Wilson Post Blogs

By Becky Andrews

Let me introduce you to my children…

Many of us know someone who has perfect children. The children who never talk back (even though they started talking in complete sentences at 6 weeks old), their children began reading and could recite all the amendments of the Bill of Rights by age 2, could kick a field goal from the 50 yard line at 8 years old and now colleges from the top 10 have already reserved a full scholarship for Junior. Of course all of the above is according to the parents, who tend to embellish at times. These are also the parents that you can tell take secret joy in discovering that your youngest didn’t learn how to tie his shoes until 2^nd grade.

This type of parent never seemed to faze my mother. I’d like to think she was so incredibly open about the failings of her children because she simply liked to make others feel better. But part of me knows better. When I would ask her why she insisted on telling the parents of my classmates I sucked my thumb until age 11 she’d reply,

“But look at you now. You don’t suck your thumb anymore.”

She did this quite often. We (my brothers and sisters) like to reminisce about how mom introduced us to complete strangers. It always went a little like this,

“This is my oldest son, Mike. He’s very creative and so sensitive. Don’t offer him a drink though. He’s a recovering alcoholic.”

“This is Laura. She’s our oldest daughter. Isn’t she pretty? You should have seen her before she gained all that weight from the kids. Talk about a knockout.”

“Here’s Kathy. She is the most reliable of our children. I don’t know where she got her chest from though.”

I cringed when it was my turn. Out of all of my brothers and sisters, I provided the most entertainment and disappointment so there was no telling where this introduction would go.

“Becky is our fourth. Look how pretty her teeth are. Thank God she quit sucking her thumb.”  “She’s on another diet so keep an eye on your dessert. She has a sweet tooth, don’t you, Beck?”

 “This is Christy. She’s our baby girl. She’s also agnostic. You know, she doesn’t believe in God. I’ve told her about hell. But, she’s my stubborn child. I guess some of us just have to learn the hard way.”

“And our baby, Tony. He’s just precious. You’d never know his big sisters dressed him in drag when he was little. Although, who knows what he’s wearing under those jeans.”

I can’t wait to create similar memories for my children. Some traditions should never be lost.

Email your embarrassing stories to Becky! This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Out of the thousands of high school basketball players in Tennessee, only a small percentage will be in Murfreesboro this week for the boys state tournament. It’s the closest thing to true amateur sports we have left.

It is estimated that approximately two percent of those who play high school athletics go on to play college sports. For most of the players you will see this week, it will be the final games of their careers.

Last week’s column, regarding things to worry about, rattled some cages. I spoke about closing of the tail waters below 10 dams. See, here is what is happening.

Two years ago, the Nashville District of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers began a plan to barricade waters below ten dams along the Cumberland River system where sportsmen have fished for decades.

Three TN teams should make it
This state has three basketball teams that should make the NCAA Tournament. All three – Belmont, Memphis and MTSU – are enjoying outstanding seasons.

Belmont is 24-6 and won the OVC regular season with a 14-2 record. It was the Bruins first season in the OVC.

Middle Tennessee is 27-4 overall and won the Sun Belt regular season with a 19-1 record. The Blue Raiders will move to Conference-USA next season. Memphis is 25-4 overall and finished 14-0 in C-USA play. The Tigers are bound for the Big East Conference.

Sometime back in late December, I put an important sidebar next to my column. It warned about the closing of tail waters at some dams to fishing. I urged sportsmen and women to contact their congresspersons protesting this stupid move by the Corps of Engineers.

Then it all got quiet for a while. It seemed nobody but a few outdoor writers were concerned. And maybe Lamar Alexander got a little concerned.

Spring is close by, and Cumberland Baseball has begun even though it is still cold. During last Friday’s game, there was a flyover of sorts out over the outfield. No, it wasn't precision flying aircraft from Fort Campbell's Screaming Eagles out of Clarksville, even though they had stealth qualities. A flock of three Sandhill Cranes flew across the field in precise formation, which to me was even better than some jet roaring through. I just happened to have my camera at the ready.

A couple of articles ago, I was debating the possibilities of whether we had some large white Whooping Cranes or maybe White Pelicans flying through here.

So Valentines Day went down like it usually does each year.

A few days before the big day, I issue my warning, “I don’t want flowers. Do not buy me flowers. I will lose my mind if I get flowers!” (I know what you are thinking, what a joy to be married to me, right?)

