I looked out my window on Saturday and said hello to our male cardinal, Mr. Redbird as I call him. I mentioned to Michael that the birds kept us company through much of last year, and then the cats took over. I told him that I wondered what would be next. He said there was no telling.

Later that day I found Ferdinand the orange cat on the back porch playing with an injured baby bird. I picked the bird up and searched for its nest, but I couldn’t figure out where it came from. We put it in an old nest and hoped for the best.

If it had been another time in my life I wouldn’t have left that poor bird out there to fend for itself, but with five cats in the house and two kids I didn’t think it would have stood much of a chance if I had brought it in and tried to doctor it.

I let nature take its course and found the poor bird dead on the back porch this morning, at the hands of Ferdinand no doubt. I asked myself if the cat didn’t feel bad about what he’d done, and then remembered all the chicken I consume and said to myself I guess that’s just the nature of things.

It’s hard to believe it’s already May and time for little baby birds to be learning to fly.

At times during 2020 it seemed that 2021 would never get here, and now it has flown by. Christmas and the time we got COVID seem like decades ago. It seems like I’ll blink my eyes and it will be the kid’s birthdays, and then Christmas again and then this time next year when I’m saying once more how time flies.

I’m usually pretty excited about my garden and still filled with delusions of grandeur at this time of spring, but this year I’ve about given up on doing much here.

I spent all my time since last summer thinking I’d have raised vegetable beds and a field full of pumpkins and wildflowers, but I just don’t think this is the year it’s going to happen.

Last year was easier because little sister was still taking at least two naps a day. This year, those naps are sometimes unpredictable, and I haven’t spent more than ten minutes in my garden.

I’m thinking of commandeering a good portion of one of the places my dad has plowed up at his and Mama’s house. It’s the same place where a few years ago I vowed to have a one-acre garden and become a truck farmer. It didn’t go so well, but zinnias don’t require nearly the amount of care that tomatoes and peppers do. And I hear that flower farming is becoming a popular gig.

I guess I won’t jump on that bandwagon just yet, since I’m currently on a different bandwagon where I’m determined to become an expert fisherwoman.

I got a fishing pole for Mother’s Day. It’s the very first one that has ever been my own. I’m excited about it, but something tells me that if I can’t find the time and sense to plant a tomato in the yard that I’m probably not going to be floating around the lake finding a good fishing hole anytime soon. At least I have the time and sense to let my kids wade in mud puddles and play in the dirt. When I think about it like that, all of the other things I don’t get around to aren’t that important after all.

Danielle Wallingsford Kirkland is a former Sentinel staff writer and correspondent. She can be reached at danielle.w.kirkland@gmail.com.

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