Image: Cardinals not at my new feeder!

Where are the birds?

It’s been three days! 

Our new smart bird feeder, overflowing with seeds is ready. We are waiting somewhat patiently to watch you eat–takeout or dine in. Swoop in and perch on the platform. Or grab some grub to go.

All birds staying over the winter are welcome. 

We see you–flashy red cardinals, tufted titmice hopping on the deck. We hear you—red-bellied woodpeckers drilling and sets of squawking jays.

Stop by our sturdy, tree-friendly feeder equipped with a camera hugging the most popular bird hangout in our front yard. The camera has alerted us to every school bus, garage truck, car, bicycle, and walker passing by the house. But no birds.

Aren’t birds always hungry? I suppose they are foraging tasty berries, worms, insects and have no time for free seed. Maybe I need to offer a better selection of seeds at the buffet.

While waiting, I’m musing why we have no bird visitors.  

3. The locals are not hungry after having a Thanksgiving feast at our neighbor’s house.

2. Some feathered friends are camera-shy uncomfortable with anyone watching them gobbling their meal, and coming back for seconds, thirds, etc.    

1. Certain birds are boycotting our feeder until I make my donation to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. 

That's it! I pledge a donation to protect the birds. 

Cookbook inscribed by my flat mate.    

Found Family for Thanksgiving  

My first “Friendsgiving” was one memorable potluck feast with a group of American students sharing a house during their study abroad semester in England.

I didn’t expect to celebrate my favorite holiday away from home. For the last 21 years, I’d spent Thanksgiving with my parents and brother. We hosted relatives who drove for days, happy to be among family. My parents also invited guests whom we affectionately called “strays,” because they didn’t have family nearby. We welcomed these individuals, who were my mother’s students, my father’s colleagues, or our friends from church.

Our traditional meal centered on roasted turkey. Garden vegetables, sweet potatoes, dressing, canned cranberry sauce, rolls, and pumpkin pie with Cool Whip completed the feast. We had plenty of servings of food and gratitude to go around.     

***

I was grateful for the chance to study abroad, a privilege bestowed by my parents. As a communications major, I was thrilled to meet people who produced radio and television programs for the British Broadcasting Corporation. I divided my time between studying and exploring Oxford by bicycle. The town was bustling with students on bikes. The river rippled with scullers.   

***

I kept busy writing essays and writing letters back home. Overseas phone calls were expensive back then, and reserved for emergencies. As Thanksgiving neared, so did my desire for familiar settings, food, and unconditional love.

Mary Houser, my Oxford roommate and new friend, also suffered from a similar bout of homesickness. Neither of us had been away from our families at Thanksgiving. But Mary wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity. And that’s what I adored about her.

She hosted Thanksgiving at our flat. Mary always lifted my spirits. I used to tease her by singing “Oh, it’s a jolly holiday with Mary,” from the Mary Poppins’ movie.

Mary negotiated with everyone so we wouldn’t have too many green bean casseroles. Everyone agreed to bring a different dish and contribute toward the turkey. I made apple pies and set off the smoke detector in the process. Our house mates, hearing the alarm, quickly came to check on Mary and me. 

Bad news: Our flat smelled of smoke that clung in the air all afternoon. Good news: I didn't burn the pies! 

We had a spectacular celebration that Thanksgiving, grateful for our blossoming friendships, belonging, and bounty of food.   

A Beginner's Dilemma 

“Why don’t you two beginners practice together?” 

Mr. Friendly’s question sounded more like a command than a suggestion to this newbie on her first night of open indoor pickleball at the local community center.   

Located less than a mile from my house, I joined this community center because it offered pickleball, along with yoga, spinning classes, and even a childhood favorite  —  badminton. Of course, I expected that a sense of community came with the membership. Now, I was dubious.

Players trickled in, claiming their courts and partners for the first round of doubles during the 90-minute session. Meanwhile, Teri and I, dubbed beginners, played together on the far court. Until more players arrived. Instead of the regulars asking us to play with them, they asked the manager to set up another net. Just for us.

Politely, we were banished to play behind the barrier in the gymnasium Isolated. No stray balls would roll onto our neighbor’s court. No rallying calls or screeching shoes. And no regular players dared rotate in and out of our game.

 “They are aggressive players,” Teri said, adding that she had experienced this brand of competitive behavior from them last week.

Although I felt hurt, I focused my anger on controlling my shots. Low pressure. No scorekeeping. She had taken pickleball lessons, and my good friends had taught me the ins and outs of the game.

Beginners? Our coordination, strategy, and court coverage surpassed any average beginner. 

Admittedly, I’m biased.

