Birds

Earlier today I was looking through my bird book so that I could tell Vivian the name of one of the birds we saw. The diversity and complexity of bird life in North America is a wonder, first of all. Then I love the way that Field Guide to the Birds describes bird calls so specifically that you can actually hear them in your head:

White-breasted nuthatch:

"Typical song, a rapid series of nasal whistles on one pitch. Call is usually a low-pitched, repeated, nasal yank; higher pitched and given in a rapid series in Great Basin and Rockies birds."

Brown-headed nuthatch:

"Call is a repeated double note like the squeak of a rubber duck. Feeding flocks also give twittering, chirping, and talky bit bit bit calls."

Hermit Warbler:

"Song is a high seezle seezle seezle seezle zeet-zeet."

Blue-gray Gnatcatcher:

"Call is a thin, querulous pwee. Song, a series of melodious but wheezy warbles.

Finally, there are plates in the book where Pop-pop has scratched out some of the species names and replaced them with the names he knew to be more current. So, the Brown Towhee has apparently split into either Canyon Towhee or California Towhee, depending on where you see it. The Solitary Vireo has now become either the Blue-headed in The East, the Cassin's in The West, or the Plumbeous in The Rockies.

I miss Pop-pop. One day I hope to retire and watch birds all the time with Richie. Or something like that.

And, in keeping with National Poetry Month, here's some Wallace Stevens. This is one of the first poems I remember loving, way back in 10th grade in Mrs. Gillham's class.

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
___________

If you are wondering (I am) what the Field Guide to the Birds has to say about the blackbird's call, you first have to choose between the Yellow-headed, Red-winged, Tricolored, Rusty, or Brewer's Blackbird. I choose Brewer's because it seems common enough and because it looks like the archetypal blackbird in my mind: black and nondescript.

"Typical call is a harsh check; song, a wheezy que-ee or k-seee."

P.S. Mazie and Vivian are playing a raucous game of Baby-in-the-Mud.

Poetry Month

This has been the first year that Poetry Month has taken up space in my mind. Justin and Mel Moore, Randy Crump, NPR, my church services, and Mazie's kindergarten class all took notice this year.

I just want to say, I love poetry a lot more now that I no longer try to produce any. For me, the production of poetry involved an embarrassing mix of angst and self-consciousness. I hope one day I'll be able to write something worth reading, poetry or prose. But for now I'm content to read others' work. Some of my favorite poems were introduced to me by others who linked to them or who took the time to type them out or cut-and-paste them into their web logs. So, here's my contribution. It's one I first read about ten years ago and haven't read recently at all because I lent out my Mary Oliver book and never got it back.

Cold Poem
By Mary Oliver

(for Brandi's parents, who have successfully survived another honest-making winter)

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
_______________

Then there's Wendell Berry, slightly more hopeful:

Mad Farmer Liberation Front, 1972

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
  vacation with pay. Want more
  of everything ready-made. Be afraid
  to know your neighbors and to die.
  And you will have a window in your head.
  Not even your future will be a mystery
  any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
  and shut away in a little drawer.
  When they want you to buy something
  they will call you. When they want you
  to die for profit they will let you know.
  

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

I guess you can talk about poetry all you like. But you just know when someone has expressed something - a thought, conviction, emotion, complaint, restlessness, truth, or a love that you know.

Dental Woes

I never pictured myself as toothless or even tooth-impaired. Since becoming an adult, I've basically taken care of my teeth. I brush twice daily and I floss before bed. Usually. Nonetheless, at the beginning of this year, I had some lingering cavities from days of yore and one back lower molar (#18) with a crownless root canal.

I wanted to get these things taken care of as inexpensively as possible, so I went through the screening to be accepted as a patient in the dental school in Richmond, one hour away. My dental student, Stephanie, is bright and capable. I'm sure she'll be a fantastic dentist. We got started on my treatment plan, which I hoped wouldn't be that involved.

