For The Birds

When my daughter was a toddler, she was terrorized by a bunch of mallards. It’s not unheard of. Lots of people have been left emotionally scarred by ducks. Just look at Huey, Louie, and Dewey. The triplets might have been angels if not for the bad-tempered influence of their uncles, Scrooge McDuck and Donald. I know the feeling. Once, when I was a kid, I tried to disguise a bad word by doing an imitation of Donald and I still got my mouth washed out with soap.  

Ducks have a dark side, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As long as they float around placidly in some unprotected public pond, everybody thinks they’re adorable. Moms stand their toddlers on the banks of that waterhole, taking pictures while their babies toss out breadcrumbs until the bag is empty. Giggling at the antics of the splashy little showboaters, people completely forget they’re only seeing one side of these birds. It’s easy to do. As long as you’re rewarding them with attention, they’ll put on one heck of a show. 

But when you’re all out of bread and the kiddos have run out of steam and you head to the car with your worn-out little munchkins, that’s when everything changes. Their SeaWorld imitation is over. Suddenly, an entire herd of Hydes will emerge from that black lagoon, and on tiny, impossibly strong and waterlogged legs, they will chase you down like they were lions on safari.

And that’s why my daughter still hates birds. As a two-year-old she was nearly pecked to pieces by wild, cranky ducks. Thank goodness we stopped laughing long enough to pick her up and rescue her. We’re just lucky she doesn’t hate us.

I think birds have the innate capacity to bring out both admiration and loathing in humans. We’re astonished at the way hundreds of them all fly in V formations as they head south for the winter, lacking both internet access and a roadmap. I wish I knew how they pull that off. I can’t even find my way out of a grocery store parking lot most of the time.

But every morning this summer as I opened the sliders to my back patio, arms laden with a steaming mug of cocoa, a plate of biscuits, my water bottle, a pair of reading glasses, and my cellphone, as I approached the glass table top—where I planned to set all of that down before I sat myself down—I found it covered in bird poop, deposited overnight by a bunch of selfish grackles homesteading in the ash tree overhead. Finally, after a week of this disgusting behavior, as I cleaned off their crap again, I yelled up into the massive branches where they were hiding, “The next time you do this I’m gonna get my gun and there will be Bird Soup for dinner! Tell your little friends!”

It was an empty threat, and they knew it. The truth is, if someone served me soup made from a bunch of poopy blackbirds, I’d throw up.

I don’t hate every bird. There’s a curious roadrunner who’s been visiting my house every day for months. He squeezes past the fence post into my enclosed back patio and stares at me through the sliding glass doors as if I’m the one behind bars. Or maybe he’s checking out his own reflection, hoping the female in the mirror thinks he’s good looking, too. The neighbors call him Rudy, but I named him Pete because everybody knows Pete is a better name for a roadrunner.

I like Pete. I like roadrunners. They’re not your ordinary bird. They eat bugs and overpower rattlesnakes. They’re primitive about it, kind of like Cro-Magnon man. Not having ten fingers with which to aim a rifle, instead they grab their prey with their beaks and smash the nasty vipers against a rock. That makes them a hero in my book, so having a roadrunner around is a great idea. It means there won’t be any rattlesnakes around. Also, I’m pretty sure Pete doesn’t poop. Not on my table, anyway. Pete has manners.

And then there are the comedian birds with lousy radar. They don’t fly south for the winter, I assume, because they have no sense of direction. Also the reason I don’t fly south for the winter. What these guys do instead is fly south into my front windows, nearly every afternoon, head first. My windows aren’t even clean, in part because there are feathered faceplants all over them, so they have no excuse for not seeing that there is a window attached to that house. They’re just not paying attention. While their inner voice is screaming, “Pull up! Pull up! For the love of God and all that is holy, pull up!” they flaunt their feathers instead and push ahead full throttle, convinced there’s no such thing as a glass barrier they can’t fly through.

So far, no birds have been harmed in the making of beaked imprints on my windows. Nor has their self-confidence been impaired. Tomorrow afternoon they’ll slam into them all over again, shake it off, and determine that if they keep on trying that glass ceiling will shatter for them. It won’t, because birds bounce, but they’ll forget that. Also, I now know where the term “bird brain” comes from.

So, what have we learned? Ducks are despicable and dangerous to two-year-olds. Grackles are as useless as roaches and have the manners of Gordon Ramsay. Roadrunners are our friends and I’d like them even better if they ate scorpions more of the time because there don’t seem to be any rattlesnakes around here. And finally, the reason I never wash my windows is not because I’m lazy. It’s because it’s pointless.

Tune in next time when I discuss the pros and cons of our politicians. Talk about bird brains.

With thanks to Nigel for snapping the stellar photo seen above. The original can be viewed with this link:  IMG_6070-4 | Wood Duck Attack ! | Nigel | Flickr

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Dusty. Noisy. A little on the chilly side. Their faces obscured in the dim light of evening, throngs of people clumped together, shivering. Wanderers in the night, they picked their way carefully across rough ground. Laughter and conversation melded together with the occasional bray of a donkey and cry of a baby, while the scent carried on the breeze was a blend of hot cider and manure. Not your typical Christmas cocktail. Fortunately, the food court was a safe distance away from the animal stalls.