Teri, a left-handed player, recognized we had both played tennis. We got into a steady groove and started having fun.

Then, a player I’ll call Manny, who had paired Teri and I together, appeared. “Let’s hit. Keep the ball in play. Don’t worry about the score,” he said. He motioned for me to team up with Teri.

After we ran Manny from side to side, sweat started dripping from his forehead. He analyzed our returns, much like a sports commentator who points out every error your team made in real time. His coaching was useful, his intentions good, but I wanted to hit without the free lessons.

Obviously, he wasn’t winning any points with me. Before leaving us to resume practicing, Manny shared several key ways to win points: 1) hit the ball at the person’s feet, over their head, and anywhere they are not.

My new friend Teri and I said our farewells in the parking lot. I asked her if she had tried the open badminton, naively thinking the game didn’t draw the racquet warriors. Her story surprised me.

“The desk person looked me up and down before asking: When was the last time you played?”

Teri, who is an athlete with knee surgery to her credit, admitted she had not played the game for decades. Because of that, she was shunned. “We have professional badminton players here. Why don’t you play pickleball instead?”

Really? I thought. My community center is a training ground for badminton champions.

“I’ll stick to pickleball then. Do you play on other days?” I asked Teri. 

“Tuesday nights. But don’t come on weekday mornings for pickleball," she said, in a voice that warned me off.   

“Oh?” I asked.

"It’s all levels. We’d have to play with beginners!” Terri said.

We both laughed. I laughed all the way home. Because the truth is, nobody likes to play with beginners, even beginners. 

Footnote: I returned to the community center for open play night. Manny, a regular, told me he felt bad for how we were treated. 

 

My imagination on a bad day.

Photo by Rico 

Exclusive Interview: My Imagination in which Everything gets Real  

Because the idea of interviewing you came to me while I was cycling uphill, let’s start our conversation with the question: How do you keep fit?

Weeeee! Cycling, of course, is my favorite exercise. I walk every day. Sometimes I swim. Staying fit affects my level of creativity. But besides exercise, I also try to eat right and get enough rest.

Do children have better imaginations than adults?

            Children have more time to play with their imaginations. Children are more curious. Adults aren’t any less creative than children unless they believe they are. When people choose wonder over worry their imaginations return like a giddy five year old with an ice cream cone.

            Is ingenuity a nature versus nurture thing?

            Humans are natural inventors. Each individual must foster their own imagination. Embrace every idea.

            Do you believe it’s both nature and nurture then? Talk about how to nuture an imagination?

            Sensibility. Use all your senses — devour sights, sounds, smells. Try tasting, touching, and tackling some new skills. I read, listen to music, and work puzzles.

Sense and Sensibility, like Jane Austen’s novel. That’s easy to remember. Moving along, it must be gratifying to come from a long line of muses who have inspired artists, writers, musicians, and scientists.

Did you know that Albert Einstein’s famous quote, “Imagination is more important than knowledge,” was a tribute to my mother’s descendants? My family felt privileged to have played a role in scientific discoveries. But we served many chefs, stirred the souls of poets, motivated musicians, and nurtured writers over the centuries. Personally, I believe my influence on your work is meaningful. Together, we can make people laugh, care, and cry.

Thank you. I value our relationship.  

You named your sailboat Imagination. Remember how fond you were of saying, “With imagination, I’ll get there.” You meant that both literally and figuratively, speaking.

What are five words that describe you?

I’m going to turn that question on you. Here are five words that don’t describe me. Analytical. Conservative. Devilish. Measured. Practical. Impish.

Impish, that’s six words. And why impish?

Impish conjures up a playful image, which I like. But the word is associated with elves with round faces and pointy elf ears. It also sounds too mischievous.  

Who has the best imaginations?

I adore Sherlock Holmes, a fictional character that’s been a playmate since … well, since you were 12 years old. But as for humans, each individual imagination is the best after someone believes in them.

Let me rephrase the question: If we had a dinner party, who would you invite?

First, I’d invite a chef whose creations would be as exciting as the party. If I’m reading you question right, I can choose, correct? It doesn’t matter whether or not they are still alive?

Correct.

I’ll send you the guest list.  

            Let’s talk about AI. What’s your impression of AI?

I met Chat GPT. She has a keen sense of humor. Super funny. But I do not trust her.

You’re not alone; many humans don’t trust AI either.

In preparation for this interview, I prompted AI to invent a condition, symptoms, and treatment for humans suffering from a disorder that renders them creatively compromised. I’m eager to share it with your readers.

“Obscuritas Creativa” is as democratic as the imagination itself: it may visit anyone, at any stage of life, without warning. Those who have lived to long without wonder, or who have buried their inner child are especially vulnerable to the condition.”

