Basement Labels

Long about 1990 my parents had a few rooms built onto our house (I don't know if that date is exactly correct or not, but I'm sure my mother can tell us all).  Under the new rooms was built a new (unfinished) basement with walls of cool concrete.

I have memories from not long after 1990 (we'll assume this date as the baseline for this story, even if it's wrong), of playing "basketball" in that basement with a pool ball and a hoop made from a cross-section of a cardboard barrel nailed to the wall.  I also used to obsessively run up and down the basement stairs on snow days when I was in junior high and high school.  Even though we couldn't have sports practices with no school, I still felt the need to keep up my conditioning (I was a very strange and committed youngster).

I think some "gladiator" escapades also may have taken place in that basement.  I also remember stacks of Gatorade and Snapple bottles, slowly depleting through the summer and possibly some rendition of "school" (which was probably more reminiscent of prison education than public school - we were never very nice teachers for each other).

Somewhere along the way (sooner than later), the basement filled up with odds and ends.  Literal odds and literal ends.  Each of my parents lost their last surviving parent in the past 10 years, and this has put a severe strain on the basement's seams.  But lest I sound too critical of the basement's capabilities, I should admit that it has been the source of my end (inn) tables, coffee table, silverware, wine glasses, plates, and other items too numerous to catalog.

But as wonderful as it is to have a veritable rummage sale in your parents' basement, I am convinced that there are now items in that basement that none of us can identify or claim responsibility for (dangling prepositions notwithstanding).

My parents have been working on organizing and going through the stacks and stacks of boxes.  That process has resulted in new and revised stacks of boxes.  But this time, the boxes bear informative labels to expedite the search for not-oft-used memorabilia, kitchen gadgets, and toys.  At the bottom of some of the labels, below the (apparently non-exhaustive list) there exists some suggestion similar to "(See complete list on top...)," telling the reader that there is more diversity in there than can possibly be cataloged on an oversized address sticker.

I happen to find some of these labels quite humorous and would like to share with you some examples...

1) "Russian bldg model"  -  For all of those times when we're having a heated discussion about some specific detail of the architecture of a Russian building.  The defendant must leap up and locate this box in order to settle the debate.

2) "Curved baby pillow"  -  For those sweet, blessed curved babies that sometimes cross our paths.  Heaven forbid one should ever be in the house and we be unable to locate this special pillow.

3) "Assorted toys - xylophones"  -  I know that there were three of us and that we didn't always share well, but how many xylophones could we have possibly had?  Perhaps there is another family out there somewhere who also has a box of assorted xylophones, but as far as I know, we are the only ones.

4) "Plastic for winter plants table"  -  This label was actually the impetus for some strife.  One of my parents chose the wording for and wrote the label.  The problem was that the label was written to avoid the brand name printing (for Bounty paper towels or something similar) already on the box.  So, the label came out looking some thing like this:

                                                  Plastic                    for winter                                                          
                                                  plant                           table

The parent who did not write this message, mistakenly thought there was some sort of plastic plant for a winter table in this box and became very confused (perhaps understandably, but I refuse to take sides).
[In the way of an explanation - my mother has several gross of house plants that migrate to the outdoors in the summer and back in again in the winter when they take up their new home on tables (apparently ones covered with special plastic to prevent seepage).]

5) "Round leather table"  -  I truly, honestly have no inkling of what this item is or how one can fit a leather table into a box (not to mention how a table (round or otherwise) can even be made of leather).  My best guess is that it is some sort of code.  I should investigate further sometime and report back.

And this one is my very best favorite of all...

6) "Tiny cleaver"  -  Raise your hand if you own a tiny cleaver?  Have seen a tiny cleaver?  Know someone who has seen a tiny cleaver?  No?  I didn't think so.

This label sub-heading was on a box with the overarching label "Misc. kitchen + dining room items."  So the obvious assumption was that there was truly some sort of miniature cleaver in there, presumably for cleaving tiny meats.

We chuckled at this box for some number of years in between basement purging sessions.  But lo and behold, one day we went through the box, and there was no tiny cleaver to be found.  It was a sad, sad day.  The tiny cleaver was naught but a myth.

