Cut scraps of fabric, yarn, string, and ribbon into short strips (3-4 inches in length should be safe). Stuff them into one of those mesh bags from tangelos or satsuma oranges and hang the big ball of stuff in a tree. Voila - instant nesting materials for local birds!

Other items to consider for your supply cache include dried grass, spanish moss, dog or human hair, pine needles, feathers, and thin twigs. (Thanks to Erin for letting us know that dryer lint is a no-no - despite its recommendation in numerous other sources, it might contain chemicals and doesn't hold up in weather; the latter means it could result in a weak nest after some spring weather.)

We ate Satsumas like fiends this winter, so Zella and Jenni made a few bags of nesting materials using this method. We always have scraps of fabric and plenty of yarn around, and Jenni even fashioned one materials holder by wrapping thin-gauge wire around a large wooden egg and then somehow separating the two. With a little more polish you'd be on to a cheap springtime gift or favor for kids you know to fill with their own household and yard nesting finds.

A month or so ago I was cleaning our porch and discovered a sparrow's (wren's?) nest with three blue eggs in my Craftsman tool cart, which has an open central cavity at waist height to pile things that you have no interest in putting away. The move-in says something about my handyman habits, to be sure, but what was most shocking was that this nest was three feet from the path we take every day into our home - we pass through the corner of the porch in a sideways "L" to get in and out, often with much stomping and screaming by Z as we put on or remove shoes.

From that moment, our routine changed. We entered our porch in whispers, and Z checked in on the nest - from a distance of a few feet, with a handy protective barrier of clutter preventing her from moving closer - every day. An adult bird moved in and sat there, staring back at us unblinkingly from the nest's circular hole.

We watched in amazement as the bird sat, and sat, and sat, her occasional disappearance causing us to wonder if we'd finally scared it off, despite our best intentions and our stern refusal to let Z meander onto the porch from inside to check on the family's progress. And then, the eggs hatched, and there were suddenly three little bodies in there, and then three little gaping, silent beaks crowded up at the bottom of the opening, waiting in frozen anticipation of food.

We watched them grow and their eyes open. Then there were three, or sometimes four, little faces staring back at us. It was really astonishing that they were all so willing to suffer our company.

But last week, tragedy struck - the nest was suddenly empty, with two adult birds flying around aimlessly. Then the adults were gone, and we discovered the above - one dead baby lying in a corner on the porch's concrete slab.

Luckily for Z, she knew just what to do. We had, in a completely coincidental act, checked out a lovely book from the library called The Dead Bird - one of Margaret Wise Brown's many strange, lovely, and wise books for young children. The book chronicles what four children do when they discover a dead bird while playing, all without adult interference - it's out of print, so prepare to pay dearly or just check your own library for a copy. At any rate, Z knew a headstone, shroud, and grave were all in order.

For the marker, we selected a granite sample leftover from our kitchen remodel.


I suggested she write something beginning with "Baby Bird," and she chose to add "Poor" and "Died."


She repeatedly expressed how sad it was that the bird had died, but we have had many discussions about death - it comes up more than any non-parent would likely guess, and we treat the subject openly.

The visitation.


Z later agreed with me that the best part of the event was being able to see a bird up close, "when it won't run away."

The burial.




I learned only afterward that Z believed that poking picked flowers in the ground is equivalent to replanting them.


Z offered up a couple of plaintive, somber songs for the occasion. I believe the term is "dirge," but they were quite lovely.


And life goes on.


A few days later we discovered a piece of cat poo in one of our garden beds, filled with tiny bones. For all Z knows, however, the other two babies learned to fly and are doing donuts in the clouds with Mom and Dad. Some of life's cold, hard facts will just have to wait their turn.


Photo by tanakawho, shared via Flickr.

Z has been sick with a stomach bug off and on for days now. I think we're finally seeing the end of it, as she joyfully smacked on Gatorade and apple-juice popsicles and saltines all day and ate half a bagel for dinner.

I spent Thursday and Monday at home with her while she got through it, and in retrospect, although we have been playing preschool games like fiends in preparation for a battery of game reviews we'll run over the next few weeks, there are basically two things that got us through this illness with our sanity intact. A title check is all you need to ascertain them.

We routinely have visiting tree frogs in two locations in our home. One is the window of our "spare" bathroom, where we leave a light on through the night so that Z could find her way to go potty if she had such a desire, and which also lights her way on the rare occasions she quietly gets up and makes her way to our room. The other is a picture window looking out on a small, semi-enclosed planting area of our yard, which serves as an odd microclimate, both in terms of humidity and warmth, being surrounded closely on three sides by the walls of our house. Living outside of the city limits, I have seen a full twelve inches of a retreating snake, an inquisitive forty-pound raccoon, praying mantises, birds, and, as summer turns to fall, tree frogs.

Sightings are so regular that they have inspired in Z a series of routine tree frog checks of both locations - in the morning, when one is frequently spotted snoozing on the underside of the broad, verdant leaves of some rarely-flowering bulb, and again in the evening, when there is usually an underbelly suctioned to the outside of the bathroom window, drawn to the insects who are drawn to the light.

For a few crucial days during Z's sickness, not one but two tree frogs enacted an uninterrupted amphibious display within inches of the picture window. To call it a vigil would be not only romantic and anthropomorphic but insufficiently odd. It was more of a performance art piece, with the frogs taking on the role of double-thumb-sized, slightly pulsating stones. They did nothing but sit, occasionally moved but never moving, and never traveling far enough for a three-year-old desperate for entertainment to lose track of their whereabouts. They maintained a distance from one another that ranged from four inches to two feet, but never once acknowledged each other's presence in any humanly appreciable way. In short, they did what a very sick child does, and they made it look perfectly acceptable.