Things were going smoothly. I had no dental pain. All I needed were some fillings and a decision about that back tooth that I'd let out to pasture. But then Stephanie was doing a filling on #19, #18's sole next-door neighbor, and disaster struck. She had put a rubber dam on my mouth to keep the composite filling dry when she got to that point. She needed to adjust the dam, but the shiny metal clamp wouldn't release as it should have. She asked for her preceptor's help, and he couldn't get it off either. The dental assistant kindly inserted that she had seen a dentist use a burr to cut the clamp off on a previous occasion. But the preceptor kept wrenching and kept wrenching with a metal tool until, finally, the clamp shot off, dinging the roof of my mouth with a fantastic "CHINK!" As this happened, a piece of my tooth went sailing through the air and hit my folded hand. The dentist pocketed the tooth chunk and I've never seen him again. After the preceptor vanished without aknowledgement of possible damage dealt to #19, Stephanie noted for the first time a "craze line" - a crack - in my tooth.

As that was happening, I thought to my mute (remember the rubber dam - I was literally unable to argue what was going on in my mouth) self, "This can't be good." That night, after the numbness had worn off, I had the most tenderness I had ever felt after a filling and the tooth was exquisitely painful to chew on. No matter, I thought, I'd give it a few days. A few days later, my jaw and tooth were basically back to normal except that it really hurt to chew on poor, newly cracked #19.

This is a long story, so to sum up (keeping in mind that the dental school is an hour away and my dear, patient, beleaguered friend Sarah always keeps Vivian for me): I went back to the dental school and they determined I do have a severely cracked tooth that had not been noted prior to the incident. So they offered to give me a root canal and crown for free to try to fix the problem. That process has been free, but has taken four four-hour appointments and my tooth still hurts with the temporary crown on it. RRRRRRRR. I've reconciled that it's just going to hurt to chew on it until I can afford an implant when I'm forty.

My last appointment at the dental school eight days ago addressed #18 with extraction. It would have been very expensive, yet impermanent to re-treat it. So I opted for extraction. It was an involved extraction that the oral surgeon said "Was more difficult than an impacted third molar" because it had had a root canal and also had a tenacious root system. Anyway, they got it out and I was euphoric to have that over with.

Long stupid story shorter: I got a dry socket from that extraction. Pain! And not only #19, but also the tooth directly above it got cracked in the "flying clamp" incident. I only started noticing the crack on the upper tooth after I had a root canal and crown because I no longer favored the bottom tooth. Darrrrh! Anyway, it pays to floss. Flossing wouldn't have helped directly in my case, but it would've kept me out of the dental chair in the first place, and my teeth wouldn't have gotten cracked.

April Day

Hi, Everyone. Here are some recent pictures of the girls. And a chocolate bunny that they mutilated and then decorated. Awesome. The little girl between Vivian and Mazie in the church photo is our friend, Lucy Park, who is exactly one year older than Vivian and one year younger than Mazie.

For my birthday, Richie gave me the standard pocket-sized handbook of internal medicine that real live physicians carry around in the pockets of their white coats. What a cool, forward-thinking gift! After taking some time to look through it, I'm officially re-terrified. There's so much to know. The handbook is proof that you can't know it all (otherwise, why carry a handbook). I can't imagine myself knowing ALL those abbreviations or having a grasp of all the physiology that will help me understand the myriad manifestations of disease. I remember seeing the doctors I worked with craning to read the fine print of their pocket-sized manuals...I guess that'll eventually be me.

In other news, the cherry trees in front of our townhouse are blooming with unmitigated frivolity. What a sweet surprise our first year here to find that the trees go wild for one week out of the year. This year, Richie and I were determined not to miss the trees' amazing week. The wind is blowing in hard gusts today, whipping up the fallen blossoms and blowing them about in blizzardly fashion. It really does look like pale pink snow.

Also in today's news, Vivian found the bathing suits. I keep them hidden during the cold months for their own protection. I know Vivian found them because when I called her downstairs to go out and enjoy the wind, she was wearing Emma Weed's outgrown blue bathing suit with a watermelon slice on the front - over underwear (that's my rule). She looked very pleased with herself. I remember how fun it was to feel sleek and beautiful in a one-piece. Why don't I feel that way anymore? I think Vivian is feeling good enough for all of us.

God meets me when I go outside.

