I’ve been pondering the word “cusp.” One definition I came across describes a cusp as a point formed by two intersecting arcs. Or the thin triangular flap of a heart valve. Or a slight elevation on the grinding surface of a tooth. But it’s the non-tangible definition that I’m currently obsessed with – the point formed by two intersecting arcs. The cusp between childhood and adulthood. Or, in my case, the cusp between middle adulthood and old age.

​Yep, I am on the cusp of old age. I hate the phrase “old age” because it carries a negative connotation, one that I hope is eradicated by the time my grandkids approach adulthood. I recently turned sixty and have yet to come up with a better adjective to describe my current phase of life. Senior citizen? Blech. I hate that phrase, too, with its images of little old ladies in stockings and sensible shoes. I wear sensible shoes but compete in triathlons—an activity never on the radar of many of my grandmother’s (or even my mother’s) cohorts. I’m a grandmother, but I still feel, in some ways, like the youthful mother I once was. I’m embracing my gray hair and ignoring the barrage of hair coloring product advertisements (for mature women) in my social media feeds. 
 
In my new book, Second Saturday, I struggled with describing the sweet, loony, endearing cast of older adults. My main character, Darlene (an older adult herself), frequently refers to her new friend Lola as an “old lady.” Ultimately, I allowed Darlene to reference Lola that way because it aligns with Darlene’s mindset. 
 
In addition to being on the cusp of old age, I also ride a generational cusp. I was born during the narrow river between the Boomers’ end and the Gen-Xers’ beginning, and I can relate to both generations. For example, the music I loved as a child is the same music my older generational counterparts came of age listening to. Yet, I was an infant when JFK was shot, Beatlemania swept the nation, and I was too young to remember the nuances of Vietnam. Likewise, even though I am older than some of my Gen-X counterparts, I was still shaped by many of the key events that define their generation. The fall of the Berlin Wall and growing up after the Civil Rights movement instantly come to mind. 
 
I’m excited about my cusp. So excited that I literally swam into my new decade by swimming 100 yards for each of my 60 years (and rewarded myself with an M&M at the end of each 100 yards). Mike threw me an epic surprise party, and I got to walk in a Saint Patrick’s Day parade! Not too shabby for an old lady! 

         It’s been ages since I’ve reached out and updated you on my writing life. I could tell you that I’ve been busy cranking out books, but the truth is that I’ve been languishing. There, I said it—languishing. L-a-n-g-u-i-s-h-i-n-g. The word itself sounds lazy and luxurious, like languishing by the pool. But nope, that is not the languishing I’m talking about. I’ve felt stagnant, dull, and empty for much of the past year. Not depressed, yet not my usual bouncy self. It was a strange and disconcerting place to be. In this languishing state, my creativity and ability to focus had left me. The most mundane decisions, like what to make for dinner, proved daunting.  
         I’m beginning to feel better. It isn’t happening overnight; it is more like a dimmer switch gradually turning up the light, or the chirping bird, sunrise-simulating alarm clock I recently bought. 
         Over the past year and a half, Mike and I were blessed with two other grandkids—a brother and sister, born 14 months apart (a barrage of photos to follow), for a total of six, and, if you count our entire blended family, Mike and I have a grand total of 11 Grands! 
         We also moved into a new house this past fall, one with a tiny bit of extra room (and a fabulous loft/office/playroom) to better accommodate family gatherings. We’re still on Cambridge Creek, but in this house, we look straight down to the mouth of the Choptank River and can see the Choptank River Lighthouse. Frequent visitors include a great blue heron we named “Squawk,” several cormorants, a barrage of seagulls, and, this time of year, a host of diving ducks visiting from Canada (canvasbacks, buffleheads, mergansers, northern shovelers, the list goes on…). 
         Okay, enough of that. I sincerely hope you enjoy my new book, Second Saturday, which is a continuation of Darlene and Fran’s story and the introduction of the lovable, albeit frustrating, Lola. I’m not sure if I will write a third book in this series, as I’m currently editing the first book in a brand-new series (the working title is Canvasback Cove) and drafting a new novel with Mahjongg as its backdrop (I learned how to play last year…more on that later).
 
Second Saturday Synopsis
 
When pharmacist Darlene Feldman is asked to help a group of old folks commit suicide, the obvious answer is No!

The mere mention of death causes dedicated pharmacist to shudder. Shaped by the deaths of two family members and the passive implosion of her long marriage, the fifty-something-year-old can’t seem to sacrifice independence for her serious new relationship. But Darlene’s views on autonomy are prescribed a challenge when she’s invited for a cheerful chat with a feisty collection of retirement community residents…about ideal ways to kill themselves.

