And the Winner Is...

One morning preoccupation here is bird watching.  With spring nudging forward and winter grasping at its last days, Herb filled the bird feeder and cleaned the wren houses.   Birds sweep across our yard from tree to shrub and fight for position on the feeder.  Grackles bully robins;  robins bully sparrows; sparrows bully wrens.  Our year-long, non-migrating Cardinals, snug in the Arborvitae and Cedars, cope by ignoring most all the migrating birds, with the exception of the finches.

At this time of year, grackles predominate, although if we sit still, we might spy a towhee or a woodpecker.  Even though marble-sized hail pelted the ground this afternoon and weather stations forecast snow for tomorrow, the grackles are gathering and squabbling over sticks, strips of vines, and dried grass stems.

This morning a grackle shot across the deck with a long stream of ornamental grass in its beak.  On this enterprising bird's tail were two other grackles in a high speed chase of aerial tag.  Presumably, now that the first bird had discovered the twenty-four inch stem of grass and lifted it skyward where it trailed gracefully behind the speeding bird, the other birds sought to gain an advantage.

Was I watching a game of tag, of good-natured theft? Or outright bird bullying, as in, may the spoils go to the victor?

Yesterday morning, my neighbor created a mini-scavenger hunt for my two grand-children.  She hid a box of Girl-Scout cookies in the hollow of a tree on her property then called to tell me to tell them to look for a surprise at the base of a large tree.  Off they went, running and shouting. "Wait for me!" and "Me first!"

Soon they returned. "Which tree?"

"A  big one!" I said.

"But all the trees are big!"

"Really?!  I guess you'll have to look under all of them."

Later they came limping in the back door, she in tears, and he, the big brother, lecturing her about consequences.  They had found the box of cookies.  One box of cookies requires cooperation when two children are involved.  Apparently, she had asked to carry the cookies and said she would give them right back, then didn't.  He  decided to take them back, but she resisted.  Down she went onto the driveway!  And now she was in tears, and he was defending his position.

I took possession of the cookies, squelched the argument, and sent them outside to play.  Their lingering aggression played out in a game of tag. They chased each other unmercifully until they were laughing.  When they came inside, they wrote a thank you note to the neighbor, walked the note to the base of the tree, and called her to tell her to look for a surprise in a big tree.  I confess I played a mediator's role, but they were agreeable clients, once eating the cookies depended upon a workable  peace treaty.

As an elder adult, I'd like to believe I'm above seeking advantage and playing theft or harassment games.  But....I could identify with the birds and the children.

When Herb heads upstairs to the office to our shared computer, I feel an urge to race ahead and beat him to the chair.  I'm not sure we could peacefully share one vehicle.  He'd be hanging around in Lowe's when I wanted to go to Talbot's.  We shared one TV for a year until I gave up and bought another one so I could escape marathon football and basketball broadcasts.

Would I be the bird with the stem of grass racing ahead of her trackers?  I'd sure try.  I'd want to be the one to discover that graceful material and fly it to a fork in a shrub.  I've given up grabbing things away from others, but haven't weaned myself from plotting an advantage.  Nor have I reached the "letting go" stage that I required of my grand-children.  After all, I did purchase a second TV when I couldn't quite let go of my TV desires.  Giving the new TV to Herb for Christmas didn't exactly absolve me.

I'm still wondering which bird won the race.  As to the remaining cookies, the children's mother thought it best to leave them with us.  She didn't want to referee cookie wars.  As to spring or winter, winter wins this week.  The daffodils droop under wet snow, and the birds have disappeared into the hemlocks and cedars.  We can hear them, but we can't see them.

Blest Be the Tie that Binds

Anything can happen.  We all know this.  We can be driving peacefully down a highway and suddenly there's a skunk in the road.  

So when my half-sister called the other evening as I was rolling chicken in breadcrumbs, my first reaction was to guard myself -- because this sister rarely calls and then usually about something gone awry.  Perhaps my step-mother was ill, but if so, why did my sister sound so cheery?

"Is everything all right?" I asked.

"Oh yes, we're fine."  

Some people get right to the point, to our great relief.  But this sister does not.  And so, I put my iPhone on "speaker" and laid it on the counter.  I put the breaded chicken into the oven, trimmed brussel sprouts, and sautéed onions and peppers -- all while she led me to the family storage pod in Northern California, sorted through furniture, disposed of heirlooms, and carted off memorabilia.  

"And guess what?  You won't believe what we found!  Boxes of, guess what!?"

"What?"  I was, by now, sweeping the floor. Dinner guests would be knocking at our door in ten minutes.  

"Dad's ties!  Three boxes of them!  Isn't that wonderful!?  Do you want some of them?"

Ah ah!  Finally to the point.  Dad's ties.  Dad's ties from, ostensibly, 1938 to 1984, from when he began working until he retired. Forty-two years of ties, worn everyday except Saturday.  Boxes of vintage ties: hand printed silk ties from the forties, thin geometrics from the fifties, wide paisleys and plaids from the sixties, disco ties from the seventies, flowers and reps from the eighties.  

Suddenly his ties scrolled in my head:  one with a tropical scene of flamingoes on azure,  one with ducks flying across a rust background, and one with tiny horseshoes aligned diagonally on black.  I remembered black ties with tiny red dots and blue ties with thin silver stripes. 

Before I was ten, I knew how to tie a Half-Windsor.  When dressing for work, Daddy would hang a tie on a door knob. I would tie it; then he would inspect it and slip it around his neck under his crisply starched white collar. If he ever redid the knot, I never knew it.  

