We had a medical emergency at our house a few weeks back, but fortunately, after a little first-aid, an all-night nursing vigil, and a trip into town, we’re feeling a little bit better about things now.
Oh, the injured patient weighed 4 ounces and was about 3-1/2 inches long.
I had been mowing much of the day, an uncharacteristically cool and breezy one for so late in July in Indiana. As is most often the routine, I was following the mowing I do — both riding and pushing — by walking around my yard, weed trimmer in hand, snipping off the last defiant weeds and blades of grass that dare grow around the base of my pines or along our flower beds.
As I worked my way south along the road that runs with my property, I heard the victim before I ever saw her despite the ear plugs I wear for such jobs. She was a ruby-throated hummingbird, undoubtedly struck by a passing car, and she lay in the road, buzzing herself in desperate semi-circles as she tried to get a wing to work that obviously no longer was capable.
I bent down and scooped her up, and with the weed whacker in one hand, I held her in my palm, her heart thumping away so hard that the giant who now held her could feel it.
My wife, working at the kitchen sink, saw me walking toward the door, my hand cupped oddly against my stomach, looking down as if I’d cut myself, broken a bone, perhaps suffered a stroke. She knew that it had nearly become tradition for the two of us to make a fast trip to the doctor each summer so he could suture a gash, check a sprain, or deliver an injection to soothe hornet stings. She met me at the door wringing the dish towel in her hands.
When I opened my hand, it was as if my wife’s heart opened, too, for she took the bird into her hands and immediately began to fret about what we were to do.
Hummingbirds have a resting heart rate of about 250 beats a minute, but their in-flight rate soars to more than 1,200; our injured friend’s pulse was much closer to the latter figure, and it was apparent that she needed to eat and cool off as well. Hummers have to consume their own body weight in nectar or sugar every day, and I had no idea how long she had been flipping herself over in the road.
I took her to one of our feeders and sat her on a white, plastic perch in the hope that she would guzzle a little sugar water. She sat on the perch, tottering and unsteady as if drunk, but she couldn’t make herself drink. We literally shoved her nail-like nose into one of the feeder’s red flower-shaped watering holes, but not once did we see the tiny switchblade of her tongue lap up any of the life-giving sugar.
I was convinced that she would die, and that we would be wise to take her to the wood line and leave her there. I felt her broken wing, bent upward like a wind-ravaged screen door, would be her end. Joanie thought otherwise.
I have written before of a time when we nursed a hummingbird back to health; it had crashed into our picture window and knocked itself silly on the concrete walk by our front door. I must have sat for two hours with that bird, an eye-dropper of liquid ambrosia in hand, reviving her in a way that I didn’t feel our hit-and-run bird could be.
My wife promptly brought her inside, old wives’ tales be hanged. She rolled up an old towel, placed it in the bottom of a small cardboard box, then started feeding our new friend with that same eye dropper as the bird sat on the towel in the semi-darkness. Within an hour, she was bright-eyed and slugging down sugar water every 15 minutes, but she made no attempt to fly out of the open box.
That night, while I snored in imitation of that noisy weed trimmer of mine, my wife rose from her bed at virtually every hour on the clock to feed our injured friend. The next day, my bleary-eyed mate and I drove the bird into town to leave her for a lady who deals with injured wild animals. We didn’t know that savior’s name, but found out about her from a friend of a friend, or perhaps that friend’s cousin. Joanie had prepared a bottle of our homemade bird brew, and she even handed over our eye dropper; we’ll have to replace that soon for what could be next season’s dramas.
We have purposely tried to not find out the fate our little friend; we might not have wanted to know. But I do know that it is said that a hummingbird’s heart comprises about 2.5 percent of its total body weight, while a human heart, at a little under 11 ounces, is less than 0.5 percent of ours.
For some people, however, like my wife, for instance, I think it is much, much bigger.
