The Lizard, the hummingbird, and the doves...

“I don’t see the desert as barren at all; I see it as full and ripe…”

– Joy Harjo: poet, musician, and author

The desert. Just living here provides the most interesting experiences. There are an innumerable variety of plants and animals residing in this harshest of climates, going about their lives without regard for us or the things that occupy our minds.

Sometimes the unexpected happens – up close and personal.

The lizard…

Rustle, rustle – scratch, scratch. The sound came from behind me as I was writing at the computer in my office. The noise stopped, only to begin again. Rustle, rustle – scratch, scratch. I turned around just in time to see Sarah, one of our geriatric cats with a lizard in her mouth.

“Sarah, no! Put that thing down.” I shouted, two decibels short of a jet engine taking off.

She glanced at me for a moment and gave me a defiant look – in truth a little humorous because of the lizard hanging out of her mouth. In the briefest moment, imagining her perspective of the situation, I almost heard her thinking, Look, I have NEVER caught anything in my entire life. I am now in my eighties and damn it, this is my reward.

With that, she headed into the living room, me in hot pursuit. “Sarah, drop it!” By now, Sarah was just about in my grasp. She knew I was going to catch her and in a moment of confusion, dropped the lizard. The little thing paused for a millisecond and made a beeline diagonally across our checkered living room rug and into the guest bedroom.  The speed with which those little rascals move is almost indescribable. In a flash, it disappeared and could not have been further from the back door where it had had the misfortune of encountering the cat.

Sarah gave me 'the look' and walked away. She was not a happy camper. Of the three cats, she and I have the least meaningful relationship. It seemed clear from her expression, this act of interference was an example of her disdain for me. She sauntered off to our bedroom, tucked herself under the bed and sulked.

Now I had two dilemmas. The first was a concern for the lizard. If it stayed hidden in the house, it would starve to death or the cats would find it. Nobody wants to find a dead desert reptile in their homes. Secondly, and possibly more problematic was telling Molly (who was out at the time) a lizard was running free in the house.

Later that day, we sighted the little thing and tried to catch it. It scooted away and climbed up inside one of our living room chairs. A few minutes later, it sneaked out. We were able to toss a towel over it, pick it up and release it back to the yard. Sarah was NOT impressed.

The Hummingbird…

Two days later, Molly called me, "Ted, look at this hummingbird. It's taking a shower."

We have a prolific miniature grapefruit tree in our back yard for which Molly takes great care. She drives nutrition spikes into the ground to feed it and does a slow water soak every few days. The water squirts up from the soaker hose through lots of little holes, sending a gentle spray of water to the ground in broad patterns that slowly seep to the tree roots.

A hummingbird decided to take a shower in the spray coming from the ‘leaky’ hose. It flew through the light water spray, hovering and adjusting its position to get thoroughly wet. Molly then sent a gentle spray from the hose toward the Hummer. It did the same thing, ensuring that it got wet in all the right places. Neither one of us had ever seen anything like it. It hovered for a few moments, as if to thank her for cooling it off, and flitted briskly away.

The Doves…

A day later, the sun had not quite breached the crest of the Catalina’s to the east of our back yard. I was drinking coffee, reading and enjoying the brisk desert air.

Rustle, rustle. I looked up and sitting on our fence was the biggest dove I had ever seen. At first, I thought it was a small hawk, taking a short break before continuing its breakfast hunt. But no, it was a dove, a huge dove.

It puffed its feathers and then flattened out its tail feathers vibrating them like a Geisha girl, in rapid short strokes. It then raised each of its wings, one at a time as if it were lifting small barbells in the gym. It poked its beak under each wing looking like it was checking for damage. Additionally, it was not cooing as I have become accustomed to hearing in the mornings. It was making a much deeper throated sound. I was beginning to think it had been injured.

The wing lifting, feather puffing, tail fluttering and deep throated sound continued for another minute or so. I was so taken by watching this, I barely noticed a second, smaller dove fly in and land on one of the posts that connect the fence railings across the yard. The second dove hopped on the fence, and made its way to the dove I thought was in distress. It began pecking around at the bigger bird, which did a little pecking back. Then it looked like the two birds were kissing. The expression ‘lip locking’ took on a new meaning as they wrestled back and forth, literally locked beak to beak. I was afraid they would fall off the fence.

