By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
The times around my home are perilous indeed. Dangers lurk both indoors and out, and it is a wonder I am even here to write about them. Perhaps I exaggerate ever so slightly—but only slightly. Some of the goings-on truly are dangerous, or at least could be under the right circumstances. Even when the risk leans more toward discomfort than actual catastrophe, I maintain that, given a very specific set of conditions, moderate peril is a reasonable conclusion.
Take, for instance, the hummingbirds. Their arrival has been a seasonal occurrence for years, but lately, it seems to intensify with every passing season. Scoff if you will, but the population of these tiny feathered bullets that frequent my feeders is no trivial matter. What they lack in size, they make up for in speed and ferocity.
First, they are mouthy. Mine happen to be Ruby-Throated, and while I wouldn’t want to slander the entire species, I find it misleading that the collective noun for hummingbirds is a charm. The ones in my yard are anything but charming. They chatter constantly—loud enough to hear from inside the house—and they do not hesitate to scold anyone who dares step outside.
But the noise is the least of it. The real threat is the violence. Their chirps are accompanied by the unmistakable whir of wings, like micro-helicopters whizzing past your head. This is no harmless, “Oh, look, the pretty bird flew close.” No—this is the kind of near-miss that knocks your sunglasses right off your face. And that’s not hyperbole; it has happened to me. I used to joke that these birds might one day give me an unrequested piercing with their needle-sharp beaks. Now I say it with no laughter—only the hope that, should it happen, they hit something repairable.
Alas, hummingbirds are not my only challenges. This time of year brings muscadines—wild grapes that grow in profusion along the edges of our property. These are not a few grapes dangling from vines but heavy clusters weighing down branches until they break, littering the ground beneath. And though my family enjoys the harvest, so too does the local wildlife—who are not always pleased to share.
Only a few days ago, I wandered the backyard, merely admiring the varying shades of ripeness—apple-green, deep wine, and speckled black—when I heard a loud huff of air. Looking toward the woods, I caught sight of a white flag bouncing into the trees. A white-tailed deer, apparently offended at my presence near his feast, had stomped and snorted before bounding away. I doubt he would have charged me, but who can say how bold or desperate a deer becomes when muscadines are involved?
And then, there is the matter of our air conditioning. For over a week, it has been largely nonfunctional. We are grateful for a small portable unit that cools one room, where the whole family now sleeps. And while it is not the peak of summer heat, September in the South still feels very much like summer. I am just thankful for the Lord’s mercy in sending slightly, (very slightly), cooler weather. While none were technically at risk of roasting alive, there but for the grace of God go I.
Alright, perhaps my circumstances are not quite as treacherous as they seem. The risk of bird puncture is minimal, at least usually, so long as I keep my distance. A yard full of muscadines is more blessing than curse, even if deer disagree. And the temporary loss of conditioned air has made me more grateful for the luxury when it is working. Look at me, finding silver linings in storm clouds! Perhaps if I keep looking, I’ll discover they aren’t storm clouds at all—but a pleasant shade on a warm day.
Prose and Possibilities 