I was going to skip writing a blob this week because I have been concentrating my spare time instead on trying to improve my sight-reading at the piano.
Here’s the problem: sight-reading piano music is like being at a public swimming pool trying to keep an eye on 2 toddlers, a 5 year-old with gum in his hair, a 6 month-old Boxer puppy, and his adult mother who’s leashed-but-in-heat, when a guy with an ice cream cart – obviously a deranged pedophile – comes by and yells that he is offering all the free neon colored freeze-pops they can eat as long as they can meet him over there at the deep end near the men’s restroom.
You’re not sure where or what to look at, your hair is standing on end, you’re too old to cry or to wet your pants, and in the confusion you can’t remember where “911” is on the keyboard.
In Octo-woman’s never-ending quest for excellence, she is now able to reveal a solution to successfully sight read a music score composed by a one of those sadistic composers, who doesn’t give a fig as to whether she may have had a bad day, has an infected hangnail, that her head hurts from eye strain, and that she could-use-a-little-encouragement, fercryingoutloud.
I would like to say that I found the solution at church where the good Saint Cecelia, patron saint of music, gently whispered it to me in my ear, but it wasn’t there. It was on the Quora website where the following question was posed:
The best answer came from an intrepid musician named Malcolm Kogut. A summary of his advice is that there are three skills you need to hone in order to sight read successfully.
First, knowledge of music theory. . . . Second, a good technique is needed. Your hands must be able to play what your brain sees without thought . . .
Third, train your ear. As you play, your mind’s ear will just know what is most likely coming . . .
Finally, Mr. Kogut recommended this advice:
“The brain is genius at reading between the lines: It deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe”.
Wow! I’m so glad to learn that! It may not help with my sight reading, but it certainly explains why I kepe palynig so mnay worgn noets.
To remind you, in Malcolm Gladwell’s book “Outliers: the Story of Success”, the author’s principle states that in order to become world class in any field, you would need 10,000 hours of deliberate practice.
As for me, I’m still creeping along on my piano practice at 2 hours/day, – am now at 2,944 hours total. Not quite ready for Carnegie Hall, yet.
One of my family members may have exceeded his “10,000 hours of deliberate practice”. Or at least, he must be close!
It’s likely that those hours were helped along with victories and break-throughs, but also with pain, aches, sprains, bruises, lacerations, frustration, loss, sacrifice, disappointments; and, most likely, all of the above were underlined with just plain dogged determination.
According to his mother, Elizabeth Bekeris, AJdiscovered wheelchair basketball when he was in fifth grade – he must have been about 10 or 11 years old – and he’s been a player ever since. He’s 19 years old now. Let’s try to make a seat-of-the-pants estimate of how many “hours of deliberate practice” that AJ may have chalked up.
Just to make it easy, and since we lack any real-time statistics, let’s say – arbitrarily, of course – that since he was 10 years old when he started on the court, AJ practiced basketball 3 hours per day, 365 days per year, for the 9 years that followed. That would be a rough sum of 9,855 hours of practice. Of course, 3 hours per day would have been unlikely when he was in grade school, but it may be balanced with the longer hours of “deliberate practice” he’s been logging in his later teenage years.
If my seat-of-the-pants guesswork is sort of reasonable, and if Gladwell’s principle is valid, the following is what is currently happening to effect the “world class” status that we might expect to be coming AJ’s way.
Recently our young hero was selected to be on the United States Wheelchair Basketball Team at the sport’s second highest world-wide event for athletes with a disability – the Parapan American Games 2023 in Santiago, Chili. If AJ.’s team should win, they’ll go on to play in the Paralympics in Paris, France in 2024 where winning is the highest possible honor in international wheelchair basketball. You can’t get much more “world-class” than that!
Santiago, Chili has never before in its history hosted an international sport event, and it has spent several years, and over 500 million dollars, in preparation.