The smaller dove returned to the post, followed by the bigger one. The larger dove mounted, the smaller and in the blink of an eye, it was over. It now became apparent what I had been watching was a mating ritual.  In a flash, they were gone, and it was as if it had never happened.

In a place like this, we can be in the mountains or on a desert trail in almost no time. Yet, we don't really have to go anywhere but our backyard to see nature going about the business of living. We find these small moments curiously exciting. The creatures that come and go in our lives, probably find us to be an inconvenience, if they think about us at all.

- ted

Celebrate the day...

“Life’s journey is really about coming home, isn’t it?

– Anonymous

Friday, May the 12^th, 2017.

“She would have been sixty-eight today…” I texted.

It is easy to say about the people you genuinely love, how remarkable they are.  She was no exception – a person so gifted that whoever she met, felt as though she were their confidant and they her best friend.  If we had been drinking coffee this morning, she might have smiled and said that getting older is not for the faint of heart. There is so much she would have, could have said.  My sister Nancy, of course, could not…because she is not.

Several months after her death, Mariah and I met in Buffalo, rented a car and drove with her mother’s ashes across the border into Canada. Our destination was the Muskoka Region of Ontario one hundred fifty miles north of Toronto.

We took her home that day, to the land that meant so much. The land we had known all our lives. Along the way, we stopped at a ceramic shop and purchased two small kiln-fired vases nearly four inches tall. We wondered how we would put Nancy’s ashes into the clear lake waters. The small vessels were exactly what we needed.

A little background…

My maternal grandfather purchased 212 acres on the shores of Lake Joseph in 1910.  When Anne, Nancy and I entered the human race, it had been in the family nearly four decades. August was our time and was usually shared with forty to sixty folks that dropped by for a few days or a weekend.  In the early years, there was no telephone, no indoor plumbing, no electricity…it was heaven.

Muskoka air is filled with the sweet scent of hemlock, cedar, and spruce. Oak, Maple, and Birch cover the forest like silent sentinels. The crystal-clear waters of Lake Joseph provided as many recreational activities as one could imagine – boating, swimming, water skiing, and fishing to name a few. It was Lake Joe that made this place so special.

Chilly mornings were softened by roaring fires my father built to start each day. Soon it would time to break the fast. Just behind the breakfast table was a large window. On the other side was a moss-covered boulder the front of which was flat like a small table. Our morning meal typically included strong coffee, Peameal Bacon, toast, eggs, and milk. If fishing had been good the day before, small-mouth bass might grace the table. We always put bread outside the window, providing breakfast for the parade of chipmunks that entertained us by stuffing their cheeks to near bursting. It was excellent family entertainment.

Before eating, we held hands and prayed in unison, "We thank thee heavenly Father, for this and every blessing. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen." After breakfast, my father read something from the scriptures and gave a short prayer of thanksgiving.

Table cleared and dishes done, we kids, and any of our guests were off to days full of unknown adventure. Once and awhile, there might be plans, but usually, daylight hours were played by ear. Certain things we almost always did – swimming, poking around the woods and visiting Lily Lake (Arnott Lake on the maps). It was a ten-acre beaver-occupied body of water on the family property, about a quarter mile from Lake Joe. A small creek connected the two lakes, with ‘Lily’ some 200 feet in higher in elevation than ‘Joe.’

A beaver dam kept the smaller lake at appropriate levels. In my youth, two beaver families maintained the dam.  Around the edges of the lake, stumps of small trees stood as testaments to the industrious beaver that felled them, using the tree trunks and branches for their houses or dam construction. If we were quiet and lucky, we might catch the beaver patching small leaks that had sprung from an unexpectedly heavy storm.

Lake Joseph and Lilly Lake provided the foundation for years of exploration, wonder, and the cultivation of lifetime friendships.

The visit…

That afternoon, ceramic cups in hand, we divided Nancy’s ashes between the two lakes pausing for a moment’s reflection as we took turns scooping and pouring. It was for us a holy and sacred experience as she was returned to the land that was embedded in the fiber of her (our) very soul(s).

"She would have been sixty-eight today…" I texted Mariah as I looked at that small vase containing her picture on my desk beside the edge of the computer. A few moments later, she texted me back. The returned text was simply a ❤️.

