Going on a cello adventure

Over the years, I have tried unsuccessfully to become an accomplished musician on 24 different instruments. Today I give No. 25 a go. The cello.  

Like my old grandpa would say:
"You're never too old to fail at something new."

Taking care of each other is not just "for the birds"

For the past few weeks, every morning while I’m taking the dog out for her morning pee, I hear a group of birds chirping their brains out in the nearby trees, and I can’t help but wonder what they’re getting on about.

At first I thought it was just an old married couple arguing about who was going to make the coffee this morning, or why the other didn’t take out the trash the night before. But it became apparent it was a flock, a commune doing vocal lunges and squats about something they thought was important.

I’m by no means an expert on bird chirps, but I can recognize a fish crow, bluejay, mockingbird, owl and mourning doves, and these little twerps were none of the above. Starlings, maybe? All I do know is they were all talking at the same time, making it hard to believe they were actually listening.

“He will make a wonderful leader cuz he,” “What are you talking about don’t you,” “I can’t believe we’re,” “but look at the past and,” “fake bird, fake bird,” “Oh, not that again, I think you’re,” “I believe,” “No you don’t, you,” “Can’t stand this anymore,” “He fights for the common bird and,” “He lies.” “Can’t we just love one another?” “No, this is,” “More of the same and it’s time for…”

I just stood there and listened, but couldn’t make beaks or tails of the whole thing. I didn’t recognize the dialect. I just hoped they wouldn’t start Bird War III because that would be a mess to clean up, right?

What a waste of a short bird life, spending it in constant argument, dilly and dallying about the same old things year after year. A typical Bird Congress. Meet in the morning, shout about whose bill is prettier than the others, rant about food prices, the cost of tree space, and then “Order, order, order! I recognize the good bird from across the pond. Thank you Miss Speaker. Something’s got to be done about those cats before this session ends. Hear! Hear! Hear!”

But then again, they don’t think their lives are short. They’re living their full life. But still, couldn’t they just advocate looking after each other, and being kind?

It’s probably several clans of birds in heated discussion about “You stay in your tree, and we’ll stay in ours. It’s tradition. And now you want to ‘help each other for the common good of all’? Listen here my little chickadee, there will be no helping others who we believe are freeloading off the system. Hunger? Tree-less? Mental discombobulation? It’s not up to me to do anything about it. You flap your wings, I’ll flap mine. That’s what we do here.”

I’ve noticed the birds usually leave the trees by at least 7 a.m., and go on to do whatever else birds do. Which gets me to wondering:

Maybe they are just happy to see a new morning, and they are spreading that joy to others. Wake up, do some vocal exercises, stretch those legs and wings because sitting is never good in the long run. “And look! There’s that warm light again. Coming up from behind those trees over there. It was a very long darkness and I thought we’d never come out of it. But here we are. A new day. A chance to start fresh and make a difference this time. A chance to change the world.”

I’m now sitting at my kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee. I hear bluejays doing their thing — warning the others of a prowling cat. Bluejays are always taking care of each other.

Animal crossing

I always stop for squirrels wanting to cross the street. 

It's the polite thing to do.

A trip down memory lane

I didn’t grow up in the country. We lived in the suburbs. Sidewalks. Streets with curbs. We walked to school, or rode our bicycles. We knew our next door neighbors, but not theirs. 

I knew the way to the nearest mall, movie theater, fast food restaurants, convenience stores, the Interstate. Five miles west or north were more suburbs. Five miles east was city. Five miles south was land cleared for new developments. And five miles further south was the beginning of country.

Country was where Grandma and Papa Dutch lived. Getting there was truly over the river and through the woods. They lived on a five-acre plot with barbed wire fences, pecan trees, and a propane tank that looked to us like a tiny rusted metal submarine.

There was a barn with an old pickup truck, a shed that was padlocked, an ancient outhouse not in use, and at the back of the property a railroad track and a trestle bridge that we liked to walk across. I found a ‘possum skull under the bridge one time. You don’t find many of those in the suburbs.

My other grandparents, Nonnie and Papaw, lived in the country, too, near their town’s main street. It was also next to railroad tracks. I remember a weeping willow, pecan and plum trees, a barn-like garage without inside lights. When the garage door was opened, you could only see what was in the center. Everywhere else was a dark mystery we grandkids never tried to solve.

We could walk a couple of blocks to the old high school. It was a two story brick building with a metal slide attached to the outside. It was used as a fire escape. On a Saturday visit, we’d climb up and slide down. The hot metal would always hurt.

Grandma was a retired seamstress who made curtains for Sears. Papa Dutch was a retired farmer and railroad man. Nonnie was a bank clerk at the local bank and Papaw was a cement truck driver. They’re all long dead. Memories and photographs. Just like we’ll all be one day.

I now live in the country. Asphalt roads and dirt driveways. No curbs. No sidewalks. The school bus comes by very early to pick up local kids. The squirrels play tag in the tree tops. The cats have free reign over mice and snakes. We know most of our neighbors by name and can even recognize them at the grocery store.

I wonder if our future grandchildren will recall trips to their grandma’s house as being like going to the moon? Long and boring. Not much to see. Not much to do. A bunch of ant hills and poison ivy. “But at least they had indoor toilets and somewhat fast internet,” they might say. “We baked cookies. Went fishing. Roasted marshmallows over a bonfire. Heard a fox calling in the woods. An owl. Saw living and breathing armadillos; possums and raccoons on the porch; hawks and humming birds nearby; bluejays screaming warnings about cats on the prowl.”

Remembering my past gives me the gumption to try and ensure future grandchildren have the same kind of fond memories. Good enough to entice them to one day sit at their computer, like I did recently, and search for satellite views of their Grandma and Baba’s house, just to see if it’s still there. A trip down memory lane worth taking, just for good time’s sake.