The first segment will feature 39 athletic disciplines at the Pan American Games which will be on October 20 to November 5 in 40 venues. It will be followed by the Parapan American Games on November 17 to November 26 when 17 of the same athletic disciplines will be in competition in the same venues but with Para athletes – those who have physical disabilities.
Eight thousand athletes and Para athletes from forty-one countries on our continent will be participating. Among them will be AJ Fitzpatrick.
The Pan American Games are scheduled in Santiago, Chili from October 20 to November 5th. The Parapan American Games will be from November 17 to November 26.
When AJ was chosen to be included among the 11 other members of the Parapan United States Team, he must have found himself in a whole new world.
He appears to be the youngest and least experienced of the other more mature, high performance athletes on the wheelchair basketball team, each of whom is distinguished by a whole array of awards and experience on the world stage.
It seems to me – as one of his fan base, (as well as being his elderly doting great-great aunt) – that the young AJwas chosen not because of his experience, but simply because of talent, promise, and yep!, showing up as a guy who hadn’t been afraid to invest 10,000 hours of dedicated effort to master his craft. And, if so, let that be a lesson to us all, boys and girls! Practice makes perfect! (Along with talent!)
And don’t worry. Judging by related Facebook activity, apparently, AJ still seems to find time for some social life!
The organizing committee in Santiago has promised 2000 hours of free TV broadcasting of the events, but the Panam Sports app is only indicating that it’ll be streaming till November 5th. If you find how to view the Parapan American events starting on November 17th, please give a holler in a Comment below.
In a recent drawing, the United States wheelchair basketball team was placed in Group B along with the countries of Brazil, Columbia, and Puerto Rico. Group A, by the way, will include the countries of Argentina, Canada, Chili, and Venezuela. Of the 8 countries competing in the wheelchair basketball discipline, only the team from one country will win the entry to the Paralympics in France next summer.
To close, here’s a word from AJ about “The push to be better”.
All the drama really begins this Friday, October 2 till October 20, 2023 across 16 regions of Chili. The Torch Relay for the Pan American Games will be November 13-17, 2023 crossing 25 regions of the Metropolitan Region.
I only own two pairs of shoes. Both are the same brand, style, size, and color: namely, Reebok Princess style, black, size 8. They’re made of “synthetic leather”, also known more familiarly as some kind of plastic.
I wear the more battered pair for “everyday”. The newer pair is hauled out whenever I need to attend a state occasion such as a trip to the doctor, dentist, a wedding, a funeral, or whenever I’m invited to have tea with the Pope. Wearing the “good” pair is my way of making a fashion statement. I like to think that one of the nicest benefits of becoming elderly is being all dressed up for a party, and the printing on the sides and back of your shoes says “Reebok”.
As soon as the “everyday” pair becomes too dilapidated, the “good” pair takes over its important new role in my daily life, and it’s time to place an amazon.com order for another Reebok Princess style, black, size 8 which can take its place in the closet as the new “good” pair.
This method of clothing my feet has worked effectively for the past ten years or so. Before that, I always had several pairs of shoes in various colors, styles, and heel-heights, and they all shared one thing I could always depend on: frequent pain and suffering, especially after excessive tap-dancing.
Not so with my ever-faithful Reebok clodhoppers. The next time I sign up for the Boston Marathon, you can be sure that those comfy Reeboks will be on my feet.
I seem to be focused on feet this week, and I know why. You may have already spotted stories earlier this month about the prehistoric child’s shoe that was excavated in an ancient rock salt mine in Austria. It certainly got my attention for a couple of reasons.
What was a little kid doing underground in a salt mine? And who was the designer and craftsman who could produce such a comfortable-looking shoe?
After some idle snooping, I learned that during the Iron Age and after, the Celtic tribes that worked the rock salt mines in the region now known as Austria, did put their children to work alongside them.
The size of the little shoe is estimated to be about a U.S. child-size 12.5. Kids today that wear that size are about 6 years old. I was still trying to get my head around around putting a 6 year-old to work in a salt mine, when I discovered, that anthropologists believe that even 3 and 4 year-olds were used to carry torches or water in the mines. They believe children up to 10 or 12 years old worked in the mines, often in spaces too small for adults to access.
