Spring is Sprung

 

            Spring is Sprung 

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The wolf-whistle bird is back. This sharp-voiced bird returns every spring. It has two very distinctive calls. When I hear its voice, I instinctively jerk my head around to see who is either trying to get my attention (Hey you, over here!) or is teasing me with admiration (Wolf-whistle, I kid you not.).

Then I laugh at myself. Foiled again!

The wolf-whistle bird doesn’t sound anything like a love bird, does it? This avian character sounds more like the kind of birds your mama warned you about, the birds standing on the corner outside the pool hall, ciggies dangling from their lips, jeans hanging dangerously on hips, greasy hair slicked back in perfect duck’s tails.

The ones who populated our fantasies.

Ah, love is in the air.

Our little gringo community consists of a small cluster of homes, only eight or nine. Next door to us on the rancho, is a campground. For me to walk to the campground, if there were a direct path, I would trek through the yard of only one other casa.

Last Saturday night, at the campground, the owner-family hosted a huge wedding reception party celebration of the marriage of the baby of the family, the youngest son, respectably in his fifties. Perhaps it was the bride’s first marriage. I know nothing about his chosen one. Who would not love a wedding?

When I lived in Mazatlan, I saw some fancy wedding parties on the beach, but not one came close to the elaborate preparations, the all-out-gung-ho-no-holds-barred-blitz-and-bling of this wedding, with not a beach in sight.

I was not a guest so I speak from descriptions, photos, and reports of peepers.

When it comes to knowing how to truly celebrate any occasion, Mexicans do it better. Take my word for it. My word, with admiration.

Louder, too.

When the bands began to play, I closed my house and went to bed with my Kindle. It’s not warm and romantic but it is entertaining. Remember when I told you how close my home is to the campground? This is why.

A good celebration requires a bank, a virtual wall of speakers. The most important speakers seem to be the ones which blast out the deep tones. I’m not sure the others matter. Or even register on the ear-consciousness.

What I rather quickly became aware of, is that each boom of the bass hit me on a cellular level. After an hour or so of feeling battered, I physically hurt. My muscles hurt. I did not have a headache. My entire body throbbed. Not like that—with pain.

Sunday morning, I told my friends that I felt like I’d been attacked and beaten up. John told me about an experiment, done years ago, with sound levels, confirming that how I felt was not my over-active imagination.

Sound can and does affect our bodies in more ways than simply losing the upper ranges of tones with age, forcing us to become adequate lip-readers.

I listened closely, watching his lips, as John recalled details (in a nutshell) of an article about an experiment using submarine, or was it subsonic, or is that a football team (?), wolfers. John is a careful researcher and has a memory like a steel trap. He said these sub-wolfers are the ones that carry the bass tones.

John said that at a concert event, the researchers, using huge speakers, cranked the wolfs up to 80 mega hurts. This particular level of sound, heard or unheard, caused a mass evacuation of audience to the restroom facilities.

Oh, my, I said. That explains a lot.

I don’t know about you, but loud boom-boom-boom noise does not put me in the mood for romance. If there is ever another wedding or party in the campground, I’m renting a hotel room for the night, three towns distant.

I hope the newly wedded couple live many years in bliss.

Me, I’ll stick with the wolf-whistle birds, reminding me of old times, past fantasies.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Middle of March already!

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Culture Shock, Shock, Shock

Culture Shock, Shock, Shock

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            “Mom, I keep telling you. You’ve gone native.” After spending all but a few weeks of the last four years in Mexico, immersed in a different life, what is one to expect?

            My first intimation that I needed to be alert to where I am, “one world” notwithstanding, came when the man who assisted me at LA International with a wheelchair, zoomed me through customs, held my hand through security and escorted me to my next gate, gave me a raised-eyebrow, incredulous stare, when I gratefully proffered a handful of pesos for a tip. Oops, wrong money.

            Since I carry two wallets when I travel, one stuffed with pesos, the other with credit cards and a few US twenties, I soon remedied my mistake.

            Cash and credit. In Mexico, in the small town where I live, I have no use for a credit card except to extract pesos from the bank machine. I purchase everything with cash. My needs are few. Even when I lived in the city, in Mazatlan, I seldom had need or opportunity to use my card. In Etzatlan, I don’t carry a card.

            My son met me at Seatac with a surprise: my granddaughter Lexi awaited me in the car, a joyful reunion. I got to meet Ben’s new girlfriend, Kristen, but with Lexi motor-mouthing the entire drive home, giving me with updates of her life, the rest of us had to squeeze words in edgewise. Once we got to the house, situation normal.

            Ben lives a mile from our first home in Kitsap County and another mile from the home we bought and in which we lived longest. We always lived in the country, surrounded by towering trees. I love the combined scents of Douglas Firs, majestic cedars and maples with the underbrush of impenetrable Holly and blackberry thickets. I know this country intimately. I feel at home instantly.

