Through these weeks of cold, snowy, sleeting, slippery weather, I’ve hauled bags of birdseed home for the wild little guys. Some of my bird feeders hang down by the barn and out of sight unless I happen to be working nearby. More feeders hang at the house immediately outside windows. It’s fun watching Juncos and Finches flit to and from feeders, and alternately looking upward, at Robins in flocks skittering among the high twisted limbs of junipers, gobbling the berries.
Robins In Juniper
One of my favorite winter species is Townsend’s Solitaire. Their metallic-sounding calls announce their annual returns and the onset of this area’s cooler weather. Like Robins, the Solitaires feed on insects and juniper berries. Their unique warning calls draw an onlooker’s gaze upward to where a lone Solitaire perched atop a very tall tree guards its territory. Solitaires are thrushes and also produce lovely songs. In coldest weather, the birds fluff-up to stay warm by self-transforming into feathery balls.
Mostly, this winter has produced strings of days with ground-to-horizon and nearly non-stop grayness. Upon hearing a bird call, looking up and catching sight of a Solitaire almost resembles looking yonder at barely-visible horses.
Rosie & Pimmy
Mostly yesterday it snowed, and the atmosphere stayed gray. After leading the horses to pasture, I filled bird feeders and took care of scant bits of housework. Later that morning, I settled beside a window in an easy chair. And with a book in my hands, a camera nearby, the cat nesting on my lap, and surrounded by dozing dogs, I watched for visiting birds.
Dear Readers, have fun and turn this day into a creative one. Diana
Scene from “An Elephant Never Forgets” (1988) by Huell Howser
Thursday, February 21, 2019
I enjoy writing about animals, they’re interesting, fun, and teach us about ourselves. My assortment consists of equines, goats, chickens, dogs, a cat, and two birds. Some are outside only, others go in and out, and the birds inside-only unless on my shoulder or safely caged. Those from my past are as important as these in my now. There’s much that our beloved animals offer, what they mean to people. Thinking about this reminds me of a video from years ago, a short piece, about a retired elephant, the old man who had trained her, and after fifteen years of separation, their reunion.
Years ago, when I lived in Los Angeles, our local PBS station often aired general interest videos by Huell Howser, a creative, semi-professional writer/videographer. That station periodically re-aired some of his pieces, and a couple were unforgettable (they’re also Howser’s favorites). To me, his most powerful video (and Howser’s personal top-pick) was entitled, “An Elephant Never Forgets”.
Recently, I began writing my daily blogs online and using photographs to suggest topics and guide my writing. This has managed to transform my “blog thinking” into a much more visual process. Most of my personal photos reflect living and interacting with animals. Thinking about this has intensified an old wish to revisit Howser’s “elephant story”, until finally, I went searching and found it on YouTube.
Huell shot his video in 1988 when the elephant, Nita, was 38 years old and her trainer Charley Franks was 80. Both had been retired for years. Charley had purchased Nita when she was five, trained her, and together they traveled the world as entertainers. When Charley retired, to ensure Nita’s lifelong safety, he donated her to the San Diego Wild Animal Park. He’d not seen her for fifteen years, this would be their one reunion. Charley died a year later in 1989. The Park continued to care for Nita until her death, at age 60, in 2009.
Howser later said publicly, that among his hundreds of human interest videos, this reunion was an absolute standout, and he’d been honored to witness it. Although years ago I saw his video several times, today while viewing it again, I’m touched deeply by this unforgettable capture of a powerful relationship. Here’s the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxX3E5asZA4
The mares were delighted when our icy storms ended to return to my neighbor’s pasture. Before leading them over, I practiced walking on the path from my place to our next-door neighbor’s, and then on to the next neighbor’s. My footing seemed okay. While stepping into an icy crust and hearing it break under my cleats, nothing felt slippery. That’s not all to consider. While walking between and leading two horses, I pay attention to more, for example, staying alert for nearly invisible deer that might leap and surprise us.
Harder to describe is trying to sense from a horse’s view what’s ahead, beside, or behind, that might cause an unexpected bump. The best way for this is by listening to the horses, their body language and what I can feel through the lead ropes. When an animal pauses with ears alert and eyes fixed, I speak softly and wait until she relaxes before we continue. Aside from occasional deer, our biggest problem is Pimmy. She follows us loosely, sometimes pausing to graze before cantering to catch up. Her suddenness startles Rosie but doesn’t affect Sunni, so as usual, it’s another “just Rosie” behavior.