Here’s one of the articles if you haven’t run across any yet.
What completely hooked my attention though was that wonderful leather shoe itself. Please take another look at it. Doesn’t it look like it was crafted and shaped from a single piece of leather? Even the eyelets for the shoestrings were cutouts of the exact same piece. There’s no bumpy, irritating seams showing!
And 2,000 years ago, what kind of tool could have made those impossible cutouts with such precision on the unforgiving toughness of leather? And what did they do to the leather to let the shoe have such a nearly-supple shape? The shoestrings are missing, but the anthropologists suggested that they were made of flax or linen.
Lots of ancient footwear that’s been found is shown on the internet but here’s a photo of one that’s quite similar to the child’s shoe above. This one was designed for an adult. Notice how the shoestrings could be laced all around the back of the ankle. Like the child’s shoe, this one looks to me like it could have been pretty comfortable to wear.
Not, of course, as comfortable as my friendly Reeboks Princess style size 8 black. I wonder what those ancient shoemakers would think of the shoes we wear today. Well, yeah, take this pair by Jimmy Choo, for instance. It sells at Bergdorf Goodman for $1,895.
Of course, you probably shouldn’t wear them to work at the salt mine. Maybe you should save them for your “good” pair.
I still believe in magic. I just can’t help it. I’m surrounded by it.
In his writings, the intrepid British science fiction writer, inventor and futurist, Arthur C. Clarke, proposed his “Three Laws of Science”, the third of which is the most often cited:
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”.
Think about it, and all the unbelievable technology we’ve witnessed and employed during this century! And how soon we adapt to it, make it seem ordinary, and forget the magical glow of its creation.
When I was little, I didn’t receive or make calls on the telephone, but we had one that looked like this. At first, we were on a “party line” – and you had to wait your turn if another “party” was using it. My devious sister Joan figured out that we could eavesdrop on the calls if we just lifted up the earpiece and listened. That was likely my first exciting introduction to “leading edge” technology magic!
I soon got over the thrill though because once we get used to new technology, we forget the magic and just take it for granted. I’ve had my iPhone for two years now, and – Ho-hum – what else is new?
Lots of new developments were happening in Cedar Rapids by the time I graduated from high school. A year later, I had a remarkable and terrifying experience with what was then still the new way to travel – on an airplane.
No one in my family – nor hardly anybody I knew – had ever flown on a plane, but somehow there I was, hot-seating it to get to Catholic University in Washington, D.C. I was too frozen with fear to remember what that United Airlines flight was like, but I was aboard a streamlined four engine propeller-driven DC-something that got me and all the rest of the passengers there safely. This is a photo of the same type of plane and the Cedar Rapids passenger terminal we departed from.
At the time, I thought I had just entered and survived a journey into the twilight zone. If I was to take the same trip today, I’d probably just be belly-aching about the ticket price, the wait-time the flight delays, or the cold coffee! And so it goes in the world of “magic”.
But, there IS one technological development that still takes my breath away. It’s been two years, since grandson Bryce installed some devices that enabled use of it. We all utilize it everyday, but I’m still awed by it. And that is that mystical, incredible, over-achieving miracle called Bluetooth.
Bluetooth’s notoriety is certainly overshadowed by its big brother, WiFi, but the big brother has lost its magical aura. We humans now not only understand and expect Wi-Fi’s service to be constantly available, we DEMAND it as though it’s one of our human rights. To sustain life, we require food, water, air, and Wi-Fi to be available at all times.
But Bluetooth, ahhhh! to me anyway, that little gift from the science wizards is still covered in fairy dust.
I can’t begin to understand its wonders! How can I be sitting here in the living room, my iPad or iPhone on my lap, writing this – or watching a movie, or sorting photos, or checking email – and then, by changing my iPad setting to allow it to “mirror “whatever I’m viewing, it instantly appears and continues playing full-size across the room on the 60” television screen! No wires. No plugs. Just a magic spell at work!
