A Morning Person's Observations #7: Nesting

I recently spent a week with some of the Blythes in Colorado, then a few days with my Aunt Angie outside of Denver, then took a long road trip with my friend Matt back to Seattle. The morning after we got to Seattle, I took Matt to the Pea Patch so he could see where the magic happens. We sipped our coffee and he identified all the plants (he's much better in a garden than I am!), and I saw the prayer flags dangling from the tree. They made me smile.

flags on fence, with flags in background

more flags!

There are a few flags in the Pea Patch. On the fence, on the trellis, but my favorite is that one hanging from the tree. It's my favorite because a few weeks ago I saw a squirrel bite it in half and then try to run off with one of the pieces, but struggling because there was still an end attached to the tree. Eventually the squirrel figured it out and gnawed off part of the flags from both ends, bunched all the flags together, then took off up the Douglas Fir, I'm assuming to pad its nest. It was hilarious to watch.

flag leftovers

While at the Blythe Spirit, I went out to the Peace Fort, a treehouse my cousin made, to write in The Pine (her log for the treehouse). The cabinet she made to store the log in had a massive pile of sticks leaned up against it, almost like a miniature beaver dam. It seemed too perfect to be made by a critter, so I assumed she had built it to keep critters out. But when I opened the cabinet there was a pile of green leaves to the left of the box that holds the log. The leaves were mashed to perfectly take up the space between the box and the other side of the cabinet, it was so memorizing to look at the way they had been sculpted it took me a good fifteen seconds to realize there was someone home. A critter that Aunt Angie and I later identified as a Ringtail Raccoon (but of the mountain variety, so incredibly small) was pressed as far away from me as possible, probably freaking out.



My Uncle David got the box out and we left the treehouse to Steve Ringtail (we called all raccoons Steve at IslandWood) to winter in. Looking through the log, I was able to deduce that Steve had moved in since the week before, when my Aunt Diane wrote in The Pine. Or possibly she interacted with Steve and his newly created habitat, but didn't think it was impressive enough to make note of it in The Pine. I'm going to assume the former, which means Steve only took a week to nest and secure his dwelling in the Peace Fort. I like that quality in a organism, because I can feel connected to an area after one cup of coffee.

hummers

Drinking coffee at the breakfast table for the past week with my grandfather was a treat. As he cycled through his frequent questions and memories, it felt like a reset to the day. Aunt Angie says there are four languages we rely on when our minds stop working for us and begin to work against us, confusing us, frustrating us. We can still relate to smiles, music, gentle touches, and chocolate. I didn't know this list until the week after cabin time with Grandfather, but one of the things he remembered during both of my visits this summer was the hymn, "Day is dying in the west," that he sang at two sunsets two months apart.

And then the following week would be full of travel and moving before I made it back to my alleyside Pea Patch for my morning coffee. I had my coffee some mornings on my aunt's back patio, watching the hummingbird feeders as the dogs came and went. I had coffee at a campsite in Wyoming. Matt and I drank it while walking toward the water. We stumbled upon a damp sandy expanse just soft enough to capture ALL the prints. It told a story of birds, herons, mice, deer, other critters scurrying across the opening. The next morning I sipped my coffee as we drove through a hazy, hazy Montana. They cut the power in one town as a preemptive measure so we had to go to the next town to get gas.

Whahatoya, one of my nests

And finally back to Seattle, to drink coffee in the Pea Patch with Matt, looking at the flags taken away by the squirrel. When EJ first put flags up at the original Alleyside, she hung them inside, then realized they needed to be rehung outside so as the shreds of fabric came apart, the prayers would travel out to the world. At this moment I like to imagine the squirrel was helping carry the prayers of those prayer flags forth, sending their energy and intention further into the world, so wherever I travel I can carry the feeling I have drinking coffee in the mornings in the Pea Patch, and nest as easily as Steve Ringtail.

A Blythe Spirit

There is something extremely comforting about doing dishes three times a day in a sink you took a bath in as a baby.  Sleeping in a bed in a room where you once slept in a suitcase.  Walking by a creek you used to dam up for a swimming hole.  Feeding chipmunks you used to swear you could communicate with by squeaking and moving your forefinger like a tail.  I needed this week, to remind me of the constants in life, myself, my personality, my spirit.

Lately I've seen my grandfather around the holidays, when we all come into town for a week.  It's busy,  it's confusing for a man already struggling with his memory.

Being at the cabin with him has been a nice, quiet, calm, refreshing time.  There are still lots of details he struggles with on an hourly basis.  Where did that jam on the table come from?  Where did all of his children get married?

My oldest cousin on the Goodman side, Gwen, started the tradition of creating scavenger hunts for the younger cousins whenever we got together.  One summer, my cousin Jessica and her immediate family were at the cabin at the beginning of the summer.  Jessica left a scavenger hunt for my sister and I, who were coming several weeks later.

