Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge

Today, we went to a bird refuge.  It's along one of the northern fingers of the Great Salt Lake.  The purpose of the trip was to see birds, (DUH), but mostly to try out one of my Christmas presents.  Drake gave me birding binoculars for Christmas.  He knows how much I like to look at birds, and he decided that we could use these on our travels.  To be truthful, I was sort of caught off guard by the gift.  I didn't ask for it, and I privately thought it was one of Drake's out of the box gifts which he like to buy.  Those unthought of, and sometimes even downright bizarre gifts have a way of being wonderful.  The binoculars were no exception.

The drive to the refuge was gorgeous.  Northern Utah is very scenic with large mountain peaks, some of which are still wearing snow, flanked by rolling hills covered with juniper (what we call 'cedar' in Texas) as well as deciduous trees.  While driving, you wind up climbing for miles and coasting downhill for miles.

I knew the birding trip would be fun, but I didn't expect spectacular.  The binoculars showed me birds (which were EVERYWHERE) in a way I'd never seen them before.  This pair of binoculars are designed to be used by people without as well as those WITH glasses.  A rarity, let me tell you.  I've struggled for years to use binoculars, and they just never really 'worked' because of my glasses and my crappy eyesight.  These are delightful. 

As we took the 'auto tour' - driving 12 miles on top of dikes criss/crossing the fingerlets of water, we saw an amazing cross section of birds - songbirds, waterbirds, ducks, geese, grebes, gulls, pelicans, and more, more, more. 

As always, pictures are worth gold on a tour like this one.  Enjoy.

https://picasaweb.google.com/jalyss1/2012UtahBearRiverMigratoryBirdRefuge#

There She Is: Miss America

I'm sure all my Texas com padres have been to a beauty contest.........in point of fact, probably some of you have 'competed'.  Beauty pageants all have one bedrock thing in common:  Their aim is to pick the prettiest.  Oh, lots of them dress it up with talent events and social activism, but at heart it's all about which girl is judged the prettiest.  Why else do you see swim suits and ball gowns?  Let's just say that you never see a short, chubby, glasses wearing girl who sings opera and founded a non-profit organization to save wayward teens ever win a pageant.

It was quite refreshing to see  the horse version of the beauty pageant:  The beauty event of a horse show is the Halter Competition at a horse show.  In a halter event there are no saddles and no riders, no galloping, walking, reversing, cantering, trotting or anything that involves a human being judged.  In this beauty pageant there were no also swimsuits, no ballgowns, and, thank the heavens above, no piano players, no opera singers, no ballet dancers, no tap dancers, and no 'twirlers'.  (For the uninitiated:  a 'twirler' is a girl in tights who twirls a baton as well as throws it up in the air and catches it on it's downward flight.  The real talent is throwing and catching multiple FLAMING batons.  When you see that, people say, "Ooooooh" when she catches the fiery things - especially if it's behind her back.)  There's none of that in a horse beauty pageant.

To be specific:  We attended the Region VII Arabian Horse Show in Scottsdale, Arizona where we had a family member in competition.  Her name is Arbinae, and she is a young Arabian filly from championship bloodlines.  She's owned by the Five Diamonds Ranch, AKA "Dee", Drake's sister.  This was Arbinae's  first beauty pageant, and while she didn't win, she certainly didn't disgrace herself either.  All of the powers that be in the horsey world agree that she's got a bright future in the pageant circuit.  

The Arabian horse world is small and insulated.  It's composed of the same group of people as are in any narrow field of interest.   They all know one another.   They travel to shows and compete against one another, and they often own multiple horses for which they have paid terrifying sums of money.  I suppose in the horse world only thoroughbred racing is more exclusive and more expensive.  

Thus, the judging of these Halter Competitions tends to be a bit biased although the judges would argue vociferously that is not the case.  To get a grip on this world, think about judging figure skating or marching bands or a diving competition.  As we've seen over and over again in those venues, judging is pretty subjective with some criteria that is unspoken but definitely real.  You can't arrive with a three legged horse and expect to win; however, it's pretty hard to tell the difference between horse A who 'won' and horse B who almost won. 

Some of the spoken judging criteria for an Arabian Halter Competition are:  'breathing fire', 'flared nostrils', 'ears pricked', 'quivering with excitement' .  See what I mean?  There are other more obvious qualities that are judged such as conformation (are they perfectly representative of the breed), pacing (how they move), and even standing correctly.  Some of the unspoken criteria are:  How loud was the crowd cheering when the horse was being individually evaluated by the judges.  How experienced or well liked is the handler (person who holds the halter and runs the horse around the ring).  How well liked is the owner. 

