Of Birds and Beauty (Covidian repose)
A teacher’s friend, cold weather picnics, and the arrival of Spring
PAST
Mr Gali was my fifth and sixth grade teacher at Webster Hill Elementary School in West Hartford, CT. He was a short and stocky man with a stern face and menacing, thick eyebrows. He had a passive-aggressive way of massaging the shoulders of us misbehaving boys, which both taunted our nascent homophobia and established him as the Alpha male in the room. As with most people – especially those that loom large in our past – he was complicated.
He had a friend who we called Mrs Barker. She was an elegant woman with red hair that she wore in an old-fashioned beehive doo. At my young age, it was hard to say how young or old she was, but from this vantage point I would guess her late 50s. She wore neatly tailored pantsuits, or a blouse and slacks, and always had light scent of a flowery perfume.
Mrs Barker and her husband had lived in Japan for some time, and on some of the occasions that she would join our class, she brought treasures from her travels, including the most beuatiful silk kimonos and caligraphic scrolls. Her stories stirred our imaginations with news of a peaceful people, who ate fish and rice for breakfast, while sitting on bamboo mats, lived in homes with moving rice paper walls, and who use terms such as Chan and San. Until we grew older and could venture out ourselves, this was an engaging way to expand our understanding and awareness of the world beyond our immediate experience.
I was aware of birds as a boy, because there were many trees around our home and in the mature neighborhoods of West Hartford, CT. But I had never touched a bird, or seen one up close, until Mrs Barker. What would have been weird or creepy from another person, came off as eccentric from her, i.e. when a bird would fly into a window of her home and break its neck, and she would wrap it up in a plastic bag and put it in her freezer. (I always imagined them right next to her half gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream). She would then bring them to our classroom, so that we could feel what light as a feather really was, and admire their bright colors and delicate features in detail.
Our class once made field trip to Mrs Barker’s house. It was a quite a spread, almost a museum. There were more kimonos on the walls, as well as numerous vases and sculpture from her time in Japan. She encouraged us to touch and smell, which was so different from don’t-touch field trips to the Hartford Atheneum. She was always happy to entertain our many questions. I didn’t even get in trouble, because my mind was present, and I was able to pay attention in this classroom of life.
RECENT PAST
One of the reasons we moved to Ithaca, NY nearly twenty five years ago was Cornell University. No, we didn’t attend as students or work there as minions or Ivy League demi-gods/goddeses. But we knew that the presence of such an old and esteemed institution of higher learning conferred many opportunities and resources to the surrounding community.
Cornell was part of my childhood. My great grandfather had attended the state side of the school (as compared to the private side) and studied agriculture, twice! It was a source of friction with my great grandmother’s newspaper tycoon parents that Walter Stanley Marsland, Sr was happy as a clam to grow cash crops in New York and Florida, trucking his family back and forth according to the season. His son, my great uncle David, studied at Cornell as an undergraduate in chemistry. As a result, my Nana and Pop pop had a thing for Ithaca. They came to Ithaca for their honeymoon in 1937, and later they would visit Uncle David while he was in school.
One of my Pop pop’s quirks was that he enjoyed picnics all year round, when more delicate souls wouldn’t even consider spreading out a blanket and nibbling on fried chicken and fresh pie. Several times during my childhood, I rode along for four hours with Nana and Pop pop from Parkerford, PA to Ithaca for a picnic. I remember the suspension bridge, the gorges, and the vast Cornell campus. I remember being cold, and quietly wondering that nobody else seemed to be doing what we were doing. I remember my Pop pop and Nana laughing, and looking at each other with a surprising tenderness and twinkle in their eyes. Perhaps remembering their honeymoon? Then we drove another four hours home.
True to our expectations, one of the resources Cornell has provided to Ithaca is the Lab of Ornithology. I don’t think I ever even heard the word ornithology before we came to Ithaca, and it took many years of living here before we ventured into this realm. The birders among you are likely familiar with the Lab of O as a tremendous resource of pictures, sounds, and knowledge of all things birdy. There is a physical building that is a seriously expensive pile of stonework and architectural extravagance. Then there is the land and the paths around the water features, with blinds for watching the birds in any season. On Saturday mornings, if you can get your sleepy head out of bed and show up by 7:30am, you don’t even need to bring binoculars (provided) to join a group for a walk and bird watching.
I’ll just say birders are weirdos. And, I’m finally old enough that I’m glad to be counted as a weirdo among weirdos. Birds are simply amazing. There are so many different kinds, doing so many different things, in so many different ways, and regularly performing feats of aeronautical maneuver, navigation and long distance travel that it renders me silent. I marvel at the miracle of it all.
PRESENT
My commute is a seven minute walk up a steep hill to the clinical space I share with my colleague of twenty years, a traditional Chinese medicine (TCM) herbalist and acupuncturist. Over the last week, I have heard the sounds of the birds returning to Ithaca, or passing through on their migration further north. The Sapsucker greets the morning with its raspy chatter and a harsh, squealing weep. The Robins emit their string of clear whistles. The Black Birds lift my eyes and heart from my weary trudge with their shrill rising squee and concluding metallic click.
The deer which eat our perennials and frolic in the field outside my office window will soon be mating, and hiding their fawns in surprising places. The ground hog woke up much earlier than I can enjoy noting, and can be seen nibbling at the base of the bird feeder every morning. Soon the family of skunks, or their most recent progeny, which has lived under our mud room for nearly a decade will show themselves. I will have to be more cautious when I arrive home or take out the compost, so that I don’t get sprayed!
Sprouts, buds, tendrils and shoots are appearing all around us as reminders that we have made it throught another Winter. I look forward to seeing what plantings survived, what volunteers landed in the soil from the excrement of a passing bird or a resourceful squirrel. There will also be the encroaching invasive species which will test our perserverance again this year.
My beloved steadily conceives and brings forth creative expression into the world. She manifests this in glass and metal which require infinite variations of light to fully appreciate. Her labor is Olympic, Athenian even, as she moves against the currents of a collapsing society, a devaluation of art, and loss of hope. While I’m trying to help make life bearable for hundreds of patients, she ensures that life is worth living, because there is spark, spirit and beauty.
P.S. It turns out that there was in fact a subscriber from Wyoming already, who was the recipient of a lifetime subscription to Lightning Bug. The 50th state from which I am still wishing, and desiring, oh, so ardently, a reader, is the wildly beautiful and rugged West Virginia. Please announce yourself monsieur/mademoiselle/madame.
P.S.S. This week marks the occasion of reaching 1000 subscribers to Lightning Bug! There are so many Substacks, and posts and papers and, and, and to read, and yet some of you spend some of your time each week reading Lightning Bug. Thank you!
Thank you for reading Claire.
And you make me laugh too! Thank you.