessed kids all John Glenn's administrators, counselors, and teachers just knew -- thank you very much! -- was going to succeed very nicely as an adult. Her classmates knew that about Lisa too. You can criticize teachers and high-school kids all you want. And sometimes, maybe you'll be right. But most teachers and students know a good kid when they see one coming.

But you know what? Lisa fooled us all. In fact, she has succeeded much better than most of us predicted.

After Lisa graduated from high school, she became a realtor. And she's good at it, too. She has a pleasant, engaging personality. She has a knack for showing a house to its best advantage. She's honest in her dealings. She has developed a reputation for negotiating the fair price, for making both buyer and seller happy.

One result of all this is Lisa is consistently one of those rare realtors who moves property quickly. One of my friends in the real-estate business once told me that in our tri-county area, Lisa has become a seven-figure seller.


There's something quietly inspirational about having Lisa living nearby. Once or more in a week's time I see Lisa walking with her husband and children. I see her as she once was: filled with rich promise, delighting in her childhood, testing her youthful strengths, looking forward with excitement

I see her as she appears today: gently unfolding into increasing challenges as she gracefully matures and grows into her middle-years: successful business-person, sensitive and caring mother and wife. Lisa's a growing, learning being.

While Lisa may not be aware I'm even watching her, she is for me an uplifting example as I enter what may well be the final phases of my own life. She reminds me of the the good old days. She reminds me of my own youth, my own early dreams, my own good fortune as I've worked and grown throughout the early phases of my life.

Watching Lisa with her lovely family reminds me of my own long and happy marriage -- before the recent and untimely death of my beloved wife.

Lisa's like that optimistic and bumptious child inside me -- that restless Okay-Kid who continues to goad me. Lisa enlivens within me a powerful life-force, that in spite of everything I've recently lost, makes me want to hold fast my dreams, develop new dreams, and keep on growing.

Watching Lisa makes me turn inside, study myself, and ask "What's Next?"


However! I've known Lisa's husband, John, only a short while. Like Lisa, John's a very successful realtor. He's a busy guy: likable and quietly focused, growing as a loving husband, father, and energetic business-person. He and Lisa are a nicely matched set.

But the thing is: John has this one terrible problem that troubles me:

He cuts his lawn meticulously.

Please! Lemme Help Ya. . . .

The title tells most of the story about my slender relationship with Tom Baird. He lives one house and a thicket of trees north of Skip and Ann on the east side of Maple Lane. I see him mostly when he's walking his dog or cutting his lawn. I rarely see his wife: a lovely and quiet person with whom I have never spoken except to exchange an occasional smile and greeting.

Tom's a typical Maple Laner. One difference is that he's an army retiree. I think he was an officer. But I'm not sure. He's a robust, strong-looking man. He reminds me of the tough, but fatherly Sergeant-Major and the older, hard-bellied, no-nonsense Major who ran my battalion right after the Korean Conflict. I was only a water-safety instructor at the Officer's Pool when I was in the army. But I know good leadership when I see and feel it. Some men, no matter their rank, are born leaders. That's Tom. Let me tell you what he once did for me.

I'm not certain: could be Tom saved my life. At least, he led and protected me safely through a critical part of the worst crisis of my life.

On November 2, 2006, my beloved wife Nancy died after a long and courageous battle with breast cancer that metasticized to her liver. You may know how that goes. Three weeks into her third chemo protocol, she sat me down on our glassed-in porch, knelt at my knees, and begged me to release her, permit her to give up her long struggle for life -- and die. My roles throughout her exhausting battle had been cheerleader and coach. So you may be able to imagine how that crushing conversation unfolded.

"Robby! Dear Robby: Please! Let me die!"

"But Nancy, you're only three weeks into this third protocol. Maybe two or three more infusions will reverse the direction of the disease. You've always loved your life. We've always loved each other and the life we've built. We've always had a knack for making happy times. . . ."

I said a little more. But Nancy was earnest. Her mind was made up. "You may be right, Robby. But what sort of life can I expect? This pattern's gonna go on. Recurrence, remission, recurrence, remission. . . I haven't had a pain-free day in over three years. I'm soooo tired, Robby!" Tears welled up in her eyes. In mine too. They rolled down our cheeks as we clung to each other.