Mike Lunsford can be reached at hickory913@aol.com or by mail c/o the Tribune-Star at P.O. Box. 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808. His second book, "Sidelines: The Best of the Basketball Stories…" is to be released this fall. Mike’s Web site is mikelunsford.com.
Mike Lunsford
The Off Season: The size of a heart does matter
- Mike Lunsford
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A walk in the woods
I went for a walk in the woods one day last week after work. It was a warm and green afternoon, and a fresh blue breeze blew in from the west like a new spring friend.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘Dowsers’ provide hope more than science
My grandfather was a man of God. Many times I saw him, his right hand held high in the air at his Wednesday night “prayer meeting,” praising the Lord before weeping at the altar on his knees. And yet, he was a “dowser,” a “diviner,” a “witcher” who, as a favor, would grab a forked sassafras stick and find water for some poor unfortunate whose well had gone dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: As of today, it’s unofficially spring
Despite the calendar telling us not to rush things, I think it is all right to go ahead and say spring is here. The Ides of March has passed, Easter is coming soon, and I have already been out in my yard with a rake, getting my boots muddy. It looks like spring to me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Twain’s Sawyer helps us yearn for ‘wilderness of childhood’
My cousin, Roger, stopped in one day last summer for a glass of tea and a little conversation. Rog has lived an hour’s drive away for years and now, and besides summer reunions, I don’t see him nearly often enough. He’s a good man who has raised a good family, and he owns a healthy sense of appreciation for not only the life he has now, but also the lives we had years ago as kids.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Cheerful green of wheat fights winter blahs
There is a light drizzle of freezing rain tapping at the door of my cabin today. It is little more than a week before the words I am writing are due to appear on your breakfast table or work desk with your morning coffee and scrambled eggs. But I write when I can, and today, despite a full schedule of televised football games, and the stacks of ungraded papers in my briefcase, and a good book lying open on my nightstand, I am clacking away on a keyboard to the whir of a heater and the steady drip of my gutters.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On the simple joys of watching it snow ...
It began to snow about 20 minutes ago, as I write this, light, wind-driven flakes that fall silently into my woods as I watch from a window.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: On this day above all, ‘Peace on earth, good will to men’
More than a year after his wife’s death, the great American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, wrote in his diary on Christmas Day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Remembering a Lefty Frizzell-kind of Christmas ...
My brother and sister and I sat around a Thanksgiving dinner table a month ago, shifting in our seats just enough to make our yet-to-be digested turkey sit a little more easily, and, as we often do when we get together, we reminisced about our childhoods for a while.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The wonders of wading in ‘The Iridescence of a Shallow Stream’
I have no idea how many times I have written a story that begins with the wistful phrase, “When I was a boy. ...”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Little man who came to dinner changes feel of household
My 7-year-old nephew, Carson, came to visit us last week. That in itself isn’t earth-shattering news, for he often drops by with one of his parents or the other, the last time dressed as a ghoul for Halloween. But for a couple like Joanie and me, whose youngest child is now nearly two decades past Carson’s age, having a little guy like him in the house, even for a few hours, takes a bit of adjusting.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Reflections: a bit of red glass and our daily thanksgivings
I sat in the half-light of my old desk lamp a few nights ago, a chilly wind blowing in from the northwest that made me appreciative of my long-sleeved shirt and purring heater.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Growing up — and ‘old’ — with many mouths to feed
At our family reunion last summer, I asked my brother if I could borrow a pair of photo albums he had put together. Over the past couple of years, I have committed quite a few of our family’s old yellowing snapshots to newly cropped and digitalized lives, and I wanted to do the same with some of the pictures John has collected for himself.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Violets in October – a pleasant surprise
I guess I don’t pay much attention to the weather forecasts these days because it surprised me a bit when our furnace kicked on a few nights ago.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A library is a good thing — even a little, homegrown one
I grew up with libraries, and I can’t imagine there ever being a time when I won’t want to wander one exploring it like some bookworm-Balboa, finding an author or title that I never really knew existed before. Creating those “Eureka” moments seems to be a dying interest now that so many of us download and digest books electronically without ever really considering that there just might be some hidden gem we’d have liked even more had we simply stumbled upon it on a shelf by accident. I think those moments of discovery are not unlike kicking up lost treasure a mile from where X marks the spot.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The ‘soothsayer’ who came to dinner
I’ve had a good time opening my mail these past few weeks. Sure, I still received the usual junk about lower credit card rates and satellite television packages, but the genuine letters made me smile; most were about a story I wrote in late August.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The agony of de‘feet’ has this writer on his heels
I don’t know if I can electrocute myself by using a computer and soaking my feet in a pan of warm water at the same time, but I am contemplating taking the risk. My feet, particularly the right foot, have staged a 10-digit rebellion over the past few months. After a half-century of commendable service, my pods are screaming to be taken in for repairs, a big inconvenience for a guy who works on his feet all day and whose “sole” form of serious exercise is putting one foot in front of another walking the local roadways.