But in all fairness, how can anything that rots and dies be considered a gift?

Awards show season has passed and while many viewers stayed glued to the tube to watch favorite films be recognized or see one of the magnificent gowns Naomi Watts donned on the red carpet – I tuned in for Argo Director Ben Affleck.

I have loved Ben the Actor ever since I saw Armageddon – but Ben the Person?

He dated just about everyone. Gwyneth. JLo. And pretty much any press about him in the late nineties included his gambling and boozing. So while he was talented and handsome, I never thought of him as being the ideal man.

But I guess the love of a good woman works wonders.

I like Ben the Person so much after watching him sing his wife’s (the lovely Jennifer Garner) praises at the Oscars this year - calling her “more perfect than I am” and thanking her for “working” on their marriage.

In a day and age where the phrase “happily married” is becoming a cliché, it is refreshing to hear someone acknowledge that – no, we are not perfect people – and yes, relationships (whether it be friendship, dating, living together, or marriage) take work.

I admire a man who can give public kudos to his partner.

So guys…the next time your lady calls you when you are watching the game at your buddy’s place or clocking long hours at work – don’t mutter some “ball-and-chain-what-does-that-woman-want” nonsense. Be a “Ben the Person” type-of-guy and pick up. Ask what you can do to help out. Take a surprise home. Thank her.

You don’t have to be an Oscar winner to give credit where credit is due. I believe it will make a world of difference to her – and to your relationship.

I expect to hear one or two any morning. The Music City Star will come by about 5:50 and sound their cursed horn. One or more will sound off as a reflex. The later it gets into the year, the more will sound off.

It was a day of firsts at Daytona International Speedway.

It was the first time a female driver finished in the top 10 of the legendary Daytona 500.

Let me introduce you to my children…

By Becky Andrews

Many of us know someone who has perfect children. The children who never talk back (even though they started talking in complete sentences at 6 weeks old), their children began reading and could recite all the amendments of the Bill of Rights by age 2, could kick a field goal from the 50 yard line at 8 years old and now colleges from the top 10 have already reserved a full scholarship for Junior. Of course all of the above is according to the parents, who tend to embellish at times. These are also the parents that you can tell take secret joy in discovering that your youngest didn’t learn how to tie his shoes until 2^nd grade.

This type of parent never seemed to faze my mother. I’d like to think she was so incredibly open about the failings of her children because she simply liked to make others feel better. But part of me knows better. When I would ask her why she insisted on telling the parents of my classmates I sucked my thumb until age 11 she’d reply,

“But look at you now. You don’t suck your thumb anymore.”

She did this quite often. We (my brothers and sisters) like to reminisce about how mom introduced us to complete strangers. It always went a little like this,

“This is my oldest son, Mike. He’s very creative and so sensitive. Don’t offer him a drink though. He’s a recovering alcoholic.”

“This is Laura. She’s our oldest daughter. Isn’t she pretty? You should have seen her before she gained all that weight from the kids. Talk about a knockout.”

“Here’s Kathy. She is the most reliable of our children. I don’t know where she got her chest from though.”

I cringed when it was my turn. Out of all of my brothers and sisters, I provided the most entertainment and disappointment so there was no telling where this introduction would go.

“Becky is our fourth. Look how pretty her teeth are. Thank God she quit sucking her thumb.”  “She’s on another diet so keep an eye on your dessert. She has a sweet tooth, don’t you, Beck?”

 “This is Christy. She’s our baby girl. She’s also agnostic. You know, she doesn’t believe in God. I’ve told her about hell. But, she’s my stubborn child. I guess some of us just have to learn the hard way.”

“And our baby, Tony. He’s just precious. You’d never know his big sisters dressed him in drag when he was little. Although, who knows what he’s wearing under those jeans.”

I can’t wait to create similar memories for my children. Some traditions should never be lost.

Email your embarrassing stories to Becky! This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

My Arrogant Ways

By ANGEL KANE

Wilson Living Magazine

My husband says being late is a sign of arrogance

I think he says that because he knows that I’m better than him

Being late is a family trait…on my side of the family. My family is from the old country, so when somebody says “Be there at 7”, I was raised to believe 7 was merely a suggestion.

It’s as if they’re saying, “We suggest you come at 7, but really at 7 we will barely be ready, so in all honesty, we prefer you come at 7:45.”