Frightening?
A human working with horses must be as alert to the horses themselves as to the environment. For several years, we’ve walked to and from my neighbor’s pasture (fallow between hayings). There are more advantages than getting horses to grass. Moving them are training opportunities for me and the horses. I keep Rosie walking behind, instead of ahead and trying to lead me. I keep Sunni from stopping to graze and interrupting our strides. As for Pimmy, she teaches much about herself, on her own, too bonded to the mares to fall out of line.
Trips to and from the pasture that draw on all my senses make the moments special, like all my activities with horses. We keep each other on our toes, and to me, if all goes well it’s exhilarating.
Hiking with Lil’ Bit, Ranger, Miles, Louie, Osix, & Kinny
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
I used to live with six dogs, and yes, they were a bunch, all sweeties and all rescues. Each had a unique personality, its own way of communicating with pack mates and me, and its own style of hanging out inside in the house. Last spring, I lost Lil’ Bit and Kinny to illnesses. Now, my household count is four dogs, still a bunch and each is special.
Years ago, my first dog, a Doberman named Bally, was my one and only from a breeder. A beautiful mover, light and floating, Bally became my show dog. As a novice handler, despite my beautiful animal, I’d always wind up out-handled. I came to realize breed judgings as pressure-filled events for animals, owners, and handlers alike. Along with other big sports, they’re money-driven and political. Small potatoes have little chance against professional handlers, and I couldn’t afford to hire one. After retiring Bally, and reeling from the stresses of showing, I avoided dog shows. Years later a movie, “Best In Show”, which spoofed formal breed showing, made me laugh, shake my head and mutter, “It’s really like that.”
Yesterday evening, while flipping through channels, I paused on the Hallmark Channel in the middle of a dog show. A judge, appearing serious and wearing a tuxedo, was identifying the “Best Couch Potato”; six dogs were in the running. Each had to approach a couch, jump on and relax, and meanwhile, its owner/handler described the dog’s behavior on its favorite roost at home and treated us to a brief video proving the dog as a genuine couch potato. I decided to stay with the show.
Just like in an American Kennel Club Dog Show, these humans–judges, guests, and announcers–all dressed formally and took their roles seriously. Each unique category had about six contestants (semi-finalists, selected earlier), and all were rescues–purebred and mixed breeds–already adopted to loving homes. The categories were: Best in Talking; Best in Underbite; Best in Special Needs; Best in Couch Potato; Best in Wiggle Butt; Best in Smiling; Best in Snoring; Best in Senior; Best in Belly Rubs; and finally, from among all the finalists, Best in Rescue. I laughed and sometimes shed tears, couldn’t stop watching those cuties, from a tiny four-pound Chihuahua, a diabetic in the special needs category, to an enormous Great Dane, deaf and responding to sign language. All competitors were adorable.
Categorizing my dogs: Louie would be Best in Nuisance; Ranger would be Best in Recliner Potato; Osix would be Best in Pain-In-The-Behind; Miles would be Best in Mud-Puddle Lounging. If they still were alive, Lil’ Bit would be Best in Predatory Instincts and Kinny would be Best in Goofball. The simple reality is that dogs weren’t intended to be beauty contestants. They’re about much more, and mainly, are wonderful beings.
Early yesterday, maybe around 5 p.m., I was headed to my neighbor’s to collect the horses after their afternoon on pasture. A rising moon in the east captured my imagination. Experts say that tomorrow will bring a full snow moon, so maybe don’t categorize last night’s as truly full, but to me it was a beaut. I watched and imaginged it early the next morning setting over the Cascade Mountains, and wanting to capture that rose early. Now, and with a handy camera, I’ve searched for that moon–somewhere in a very cloudy sky and invisible as the mountains themselves.
This particular moon got to me, had me yearning to see it starting to lower toward mountains from my west deck. Instead this morning, I could write about “Why does this always happen to me!” But there’s another option. I’ll try to capture tomorrow’s “technically full” moon, and perhaps twice, early as it rises and later as it sets.
Meanwhile, it’s good to know something about moon names. Native Americans named the moons to depict key aspects of a tribe’s lives and labors during a particular month. February brings heavy snows and is named appropriately for Central Oregon. During most of this month, we’ve dealt with snow, and this season an icy mix. Last evening, while crunching across the landscape’s chilly grayness, that rising moon accurately reflected my world below it.