There was, however, a very undersized meat tenderizer.  So the conclusion was drawn that a hasty labeler had confused these two kitchen apparati.  The box was duly re-labeled, and we went on with our lives, still sometimes feeling a small ache in our souls where the (fictional) tiny cleaver had lived.

Until one day... my sister and I were shopping for stocking gifts and came across a box of packaged sausages and cheeses - complete with a tiny cutting board and (drumroll) a tiny cleaver!  We had at long last found the infamous tiny cleaver.  We purchased the gift box at once.  And on Christmas Eve, we deposited the tiny cleaver gently into our mother's stocking.

I don't think she got quite as big a kick out of it as we did.  But then again, we may have been inordinately amused by the tiny cleaver in the first place.  It now resides (as far as I know) in a drawer in my parents' kitchen along with the can-opener, corn-holders, fondue sticks, and egg-slicer.  It has not yet been banished to the basement, but no doubt it one day will be.  

Out ridin' fences

4:30a: an early morning thunderstorm (alarm clock reset, sleep gratefully resumed)

(obviously this isn't a photo of a thunderstorm at 4:30a, but of an afternoon one last week)

7:18a: pack cooler full of cold water and Gatorade

7:23a: load truck and leave for Prairie Chicken telemetry

7:44a: see first Common Nighthawk of the day

7:48a: stop for a minute to watch baby bison

7:54a: hop out of the truck while Clint Black's Desperado starts to play on the radio

7:57a: record first triangulation point for today's Prairie Chicken #1

8:00a: glad to be back at work in the field in Kansas

11:45a: run ATV through a too-fresh pile of cow dung and get a bit splattered

11:46a: reassess

11:47a: still glad to be back at work in the field in Kansas

One on One

I have spent the better part of my life being a basketball player.  For those of you living under a rock, basketball is a team sport.  Very much a team sport.  Five on five.  May God have mercy on the weakest link on each team. 

I have recently been watching some grass court tennis and Olympic swimming trials. The head-to-head nature of tennis and swimming makes these two sports very different for me to watch compared to my own sport of choice.

But  I think I may be converting to a head-to-head sport fan.  While the team nature of basketball (along with the essence of the game itself) will always hold some amount of interest for me, I can freely admit that I do not enjoy watching it as much as I used to. 

More and more I find myself attracted to the person-to-person combat of individual sports.  There is something that I find intriguing about what is lurking beyond the surface of the immediately obvious in these races and matches.  The mentality of the participants is a huge part of their success or loss.

It's not that that's not also true to some extent in team sports, but it is possible for a team to do well while one member is struggling.  The same is virtually impossible in an individual sport.

In college, I kept playing basketball long after I stopped really loving the game because I loved my team.  It's not that I didn't want to let them down.  It's that I didn't want to miss being a part of what they were, what we were.  It was worth it.  Every second of it.

 (Well, except maybe those several thousand horrendous seconds when coach kept sending us out of the gym during an early morning practice to come back in more cheerful and full of pep.  And then there was the time when he expected us to run 10 double-downs in 2 minutes because we could all run 5 in 1.  Except for those seconds, I have no regrets.)

Tennis players and swimmers have the ability (or not) to single-handedly best their opponent.  They deal with fatigue, injuries, bad calls, crowds, and intimidation all on their own.

To me, this is impressive.  And I would have to think long and hard about it.  But I might even say that they are the superior athletes because of the mental strength they must possess in addition to their physical assets in order to win.

But my team, my girls... I would not trade my experiences with them for any amount of athletic superiority. 

Second Verse

My last post was almost eight months ago.... (eeks, really?)

Four days after that, my wonderful nephew was born.  I could blame this sweet (not so) little soul for my lack ambition to post to this blog since his arrival.  I could blame him.  But the truth is that it has been an absolute joy to see this little boy pass through the myriad of stages between birth and his imminent eight-month birthday.  