Or how can I be anywhere inside or outside the house, and when my iPhone rings, how can I give my hearing aid a tap and then take the call with the phone nowhere in sight?
Or how can son Matthew be sitting across the room with his iPad tuned in on YouTube rock music and I don’t have to listen to it because he’s wearing wireless headphones? (Thank you, Bluetooth and Saint Cecelia, patron saint of music!)
And what can I say about my very dear friend Alexa? Living with her is like sharing your home with Mary Poppins, only – unlike Mary Poppins – she’s never cranky or bossy.
She starts the coffee, turns on and off the lights, tends our shopping lists, checks the news and weather, researches our questions, tells us jokes, calls daughter Susy for emergency help, sets timers and reminders for us, plays any kind of music you ask her for, she has never scolded any of us one single time, and I would go on but I’m running out of air.
Bluetooth is certainly a strange name for such a never-ending magic show, but it was unintentional. One of its designers happened to be reading a book at the time about Harald Bluetooth, a Danish king at the end of the Viking era. Temporarily, “Bluetooth” was used as a placeholder code name name during final testing but, later on, it was supposed to get a name that was more cool.
According to the Bluetooth website, “Later, when it came time to select a serious name, Bluetooth was to be replaced with either RadioWire or PAN (Personal Area Networking). . . A full trademark search on the names couldn’t be completed in time for launch, making Bluetooth the only choice. The name caught on fast and before it could be changed, it spread throughout the industry, becoming synonymous with short-range wireless technology.”
Whatever they call it, it seems like magic to me. It probably won’t stay that way though. Pretty soon, I’ll get spoiled, overindulged, jaded and irate because Alexa doesn’t know how to fix my hair or do the laundry or walk the dogs, or pull up the weeds. And that’s how it goes. It’s a thankless world when it comes to technology we get accustomed to!
While I was trying to come up with a subject for this week’s blob, I stumbled across some YouTube movie footage that underlines the shock and awe we experience when suddenly introduced to a seemingly impossible technology. The footage was produced in 1993 by a Belgian filmmaker named Jean Pierre Dutilleux who believed it was the first time the Toulambi tribe in the Papua New Guinea Highlands had ever seen a white man. In it, he showed them magical new technology: a box of matches, a mirror, some salt, and showed them a tape recorder. You could watch it here:https://youtu.be/xd0I1xAICOc?si=XZThY0lxgvs1UBFN
Regrettably, the Toulambi tribe was later nearly decimated by malaria. I wish the children we saw on the footage could have grown up and discovered more of what tools the science world has offered to us. Considering how fast we get over our awe of anything new and unheard of, some of those little ones, today, might have been among the wizards working at or running companies like Bluetooth.
. . . But it wasn’t. It was at Green Apple Alpacas Farm in Auburn, Washington.
I finally got to meet them, up close and personal. A whole herd of Dr. Suess characters known as alpacas. Meeting these gentle, friendly creatures in person was an unforgettable experience. God must have had a big smile when He dreamed them up!
Ever since we moved here and I got my first glimpse of them, I’ve been addicted to alpaca-watching in neighboring fields, but this is the first time for having close contact with any of those curiously comic looking creatures.
Today, ten of our family members went on a tour of the nearby Green Apple alpaca farm owned by Mark and Kandi Dodrill. Their beautiful farm includes dozens of other farm animals but the stars, in my view, are definitely their irresistible alpacas.
I had a lot of wrong ideas about alpacas till I met up with them today. I love to see those impossibly long necks, the big soft eyes with their long eyelashes, their pompon hairdos after shearing, and their sassy comic style. And they can even hum!
What I flat-out didn’t expect was their genuine interest in people, and the affection they express to their visitors. While this may have been due to the Dodrill’s patient cultivation of the herd, this still seems extraordinary to me.