Brody on the other hand, would like to be in their driveway at 6:58, so that we can ring their doorbell promptly at 7.

As you can imagine since I have to live with his man, on a daily basis now, going on 18 years, this is turning into a problem.

At first it really didn’t bother me. I mean, what’s he going to do, drive off without me? (Being  completely nuts is another family trait …so he knows better than to take that option.)

Instead, he stands over me. Right over me.

Pacing back and forth…back and forth…and back and forth…

“Are you ready?”

“Let’s go.”

“You always make us late.”

“Geez, get the rollers out of your hair, we should have been there by now.”

“I’m going to the car.”

“Do not change your clothes again.”

“Really, really, you are changing again? I’m just going to sit in the car until you are ready!”

And then he honks. Two short ones. To test me. 

And then he honks again…the long kind!

(Using words in ways others may not think they can be used, comes from my Mother’s side….) So when he gets to the long honk, my children flee the scene.

And this is where the problem has really found footing.

It would appear, these children of mine, these children that I carried in my womb for 9 plus months, who have given me stretch marks, grey hairs and sleepless nights, who have depleted every bank account I ever wished to have…these children of mine…have inherited their Daddy’s punctuality gene.

To the point, that I now have four people menacing me as I try to get ready.

“Mama, hurry up, we can’t be late for school again.”

“Oh my God, you are not painting your nails right now!”

“We need to leave now, or I’ll miss the beginning of the movie!”

“Pleaaaaseeee can we go?! The game starts in five minutes and it takes us 15 minutes to get there.”

“Daddy, can we just leave her.”

Seriously, given the conditions under which I now live, the fact that I don’t drink and do pills is a miracle!

So on Friday night, everyone was anxiously pacing.

Madison had the ACT test Saturday morning and had to be there at 7:30. Brody had to be in Smyrna with Neill at 7.

All eyes were on me…judging me. 

Yes, of course, I got her there on time. (I figured the ACT people weren’t going to buy my “old country” garbage.)

Only to find out, when we got there, ON TIME, she had forgotten her I.D.

And she doesn’t get that from my side either!

To read more of Angel & Becky’s columns go to www.wilsonpost.com and hit Blogs.

50 strands of grey…

It happens every time I go to the hairdresser. After sitting in the chair, she spins me around, surveys dry, split and graying tresses then asks,

“So what are we going to do today?”

This is where I get nervous. Not at my hairdresser. She’s a pro. It’s just that I never know the right answer. It sounds so boring to say, “Keep it the same as last time” and unrealistic to show her a picture of Jennifer Anniston and say, “Make me look like this”. Instead, we begin an exchange I’m positive makes her want to hold my head a little longer under the water as she’s washing my hair.

“I’d like a cut that makes me look 20 pounds lighter, 10 years younger and requires no maintenance.”

“I left my wand at home, Becky. How did you like the color last time?”

“Loved it, but it didn’t last long enough. Look at all of this gray.”

“I see it but it’s been four months since your last appointment. What kind of shampoo have you been using? Are you washing it every other day like we talked about last time?”

She already knows the answer to those questions. Kind of like when I ask my husband if he thinks I’m prettier than Beyoncé.

“Don’t you have a color that will last at least six months and can withstand daily washings with dish detergent? Not that I use dish detergent. I mean, I have in a pinch but not all the time.”

I can tell she’s exhausted with me.

“No I am 99% positive there is nothing like that on the market. If you will stop washing it every day and use the correct shampoo, your color will last longer.”

“What about something that will stop all of this gray?” I can tell my time is limited in her chair today so before she fires me, we collectively decide that a few extra highlights and a bit of razoring around my face will do the trick.

After my blow out, I think about how my hair will never look this good again until my next appointment.  I also think of alternate names for the term ‘Blow out’.

She always pulls off the perfect look with very little (i.e.-realistic) direction from me. Before leaving, I promise to use the expensive sulfate-free hair products, only wash my hair every other day and return in 6-8 weeks so I don’t monopolize her chair for half a day. She gives me a hopeful smile but I can tell she knows better.

“I’ll block off five hours four months from now. See ya then!”

Comments? This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Mama is M.I.A.

By Angel Kane

Wilson Living Magazine

Do you ever wonder what life will be like when you die?

Will my kids be ok? Will Brody remarry? Will my friends like his new wife?