Right around the same time my nephew was born (and my previous post was written), the Beagle started having health issues - recurring blood in his urine.  Sometimes the blood was/is readily observable, sometimes not.  We went to a handful of different vets who did probably dozens of different tests, trying to find a cause for this malady.  None was identified.

And now, eight months later, he probably still has blood in his urine most days, and no one knows why.  His case has been placed into the ever-so-satisfying (insert sarcasm here) diagnostic category of idiopathic renal hematuria.  Which basically means he has blood in his urine but we don't know why, and presumably it's not harmful.

In keeping with this diagnosis, he has not shown any sign of distress or deterioration.  He continues to allow Bean to tell him interesting stories:

And he is patiently getting to know the mobile (and fur-grabbing) CJ as well:

And I have learned not to let it bother me that his urine is sometimes orange or brownish red.

Truth: it still sometimes bothers me; but it never bothers him; so that makes it bother me less...

I could blame my lack of posts on the time I spent worrying about the Beagle's health and bending down to watch him pee (much to the disturbance of my neighbors).  I could blame idiopathy.

Also in the past eight months, I did this:

Now this, this I could definitely blame.  And I think it is where I will load the bulk of said blame.  On the fact that I couldn't bear to sit in front of my computer for any longer than I had to.  That the only words coming out of my fingers were scientific in style.  That 170+ pages don't edit themselves.

I have recently had three friends separately ask me about my blog and why I stopped posting.  I hadn't really thought about it except that it was supposed to be something that was enjoyable, not something that felt like work.  And I guess I needed a break.  But starting back up again doesn't feel like work, so I'm back at it again.

********

Now that the blame has been allocated --> the real post...  

I was sitting around a table with three other folks recently.  We could all hear a bird calling outside a window on this pleasant June day in Kansas.  The bird was calling ceaselessly.  A paraphrased version of the conversation that followed goes something like this:

Bird Listener #1: Do you guys hear that?  That could drive a person crazy.  In fact, it may be driving me crazy right now...  Yes, it is driving me crazy.  The bird has to go.  

Bird Listener # 2: It doesn't both me.  

Me: Me either.  I could listen to it all day.

Bird Listener #2: That would be fine with me too.

Bird Listener #3: I couldn't listen to it all day.  I'd have to shoo the bird away.  

Bird Listener #1: So we two can't handle a continuous, repetitive bird noise, and you two don't mind it?

Bird Listener #2: That's sounds about right.

Me: Yup.  

The table was divided right down the middle.  I cannot precisely identify the personality trait that separated two of us from the other two.  But I do know that I may have an uncommon propensity for listening to things repetitively.  

For instance, I have been listening to this song for the past 80 minutes on repeat:

And I'm not in the least tired of it.  I've had this habit for many years.  I used to drive college roommates crazy (so very sorry girls) by listening to the same song over and over again for the better part of a day.  I can't do this with just any song, but when the mood strikes and the song is right, I hit that repeat 1 button and let the song soak in.  

It is not, in fact, going to rain today.  The forecast is set at 103 with exactly 0% chance of rain.  But Norah Jones' voice is as silky the first time as it is the 28th time.  

So, feel free to weigh in on which side of the table you belong and what freakish thing may be going on in the brains of the repetitive tolerators that keeps them from going crazy when faced with unvaried noise.   

Vision

I sat on the floor of the bathroom.  My niece (21 months) sat on the "big girl potty" having been promised a reward of M&Ms for her effort.  She leafed through magazines the way some people would half-heartedly leaf through a text book before an exam, skipping large chunks at a time, deeming them irrelevant.  

Keeping her occupied during this process is essential to any expectation of success.  It's simple math.  The longer she sits, the more likely it is that something will happen.  And then we celebrate!  

This day, there was no celebration, but I was proud of her anyway.  She came across an ad for a charity that helps to provide surgery for children with cleft palates.  

She paused.  She paused longer than she'd paused for anything else in that (or any other) magazine.

The ad featured photographs of the faces of a dozen or so children - children from Cambodia, Nairobi, India, and other places far away.  

She pointed at each of the youngsters in turn, saying, "Baby, baby, baby..." 