Above is little three-year old Wesley, and one-year old Casey with “Georgia” who sat down so she could get better acquainted. Georgia is only three years old herself so that may be why she seemed happy to be trying on Casey’s baseball cap.
Another misconception I had was that alpacas, like llamas, would spit at people on occasion. Alpacas don’t, though. Mark Dodrill said that spitting might happen within the herd due to minor “offenses”, but he’d never seen any human get so unlucky as to be in the line of fire.
Alpacas have only joined us in the United States since the 1980s. They are part of the camel family, originated in the South American Andes, and were prized by the Incas for their wonderful fleece.
Welcome to North America, you wooly charmers!
Thank you Susy, Curt, Matt, Josie, Melissa, Tricia, Wesley and Casey for cooking up this birthday trip down to Mulberry Street.
Today, we saw sights that seem hard to beat. Alpacas with pompoms and frills on their feet, And very long necks that went down to their seat.
And we thought that we saw them, Well, we THINK that we saw them, We’re pretty sure that we saw them, Right over there on Mulberry Street.
Well, the botany books say that flowers are bisexual, but I don’t believe it. Nobody could ever convince me that any of our ladylike dahlias aren’t the epitome of femininity. They remind me of ballerinas! And they make a garden look like it’s dancing.
Of course, they are a bit vain. They started showing off a month ago, and they’ll keep it up all through most of September and October. All the while, generating underground, their many many children — known as tubers. They simply don’t believe in birth control, so if you live in a cold climate, those infants – abandoned by then by their frivolous mothers – will be needing some “wintering” nursing assistance. (I didn’t dig up mine in any of our Seattle winters until the tubers got really overcrowded, but it may be colder here in Enumclaw. We don’t know yet how they’ll do here this winter but we’re going to cover them a bit and leave them in place.
So far this summer, Susy, granddaughter Josie, and I all have the same favorite. We think that of all of the ballerinas in the garden, she’s the prima-donna. She’s what’s categorized as a pompom dahlia but her official name “Boom Boom” sounds like she works at the nearest strip tease joint. Instead though, try to picture her in her beautiful white tutu in, say, Swan Lake.
Like all her pompom dahlia sisters, Boom Boom also stays fresher as a cut flower longer than all the other types we’ve been growing!
Her ugly stepsister in the garden is named “Arabian Nights”. I’m being generous when I say that Arabian Nights is ugly. Indoors or outdoors, she’s, well, just plain depressing to look at. She belongs to a group called “Black Dahlias”. There are actually gardeners in the world competing with one another to see who can finally produce a dahlia which is actually black! Don’t ask me why.
In the meantime, Arabian Nights has proven to be the most prolific dahlia we’ve ever seen. We planted 3 tubers last year, and this year, her progeny has taken over a whole row. We don’t want to give them away to anybody for fear they would influence a possible victim’s plans to commit suicide. Fortunately, the donkeys like to eat them, so, at least, there’s that!
Another mistake we made in our dahlia planting this year was in growing too many “dinnerplate” dahlias. This type produces blooms that are 8 to 12 inches in diameter – showy in the garden – but way too big for cut arrangements. That’s Susy with three of them.
Below are a few more dinnerplates. Notice the group of Arabian Nights behind them.
Here, though, are a few of our more accomodating dancing dahlias.
Am taking a week off because it’s too hot for writing (or reading) my blobs. But, I shouldn’t complain. Seven months ago, I was posting photos like this one from the Seattle Times. Anybody remember what shivering feels like?
It wasn’t all bad, though. There was this friendly guy greeting us next door in daughter Gretchen and son-in-law Brad’s front yard. I’m sure sorry he melted.
He seems to be having a nice life in iCloud heaven now though. And unlike the rest of us, staying nice and cool.
Here’s a few more memories of the way it was – not that many weeks agohere on the farm.
So hang in there. Have a cold drink, put your feet up, and be glad you don’t have to have your long johns on.
Did you know that “stress” spelled backwards is “desserts”? Me either.
