Junior Birdsman

It was mid-afternoon in the barn and I was working in my clay studio. This structure, this ship in a grassy sea has a soul, and I'll post in detail about it sometime. But for now I'll focus on the cupola or more to the point of this story, the owl nest within.

A cupola is basically a box with slats that's positioned on top of the roof of a barn. It's designed to vent heat and moisture from the hay in the loft below. Someone long ago decided it would be a good idea to make a roost for owls and sectioned off a third of the cupola with a plywood floor. I have since come to think of this as an idiotic decision, but that too is another post in the making.

I spend a lot of time in the barn and there are constant sounds which have become familiar. In the wind it creaks and moans like an old wooden ship. I hear mice and yes, the occasional rat, although not many of them since we got rid of the chickens. Starlings have a nest in the Southwest corner and have a remarkably complex dialect.

Last weekend this quiet symphony was interrupted by an irregular rustling sound coming from the loft. At first I thought it was a mouse or Starling scurrying about or the occasional bat. But this sounded different, so I cleaned off the clay from my hands and climbed up into the loft to investigate.

Back behind a big sheet of black plastic huddled next to the wall was a fuzzy, all white... thing. I couldn't really make it out at first as the light was dim, but as my eyes adjusted I began to make out a wing and then an eye and a beak. About the time I realized it was a baby owl, it lifted it's wings and turned it's head in a way that can only be described as "alien like". What the hell is it doing!? Is it hurt, in its final death throes, I wasn't sure. Then I realized, even in its tiny infancy, it was trying to look big and fierce by putting on a "don't fuck with me" display (in an alien sort of way).

It was also doing odd things with its head, like lowering it and shaking it back and forth as if to say, "ooooh nooo, this can't be happening!" (See video clip below)

I had two choices. Not to interrupt its fate and let it starve to death on the floor of the loft, as over the years I've seen other baby carcasses lying about. Or call the Humane Society hoping to get some official Owl Person or zealous young volunteer who would enlighten me. "Need to get 'em back in the nest if you can", was the happy suggestion. "They'll hiss at you but aren't too aggressive when approached". Hummmm... really; it's a raptor, I've seen the claws.

Probably a good time to tell you the cupola is just shy of 40 feet above the loft floor. Extension ladder. Does anyone even make a freaking 40' extension ladder!? They do.

OK, let's compare adjacent alternatives:
   Plan A
      Let chick die
   Plan B
   Rent ladder, strap on car, drive car home - check.
   Remove ladder from car, muscle ladder up into loft, extend ladder - check.
   Put chick in shopping bag and strap to hip with caribiner - check.
   Climb ladder - oh.
   Place chick in nest without getting a shredded head - oh my!
   Descend ladder, treat wounds - AM I OUT OF MY MIND!!!

I did it. I gathered up the furry little alien, stuffed him/her in a sack and began ascending the ladder. Did I mention it's a really flexible 40' ladder. The higher I went the springier it got. As my comfort zone evaporated and my muscles tensed, I started moving at about the pace of a three-toed sloth while my wife is yelling, "don't squash the baby!" That I'm even having this experience is a mystery to me at this point.

The unknown lay a few rungs ahead. No hissing, one more rung. Don't look down, just focus on the task at hand. Another rung, head ascending into the cupola - h i s s s s s s s s s s s - Freeze Motherfucker! And I did.

At this moment in time it occurred to me that donning a bike helmet and face shield, an idea I tossed side in my desire to get this over with in a hurry, would have been prudent. Not to mention a safety harness! But I had almost reached the summit of my owl Everest climb and I'd be damned if I was going back down without planting this bird in its nest like a flag on a mountain top. I unclipped the bag, raised it above my head and unceremoniously dumped the owlet in the nest.

The hissing had stopped and since my hand wasn't turned into hamburger at the talon of a pissed off mature owl, curiosity won out and I decided to take a look in the nest. Hell, I'd made it this far and hadn't fallen to my death, why not tempt fate a little more. I ascended one more rung and peeked over the railing and staring me in the face was another, somewhat larger owlet looking as surprised as I was.

He immediately became Suspect #1 in the alleged "accidental" fall from the nest. Had this larger bully nudged his sibling over the edge as a true believer in the survival of the fittest? Family disputes are often better left to the individual members to resolve, so I told them to play nice and made my way shakily down the ladder, hoping the parents would give Johnny a good talking to.

For the last couple of days I've climbed up into the loft (no, not the cupola) looking to see if my little charge had been shoved out again - no sign of it. Would I choose Plan B again if I did find the errant junior birdman wobbling around the loft? I'll keep you posted.

Here's my little friend doing its alien "woe is me" dance

  

One Man's Passing

People die. Those loved ones and friends that remain choose to honor, celebrate, grieve or sometimes ignore a life lived. I was invited to celebrate and acknowledge a man that I had only just begun to know. Most everyone at the gathering were long time friends with stories to tell and many memories. I was a voyeur to an intimate look at a man's life and family that has been so steeped in a loving, thoroughly integrated lifestyle that is so rarely seen in today's frantic rush to have it all, which of course is never enough.

John was a worker of wood in all its manifestations. Carpenter, craftsman, artist, perfectionist. The Westgate's home is a testament to his craftsmanship and love of the medium. The house was made with milled lumber cut from trees on the forested hillside of their property. Bringing in cord wood for the fireplace, a chore for some, was an expression of artistry and an intimacy with the details of tools, trees and the dance between them.

In an adjacent room picture boards of the years gone by. Frozen moments in time giving only a partial glimpse, a hint at the constant thread of their family's DNA code. The man's commitment to a dream, embodied and shared by his partner of 46 years. Soul mates that built a sanctuary for raising a family on the side of a mountain. They have two sons.

Nice story you say. Rare, even quirky by today's standards, and maybe not your cup of tea as a life path. But in death - the beauty of their grieving brought to light the depth of their bond, and that was profound to witness.

The heartfelt eloquence of the youngest son as he spoke of his father. The elder son spoke to his father as his belief is that John was with us in the room. We sat and listened and witnessed their grief as they broke down weeping several times recounting and thanking their father for the lessons they'd learned.

John chose to be cremated, and state law says the body must be placed in a casket. John was not one for flashy expensive things, yet his sons knew in life he would abhor the shoddy, cheap wooden casket the funeral home offered, so they went home to their father's wood shop and began building the casket he would be cremated in. They chose good wood, but not the best stock as John would have admonished them to save it for a project more deserving. What's the sense of burning up a fine piece of cedar?

They made a bed of cedar bows and snowdrops and laced the casket with native flowers from their property. It's said that the western world has a strong aversion to death. Having experienced the programmed efficiency of a funeral home twice I realize, given the altered state of most and the requirement for documentation, that places for "handling" death need to exist. And these places, where bodies are boxed, burned or buried with a briskness designed to avoid the ritual of grieving, seemed a cold alternative to the immersion into grief the Westgate family chose, thereby beginning the mending of their broken hearts.