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Mike Lunsford: Summer’s hidden beauty worth the wait
The great naturalist John Burroughs once said that nature teaches more than she preaches. I can’t recall a summer where that rings true more than this one, for that old sun of ours truly taught us a thing or two these past three months.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time to redefine the concept of ‘assisted living’
Although it has been nearly two months now, I can’t forget the few afternoon hours I spent on a hot June day this summer at a local “assisted living” facility in town. I had been asked to speak to a group of men there about Father’s Day, but for most part, the wonderful old guys who came to listen certainly made my day more memorable than I did theirs.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Observations on smooth stones and blue-green water…
It was raining when I began to write this. Although no one could rightfully call what we got this afternoon a “downpour,” it was nice to have my windows open to hear the steady drops of a passing shower tapping on my dry-as-dust deck and hard-as-concrete yard.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: This summer has us recalling the heat of ’36
It was “only” 99 degrees one afternoon last week when I decided to work on a backyard deck. With a jack and a drill and a little more sweat than I wanted to invest in the project, I went about the business of leveling its sags and dips a bit. The sun pounded down on my head and shoulders like a thug’s blackjack, but as I packed my tools and drank a glass of cool water under a big maple tree a few hours later, I couldn’t help but think about how lucky I’ve been these past few dusty and drought-stricken weeks. I have worked under this summer’s heat lamp for only a few hours at a time, but God help the roofers and utility linesmen and firemen, and so many others, who are out in it day after long hot day.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: We had no better friend than Andy Taylor
The world is a sadder place now that Andy Griffith has died, but at least we still have Andy Taylor.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Wading deeper into the subject of Blue Herons
Like a relative who has worn out his welcome, the hot, parched weather of this young summer has already overstayed its visit with us, so my wife and I have found ourselves walking our road later in the evenings to keep our feet cool and our backs dry.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Thanking two dads whose gifts have never stopped coming…
It is nearly a week until Father’s Day, but I have had my dad, and my father-in-law — a second dad to me — on my mind today. I wrote about both men just a few weeks ago, but I have set my mind to write about them again anyway. I don’t want this story to be sad; they both loved to laugh and wouldn’t want that. No, I just wanted to tell them hello, and to thank them again for what they still do for me.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Raising a flag for my father, veteran or not
My daughter, Ellen, and I stood at my parents’ graves on Mother’s Day a few weeks back and talked about how it couldn’t possibly have been so long since we lost them. My dad, for instance, has been gone for 16 years, and that is nearly unimaginable
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Time to become one of the boys of summer again …
Besides writing for a living, I teach school, and I’m not ashamed to tell people that I still love my classroom. I’ve been a teacher for 33 years, all of them in the same school district, and virtually all of them in the same building. But I also have to tell you that if the next few weeks don’t slide by pretty quickly, I may just let loose of the last thread of sanity from which I have been dangling for a while now. There are a lot of teachers out there who feel the same way.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: It’s time for us to get the real lowdown on dirt…
