Not an ounce of truth...

  It was a grey morning here on the Bayou...grey and chilly.  As I grow older, the winter's chill gets to me.  I feel it now whereas cold never bothered me in the past.  Perhaps it is a rite of passage.  When you are young and full of energy, even the weather does not stop you but as you age, lingering a bit longer around the old woodstove is necessary.  You deserve it. I deserve it.  So...I did linger...but not before a quick run down to the pier.  That comes without thinking...just do it.  Every last morning after the first mug of coffee, the stroll down the hillside and to the end of the pier is a necessity.

  This morning, only a young raccoon was found out and about.  The little fellow was putting into practice all of the hunting and fishing skills he was taught last year.  Belly deep in the cold water did not seem to bother him at all as his front paws skillfully swished around in the mud.  This lesson was taught by his mother and, obviously, he learned it well.  Swish!  Swish!  A tiny crab was caught and the coon had a bit of breakfast.

  Oddly enough, most of us were taught that raccoons wash their food by swishing it around in water.  After watching the critters, it is easy to see that there is not an ounce of truth in that lesson.  Raccoons have a very highly established sense of touch.  Water heightens that in the coon's paws.  When you see one "washing" its food, it is actually "feeling" it.  A raccoon knows exactly what it finds underwater or in the mud and has no desire to cleanse it.  This is its hunting technique.  A coon does not "look" for food...it "feels" for it. When you think about it, the method is spectacular.  Since the raccoon "feels" for its food, it can keep its head up and be alert for predators.  

  The little coon worked the shallows for a while before scampering into the marsh.  It was bedtime for the little one.  Either it would hole up under some of the marsh mats or work his way up the hill to burrow down in a hollow tree.  Come nightfall, he will be back on "active duty" hunting for enough food to fill his belly.  Me?  I headed back to the Little Bayou House for another mug of coffee and the warmth of the woodstove.

Bundled Up Against The Cold!

   Any fisherman worth his salt will tell you that you need to "get out there early".  Not only are you more apt to catch bait but you will be the "first to get the good spot" since we all know that everyone wants to fish in exactly the same place.  Personally, I stick to fishing from the pier.  Just as many fish can be caught from there and, if I tire of fishing, I can simply walk up the hill to find something else to do.   Still, that firm idea of getting out there before the crack of dawn is a hard trend to break.  Everyone knows that I rise early and head to the pier to start my day.  Not everyone knows that Mark will occasionally rise early and head out in the little skiff.  Different methods but can be a comparable idea.

  Yesterday morning, we did just that.  Rose early, went to the pier, he jumped in the skiff to get that best spot and I headed back up the hillside to plant mustard greens.  As I meandered the slope, I turned just in time to catch a glimpse of him between the trees.  He was throwing the net to catch menhaden or little mullet for bait but I had to ponder just how in the world he managed.  He was so bundled up against the "cold" that it had to be quite the feat.  I am not sure I would have been able to move much less throw the net.  Yes, it was chilly and, yes, I did pull on a sweatshirt but it was not THAT cold!  It made me giggle!

Neatly Folded Against the Wind

  When you think of herons, an image of a tall stately bird with long legs and a long neck comes to mind.  It is hard to imagine seeing one that does not fit that description.  It does happen, however, with the night herons and green heron.  Their somewhat squatty appearance does not seem to go with the norm.  It is hard to convince folks that these are, indeed, herons.  Then, there are times when our tall friends just seem to be squatty like their cousins!

  Since I still cannot get to the end of the pier due to hurricane damage, it is sometimes hard for me to identify certain birds.  Normally, I look for several traits and not depend on just one.  A visitor to the pier posts confused me a bit as it had that telltale squatty appearance.  I was convinced that the green heron had survived the storm and was resting between meals.  A quick photo session took place then I was on my way to find a better subject or, at least, one that was closer.    

  Once those photos were enlarged, I realized that I had made a mistake.  My squatty friend was just trying to conserve body heat during the chilly night and morning.  It was hunkered down against the chilly north wind with its neck tucked tightly against its body.  The bird was the sweet tri-colored heron that I dubbed as "Elvis" several years back.  The bird has hung around the Bayou all this time without leaving.  I should have recognized my friend!  

  It amazes me how the critters of the Bayou have all adapted their own methods of fighting the elements.  By tucking its long neck down next to the downy feathers of its chest, Elvis was able to block out a good bit of the wind.  Sometimes, the birds will do a similar thing with their legs.  Feathers all fluffed, legs neatly tucked, neck folded to the chest...the bird has this warming thing down to a science!  Hey, Elvis!  Stay warm, my friend!

The Change

  Well, now!  That is a change!  I was recently bemoaning the fact that we had no winter, so to speak, then last night, Mother Nature decided to intervene on my behalf.  I awoke to nigh on freezing temperatures!  This did, indeed, pleased me...for the most part.  Other than the fact that I had to make multiple trips out to the woodpile to stoke the old stove, I thoroughly enjoyed the coziness of the Little Bayou House.  The old wood-burning stoves both chugged along happily and kept the place toasty warm.

  This morning, sitting in the comfy rocking chair while sipping my mug of hot coffee, it occurred to me that I would probably not enjoy having the "luxury" of central heating.  I NEED that comfort of watching the flames in the fireplace regardless of the extra work of gathering, splitting and hauling the firewood.  There is something mighty soothing about watching the flames flicker and hearing the fire crackle.  

  Of the two wood-burning stoves in the Little Bayou House, the parlor stove is my favorite.  This tiny cast iron stove was made in Florence, Alabama way back in 1871 and is still in perfect shape!  This stove allows me to remove the front grate so I can enjoy viewing the flames.  The other is enclosed. It warms but the visual aesthetics are missing.  My uncle gave us the stove before he moved from the Coast to live near his daughter in Missouri.  My oldest son was helping Uncle Alfred move some stuff around before his move when they came across the old stove.   It had been stored under the house for years and when Mark found it, Uncle  Alfred said  "Ooooh!  Get that thing out from under there and take it home!  That thing is still good!"  Piece by piece the iron stove was hauled to our house.   My uncle then came to tell us how to put it all back together again.  As a gift, this was amazing.  I cherish it even more since it came from my uncle!  Each time I light the fire, thoughts of our visits and, later, our phone calls, come to mind.  

  All of these happy thoughts and sweet memories came flooding in all due to a change in the weather.  Yep.  This kind of change is good!