Our perceptions of moon beauty correlate to predictability. After all, moons establish periods suggesting temperatures to expect and kinds of work to accomplish. We wonder about future generations of humans, who’ll achieve a closer and more intimate relationship with the moon. We wonder if they’ll find it as beautiful and love it as we do.
I’ll try for photos of tomorrow’s full snow moon. If there’s a good one, I’ll go to a hobby shop for the makings of a lapel pin to preserve my image. This might be in kinship to early cave dwellers who depicted on cave walls the elements that captured their imaginations. I’ll pin on my lapel the image of an officially very-full snow moon.
Dear Readers, enjoy this day, and watch for tomorrow’s special moon. Diana
During a periodic climbing of stairs to my loft and starting to give the place a good cleaning, I tackled an antique dresser with neglected drawers, easy to ignore. There were stashes of old computer and cell phone parts in the top drawer. Acknowledging that some items are toast, I tossed ancient keyboards, printer wires, cellphone cases, and assorted components. I decided to hold onto a couple of old flip phones. I have occasional fantasies about deciding not to have another smartphone. Modern electronics are amazing, but I hope secretly that returning to a flip phone could be a grounding experience. Maybe there’s a path back to a modicum of innocence. Anyway, while in that top drawer I tossed and thought.
The second drawer held a layer of brand new boxes of Christmas Cards, from after-Christmas sales, long ago when I thought about sending cards to friends. I never managed because of the onset of a smarter age, when it began taking too much effort to handwrite notes, address envelopes, affix stamps, and then find a mailbox. Especially in this town where the Post Office eliminated neighborhood mailboxes to reduce the work of its carriers. Now, one must know where it’s possible to deposit an envelope for mailing or carry what’s to be mailed directly to the Post Office. I didn’t discard the cards in case returning to a flip phone alters my habits.
Under the cards were hard photographs were from when it was necessary to have films developed. They showed my mom, sisters, family friends, pets, and yes, some of me that looked nothing like me these days. The biggest surprise was discovering an old notebook that I used to carry everywhere. In it were early drafts of character sketches for stories I hoped to write. The thing is that those bits, based on real experiences, felt more powerful than the photographs. The sketches told instances of love.
One vividly brought back images of a fellow who one afternoon crossed my path in Santa Monica. He was tall, his jacket of worn leather went well with his long stride and expensive cowboy boots. I watched his “good hair”, blondish, and longish in a manner popular at the time, slightly bobbing in sync to his steps. I wanted to touch his hair, run my fingers through its fineness. As he disappeared ahead, I scribbled impressions, and noted that I’d fallen in love.
Another story reminded me of falling in love at a dance, the kind folks attend without knowing anybody and hoping to meet someone special. As usual, nobody paid any attention to me. That was okay, for I wasn’t much of a dancer. I knew good dancing though, having watched my older sister who could do all the moves. When a fellow came asking me to dance, I protested, explaing myself as a very mediocre dancer. “Don’t worry,” and he pulled me to my feet for a slow number. He held me correctly and was a good leader. I can’t remember the music, but with my head beside his, I heard him humming sweetly. Before that dance ended I felt in love. He returned me to my seat, thanked me and soon began dancing swing with a woman who’d just entered. They looked good together, partners for the evening.
I couldn’t read on and set the notebook aside. I’d return when there’s time to sit reflecting on those awkward growing years. Or maybe not, for they were painful years. It’s best to be beyond immature yearning, and finally, with enough experience assessing situations and people to stay in the present and realistic.
But there’s a sneaky, still-childish me that catches me off guard. While thumbing through a recent “New Yorker Magazine”, I paused to read a poem, which I almost never do. It told the story of two people meeting for the first time over lunch, and later, as they were parting, the poet writes:
He kissed my cheeks. Said he had been fooled. “I didn’t think they made women like you anymore.” Tipped his cowboy hat & took off his sunglasses. My god, in the dark his eyes burned so clear and wild I thought the sun was out, roaring through our hearts like a song, daring its hunter to aim.
From “Heart of Darkness” by Rachel Eliza Griffiiths
I got it! It’s bold immediacy nearly sent me straight back to my book of early scribbles. It encouraged me to relive, and this time appreciate my youthful imaginings.