It was exciting to do a scavenger hunt when the creator wasn't around, but it did provide some challenges.  There had been a few tenants at the cabin between Jessica's stay and ours, and a few of the clues had been moved or had gone missing by the time we started trying to follow the path of clues.  If the trail ran dry, we'd have to skip ahead a clue or two to find it again.  We ultimately did find the prize,  our names carved on a downed tree on the way to the meadow!

Talking with my grandfather at the cabin reminded me of that scavenger hunt.  I tell him it's a fun game to try to answer  the questions he asks, and use whatever puzzle pieces we have to figure out the answers, or make up our own stories.  (As my grandmother always said, "Never let the truth interfere with a good story.")  He laughs at my perspective on our story creating.  We decide the jam looks homemade, and is a berry neither of us know, so it was probably a gift from Christine who's from California, and it's probably a California berry.  We also figure out where all of his children have been married so far (Winfield, Ottawa, and Madison) by thinking of when they got married and where everyone was at the time.

I am impressed with how well he recalls the stories directly related to him.  How he broke his arm two weeks before marrying my grandmother.  How he parked his car ten miles north of her house, so Uncle Bob couldn't find it during the ceremony or reception, although he looked all over Superior.  How he was horrible at picking strawberries, and learned when he went to college that he was red/green color blind, which still did not impress his dad.  All the different churches he worked at, where he was associate pastor, where he was senior pastor, where all his children were born.

As we drove in the first day and passed the first car on the old country road, we wave hello.  At the same time, we both remember the same moment.  I used to sit in the middle of the front seat of the Great Grey.  One summer I learned about the country wave (you leave your wrist on the wheel but lift your hand in greeting) and the farmer wave (you just lift your forefinger).  I was so amused by that idea I used the dashboard of the Great Grey as my wheel and lifted one finger to each car we passed, which made my grandparents sitting on either side of me chuckle.

Remembering these stories, hearing new ones about my grandfather's life, is reviving me.  My grandfather hikes with me all the way to the meadow.  We go slowly and notice the flowers together.  The main thing he notices, of course, is how much good firewood there is up here.  I tell him my mom and I will walk up and get it when she comes, which makes him laugh.

We get to the meadow, and he decides it might be the last time he walks that far up the trail.  I remember one more story.  About 8 years ago, when my family, my friend Steph, and my grandparents were at the cabin together, my grandfather told us a story about a hike to the meadow he took by himself.  It started with some rustling in the bushes behind him as he walked back.  He finally broke out into a run, which is when a mountain lion jumped out of the bushes at him.  Without thinking, my grandfather stuck his walking stick up in the air, and pole-vaulted the mountain lion across the creek into a bush.  He went back the next day to check out the scene, and saw there were some berries on the bush.  My grandfather ate some of those berries, and they gave him just about the worst stomachache he'd ever had, but he never did find out what happened to that mountain lion.

My mother's reaction to this story: "Dad!  I can't believe you ate those berries!"

Moments with Strangers #2

Airports

I'm feeling good in the moment.  Airports will do that for me.  So many people with so many stories.  So many opportunities for plans to change at a moments notice.  So much time to spend reading, writing, chatting, calling people, going for walks, observing from coffee shops.

The stout wrinkled woman comes up to me smiling.  "Pasco?" she asked.

"Pasco?" I repeat stupidly.

"Washington?" she asks next.

"Washington?" I say, feeling like a parrot.

"Va a llegar Pasco..." is all I catch as she says something to herself, thinking over how to translate it to English.  (I've done this myself many times, the opposite way.)

"Yo no se," I offer.  "Lo siento."

"Ah!  Ok."  She laughs in delight at my attempt to communicate with her in Spanish.  We smile and go our separate ways.

I approach Gate 80 cautiously.  My flight was supposed to leave from Gate 64 at 2:00.  When I got to the airport, it had been moved to Gate 84 according to the Departure Boards, but Gate 84 wasn't publicizing that it was home to flight 6337 to Colorado Springs yet.  When it finally claimed the flight, it was delayed by half an hour.  Within half an hour, the flight was moved to Gate 80, hence my hesitation.

I hear one of the people sitting in the waiting area remark "...not leaving until 2:30 now."  I approach them, "Is this the flight to Colorado Springs?"

They shrug their shoulders with a smile, "We hope so!"  The gate has yet to own the flight, but I decide to sit down with this crew, because at least we're in this together now.  I warned my mother, I should never fly United.

I was about 12 when the curse started.  My dad was supposed to fly from the cabin to KC for a Goodman family reunion, and then drive my Blythe grandparents back to the cabin.  My mom asked my sister  and I to get my dad a paper to help his nerves while he flew.  The front page had a story about a plane crash, a bad omen, but my mom said give im the paper anyway.