I felt a tear on my cheek. I know she felt one too.

- ted

Angst and the written word...

 “…an ex-spurt – a drip under pressure…”

– Many sources

A lot has been happening in the last few weeks. Things, one would think would make great material for these blogs.

I was ill with the flu for a month. During that time, I slept a lot, read a fair amount, watched a couple of films and ran through a season of “Sniffer,” a Ukrainian closed caption mystery series on Netflix. Interesting, but what to say?

On the mend, it was back to exercise. Bedrest is never good for maintaining one's physical activity levels. Add in nearly seven decades on planet earth, and the returning to function is slower, mentally and physically. By now, I am happy to report, things are almost back to normal. That experience had possibilities, but nothing came.

In April, I was in Chicago twice. Once each for two different organizations – a board meeting and a planning session for a national conference in Orlando in the fall. At the end of the month, I represented the Board of Managers at my local YMCA at a national philanthropic conference in San Diego. It was inspiring to see the behind the scenes efforts the YMCA makes to ensure young people are provided pathways to better personal and citizenship lives.

During these travels, I saw old friends and had some good taxi rides with interesting drivers. These are the kinds of things that generally lead to small ‘life stories' I like to record in these blogs. Except for a visit with an old friend in San Diego, the 'inspirational story cupboard' was bare.

Last week, I finished the first draft of a novel I’ve been working on for over a year. It’s a murder mystery. I got it done, because of the writer’s co-op to which I belong. Five hearty souls meet most Tuesday mornings for three hours or so. We read six to ten pages of whatever we have been writing. Copies are made for the group, and during the read, the rest of the team marks up the text, followed by verbal critiques. It is an excellent exercise, but not one for the faint of heart nor fragile ego. The group has helped me be a better writer. Actually, I should say, the group has helped me, according to my spellchecking and grammar program, make fewer grammatical errors. The quality of writing? Well, that’s a different kettle of fish. Many Tuesday mornings provide wonderful fodder for blog material. Nada!

This past week, I had lunch with an intriguing seventy-something-year-old woman and her husband. Just before getting ill, I had given an AARP (American Association of Retired People), workshop for one-hundred and twenty women at a local New Comer's Club. The following day, while having lunch with my friend Frank, this woman was at the next table. One thing led to another, and we subsequently had a couple of lunches, the latest with she and her husband. As it turns out, he was a retired attorney from Chicago and on our local town counsel. The two of them told some wonderful stories. She is a PhD psychologist, tap dancer, and theatrical director. He had traveled all over the world, met her when he auditioned for one of her plays in Chicago and was as interestingly accessible a man as I have met. Dang, I couldn't find a thread to write about.

This Friday past, Frank and I visited the Triangle Y Camp a few miles north of Tucson. The YMCA runs eleven-hundred kids through programs every summer. Eighty percent of the youngsters are funded through scholarships provided by fundraising the Y does during its Capital Campaign (think San Diego conference). The camp lies on a couple hundred acres covered with bunk houses, meeting halls, mess halls, rope and zip line courses, swimming pool, archery range and trails for a host of activities. Huy Yu, the camp program director, gave us an enthusiastic and knowledgeable tour. 

On the way home, we stopped at a hole in the wall Mexican café. Frank had seen it on the way to the camp. I completely missed it. In fact, it was hardly recognizable even when we pulled into the small and dusty parking lot. That Frank…he has a real eye for this sort of thing. The place had seven sparsely filled tables. A couple of customers gave me pause as to whether this was the place for lunch. As it turned out, the combination burritos we ordered were spectacular. They were so big, neither of us could finish them. Despite that, we managed to split a piece of the most delicious coconut cream pie I have had in a decade. Well, to be honest, I had not had a slice of coconut cream pie in a decade. The entire trip was inspirational and fun. I couldn't find a word to write!

Most often, I have thoughts during the week and begin putting them to keyboard. Generally, Sunday morning is a review by my editor (Molly) and a little tinkering before putting the pieces up. Not this week. The closer Sunday came, the greater the underlying current of discomfort became. Despite any number of adventures worth writing about, I have found my brain without inspirational cause. 

My grammar checker program suggests I’m making fewer mistakes. It would be great if that program suggested something interesting to say….

- ted