High above the back lot of the Methodist Church, the Star of Bethlehem rose thirty feet in the air and, like everyone else, we followed it in search of the Christ Child.

It was a festival atmosphere where multiple churches came together in interfaith cooperation and provided an evening of free food and hot drinks, hayrides around the property, live music, a petting zoo, and a living nativity where we found Mary and Joseph and the rest of the cast squeezed tightly together inside a tented enclosure, suffering perhaps from a smidge of claustrophobia and a side of stage fright. It seemed authentic to me. I’ve always suspected that’s how it really was, considering the way Luke described the scene when the shepherds arrived. “And they came with haste and found Mary and Joseph and the babe lying in a manger.” It must have been crowded in that manger, just like the live nativity in front of us. But the little Lord Jesus, no crying he made.

We made our way over to a semi-circle of folding chairs where a man stood before a microphone reading the Christmas story. You’re still wondering about King James’ wording in Luke, right? Or the way I interpret things? I can’t help it. Things like that just stand out to me sometimes. Like the nugget I picked up listening to the reading of the scripture. Turns out, Gabriel and Michael aren’t the only angels named in the Bible. There’s at least one more, and Luke is the only one who gives him credit, right there in chapter two. If you ask me, it’s about time this one got some street cred for showing up. “And Lo, the angel of the Lord, came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid.”

It's not one you hear every day, but I predict it will soon become as trendy as Gabriel and Michael in next year’s list of most popular baby names. And when it does, remember you heard it here first. Lo. The angel who scared the shepherds.

Also, your grammar teacher was right. Commas matter.

By now my back was hurting and, as I settled onto one of the folding chairs, my daughter followed after her kids and their friends who wanted to hitch a ride on some hay bales that a John Deere tractor was busy pulling around the parking lot. As soon as the narrator finished speaking, he disappeared, and a woman set up her music at the electric keyboard facing us. The choir lined up in rows behind her and a teenaged boy snugged up to his cello where he sat beside the pianist. The choir director raised her arms, the accompaniment began, and thirty young people began to sing.

It was my favorite Christmas carol. And it seemed as if they were singing just for me—the lonely widow staring down the third Christmas without her darling, daring to let her heart experience a few of the traditions she enjoyed for years with a husband she still can’t believe is gone. 

The young vocalists sang their hearts out while stragglers wandered by, oblivious to the performance, busily chatting and drinking their cider, kicking up dirt and ignoring the concert. In the distance, the sound of a diesel engine with its load of delighted, noisy passengers added to the patchwork feel of the festival’s array of Christmas events, but a small audience grateful for a place to sit listened to the words of a song which had been running through my mind for weeks. The choir stood front and center through it all, backlit by all the dust in the air, as if a fog machine was cloaking them in ethereal billows of tan.

And I wondered if miracles are always overshadowed like this, sent out into a world that isn't sure what to believe, easily distracted by artificial lights and cotton candy and face paint. The choir sang the words, the pianist played her keys, but it was the mournful tones of the cello that captivated me. Amid the flurry of crowds of people on their way to experience something else, the cellist played haunting notes that spoke to us of a promise fulfilled and hope restored. And I sat there on my folding chair in the grimy darkness and wept. From my broken heart. For my broken dreams. And for this song which I longed to hear this Christmas.

“Oh, come, Oh, come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to Thee, O Israel.”

The cellist played every note a tempo while the pianist supported his interpretation. The passion imparted by the instrument was the same mosaic of longing created by the composer, and one that I feel in my soul every day since the moment Rob died. A desire for answers, for rescue, for reunion, for redemption. As my son often reminds me, it’s a yearning for God to make right everything that has gone wrong in His world. And, somehow, too, in mine.

The cellist drew his bow one last time across his instrument and as the haunting note faded, the spell was broken, and we headed home. Soon all the musicians and actors and animals would follow suit. Instruments packed up. The manger stored away for another year. Leftover food and beverages sent home with anyone willing to take some. Lights all shut down, the parking lot empty. There was no apparent reason for even an angel named Lo to hang back and hover, announcing to a weary world that God is with us in our troubles.

Except that I need that reminder. I needed to hear it that night. In the melancholy voice of a young man's cello I heard the echo of my own heart’s cry for Emmanuel, God With Us. I needed to know I am seen in the moments when I feel invisible. That I am heard though heaven is silent. In the middle of a dusty, noisy assortment of holiday entertainments, the cellist’s bow sang for me and all others for whom Christmas no longer feels like the most wonderful time of the year.

This is why Jesus came. To become one of us. To ransom the captives and set us free from all the broken places where life has taken us. He knows how we feel. He suffered here, too.

Oh come, Oh come, Emmanuel. To all of us who follow Bethlehem's star where it shines above the  back lot of the Methodist Church, directly into the face of the Christ Child.

The one who came to forever be With Us.

It Wasn't Me

Boy, is she in big trouble. 

