Etchings

Prostrate like a dead snow angel
My face in the grass and my heels tipped skyward
A hawk crying far away
finches tittering nearer,
I wonder,
What was that advice you gave me?

The Cemetary

There is something about country funerals. The abscence of a church is one thing, contrary to the stereotypes of country folk. The last two I attended were in the VFW hall and the funeral parlor, respectively.

The room is always full of burly men, with big hands and fish belly white foreheads. Several have cowboy hats in their hands, others bear the crease in their hair of wearing a cowboy hat for most of their lives. The wives are dressed up a little, wearing nice blouses and good shoes. These are fierce women, make no mistake. Many have had to bury at least one child, others have worked beside their husbands trying to make a living on the land. They are mostly elderly, as the younger generation has gone off to the city to make a decent living.

There's always a cowboy poem, usually pretty bad. If there are musicians, they are surprisingly good, even if you don't particularly like cowboy music. Today, the music was a recording of Vince Gill singing "Go Rest High on That Mountain", guarantee'd to bring tears to the eyes of all but the toughest of us.

It might sound blasphemous but you can't beat the food at a country funeral. It's as if the women all try to outdo each other. Baked beans made with ham hocks, and molasses. Pot roast or sloppy joes, and home made buns. Corn pudding, almost unheard of in America today. Every kind of jello salad imaginable, including one that had raspberries, strawberries and blueberries in it. Potato salad, pasta salad, broccoli salad, green salad, three bean salad, and sliced tomatoes. The desert table is a child's Christmas eve dream; three kinds of brownies, four different chocolate cakes, homemade lemon meringue pie, berry cobbler, that chocolate pudding-coconut-whip-cream-pecan concoction that I can never remember the name of, and a german chocolate cake tall enough to be featured on a cooking magazine cover. Not one single thing that you would think of as "good for you", but somehow, cooked with such love that you are convinced it can do you no harm.

Some families are there with four generations, and the children are allowed to move freely about the hall, without fear of kidnapping and amber alerts. Sticky children, hot and tired from the cemetary, chase each other back and forth.

People are eager to update you on all the tragedies that have occurred in the community since the last time you saw them, as if to say, "It happens to all of us."
The list of oldtimers that have died increases so quickly, I can't help but wonder what will become of this beautiful valley. Will it be filled with houses like every other valley in Colorado?

Standing in the cemetary, looking out over the bluff, I can see about 50 miles. There are maybe 10 houses in all the space.

How long can that last?

Loose Screws

I have a question. Who loses one screw?

Over the years, as I’ve walked the roads of Coal Creek, I have found, variously, screws, tacks, nails, and really big nails, which someone tells me are called spikes. I always pick them up, having run over a few nails, screws, tacks and, more than once, a piece of angle iron myself. I find myself wondering, where in creation these devices-designed-for-fastening come from. Do they fall out of livestock racks? Someone’s homemade camper? Horse trailers? Bike racks?

Suspiciously, they are often found at the mouth of a drive way, or a lane, or a canal access road. Were they thrown there by a secret enemy? Or an avowed enemy for that matter? Is it the fact that there’s a little jounce as one leaves most driveway-lane-canal- access-road type pathways and return to the pavement? Hmmm, it’s a mystery. However, I consider it my neighborly duty to pick them up and carry them away before they cause harm.

Picking up things along the roadside is not new to me. Treading these back roads I have found enough toys to stock my own toy store. A long time ago I came across a magazine called “Found” that published pictures of collections of things found by people in their daily lives. It was fun to try to puzzle out the scene that led to a tear-stained love note being left under the windshield wiper on the wrong car. The picture of people in 1940’s clothing found blowing down the street. The musical score with serious profanity written all over it.

My toys were not so hard to figure out. The little plane was probably held out a window and dropped to see if it would fly. The McDonald’s Happy Meal toy, thrown away with the bag by a passing car (tsk, tsk). The pinwheel? Who needs an explanation for that?

I brought each of these, any many others, home, and put them in an old tie-dye pencil box my daughter had in third grade. At some point, I hoped to mail them all to “Found” so that they could come up with their own theory of their origins.