The first one should be easy to spot; it's at the top of the frame. The second is better camouflaged, or more distorted by the photo's angle; it's at the bottom, two thirds of the way over from the left. These two frogs were an endless source of wonder, of conversation, and of tasks to be worked into our days. Frog gods, we thank you.

The second source of amusement that filled our best hours was a new toy. I am a Geotrax junkie of the most pathetic kind, the kind that never has sufficient funding for a good, solid fix, that won't rush out and blow a wad of cash to buy the latest coolest five new Geotrax items. It's a toy that breeds that kind of behavior, if you're into revolutionary toddler toys, and that's just what we'd claim an electric train for two-year-olds is, thank you very much, so exhibiting this kind of restraint makes you feel like more of an outsider than anything else, hanging back while the cool kids have all the fun.

But I am the kind of parent who will break down and give my sick daughter one of her Christmas presents early, just to help pass a few difficult days and see a smile on her face. We had bought her one of the second-generation Geotrax engines, the kind with a reverse gear, and I must say, it is a real piece of work.

It's rare to see a toy developers with such a comfortable position in the market thinking so intelligently about what to do next, but the second generation of Geotrax trains has as much freshness as the first did when it was first introduced. The reverse gear, for one, makes all kinds of track layouts that were sub-par (as are many achievable track layouts for those unwilling to get spendy on extra track pieces) suddenly filled with adventure, and makes operating two trains on the same track make far more logistical sense. And then there's the people, or, in Fisher-Price speak, the articulated figures.


I was unsure of the feature's value prior to experiencing it with Z, but I now feel that outfitting Geotrax trains with human figures renders the previous version of the trains, which lack any hatched compartments or characters to ride in them, almost entirely obsolete. For the target age range of Geotrax (two to five or so), this feature is so essential for attachment and creative play, particularly for toddler and preschool girls, that its absence feels almost inexcusable. The lumberjackish Will, who bends at the waist to crouch at roughly half an inch in height, can now make idle chit-chat with Z's bunnies and tiny stuffed friends, and if he's lucky, they'll let him drive once in a while.



There are several trains available in the new Geotrax lineup, each emphasizing a different utilitarian service. I picked the Alpine model because it seemed the most open-ended, and I liked the styling. I'll be heading back to the toy aisles before long to check out the others. Of course, what I'd really like to get Z now would be the new Grand Central Station. Fisher-Price has a clever way of abruptly discontinuing popular components of the Geotrax line, causing the value of its best designs to double or even triple in value in the short term thanks to its passionate user base. So really, the only responsible thing to do is to buy that new station now...

At least the frogs are free.

This post from the ZRecs Archives was originally published on November 13, 2006.

My granddaughter Z and I have a cat. Well, we sort of have a cat. "Cat," which is what we call him, is sort of borrowed from a neighbor. Well, we really don’t borrow it, so much as it borrows us. We feed it, we pet it, we let it in when it is cold. It seems to prefer our house to its real home, and that is okay with us.

I grew up on a farm and had probably, over the years, at least 25 cats. That was in the day when farmers kept cats around more as tools than as pets. But I loved each cat, each kitten, and mourned the passing of each one. The cat mortality rate in the country is high - dogs, coyotes, bobcats, disease, cars, even hawks take their toll. So each cat was precious to me, while I had it.

So now, many years later, living in the suburbs, I have another cat, sort of. Cat likes Z, but not too much. The only thing Cat really likes is eating and mewing at our door. But somehow, we love Cat, mainly because Z delights in feeding Cat and trying to pet Cat, and chasing Cat, and closely, very closely, observing Cat. She delights when Cat grooms himself, and the way his teeth look up close as she observes him from the "safe" side of the glass door. Z listens for his mew each morning she is here (she and I spend two days a week together), then feeds him and watches him eat. Until I watched Z watch Cat I had forgotten the awe an animal can instill in a child learning about the natural world.

And so we watch over Cat. Unfortunately Cat isn’t much of a personality, as cats go. He is young enough to be active, but evidently too old to do much in the way of play. Cat has been, well, fixed, so catting around does not take up much of his time. He spends most of the day just lying on the porch, waiting for his next meal.

And so, it was with some bemusement as we watched Cat go absolutely nuts over the wool balls we sampled from Purrfect Play. He hit them, he swatted them, he rolled on them, he chewed them, he chased them and we stood slack jawed wondering what had gotten into him. Z had not known Cat could do such things, nor had I.



Then we brought out the catnip-filled “Happy Carrot” toys. Now we were in business.



We highly recommend the Purrfect Play Wool Balls and catnip toys, without reservation. They will delight both you and your cat.



Many pet items are made using the same harmful chemicals we now know to avoid exposing our children to - PVC, phthalates, pesticides, and harmful dyes in particular. That's where Purrfect Play has found a niche worth filling. The wool balls are hand formed from sustainably produced dye-free wool which has only been processed with gentle non-toxic soaps. Medium balls sell for $4.95, large balls sell for $6.95. This is an astonishing price for such an attractive, natural toy. A cluster of Happy Baby Catnip carrots is $12.95, and if there are grades of catnip, Purrfect Play is apparently using the primo stuff. (And yes, it is certified organic.) Z kept looking at me puzzled and delighted as Cat danced and soared, bounding into the sky as he hit the claw into the air.

For more information, and toys and other gear for dogs, and gifts for pet owners, check out Purrfect Play's website. The wool balls in particular would make a great gift for any cat lover, or for your own cat. They are pretty enough that I wanted to display them, but gave them to Cat instead.