Still Breathing

The soundscape at the winery sparkles with birdsong in the morning when I arrive. Mockingbirds, finches, acorn woodpeckers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, robins and assorted other peepers, cheepers and songsters throw their two cents into the mix.

Tiny gray and black, blunt-beaked birds pick through the cracks between the stones for insects and seeds. A tall heron occasionally strolls through the vineyard, and hawks and turkey vultures cast slowly looping shadows on the hills. Some days it's downright Snow-Whitish around here.

A pair of rosy-capped House Finches, in particular, has its nest in the joint of two beams under the eaves in front of my office window. This morning, as guests were arriving for the first tour, I could see one couple standing on the picnic bench on the patio, pointing at the nest. Three babies huddled inside, close enough that we could see them breathing. The nest seemed to be built at an angle, sloping towards us. That was when we noticed the two hatchlings on the ground below the nest.

One of the nearly-naked little babies was already a goner, but the other still gasped weakly for breath. I got a ladder while the gentleman who had spotted it held it in his hand to keep it warm.

Some of you may already have your wagging finger at the ready to scold us for touching baby birds, because everyone knows their parents won't accept them when they've been touched by a human. And you would be wrong. According to naturalist Lyanda Lynn Haupt, the author of Crow Planet (and probably many others) it's ok to quickly scoop them up and pop them back in the nest. Bird parents would rather have a live baby bird that smells funny than a dead baby bird. This doesn't mean that we should go around poking into nests and petting them, just that in an emergency, we'll likely be forgiven. (Having just finished the book yesterday, I was perhaps a bit overzealous in the encouragement of my accomplice.)

I'm ready for your second objection as well. Baby birds fall to the ground for a reason, and bird parents who can't build a proper nest for them don't deserve to reproduce. We should let nature take its course for the betterment of finches everywhere. On this count, it turns out, you may be right.

Within the hour, the poor, pathetic little thing was back on the ground. On closer examination, it appeared that the nest had been pulled or tipped out of position, its edge at a coy angle, like a lady's cloche hat. The three remaining hatchlings were clinging fiercely to the far edge, their half-bald backs pulsing with breath. And something else: they were twice the size of the two fallen young.

Holding the tiny, gasping creature in my hand, I realized that the parents were not just foolish birds who had built a faulty nest, but perhaps the intentional architects of this catastrophe. Three healthy babies, two weak ones. Without the physical strength, (or maybe even the ruthlessness) to pick the weaklings up and drop them elsewhere or push them out, they simply pulled at the nest's edge and let the rest happen as it would. And it did. The stronger siblings prevailed. I held the unfortunate thing in the warmth of my palm until I could find a small box so that at least it would have a quiet place to slip away. I heated a wet towel in the microwave and placed it in a zipper bag under the box for some warmth in the chilly office.

Defying Charles Darwin's tenets and nature's wrath, I climbed back on the ladder and tacked a few supporting twigs to the beams like a balcony railing, to keep the rest of the nest from falling completely. The three strong babies can relax their frantic grip and maybe get some rest. The finch-parents have returned to tend them without any visible fuss or dismay, and their remaining offspring may well live to breed next spring.

The warm, quiet little box sits on the desk next to mine. Inside it, the little bird is still breathing, still moving now and again, no longer gasping or writhing. This could be a sign of improvement or decline, it's hard to tell. Even if it recovers from this morning's ordeal, it is too small to survive much longer.

Having disturbed the natural course of events, I'm now left with the dilemma of what to do with it. Was it perhaps the wind, or the gropings of an unwelcome predator, that set the whole drama in motion, and not the will of wise birds? If it lives the remainder of the day, dare I slip it back into the nest?

I don't know the answer.

***

Update: Believe it or not, the little thing made it through the day and seemed to stabilize. Because it was still too weak to hold its head up to feed, I decided it was best to deliver it to the local wildlife rescue.

At the rescue desk, the veterinary nurse who accepted my little package said that they had received at least nine other little birds just as feeble and featherless that day, so it will be in good company. It's up to him/her now!

Pilgrimage

I woke up in the middle of the night knowing I’d go to see the butterflies. The next day, my anxious mind wrestled with my need to drive, until I’d exercised my last excuse and finally coaxed myself to the door.

They have come from hundreds, even thousands of miles away, on fragile wings, sometimes fringed with wind-wear. To see them, it’s astounding that they travel at all. Fewer and fewer of them each year, dwindling to naught or simply dipping, we don’t know.