Alas, alack. Or is it alack, alas? Well, whatever. I made the mistake of reading a women’s magazine with an article on ridding oneself of clutter. It said that you should immediately throw away eight items. Now, did I throw away the 15 years of cancelled checks I have (from back when you still got cancelled checks)? The entire works of Larry Mc Murty (of “Lonesome Dove” fame) in paperback? The 15 coffee mugs I keep in the cupboard though I live alone? The copies of my divorce papers, my mother’s estate proceedings, or the various paid off promissory notes from my various endeavors?

No I did not. On an impulse I reached for, and threw away, the little tie-dye pencil box, with all the found toys dropped by children out car windows as they sat patiently in their little car seats, safely ensconced from harm and all human contact in the back seat, whizzing down the roads of Montrose County.

And I’ve been thinking. Why is it that we throw away so quickly the whimsical, the sentimental, and the silly? Why do we cling so tightly to the rest of it? Why do we remember with horror that moment we realized our dress was tucked into our pantyhose, re-experiencing the embarrassment and humiliation, but so quickly forget the little girl who says, “I like your pretty shoes?” Why do we catalogue every hurt and injury inflicted upon us by our loved ones, but forget the odd laugh, the worried look when we’re ill, and the unexpected caress?

I have no answers, and oddly enough, though I’ve found many screws, nails, tacks, and one more spike, while out walking, I have never yet found another toy.

Raptors

When does an interest become an obsession? Is there some invisible line that you cross and all of sudden you find your friends trying to change the subject all the time?

As I walked my dogs today in a very brisk wind, I spied the ferruginous hawks playing in the updrafts. Has anyone ever studied that behavior? Is it really play, or just an opportunity to have the wind do part of the work? As I watched, the female stooped and fell to earth, but from my vantage point I could not see what her prey was.

Returning home I found myself exploring the licensing requirements for a falconry license. I started this project long ago, but became discouraged when I saw that it was recommended that you capture your first bird, hopefully a young American Kestrel. The thought of kidnapping a bird put me off my feed (as we say here in the West), and although I had already arranged a sponsor (you have to apprentice for two years) I let the matter drop.

The recent story about Travis the chimp made me realize that there are probably falcons and hawks for sale online. I soon learned that some people are looking for homes for birds that can't hunt for one reason or another, or that are not appropriate for public hunt sites. If these birds are not placed, I presume they meet the fate of all unwanted animals. The rescuer in me was put on high alert.

I am starting the process anew, although I guess there is no guarantee I will actually follow through this time either. I just would love to have input from all my thoughtful and interested friends. So, I've put together a little survey, and I hope you'll take a second to vote.

If I do go through with it, I'll keep you posted.

Milestones and Missed Opportunities

Milestones have a way of sneaking up on you, don’t they? Not so much when you have your first baby home, and feel that you have to document every drool, every nap, and that strange smile a baby gets when it passes gas. But, after that, when the milestones stretch far enough back in time that they mark the way to Venezuela.

Recently I passed a milestone I never thought would be part of my life; the foofoo dog milestone. I’ve always loved labs, border collies, blue heelers, chows, and combinations of the same. My dogs have been workers or guardians, well loved, but held at a certain distance. Enter Tex the Yorkie.

A gift from my daughter, Tex was named before he was delivered, as my daughter was convinced that, true nerd fashion, I would name the poor creature Ewok, or worse yet, Deej after the ewok cum mountain man in the Star Wars movies. Her husband picked the biggest name he could think of for a dog that weighed a pound and half. Now a whopping nine pounds and full grown, Tex tries to live up to his name every time someone dares to approach the house, growling and barking as if to say, “Stand right there, Pardner, and let me see your hands. Drop the gun, slowly . . .slowly.”
This little ball of fur and spirit has solved a mystery that I’ve wondered about for years.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far away, I was a prison lawyer. When our grant was renewed the salaries were not increased, and I was already unable to make ends meet. My boss gave me the choice to continue to work for next to nothing or be laid off. I chose being laid off.

While a little unnerving to be laid off two years out of law school, like so many “misfortunes” the event was actually a wonderful opportunity in disguise. I had always wanted to return to a small town like the one in which I grew up, and now I had the chance to find the right spot. I decided to spend the summer traveling through the West looking for my new home.