            The “kids” (Well, they always will be our “kids”.) had made arrangements for me to have a car and a US cell phone. I’m so used to life without either, that I decided to do without. Unheard of deprivation. Right?

            Truth to tell, it’s no different in Mexico. Everyone has an implanted hand-held device that requires total attention. Despite the fact that many a caballero rides his horse into town and ties the reins to a tree branch, he probably has a cell phone in his back pocket. Most families own a car.  

            My first trip to the grocery reminds me of how differently I’ve come to live. In Etzatlan, I go to the fruitera, a small basket in hand, and fill it with enough for a few days, all for a handful of pesos. I haven’t forgotten how I used to fill my cart as though the Barbarians were at the gate and wonder if I’d need a bank loan to get out the door. But tell me, who needs forty-two brands of corn flakes from which to choose?

            Speaking of Barbarians, they arrived in the night and conquered. The brought mountains of useless, redundant and unnecessary items, seductively placed to lure one to purchase, take home and wonder, “Now, why did I think I wanted this?” Had to be the Barbarians.

            My first morning here I awoke puzzled. Where have all the birds gone? In Etzatlan I awake at first light morning to a symphony of birds, birds which sing to me while skittering through my yard and trees all day. Here I awaken to silence. Though I spend a good deal of each day under the trees, I hear and see only the occasional crotchety crow or marauding jay.

            The first week here I awoke at 5:30, courtesy of the two hour time difference coupled with longer hours of sun. (In Etzatlan we are close to having twelve light and twelve dark hours.) When I return, I’m guaranteed a week of sleeping in until 9:30. I’m usually up with the sun, between 7 and 7:30 in Etzatlan.

            Friends, they are the same. I flew north to be in the arms of my family, for snuggles with my granddaughter, to renew communication on a deeper level with my son, Ben, whom I almost lost. A morning teaching the Dancing Crane movements to Lexi. Gardening all afternoon with Kristen. That’s what life is all about.

I treasure hours of conversation with theatre friends over buckets of steaming coffee. How can one measure the good times. Good timing is easier. I attended the monthly poetry reading at the Poulsbohemian Coffee Shop where I got to meet old friends and new poems. I wish I had brought one of my poems with me for open mike. Next trip.

Best moments so far: Sitting beneath the trees at night with Ben and Kristen, listening to their stories. Waking up next to Lexi’s snuggly little body.

But where are the birds and butterflies?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

August 10, 2017

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My Mystical Experience with Birds and Other Flying Objects

My Mystical Experience with Birds and Other Flying Objects
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I consider myself to be a somewhat mystical person. Some days I am opti-mystic and other times I revert to pessi-mystic.

Last Friday I drove to Conrad to visit friends. It was a Friday much like any other Friday. I had not even crossed the county line when a gull flew at me, skirted my windshield and flew on. I thought it looked me in the eye as it flew across the hood.

I have long had a special relationship to many birds, but especially crows. Once when I had been having a rough day and was driving along in a dark mood, thinking grumbling thoughts, a clownish looking crow flew in front of my van and paused directly in front of my windshield. The crow did not try to get out of my way, but as I drove down the road, stayed ahead of me for several moments. Then it flipped and flew upside down for nearly thirty seconds, flipped back up, ruffled its wings, winked at me, and flew out of sight. I got the message. This crow told me to lighten up, to play. I learned my lesson.

Another time, at Pacific Beach, I was walking along the edge of the winter surf, when a flock of sandpipers performed for me. In perfect unison, they turned and dipped, each little bird a part of the larger whole. I felt the same way I feel when sitting in Benaroya Hall, watching and listening to the Seattle Symphony. The sandpipers made a living picture of the symphonic sounds. Their lesson—look for the music in all things.

So last Friday I paid attention to my gull friend. Its message wasn’t clear to me, but it seemed to be sending a warning. Then as I passed the outskirts of Chester, a magpie flew at me with a frown, turned at the last second, and also dashed across my windshield. I always drive with an eye to wildlife alongside the road, but now I
felt I needed to be extra alert, not only to animals but to all things on the road.

After my visit with my Conrad friends, Jesse and Sharon, I was not fifteen miles out of town headed back to Shelby, when a hawk flew up and across my windshield and grimaced, same left to right pattern as the gull and the magpie. I thanked the hawk for reminding me to be cautious but, I admit, I felt apprehensive. This was not a “feel-good” message. I drove on, scanning the roadsides as well as the road to the front of me and behind. My trip was uneventful all the way to Havre, where I stopped at the IGA to buy Halloween candy for the little neighborhood spooks and my own big spook sweet tooth.