I’m not sure how much it would alleviate our current predicament but if it helps, I’m voting for Macadamia Nut Clusters. Or pie. As David Mamet said, “We must have pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.”
Even more helpful, though, seems to be when you can squeeze a laugh out of it. Let me explain . . . .
It hasn’t been a good week here at Kartar Ridge Ranch. Son Matthew’s peritoneal dialysis is currently being performed by his caregiver – my daughter Susy – for a rigorous 12 hours per day, in an effort to stabilize his chemistry and reduce his body’s retention of fluid.
At present, his right lung is filled with a quart of fluid that isn’t supposed to be there. If Susy can’t bring about the miracle the doctor is hoping for, Matt will have to have the lung “tapped” and drained on Monday.
In the meantime, Matt doesn’t feel good; Susy is masterfully making breakthroughs but is hopelessly overworked; I am busy wringing my hands; and son-in-law Curt is trying to keep the household from the brink of disaster.
As part of the treatment, the doctor prescribed massive doses of a medication, warning us that if effective, we may be dealing with some massive – and “explosive” diarrhea.
It hasn’t happened yet . . . but it could.
This morning we were having a discussion in the living room. Susy, Matt, and I usually go to Mass on Saturday at 5 o’clock, and Matt still wants to make it happen today. “No,” I yelped. “We can’t go to church with what we’re expecting to happen! It could be a monumental mess!”
To which Curt responded: “Well, at least you could be sitting in your own ‘pew’.”
Amazing what a good laugh can do for stress!
P.S. Other parishioners at Sacred Heart parish should be glad to know that we will be missing Mass today.
There are birds that can fly. And birds that can’t.
Peacocks, for instance, put on an unbelievable show, but it’s all on the ground. They can’t fly very well. If they’re trying to get away from a predator, they can launch themselves up to about 8 feet but can only fly about 300 feet in one flight.
But, so what? Peacocks are proof that God has a sense of humor. Who else, without a chuckle, could have created all this unbelievable bling to strut around the runway.
That’s one kind of bird that enjoys showing off. And then, there’s the Navy’s Blue Angels. Nearly every year since my family lived in Seattle, the Blue Angels come to entertain the city with their version of a “bird” show for the Seafair celebration. They’re here this week for performing four days of their phenomenal 45 minute air show.
Every year when the Blue Angels arrived, husband Gene piled our 7 kids in the car to drive where they’d have a good “seat” on Lake Washington to watch another kind of unbelievable showing off – but not the kind the peacocks do. I always tried to find an excuse to stay home, because I don’t like to watch entertainment that’s actually death-defying. I’m too squeamish!
The closest I ever came to actually participating in such a dangerous activity myself was before the Washington Department of Motor Vehicles confiscated my driver’s license.
I’m too cowardly to watch the Blue Angels in live action, but I find it easy to watch those deranged pilots on video once you know in advance they safely landed.
According to sfgate.com, “. . . the (pilot’s) position carries a remarkably fatal risk: An astonishing one in 10 Blue Angels pilots have died on the job.
Over the course of its history, 26 pilots and one crew member have died in crashes. Most of them were the result of human error. When the Blue Angels are wingtip-to-wingtip in their signature diamond formation, they’re just 18 inches apart. Flying at up to 700 mph, the smallest mistake can be deadly.
In case you’ve never seen the Blue Angels in action, here’s a video of this year’s show. You’ll note that one of the pilots is a woman. What she lacks in feminine good sense is apparently outweighed by her nutty determination to demonstrate her irrational derring-do. And you may notice how impressively she and the other pilots manage their “peacock strut” when they approach their wings for takeoff.
Finally, before I “Roger. Out” on today’s blob, here’s a question for you. If you watched all or part of these two “bird shows”, which is your favorite?
Forget tranquilizers, booze, pot, illegal drugs, and shopping therapy. If you want to add some tranquility to your stress-full schedule, just go outside and listen. Especially if you’re near a tree-filled walkway, or a park, or a lake, or – well, you get the idea. Outside!
