The Plight of the Hummingbirds

One of the many new wonderful things about my new small town life is our sprawling Southern porch complete with ceiling fans, rocking chairs, and a view of our (future) garden. It also came with large, Southern mosquitos, which really put a damper on our near-constant happy hours we were planning on having. My roommate kindly bought us a brand-spanking new hummingbird feeder in the hopes that the birds would eat annoying insects while also beautifying our porch.  She filled it with the nectar that smelled suspiciously like cherry Kool-Aid, I did a death-defying reach on a stool to hang it from the roof, and then we sat back and waited for our quick-winged friends to arrive by the droves. 

We waited. And waited. And waited. No hummingbirds.

As we drank our coffee in the mornings, we would go over all of the possibilities. Did we not mix the right proportions of nectar and water? Was the feeder too high? Too close to the door? Was our feeder just not good enough? Who did these hummingbirds think they were, anyways?

Then, it dawned on me: I’m now talking about hummingbirds the same way I used to talk about guys.

Welcome to small town life.

Finally, I found the problem: ants. Everywhere. Ants on the porch, on our rocking chairs, and especially, ants in the hummingbird feeder. In their greed, they had marched down the chain that the feeder was hanging on, down the metal sides, and plunged into the depths of the syrupy sweet nectar. (There are probably worse ways to go, right?) Now, however, I not only had ants practically crawling all over me, but their dead carcasses were now floating in the nectar. To this, I had two thoughts:

1)  1. No wonder we don’t have any hummingbirds, and

2  2.What kind of idiot ant drinks nectar which clearly has the dead bodies of his friends floating in it?

Being a teacher on summer vacation and all, I had plenty of time to ponder these questions. My solution? Sweep the porch, clean out the feeder, and walk myself down to the hardware store to buy ant motels. After all of that, we no longer have ants.

Another thing we don’t have? Hummingbirds.

Sigh.

Yes, I am aware that I’m living the life of a 68 year old retired woman. I can recall a time (I think it was only a few weeks ago) where I barely had a free minute in my day between my workout classes at the Y, meeting friends for lunch (and maybe a glass of wine) and bopping around the Chanel exhibit with Keefer. My bustling days in New York City seem long behind me when I think of my life now. 

But I don’t have time to think about that. I’ve got hummingbirds to find.

The House on the Corner of Middle and Nowhere

The new digs

Before you start fussing at how long it's been since I blogged (waaaaay too long), look at my cute new house in Eastern North Carolina! Doesn't look straight out of Southern Living? (Just say yes.)

It turns out that moving as an adult (aka with furniture) takes a lot more energy (and money) than moving as the nomadic collegiate that I once was. Gone are the days of packing up college T-shirts and bedding into the trunk of my car; instead I'm now renting 16 ft budget trucks and finagling couches into them. (Seriously. I don't know how we got that thing downstairs.)

The old closet...wonk wonk.

And, for the first time in my adult life, I'm living in a house. No more cramped apartments for me. Though it is a bit disconcerting when the furniture that filled up your apartment barely begins to make a dent in your cavernous new home. I'm telling myself that this justifies going to antique stores. (Right?!?)

And our house isn't actually in the middle of nowhere, it's in a cute little coastal town where I can walk everywhere: the hardware store, the movie theater, the library, and the bar. What more does one need?

And just like any small-town novel, the assortment of quirky characters is becomes better by the day. There's Erienne, our thirteen year old neighbor-turned-tour guide, who marched us around town on our second day to show us the sights. Turns out? She knows everyone. Not only does she volunteer at the gift shop, she also holds bake sales, raises money for the local Humane Society, and makes beaded jewelry that everyone woman in town seems to own. If I'd been that cool at thirteen I'm pretty sure I'd be on my way to being President right now. Or at least famous.

Then there's Stella, the sassy 50 year old divorcee who, like me, moved here from Charlotte. She works at the local office supply store and within five minutes had informed us that all the single men in town were either seventeen or seventy, so not to get our hopes up.

Which seems to be the second thing that residents tell us, right after "Welcome to Edenton!". Our realtor told us "If you're looking for a husband, you moved to the wrong town." A nice old woman walking down the street asked if we were the new teachers in town, and then matter of factly told us there weren't any men for us.

I'm not quite sure how they expect us to respond. Should we throw ourselves on the ground like a three year old in a temper tantrum? Jump up and down while shouting "Hooray! Love isn't real anyway!"?

Perhaps this means I'll have to dive back into online dating.

Dear. Lord.

So, I'll hope you'll forgive my month long sabbatical, but rest assured: I'm back. (Cue the theme song from Green Acres.)