There was a little more said on both sides. But I knew I couldn't claim to love Nancy, and deny her request. So I complied. The hardest thing I ever had to do in my entire life.

The very next morning, October 3oth, Nancy didn't wake up. When I couldn't rouse her, I called EMS.

Over the next two days, Nancy mostly slept. By noon, November 1st, she was transferred from the hospital to Bryan's House, our wonderful Hospice Facility very near our home. She awakened and enjoyed a brief brightening late that evening. She was able to say farewell to the few family and friends who could make it here in time. Near the end, I climbed into bed with her and held her. She died in my arms at 1:20am, November 2nd.



But it was the role Tom Baird played that cruel morning of October 30th that assured me the opportunity to be with Nancy when she died.

He apparently saw EMS pass his house and back up our long drive.

After they left with Nancy, I threw on my levi-sweatshirt-running-shoe uniform, rolled-up a clean pair of underwear shorts and t-shirt, stuck in a toothbrush, grabbed a light jacket, jumped into my car, and was soon sailing precariously out the driveway. At the last possible moment, Tom met me near my mailbox and flagged me down. I didn't see him at first. I was so distraught I nearly ran him over.

In retrospect, I now know that was a risk he felt he had to take.

I hit the button, rolled down my window, and he grabbed my arm firmly. I was anxious to get to the hospital, so I tugged at my arm, trying to get loose and on my way. But Tom held on tight.

"Tom-I'm-sorry. I-gotta-go. EMS-took-Nancy. . . ." What little reserve I could muster broke, and tears ran down my cheeks, adding humiliation to desperation.

Tom was quiet and earnest. He held onto my arm. "I know, Bob. I know. Why don't you let me take you? I'll stay close. . . ."

"But I'll be stranded, Tom. I'll surely need to come and go. Run errands. . . ." Truth is, I had no idea why I might need a car, what I might need to do. Or what the situation might demand of me. I only knew something unspeakably terrible was about to happen.

I was panicked, deep in shock. Tom later told me the pupils of my eyes were "big as dimes." So he hung onto me. He quietly talked me down, soothed me, let me talk until my words ran out. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes might've elapsed before he thought I was calm enough to make it safely to the hospital. All that time he held firmly onto my arm, locking it tightly pressed across the opening where the window-glass slides up and down.

Never mind the possibility I might just panic and drive away, dragging him with me until he fell off. Tom held onto me. And there was a strength about him, about his appearance, about his entire manner, that held my mind and drew me ever closer to him as those dreadful moments ticked away.

It certainly wasn't my good manners that finally overcame my panic, that permitted him to hold me there, when all I wanted to do was flee to the hospital and find Nancy.

It was the look of the man, the quiet persuasiveness of his entire being. It was his common-sense clarity, the soothing sound of his voice. It was everything about him, the entire man -- the whole of what his life had taught him -- that held me there with him that terrible morning, when all I wanted to do was tear off into crazy morning traffic.

Tom's firmness and caring manner spared me the accident I might certainly have had. That morning, he kept me from making a horrible situation worse.

In some place in my head, I absolutely knew what he was trying to do to me, trying to do for me. And while I didn't want to listen to him, didn't want to do what he asked me to do, I nevertheless did exactly as he asked. And that's how good leaders affect us.

I've held leadership positions. I've studied and taught leadership the past four decades of my life. I know what leadership looks like. I know leaders are strong and caring people who help others face down panic and confront the terror of impending loss. I know leaders calmly persuade others to do what is necessary and right.

But until that terrible morning, I didn't know Tom Baird was such a wonderful leader. I didn't know that, until he stepped up and took me by the arm.




Please share your own thoughts about leadership.

Remembering Nancy I

Today's my birthday. I woke up before sunrise remembering Nancy.

Three years is a long time. I still miss her. Lotta people do. Not in that sad and painful way we once did, though. Nowadays, our family members and old friends aren't scared to tell me what I've come to call "Nancy-Stories." I like to tell her story, too.

She was so sweetly loving. So smart and clever and funny. Here's an example of the sort of 20-second transaction Nancy was so good at negotiating:


The last time my birthday fell on Thanksgiving, my buddy Paul and I were out in the garage messing around with the battery-powered hand-drill Nancy'd just given me for my birthday.