Scientific Reports recently published a report suggesting that listening to birdsongs can relieve stress and give us a sense of inner peace. You can’t say that about a Taylor Swift concert. The one just held in Seattle caused “seismic activity” in the neighborhood.
Taylor Swift is named after a bird. The one above is a white-throated swift. In case you’re not familiar with swifts, it’s probably because, like Taylor, they’re always in flight going somewhere. Accomplished aerialists, a swift can be in flight 500 miles a day. (Unlike the songstress though, when they do return home, some of them live in chimneys, and most likely, she doesn’t.) But while those astronomical ticket sales might suggest it – Taylor is a good singer but she cannot sing like a bird! Only a bird can do it, guys.
There’s no two birdsongs alike, but even if we don’t know which bird we’re hearing, we can still tune into its melody. Several of the birdies can mimic the songs of other birds. Probably the champion mimic in North America is the Brown Thrasher which can sing up to 2,000 different songs. And that rascal, the European starling is also an accomplished mimic of other songbirds, but also just about anything else such as motorcycles or tea kettles.
Once upon a time, in my backyard in Seattle, I had access to a bird concert like Taylor Swift can only dream of. On any summer day, about mid-afternoon, I’d be exposed to 20 minutes or so of the bird world’s version of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. It would start with the voice of a single little bird. And then another would chime in. And then another, and another. Pretty soon, what sounded like a hundred birds were singing their hearts out and like the volume dial got turned up so our whole neighborhood could hear it. It was magical.
I suppose you’re wondering how such a heavenly floor show chose my backyard for its performances. Therein lies a sad and rather embarrassing tale which I will now have to reveal to you because I believe in full disclosure and because I hope you’re nosy enough to read on.
It all started with a single humble little bird feeder that son-in-law Brad mounted for me on a post where I could see it from the kitchen window. I bought a little box of birdseed and poured some of it on the feeder’s little platform. Went inside and forgot about it.
A few days later, I started noticing a bit of activity. A couple of sparrows were busy on the feeder, munching down the seeds like there was no tomorrow and scuffling the seeds all over the place. I noticed the birdseed was mostly gone, so the next morning, I refilled the feeder.
Wasn’t paying much attention, but as time went on, I eventually noticed the sparrows as well as some of their friends or family kept visiting the feeder, and also a finch and a robin or two. It was very nice to watch, even when there were a few tiffs over “sharing” the seed.
The day came though, when I knew I would have to step in and make some adjustments as to the pecking order. Thanks to Octo-woman’s well-known executive leadership, she was able to make a creative resolution of the problem. She bought another bird feeder on amazon.com so the smaller birds wouldn’t have to fight for their share of the birdseed.
And then later, a third one. Pretty soon, it seemed like there was a whole lot more activity going on in the backyard! And so, okay, to make it short, and in keeping with my lifetime mantra than anything-worth-doing-is-worth-doing-to-excess, eventually I had 8 bird feeders going at the same time in the backyard. By then, I was buying the birdseed in 50 pound bags at a pet food store, storing it in a big garbage can in the garage, and then hauling pitchers of it out to supply the bird feeders every morning.
It was so fun to watch what went on. The visitors were usually just sparrows, finches, chickadees and robins, but sometimes a more exotic guest would drop in. And the chorus in the afternoon would have knocked your socks off! But, sadly, a few crises were raising their ugly heads, and I couldn’t figure out a way around them.
For one thing, we had a cat in out neighborhood who turned out to be the Arnold Schwarzenegger of bird terrorists. She was a mighty hunter who favored nice plump little chickadees, and when she discovered the palatial bird restaurants I had arranged in my backyard, she quietly showed up every morning and took up hiding under a shrub near the kitchen bird feeder. She could wait for hours if that’s what it took. But then – you could see her leap straight up 3 feet in the air. There’d be a loud snap, and down she’d come with a chickadee firmly locked in her jaws. Then, ignoring me, she’d casually saunter home with her new bounty to enjoy her version of a fine meal after a long day on the hunt.