We hung out in Denver all day because Aunt Diane and Ryan were flying in later that day.  We went back to the airport to pick them up, and my mom called the Blythe grandparents from a pay phone, who were grateful to hear from us!  They had been hoping we would call, and told us not to leave the airport, that my dad was still at the gate, where he'd been for hours, and his plane was going nowhere.

Since then flying United for me has resulted in lost luggage, delayed flights, and any mix-up you can have in an airport.  I still shudder when I think about trying to get myself and all my baggage to the Sierra Nevadas.

An agent appears at our gate.  "Where'd she go?" he asks us, inquiring about the last agent who has left.  We smile blankly.

"She went to find us a plane!" someone jokes.

"So she just left you all here, all alone," he shakes his head and smiles.

People have their smart phones out, checking statuses.  The plane has left its last location one mom informs us all, so its running behind but still moving along.

"You all could have driven to Colorado Springs by now," our agent points out to the mom.

"I think about that all the time while I'm in Denver," she replies, still with a smile on her face.

For however temporary, it is refreshing to be in a group of people that so easily bonded together to share this travel experience, with smiles on their faces and light laughs when we're supposed to be boarding and there's no plane in sight.  I can't remember being surrounded by such a stress free group of travelers before.

Chickadees in the Trees

October 8, 2011 10:00a.m. Low 60s and partially cloudy

Last night, the cloud cover in Seattle finally parted enough that the moon shown through.  Then I woke up this morning to sunlight streaming into my room for the first time in weeks!

I made some tea, bundled up, and went outside.  The only patch of sunlight I could find was across the sidewalk, under the Cedar tree by the curb.  I heard the Black-capped Chickadees first, then saw one flitting around the front door, perhaps attracted to the bird feeder Emily Jane puts out in the tree by the porch.

Until now, I've only seen and heard the chickadees by the side of the house, further away from the road.  This was the first they've appeared during my morning front porch sit spot.  From what I could tell, there were two of them.  The first one was pretty bold.  It hung upside down on one of the lowest panels of the house.  Then it flew over to the cedar tree, and perched all over the trunk, upside down, right side up, and finally settled in a branch.  I "psh psh"ed at it and it moved a branch closer.  Its friend bounced around a little further back.  Whenever a car drove by, or someone walked by with their dog, they both flew high into the Cedar where I could barely see them.

I have noticed many naturalists and environmentalists in this area are deeply curious how people got started naturalizing and building a relationship with the environment.  Some naturalists' stories start with a place-based experience, growing up in a rural area, having woods nearby to play in as a child.  Many others stem from having mentors and teachers who were enthusiastic nature lovers.  I've been thinking about my journey as an environmentalist, and am grateful to my creepy memory for the clear moments I can hold onto from when I first naturalized.

I think the Blythe Spirit, our cabin in Colorado, had a lot to do with starting me on this path.  One of the first summers in La Veta I can remember was when I was about 7.  The family was hiking to the meadow, and one cousin wanted a break before we passed the stone wall that supports the hill next to the cabin.  I wanted to keep going, probably mostly to argue with 4-year-old Jack, so Uncle David walked with me.  We walked to the meadow without stopping once, except for a moment around the bend while Uncle David explained his different questions about how the creek had once formed the cliff we were standing on and the one across from it.  At the time I did not understand the concept of rock being shaped by water, and did not immediately absorb the idea he was presenting.

When we got to the meadow, we kept going a little way through the trees at the other end.  We looked back at one moment, and Uncle David asked if I saw a bit of color.  I got excited because I did see a bit of red, it was Aunt Gretchen's shirt and the rest of the family had made it to the meadow!  Before we started back to meet them, Uncle David pointed out the color he had been referred to, which was a butterfly he had seen instead of Aunt Gretchen.  I shrugged off that moment, because again I was eager to brag to Jack and Laura Beth about how fast I had walked.

Photo by Carol Blythe

What's interesting to me about those two moments, Uncle David pointing out the ravine and the butterfly, is that although at the time I am sure I acted disinterested, those tidbits have remained with me to this day.  I vividly held on to that hike, and my perception of natural areas has probably been formed by it.  My favorite thing to do in my free time is to sit quietly in the woods, looking for butterflies or other creatures.  When I am in the woods with other naturalists, I love to talk about how features of the land came to be the way they are.

Experiences like these give me hope as an educator.  I have probably gone for hikes with hundreds of kids, ages six to sixteen.  I have heard more than my fair share of whining, complaining, seen plenty of eye rolls, had kids anxiously ask for "lodge time," to go home, to get out of the woods, to not have to stand quietly for one minute, to not have to listen for the birds, to not have to stop hiking to learn about the plant or tree.  Maybe they will never look back on those hikes again.  But maybe they will hold the full meaning of my lessons somewhere deep inside that will guide them for years to come.  Either way, my journey as an environmentalist allows me to feel blessed to share the potential of this path with others.