Fran Wilkins is struggling to find the right words. Because as much as he adores Darlene, the sixty-something-year-old just hasn’t found the perfect moment to reveal his kidneys are as haggard as his finances. And though an unexpected opportunity in Denver could solve both problems, convincing Darlene to move across the country might prove complicated.

Exhausted from her suicide awareness marathon training and her attempts to sway her new friends, Darlene is infuriated that Fran has been hiding his worsening kidney disease. He fears that coming clean about the potential opportunity in Denver could send her affections to the grave.
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Can they refill their second act bucket list and live happily ever after?
 
         That’s all for now. I would love to keep in touch. You can join my online family to receive updates on future books. Sign up at https://mailchi.mp/lynnstewart/subscribers and receive Book 1 in my Stay Back! Trilogy for free.

My husband and I met long before the explosion of online dating sites and apps. Do you remember when people placed personal ads in the newspaper? Yes, it was that long ago. But no, we didn't meet that way either. We met organically through our shared interest in running. 
 
Now married for almost 22 years, we adopted our first dog. 
 
I know it would be hard to meet a dog organically, so I created an account on one of the more well-known pet adoption sites—rows and rows of photos of big brown eyes, crooked half-grins, and floppy ears. We started out looking at poodles and poodle mixes, then expanded our search to include the Yorkie, Shih Tzu, Lhasa Apso, Bichon Frise, and the like. 
 
Mike first fell in love with Trevor, a gangly senior poodle with a stuffed monkey for a sidekick. We filled out an application but were quickly told that we live outside of that particular rescue group's adoption area. 
 
Then came Bobbie, a cute little Shih Tzu mix with a fiery personality. Once again, we filled out a lengthy application akin to applying for a mortgage or getting a security clearance. A week or so later, we received an email from the rescue letting us know that Bobbie had received 100 applications. As it turned out, we were among the top ten, but alas, Bobbie went to a different family. 
 
We met Mustang (a blind, senior poodle) and Queenie (a somewhat curvy Bichon Frise with unusually short legs and gingivitis) at a local shelter. We could have adopted either of them on the spot but ultimately decided that neither would blend well into our active lifestyle. 
 
Soon I was spending way too much time scrolling through the pet adoption website. Mike and I expanded our search area to include states up and down the East Coast. There were so many dogs to choose from; instead of the myriad possibilities being freeing, it was paralyzing. Scroll, click, scroll click. Weeks went by when we couldn't seem to make a decision. 
 
Until one day, a four-year-old Lhasa Apso mix popped up at another local shelter. Gone are the days when you could show up at an animal shelter and browse the cages, all thanks to COVID-19. Now everything is by appointment only. It several days and many voicemails to finally reach someone at the shelter to schedule a time to meet Jack. 
 
On the day of our meeting, Mike and I waited at a picnic bench for a staff member to bring Jack out to greet us. At first blush, Jack didn't seem all that interested in us. Until, of course, the staff member handed me a treat to give him. Soon Jack was in my lap. At that point, I was a done; Jack had stolen my heart that quickly (queue Survivor's 1985 hit, The Search is Over). Yes, the search was indeed over. We brought Jack home a week later and haven't looked back.

​

Early in the pandemic—so early that it was yet to be deemed such—I asked my husband if he thought we should stock up on masks. He said, no, he didn't think so. No matter anyway, because in the weeks that followed, face coverings were not to be found. And rightfully so. Our medical professionals, caregivers, and first responders needed them—not me. 

Still, I searched online for masks that I might buy to have on hand, just in case. I found a cute circular pattern, multi-colored one for me (I figured it would compliment all my shirt colors), and one with sharks on it for Mike. Nearly two months later, these strange, new accessories finally arrived. Our neighbor's mother made us two patriotic-themed masks since Mike and I are both veterans. Now I had a collection of four masks to add to the five neck gators that I'd had for years and was wearing to cover my nose and mouth while out running or biking. 

Then I saw an online ad for Ironman masks. I'm a sucker for Ironman-logo apparel; Mike and I both completed two full and six half Ironman events. Unable to help myself, I ordered a five-pack of masks and a three-pack of neck gators. 

Something I ordered a few weeks later, unrelated to masks, arrived with an unexpected complimentary neck gator. And then Mike's nephew, an ornithologist, sent me a link to a museum selling masks with Audubon and Gould bird prints on them. How could I not get a couple of those?

