Over the winter I became a night owl. I developed the habit of staying up until after midnight to read or work in my jewelry studio; to add to my blog or check other blogs; to e-mail or check on Facebook.
After almost 31 years of marriage, Bruce and I know that a major component of our continued friendship and marital happiness comes from not trying to go to sleep at the same time. At the end of the day I enjoy having time to absorb some solitude. It is how I, as an introvert, choose to reset my spiritual and creative clock.
Our household routines change once the Barbara Ann and the lobster traps are hauled out of the water in December. Bruce does a lot of the cooking, taking time to find and try out new recipes for dinner with friends. We catch up on the movies we had no time to watch in the summer and fall, and many nights Bruce does not go to bed until 11 p.m. which means that I am still up and able to throw a few more logs in the wood stove at 1 a.m. and then I can sleep in until 9.
Bruce launched his boat in the second week of March and his gear started hitting the water the next day. He is now back to full time spring fishing; getting up at 4 or 4:30 a.m., and leaving before 6 a.m. These hours have caused him to reset his bedtime to 8:30 or 9 p.m.
It would be natural for me to follow through and start going to bed earlier myself, right? I could make the shift back to being a morning person, and still get some time alone plus eight hours of sleep. However, at the time Bruce was adjusting to his spring fishing schedule, I was beginning an addiction that would prevent me from making the seasonal time change.
It started so innocently. E-mail from a friend suggesting I look at a live film of a hummingbird named Phoebe sitting on her nest. The homeowner has a hidden camera connected via Ustream. (Ustream is a Web site that provides a platform for live video streaming of events online.) There were interesting facts about hummingbirds and a lively chat room posting comments and questions about Phoebe.
It was fascinating! While the air was still drab in Maine, I could have the live noise of spring birds on my laptop computer, coming from southern California. As the sun set on Phoebe’s nest, three time zones away, I would check my e-mails again and head to bed at a fairly reasonable hour. Chat room folks were off to look at some barn owl named Molly, but one site was enough for me. Iridescent Phoebe was my bird of choice.
One egg was about to hatch. Though there was a pip hole in the first egg, the chick did not survive to crack it open. Phoebe removed the rotten egg from her nest after a lizard tried to steal it. In the next few days I abandoned the site as Phoebe abandoned her nest, but not before noting the link to the “Owl Box” posted in Phoebe’s chat room. My next bird fix was only a click away…and I took it.
Molly had a notable heart-shaped white face, and a beautiful russet colored back and white breast dotted with gray and black specks. She was softly settled in the owl box but stood up about every ten minutes to turn and shift the five eggs beneath her. Similar to the hummingbird site, there were facts about barn owls, a chat room, and a schedule of predicted hatching times. However, Molly was on Ustream 24 hours a day.
The first time I checked on the owl box at night, the infrared camera showed Molly looking up and making a shrill call. The chat room filled with one word, “McGee,” and then two owl legs stepped into view as McGee, Molly’s mate, threw a mouse to Molly and jumped on top of her to “bond.”
In less than a minute he was gone. Serendipity for me, as he only arrived about 5 times a night. I was hooked again. Every night I had to see McGee arrive with the food before I went to bed. When four of the eggs hatched successfully, McGee had to bring more food. With thousands of viewers from around the world, I checked often on the development and antics of the owlets. In less than two weeks, babies who starting eating raw meat from day one, were now swallowing whole mice. My late night winter schedule persisted.
In one of the best Aprils we’ve seen, I am missing out on hearing the early morning birdsong in my own yard. I slothfully sleep past 7 a.m., because I have been up so late watching owl drama on my computer. I don’t wake up earlier without an alarm because I need my eight hours of sleep as much as I crave my time alone.
In the owl box there are weeks of activity ahead as the owlets continue to develop feathers and get ready to fledge. I don’t want to miss it but the time has come for a personal intervention. I need to reset my clock.
My alarm now goes off at 6 a.m. and I force myself to go for a walk before I do anything else. I am not really awake, but within 5 minutes of leaving I hear winter wrens calling, with their music-box-on-crack song that is so much louder than you would ever expect for their tiny size. It always makes me smile.
I notice that the song sparrows are nesting near the old Coast Guard station and I am listening for the first hermit thrush of the season. I also notice that if I leave a little earlier tomorrow morning I could catch the sunrise.
When I get home and turn on my computer, it is yet dark in California. Know what that means? Molly and company are still very active on their site and I have just figured out how to be a morning person with the night owls.
Barbara Fernald is a freelance writer and jeweler who lives on Islesford.