Not the most creative headline, but it is brief and straight to the point — and that’s what I’ll try to be in this post.
First, I want to thank everyone for their support and prayers. It has been a very long day of wind and very little rain here on Long Island. With each passing hour, the gusts have grown stronger. Each time, we hear the house creaking and the sound of debris hitting the windows.
Sandy’s opening gusts on Long Island.
Today is far from a beautiful day. Sandy is on her way, and Joe and I have packed up the yard and we’re now inside watching fall actually fall. Autumn foliage is falling like confetti now, as the first gusts of wind make their way to Long Island. Flocks of birds are racing for cover; squirrels are gathering their provisions. Even the air feels strange. Sandy is a tropical system, but the air is chilled, as the tropics crash into a cold front.
And that’s why I find it so ironic that I’m creating a post about beautiful things. I can think of so many things that are beautiful. Sunsets. Rainbows. Dahlias. Maybe even waves of blowing leaves on a gusty day. But something with the words “nitty” and “gritty” and “dirt?” No way.
Okay, maybe not in the entire world – but certainly in my world.
This is the first weekend where fall really feels like fall – as in leaf fall, temperature fall, and mood fall. As much as I would love to live in denial and believe that I can still put on a pair of shorts and sandals and play like it’s July, the cold front that came in last night has proven that the calendar is indeed correct.
Today was a day to begin cleaning up the fall.
The first order of business was to hack and dig the tropicals and prepare them for winter storage. The sensible voice in my head knew that this was a mercy killing, a necessary evil so that the canna and elephant ears may live to see another summer – at least in my zone 6/7 garden. But the emotional voice inside of me said, “Waaaaaahhhhhhh.”
Indian summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.
This is the quote that runs through my mind on any autumn day when summer-like temperatures breathe their last breaths – much like this past Friday when an October day, with its changing leaves and angled sunlight, seemed to conflict with the June-like temperature.
It’s Labor Day weekend – a time tailor-made for beaches, barbecues, parades, and speeches. But on this particular holiday, I’m staring at the remains of a small, neighborhood garden center on Long Island.
I’m not sure exactly what happened here. Did the owner retire, unable to sell the business? Did some sort of illness interfere? Was the small nursery unable to compete against the box stores that sprout like weeds? Or perhaps, this nursery is just another victim of an economy that has failed to thrive?
It’s amazing how quickly the weeds and wildflowers have turned this once manicured plot into an overgrown prairie. Slowly, however, it gives up its secrets.
Photo courtesy of The Baiting Hollow Hummingbird Sanctuary
I don’t think I’m too far off when I say that most people are fascinated by hummingbirds. Delicate yet swift, they confound gardeners, bird watchers, and photographers alike – all of whom wait patiently for one to appear. And when one does, an excited whisper passes through the crowd, as if Beyonce has just walked up to the feeder.
“Oh, there she is. She’s right there. Oh, look at her . . .” Then, as quickly as a hummingbird appears, it zips away.
I haven’t seen a hummingbird since I was a child, but that certainly hasn’t dampened my fascination. So when my friend Michele suggested a field trip to the Baiting Hollow Hummingbird Sanctuary, I jumped at the chance. Would I see one? Would I even be able to snap a picture?
Located on a bluff overlooking Long Island Sound, the Sanctuary is more than a labor of love for its founder, Paul Adams. It is a passion. His three-and-a-half acre garden is, at first glance, in a natural state – filled with native trees that provide perches and nest building materials for his guests of honor, hummingbirds that migrate from Mexico and Central America.
Then, all around, are splashes of sweet nectar and color, thanks to butterfly bushes, salvias, cardinal flowers, trumpet vines, honeysuckle, and a selection of tropical flowers to make the hummingbirds feel more at home.
There is a small, tree-shaded area for parking and, fortunately, I listened to Michele about wearing a good pair of walking shoes. The ground is uneven, and there are some crudely built steps to help visitors negotiate the ups and downs of the garden. And be sure to mind the hand-painted signs – all of which are there to help you safely explore.
The first stop for Michele, me, and two other friends, Jeannie and James, was a hollow, accessible by a tighly packed dirt steps.
At the bottom, a large sign reminded us to be quiet – and it was like entering a church. We were dwarfed by walls of butterfly bushes, accented with the stained glass hues of butterfly wings.
We then strolled under a canopy of wild cherry, oak, and beech trees, all the time keeping our eyes glued to the various feeders, hoping to catch a glimpse of a hummingbird. My hands gripped the camera.
Eventually, we made it to the cottages, one of the most peaceful locations on the property. Here, visitors sat patiently in Adirondack chairs, cameras in hand, waiting for a hummingbird to arrive by a feeder or to enjoy the nectar from any of their favorite flowers.
Behind the cottage closest to the bluff, there was an amazing view of Long Island Sound and the steady buzz of bees. A hummingbird made a quick appearance, but then flew away faster than I could say, “Hum.”
We ultimately returned to the garden between the two cottages, one of which is where Mr. Adams spends his summer months. The rest of the year, he’s a professor of neuroscience at Stony Brook University, on Long Island. On this visit, we were his pupils, as he taught us about the life and habits of hummingbirds. Then, in midsentence, he said, “There’s one at the feeder now.”
Every head turned and there was the collective whisper of awe. Instinctively, I snapped a photo. There was no time to zoom and I hoped the digital camera would be able to focus faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
At some point, I began to wonder if the hummingbirds were playing with all of us. It’s as if they knew we were waiting to capture their image, and when they saw all of the cameras take aim, off they flew. One even hovered above the deck where Mr. Adams was speaking to us, but as the cameras were lifted, so too did the hummingbird. Gone.
Just as I was about to pack up the camera, one hummingbird seemed to feel sorry for us and sat on a branch, preening and posing itself.
And I had my close up. At last.
Not only is it remarkable to have seen a hummingbird in the wild, it’s an inspiration to meet a man so passionate about his love that he is willing to share it with the public for free. Yes, you read that correctly. The Sanctuary has no admission fee. In fact, Mr. Adams will not even accept a monetary donation (his website encourages donations to other specified organizations), although sturdy old chairs and plants are always welcome.
The Sanctuary is only open in August. For more information about the species, the Sanctuary, the battle to protect it from development, starting your own hummingbird-friendly garden, as well as days and hours of operation, please visit either the website or blog.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 