Wild Life

Six days now and no sign of our hummingbirds at the feeders. I think it’s safe to conclude that they are off on their journey southward with other avian migrants. Although I did get a mild surprise two days ago when a great blue heron rose out of a small marsh as I pedaled by. I thought they’d all left by now.

As I wondered at the hardships that must be associated with migration – the physical tolls, the searching for food in unfamiliar territories, the new threats from new predators, I mused. If birds were capable of thought, they might look at us, the creatures who remain behind, and think: Fools! Don’t they know what’s coming? Plunging temperatures, snow, ice, howling winds enough to freeze their marrows? Why aren’t they coming with us?

At least that’s what I think a bird would think if a bird thought.

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It’s funny what sticks with you from a given moment in time. Nearly twenty years ago I was listening to a rehab counselor go on at length about one thing or another when he unloaded a quote on me:

Forgiveness means giving up all hope of having a different past.

Anonymous

Hmmmmmmm. I chewed on that for a while and as I was doing so its message became embedded. It is now a permanent part of my mental makeup/tools.

If you hang around me long enough I may very well spring it on you one day and then it may become your problem as well. I don’t know about you, but for me it is painful being forced to think, what with the furrowing of the forehead and all.

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MORE REASONS NOT TO COMPLETELY DESPAIR ABOUT THE DEPLORABLE STATE OF COUNTRY MUSIC

I think I’m gonna stop this segment for now. After this one. But you get the idea. It’s just that the c**p that comes on country radio when you are traveling and bored would make you think that mindless jingoistic nonsense is all that there was to the genre.

But there are thoughtful, intelligent people telling their stories all over country music, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly, we just have to look for them. Jason Isbell is one such person. He can, on the fly, construct an entire sentence that contains no references to pickup trucks or beer.

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Reading about the college president who was ousted when he sexted a student, I realized that I have never considered indulging in this peculiar avenue of self expression. Sexting came along too late in life for me to reasonably take part.

However, the other day I happened to muse out loud on the subject and within minutes the police had come to my house and confiscated my phone. When I went before the judge to get it back, I had to make her a promise never to even mention the subject again, because the very idea of me sending out politically incorrect selfies was making my neighbors nauseous.

A medical photographer was then called in to take whole body nude photographs of me which were fed into the FBI’s facial recognition software. Apparently it’s not only faces this equipment can identify.

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The weather in Paradise is sooo sweet these days, for everybody except those who like to lay out in the sun and incubate the baby melanomas in their skin. Temps are in the 70s in the daytime, 40s at night. Excellent. Neither air conditioning nor furnaces are required to be comfortable. It does mean that on my bicycle trips around town I wear an extra layer. Wind chill and all that, you know.

The color change of the leaves is continuing at a measured pace. We haven’t had one of those storms that have the power to bring them all down overnight. So we are surrounded by all shades of yellow. Looking at the San Juan mountains south of town you see gold on their shoulders and new snow on their caps.

What those mountain views are telling me is not that I need to get out all of my winter clothing, but that I should at least check to see that it is within easy reach. While doing this I moved my favorite shirt of all time to the front of the closet rack. For my entire adult life I have had one of these, replacing one only when time and frequent wear have their way with it. But there is always one in my closet.

Several years ago Allyson asked me one day as I came out wearing the latest iteration of this paragon of garments: “How old is this shirt, Jon, that you wear all the time?” She didn’t realize that she was looking at the grandchild of the one she had first seen me in.

But even as I am putting this forth as a quintessential male shirt, I have to admit that women look quite fetching in it as well. In fact, I clearly remember having a serious crush on the nurse at 5th grade summer camp, and she frequently wore a red/black buffalo plaid shirt. Her camp nickname was “Huckleberry,” and I never got over the rejection when she wouldn’t run off with me to Canada. At the time I wasn’t entirely sure where Canada was, but I had read about it and it seemed a swell place to go.

I thought we made a great looking couple, she at 5 ft 2 in, and me at 4 ft 4 in. When you are truly in love, those height differences don’t mean nearly as much.

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Finishing up on a serious note, there was a piece in the New Yorker this week that summarized where we are with Mr. Cluck very well. The title was Trump’s Bloody Campaign Promises. There’s a lot at stake in politics during the next year. Definitely not a Tweedle Dee/Tweedle Dum situation at all.

In the new edition of the Great Big Dictionary you can find this man’s picture under ugly, traitor, fascist, narcissist, agent provacateur, braggart, bloated, and sexual predator. Quite a resumé, taken altogether.

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Naw, can’t finish on that downer. Here’s an upper, and it’s about Joan Baez. There’s a new documentary film just released in theaters, called Joan Baez: I Am A Noise. One way or another, I will be seeing it. She is not only one of my favorite singers since forever, but over the last sixty years, if there was a righteous cause out there she was marching for it or singing about it or supporting it in some other way. Want to track the right side of American social history since 1960? Just check her itinerary during that time.

I went to see her around 1960, when it was still early in her career and folk music was still on top of the heap at universities. She gave a concert at the U. of Minnesota at Coffman Union. There she was dressed in peasant garb and barefoot, holding a large audience spellbound. Just a girl and a guitar. Splendid performance. Splendid memory.

Nope, although she ain’t marchin’ anymore, nor is she doing concerts, I am still a fan and always will be. We are simpatico.

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