A few days ago, I complimented a friend's mask. When she offered to make me one just like it, I enthusiastically said yes!

I'm not much into fashion. I've never been a shoe collector—preferring a pair of Dansko clogs and boots in winter and sandals in summer. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I'm a mask collector. I wish it weren't so, but I fear face coverings in public will be the new normal for the foreseeable future. So, why not have masks for all occasions?

Many areas are now lifting restrictions, and people are venturing back to work and a little closer to the edge. A few of us set up lawn chairs in front of our marina last Friday. We sat in a circle (at least six feet between couples) and enjoyed drinks. The wind blew, and the ospreys watched from their nest.  I will admit to a tiny bit of discomfort, sitting among my neighbors. This was the closest I'd been to anyone outside of my immediate household in more than two months.

For the most part, living in Covid-19 lockdown-land hasn't been much different from my regular day-to-day life. Okay, maybe a little. If I'm truthful a lot. 

As a writer and an introvert, spending time alone at my laptop and in my own head is normal. Still, I miss the daily interactions with people. Some of my primary social time was spent at the YMCA. No more 4:30 a.m. wakeups for my power-cycle, run speed, and swim training. With the closure of the Y and postponement of the triathlons I was signed up for this summer, well, let's just say my training schedule has been willy-nilly. 
With all this extra time on my hands, I should be able to report significant progress on my new book. Alas, it's been slow going. The first few weeks of the pandemic were spent wringing my hands. I was huddled over my keyboard as usual. Instead of writing, though, I was pouring over every coronavirus-related newspaper article I could get my hands on. I drove myself (and my poor husband) crazy. So, I stopped. I figured I'd allow myself the indulgence of three Covid-19 articles during my "work" day. It's helped. Praying has helped too. A lot. 

I'm happy to report that I'm on my third revision of the book. Just going through and making sure the characters will feel as real to you as they do to me. I'm still on schedule for a Summer 2020 release date. Soon, I hope to have a sneak peek for you -- probably the first chapter or two. In the meantime, I'd love to share the synopsis and cover. 
​
Please stay cautious, safe, and healthy!

I’m a control freak. There, I admit it. I try to force myself to be laid back, but I’m anything but. Just ask Mike and he’ll roll his eyes and laugh, while running a tape of the past twenty years through his mind — freeze frames of all the times I’ve tried to control events and influence outcomes. There are times though, when a situation is too far gone for me to be able to force my will upon it. In these situations, I’ll do one of two things: I’ll pitch an adult-sized hissy-fit, or I’ll reluctantly open my hands and accept the fact that I’m not in control. Many times, I’ll do both of those things — have my hissy-fit, then open my hands. Like the time Mike surprised me at my work with suitcases packed and a pair of airline tickets. Two steps in a process: hissy-fit, complete with yelling and foot-stomping (I hate flying, probably because I’m not in control of the airplane) followed by opening my hands and surrendering my will. 

​I began obsessing about the weather three or four days before Eagleman. Logically, I knew that I couldn’t control the weather, but I wasn’t ready to open my hands. I willed calm winds, a glassy river, low humidity, and some sun, but mostly clouds. Logically, I also knew that the forecast would change multiple times leading up to, and including race day. When we checked in on Friday and saw that they had moved the swim course a little bit to the left — to the more protected Hambrooks Bay — I began to realize race day might not go according to my will, my desires, or the way I’d envisioned it for the past sixteen weeks. This was to be my fifth time doing Eagleman. Yet it was the first time I’d trained for it with a coach, and the first time I’d had a tribe of like-minded triathletes to train with. I’d also spent a great deal of time improving my swim technique. I had a plan and a vision about how the day would unfold, including my fantasy weather — there was no room for any deviation.
 
By the time we checked our bikes in on Saturday, the threads I’d woven into my perfect race day experience began to unravel. The Choptank was dotted with whitecaps and small rollers danced across Hambrooks Bay. Mike, who missed his calling and should have been a meteorologist, said if the the wind — which on Sunday was predicted to be 8 to 10 knots with gusts to 25 — stayed in the 8-knot range and blew from the north, then we’d be okay in our protected Hambrooks Bay. However, if the wind shifted early to the northeast and blew 8-10, we probably wouldn’t have a swim.
 