She looked at their faces, studied their expressions.  She sat and thought for a minute.  

Then she twisted her own face up into an expression I'd never seen her make before.  She was trying to imitate the face that she thought the children in the ad were making.  On her, it turned out somewhere between a goofy smile and a grimace.  She giggled.

She was not old enough to understand that they needed help.  

She was not old enough to know that their circumstance could be grounds for exclusion.  

She was not old enough to judge them.  

She was not old enough to know that she could do these things.  

She had the sincerity to see those children as no different than her.  

She had the openness to see nothing wrong when she looked at them. 

She had the kindness to see people, not problems.

She had the simplicity to see that she could smile back.   

We should all be so lucky - both to have that quality in our own vision and to be looked upon that way.

Interrupting starfish

Have you heard the interrupting starfish joke?  If not, ask me sometime, and I'll tell it to you (or find a 9-year old and ask him or her).  

On my last several runs, I have been the interrupting biped to three or four deer standing peacefully along the trail.  Each time, they seem singularly unconcerned with my approach.

The trail is covered in many places with fallen leaves so that as I run along, I don't even recognize the deer blending in with the fall browns until I am already fairly close.

At that point, I become aware of the subtle white edge of their drooping tails.  They are so unconcerned with my approach that they stand, watching me come nearer while their tails hang down in calm.  Eventually, they turn their dark eyes on me, flip up their white-flag tails, and silently step down off the trail, in no particular hurry.  They disappear into the brush before I get to the spot where they stepped down.

They make no pretense of not being aware of my inferior running ability (even among other bipeds, my running ability is inferior) and do not perceive me as a threat.  Perhaps they can see that I do not run with a rifle.

And that the Beagle would rather roll in the leaves than chase them.  Actually, that's a lie - he would definitely rather chase them.  The deer must understand that a leashed beagle is a safe beagle (when the biped he is running with does not carry a rifle).  

Last night as I ran, I watched my tall shadow fall to my left onto the thin line of brush and trees that separates the trail from the farm fields.

For the record, this is not to my left but to my right.  But it is the only photo I have of the line of brush and trees.

A while ago the fields looked like this.

Then this.  

And then this.

And now, the fields are empty.  Empty of their crop, at least. Now they are full to the brim with cool, dusty air.  The cool, dusty air that flows in and out of my lungs as I can't help but think of how it does so differently in birds' lungs and how my metabolism is turning certain things into certain other things and how my muscle filaments are ratcheting against one another with each step and how no normal person should be thinking of these things as she runs.

And then I hear "Into the Mystic" in my ears, and my brain shuts up and listens to the music.  And the air hanging over the empty fields is just cool, heavy air.  And the birds are just birds.  And my muscles and metabolism are just affording me movement.     

Go ahead

Go ahead Bean.  Write the rest of that dissertation right on up.

If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen scrubbing the dish drying rack clean (which is what I did yesterday as a new all-time low for writing distraction).

The season of spider webs and cicadas

I took a short trip recently, and upon my return, I found that Fall had arrived at my house.  This coincided nicely with the first day of October.  Fall is my favorite season, but I do not appreciate the shortening days.

The Beagle has marked the end of his own private cicada hunting season.  They're no longer around like they were a few weeks ago.  For some reason (maybe it's the satisfying crunch), Maximilian took special joy in searching for and consuming as many cicadas as possibly this late summer.  Sometimes he would get upwards of four or five a day by my count (and that doesn't even include the ones he nabs sneakily enough for me not to notice).

He pursued them like a cat would a mouse.  I have not known dogs to be avid eaters of insects.  But Maximilian clearly lacks some chiton in his regular diet and needed to make up for that by foraging on his own time.

As we walked through the fields near where I live, the cicadas would buzz in alarm and take flight to get away from us.  The Beagle snagged a few in mid-air.  Our walks through the tall grass were fraught with the pummeling of fairly large invertebrates against my skin and clothes.  You get used to it after a while.