I’ve never really thought about it – as the odds are Brody is going first.

But just this past week, I had a glimpse into this world and let me just say, for all our sakes, I need to start taking a multi-vitamin.

I was supposed to be out of town for just one day. One day turned into five.

By day three, Brody was in a panic.

“Seriously, would you please answer your phone when I call! I’m not calling to chat. I need you to tell me where they keep their clothes. We’ve run out.”

The calls, texts and emails continued, including one from my middle child titled “HELP!”

Needless to say Friday night when I arrived home, I was a tad bit hesitant as I drove up the driveway.  

As I tried to push open the back door, I noticed that something was keeping it from opening all the way. As I continued to push, there stood a mound of dirty clothes keeping it from opening.

Well, I say they were dirty.

In actuality the mound appeared to consist of a combination of dirty clothes on the floor and clean ones in the dryer, half way falling onto the floor and into this mound.

Apparently Brody had found their clothes! Every last one of them!

The clothes led to backpacks, backpacks led to coats, cleats, basketballs, tennis balls and books that lined the way from the back door, all the way to the kitchen.

The kitchen counters were filled with empty bags of Wendys, Painturos and Jersey Mikes.  And it did appear, from the 100 bowls in the sink, that their father had fed them breakfast every morning as well.

Between the kitchen and the den, I saw books and pencils all over the floor as well as my new laptop – homework – check!

I went from room to room finding destruction everywhere I turned.

It seemed as they destroyed one room, they would move on to the next. It also appeared that at some point during the week, they had decided to break my rule and allowed the dog back into the house.

Finally I found them all, sitting in our office.

Our office consists of a desk and computer. We have one over-sized leather chair and a television in there, basically for one person. All four of them were huddled together in the dark, in the chair, watching television. The dog was sitting beside them. Brody was asleep. 

Their clothes looked un-ironed, their pony tales looked askew and I’m pretty sure my youngest had failed to bathe all week.

They looked happy and content.     

If I were to die first, my kids will be ok. 

And given the state of my house, I seriously doubt Brody could remarry anytime soon.

To read more of Angel and Becky’s columns go to www.wilsonpost.com and hit Blogs.

“Where do babies come from?” or having THE TALK

By Becky Andrews

When I had my children I knew that I would be a cool parent. My kids were going to be fully aware that the only thing a stork drops as he flies over our house is something that likely carries the bird flu. When it comes time for “the talk” we-my husband and I- were going to be honest and open for any questions.

From the time my children could talk, I thought it necessary to call a body part what it was. None of the cutesy little names like oo-ah’s and tete’s for my kids. This was all in preparation for the questions they would have later. I was determined to answer those inquiries better than my parents. While I loved my mom, when it came to “the talk” she simply said, “That’s none of your business, Becky. Sometimes you talk too much.” I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. Yes, my parents were raised in a different time -where having the talk meant giving your children brochures and telling them to see the school nurse with any questions- but there had to be a better way.

My decision to be open with my kids was derailed for a short time when I was pregnant with my youngest and my oldest asked me how the baby was going to get out. I knew this was a pivotal moment for my little boy. He was almost 5. I gave him an answer and he was satisfied. No more questions. He was brilliant. The next day I picked him up from preschool. After the teacher buckled his seatbelt, she looked at me and said with an enthusiastic tone, “He was so excited today! He let everyone in the class know that his new brother was going to come out of his mama’s BAGINA.” That should have been my first clue that maybe its better if the stork visits instead of honesty.

When I hear people fret about how they are dreading the talk I don’t understand. I say the more uncomfortable the better. In other words, BRING IT! But this probably has a lot to do with me being so cool.

I was brought down a few notches recently and it turns out I’m not as cool and cavalier as I thought. My boys and I were getting ready for school and as everyone was putting on their coats my youngest said, “Mom, what’s a period?” I thought for a moment about how this could be yet another pivotal moment in his life then answered, “It’s what comes after a sentence. Sometimes you talk too much.”