At least my sister-in-law has the unspoken criteria down:  She's well liked, has a competent handler, and the attendance at the horse show was a mandated family event because she told us how important the cheering element of the judging was.  Our two year old family member (Benji) was especially good at the cheering part.  He can make a noise like a fire engine siren which is quite effective.  It was a great opportunity for a family outing, and we all got to sit in the owner's pavilion during the judging.

I've been part of the Smith family for over 40 years, and Dee has been horse crazy for as long as I've known her.  She loves horses and in the past five years has been able to finally have the stable she's always wanted.  Her ultimate goal is to be able to breed and sell horses.  That's the point of the horse beauty contest:  it's cash in the pocket when it's time for breeding.  Stud fees for contest winning horses are greater (just like race winners in the thoroughbred game) , and colts from contest winning mares are worth more money.  Arbinae has just gotten her feet wet in the arena which will help her achieve her ultimate purpose:  to produce a championship quality Arabian colt.

Now, that's the rationale for competing in the Arabian Halter Competition circuit, but, truthfully, it's because Drake's sister loves horses - the expensive ones and the plugs too.  She lavishes just as much time and attention on Pedro (a very nice, ordinary horse) as she does on Michael, her stallion, Belle (her first breeding mare) or Lightening - the ranch's first colt.  Arbinae is the newest member of the stable, and Dee has been more concerned that 'she's happy' than anything else.  I, personally, can not tell when a horse is happy, but apparently, Dee can.  She spends as many hours as possible in the barn doing a host of things which I would consider sheer drudgery.   You know you truly love something when you rearrange your life around it.  

I was glad to go to the horse show because it was a family event, and something we could all share from Drake's mom right down to Quinten who is less than 3 months old.  It wasn't until a week later that I really understood the importance of this beauty contest.  Dee wrote us a note thanking us for coming to the event.  In it she said that she had waited 32 years for that show.  Gosh, I'm so glad we were all there to share it with her.                   

Truckin'

Truckin', truckin', truckin', Drake and Jan are truckin'.  Rolling down the highway, Yee Haw! 

OK, now SING the opening of this post to the tune "Rawhide".)  For all of you who are too young to know "Rawhide", it is the theme song of a 1950's western TV series.  The song and the break out role of the young cowpuncher, Rowdy Yates, are what the show is remembered for.  If you want to know what actor played Yates and how the tune goes,  Google it on YouTube and someone will sing it badly for you.  Then you can carry it around in your head all day humming it.


It is true; we have joined the ranks of the TRUCKERS.  We are on our virgin drive from Texas to Arizona in a 22 foot long, diesel guzzling, gear grinding, truck.  It's loaded with our storage unit contents.  Drake did his usual superb calcuations, and our 'stuff' just fits......barely.  The movers were surly when they realized they were going to have to WORK to get all the contents into this truck.  The stuff is in; it's padded, and it's strapped down.  The loading aspect of this project went smoothly; much more smoothly that the driving portion of this trip.  Here's the true inside story of what it's like to drive and ride in a BIG TRUCK:

First and foremost, it's NOISY.  You know when you are beside a truck at a stop light and when the light turns green, you hear those gear shifting noises as the truck creeps off from a stop light?  Well, it's twice as loud if you are inside the truck.  The noise is pretty constant.  We've had to talk in louder than normal voices just to hear one another from a distance of 3 feet apart inside the cab.

Second, these rental trucks are the last vehicles in America that still have a bench seat.  For the uninitiated, a bench seat is what bucket seats replaced.  The last bench seat I sat in was in 1967.  I thought they were relics of the past.  They definitely should be extinct relics because there's no support for your back, your shoulders or your neck.  Thus, we crawl down two high metal steps to exit the truck with our muscles aching, aching, aching.  Drake also has the challenge of wrestling this truck down the highway, and he's discovering that his arms and hands tingle long after he's climbed down from the driver's seat. 

When we started off, Drake actually said to me, "Don't you want to try and drive this?"  I looked at him like he had lost his mind.  He laughed, and said, "I know.  I know.  This is a boy job."  (Examples of other boy jobs are:  removing dead animals, climbing on the roof, killing large bugs, and getting wet/cold when going for the car to pick me up.)  I COULD drive this truck - it has automatic transmission and power steering, but why would I WANT to.  Drake, in true boy logic, has stated this is a 'wimp truck'.  It seems pretty macho to me.  We are sitting up the same height as the big boy truckers and have the same view of the landscape.  Here's Highway 180 approaching the Guadalupe Mountains.   