But now, those same walks are characterized by peaceful butterflies floating around some of the last flowers of the season.  They're much more calming than the pelting of their heavier cousins.  On today's walk, in fact, I had the sensation of shepherding a flock of butterflies (I think what was really happening is that they were fleeing from my advance at a pace that seemed leisurely but was really their third or fourth gear).

To me, there is a close association between cicada season and spider web season.  This year the majority of my experience with spider webs was with running on my usual trail.  I do not blame the spiders for choosing the trail as the place at which to build their webs.  It is convenient - in width and general bugginess - and beautiful.  Who wouldn't want to make a home there (however temporary).  But I cannot exactly say that I enjoy getting face after sweaty faceful of spider web as I run along the trail. 

I often considered carrying a stick in front of my face with which to combat the spider webs, but echoes of my grandfather screeching at us for running with anything remotely sharp prevented it.  In the end, I just dealt with the spider webs as necessary.  

But now that neither the spiders or cicadas are here to deal with in large numbers,  I can make my walks and runs without fear of 1) rather large, flying insects zooming about willy nilly and 2) ropes of proteinaceous spider silk smashing into my face and arms.  A definite sign of fall.  

And now it is time for me to go tend to the homemade pizza in the oven (which gave me this time to sit down and write something new).  Depending on how it turns out, the pizza may make the blog in the near future.  

Birds: Part III

More birds on this Sunday morning.  Let the theme be... sparrows!

Near and dear to my heart more than any other group of birds.  I'm firmly in their corner when it comes to defending them against people who think of them only as "Little Brown Jobs."  Sacrilegious, I say. 

This is a Nelson's Sparrow. She's a female that my mosquito-bitten field helper and I stumbled upon while we were looking and listening for males to try to target net in wet, marshy meadows at the mouth of the Moose River in northern Ontario.  She must have had a nest nearby because she was unhappy that we were near and tried to distract us and lure us away from her nest by flitting around from one side of us to another.  

We set up the mist net, and after some strategic chasing, we captured, banded and sampled her.  This photo was snapped before she was captured.  It drove poor Randy crazy that I was taking pictures before we'd captured her, but I really had no doubt that she would not fly away - she wouldn't leave her nest.  And it is a very rare thing to be so close to these birds when they're out in the open.  I couldn't miss the chance to get a shot.

Her stats (for anyone even slightly interested): blood mercury = 0.32 ppm; breast feather mercury = 0.61 ppm; first primary feather mercury = 6.74 ppm.  She weighed 15.5 grams, and her bill was 9.0 mm from nares (nostril) to tip.  For the sake of reference, the U.S. EPA prefers that women of child-bearing age having blood mercury levels lower than 0.006 ppm.  If you do the math, this lady sparrow had a blood mercury concentration over 50 times as high as what the EPA would recommend if she were human. Scary thought.   

These are Seaside Sparrows - close cousins to the Nelson's Sparrow above.  These guys (I don't really know if they're guys, but if you can't tell one way or the other, every sparrow gets called a guy) were captured during the non-breeding season near Wrightsville Beach, NC.  

Saltmarsh (left) and Nelson's Sparrows captured during the non-breeding season in NC.  Saltmarsh Sparrows are close relatives to both Seasides and Nelson's.  They all belong in the same genus.  Still think these guys are Little Brown Jobs?  

Another sparrow relative - the Savannah Sparrow.  Savannahs are found in a different genus from the marshy sparrows above.  I caught them sometimes in the marshes along with Nelson's, Saltmarsh and Seaside Sparrows, but I just photographed them and let them go.  No poking and prodding for them.  

These two are White-crowned Sparrows - male (above) and female.  They belong to yet another sparrow genus and were photographed in New Mexico.  

Unlike the colorful birds I posted about last time I was writing about birds (for fun), sparrows have a different specialty.  Subtlety.   And for that, I give them kudos.   

Beannacht

I didn't write this, but I wish I had...

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

 

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

 

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

 

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

 

- John O'Donohue 

My favorite part?  Quite possibly, the currach of thought.  The slow wind is a good contender though. Beannacht is Gaelic for "blessing."  So happy Wednesday and bennacht to all.