When I lived in Santa Cruz, on the west side, the park was an easy bike ride from my shabby student rental in “the circles”. I don’t know how many visits I made on my new bike, helmetless in those days, hair blowing dangerously in the wind, before they arrived that first time. Down West Cliff Drive, hook a right at the park on a quiet weekday morning, follow the road and then head down the dirt path to the right.

Riding that bike, the first bike I’d ever purchased with my own money—probably the first big thing I’d ever purchased, if I think about it—was one of my favorite things to do. Sometimes I felt like I was ten years old again, riding wherever I wanted to go as fast as I could, with no particular destination.

The first time, I don’t know that I knew they were there before I went, or if I had heard they would come. Dripping from branches, in flickering clusters, they warmed themselves in shafts of light that seeped through the canopy of eucalyptus into the quiet grove. What I remember is how magical and serene it was to ride through the mist and stay there in the quiet of that half-lit grove among them.

Now, twenty-five years later, young, clean-shaven park rangers patiently answer questions from a road-addled tourist at the gate. Yes, the butterflies are here. Yes, you can take your dog into the park, but not to see the butterflies (duh) and please make sure your car is parked in the shade with the windows down and obvious water for the dog and don’t stay too long because other people get really upset if they see a dog in a car for a long time. Ten dollars for day use, please.

The quiet dirt path has been replaced (very necessarily) by a new boardwalk, which is attractive and sturdy, designed to take the abuse of eager nature-lovers. At the base of the walkway in the grove itself is a low multi-level deck.

At first, it is lovely just to see the Monarchs flitting silently between the trees. You'll notice that there are no close-up photos. The butterflies are very, very high up, though when it's quiet, and bored children have dragged their parents back to the beach, they'll swoop teasingly close to the deck.

A mother and her young daughter were lying on the edge of one of the deck’s steps, looking up at the treetops. They were talking sweetly, sharing an enviable mother-daughter moment. A small family group was listening to a female ranger talk in whispers about the butterflies and their journey. I caught just the end, just enough to hear her say, “…people who saw them twenty years ago, in the 80s, say that there were hundreds and thousands of them…what you can do is plant milkweed to grow during the seasons that they are traveling…”

I don’t want the butterflies to be just another thing that is dwindling, dying, disappearing. Once there were hundreds, herds by the millions across the plain, great black clouds of wings in the sky, etc., etc. My generation really is Generation D, for disappointment. Everything “used to be” bigger, more. Everything is just outside of our grasp, lost to us by just a little bit.

But then I think, how lucky that I was one of the people who saw them then, who got to stand in that grove alone, on a quiet weekday, not surrounded by well-meaning eco-tourist families whispering questions below the fluttering clusters of insects. I could come down any morning I wanted, and see them hanging on drooping eucalyptus branches, wings still too wet with dew to fly.

As soon as the woman and her daughter left, I found my own spot on the deck and leaned back, resting my head against the wood. The family group moved on, and the couples that trickled down into the grove were respectfully silent.

Directly above my head was a branch whose clustered leaves fluttered—every bare twig shimmered with the dun undersides of their orange and black wings. The sky was blue, and the smell of eucalyptus was caught up in the occasional breeze. There was a serenity in the scene that made me wish to stay. But I had promised the rangers that I wouldn’t leave my dog for long, even though she was safely parked in deep shade, and so I had to be on my way.

***

First stop: The Bagelry, downtown Santa Cruz for a "Dark Star": An "everything" bagel with thickly-layered with cream cheese, chopped olives and chopped walnuts. (PS- they call it the "Ultimate" now.) Mike’s favorite from his MBA days. Mike does not have a Master’s in Business Administration, but he was once the assistant dean at the Monterey Bay Academy. After a walk around the block with the dog, fill the water jug, use the clean bathroom for customers only and park in the free parking for customers only.

Second stop: Butterfly grove

Third stop: Lighthouse point

Fourth stop: Caffe Pergolesi for a chai (the chai by which all others must be judged-- perfect.)

Fifth stop: Pizza My Heart for a pesto pizza to bring home to Mike. Another favorite.

Sixth stop: Cemetery

Before and After

Jo's Garden

Precious

Some little birdies tried to build a nest in a basket in the breezeway, where the dogs sometimes sleep during the day, so we moved it around the corner to another wall, in the hopes of discouraging them from finishing the nest and laying their eggs.