I hasten to add that 30-plus years of marriage makes a practical present like that seem pretty romantic.

The sun had gone down. We had long-since over-eaten. Everybody'd pitched in: wrapped the left-overs and stuck 'em into the fridge, helped with the dishes, rearranged the dining-room furniture. And like that. Now Paul and I'd escaped the family for a few minutes. We were hunkered down close together in a coupla high-back stools, our elbows resting on the work-bench.

We were just about to begin making a mess, drilling test-holes into a short scrap board. I mean, this was several years ago, and we wondered how powerful these new battery-powered hand-tools really were. Serious Man-Type Business -- No Less.

At the very last minute before experimentation begins, here comes Nancy flouncing in, plopping down into my lap.

"Booby, Boooby, Booooby" With a big sigh, she curls her index finger on my chin and cheek, wraps her other arm around my neck, slips my bulky safety glasses up onto the top of my head, and gives me a quick, soft kiss on the lips: "Happy Birthday, Robby."

"Thanks, Honey. I love this drill. . . ."

"I seeee! You're WELCOME!" She gently lifts the drill outa my hand, sets it into its recess in the handy-carrying-case, and drops one of those wrinkled, rolled-up, big-black trash bags into my hand -- meanwhile delivering three more kisses. These're slower, kinda moist, with loud smacks. Little dabba tongue, too.

Whenever she loves-me-up like this, I kinda get disoriented. I glance wistfully over at my new, now-nearly-put-away drill.

"Paul 'n I're just gonna test it on this board, Honey. Wanna see?"

Blip! She lightly taps the trash bag and simultaneously squeezes my hand: "That's nice. But first: would you guys Pul-LEEEEZ gather up all the torn wrapping paper in the Great Room, empty-out all the other waste-baskets, toss this bag into the garbage can, and roll it out to the curb?" Another smacker. This one real tonguey and not the least bit quick. Then she's up and through the door into the kitchen.

So! Paul & I: we make a quick decision. We close the handy-carrying-case, snap its latches, gather up the drills and board, and stow everything safely away on the shelf beneath the work bench.

Ten minutes won't make all that much difference.

Now -- just you wait ONE little minute! Before you start making funna-me, Stop and Think: five sweet kisses from a beautiful woman, who just sat cosily in your lap twenty seconds?! I say that's a big down-payment on any transaction.

Pretty romantic, too.

Nowadays I gotta take the trash out for FREE.

In Memoriam
Nancy Sue Warner Meadows
2-8-44 -- 11-2-2006

911: Doc Milly to the Rescue

Doc Milly Willy's my kinda-new neighbor, west of me on the Maple Lane cul-de-sac. I've known her only a couple years. Yes, her name's funny. Yes, she's young. Forty. Looks thirty. About five-foot-two, trim runner's build, ivory skin, chiseled features. (Jody Foster comes to mind.) Anyway, she's the kinda young woman a guy hopes his sons and grandsons might bring home and marry. Only Milly's already married to a neat guy.

Sounds silly: but Milly looks smart. It's something about the set of her eyes and the way she perks up, tips her head slightly to the side, and leans a tiny bit toward you when you say something to her -- as if she thinks your words may be important. She cares. That's it: Milly has a really alert and caring manner. She's an MD, an Emergency Medicine Specialist.

A good one. Here's how I know.

Last year, the final week of October, I shut down my table saw after a long day's work on the new deck I was building on my small island out in our pond. Here's some advice I learned the hard way that day: "Don't YOU shut down, until the saw's completely shut down. Here's why: before the blade quit spinning, I got too close, and it took a streak of hide off the the inside of my left ring finger and pinky.

That stung a little. When I took a quick look, I saw the unmarked inner muscles of those two fingers shining through the slice, all red, clean, and uncut. I thought: "Hmmmmnn! Not too bad." But MAN! Did that cut ever bleed. A real gusher. At first, I couldn't stop it no matter how hard I compressed the wounds.