The weather on Sunday morning was deceptively okay. It was chilly — a first for me in Eagleman. Overnight, the winds did what Mike predicted and race officials shortened the swim. But then the kayakers — angels along the course ensuring our safety — had difficulty. The wind was only predicted to get worse, putting the athletes in the later swim waves at risk. The announcer broke the news: the swim was cancelled. 
 
I surprised myself. While I was disappointed that the weather had turned and I wouldn’t be able to put my new swimming skills to the test, I didn’t have a hissy-fit. I had no choice but to open my hands, because I was poignantly aware that there was little about this day that would be within my control. Nearly 3,000 bikes were ushered onto the course in less than an hour, creating an almost Tour de France feel for the entire 56 miles. I was on high alert as I navigated the congestion. The rain that started 15 or so miles in added a whole new dimension to the day. Every so often I found myself laughing at the absurdity of high winds, rain, and cool temperatures during Eagleman — the very word being synonymous with heat and full sun. I witnessed a woman crash at the first aid station. She’d been in front of me and slowed down to grab a water from the volunteer. I did the same. At some point after the trash area, she reached down to adjust her bottle and lost control of her bike and fell over, hitting the pavement with a thud. I instinctively stopped and assessed: she didn’t hit her head and seemed okay, a bit of road rash on her elbow and knee. At that moment I knew that if I was going to control anything, it was going to be my bike. I let everything else go and focused on keeping my bike upright. 
 
The wind and rain — a nightmare on the bike — were a blessing on the run. Both, working together in a delicate dance, kept me cool enough to not need to do the one thing that helped me survive the run during my previous four Eagleman races: I didn’t need ice. I usually pour cups of it into my tri-top at every aid station. Not this time. If I didn’t need to control my core body temperature, all I needed to control were my legs. They ached, but they didn’t fall off. Somewhere on the long slog to Lover’s Lane, a woman came up along side of me. We chatted about the usual things people chat about during Half-Ironman runs: the weather, the state of our legs, and peeing. She had to go. Bad. She lamented that in a one-piece tri-suit, she didn’t want to take the time to dismantle her race belt, unzip the suit, and shimmy it down over her sweaty legs. She was unwilling to “waste the time.” Yet she admitted that she felt on the verge of exploding. I, also in a once piece tri-suit simply shrugged and said that I just sit down and pee right through it. We’re already gross. What’s a bit of urine in your shorts? She dove into the next port-a-pot. I saw her again a mile or so later and she thanked me profusely. Such a simple thing, yet it meant everything to her. 
 
I crossed the finish line in a somewhat anticlimactic fashion. Yes, the weather had been a hindrance. But it wasn’t a show-stopper. I’m still in the process of examining why I feel compelled to, at least metaphorically, control things that can’t and won’t be controlled. Life can’t be scripted, this I know. Sure, I can plan. Sure, I can script. In the end though, life is more like improv theater than a carefully orchestrated production. And if I’m completely honest with myself, I think I like it that way.

I grew up in a home where fear was woven into the fabric of everyday life. Fear of falling, fear of The Boogey Man, fear of illness, fear of death. My Jewish grandmother was incredibly superstitious and would spit three times, chanting "pooh, pooh, pooh" in response to anything she perceived as calamitous. "Great-Uncle Irving was rushed to the hospital - pooh, pooh, pooh." As if this ritual in response to any misfortune would keep similar trouble from hitting closer to home. While my childhood was not bubble-wrapped, my grandmother's sense that catastrophe lurked around every corner became the voice in my head. 
 
As I grew older, I rebelled against the superstitions and irrational fears and have learned to accept that some things are beyond my control. I live my days free of the kind of fear that plagued my grandmother.
 
Three years ago, my husband, Mike, decided to compete in Eagleman 70.3. My grandmother's voice, which I'd long since quelled, came rushing to the surface. "But, you could DIE," I'd heard myself telling Mike. The thought of him swimming in the open water (never mind the distance and the running and biking afterward) made me sick with dread. Yet when Mike followed through and actually registered, I got sucked into the excitement and registered too. My grandmother admonished me from the grave – not even spitting three times and chanting "pooh, pooh, pooh" could possibly save me from what I was about to do. I thanked her for her concern and competed. And finished. And didn't die. My grandmother had been wrong on all fronts.
 
Sometimes I look at things that are genuinely fearful – like my teenaged nephew's complicated surgery last year – and marvel at the capacity to be brave. Gavin has cerebral palsy. He spent all of the previous summer and the better part of 2018 recovering from the surgery that is enabling him to have greater mobility. He endured painful physical therapy as he grappled with the "why" of having had the operation in the first place – he had been mobile enough before the surgery and had been happy and popular in school. To him, this was a significant setback, and he had trouble seeing the beautiful rainbow that awaited. After the surgery, he had to start from ground zero, working hard to learn to walk with his reconstructed legs. His continued fight for independence is nothing short of courageous. 
 