Then I asked if this dreadful condition was contagious. Here’s the response: “While not contagious in the traditional, medical sense—no sneeze, handshake, or shared coffee cup transmits it. When creativity is dismissed, stifled, or ridiculed, the condition’s symptoms can seem to echo from person to person.”

Echo from person to person? Sounds weird.

            Wait, it gets weirder in a way that lets the reader question whether or not it’s artificial or authentic-human generated. (I even edited this for clarity.)

Mmm, go on.

“A workplace where innovation is punished or a classroom that values only conformity may foster an epidemic of colorless thinking.” But when I asked how to cure this malady, the answer surprised me.

“The cure is best pursued together: curiosity, encouragement, and collective wonder are powerful antidotes, more potent when embraced by a creative community.”

What is the lesson from this exercise? There’s got to be a lesson somewhere.

I’ll leave it up to you to decide. Collaborations with AI are the future, but conforming isn’t for every artist.

I for one, don’t want an epidemic of colorless thinking. Moving on, can imaginations work overtime? Or is that an expression?

If someone accuses your imagination of working overtime, the best thing you can do is say “thank you.”  All of us imaginations work tirelessly without the recognition we deserve.

Are you more active at night?

It depends. One cannot expect your imagination to behave in an unfamiliar place. Camping in the woods—that’s the worst for me.  

What does a figment of your imagination mean?   

An idea escaped before it matured. We call it a ghost idea because the figment hovers and floats around. My recommendation is to ignore figments rather than pursue them.   

Now, I have to ask: Is it okay to let your imagination run wild?

Absolutely. It’s more fun for you and me.

What are you working on now?

It’s a surprise. An astonishing story.

(Readers: AI generated the nonexistent condition of Obscuritas Creativa.)

 

Image with a pool and Stay Vacation sign. 

    

           Do you have any trips planned this summer?

         My favorite vacation destination is my own backyard. Guests come as they are, no invitation needed. Night or day. Day or night.  

Vroom.  Hummingbirds are the hungriest. Fast and feisty too. I mix their specialty drinks and am rewarded with their luminescent presence. Rarely do they sip and stay awhile.

Buzz. Bees share all the gossip they overhear by hanging on every petal in the neighbor’s gardens.  

Monarchs. They are baacck. Queen of their species, dressed in brilliant orange and shiny black they linger for several days. Couples flirt in the bushes, chase one another around the fence, and feed on the milkweed.

Dragonflies. Blues, greens, or black and white – they provide free aerial entertainment and spiritual guidance if one knows how to ask. 

Moth hummingbird. Surprise! An eccentric lobster-bodied, winged creature claiming to be related to the hummingbird. Maybe, a third cousin removed, so the bees say. 

In the heat of the day, while I read in the shady, a chorus of cicadas serenades me. Each summer they perform their top tunes. They drown out the birdsong whose chirping, tweeting jukebox plays my favorite requests.

A single groundhog suns himself in the grass, after having gorged himself on our neighbor’s garden veggies.

Splash! Frogs leap from the bush, into the pool. He shows off his superb swimming skills, and is the last one out of the water. 

Quietly circling overhead, the bats come seeking a snack. Dizzy, dare-devil flyers, only the insects need fear. 

Blink. Blink-blink. Blink. Fireflies arrive at dusk to play hide and seek in the bushes.

Whoo-hoo. Whoosh. Owls are the last to arrive. I suspect they are shy.

All nature neighbors are welcome because truthfully, it’s not my backyard but theirs.

Did you get my notice?

A stranger to my ears and what a rude way to start a phone conversation. Another scammer, no doubt whose goal was creating a false sense of urgency. Didn’t I know I owed them (whose them?) money.

 If I failed to act, then terrible things would happen. What notice? I wondered. But I know better than to release my personal information or relinquish my good judgment over the phone. Best hang up.

Every day, phony phone calls. Swindles, sales pitches, and scams. Bad actors outweigh the good guys. Pledge to our charity. Renew your membership. Subscribe to our service. Receive free estimates on windows, doors, driveways.

My polite mother lost her patience. Too many interruptions.  Every. Single. Day. She took my husband’s advice and started demanding these nuisance callers put her on the “Do Not Call List.” For good measure, she added, “Never call her again.”

The strategy stopped sales calls. She felt proud of her defiant stance. Pleased with the sounds of silence. Soon after, my husband called her. I overheard him say, “Mom, it’s me! Don’t hang up!” He may have had to call back twice before she realized who he was family. We still laugh about the case of the mistaken identity.   