So it was worse than I first thought. But I wasn't much worried. I've long been a devotee of Fourteenth Century medicine that acted upon the dictum: "bleding klenseth thy wonde." So what I finally did when the blood-flow ebbed a little was douse the cuts with alcohol and merthiolate. Then I wrapped the fingers tightly together with a mass of gauze I hoped would compress the wounds and act sorta like a cork. (My doctors degree is Educational Leadership. What can I say?)

Of course the bandage kept saturating with blood. But I just wound more gauze tightly around it, and when it got too bulky I cut the gauze away and started again from scratch. At each rewinding, I doused the wound with more alcohol and super-stinging merthiolate. Small wounds are small annoyances: ignore them and they'll go away. Or so I thought.


Four or five days later, the lawns along Maple Lane were high-shin-deep in leaves. At first light, neighbors poured out through open garage doors with bamboo rakes and power-blowers.

This was one of those chilly, far-late-autumn mornings where you bundle up in sweat-clothes, heavy hooded sweatshirts, and thick sweat-socks tugged up to your shins above your tennies. In the open air, you swing your arms, pat yourself all over, and hoot, because it's so chilly and you know for certain that summer's over.

It's late autumn. The leaves have long-since colored. Most have fallen. On Maple Lane it's Leaf-Raking time. Smart management gets them up in just two rakings.

And that's how several days after I cut myself, I found myself helping Milly clear away a huge pile of leaves near her mailbox. The cuts on my hand were slowly healing. But whenever I gripped anything firmly, the cuts usually opened and bled -- at least a little.

In the middle of the work, we paused a moment to stretch our backs and rest. In the midst of one of her deep stretches, Milly looked down and inadvertently noticed the smear of blood on my rake-handle. Next, she spied my bloody bandage.

In that one moment I saw her transform from the Milly I knew, to the Dr. Mildred Willy I had never before seen. She bent closer, peering intently at my hand. Her preliminary examination complete, she straightened, looked directly into my eyes, and extended her hand. Now she stood directly in front of me, her shoulders square, her head erect.

Her entire posture challenged me, dared me. Insisted I offer my hand. But I didn't want her to see it. I felt embarrassed. Didn't matter I'm nearly twice her age. I slid my hand quickly behind my back. I watched her slip through a sequence of roles: friendly neighbor, about-to-scold-mother. In a split second she arrived at imperious-attending-physician.

Good doctors do this. They take charge! Their confidence astonishes and cows.

I'd never met THAT Milly before. She was like: "I-see-you-screwed-up-Buddy! Never-mind-we'll-fix-it! Your-monkey-business-ends-here!" Of course she didn't say that. She didn't have to. Her posture and facial expression said all that. Along with "You-know-I-care-about-you!"

Still, I kept my wounded hand safely tucked behind my back. Then Milly jiggled her extended hand, signaling impatience. And though the gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible, it commanded. Reluctantly, I complied.

Milly deftly slipped the blood-soaked bandage free. I clearly saw what she saw: not much swelling or redness. Just a small trickle of blood and oozing fluid. Merthiolate, 70% Isopropyl alcohol, and compression bandages may be primitive, but they were doing their work. Score one for the old guy.

Her professional examination complete, she drew herself up to her full SEVEN-FOOT height, looked straight into my eyes as seasoned leaders always do, and spoke with quiet firmness: "That wound's infected. It's not too bad yet. But it will be if we don't take care of it. Howcum no stitches? What's your pharmacy? I'm calling in a prescription for you this minute. Go pick it up." When I didn't move immediately, she added: "Right NOW!"

Like a naughty and repentant little boy, I spoke softly, in due-deference: "Monitor Pharmacy." Then I meekly asked: "Shouldn't I wrap this up first?" She graced me with a quick affirmative nod, turned, and trotted off through her open garage door to her nearest telephone.

About a week later my hand was completely healed.

I have a wonderful internist of my own, a friend who for many years has acted as my general practitioner. But, I don't like to bother TerryD with stuff I think I can handle myself. Believe me: over the past 30 years I've managed to hide from him several stupid things I've done. And I've survived reasonably intact.

And anyway, on Maple Lane I've got Doc Milly Willy right next door. Especially when I do something real dumb and can't hide it from her.

Is my world a good world, or what? So what's going on in yours?