You can reach Becky Andrews at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Letters from the edge…

By Becky Andrews

A few weeks ago I found some old letters that my mother had written. Letters sent to her mother, my grandmother, who lived on the Carolina coast; a 12 hour drive away from our home in Tennessee.  My grandmother saved everything, and letters from her only daughter were no exception. I read page after page of correspondence between a very young mom asking for recipes and advice on colic, then letters from a middle aged mom of 6 asking for advice on teenage sons and daughters and wondering if the boys will ever talk again and if the girls ever ‘shut up’. Finally there were letters from a post-menopausal woman asking her mom if she’s eating well and updating her on the children;

 “Mike is dating a super nice woman. Not sure what she sees in him since he’s been married twice before? I can’t get over what a fabulous mom Laura has become with her two boys. She is so organized about everything. You should see the arts and crafts she does with both of them. I told her she needs a hobby that doesn’t involve pipe cleaners and glitter or she’ll end up like crazy Aunt Madge. Kathy is enjoying the newly married life and wants to start a family. I told her to get a cat first. Becky just finished her first semester of college and she let us know that she’s changing her major from nursing to English Literature because, and I quote, ‘you and dad are NOT the boss of me anymore!’ Who really needs the stability a nursing career can bring? The world just doesn’t have enough struggling writers. Christy is biding her time before she leaves for college in two years. She almost hisses in the morning when I wake her for school. When she doesn’t have her nose in a book, she’s arguing with me about the importance of recycling and can’t believe her parents are so irresponsible with refuse. I told that the same two breasts fed all 6 of my children and that alone gives me a free pass to do whatever I want to with my ‘refuse’.  Ralph says it’s because she was being reared in the middle of our obsession with Peter, Paul and Mary. Tony is still doing wonderful in school and he’s now the very proud wearer of contact lenses. It was tough on Christy and Becky when he retired those coke bottle glasses. They really miss seeing  how big his eyes could get when he’d pull the glasses away from his face. What can I say…? Kids come up with their own fun when you don’t have cable.”

She signed off every letter with a clever little valediction like ‘Love your eternally unorganized daughter’ or ‘Love from your NOT pregnant daughter’

Letter writing has become sort of a communication anomaly these days. We are more likely to see hand written letters hanging in the Smithsonian next to the stone etched hieroglyphics display, than pulling one out of a mailbox. I may decide to start writing letters again. Not to my mom of course, because I have no idea where to send it? But if I could write her a letter I’d probably ask her opinion on the one thing I just can’t figure out… ‘Why do the housewives continue to have dinner parties if they all end in a disaster or lawsuit?’ She’d totally understand!

If you know why the housewives keep having dinner parties, please email Becky the answer at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

IT’S A WEIGHTY ISSUE

By Angel Kane

Wilson Living Magazine

By the time, you read this article, I will have been eating meat and only meat for a solid week!

So, about six months ago, I woke up with the worst back pain. And like any sane person, I refused to go the doctor. So month after month, I have just wallowed in my pain.

Finally, those around me couldn’t take my complaining anymore, demanding I see a doctor.

As I explained my symptoms to the nurse, she required I get on the scale.

And herein lies the problem with doctors.

No matter what the symptom…be it a raging cold, fiery rash or bulging disc…for some reason, only known to these so called medical professionals, they insist on knowing my weight.

And honestly, if they would just ask me, I’d tell them.

I weigh 110 pounds. The same amount I have weighed since high school. See, I don’t mind saying it out loud.

But Nurse Hatchet didn’t buy it, insisting I get on that scale to prove it.

So, Becky called me after I was done with the X-ray.

“Did the doctor find anything?”

“He is supposed to call me tomorrow but I’m sure that X-ray is going to show I’m secretly pregnant with a 12 pound baby, because if it doesn’t, I am going to blow up his stupid scale!”

Unfortunately, the X-ray was fine and it turns out the only bundle of joy I’ve had lately, consists of my late night hot chocolates made with whole milk and my deliciously warm peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies.

As a result of my regrettable run in, with that clearly malfunctioning scale, I convinced Becky to start dieting with me. But this time we are doing it right! We joined an actual diet center.

You know, the ones where you hand people hard earned money so they can tell you all the things you can not eat and then they ….weigh you.

Because that’s not insane.  

Resolutions Schmesolutions! 

By Becky Andrews

It’s that time of year again. Relatives are heading home, we say goodbye to the tree and that stupid elf till next year, returns are made and my jeans feel about three sizes too small and I’ve not even put them in the dryer. Regret from my over consumption of cheese balls, peanut butter balls, chips, dip, wine, cookies fill my head every time I see a new ‘NOT APPROVED’ photo floating around on Facebook. I have to diet and lose the weight that crept on between October 31^st and January 1^st. I knew it was time for an intervention when I bit the inside of my cheek while noshing on a handful of fried peanuts (Seriously!). Extra weight was now on my already full cheeks!