Nightfall slowly descended as I pulled out of Havre, and by the time I passed Zurich, it was nearly dark. I was about six miles from home, when, as a pick-up truck coming from the opposite direction passed me, something hit the left side of my van with a hard thunk. I pulled into the first farm lane and got out to check my front end. It was banged up with missing parts, but I could still drive. I noticed that the pick-up driver had also stopped. Before I could go back to see if he had been hit, he took off.

So I’ll never know what hit me. It’s a mystery. Maybe an animal had unwisely chosen that moment to stroll down the center line of the highway. Perhaps a raccoon. Or a pheasant. Or a grouse. If I were being pessi-mystic, I might think the flying object was something the other driver threw from his vehicle—a cigarette butt? A beer bottle? A loaded diaper? A dead refrigerator. I’ll never know.

I am opti-mystically grateful for my feathered friends, the gull, the magpie and the hawk, who warned me to be alert, to hold the wheel steady when I saw the brief flicker of motion and felt the thunk of impact. Beyond that, it is my own mystical mystery. Thankfully, I was not hurt. My vehicle is drivable. The damage is fixable. To my feathered friends, my thanks.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
November 3, 2011
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Bird of the Year

Bird of the Year
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Where are the birds? With the first blustery snowstorm that first week of December, I noticed the birds have disappeared. I mean our usual winter birds, the ever present sparrows pecking through the brittle grass in the yard, the mourning doves lined up in review across the roofline of the bus barn, the gulls swooping above the granary. Last winter they were here. They never left town or hid out or went to stay with their favorite Aunt Mary. But where are they this year? The chickadees in the bushes? The bushes are barren. Where are the birds?

I will remember this year as the year we had a blizzard every three days. The year the thermometer never rose above zero. The year I never left the house during December and January. The year snowdrifts blocked both front and back doors. The year the birds disappeared.

A friend sent me a delightful book for Christmas, “Rare Encounters with Ordinary Birds” by Linda Lynn Haupt. Birders have a curious custom, the author tells me. The first bird you see on the first day of the new year will become your theme bird for the year. I like the idea. Intrigued, I search out each window, look near and far. No birds. I have not seen a bird since November. When will I see my first bird?

Late in the morning of New Year’s Day while lugging a load of sheets to the washing machine, a flicker of movement in the barren branches of the poplar outside the laundry room window, catches my eye. I stop and stare. It is a Red-Headed Woodpecker. A clown. Is this going to be my theme bird, my shaman, my oracle? Am I stuck with a clown? Maybe I can close my eyes and pretend I didn’t see it. I don’t want this to be my Year of the Clown. I am devastated.

It is no accident that the foremost bird in the cartoon world is Woody The Woodpecker. It is easy to anthropomorphize these lovers of trees, seekers of beetles in the bark, into the jokers of the avian world. For years, in another country, I awoke, blasted bolt upright in bed, to the machine-gun concrete-buster beak of the Pileated Woodpecker plying his trade outside my bedroom window, doing his best to shred my favorite giant cedar. Yet, despite the rude awakening, I loved to watch them, to observe their antics, to watch them circle a tree, upright, barely moving their clinging feet, beaks bopping. The lush plumage of their wings shines blue-black, the white feathers pristine, topped by the incomparable red head. Beautiful, hard-headed and flexible. And they made me laugh.

But I am not sure I want this Red-Headed Woodpecker to set my theme for this year. My year. I rather wanted to set the theme myself. I had something more serious in mind. Something Noble. Something Grand. Perhaps, The Year I Make a Difference. Or, The Year of Success. Maybe, The Year I Find It. Not, The Year I am a Clown.

I close my eyes, shake my head, turn away and stuff the sheets into the washer, sprinkle soap over the load, push the button to start the water shushing into the tub. I surreptitiously peek out the window. He is still there, head-banging the frozen poplar.

I heave a sigh. I love heaving sighs. They are so dramatic. Rather like that rat-a-tat drum beat outside my laundry room.

Throughout the entire month of January I do not see another bird. I keep tabs on my red-headed guest, occasionally tossing out bread or a handful of nuts in his direction. I don’t know if he ate them.

Then one day in February a flock of mourning doves gather in my back yard. I celebrate the doves. It is still bitter cold but the ice has loosened its grip. The next day, while driving to the post office, I spot the ubiquitous gulls. In a few days the sparrows return. Soon chickadees are flittering around my sidewalk. I don’t know what they expect to find there, other than a bare landing strip between the drifts.

One day driving to Chinook I notice the eagle is back on his high perch, searching for road-kill or waiting for a field mouse to tunnel up through the snow to check the weather. The edges of the snowmelt along the highway reveal a hint of the green to come. The sprigs on the cottonwood branches show signs of swelling, pregnant with buds, not yet ready to birth leaves but getting fat. And the hawks are back, swooping the skies. Not every day, but I spot them. I see a magpie in Havre. Spring will arrive and my yard will host its familiar bird conventions.