From Strawberry, California to Lee Vining, to Winnemuca, on to Elko, I drove, looking in each little town to see if they had a stone or brick courthouse. For some reason a stone or brick courthouse became emblematic for me, an indication that the town had the lifestyle I was looking for. In those days, the courthouses were located downtown, often off a town square. As I drove through the towns, then on to Twin Falls and Pocatello, Idaho, driving through downtowns with shuttered shops, and Mary’s Cafes, and Dew Drop Inns, I noticed a similarity. Everywhere I looked there were rugged old men with little tiny dogs, riding along in the pick-up, leading the way down a sidewalk on a leash, or cradled in the arms that looked like they’d spent many years driving a tractor.

The men wore cowboy hats, and worn boots, jeans with pressed creases and pearl snap shirts, and the company they were keeping were little cross breed dogs that clearly adored them. As I drove I conceived of a book “Men and Their Dogs”, a series of photographs of these extraordinary men and the charming little dogs.

Like so many things conceived on a road trip, I kept putting off starting my project. I found Montrose and it’s stone courthouse, and home. Then the nursery rhyme came true, you know the one, “First comes love, then comes marriage, then come Peggy pushing a baby carriage”, and my life was consumed with other things.

Many of those old timers are gone now, and I've missed the opportunity to document this delightful phenomena. I can still picture one guy in his grey Stetson, walking the streets of Elko, Nevada led by a tiny little mutt. I only hope Tex and I can live up to his example.

Spotted Dog

My first ambition was to be a waitress. Or a firefighter. Or an astronaut. My aspiration to restaurant service was inspired by the waitresses at the Red Rooster Drive In. They wore short skirts held out by scrunchy crinolines, roller-skates, and they could carry a loaded tray balanced on one shoulder and one hand. The firefighter is easy –what more could a girl need than a red truck and a black and white spotted dog. The astronaut; well I have to admit the bulky spacesuit and huge round helmet were not attractive. It must have been the idea of orbiting the world in a silent space all my own (being fourth of six children will do that to you).

My parents were not thrilled by the scope of my dream to make milkshakes and skate around the round Red Rooster building. Neither one had read Dr. Spock so they felt no compunction about actively dissuading me from my goal. My father had vague, grandiose ambitions for me, predicting that there would be a female president by the time I was an adult (Uh, Dad, you underestimated a bit), and alluding to the diplomatic corps from time to time. Ironically, he told me in no uncertain terms “girls can’t be astronauts”, a statement I accepted without question since he worked for Bell Aircraft Missile Systems.

My mother, far more pragmatic (and probably hoping to protect me from the slings and arrows she felt awaited me) told me I should take up nursing or teaching, until I had a family. I can almost feel my head cock to one side as I write this, and I’m sure the quizzical look I gave my mother confused her. I remember thinking “I thought all those Miss America ladies were just trying to fool the judges when they said that.” I was shocked to hear those very words from my fourth grade classmates when we talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up.

All this reminiscing was brought about by a recent conversation I had with a young professional. Over the course of our conversation she told me that she thought my generation had made things easier for hers, but that we were “bra-burners” and that we had gone too far. To say I was stunned would be an understatement. I can remember that when I entered graduate school, in a class that had only 19% women, the belief was that the changes we were striving for in gender equality would not be seen in our life times.
Now I was listening to someone tell me that the fight that made her own education and professional path so much easier had ‘gone too far’.

In a way, I guess it might be a good thing (can you get any more conditional than that statement?). If education and opportunity are so accessible to young women that they can look back and criticize the women who fought for that access, a new norm is so well established that it would be difficult to erode. Still, it was only a very deep breath and counting to ten, or maybe twenty, that gave me the wherewithal to nod knowingly and say, “I know a lot of people think that.”

I wonder what such a young woman would have done if her own father had looked her in the face and said, “Girls can’t be astronauts?” Would she roll her eyes and walk away? That would be the best expression of the true progress we’ve made.

I never did get to ride on a fire truck. So if any of you work for the fire department or know someone who does, see if you can arrange it for me. I’ll bring my own spotted dog.

Troubling

I find myself deeply troubled by the story of Travis the chimp attacking and attempting to kill someone with whom he had a long acquaintance. The story just didn't make sense to me, but as details trickle in, the picture becomes clearer.

When you work with domestic animals and wildlife as much as I do, you gain a very clear understanding of the problems created by anthropomorphizing animals. I've often seemed like a very cranky chick when posting on NPR about the "cute" stories of human and wildlife interaction. However, it is a lot more difficult to keep that boundary than some would think.

