SCOTT SHALAWAY Promise of better days tempers dreary December

December begins as my least favorite month. Gray skies, cold rain, muddy roads and increasingly shorter days signal the bleak end of autumn. But this year has been different. It's been cold, and on the morning of Dec. 5 eight inches of snow covered the ground.
A warming trend and some rain as I write this may ruin the hope for a white Christmas. But having lived in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Arizona, Michigan, Oklahoma, and West Virginia, I've learned that white Christmases are the exception rather than the rule.
More memorable times
Some years, however, are memorable. On holiday break many years ago, I got stuck in a Christmas day snowstorm and had to drudge two miles through two feet of snow to get home for the holiday meal. And a few years ago winter roared in early. In mid-November, eight inches of snow fell, and schools closed. On the heels of several more measurable snowfalls, a white Christmas was assured.
On a cold December day I love to sit by a window and watch the backyard. By dawn's first light, chickadees and cardinals race to the feeders. The cardinals' rush seems mostly force of habit, but the chickadees have a compelling physiological need to be first in line. On cold winter nights, chickadees sleep in small tree cavities where they lower their body temperature and metabolic rate as much as 25 percent. When they wake, they've burned all their fat. They need to fuel their metabolic furnaces. So don't think them gluttonous when they tap the window pane. They're just hungry.
Later in the day, usually around noon, several deer patrol the yard. The dogs object with a chorus of barks and a few half-hearted charges, but there's clearly some history between the wild and the tame. Emma's hundred-pound yellow Lab won't approach closer than 30 feet; the deer paw the ground and snort defiantly. The dogs are a bother, not a threat.
Seed cleaners
The deer clean up the seed that litters the ground beneath the bird feeders. They also help themselves to anything on the platform feeders. That's why I only offer nuts and sunflower kernels in hanging feeders they can't reach. Just this fall a new visitor has begun frequenting the feeding station in broad daylight. An opossum has learned that food is available 24 hours a day, not just at night. It loves oil sunflower seeds, and leaves behind a distinctive calling card. After chewing a mouthful of seed to squeeze out all the oil, it spits out a clump of compacted seed hulls. At a glance, it may appear to be a fecal pellet, but anyone curious enough to investigate will notice the difference.
Less predictable December highlights are northern & quot;irruptive & quot; migrants that occasionally wander south. They migrate only when the seed crop of northern conifers and maples fails. Evening grosbeaks, pine siskins, purple finches, red breasted nuthatches, and redpolls are the most likely of this group to be seen at feeders. On a great December morning, the sky clears. Sunbeams sparkle on newly fallen snow. Ice-covered trees, grasses, and even barbed wire fences glisten like diamonds. A flock of brilliant male cardinals perches in an apple tree. And if all is truly right with the world, a gentle snow falls on Christmas Eve. Yes, there's hope for the year's final month after all.
Pure magic
Even December nights hold great promise. Deep, throaty hoots of great horned owls often echo along the ridge. To hear this serenade under a moonlit, snow-covered earthscape is pure magic. The songs strengthen the pair bonds necessary for a successful nesting season. By the end of January, great horns will be on the nest, sometimes under a blanket of snow, incubating a clutch of two or three eggs. They are the year's first nesters.
December may begin bleak and dismal, but by year's end it's among my favorite months. The backyard teems with life, days start to lengthen, and the promise of spring is more than a dream.
sshalaway@aol.com