With Gavin and his courage in mind, I decided to compete in Ironman Maryland this year. I discussed some of my fears with my coach, which mostly revolved around whether or not I was capable of the 140.6-mile total distance. She reminded me often that the brain is a sponge that absorbs everything put into it and spits it back out during the pressure of race day. As Gavin worked hard to retrain his legs, I worked hard to retrain my brain. During the long days of training when my mojo waned, I thought about Gavin and kept my Grandmother's voice locked in a vault. 
 
When I entered the Choptank River on September 29th, I felt ready! I have somewhat of a rhythmic mantra that I say to myself when I'm swimming in the open water. As a kid, one of my favorite cartoons was The Flintstones. There is an episode where Fred is walking home at night and is robbed at gunpoint. The robber tells him to put his hands in the air and count to 1000 "nice and slow, see…that's the way to do it…nice and slow." This mantra gave me something to focus on when I felt the familiar stirrings of fear getting ready to pull me under and my grandmother's voice sneaking up to the surface. Nice and slow, see…that's the way to do it…nice and slow.
 
Soon I was on the bike and still flying high from having survived the swim and beating my "worst case scenario" expected swim time by 15 minutes. But by the time I'd ridden 30 or so miles, my mojo had evaporated. The wind had picked up. It was as if my body finally realized that I'd swum 2.4 miles. Like a kid who scrapes his knee and doesn't cry until he realizes he's bleeding, I suddenly realized the magnitude of the day's journey. When reality hit, my body began to reject being on the bike. I didn't know how I was going to ride another 82 miles. People on their second lap started to fly by. I felt helpless and hopeless. I did a lot of praying at this point and developed a new mantra – just keep pedaling. I seriously considered calling it a day and waiting on the side of the road for the air-conditioned van to drive by. I was so miserable that even the thought of hating myself afterward if I quit didn't seem to matter. I heard the faint squeak of my grandmother's voice threatening to taunt me. That's when I put my head down and demanded of myself that I just keep pedaling. 
 
Finally, off the bike and starting the run, my legs felt like lead. My feet felt like bricks. I felt clunky, like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. Yet my spirits were lifted every time I saw friends, neighbors, and seemingly the entire city cheering. If anyone ever wonders whether or not coming out to cheer really helps, I can tell you it does. I may not have seemed enthusiastic to see you. I may have grimaced instead of smiled. But let it be known: It touched my heart that so many people came out to cheer. As miserable as I was, those moments filled me with joy. Unlike on the bike, I did see the light at the end of the tunnel on the run. If I had to crawl, I was going to crawl. One way or another, I was going to become an Ironman!
 
Mike, who was also racing, had been ahead of me for most of the run. He eventually slowed down enough to close the gap between us. We passed each other when I was on my final lap. This was the fourth time we encountered each other and the fourth time he asked me if he should wait for me. I'd said no three times. This last time I said yes. The finish line was within reach, and it would be wonderful to cross it together. I began bawling as I rounded the local brewery with less than a mile to go. A friend saw me and pointed to where Mike was waiting. When I finally met up with him, I screamed: "WE DID IT!!!". There was a grand celebration along the sides of the finishing chute. People were banging their hands on the barrier and cheering. I felt like a celebrity! It was an experience that will be etched in my heart forever. 
 
And to my grandmother, who always saw the negative, spitting three times and chanting "pooh, pooh, pooh" is also a reaction to something great.

I studied art (painting) a long, long, long, long, long time ago. Negative space was often discussed – referring to the shapes that form between objects, for example, a patch of sky between two trees on a hillside. Artists are trained to consider negative space in their work.

What about the art of writing? How does negative space play into scenes in a novel? When my husband read through the first draft of my second novel he puzzled over the absence of a critical character in a vital scene. The scene takes place at a North Jersey pub the night after the 9/11 attacks. The missing character is a man named John, one of several point-of-view characters in the novel. The scene in question is not John's point-of-view, making his absence at least technically feasible. His presence is everywhere in the scene, even though he is not. My husband couldn’t wrap his head around this. Where is John? It makes no sense that he is not standing behind the bar or at least sitting on a stool drinking a beer.