The media, in an attempt to make the story salacious, is now reporting that the woman who had Travis in her care slept and bathed with him. My dogs sleep with me, and a close friend of mine takes her parrot into the shower with her. Parrots love running water, and it is play time for the bird. How cute do we think it is when a dog jumps into a swimming pool to play with children?

The problem, of course, is that the chimp is so humanlike. And once you begin to expect an animal, wild or domestic, to react like a human, you've let an important guard down.

Wild animals do react differently in some, but not all, circumstances, because domestic animals have been bred for . . . .domesticity! Domesticity to humans is companionability, docility, and adaptibility. While a wild animal can be tamed,it seems to me that they always retain some part of that wildness. First, they are far more alert to threat than is a domestic animal. Secondly, they react often with agression or show of agression, rather than retreat, when threatened. Lastly, they are expert at sizing up the opponent as to size, submissiveness and agility.

No matter how much you are around animals it is possible to make that instantaneous mistake that gets you in trouble. I had adopted a wild mustang as a 6 month old filly. I picked her because she had the conformation of an Arab, was very alert, and seemed highly intelligent. Good traits in a domestic horse. When she was about a year old, while in the corral with her, I managed to let her back me into a corner between the manger and the gate. She quickly turned her rear to me, and "trapped" me. I stood quietly for a bit trying to think what to do. While my mind raced, I spoke aloud, "Please don't kick me." Wham! Luckily I put my arm up and caught the blow with it, so she didn't hit my face. Lesson: a dometic animal may find the human voice soothing, a wild animal does not.

The detail that made the whole Travis story, tragic and horrible as it is, make sense to me, is that the injured woman held a toy up in front of her face and waggled it at the chimp to try and get him into the house. It's hard to say what happened next. Perhaps he grabbed for the toy and she tried to hold onto it. Perhaps the toy appeared to be a threat to him, like my human voice did to the little mustang.

There are no easy answers. I always remember that Jane Goodall, once back in the States, went to visit a chimp in a lab and had the top of her thumb bitten off.

I think one point the chimp's owner made that we all need to remember is that people kill people every day, sometimes in extremely brutal ways. That doesn't mean that all people are murderers. I hope that all the pundits who are finding people to say how dangerous chimps are will balance those stories with the incredible learning abilities that chimps have, their generally playful nature, and the incredible contribution they (unwillingly) made to scientific discoveries in this country.

Such a cranky Chick

What's the difference between someone who is observant and someone who is a cranky, cynical critic? I sure don't know.

Valentine's day night was quite the adventure here in small town land. I went to a local cafe to watch a friend's blues band play. And I saw a few things I found depressingly familiar.

At one end of the bar a couple canoodled and coo'd, holding hands and acting all goo goo eyed. They lovingly shared bites of each other's food, and gave the impression of a young couple in love. Until the cake came. Now it is a law of nature, that you can never gain more weight from a bite of food than that bite weighs. (I know, I know it changes your metabolism . . .blah blah blah) The cake was beautiful, a several layer chocolate cake with a delicious looking fudgy frosting, sitting in a puddle of raspberry sauce, and garnished with whip cream and what looked like sugared violets. I mean, I was tempted to mug them and take the cake for myself.

As it happened though, the man in this picture took the first bite of cake, and lovingly moved the spoon toward the woman's mouth. At which point she turned her head. I mean, if the boy hadn't been alert, he woulda deposited the bite of cake on her cheek. Hahaha they laughed.

Watching this I wanted to shout "Eat the damn cake!"

Life is short, my little fajitas, a lesson one learns when the voice on the other end of the line says you have cancer. Celebration comes rarely enough. Eat the bite of cake, share the cherry pie, have some fruit cake . . .okay, maybe not the last one. The moments of celebration far outweigh the little bit of extra time you'll have to work out to burn up the calories from the celebratory food.

So, next time you're at a colleague's going away party, remember my cranky voice, shouting for the whole room to hear: Eat the damn cake!

It's True

I never expected it. I mean, like everyone of my generation, I tried everything. Transcendatal meditation, which led to loud snoring. Scry gazing, during which I learned that it was time to start waxing my brows. High altitude sunbathing on granite surfaces to remove all wordly distractions, which was probably the best nap I ever had, except for the hideous sunburn. Catholic mass, til they played the Star Spangled Banner as a hymn. Past life regression, um, see snoring and naps above. Pychoanalysis, but I DO love my mother.