So I decided to get a head start on the weight loss wagon and made the plunge on December 27^th. Then by noon of that first day of a sugar detox, I caved and ate a piece of candy out of the office stash. In order to forego the guilt, I thought it’s better to ease in. Who starts a diet a few days before New Year’s? What was I trying to prove? Yes, I want to lose weight but it’s not like I’m training for the Olympics.

The smartest thing to do was look at the calendar, pick a date and stick to it. While January is the perfect month to start, January 1^st is out for obvious reasons. January 2nd falls on a Wednesday and everyone knows, Monday is THE day to start a diet. The following Monday is out because we have a dinner to go to that night and it would be rude to say no to the host’s offerings. In fact the only Monday in January I can start my new plan is the 7^th and the following Monday is the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday. That means the kids are out of school so that would only give me one good week to eat right so why bother?  I could start on the last Monday of January but that weekend brings Groundhog Day and the Super Bowl so that’s out. If I start the first Monday of February, that gives me eight good days before Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras and Valentine’s Day so that’s out.

The way it stands now I have two weeks at the end of February and the first week in March to lose the weight I gained from the holidays. After that there’s International Women’s Day, Daylight Savings Time, World Kidney Day, Spring Break for the kids, Saint Patrick’s Day, Good Friday, Easter… the list goes on and on. But I’m going to do it! I’ve got 21 days (18 if you count the days we have a kids birthday party) to lose this stubborn weight.  I have no doubt I can do this and as long as no one asks how the diet is going the first 3 days nobody gets hurt.

By PATRICK HALL
Special to The Wilson Post

The 85th Academy Awards will be held on Sunday, and while I spent quite some time mulling over the most deserving films, I am settling on the fact that “Lincoln” will be the winner in the big categories, despite the fact that I don’t see it as the best of the nominees.

Directed by Steven Spielberg, and based on a book by Doris Kearns Goodwin, “Lincoln” received rave reviews, most notably for the otherworldly performance by Daniel Day-Lewis as President Abraham Lincoln.

The film was truly outstanding and a wonderful look into one of our greatest Presidents, as well as the political fight over the death of slavery. It is nominated for a whopping 12 awards: Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Supporting Actor, Best Supporting Actress, Cinematography, Costume Design, Best Directing, Film Editing, Original Score, Production Design, Sound Mixing and Best Adapted Screenplay.

All things considered, I’m guessing “Lincoln” wins four awards, including Best Picture, Best Actor for Day-Lewis and Best Director for Spielberg and Best Supporting Actress for Sally Field, as Mary Todd Lincoln.

To me, “Lincoln” was mind-blowingly good upon first seeing it. Day-Lewis’s performance as the embattled and depressed, but resolute President was transcendent. With subtly of movements and facial expressions alongside moments of power and charisma, in "Lincoln", Day-Lewis continued to make his case as one of the best actors to ever step in front of a camera.

This time of the year is pretty exciting to us bird lovers as there is always the possibility that some rare species will show up at our bird feeders. Several offerings of different seeds keep my little lunch counter overflowing. Goldfinch, Housefinch, three different species of Woodpeckers, along with the more common birds share my backyard habitat. There were more than 25 Morning Doves looking like miniature vacuum cleaners moving back and forth sucking up every morsel of seed from off the ground. My other ground scratchers were Song Sparrows and a pair of Carolina Wrens. I take a biscuit, cut it in half and lay it on the window sill where the Wrens wear it out. I can be in the kitchen and all of a sudden "whap-whap-whap" draws my attention to one or both of them pounding on the hard, dried-out biscuit.

Bird feeding has become a lucrative business for many seed companies. Millions of dollars in sales mark this as much more than a simple hobby. There is one thing you should take care to check: dates. I have a bag of Nyher seed that the Goldfinch will not touch, and most of you know how expensive some of the seed has become. I put it aside and purchased a new bag which the Goldfinch absolutely love. I tried to trick them and put the other seed back in the feeders. There must be a certain smell to it because they turned their noses, or beaks, up and refused to partake of it. I guess that I will scatter it on the ground for my doves, as they'll eat most anything if it doesn't move too quick.