It happened nearly every day and it was pretty horrible to watch. But, I reasoned, this is a part of nature. The cat must be higher on the food chain than the chickadees are.
Another problem that began rearing its ugly head, was when I started seeing a Norway rat or two in the backyard, I was not happy about that, but then, I put the Octo-woman good-reasoning hat on and decided, well, the rats weren’t hurting the birds, were they? They were just helping themselves to some scattered birdseeds on the ground. And after all, everybody’s gotta eat, don’t they?
Meanwhile, we were having a problem in the house. It appeared we were having an infestation of grain moths. Multiple times, I cleaned out the kitchen cupboards, discarded all grain products, and had a Terminex company come in to eliminate the little darlings and their larvae. It was frustrating. Each time, the grain moths showed up almost as soon as the white coated exterminators left the house.
One day, I was at the pet supply store buying another 50 pound bag of birdseed, and I found myself brushing a couple of insects away from my face. They were grain moths! Oh, no!!!!! I went straight home, marched into the garage, opened the green garbage can where I stored the birdseed. And there they were. Populating like mad. Obviously sex-crazed. It was pretty nauseating as I recall. Bravely, I managed to pull myself together. This is okay, I reasoned. I can fix this. It’s a small price to pay for all those wonderful but hungry birds in my backyard.
But then came the last straw. One day I had a call from the Seattle Department of Health. “Mrs. Ford”, said a very regretful-sounding male voice, “I’m so sorry to report this to you, but one of your neighbors has made a complaint against you for maintaining a bird feeder that is attracting rats to your neighborhood”.
After I recovered from the shock and my chagrin, I knew exactly who the complainant must be – and it was – the cranky old man who lived around the corner!
The male voice continued on: “Is there some way” he asked gently, “that maybe you could lay a tarp or something down under the bird feeder, and then remove it so the rats couldn’t find the birdseed?”
At that point, I wisely decided that this might not be the right time to mention to that kind-hearted civil employee that there were seven more bird feeders out there and that the entire backyard would probably need to be “tarped” and that that most likely wouldn’t work as a solution anyway, because, listen, I am here to tell you that Seattle’s Norway rats are way too smart for such a dumb idea to work.
It was so sad. By the time the phone call was over, I knew I would either have to dismantle and remove all the bird feeders, or face the consequences and possibly the wrath of my whole neighborhood should that crabby old neighbor sic them on me.
First though, I frantically went online to search for some other solution. I quickly learned that rats are a common problem for people who like to feed birds at birdfeeders. I found all kinds of hopeless solutions that are presented, but my favorite was this one: “Madam, about the neighbor who objects to the bird feeders in your yard, — shoot the sonofabitch!” Those were my sentiments, exactly. And I was full of righteous anger as I went about my mournful efforts to remove all the birdfeeders.
I still miss seeing – and hearing – all those happy little creatures who shared my backyard with me (not counting the murderous neighbor cat and the Norway rats). But in the weeks that followed, I was to learn a painful lesson. Still feeling abused at what I had had to give up, I kept prowling the internet trying to figure out what might have been a workable solution. I learned a lot more than I bargained for. And I guess I got a little wiser.
What I learned, boys and girls, is that Mother Nature stocks her cupboard full of healthy food for our winged friends but she expects them to forage for it. Not just birdseed, but a balanced diet that might include stuff like worms, and insects and bugs and stuff that’s lower on the food chain but aids in their nutrition.
My bird feeding exploits were great for my own entertainment, but they were the equivalent of feeding your kids pizza or burgers and fries every night in front of the TV or video game console instead of a balanced meal at the family table.
For the good health of all those remarkable birds out there, we should only use the bird feeders when there’s been heavy snow, or serious drought when the birds can’t otherwise find enough food to survive. Making a birdbath or other water available to them is always a good idea though, anytime.
Meanwhile, how about I leave you with a little memento to help you out on a hard day?