The purpose of all this was to determine the purpose for which I have been placed upon this beautiful blue orb. But like a good Zen buddhist being smacked with a pole by the master, it took an actual real life experience for me to finally get it. Today was the day of reckoning. No, I wasn't Joan of Arc in a past life. No, I'm not here to enlighten the world as to the true meaning of life, write the great american novel, perfect the new goat cheese cheesecake recipe. No, I'm not here to follow the path that God has laid out for me.

I am here to change the toilet paper roll. That's it. The die was cast the day I was born, and I can't believe how long it has taken me to figure it out. In every office I've occupied, in every home in which I've resided, and in every gym in which I've sweated away the hours, I appear to be the only person who knows how to change the toilet paper.

My favorite is the person who leaves the two squares on the roll, just so they won't have to actually remove that cardboard tube. Two squares? Honestly. I mean you can't even blow your nose on two squares of toilet paper.

Having finally discovered my true destiny, I am content at last. I really consider it quite an honor to have such a humble service as my life task. So, when you come visit, don't fret your little head. Use it up! Or leave only the part glued to the cardboard. I'm coming behind you. I'll take care of it.

A Poem for St. Valentine's Day

To my dearest, darling Jake,
We're all entitled to One Mistake,
So Lorna, I could deal with fine,
but Sue, Jill and Mary I couldn't take.

The nights you stayed late at "work",
how'd you turn into such a jerk?
The calls at home in whispered tones,
the race to answer the telephone.

These thoughts I keep fresh in mind,
as I write this Valentine.
On this day when Love abounds,
I'm glad to say, I'm not around.

I took the car, my clothes, the money,
but I'm thinking of you honey,
Tonight around your sleeping time,
the Sheriff will bring my Valentine.

The papers give you twenty days,
to wake up to your cheating ways,
Have some fun, buy some candy,
but keep your lawyer's number handy.

Love, Janet

Copyright, 1989

Seriously Sad

In watching the interview of the mother of octuplets, I found myself seriously sad. While Ann Curry and associates described the woman as appearing rational and committed to her children, I saw a delusional personality rationalizing her very poor choices. Her pressured speech, and constant interruption of Ms. Curry, combined with her mantra like reptition of certain phrases regarding her own mental health, were early clues as to her mental status, but the description of the father of these children was the corker. He "needs time", and it's "not the right time" all in a tone remniscent of Glen Close in Fatal Attraction, or Kathy Bates in a Steven King movie. I kept rooting for Ann to press her harder, so that the facade would begin to crack.

The video of her visiting the babies in the hospital is heartbreaking. Eight tiny babies, each requiring enormous neonatal care, deprived of normal development, and living in glass cages. Yet Ms. Suleman acted as if all was normal. When one of the therapists involved referred to the birth as a "great feat", all I could think was, "It's nothing the average lab bitch can't do several times in a life time."

I believe this is a seriously disturbed woman, and that time will show that to be true. Then all 14 children will be separated and placed in foster care or with relatives.

A seriously sad end to a story that should never ave occurred in the first place.

Skunks and Prickly Pears

Ah, the smell of skunk in the morning, the first harbinger of pre-spring. Of course, this year was the first in the twenty-six I’ve lived here that the skunks seemed to stay awake all winter, except for that really cold snap in December. This morning’s smell was not that horrible, overwhelming odor emanating from a squashed black and white mass in the middle of the road, but a softer, warning smell, a smell I associate with the short warm spell we often get in the first weeks of February.

Some friends and I were talking about symbols the other day, and how they are woven into the fabric of our consciousness at a very young age. I was born and raised in southern New Mexico, surrounded by Navajo art, and the endless desert. My father and sisters were artists, so our house abounded with half-finished paintings featuring thunder clouds and saguaro cactus. Wild burros still roamed the desert, their ancestors having wandered away from the Conquistadors hundreds of years before. I had collections of arrow heads and black and white pottery shards, found when I walked home from school or played ‘war’ with the neighborhood kids in the vacant lots surrounding our neighborhood.

For me, a roadrunner will always mean speed and wily survival; lightening will always be power and magic; an appaloosa horse strength and independence; and the Zia sun . . .well you’ll probably have to ask me about that in person. Raised in an Air Force town, I still tear up at the sound of the Star Spangled Banner, and the sight of the American flag, and I wept openly when the traveling Viet Nam memorial came to Montrose.

