Gone To the Birds

It's 8:46 on a very rainy Thursday - a day off work and a day with absolutely nothing scheduled. I ate a perfectly soft boiled egg on buttered toast and am contemplating a second cup of coffee.

I was going to go fishing with my best guy
but it was raining.

Apparently salmon are fussy about such things. Go figure, since they LIVE in water.  Being up early anyway, I sneaked outside to conduct an experiment. I've been feeding gulls for years now.

You already know that.

In the last month or so I've taken a fancy to crows. 

There is something deeply satisfying to my inner witch, 

seeing dozens of crows in my back yard. 

The problem is my gullies assume anything I throw on the ground is for them. They are spoiled. When I throw peanuts out for the crows, the gulls, being gulls, swoop in and take over.  Since I spend about $50/week on cheap cat food for the gulls, I feel entitled to try to manage this situation.  On any given day you can catch me out in the yard with an empty, crackly plastic Audubon Raw Peanuts bag chasing the gulls away.  'Come on guys! You get yours every evening. This is for the crows! Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!"  I am now the proud owner of a Primos Old Crow crow call, so in between reasoning with the gulls, I follow the instructions on the back of the kazoo-like device and perform the eight 'Caw-Cawww' repetitions the package assures me is the feeding call.  Their response?  The crows do seem to congregate, look at me very curiously and chatter excitedly amongst themselves.

I really hope I'm not accidentally swearing in crow.

I'm not guessing, nor am I worried about what the neighbors think.  

Back to this morning's experiment . . . I thought if I was out before the gulls and scattered peanuts on the sidewalk the crows would discover them first and have a peaceful feast. Nope. Gull radar is so finely tuned I only have to open my back door before the first scout raises the alarm.  While a crow was first on the scene, caution held him back. Shortly the few gathered crows were outnumbered twenty to four.  In view of the drenching rain I left them to their own devices. You can lead a crow to peanuts . . . so to speak.

Are there life lessons here? I don't know.  Go after what you want?  The early bird gets the worm? Don't take peanuts from a white haired lady talking crow smack?  At a time when this country is torn apart by the ick of politics I simply take comfort in watching crows and gulls eating peanuts in my back yard.  One thing I have noticed:

They don't fight.  

The crows and the gulls. 

They don't fight.

The end.

Angry Raccoons and Mama Bears

I was only generally aware of the Angry Birds phenomenon. It was a phone game and spawned a lot of hats and t-shirts if I remember correctly. I do see live angry birds pretty regularly. I would be angry too if my wing were shattered in multiple places and a human, however well intended, was poking and prodding me. Mostly I see very nice birds. What I'm thinking about today, however, is angry raccoons. 

I have both bird and hummingbird feeders in my yard. Some mornings I would wake, totally baffled as to how the bird feeders, staked in large planters, were tipped over. I hadn't been aware of wind strong enough to rearrange my landscaping. And then there were the hummingbird feeders - sometimes drained of nectar right where they hung, sometimes knocked onto the deck in a sticky puddle. Usually the yellow centers of the feeder flowers were popped out and scattered. Then one night as I was about to let my dog out the mystery was solved. Just feet away from me a raccoon was on the deck railing, standing on his hind legs with his paws wrapped around the hummingbird feeder guzzling the nectar. 

Apparently I'm not the only one to discover this. A quick google search didn't even have to be finished before 'raccoon drinking from hummingbird feeder' popped up. Meanwhile in the yard three more raccoons were clamoring around the planter with the bird feeders and I watched it tumble, crashing the feeders on the ground, strewing seeds everywhere. As I opened the door they scattered leaving Mr. Nectar Chugger behind. I smiled and told him he was quite handsome as he casually sauntered away. 

They truly are beautiful creatures.

A couple nights later, knowing raccoons were in the neighborhood, I should have looked before letting Alex out for a bedtime potty break. Before I knew what was happening my nine year old, seven pound Papillon with a single tooth charged four racoons. They did what raccoons do. They defended themselves violently against the very dangerous aggressor. And I did what mama bears do. Without thinking it through I was in the middle of the mass of snarling raccoons kicking them, quite sincerely. I wish I had been swearing like a real bad ass but I think all I kept saying was, 'Git! Git! Git!' Talking later with my wildlife rehabber friends I realized I was pretty lucky I wasn't attacked as well. I give credit to my Xtra-Tuf boots (and maybe a little badassness). Alex ended up with three modest lacerations and a visit to the vet but no stitches.  All told, no serious injuries and a pretty cool story. I still think raccoons are beautiful. I'm just a little more cautious around them now. 

Photos from Google images.

When I Wasn't Looking

It has been a week of landmarks.

I really intended to catch the moment my odometer turned over to 100,000 on the only new car I've ever owned. It blew right past me on a quick trip to Astoria last week. Thank you, sweet lil' Subaru, for 100,000 miles of adventure.  (Please ignore the fact that I snapped this shot while traveling 40 mph. My bad.)

I have also been watching my blog counter as it closed in on 9,000 views. Missed that one too. Thank you to all of you who tune in and share your support. It means a lot.

I did not miss today's landmark.  One year ago today I piled the final load into above mentioned Subaru and made the final move to my beloved Seaside. I miss my people in Hood River but feel like Seaside is the place I've spent a lifetime finding.

Here in Seaside I've carved out a life. It is full of the local coffee shop where I work; the birds at the Wildlife Center of the North Coast; a sweet dog; a new cat; a very fine gentleman named Bart and the wild and salty sea I love so much. My oldest daughter is graduating from the Seattle Film Institute next month; my boy is immersed in the final year of a degree in Computer Engineering at UW and my youngest daughter is traveling, at this moment, from San Francisco to Portland to set up her first apartment with a couple girlfriends.

I'm wallowing in gratitude for a full life in which I, and those I love most, are happy and moving forward with what we all love. Can't ask for much more than that.

Much love to you from me and my blue spot on the map.

Ocean Time

I am revisiting Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift From the Sea.  A fine read for anyone but a must read if you love the sea.  It feeds that desire within me to immerse myself wholly into sea life . . . to live by the tides and, in the words of Joan Anderson, A Year By the Sea, to live a wild and salty life.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh says, "To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea."

I have been that person who goes out to find as many sand dollars as I could carry; to urgently grab the treasures I found on the beach. That is changing.  Now that I have the luxury of living, full time, in this place I love so much, I am becoming more patient. I don't need to pick up every bone I find.  I don't need to grab all the sand dollars - although I was super excited to find handfulls of sand dollars in Manzanita last weekend to share with some of my most favorite people ever.  I don't have to be present for every high tide. The reality of living here is that, along with everyone else, I have a job and laundry and floors to mop and a dog to walk and sometimes I'd rather sleep in than wake up for the 4 am clamming. But don't think for a moment I take any of it for granted. I am learning patience.  I am learning trust. I am learning faith.

And now that I'm closing in on nearly a year by the sea, I'm feeling a little wild and salty (I'll see you in March, Joan Anderson!).

Here is today, on  the beach, in Seaside. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Today.

Subtle Differences

Today

the ocean smells unusually fishy.

A subtle difference to

a student of the sea.

Odd gull behavior too.

A couple dozen instead

of the couple hundred

who nip cat food

from my hands.

Perhaps better pickings elsewhere and

while unable to identify

the source of the smell

I am sure I will.

In time.

The ocean’s time which

I would argue

is different from
beach time.