A day or so later, I went out the back door and caught a flutter out of the corner of my eye as a bird vacated the basket we'd hung above the original one with the exposed nest still in it. I carefully peeked inside the basket, and look what I saw:

Four precious little eggs in their brand-new stick and grass nest. Not as cushy as the first nest, but I guess it will do. We are very careful now not to disturb the mama bird or linger outside during the cool morning and evening hours, so that she doesn't stay away from the nest when the eggs might catch a chill. The nest is above the concrete patio, so I'm thinking I might have to put some kind of pillow or padding below the nest before they start peeping, just in case somebody falls out.

Getting Our Money's Worth

(self portrait with alligator)

This was my third visit to the Academy of Sciences, this time with the whole Nattress family. The taxidermied animals in the dioramas are odd, a little disconcerting to the children accustomed to seeing things alive. But they are beautiful, lovingly-rendered taxidermy, and they do hold still. My charter membership runs out at the end of this month if I don't choose to renew it, so I'm glad we've gotten to go several times so far.

Assorted New Pictures

Here, in lieu of further discussion about my dog's psychological issues, are some recent photos. I'm proud to say that the only thing that I posted to facebook today was: "Tamara wears wool socks." One day at a time.

(Forgot to caption this earlier: Three weeks ago, I slipped on an icy cattle guard while running Pixie, and fell through it. I bonked my shin pretty hard, and the photo above is what my hand still looked like a week and a half later- bruised, discolored and puffy.)

My hero.



Below: After a recent visit to Michael Chiarello's new Yountville NapaStyle shop, I was inspired to come home and make and shoot a sundried tomato, cheese and arugula panini sandwich.


And that's it for now.

Missed You!

Hello darlings!

I feel like I'm curling up on a cushion in a sunny bay window with a cup of tea and a friend (more likely, a glass of wine!). I missed you!

I know the first question on your mind is "How is Grandma?" She is doing well, consistently staying out of trouble (mostly) and the emergency room (fingers crossed). Mike and I and possibly one of the dogs are going up this Sunday for a visit and work day to get a few things done that need to be done before the winter weather really sets in.

Pixie had her "tanks pulled" as Mike puts it, on Tuesday a week ago. I felt sort of bad getting her spayed, just because it was elective surgery, but it had to be done. She was fine with the surgery, but had a pretty hard time afterwards, a bad reaction to the anesthesia that made the vet keep her overnight. He's a great vet: he spent all evening with her at the office, up until 10 p.m. when he determined she could finally keep some food down. Sometimes she is a royal pain in the ass (like tonight, fidgeting around, stealing Tugboat's toys and chewing up the coasters when we're not looking), but I was so worried about her that day that I cried for hours, no lie. She was supposed to have nothing more strenuous than leash walks for two weeks, but she's so restless tonight that I don't think either one of us can handle not running for that much longer. I'm not a running freak, but when my days are busy, my gym time shrinks, so sometimes that hour with the dogs is the only workout I get. And I have to remind myself that there are only a few months (3 to 9) of her doggie teenagerhood left. If I can just survive this, I'll have one really nice dog and one totally neurotic one.

A couple of notes: Sarah Palin. WTF?! I thought I was overreacting to her, and then I saw the interview with Katie Couric. She is a joke! I don't really care anymore what she stands for-- she's a total idiot. The only thing I can think is that after the cute factor wears off, the Republicans hope that McCain will indeed die during his term and they'll have another clueless puppet president in the back pocket of the oil interests.

Saw the debate. Thought Obama was much more together and definitely more presidential than that woodchuck McCain. I really tried to listen with an open mind, but it was difficult. Here are some of the phrases I'd like to plaster to my car, were I the bumper-sticker type:

SARAH PALIN IS A JOKE

I JUST WANT A PRESIDENT WHO ISN'T EMBARRASSING

CAN YOU AFFORD FOUR MORE YEARS OF THIS?

and

THERE IS FAR TOO MUCH AT STAKE TO VOTE REPUBLICAN

Oh yeah, and based on the fact that a large number of people said that they voted for Bush because he seemed like the kind of guy they'd like to have a beer with:

THIS TIME, BUY McCAIN A BEER AND ELECT A REAL PRESIDENT.

Ok, that's enough of that. In the past, I've been always been blase about politics. I hate to say it, but has always been more like celebrity news to me. It never affected my daily life. Something to talk about, as remote and untouchable as goings-on at the space station. I got excited about Clinton and he disappointed me, so I'm reluctant to stand up and cheer for anyone. HOWEVER, I would like to be proud of my country again, and I would like to have respect for the person elected president. I don't know if Obama can change the way the world now perceives us, but it is important to hear that he understands the concept. Marching Band McCain and his wooden rendition of God Save the Regime doesn't work for me.