Maple Lane and my neighbor's affairs

My neighbors and I live in a beautiful woods. Our quarter-mile curved drive winds south through groves of mature maples and hickories ending in a cul-de-sac. The center of the cul-de-sac is a small garden featuring trim evergreens and neat plantings of hasta and black-eyed Susans. Nine lovely homes lie nestled among mature trees on either side of Maple Lane.

While these homes are varied in style, they all feature long, sloping roofs, rich brick or cedar siding, and large expanses of glass. Some feature small, nicely tailored lawns of blue-green grass and colorful perennial gardens. How all these plantings thrive so well under the rich canopy above, is a mystery to me. But they do. On the west side of the lane, wooded backyards slope down to a long, lovely pond, richly seeded with varieties of bass.

You've seen this place. It's one of those attractive places you find in nearly every community that folks seek out to drive through slowly -- gawking, oohing and ahing. Think rich-looking and varied brick mailboxes. Think still-hardy, energetic retired folks poking about in gardens with hoes, rakes, spades, snippers, and small hand-scoops. Think young-looking grandparents.

Think, "HolyCOW!? How much does it cost to live here?" Think, "Yeah! This's how the other half lives." Think, "Well. . .maybe someday. . . ."

But you'd be wrong!

Think instead, this is what two retired school teachers can afford, if they've worked hard, lived frugally, saved some of their salaries, finally gotten their kids through college, and maybe have had some good luck with a few small investments. And maybe, just maybe: one of them is still working full-time at a local elementary school, and the other one has a small business building and selling storage sheds -- or something like that. And they haven't had any of those expensive vacations or trips to Europe, either. This home has been their lifelong dream.

I'm willing to bet you'd like these people. In the next few postings I'll introduce you to some of them. They're probably just like you: hard workers living by the Golden Rule and the Boy Scout Law. Kind, gentle people. Lucky, skillful people living their dreams. They're deeply human. Maybe even fallible in small ways that don't much show. Their most common traits are that they're busy and diligent, down-to-earth and friendly.

My home is nestled behind a maple grove on the far-side of the cul-de-sac. My neighbors on the east are retired school teachers. I'd like to introduce you.

Ann is a retired school librarian. Kind and quietly lovely as she is, I always expect that when I greet her at her mailbox she might place her index finger to her lips and issue a nearly silent shhhhhhh! Before he retired, Skip taught earth science in a local high school for 30 years. In fact, his curriculum may well be the basis of his most witless compulsion. He's a truly earthy guy.

Some men get restless as they slip into their sixties, I suppose. Perhaps that's why Skip is currently carrying on a series of passionate love affairs. Right in public, too.

Shameful, I call it.

He can't keep his hands off his lawn mower. He's crazy about his power blower, too. He risks an oily smirk as he fondles his various clippers, gardening tools, and his large variety of pole and handsaws with which he meticulously trims his ornamental bushes and trees.

Thank heavens I'm not one easily led by a good example. I often sprawl comfortably on my deck-hammock marveling at Skip's industry. Zip-snip-snap, he reshapes a sprawling young hemlock. Dig-dribble-slice, he splits, lifts. and resets a rampaging hasta. Clip-clack, he rounds a lop-sided ornamental. Bonk-bash-whip, he drives a stake and ties back the errant limb of a wayward bush. Scritchy-scratch-blop, he rakes a small batch of debris from around the foot of his hemlock fence and deposits it cleanly into a handy plastic bin for later disposal.

He's never still for a moment. Watching him exhausts me. Thank heavens for my frosty pitcher of iced tea. I've attached a short length of rope to a fixed bench with an eye-hook, so I can gently rock my hammock as Skip races pell-mell around his yard. After all, someone must be available to call EMS when he inevitably collapses, another sad casualty of determined woodsmanship and admirable work habits. Leave that to me. Cell-phone in hand, I lounge lazily, alert to the first sign of emergency.

Of all his dangerous compulsions, Skip's meticulous lawnsmanship is by far the most hazardous. I try to set a bad example for him. But he resists. Once -- maybe twice -- in a month's time I might cut my lawn. He cuts his every three days. You might think my lethargy would encourage my lawn, while his diligence might discourage his. But no! My lawn lies there, a hopeless hodge-podge of earth-tones, a sad mixture of foot-worn bare spots, mole trails, and wispy clumps of tired grass. Skip's lawn remains one sweeping carpet of Kentucky blue.