 Another reason I know this is a BIG TRUCK is that Drake has to 'climb it' to wash the windshield.  He's about 3 feet off the ground in this picture.   We are beginning to learn some truck tricks - wide turns so as to not run over the curb with the back wheels, being a road bully and just forcing our way into a lane when a car doesn't realize that we can't stop.  (It takes 4 times longer to stop this truck than it does a regular car.)   We also discovered early on that the truck functions as an impromptu pruning tool, especially on low hanging live oak tree boughs.  (Sorry, Jim!)  Today it was frightenly easy to visualize needing to use the 'runaway truck' ramp at the bottom of a long hill coming down from the El Paso Mountains.  Those steep grades make my heart speed up.  Today we improvised a bathroom stop at a Lowe's in El Paso - big parking lot.  Curiously, we realized it's more comfortable and less noisy to drive on state highways rather than the Interstate.  Our first day was all Interstate and we were both practically deaf and felt like quivering jello that had survived an earthquake when we ended the day. 

Today, we drove mostly on Highway 180 across West Texas, and it was more comfortable.  The scenery was classic West Texas: terra cotta soil and ice blue sky for as far as you can see in every direction.  The oldest houses can not be seen since they are completely covered by trees that arch over the roof all around the house.  New construction is so obvious - the trees are tiny.  I was surprised to see several pecan orchards amid the cotton fields.  We drove through Gaines County today.  This place produces the most cotton in the entire state of Texas.  We drove past the birth place of Quanah Parker, and the largest alkali lake in the United States.  The landscape is also interspersed with slow pumping oil wells, and we saw several natural gas wells.  The resurgence of the oil industry is very apparent in this part of Texas.  There were literally dozens of oil services companies, all very busy, along a 100 mile stretch of highway today.  As soon as you cross over into New Mexico, the cotton fields just end.  It's much more like desert in vegetation.  I speculated that perhaps that's a function of no aquifer.  We drove a 130 mile stretch today where there was nothing - no houses, no trees, no buildings, and almost no other vehicles.  It was one of the best parts of this trek. 

Tomorrow we reach Sun City, and by Friday afternoon all my furniture, boxes, tubs, and bags of clothes will be littered over the rooms of the new house.    As soon as I can get it straightened out, I will send out pix of the  new house.   Until then, we have one more day to savor the trucker's lifestyle.  I'm thinking of taking up 'chew' and drinking Red Bull so I can fit into this trucker culture.          

        

Victory!

The Intrepid Pigeon Fighter's chest swells with sustifiable pride as he declares total victory over the ENEMY!  The IPF has vanquished the dreaded pigeons trying to take over his mother's house.  As we all know, the IPF declared at the beginning of this battle, "OVER MY DEAD BODY!!!! will these miserable rat birds desecrate my mother's front porch."  Your faithful chronicler is happy to report that the pigeons have fled, and the IPF is alive and well.  His brilliant battle strategy succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.  Well deserved battle decorations are being awarded to the Intrepid Pigeon Fighter.  

As we speak, a ticker tape parade is being planned with the IPF waving to adoring masses from the back of a candy apple red convertible.  This parade is well deserved, and we are so happy to report that IPF has graciously agreed to help others in ridding their properties of the dreadful rat birds AKA urban rock pigeons.  Let's hear it for the Intrepid Pigeon Fighter!   

The Intrepid Pigeon Fighter Returns!

The Intrepid Pigeon Fighter was cautiously optimistic at the end of this faithful chronicler's last report.  As of today, the confidence of the IPF remains high.  There have been new developments in the ongoing Pigeon War..........

The pigeons can now consistently identify the IPF, and they fly off the front porch light and awning rails as soon as he is spotted.  He doesn't even get a chance to touch the hose before the terrified pigeons take flight.  However.........  The IPF discovered that after a couple of hours, the pigeons felt secure enough to return to their roosting sites on the porch.  In a daring covert action, this faithful chronicler joined the battle. 

Upon returning from a evening of bridge, the covert strategy employing the faithful chronicler was put into motion.  The IPF walked directly into the house not even peeking at the enemy perching on the porch.  This faithful chronicler nonchalantly strolled to the hose, turned it on, and edged around the side of the house to quietly uncoil the water weapon.  Leaping from concealment, this faithful chronicler scored direct hits using the 'stream' setting of the hose weapon.  Squawking, the enemy flew away.  The IPF initiated the same strategy over the next two days.  Naturally, the dreaded enemy now associates this faithful chronicler with the hose weapon, and it is only effective when we can catch them sleeping.  However, the enemy is using the roosting site less and less.