In other news...the girls and I had a fun day at the preview of the new Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park two weeks ago. The Academy officially opened this weekend, and 250,000 people attended. When we were there, I had the feeling that it would eventually grow into its space, but hearing that number (500 admitted every half an hour from a line in which people waited two-and-a-half hours) I'll bet the space was filled out as it was.








We checked out the scene then had a picnic on the green, did some hill-rolling under the Francis Scott Key statue after lunch, and then checked out some more. There are a lot of really cool things to see. I enjoyed watching the skates and rays in the lagoon. I'll probably go back by myself during the week sometime to sit in front of the coral reef and watch the fish. The alligators (crocodiles?) gave us a surprise thrill from the downstairs vantage point. The centerpiece rainforest was still being...forested... when we were there. In fact, I wondered if they'd get it all finished in time, given the number of things being unpacked, assembled, painted and built while we were visiting.

The penguins were cool, if a little surreal. They are situated at the end of the restored "African Hall" which is a display of incredibly skillful and realistic taxidermy of African animals. Sealed completely into their habitat, they appeared as in a giant fish tank. They were friendly and definitely interacted with those of us on the other side of the thick glass, but it was a little confusing to the smaller children. More than one asked why the taxidermied animals weren't alive, and if they were real. Well yes... and no... Maggie repeated our explanation that they were real on the outside, but not on the inside anymore. It's hard to remember that you're not exactly in a zoo. For a first day, it was pretty darn cool. I wasn't sure how much Maggie liked it, until she said, "I wish every day could be like today!"

After flailing around King of Thai on Clement Street, we made our way sleepily home. Ahhh.

Still more to catch up on. Talk to you soon.

Gone Fishing

A couple of Sundays ago, our friends invited us to spend the afternoon at Smith's Trout Farm. The sign in Alexander Valley is one we've passed many times, but it wasn't something we would ever have chosen to explore on our own. In fact, I would have said fishing was close to last on the list of things I like to spend time doing.

As it turns out, we had a pretty darn good time. Smith's Trout Farm is a quaint green oasis that probably hasn't changed much since it was founded in 1940. Little kids can still grab a willow dipper pole for no charge and pretend to fish or actually fish all day long. It's only open on Saturdays and Sundays. Fly-fishermen can practice, but the worm-and-bobber types are in the majority. Everybody catches something. No catch and release: you pay by the fish, and take what you catch, cleaned and iced for you on the spot. So, in addition to the cheeses and myriad snacks we brought, and the hot dogs on the grill for lunch, we had fresh-caught grilled trout. (You kill it; you eat it. Period.) Yes, they're farmed, and no, I don't think they are organic. The adults (ok, just me) seemed far more traumatized than the kids about the whole catching a fish and then killing it routine. Mike proved himself to be a quick and humane fish dispatcher.

I was taught to fish by my dad. After graduating from the plastic toy fishing set in the wading pool in my grandparents Aptos backyard, we were given little kid's poles, which were kept in a closet in the garage with the skis. Sitting by the side of the fishing pond, with a kid in my lap and a pole in my hand, showing her how to cast the line and reel it in slowly, and watch for other poles-- and hooks-- as she walked, I couldn't help but think of fishing in Alaska with my family. My grandparents lived there when I was in elementary school, and when I was 7, we went up for a visit. It is there that I discovered my love of all things shellfish, especially shrimp and crab--king crab and snow crab, with giant spiny legs as long as my arm, full of sweet meat. Now that I think about it, it was probably as much about getting to dip everything in melted butter as it was about the crab itself.

There is a picture somewhere of my sister and I, holding a string of a dozen or so trout, by the side of an Alaskan trout stream/pond. I don't remember being particularly traumatized by the killing of the trout, though I do remember trying to resuscitate some big, beautiful, silvery fish my dad brought home and put in the garage sink some time later. Dad hunted--birds, mainly-- and fished, so there was often something interesting to check out on the back porch or in the garage sink. The cats thought so, too. They demolished a pair of pheasants Dad had waiting on the steps, leaving a trail of beautiful multi-colored feathers, feet and beaks. Pulling the tendons of the severed feet would cause the feet to grip, providing an interesting if slightly gruesome early anatomy lesson.

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the act of fishing. I don't know if I could cast a fly, though I think I could, but I can still throw a baited hook pretty darn well. And though I don't fish for fun as a rule, there was something not primal, but certainly fundamental about it. A generation taking long-standing survival skills from the generation before and handing them down to the next.