Dear Readers, Have a lovely day, and read at least one poem. Diana
Who knew, almost ten years ago, when I acquired a mama goat, Sego Lily, and also, her young twins, Breeze and Poppy, that they’d be lovable and fun? How about the dozen baby chicks that around the same time came to live with me? What made me experiment while having only moderate expectations about animal species new to me?
Truthfully, almost everything was new except what I’d already learned from dogs and cats. After obtaining a long-dreamed-of small property, and wanting to expand my learning, I unwittingly combined the practical and impractical. The practical: chickens lay eggs (none of mine would end up as meat on a table!); and the impractical: my goats weren’t for breeding, and so comparatively speaking, aside from being cute, they’d be useless.
At first, goats and chickens inhabited separate spaces but over time this changed. I always reserved space for chickens to escape and eat without competition (goats love chicken feed), but otherwise, allowed chickens to be with goats. Their community exhibited lots of interactivity and cooperation among species. The chickens fly onto goats’ backs and ride in safety and comfort. They also pluck matter, with absolute accuracy, from the corners of goats’ eyes. And to the last animal, goats and chickens are completely attuned to environmental changes or threats.
They ignore my dogs’ barking, unless the sounds are particularly harsh, like when strangers appear on my property. The sounds make chickens still and alert; the same for goats, their hackles rise, eyes and noses work to understand what’s different. I enter and exit their common area and they rush to meet me; but if I show up with a new person, the goats and chickens disappear. That’s a little about living with these species, and also, very little of what I’ve learned from and about them.
Today’s mass chickens aren’t bred to live as long as wild birds. Over the years, I’ve lost hens to natural causes, even after struggling to keep alive some near the brink. I miss their little personalities. My mama goat, Sego Lily, is arthritic and struggles to get around but she’s tough. I keep an eye on her, as she and her twins are incredibly bonded. I’ve learned from my bonded horses that it’s very hard on a survivor when its other passes away.
I’m awed by how much we can learn from animals. A big wow is their similarity to humans in areas like alertness, mutual bonding, interactive capacities, and individual characteristics.
As time passes, if money and property become too difficult to obtain, many people might fall away from experiencing the loveliness of species that we still have opportunities to know intimately. For the sake of humans and other species, let’s hope that opportunities to interact closely always are available.
No end in sight to a deep freeze that keeps dropping alternating bits of snow, sleet, rain, and yes, occasionally makes way for a little sunshine. Of course, my practically brand new snowblower won’t start and the repair guy must order a part that broke and then return to install it.
Outside, it’s beautiful and I’m fascinated by how a snow atmosphere changes natural lighting. Yesterday, over to the west, heavy clouds, some dark and some light, all arranged in unusual weird patterns, shrouded the Cascade Mountains. This morning, over those mountains, I see a setting clear and bright three-quarters moon, slightly lopsided. It invites hugs.
Today is supposed to be a little warmer and with morning snow showers. If there’s a calm inviting period, Peaches and I will take a walk with a camera and be on the lookout for photo ops. I want to capture even a slight hint of spring which officially arrives in just a few days, and maybe we’ll find leftovers from our usually warm local weather from several weeks ago that lasted for days.
Peaches loves snow.
Another thing on my mind is where to establish a new bee habitat. I have a prebuilt unit that needs to set high and with an overhanging shelter. This beehouse was designed, not for honey-producing bees, but for pollinating bees, and hopefully, won’t attract wasps. My place has no adequate sheltering overhang unless the beehouse is attached to my own house. I’ll check into the University of YouTube and search for an easy way to create an adequate overhang for a beehouse attached to a tree.
Ideally, a beehouse is located in a garden, for bees need nearby mud in order to seal and protect their house entrances. That’s something else I’m thinking about, starting a garden! Now, stores are displaying bulbs and seeds, and sighting green, even in a photo, makes one stop and fantasize.
Soon, Peaches and I go and visit re-opened, well-stocked greenhouses.
At the Madras Garden Depot
Spring, get here!
Dear Readers, have a lovely day, be watching for signs of spring. Diana
Today’s date returns me to a time in my childhood when Valentine’s Day was a big deal, especially during my early grades in school. Annually, on the day before Valentine’s, we children were directed to create cards from scratch. We were handed construction papers of varying colors but mostly red. Before starting to work, we could select from among an array of colored pencils, or ink if we preferred. All valentines had to be from anonymous senders except those we were required to make for our mothers, thus providing each mom with at least one annual reaffirmation of her child’s everlasting love.