Yesterday I shirked jogging because I was disgruntled about the weather. Today I forced myself to get suited up and go in spite of the rain. Spring is springing in Williamsburg. The dogwoods are beginning to bloom and the trees are about 1/3 leafy. Today everything was soaked to the skin (the German word for that is "klatzschnass" (sp?) - how delightful to have a word for it). The branches were dark, the leaves were heavy and wet and the whole forest sounded subdued and drippy. Apparently, the squirrels are also disgruntled about the weather because I heard none stir today as I ran past when usually I scare up dozens of little scurries on my course through College Woods. I imagine today they are having one last scrap of winter rest with their noses under their tails before going full throttle until next winter.

I love to see all the buds small and bright and tightly wrapped. They are so expectant...I remember how that feels. I can almost hear God reminding me of the irrepressibleness of life. My crotchety hip (no pun here) reminds me that I have begun the long decline into the dissociation of my joints, cells, and molecules. I've been part of the budding, flowering, and fruiting. I'm sensing how certain it is I'll eventually moulder. And God is good no matter which station I occupy in this cycle. I think I'm somewhere around second base. Maybe between second and third. Who knows. I don't care as long as I can suck some fresh air every day among respiring trees.

Am I a hippie? You didn't just read that. I didn't just write it.

Internets

They're organized. They're quiet. They're pretty. I can adjust the colors of my gmail any way I want them. I LOVE adjusting colors.

I also love learning about tissue types. I'm still on epithelial, but I'm moving on to connective soon.

Back from the dirty south

And into the clean south. I'm not altogether joking. Those of you with delicate constitutions proceed with caution.

Atlanta, Georgia is different from Williamsburg, Virginia. The drivers drive more maniacally, the weather is stormier, and there are 800% more billboards. Azaleas explode. Hills roll. The people - the longtime residents - are much, much different than Virginians. The accent is obvious, but deeper than the accent is...well, I think Uncle Ray sums it up.

Uncle Ray is awesome. He's Richie's mom's brother, born and raised in Cabbagetown just like Richie's mom. I think he enjoys the attention we give him, so he usually swings by when we visit Richie's folks. He is tall and wide but not fat. He has square shoulders, a square jaw, and even square hair. He usually arrives wearing sweat pants a little high-up and a quilted plaid jacket over a tee-shirt. And a UGA baseball cap. In fact, I think everything he had on Saturday invoked the name of that sweet-spirited University. I think that level of UGA advertisement is beyond letting everyone know you support the team. I think Uncle Ray may get a good feeling each time he sees "UGA," and so he's maximizing his chances of catching a glimpse of the logo.

When Ray came into the living room the girls were cuddled up with Nana watching cartoons. I explained that they have to load up on high-definition cartoons while they're at Nana and Poppy's because we don't own a television. To which Ray replied, "Why ain't you got a T.V.?" And I dutifully started explaining in the least-superior way I could that we actually had one that we got rid of because we just spend so much time watching TV... It can really be such a big time suck. To which Ray wrinkled up his nose and said "Bull." And then let his word hang in the air. Then he said, "Well if you need one, I got an extra."

A little later, Richie's dad was remarking that a tornado tore through a cove of Lake Lanier and messed up every dock and threw a tree on a brand-new Lexus. Ray immediately said, in front of the girls, "That was just like the one I knocked the shit out of downtown the other day." He went on to explain that the driver got out of the car livid because the lady in front of Ray had ceded the right of way to the driver. Ray allegedly said to the driver, "She can't give you my right-of-way." He told us that now Big M (his wife) is going to have to buy him a truck.

I adore Uncle Ray. He was one of Richie's family members who welcomed me immediately. He is one of the funniest people I've ever met and has a rock-solid character, too. By which I mean, he'll tell you if he's going to lie to you. He'd give you anything he could if he thought you needed it. He adores his grandkids. Last time he came over, he was carrying an article in the paper that featured his grandson, Joseph. It turns out that Joseph's accomplishments are truly noteworthy by anyone's standards - he's an awesome football player and a top-notch student. He just got a huge football scholarship offer from Stanford. Ray's so proud he could pop. I get excited when I hear about Joseph because I know his success means a lot to so many people - especially Ray. I also know that, coming from this family, he has a lot more grit and is likely to take more risks than most people he'll meet at Stanford. He's going to have to try to explain Ray to people who are just not going to get it unless they come East to visit.

