The Backyard Explorer
Finding Myself Again
It was like I’d never seen a bird before.
Every day I’d sit on the back deck and look through the binoculars. The tiny bird faces would come into focus. Tufted Titmouse. Ruby-throated Hummingbird. Blue Jay and Black Bird. Warbler and Red-Headed Woodpecker. I had an app to help me figure out who was who. I would cry in delight as they flew across the yard, perched in trees, and pecked at the bird feeder. My favorite was the Summer Tanager, a bright red streak against the blue and green. A symbol of hope and happiness, the Tanager also loved to eat wasps and bees.
Cut to … a wasp building a small nest in the screen of my bathroom window. I’d sit there and watch him work. Searching for something in his alien eyes, seduced by the intentional mechanics of his tiny movements. We were a good pair. Me, a classic over- thinker, adrift in questions with no clear answers. Him, a tight mind of pure purpose.
Then there was Fat Bastard, the squirrel who bossed the birdhouse, swinging defiantly from the platform meant to keep his lot out. His black eyes sparkled as he stuffed his cheeks full of stolen seeds and nuts.
The family cat BJ, aka “Stone Cold Killer”, patrolled the perimeter of the fence, slinking down low, his black tail a periscope moving in the tall grass.
It was like I’d never seen a star before.
At night, I’d lay in the hammock under the black sky. The stars and the moon lit the clouds and made the lake shimmer. The frogs and the crickets surrounded me in a symphony that was so beautiful I could cry. I recorded the sounds on my phone to send to friends like I had just discovered a new band.
I had moved in with my brother and his family during the early months of the pandemic. I left my one-bedroom apartment in the East Village in NYC, equipped with a hospital-grade mask and bleach in a Tupperware container, and rode an empty plane to Atlanta. The city had turned grim. The familiar sounds were replaced by an emptiness layered with sirens. Hardly anyone walked the streets, which made the crazy people stand out in stark relief. Soothing traffic sounds became uneven and even menacing as drag racers took over Houston Street behind my apartment.
Most of my connecting with other people was over Zoom. I worked a lot. I did Pilates in front of the TV and jumped around to the Clash in my own private dance party. I binged every episode of Gilmore Girls and identified as Lorelei. I paced back and forth on our rooftop with my neighbor. I looked forward to the nightly 7pm ritual of banging pots and pans and shouting out my window. A salute to the front-line healthcare workers, but also a way to show our existence on the dust speck that is Manhattan. Tiny heads framed in windows, We are here, we are here!
I was there all right. My hypochondriac tendencies were activated, and not only was I fearful of getting sick, I was also worried about getting someone else sick. I washed my groceries and disinfected the doorknob daily. I walked along the East River, and held my breath when a runner would pass so as not to inhale their fumes. I have since learned that this is called contamination OCD. I was a lonely and nervous wreck.
I just wanted to lay on the grass.
My family encouraged me to get out of dodge, so that’s how I found myself living in a golf and lake community outside of Athens, Georgia for the summer.
Nice NYC Woman Transports COVID to Rural Georgia Hamlet
I was legit nervous about this headline coming true but as soon as I arrived, I noticed the laissez-faire attitude. A few people I met even doubted that COVID was real. But I didn’t want to be the one to prove them wrong. For peace of mind, I took a rapid test that involved a drive-through in a parking lot with a finger prick that came back negative. I hung onto that crumb like a reverse Scarlet Letter. A badge of cleanliness.
I soon settled into my new environment. Every day I would walk the quiet neighborhood streets, past the big houses and Bermuda grass, the wooded lots with wild flowers. I listened to Bob Dylan. On repeat.
I contain multitudes, he sang.
Golf carts whizzed by full of polite and tanned teenagers, and parents in polos on their way to happy hours.
Everything is broken, he sang.
One night, I asked my brother if we could eat dinner at 8pm.
“What is this, Barcelona?”
It was like I had never seen a tomato before.
My brother and I planted a garden in a raised bed. Tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, peppers. I weeded, watered, and documented its growth. I was in awe of every bud and flower. It was a thrill to witness how nature simply … worked.
But it didn’t all go to plan. One day I noticed there was an abundance of squash blossoms but no fruit. On a Google recommendation, I headed to the garden and started to fondle the plants carefully.
My brother shouted from the deck, “What are you doing down there?”
“I’m hand pollinating the zucchini!,” I replied as if this was completely normal.
The days flew by. I worked remotely from the dining room table at an office that my brother rigged up for me. I worked out with my sister-in-law to boot camp fitness gurus who would shout, “Are you ready to fuck some shit up?” “Yes we are!” we would yell back mid-burpee.
I got to hang out with my niece and nephew and feel like part of the family. Going out for ice cream runs. Movie marathons in front of the TV. Friday night margaritas on the deck with the neighbors. I slept like a baby, sometimes with BJ curled up on the bed. The comfort was intoxicating.
At some point, the noise in my head started to make room for a small but mighty thought: What if I don’t need to live in the city after all? What if I could be happy somewhere else?
We are here, we are here.
It was like I had never seen myself before.
Now, when people ask me why I moved to a small house with a lovely garden in Ohio after decades in New York City, I say it is a complicated but perfect storm of events that lead me here. But I always start by explaining how I came to be called “Terri, the Backyard Explorer”, one summer in Georgia.
Sometimes you find yourself anew where you least expect to. Interrupt your pattern, and it’s like a shock to the heart. You eventually get rhythm. A tight leaf unfurls. A red bird takes flight.
Grateful your exploring brought you here!
wonderful