The IPF has opened up another front:  Recruiting the neighbors to 'wire' the nesting sites on their homes.  So far two more homes have been wired.  Also, the next door neighbors have filled the 'runoff' spot where the pigeons have been watering.  The IPF has also solicited advice from long time residents.  The most bizarre advice?  One woman said a great way to get rid of pigeons is to put corn soaked in alcohol on the roof of their favorite house.  As they eat the corn, they become drunk and either fall off the roof or land on the ground in a stupor.  At that point, you simply stroll out to the yard, scoop them up and WRING THEIR NECKS.  Even the IPF was a bit taken aback at the blood thirsty solution. 

As I conclude, I'm getting ready to sneak outside, and using stealth, try to deploy the water weapon.    Wish me luck.............  

A Valentine Tribute

Valentine's Day is the greeting card holiday. From the time in elementary school while you waited beside your white paper bag carefully decorated with pink and red construction paper hearts for everyone in the class to walk by and drop in the Flintstones, Dinosaur or Barbie valentine card, to standing in front of your locker in high school just hoping that there would be a Valentine card pushed through the air slots, greeting cards are synonomous with Valentine's Day. Greeting cards go beyond that in my family. In fact, they have always had a special place in our family. My mother was always the 'card queen'; she had a greeting and note card stash that rivaled any store. She would say, “I just like my friends, and my family to know I'm thinking about them. Everybody likes to get a card.”

If there was an occasion, you could count on a card from her. She never forgot a birthday, or an anniversary, but she didn't stop there. She sent not only Valentine's Day cards, but also Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas cards. She sent new baby cards, graduation cards, get well cards, and sympathy cards. Those were just the ordinary cards.

The ones you looked for in the mailbox were the special cards. She seemed to have a sixth sense. Magically, when you most needed it, a card would suddenly appear with a note written in her flowery, curled, uniform Palmer handwriting using her own unique abbreviations. Sometimes she abbreviated so many words her sentiments had to be deciphered as if reading a secret code, but you always felt better after you made the effort. She used those special cards to acknowledge milestones, send encouragement, and sustain friendships.

My father confined his greeting cards purchases to the ones he bought for my mother. As a child I used to carefully handle those cards from him to her. They were always the prettiest, the most elaborate and they were always signed “With love, your Bill” You could see the care and effort he expended in picking them. I can close my eyes and imagine him standing in his dirty work clothes at the end of a long day pondering the greeting card rack while carefully selecting the perfect card. I discovered his card hiding place when I was about ten. I was helping him clean his pick-up truck. My part of the job was to clean the interior. When I opened the glove box to straighten it out, I found a card for my mother still in its small paper sack. He just smiled, and said, “Don't tell, now.”

From the vantage point of adulthood, I've realized that due to tight money, there were years in which birthday gifts, or sometimes even Christmas gifts just weren't part of those celebrations between my parents. But there were always, always beautiful cards expressing their love for one another.

Cards in our household said, “I love you.” “I'm thinking of you.” “I hurt for you.” “I'm proud of you.” “You're cherished.” “I appreciate you.” “You'll get through this.” All received cards were always given a place of honor on the top of the television for weeks after they came. Pictures that had been slipped into the cards were carefully propped up. As a teenager I used to think the television commercials and programs advertising greeting cards must have been made with my family, particularly my mother, in mind.

A few months after her 60^th wedding anniversary, my mother suddenly died leaving behind my father who was deeply mired in dementia. It fell to my husband and I to close down my parent's lives. There was a house to empty, clean up and sell. This was a sad and difficult time. There was so much stuff to go through – 50 years worth accumulated in the house they had scrimped and saved to buy in 1957.

I was so tired that day of 'going through' and 'cleaning out'. There was only 1100 square feet and a one car garage to deal with, but there was a lot of cleverly built storage all full of things. It just seemed like endless tasks lay ahead of me. I opened a closet door to see a half dozen cardboard boxes neatly stacked in the back corner. Sighing, I pulled the top one open having no idea what they contained.