My Red-Headed Woodpecker is still here, beating his tattoo on my backyard tree, cackling glee. I pay attention. I consider this stout little fellow. He showed up in harsh conditions. He works hard. He perseveres against the elements. He is a delight to watch. He makes me laugh. This is my bird of the year. He chose me. I hope I can live up to him.

Sondra Ashton
February 17, 2009
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The Food Chain

Four and twenty songbirds baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Makes sense to me. Have you ever heard blackbirds "sing"?

The Food Chain
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Last year I planted an herb garden, just a small plot. In the fall I mulched it heavily with leaves. Winter was harsh. I worried over which herbs would survive and which might winterkill. Spring arrived and the chives poked their heads like glory into the warming sunlight. Chives are tough. And grow fast. I was harvesting chives while the mint, sage, oregano, parsley and thyme were still in baby stage. I re-planted tender sweet basil. It must be an annual in this country. I watered and weeded faithfully. I added a rosemary bush. My herb patch was looking good.

Grasshoppers are such little things. The variety that came to my house looked like adolescent punk-hoppers, kind of cute with body jewelry and fake tattoos. These definitely were not the giant WWII bombers of the insect world. They bopped in one morning, a well disciplined cloud, and landed in my yard. The teeny buggers danced in formation, pincer jaws wide open, over to my herb garden and proceeded to decimate it with a million bites, one herb at a time. They chomped my English thyme down to bare-naked stalks. They attacked my French oregano before infiltrating the parsley. Clippers in hand, I rushed to rescue what was left of my sweet basil while the hoppers sweetened their breath on the spearmint. They despised the chives. Found sage barely tolerable but ate it anyway. Rosemary, fortunately, repulsed them. They sampled flowers and devoured their favorites. My yard was a banquet table.

From the first retreat of winter a wealth of birds, fat, healthy birds, took up residence in my yard. Robins and finches and sparrows and doves, vireos and warblers and larks and grackles. I didn’t feed them. Correction: I didn’t fill bird feeders with avian snack foods. I didn’t have to. First my strawberries disappeared. The plundering birds left me six puny berries. Then they went fishing. Long, juicy earthworms lurked beneath layers of mulch in my yard. Bird heaven. I found it especially fun to watch a robin grasp an earthworm, pull with all its might, half the worm anchored in the ground, until finally the worm lets go with a plop. The robin lands on its sitter, fat wriggly worm dangling from its beak. That show was worth the admission ticket of a few strawberries. When the currants began to ripen, I checked them daily, hovered around them, waited until the optimum day for harvest, and went, berry bucket in hand, only to find every bush stripped. I pictured four-and-twenty song birds, baked in a pie. Next year I will net my berry bushes.

Meanwhile, back at the grasshoppers’ buffet, a multiplication of birds flew in. Storm troopers. These newcomers joined the already fruit-fattened yard birds in a round ‘em up, smorgasbord feast of crunchy critters. For several days birds of all sizes and shapes and colors scurried along the ground, gobbling up hoppers. The birds were too fat to fly. They lounged around and picked their beaks and gossiped, then waddled back for dessert.

For several months before the grasshopper invasion, two colossal cats had hung out in my yard. Every morning they patrolled beneath my cabin, keeping mice and shrews and snakes away. These were not feral cats. They belonged to someone in the neighborhood. They were well-fed, well-groomed kings of their castles. I have not seen a mouse since they began standing watch. They stalked birds and butterflies and bees but without success. I figured those cats were walking the beat, keeping the birds safe.

That all changed when the overweight songbirds, sated with hoppers, could barely lift off the ground. My patrol cats, feathers fluttering from their mouths, called for reinforcements. Enter the feline SWAT team. I have no idea where they came from, but eight humongous cats swaggered into my yard, pounced on the birds which ate the grasshoppers which ate my herbs. My backyard bird population returned to normal.

Not so the cats. Every morning the full regiment of cats musters in my yard. This morning they brought along new recruits, three cute gangly trainee kittens. They patrolled the cabin for mice, the yard for birds, and basked beneath the lilies in the sun. In the evening the cats pranced, tails aloft, back to their respective homes for kibbles and cream. But they will be back tomorrow. The good news is that my basil and oregano have sprouted new leaves, so I’ll harvest a second cutting. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme are making a comeback like the promise of new love. The grasshoppers are gone. The wary birds perch in the trees. It seems the cats take seriously their day job as guard-cats. But I don’t need thirteen cats hanging around my two-cat yard.

Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
December 10, 2009