I don’t know what got into her this week. Not only is there no excuse for her behavior (since she couldn’t give me one,) but if she doesn’t straighten up, she’s gonna be out of a job.

I gave her a task yesterday while I went into my office to write. I closed the door so she wouldn’t interrupt me, and we both went to work. By the time I was done, it was nearly dark. She’d already finished and returned home. I went to the living room windows to close the blinds and there, on the floor at my feet, lay my best houseplant, upside down, dumped in a heap, tendrils all twisted and broken, gasping for . . . whatever plants gasp for. Water and potting soil bled together when she fell, creating a miserable, muddy mess all over the floor. I have no idea how long this went unnoticed.

It’s not like I’m some kind of plant lady with mad gardening skills. Most of my plants are factory warranted. Those are my favorites. They don’t need water or food or fish gut juice, thank goodness. And gross. Their one weakness is they need to be dusted. In my opinion, that’s just asking too much. I prefer plants that thrive on neglect. I just don’t know where to get one of those.

But somewhere I read that if you can keep a hardy green plant alive, it'll reward you by absorbing toxins from the air and repurposing them into carbon dioxide or something. Don’t quote me. I may have that backwards, but it’s close enough. So, three little orphaned green things, which shall remain nameless because I have no idea what any of them are, sit in their own pots in my great room, waiting for me to remember to water them. Week after week after boring week. So, I do. I don’t like it, but it’s better than running out of carbon dioxide.

I don’t know if there was some kind of conflict that went down this week while I was busy writing my first famous and unbelievably successful future novel. There did appear to have been a struggle. I’ll admit, this plant is already something of a drama queen. Even though she lay at my feet looking sad and pathetic and possibly dead, it’s not the first time she’s been there. If I don’t water her once a week or notice when her foliage looks feeble, she tips over in a thirsty faint like she's Scarlett O'Hara and falls to the floor all by herself. She’s done that twice now. She did it night before last, in fact. But I swept her up like I was her personal Rhett Butler and carried her lifeless form to the kitchen where, right there at my farm sink, she miraculously resuscitated. So, there’s no need for you to go and turn me in to the local nursery or some antebellum neighborhood watch. She was drunk with water and happy as a lark the last time I saw her.

There was absolutely no reason for her to simply fall over yesterday afternoon, weighed down as she was by all the liquid she guzzled the night before. It was embarrassing how much she drank. All I could think as I stared at her twisted, lifeless form was she’d been thrown to the ground against her will, which couldn’t have been easy as bloated as she was. Oh, the humanity. But who was the perpetrator of this random act of violence? I sure didn't do it.

If I had to guess, it looked like the work of a family pet, but I don’t have one. I don’t even own a goldfish. Looking around the quiet space, my eyes finally came to rest on the only possible suspect who could be responsible for this crime. It was the silence that gave her away. There, in the corner, feigning innocence and refusing to make eye contact, she sat quietly at home, pretending she had no idea what had happened to my desecrated plant thing.

I leaned over to give her a performance review, smacked her with a rolled-up newspaper, and yelled, “Bad, bad Roomba!”

I knew it was her, the cranky little floor sucker. I've watched her race around the room doing figure eights like an ice skater, sailing to and fro between the baseboards until she bounces off the kitchen cabinets. Then she flies across the living room rug, circling the area in a pattern that can only be described as “two-year-old scribble.”  But this time she went too far. It all made sense. As she rounded the wall near my piano, she inhaled the long, formerly leafy vines that used to cascade elegantly from my houseplant to the floor, and chewed them up, yanking the entire plant down beside her.  

The glutton. No one told me she’s a vegetarian. I would definitely have opted for a different model if I’d known that. 

Perhaps I have myself to blame. I went through the room before I turned her loose on it, moving curtains and blanket corners out of the way, but I never once thought about my innocent little neurotic plant. In all these months since I welcomed Roomba into my home, she’s never before tried to eat it.

Until this week. I guess the honeymoon is over.

The frustrating part, though, is that I can’t prove a thing. There was no mud clinging to her exterior. No perlite pieces plugging her sensors. She wasn't even wet. My Ring doorbell could have videotaped the atrocity, but it only invades the privacy of visitors when they stop by. I haven’t even had the courage to empty her trash compartment yet to search for evidence. I don’t think I could stomach it.

So, what am I to do with this incorrigible machine? This purported time-saver that regularly costs me peace and creates aggravation. Vacuum my own floors? You must be kidding. Hire a real live housekeeper? How would I explain that to my accountant? Roomba didn't even flinch when I gave her a swat with my performance review. I think we all know who the real boss is here.

I'm out of options. I think the only answer is to take down my curtains, give away my throw blankets, and toss out all three plants. But if I die from a lack of carbon dioxide in my own home, promise me you’ll kick Roomba to the curb for me. And don’t let her make you feel guilty for doing it.

She had it coming.

With thanks to Thomas H. for capturing the innocent face of the cutie pie seen above who did not attack my house plant, and allowing me to use the photo here. Fooled you, didn't I? The original photo can be viewed at this site: 

Guilty | Thomas H | Flickr