As I pulled back the flap of the first box, I stood there stunned. My mother had saved every card she had received from the time she was first married in 1947 right up to the last card given to her – a 2007 Valentine's card from me. I found in those neatly stacked boxes, sixty years of love returned to her in those cards. It was a chronicle of love that wound throughout her life, and encircled her friends and family down through the years. “Mother, thanks for........” “Jo, if it hadn't been for you.....” “Honey, I'll always love you......” There were happy birthdays and merry Christmases as well as other deeply personal and touching cards that had been sent to her. Amazingly, when my father became too ill with dementia to actually go out and buy her an anniversary or birthday card, she recycled earlier cards he had given her. That way, he could continue to participate in the deeply loving ritual between the two of them. I sat there for hours reading those cards smiling, crying, and laughing. It was the most unique eulogy I've every had the privilege to witness.

Even though my mother was 80 years old at the time of her death, it took me the better part of two days on the telephone to notify all her friends of her passing. I heard stories and learned things about her I had never known as I made those calls. And I heard over and over again, “I'm so going to miss your mother's cards. It's just not going to seem the same without your mother's cards.” What was really being said was, I'm going to miss your mother's love. She sent some out with every card she mailed, and that love sustained, nurtured, rejoiced and encouraged. I found the returned love in those boxes. It was humbling and marvelous and moving. My mother passed almost five years ago, but when milestones occur, I still find myself looking for her cards.

I learned to send cards early. I know because I found those cards in my mother's boxes. I've realized I got not only my eyes from my mother, but I also caught on to the idea that you can send love via the mailbox, and you can receive it too. Just as my mother's boxes were unknown to me, I, too, have my secret boxes. They are full of my cards. They go back to 1969, and continue to the present day further unwinding that ribbon of love my mother started. Yes, cards are important in my family. That tradition continues......... I wonder if my daughter has her secret boxes.

The Daring Nocturnal Exploits of The Great Pigeon War

The mood of the Intrepid Pigeon Fighter grew black as he realized he was being outwitted by the enemy.  As the result of intensive research, the IPF chose his initial battle strategy:  Aluminum Foil.  The battleground looks like a festive glittering Christmas display glinting in the ever present Arizona sunlight.  No pigeon ever landed on the shining, twinkling aluminum foil wrapped awning struts or porch light.  Cautious optimism reigned at IPF headquarters...........until dark fell.  

ZOUNDS!  Shiny, glittery became comfortably visible in the dark.  Before you could say, "Coo, coo", not just one but the original nesting pair of pigeons were happily shitting all over the front door and step from dark to dawn.  The IPF has seethed with frustration and the bitter realization that he had partially lost the first skirmish to the enemy.

New plans were called for.

Research recommenced.  The IPF considered his options.  Poison corn?  Pellet gun?  No.......dead bird disposal would be problematic in the land of abundant sunshine and once a week garbage pick up.  Decoy eggs?  Pigeon feed laced with contraceptives?  No..........too much specialized knowledge together with those methodologies not correcting today's problem.   Rocks or other projectiles?  No........window breakage could be an unwanted result.  Finally, the IPF, clever fellow that he is, thoughtfully devised a fiendish nocturnal attack plan.

Back to weapons headquarters to obtain the perfect weapon around which the new plan of attack revolved:  The common garden water hose fitted with the latest technology:  a multiple head water sprayer.  The plan of attack commenced at sunset.  Stealthily slipping out the garage, the IPF silently uncoiled a short length of garden hose, slowly turned on the water and ATTACKED the pair of roosting pigeons by directing a concentrated stream of water square at the breasts of the dozing, unsuspecting enemy pair.  Total surprise achieved!  SQUAWK!  The pair of invaders flew away.  

The next evening, the IPF initiated the same procedure with the same satisfying result.  However, upon returning from a late dinner, the marauding pair were once more comfortably ensconced in their roost above the front doorstep.  Enraged at their audacity, the Intrepid Pigeon Fighter charged to the water hose and once more dispatched the pair.  "That should do it!", he exclaimed.

The next morning arrived with a dispatch from the off premises research staff.  The news?  French research has shown that the enemy (pigeons) are in the upper eschelon of intelligence in the bird world, and can actually recognize and HOLD GRUDGES against people who are mean to them.  The fearless Intrepid Pigeon Fighter is unafraid.  In fact, his attitude can be expressed as that of a debonair, devil may care professional pigeon warrior:  "Hah!  They should be afraid, very afraid of ME!  Their grudges mean nothing and will not deter me in the slightest in this all out war."   Grimly, the IPF settled in to await the dusk.  

Sure enough, research was validated.  The IPF nonchalantly strolled out of the garage at sunset and just TOUCHED the water hose.   The enemy flew away before he could even turn on the water.  Reconnoiters over the next three hours showed neither hide nor feather of the enemy roosting above the front doorstep.  

The IPF is cautiously optimistic.............