I've just finished revising and rewriting based on Mike's comments. Many of his suggestions were well founded and will make the story fit together better. But not the scene at the pub where John is absent. John needs to be absent from this scene. Because it occurred to me that John's absence is the negative space that is necessary to move this scene into a later, pivotal scene.

In art, the painter might start with the patch of sky between the two trees on a hillside – the negative space. The artist might show light coming from the sun through a small break in the clouds. And the light might land on one tree and not the other, emphasizing a particular shape or pattern on the bark. All because the artist looked for, found, and embraced the negative space. 

In writing, negative space can be a conversation that doesn't happen between two characters. Perhaps a character wants to reconcile with an estranged older sibling only to hesitate – for powerful reasons within the context of the story – and walk away instead. And then there are those awkward moments at the door, when Character Y and Character Z hesitate and part without saying what both so desperately want to say. In any of these scenarios, a writer can often convey more with what is unsaid (and, in some cases, unseen). Character Y and Character Z don't need to say a thing. All they need to do is notice the negative space – the sunlight slicing through that beautiful patch of sky between those two trees on the hillside.

And so it is in real life, too. Sometimes we need to say what we need to say. Yet there are times when the unspoken (negative space) can indeed be beautiful. Like John’s absence in the pub scene. His absence allows him to be elsewhere, risking his life to do a beautiful thing. Because sometimes, that patch of sky – that space between the trees – can be the most beautiful thing in the world. 

I recently finished the first draft of my second novel. It takes place three years after my first novel, Stay Back! ends. It’s a continuation of sorts and puts John Butterfield of Stay Back! in the midst of the September 11th attacks.
 
My husband read through the manuscript and shared his thoughts. He also asked some hard questions. Questions about the characters’ motives. Questions about plot nuances. And now I’m stuck. I’m at a fork in the road and need these characters to tell me what they want to do next. Alas, they’ve gone silent on me. I need to wait for them to talk, but I can’t wait forever or I’ll never get this book out there. So, my choices are: wait, or try to jam them into an as of yet undefined agenda. I’m leaning toward waiting.
 
Sometimes the characters I dream up become so real to me that I see and hear elements of them in random people who cross my path. A wayward tuft of hair. A particular way of walking. A vocal nuance. From a distance and up close these characters exist as if they walked off the page and into the world. And that’s precisely when they fledge and establish lives of their own. I simply must let them. Even if it means cooling my jets for a few days or weeks or however long it takes them to stir out of hibernation. 
 
I have to remind myself that once on paper, the characters are not mine to control. They want the freedom to do what they will – the freedom to live their lives outside of the boundaries on the roadmap in my head. And my characters' insistence on freedom and autonomy is what makes my job as a writer so difficult. Sometimes I want them to go north. Often, they want to go south. Sometimes we collide in the middle of the road like Dr. Seuss’ North Going Zax and South Going Zax and an impasse inevitably ensues. We stubbornly stand face to face, neither willing to step aside or compromise. Life happens all around us and nothing [worthwhile] gets written. Writer’s block soon follows and only breaks when I give in to their whims.

For my birthday this year, my husband fulfilled a promise to have an osprey platform installed at the end of a dock in the marina behind our house. He’d gotten the necessary buy-in from the HOA and set forth to find a supplier of such things. Turns out our community landscaper knows a guy who knows a guy who builds osprey platforms.
 
Three weeks ago, this guy and his assistant showed up, and within an hour they had created a palace fit for an osprey king.
 
For the week or so that followed, we waited. Excitement built like the last moments in a pregnancy, when you know the baby could come at any point within that time. Every morning I popped out of bed and went straight to the window hoping to see a bird or even a delivered stick – any indication that the platform had been claimed.
 
The ospreys began trickling into the area. They seemed weary from migrating all the way from their winter homes in South America to their summer homes on the Eastern Shore. We saw one circling the river near the park. Then we saw another. And another. Long established nests dotting the area were beginning to show signs of life. We even saw one flying around our creek. But our platform seemed undiscoverable. It sat furtively, blending in so well with the backdrop of trees and sailboat masts that I wondered if perhaps, to the bird, it was invisible.
 
And then it happened, although not in the way that we expected. An eagle decided to sit on our platform. Within seconds an osprey appeared, unintimidated by the fact that an eagle is a much bigger bird. The osprey circled and dove around the eagle like fighter jet against a bomber. The eagle eventually retreated and the osprey claimed our platform.
 
The next day, the osprey’s mate arrived. I’ve aptly named them Maverick and Charlie (reference the movie Top Gun). 

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