06-16-2008 Newsletter
What color is a
miracle? At Elm Creek it’s every
color you can imagine and then some.
Winter put down the white primer and now Spring is painting full
palette. But there is also scorched
earth, because selective burning is used by park crews to control and stimulate
growth. I love walking the charred
meadows. It’s like seeing a
postmortem, an x-ray, and then -- within days -- an incredible resurgence of the
Earth’s passions, thick and lush and green.
While crunching through one
particular field that was still smoldering, I came upon a bird box that had
survived high up on its white post.
I knew from earlier walks that a nesting swallow was inside. Even when I approached from behind, I
never got closer than 30 feet before she flew off. She flew off this day, but alas, the
hinged front panel had fallen open, exposing the nest and five tiny eggs. I closed it and jammed a twig in the
seam while she made frantic circles overhead. The twig held for a week or so, but then
I didn’t come for several days, and when I returned I was apprehensive because
we had experienced freak hailstorms and high winds. In an adjacent meadow I call “The Golden
Field” everything looked perfect. A
white feather I had stuck in the ground in front of a tree was miraculously
still there. But further down the
hill and across an asphalt path I saw -- with a pang -- that the bird box front
panel again hung open.
It seemed impossible that
the eggs would still be there untouched.
And when I drew close, my heart sank. For a moment I thought the swallow was
mangled and dead, because her wing was splayed and her head was out of sight and
there were loose feathers all over.
Lord knows what she had been through. Somehow, though, I knew she was alive,
maybe faking, maybe trusting and hoping I would do something as I had
before. I closed the front panel
and pulled a nail out from another part of the box and forced it into the soft
wood, so that the box was pinned to the closed front. But I couldn’t push the nail all the way
in with my fingers, and so I looked around for a rock. The burned out field was desolate and
the only thing at hand was a large animal bone (man, I hope it was an
animal’s). Good enough to hammer
the nail home. Madame Swallow
actually came to the round door in the front panel while I was standing just a
couple of feet from her. I couldn’t
believe it. She was not combative
or afraid. She trusted me. When I started hammering on the nail with
the bone, she took to the air, circling.
But I did my best so that she wouldn’t return to a 5- egg omelette
inside. Two hours later, when I
returned from hiking, she popped onto her door sill and again we were briefly
beak to nose (she was the one with the beak). Then she settled back down on the
nest. Funny how animals can sense
motive and read a human heart. Her
will to survive and her courage in trusting me are things I will never
forget.
If a creature so vulnerable
can overcome her instincts and collective experience, surely I can summon the
courage to take control of my life, I thought. And thus inspired, I wrote this month’s
column over on StorytellersUnplugged.com: SU 2008 06-16
FROG SEX OR JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS. A couple
of other nature metaphors contributed to the theme, but I’ve saved those for the
column.
The above was written last
week, but I have to confess if I hadn’t just arrived back from a fabulous three
days on Cross Lake, Minnesota, I’d be writing about that in both this newsletter
and the column. For many years I’ve
enjoyed an extraordinary friendship with an extraordinary man and his
extraordinary family. Glenn Frey of
the Eagles has more facets than the Hope diamond, and when he invited me up to
Cross Lake, I knew it was going to be a hoot with philosophical overtones. Adding to the warmth and meaningfulness
we always share was the fact that his wife Cindy and two sons, Deacon and Otis
Lincoln Douglas (you got that right -- and this six-year-old has the pz-zazz to
back that handle up!), and father-in-law Jerry, who can barbecue his way into
Hell’s Kitchen, were all there.
Deacon stole the limelight at the outdoor concert with his rockin’ guitar
and vocals on some of his old man’s hits like “Hotel California.” Not to mention that Otis made his bid to
insert “Tambourine Man” on the playlist. Three days of beautiful vistas on the
lake, exquisite people, great food, a million laughs and pranks, music to tame
the masses, and scintillating conversation. Much more next month. Count on it.
This month’s photos include
three from the column at StorytellersUnplugged.com, whose link is above. Lord, I hope I get the order right: frog
sex; ninja birds; Deacon Frey strumming at the house on Cross Lake; Glenn &
Deacon on stage at Manhattan Beach Lodge; Otis Frey on tambourine; Dr. Foto’s
alleged capturing of me in disguise watching frog sex.
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