It was easy to make a card for my much-loved mom. The stumbling block was choosing a student or students for whom I wished to make cards. Sure, senders had to remain anonymous, but I couldn’t start a design without a recipient in mind, although secret crushes didn’t count, for in the end we simply distributed our finished and unfinished works into anonymous envelopes. On Valentine’s Day each child in the classroom would receive a large envelope containing lots of cards.
I remember thinking hard about what colors to choose, and of course, red always led. And, trying to draw figures like hearts and cupids before attempting to cut them from construction paper. Cutting required practice, for little hands with scissors have trouble following curved lines. My remembrance is an image of kids bent over desks and lost in imagination, trying to translate feelings into images.
The next class session on The Day itself was special. I loved opening my envelope and watching as cards spilled onto my desk. They were signed, with such as, “Your friend”, “Yours truly”, “I love you”, and my favorite, “Your secret admirer”. For days afterward, I’d dream about my secret admirer.
Every year, something I most loved about Valentine’s Day arrived in the real mail, as an envelope addressed to me! My eldest sister who lived in another city never failed on special days to remember me. I’ll always remember my all-time favorite Valentine’s card from her, with these words: “Won’cha be my Valentine? Won’cha please say yes? For gee, it’s true, I do love you! Much more than you can guess!” Best of all, I believed she meant it.
Yesterday after work, I had a bit of business to conduct concerning the disposal of some of my elderly sister’s property, and so, rushed across town. The man I went to visit was busy with a customer. I couldn’t find his wife who’s usually there so wandered around the establishment until he became free. He rose in greeting, surprisingly looking about a hundred pounds heavier than when I last saw him two years ago. At that time, he and his wife were moving into a brand new home.
I knew a little about them because his wife had driven me home a few times and we had talked. She told me about her involvement with elder care and understood my concerns about my sister who’d recently begun living in a local care facility. She was experienced in caring for the elderly and on the side still worked with that population. She offered advice and told me at length about her younger sister, afflicted with lifelong developmental issues, who lived with her husband and herself.
While examining my sister’s papers, the man casually wondered how I’ve been. I briefly described my painful knee, and then, asked how he likes their home that had been new. He nodded, said it was okay, adding that now it’s lonely. Upon my question, he said his wife had died. Shocked, I asked how, and he replied that last year she took her own life. I thought back through our times together, she’d given no clue that she might be struggling with a very dark side. Often somehow, one gets a hint that something’s wrong as a person talks about him or herself.
He said that his wife was bipolar, that they’d had been together thirty years, during which she had periods of great fragility. Her problems had begun early. Her mother and a sibling had committed suicide, her father died while she was young, and she assumed much family responsibility. A single hint of her newly failing state of mind came early last year when she had a major breakdown, injured herself, and spent time in a hospital. This community didn’t have capable-enough psychiatric help for her highly serious mental problems, but she seemed to be recovering. Until several months later, when without warning, she got into her car and ended her life.
The man spoke of his difficulties trying to understand and adjust to her death. He also had to continue with his own life, see to their daughters’ welfare, and manage their mutually-owned business. She had been his best friend, business partner, and mother of their children. Although I knew her only slightly, the suicide and his words continue to weigh heavily.
He awoke yesterday morning after dreaming that she was sitting in her car and crying. He’s certain the dream is correct, that she did cry before taking her life because she knew how terribly hard that action would be on her family. Afterward, he and their daughters spread ashes in several places–the beach which she loved, the backyard of their new home, and interred most in a local cemetery. He visits frequently to “talk with her”.
I’m working through this event by trying to align it to others of unexpected deaths–self-inflicted, accidental, or from another’s ill intent. Perhaps special training makes it possible to comprehend the very dark regions of a disturbed person’s mind. To most of us, bipolar is a tricky concept–so small that we all cope periodically with ups and downs, and simultaneously, so large as to drive moods that consume some individuals.
Perhaps I’m also reminded of my aged sister’s impending demise. It’s much on my mind for losing a loved one is difficult, regardless of a relationship’s history, its ups, its downs. One of life’s great trials is having to adjust to the total unavailability of someone familiar or adored.
Dear Readers, Tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, is about loving. Diana
Diana's Morning Blog 