Sweet Home

Sweet Home, Canada, Canada

            Although snowflakes drift from the low-hanging gray clouds, signs of spring abound. Now, I serve supper in daylight, the chickens are laying more eggs, and our goat has kidded. Flower and herb seeds thrust up tiny leaves from the flats positioned on warm mats beneath grow light. And in six weeks or so, one morning I will hear the sweet voice of the White Throated Sparrow singing, “Poor Sam, Peabody, Peabody” or as Canadians say, “Sweet Home, Canada, Canada”.

            The migrating sparrow with its white bib will peck at seeds beneath my bird feeder and flutter through the pine trees shading our home. For about two weeks, his voice is part of the fugue composed of spring peepers, and the calling of the chick-a-dees. When the first round of warm weather moves across my farm, the White-Throated Sparrow flies north.

            In the early 1990’s, Tasha invited my family to attend her Summer Solstice Party. So near June 21^st, we packed our car and drove across Canada, and onward through upstate New York, commenting about places that had appeared in James F. Cooper’s novels. Finally, we rolled through the Green Mountains of Vermont and parked our car near Tasha’s barn. Her corgis greeted and escorted us to Tasha who was baking a cake while discussing plans for the party with Beth Mathers. We shared hugs, and John carried our luggage up to an upstairs room.

            “What can I do to help?” I slipped on an apron. “What needs to be done?”

            “Why don’t you water the large pots? The ones scattered about outside,” Tasha said.

            I found a watering can in the greenhouse and wandered the garden, sprinkling a tall foxglove, a container holding a white bleeding-heart, and finally, Tasha’s beloved bay tree. A cloud of blue forget-me-nots hovered over beds filled with blooming lettuce poppies and daisies. The fragrance of peonies floated across the lawn. From a hemlock tree, a familiar voice sang, “Sweet Home, Canada, Canada”.

            While I had known that White-Throated Sparrows nested in the north, I had assumed these birds traveled on to Canada. While many other members of his clan had probably traveled above the border, this fellow had chosen well. Who wouldn’t want to live in Tasha Tudor’s garden? A blur of colors and fragrances, protected by woods and with a pond near-by made the location the perfect spot for a nest. While I continued to water plants, the sun drifted behind the trees, and the sparrow filled the evening with his voice.