As far back as I can remember, I gave ties to Dad for Father's Day until I was a mother.  I may have chosen the tropical flamingoes when I was six-years-old.  The cowboy motif would have been from the 1950's when he bought me a sorrel mare to ride.   In the 1960's I would have chosen somber geometrics befitting his respectful status as a businessman and church leader.  By the 1970's my children helped choose ties for the men in our family, but it was a hectic time: gifts were haphazard. 

Dad retired, boxed up his ties, and moved from city life to ranch life.  After that, he usually wore plaid shirts and denim.  For years we sent him plaid shirts until we realized he had more than he could reasonably wear.

And then he died.

Sixteen years younger than I, my half-sister lives another life, 2,270 miles away.  We grew up in separate families, cemented by our father's genes and his dominating presence.  He still shows up in the most unexpected ways to command our attention.  

"Do you want some of the ties? " She asked.  

I was thinking.  What would I do with them?

"You could wear them.  I wore one of his ties after he died. It was like having him near."

Still thinking.

"You should have them. You could make a quilt or textile art piece."

Still thinking.

"This is such a great discovery.  You know, I don't even have a sample of his handwriting."

I thought, I do.  He wrote letters to my children. "Yes, send me some ties.  I'd like them.  I really would.  Thank you."

Blessed Be the Tie that Binds  --words by John Fawcett, 1782

Blessed be the tie that binds 

Our hearts in Christian love; 

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like that to that above.

Before our Father's throne 

We pour our ardent prayers;

Our fears, our hopes, our aims are one 

Our comforts and our cares.

We share each other's woes,

Our mutual burdens bear;

And often for each other flows 

The sympathizing tear.

When we asunder part,

It gives us inward pain; 

But we shall still be joined in heart,

And hope to meet again.

This glorious hope revives 

Our courage by the way; 

While each in expectation lives, 

And longs to see the day.

From sorrow, toil and pain, 

And sin, we shall be free,

And perfect love and friendship reign 

Through all eternity.

Somewhere over the Rainbow

Auntie Em: Help us out today and find yourself a place where you won't get into any trouble! 
Dorothy: A place where there isn't any trouble. Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto? There must be. It's not a place you can get to by a boat or a train. It's far, far away. Behind the moon, beyond the rain... 
[begins to sing "Over the Rainbow"] 
--from The Wizard of Oz



When my daughter and her husband leave with us their children -- a grandson age nine and a grand-daughter age six --  they entrust us with precious treasure.  I feel keenly responsible, a feeling that is visceral and adrenal.  I'm happy, but also alert.  

These two children play like frolicking puppies, teasing, chasing, and squealing.  Well behaved, they usually respond to gentle reminders because they love to please.  They are clever and confident children.

And they love ice cream.

After their piano lessons one evening as I was driving them home, I decided to stop at Kroger for milk, fruit, and ice cream. 

"We'll get the ice cream last," I said.  "We can only get one kind, so you'll have to agree on a flavor."

"Chocolate!" They sang out.

Imagine a nine and six year old in front of the ice cream section in Kroger.  An eager duet, they read aloud the flavors.  Rocky Road, Dutch Chocolate, Neapolitan, Chocolate Chip, Mint Chip, Cookies and Cream, Cherries Jubilee...

The grandson first suggested Mint Chip. "Yuck!"  said his sister. Then she rejected Rocky Road, "Nuts! You hate nuts!" She grabbed Neapolitan because it was pink and striped with chocolate.

"Not that one.  Let's get Cookies and Cream."

And so we proceeded to the Self-check out where I began scanning items.  

"Oma, she's gone!" said my grand-son.

"What? Gone!?"

"She went back to get more ice cream."  He looked horrified.  

I would need to leave the items on the scanner and go after her.  As I turned, my grandson took off ahead of me.  He's in cross country.  I'm not.  Now I had two grand-children out of sight.  

By the time, I rounded the corner of the freezer section, they were coming toward me, she with three cartons of ice cream in her arms, and he with a disgusted look on his face.

"She won't put them back," he said.

We returned the extra ice cream.  I scolded her for running off, which also meant I had to remind her of safe behavior.  My mind flashed to child snatchers lurking in grocery stores at eight o'clock at night just waiting for a curly headed, pink cheeked six-year-old distracted by shelves and shelves of yummy ice cream.

A confident creature, she looked innocently at me and said, "What else can I do?" as in, I came back, what else do you want?

"I want you to stick to me even when we get home!  I'll tell you when you can go. Is that clear?"

On the way home, I could hear her soft sniffles in the back seat of the car. 

Grand-parenting is all deja vu.  

Suddenly I was six years old in Macy's in San Francisco shopping with my mother.  The department store had elevators and five or six floors.  I became distracted by all the bling in the jewelry section.  One minute my mother was there, the next she wasn't.  At first, I wasn't afraid. She had to be nearby.  I would find her.  The more I looked, the more lost I became, until hot tears ran down my cheeks.

A sales lady knelt down and asked me my name.  I knew not to talk to strangers.  Terrified now, I sobbed uncontrollably.  In the office, where she led me, people tried to console me and learn my name, or my mother's name.  They finally gave up and announced over the store intercom, "Would the mother of a lost child please come to the office."

A few minutes later, two mothers showed up.

I too lost a daughter once--in Disney World for half a day.  She went out one door of a restroom, I the other.  After hours of frantic searching, I finally found her sitting at a bus stop.  "You take the bus, so I knew you would find me."  She was seven years old.  I had never known such terror and relief was possible.

Let's not discuss, please, my hiking adventure in the Rockies at age 68, when I veered from a main trail, lost my bearings at 11,000 feet, and had to be guided out by a rescue squad before dark set in and bears ate me.

All things considered, I decided the other night I might need a little check-up regarding my own whereabouts.  "Herb, do I sometimes wander off?"  

"All the time, Love, all the time.  You'll be right here beside me, and I won't have a clue where you've gone."