I have had my hands in the soil as of late. Two Fridays ago, I planted a viburnum bush, three chrysanthemums and a yellow poplar, not because it happened to be Earth Day, but because it was sunny and warm, and I had the whole afternoon to myself. The dirt I scraped out of and back into the shallow holes I dug near a backyard picket fence smelled good, and when dampened with a few sprinkles of water, it soon found its way into the deep wrinkles of my knuckles and under my fingernails. For the most part, I have nothing but good things to say about dirt.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Make big money: Raise worms at home for fun and profit…
When I think about all of the crazy things my brother and sister and I did just to make a few dollars when we were kids, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for teens this summer as they try to find jobs in what is supposed to be a very tight market. Money, to say the least, was a rare commodity when we were growing up, but you have to at least give us credit for trying.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: ‘When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d…’
Had white lace curtains been hanging in the west window of my cabin, I would have had a perfect Wyeth painting to watch last Thursday. A gentle breeze was wafting through my screens, and the sunlight of a warm late March day was fractured by the window sill as it poured onto my legs and feet. I could catch the scent of lilacs as it was carried in by that wind, and it and the subtle melody of the chimes that hang just outside made me as lazy as an old cat.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A report from the country as a new season brings sense of renewal
Regardless of what the calendar may yet say, spring has happened. It couldn’t have come too soon, and it wasn’t just last week and its windy 70s that have convinced me. I have been keeping a journal of sorts in my head for a fortnight now, stashing away reports of birds and buds and sounds in the crammed cabinets of my mind, all in a file marked, “The New Season.”
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Feeding time at the homestead draws a host of new guests
I stepped outside into the warmth of an unusually mild early March morning last week to do what I always do just before I grab my briefcase and book bag and lunch bag and head off to work. It’s nearly always dark when I leave, even as the sun gets up earlier and earlier in the late winter, so I often go about the business of feeding our cats with porch lights on and a flashlight in hand.
- More Mike Lunsford Headlines
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Looking for Love? Take the Prague Metro
Raw: New Video of Deadly Oklahoma Tornado
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Today in History May 22
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First Person: Baby Falcons on a New York Bridge
Police Ram House to End Hostage Standoff
Oklahoma: Images of Devastation, Reunion
IRS Official Pleads 5th Amendment
Crews Race to Find Survivors of Okla. Twister
Lawyer: Feds Investigating Susan Powell Case
Florida FBI Shooting Has Boston Bombing Links
Protests Outside Cincinnati IRS Office
Reunited Dad, Son: 'We Just Praise God'
Families Begin Returning to Their Homes in Moore
Tim Cook Defends Apple's Tax Accounting
Raw: Aussie Zoo Shows Off White Rhino Calf
Slow Pokes: Acupuncture Helps Sick Turtles
Oklahoma Survivors, Heroes Survey Damage
Trout's cycle a boost for Angels
Kim Kardashian Flaunts Pregnant Bikini Body in Greece
NBA star pledges $1M to help tornado recovery
Shakira's Shocking Talent
Morgan Freeman falls asleep on air
GRAPHIC: Blood-Soaked Machete Killer Caught on Tape
Elin Nordegren Furious With Lindsey Vonn For Parading Kids in Public
Camera Captures Climber As He Loses Grip And Falls
Helen Mirren Meets with Dying Boy in Queen Elizabeth's Place
Crowd Chants '¡Si, Se Puede!' After Passage of Immigration Bill
DWTS Crowns a Winner
Demi Moore a Rocks Bikini at Harry Morton's Family House
Anthony Weiner: I'm running for New York City mayor
Kate Middleton's Dress Flies Up
VIRAL: Baby makes epic soccer goal
The Hangover Baby All Grown Up
Olivia Munn Flaunts Her Bikini Bod