The desert held its own lessons. As children, my sisters and I would earn a little pin money (as my mother called it) by gathering the ripe red prickly pears from the top of the cactus. No matter how careful I was to try and keep my gloves on I always ended up with fingers full of prickers. More often than not, I couldn’t resist the sweet fruit, and despite my efforts at removing all the thorns, my lips and tongue would burn and ache, full of the tiny torments. The lesson in delayed gratification was not an easy one, but it stayed with me.

When I came to Montrose the mesas and cottonwoods felt familiar; I’d been surrounded by them as a child. There was much to learn however, from the name of the bird that flew up and scared me senseless during my morning runs, to the fact that driving through a bog in the adobes is a very, very bad idea. Elk were a delightful surprise, as were the then common sheep and cattle drives. I saw prickly pears on the hillsides, and the families of farm workers harvesting the cactus early in the morning. In late summer, walking my dogs I could smell their scent, casting me back to New Mexico and the past.

This morning, though, the sound of the western meadowlark calling from fence wire to fence wire in its liquid trill, reminded me again, that spring is not far away. I remember the first time I was stunned by that song. Six months pregnant, I was riding along with my husband on a fishing trip. As we bumped across a rutted dirt road, I heard a meadowlark call. “Stop the truck,” I yelled, “Stop the truck.” The bird of course, was gone, and my husband, assuming I was suffering from morning sickness, never heard a thing.

Better Late Than Never

Ground Hog Day Resolutions


1. I resolve to pay more attention to the platitudes my mother used, and how they apply in my own life.

2. I resolve not to count my chickens before they hatch, nor to put them all in one basket once they do.

3. This year I will mind my own business. And, that of anyone who has a conversation within earshot of me. Oh, also the business of any celebrity who makes it into the pages of People magazine.

4. I will look before I leap, say a prayer before I sleep, and not let spilt milk make me weep. In fact, I will probably just keep looking and never leap as my legs lack leapability lately.

5. I will talk softly and carry a big stick. Oh, that wasn’t Mom. Never mind. Sorry Mom.

6. I will gather no stone that has no moss. Nor will I gather stones that do have moss, since to do so is a crime. Unless you have a permit.

7. I will not have my birthday cake, nor eat it, too. In fact, I resolve to skip my birthday this year and every year hereafter. I am just going to pretend I’m 37 from now on.

8. I won’t judge a book by its cover. Or by who the author is. Or what the subject is. I will continue to read the last page and see if I want to figure out how the author got there.

9. I will waist not, want not. In fact, I think I will try to find only clothes with no waist as my waist wants not to be restricted anymore.

10. I resolve not to take myself so seriously this year. (Even if one person did call me ‘famous’ last year. Thanks, I’ve been trying to work that into a post). After all, as the saying goes, life is just a chair of bowlies.

Happy Ground Hog’s Day to one and all. May the rest of the year be prosperous in all the right ways, and may you all be adopted by an Irish mother who collects platitudes like the other mothers collect silver spoons!

Hidden Hawk

Can you find the space alien baby hawk? Hint: click on the picture to enlarge.

Birds, of course

I have had the honor of hosting a nesting pair of ferruginous hawks the last three years. The largest of the hawks, the ferruginous hawks are often mistaken for Golden Eagles. The feathered legs are the giveaway to this magnificent bird; the red color of the leg feathers are the source of the name ferrugionous (rusty).

Last winter I came home to find a nestling on the ground under the tree. As I drove in, parked and got out of my car he didn't fly off, causing me a great deal of consternation.

Now, I'm trained in wildlife, specifically wild bird, rescue, but it seemed that all of my knowledge drained out of my big toe. This was "my" hawk, a baby I'd listened to all summer with his incessant annoying hunger call. His fledgling flight had been from the tree to my chimney, where, thinking he was trapped he called all day. The screech echoed into the living room where three cats and two dogs sat, rapt, in front of the fireplace, heads cocked to one side in unison. I had pictures of him in his "space alien" phase, perched on the edge of the three foot deep nest, clad only in the white down of babyhood.