Georgia has culture. My husband was born and raised in the culture. I was a reluctant participant in Georgia culture when I lived there. I squelched my accent. I rolled my eyes. I hated country music. But I think I get it now that I'm less busy being cool and disaffected. At least I thoroughly respect that Uncle Ray can talk about a car wreck like he meant to do that. I think the state has made some rotten decisions about how much signage it allows on the highways, and I detest the proliferation of big-box, big-outlet, big boot, big, wide, and tall retail. I'm learning to appreciate old country music and its mountain music progenitors. I love a good consistent accent. And the azaleas - huge banks of them in different lipstick shades - are some of the prettiest things I've seen. Praise the growing season and curse the developers; Uncle Ray sounds the best doing either.

When Ray left Shirley and Russell's house that morning, we had gone outside to play. He stopped the car near where we were playing to collect hugs. He gave us $50 "ice cream money" for the girls and said, "I got that T.V. if y'all want it," with a twinkle in his eye. We've got about 10 ice cream trips coming up, financed by Ray Smallwood.

Spring Break '09

This isn't the coldest spring break ever (college breaks were in early March), but I expected warmer weather from April.

The girls and I went to Yorktown beach today for some sand play. Today's high is...(lemme check) 58 F, so it must've been about 50 when we arrived. Wind whipped little choppy waves onto the sand. Yorktown beach is man-made, and I'm a sand snob, so I'm a tiny bit snobby that the sand there is that man-moved gravelly quartzy stuff with heavy dust. The girls loved it regardless of the type of sand, and that was the goal. We brought Pots of Fun (thanks again, Grandma) and lots of tea sets. I packed some assorted animals (turtle, sheep, 2 ponies, 2 dinosaurs). The girls had strict instructions not to get wet or play in the wet sand. They more or less avoided both. We had a glorious, if chilly, morning playing tea party, chase, and "Oh, no, I have a huge growth on my leg!"

We took the Colonial Parkway back home, a wide scenic thoroughfare that connects the "Historic Triangle." We were listening to W-Bach and remarking that the particular piece was perfect for the day. A car just in front of me veered off to exit; I veered a little, too, as one would in a game of follow-the-leader...and I hit the curb a little. I know this is awful - but I did it.

It became clear within 10 seconds that we had a flat. Luckily, there are more scenic pull-offs on the Colonial Parkway than there are Exits on I-95, and we happened to be passing one at that very moment with our woppy tire. So, I pulled in, popped the trunk and began deciphering the myriad roadside emergency tools therein. The donut was easy to find. But, I swear, that car lacks nothing but flares. There may actually be flares hidden beneath the assortment of reflectored blockades (no kidding) and emergency lights. Anyway, I finally had to put in a call to Richie because in all the assortment of oily, mouldering roadside thingz, I had failed to find the jack. In the side compartment, said Richie.

So, with jack, donut, and L-shaped lugnut loosener in hand, I began to decide on the positioning and connectivity of the apparatus. I had just realized I lacked the jack handle, consulted Richie about the shape of the handle, found the jack handle, and was connecting the jack handle, when a red pickup pulled into the pulloff behind me. A stout, kindly man got out of the truck and asked if I needed help. Yes, thank you.

But I just have to say: I didn't REALLY need help. I just thought it stupid to refuse when this man (Hank) appeared to have lots of experience. After all, I was still monkeying with which way to loop on the jack handle. Hank was super nice and changed the tire in about four minutes. He cautioned me to go easy on the donut and get some air in it first thing. When I thanked Hank, he replied he hoped someone would stop to help his daughter if she had a flat. I suspect that Hank's daughter may not need help if she has a flat. Pete, if you're reading this, I didn't really NEED help, honest. I just looked like I did. My real problem is daydreaming on the Colonial Parkway.

Anyway, I couldn't have had a nicer flat tire. The weather was perfect, the girls were patient, and I had expert help. But I can't help but wonder, what do I need to do to look capable of handling a flat tire? Maybe not have a cell phone on my ear? Maybe wear jeans and button-down shirts instead of work-out pants and Hello Kitty hoodies? Maybe practice changing tires more than once a decade? So much for breaking stereotypes.