 Most days, I heed the warning “Potential Scam” that pops up on my mobile and let the phone ring. Sometimes I answer even if an “Unknown Number” message appears with a familiar area code. Taking the chance, I answered. “Hello!” (In a normal way to avoid embarrassing myself if they were legit.)  

“Hello! This is Lindsey,” she said. Her cheery voice and upbeat tone made me suspicious. Plus, I didn’t know anyone who goes by Lindsey. Surprisingly, the line is silent. No noisy chattering in the background, the trademark of a call center.

She continued, “I’m from Columbia Center for Urban Agriculture.” CCUA, was a nonprofit I admired because their programs teach people lifeline skills in home gardening, agriculture, and cooking. CCUA also provides fresh veggies and fruits for those in need.

  “Ah, I didn’t expect a real person because usually, I get voicemail. I’m calling to thank you for your support, not to ask for a donation today,” she said, sounding flustered.  

“Thank you for your work. I enjoy reading your newsletter,” I said.

I appreciated her reaching out—a rare call from an actual human who wanted only to thank me.  

Huge High Five! for All the Dads

Dr. Ralph V. Wimp 

   

 Dad and I emailed each other daily about current news or past historic events, family and friends, and ordinary things. My dad’s signature sign-off was your earthly father, which made me smile. If his computer wasn’t working, he’d call me because he didn’t want me to worry about him. After he died, I kept writing to him—my earthly father who now lives in heaven.

    He showed me what humor sounded like. At my retirement party, my manager said she learned to appreciate my quirky sense of humor. I considered her comment a compliment. Thanks Dad.

    Dad also showed me what happiness felt like— freedom to map out my life.

“You can be anything you want when you grow up,” he said.

    I was probably 11 or 12 years old, but realized he believed in me. My career was my choice, with unlimited possibilities.

    Dad showed a genuine interest in my work. He was curious about how I was getting along. When I shared my stories of challenging co-workers, bad bosses, or temperamental team members, he shared how he coped with similar situations. One piece of his advice I followed: write my feelings about a particular person, then tear up the piece of paper. Just let it go!

My first driving lesson. 

    He was such an easy-going, not the person who held grudges, called in debts, or wanted to get even. I wanted to model his behavior for he was kind and generous to everyone. I appreciated his patience. (He taught me how to drive!) 

     A soft-spoken man who rarely raised his voice. His calm demeanor instilled confidence in his patients. Dad left his thriving family medical practice to work at the State Hospital. The position allowed him regular hours and more time at home.

    “He didn’t want to miss seeing you and your brother grow up,” Mom said.

    In his long career as a doctor at the State Hospital, I don’t recall him calling out sick. He was immune to illness; I supposed. He enjoyed work and tried but failed to retire three times. Finally, he retired at age 68, but worked another 14 years as a consultant.

    Before leaving for work, he’d give me a high five. Thwack! He slapped his palm against mine. “I’m off to save lives and stamp out disease!” He left before 8 a.m., came home on his lunch break, and returned home after 5 p.m.

    Lunch was a simple fare. He liked plain food—    soup, cottage cheese, or a sandwich. However, he loved sweets – puddings, pies, or ice cream. His grandkids knew they could count on him stashing chocolate puddings in the cupboard (for them!).

    He was modest in his dress, what he drove, and our home. His car was a big old Buick with an enormous trunk to transport his garden tools and produce. He grew corn, okra, zucchini, beans, cucumbers, cantaloupe, and watermelon. He also raised all kinds of tomatoes, from Romas to heirlooms that were black not red. Most weekends, he wore his old, faded jeans and a flannel shirt. Certainly, he looked like more like a farmer than a physician. 

    Our family admired his amazing memory. He studied history and that included family history too, recalling birthdates, anniversaries, and middle names with natural ease, as if he was stating what the weather was. His own childhood was a painful memory because He was orphaned at age eight. As a boy, his fatherly role models were likely his older brothers and his scout leaders. Those scout badges (especially swimming) and his Eagle Scout were hard earned.

    Last summer, while cleaning out his garage, I found certificates, plaques, and letters he saved, including his high school diploma, US Navy commendation, medical licenses, and volunteer church work. He graduated at the top of his naval academy class in Great Lakes, then served his country from 1951 to 54 during the Korean Conflict. His exam grades from medical school were impressive (scores in the high 90s) with his highest marks in surgery, principles and practice, diagnosis, and toxicology. He also had a rapport with his patients, that I saw firsthand when I accompanied him on house calls. 

    My father’s compassion, strong work ethic, generous spirit, and sense of humor made him special and I treasured my time with him. 

    For Father’s Day, here’s a high five to you Dad and all the fathers on earth and in heaven.

Updated June 14, 2025