Now he sat on the ground, refusing to understand that I, like all humans, constituted a danger. I did what any reasonable (untrained) civilian would do, I called the Division of Wildlife, posing as someone who knew nothing.

Unfortunately, Dawn at the front desk recognized my voice, and I could hear her call down the hall to the biologist, "Peggy's on the phone with a question." Busted.

The biologist explained that they were having a problem that winter with hawks overeating. The snow had stayed on the ground for so long, that anytime they found any prey, they ate the whole thing, loading their crop and making them un-flightworthy.

What? My baby overeat! I don't think so . . .

But I did as I was told, and just kept my eye on him, my rescue blanket, gauntlets, and dog carrier at the ready should I have to trap him. I was transfixed in front of the living room window, afraid that if I took my eye off him for a minute some marauding dog would come try to kill him. Finally, just before sunset, he flew off.

Dashing out the door I ran to the spot he'd been sitting. Yep, there it was: a huge circle of blood, gray squirrel hair, and feather prints in the snow. "My" hawk had managed to eat a whole gray squirrel, except for the sad little tail that sat there in the snow, effectively grounding himself.

Today the parents are back, beginning their elaborate and beautiful mating ritual. The tercel sat on the top of a huge poplar calling until the female appeared, circling high overhead. Once he spotted her he flew back and forth in a path over the nest as if to say, "Check out my condo, baby."

It looks like another summer of listening to a baby hawk cry from sun up til sunset, finding prairie dog heads in the grass, and worrying that the parents will be scared off before the fledgling is launched.

I can hardly wait!

Furey, Furey Everywhere

Check out more Furious Fureys:

http://www.furey.info/fureynet/

How to Have an Not Quite Idyllic Irish Childhood

1. If born prematurely, be baptized in the delivery room. By a Jewish physician.

2. Your first memory: your mother carrying you as a toddler over her very pregnant stomach.

3. First words? "I'm sorry, Mommy."

4. At your first confession, confess to Adultery for your mortal sin, because you think it means acting too grown up.

5. At least two names, preferably three, required. Jean Ann Marie. Katherine Marie Claire. Susan Theresa Marie. Oh yeah, and have Marie in your name for the Virgin Mary.

6. After your first communion, refuse to take off your dress and veil, so you can play "bride." Tear the lace on your dress while falling out of your tree house.

7. First lesson in cannibalism? Learning to hold the "Baby Jesus" on your tongue reverently, without letting him touch your teeth. Or gagging.

8. Run away to your fort and refuse to come home when Mom cooks mutton. Ditto: unpeeled cow tongue.

9. Eat potatoes every style known to man. Baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, hashbrowns, corn beef hash, potatoes O'Brian, scalloped potatoes, shoestring potatoes, potato chips, potato pancakes, and, for some unknown reason, sweet potato fries.

10. When your hair turns from copper penny to honey brown between six and seventh grade? Have your mother cut it boy short, in hopes it "will come back in red".

11. Share your bedroom with a sister. And a brother.

12. If the priest comes to visit? Make sure it's not just for dinner, but for the whole three months the rectory is being remodeled.

13. Find comfort in the fact you don't have to join a gang. You and your siblings are a gang. (Of hooligans, according to the afore cited Mother).

14. Never forget for one second that you are Irish, the protectors of all that is beautiful in life: poetry, song, deep religious thought, and The Book of Kells. Translated: it doesn't matter if you're poor, life is good.

Welcome

Who knew I was the kind of person that would spend fifteen minutes picking a font for this blog? Ah well, self insight is always a good thing, isn't it?

Welcome to Furey world. The Fureys are an ancient Irish clan. I've heard them described as everything from a band of poor, scrabbling gypsies (think Johhny Depp in Chocolat) to quasi-royal Normans. Who knows? I just am thrilled to be part of the clan.

My life is quickly explained by my Sunday morning today. I am suffering from gueule de bois (a mysterious disease caused by one martini too many) so I decided to walk my dogs. As I left the house I noticed the blue sky was edged with a dark gray cloud, but it seemed very far away. By the time I turned around winds were howling about 10 mph and I was being pelted with horizontal rain. The dogs were looking at me like I was insane, and I noticed a neighbor standing at her living room window trying to decide whether to call 911.

If you take that example and extrapolate it to every possible situation, you'll know me better than I know myself. Although, I do know that I am the type of person who spends 15 minutes picking a font for her blog.