I'm a quiet guy, the kind who loves a misty day -- books and yoga, long walks and reflection are my favorite things. I bought my mower in 2000, and since then, I have not once changed the oil or sharpened the blade. Skip's a handy, home-maintenance zealot -- the sort who washes his car by hand. And polishes it. Then, as if that were not already too much, he changes the oil. Maybe applies his howling and carniverous Shop-Vac.

Beware! Good work habits have a disheartening way of spilling over into otherwise harmless avocational pursuits. Skip maintains his mower with wild-eyed NASCAR zeal.

As a good neighbor, I've done my best to help Skip. But his good habits persist. With your comments, please recommend ways I might help him.

The Dance of the Finches

I love the way my home sits nestled in a grove of mature maples and nut trees. Out back, off my kitchen and great room, is a comfortable deck. A brick path separates the deck from a pond surrounded by low-hanging birch clumps and young leaning beech trees. The path encircles a bright, sunlit opening in the woods, providing easy access to two decks connected by a large glassed-in four-season porch. A small pond-overrun creek and a cascading fountain gurgle quietly in the background, adding to the ambiance of this comfortably bucolic scene.

Close beyond the path are a string of perennial gardens and nicely placed evergreen and ornamental bushes that further separate the woods from the house. In a small opening among the trees, within clear view of the decks stands a large birdfeeder. Two sections of silvery stove pipe secure the feeder from squirrels and other quick-climbing varmints that populate the area.

In the early evenings, deer wander in to crop the occasional hosta, tulip, and astilbe plants. More often these deer join a small covey of wild turkeys that also wander in at dusk to pick patiently through a large circle of fallen seeds and shell-debris beneath the feeder. Small, low-hanging branches extend from nearby trees, and unless I keep them trimmed back neatly, light-footed squirrels make acrobatic leaps from these branches to the roof of the feeder. BEWARE: Never trust a squirrel where bird feed is concerned. Alas: I have a soft heart. Every time I fill the feeder, I fight the impulse to cast a few handfuls of seed on the ground beside the squirrels. But I nearly always lose, and the squirrels win out.

Three seasons of the year I love to sit quietly beneath my deck umbrella with a cup of coffee and whatever book I’m currently reading. I sip my coffee slowly, frequently looking up from the pages to enjoy the lovely scene. Mostly, though, the book doesn’t have a chance against the birdfeeder, which draws my eye nearly every time.

One morning last week, I sat lazily upon the cover of my hot tub watching a flock of some forty tiny finches taking turns at the trough of the feeder. Bright sunlight made dazzling sparks on their feathers as they darted about, making space for each other in a wild melee of whirling movement surrounding the feeder in a tight sphere of action. I singled out one brightly colored male and traced his three-second path as he darted from ledge to feeder-roof to trough to branch, and round about again and again. And he was only one bird in the whirling mass of his fellows.

It was evident they were taking turns. Perhaps 95% of the birds flitted about airborne at any one moment while the small remainder paused quickly at the trough for a scant, split-second feed. Watching them dart about, braking wildly in mid-air on fluttering wings to avoid head-on collisions soon had me laughing. Clearly, they needed a feathery traffic cop.

Or did they? As I sat transfixed, wondering what to make of this intricate ballet, it suddenly came to me that the finches didn’t need a traffic cop. Their artful behavior clearly demonstrated that startling fact. The more I watched them, their behavior appeared to be a sharply focused treatise upon dividing and sharing whatever space and resources at first appear insufficient to projected needs. That was the valuable lesson I had missed at first.

After all, life is not a zero-sum game. If we maximize production and equally share the yield, there is enough for us all. We just need to care about each other, take turns, and be patient – three skills we are expected to acquire in kindergarten.

Certainly, life can become more than a selfish game of Musical Chairs. Life can be generous. But such a life demands will and practice. First we must share the belief that skilled management can provide enough space and resources for us all. Once we believe this fact, we can begin to practice the Dance of the Finches.

THAT is the generous and artistic choreography we must master.

SO! Tell me your thoughts...