A Bird in Hand. . . Part II

This is a continuation of my story from April 28: "Rescue Me . . .  Part I"

What to do with a baby robin, in hand, when it is freezing cold and all its little mites have run up your wrists, and your mean old cat has killed the mom . . . leaving the dad to feed and care for the rest of the family on his own - ? 


Well first you call the Audobon Society to find out what to do . .. "Give it damp cat food or egg yolk . . . . and do NOT give it milk. Find its nest and put it back." OOOOKAAY!  Cat food I had aplenty . . . so I used the handle of a yellow plastic spoon to poke some cat food down his big open beak . . . and he ate plenty. I also held him until he felt as warm as he should.

I spent that evening and night looking for his nest . ..  because he cried . .  loudly!  I saw an old bird's nest in the same tree so I climbed it and put him in that . . . but there he was even more lonely and his father, in his comings and goings with food for the brood, ignored his cries . . . It was so sad looking at that little bird watching his dad going back and forth with mouthfuls of food and disappearing deep into the shadows of that persimmon tree . . . The baby's eyes glittering hopefully and his cries becoming louder and more desperate . . . and the sun was starting to go down.


I watched the father closely and tried to guess where the nest was . . . I would climb the tree and perch on a limb (and I am afraid of heights) and watch for any movement or deeper shadows where a nest might be . .  As it got darker and darker I climbed further up the tree, thinking I would be able to find the nest (how hard can it be?) but I was never able to find it. I had to retrieve Baby because his cries were so piteous and he wasn't stopping . . . I will never forget that enormous voice that came out of that little thing . . . so I climbed back down the tree with a re-chilled baby bird and took him inside where I found a box, some materials for a nest and fed him once more before calming him down enough to get him to sleep . . . I was definitely a robin mother.  I put Baby's container in the kitchen and locked the doors against that naughty cat, Bear.

Well, days went by and I was busy. . . We didn't have the Internet in those days so I spent much of my free time scouring the library and watching the other robins. ..  trying to figure out what to do with this little critter. I kept him supplied with cat food but I knew that wasn't going to be good enough as time went on. 


The cats were angry at me . ..  they couldn't figure out why I wouldn't allow them into the kitchen .. . and one day Bear snuck in . ..  and with one claw snagged a feather off the chest of the bird right over his heart. When that feather grew back it was pure white and remained so for the rest of the summer.


To feed Baby I got some big trays and filled them with soil from the garden . . . I watered the yard daily for hours and at night I went out with a flashlight and a big jar and captured the night-crawlers. These are some pretty big and strong worms. Some fishing folk told me about this trick. How to sneak up on them with the flashlight because they are laying outside their tunnels, socializing and relaxing by the light of the moon. My hands would get all slimy and sticky from handling these guys. They always kept their hind-ends hooked to the mouth of their tunnels and when they sensed my presence they would retreat into the safety of their cave faster than I can blink. If I was able to grab hold of one I had to tug fast and contend with this amazing strength .  .  . but I was always able to capture quite a few by the end of the night.


I would put the worms in the trays of soil which I kept moist and when Baby was hungry I would make a big deal out of capturing a worm and pounding it like I noticed the parents did . . . before cramming it down his wide open beak . . 


I took Baby outside, one day, to see if he was ready to go . .  He did fly off to a neighbor's tree where he started to cry. He cried the rest of the day and into the night . . . where I finally left him since he was afraid of the cats (rightly so) and he wouldn't come back to me. The next day I went back outside with his old feeding spoon and he flew right down to my head. I took him back inside and gave him the house to fly in until he was ready to go. 


I watched the robins constantly and since my yard was the dampest in town the robins came often to find food. Eventually I put one of the worm trays outside where I attracted a large number of hungry robins, including a huge flock of youth, about the age of Baby. I took him outside to join his relatives and I always recognized him with his white feather over his heart. He would come down and land on my head if I called him but one day he wouldn't come near me . .  he was now a free, wild creature . ..  hanging out with his buddies and foraging for food for himself . .  Eventually as Fall approached and there were berries and other robin food the flock of youth stopped coming by and I lost sight of my baby robin . . .


But this was an experience. I was successful at raising him but it was so much hard work. It dominated my days and nights and I was glad when it was over. 


Here is a link to a great site which provides tons of information regarding the American Robin . ..  how to help an orphaned one and everything you could possibly wish to know in regards to these cheerful little birds.  I adore robins and look forward to hearing their vocalizations in the early spring . . .
http://www.learner.org/jnorth/robin/


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Hours of excellent music to play and relax to . . . just simply good flowing ambient to calm your wild child . ..The Music is good and there is lots of it:

Royalty free music for professional licensing

    

My Voice

Growing up, I learned to love Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and Louisa May Alcott early on in my reading career. I was always thrilled at the different voices I heard, and the unique and creative ways that human beings express themselves. 

Reading was my favorite pass-time. When I was very little, the adults in my life never read children's books to me . . . they read from a huge book of poetry with an endless supply of poems . . . many of which were written by an author named "Unknown." Our babysitter was always happy to tease us about this prolific writer . . .

I started writing poetry at a very young age  . . . as soon as I could scribble . . . . I wanted to be like that "Unknown" writer . . . I loved thinking of new ways to explain my deepest feelings about things in my world. I wanted to draw on the emotions on others and connect with them if just for a single moment.

And I am still that way. Words are my allies and friends . . .sharing my inner soul and heart .. . exposing me to the world that chooses to read me. I also read prolifically . . . when I get the chance in my busy schedule. I love to hear the diversity in the human voice . . . everyone being unique and special . . . with their own message, tone, and way of carrying their thoughts forward.

All art is like that . . . a special way for us to connect with others and feel real . . . begin to touch our spiritual and temporal existence; share and understand our perceptions of the world around us . . . . and to be able to protest or exult in life as we see it through our experiences. And as far as we wish to explore or expose .. . . we do, through artistic maneuvers. It is our gift to humanity, to each other. . . and  to ourselves.

There are so many ways to be creative and express ourselves . . . as many ways as there are humans on this earth . . . from the way we dress in the morning; to our doodles on a scrap of paper as we sit bored in a meeting; and at the end of the day the lullabies we sing to our babies.  We are all artists and our art is valid and meaningful.

Everyone should feel confident in their own expressions . . . as there is no measure against which you can compare . . . we all have an unique life experience . . . our footsteps in the sand are our own . . . . and we all have our own viewpoint, for no one else looks through our eyes or hears through our ears . . .  And nobody is a better artist than another . . . just that some are heard more than others and some are understood better . . .its all in the matter of perspective.

So speak out with your own voice . . . make yourself heard . . . and forgive yourself because you are not perfect . . . neither am I . . .no one is . . . Its part of the beauty of life, as we are all uncut gems on a chain of steel . . .strength connecting us and beauty expressing us . . .. 

And be creative . . . buy a box of crayons . . . and draw a picture . . . hang it up on the fridge and admire it . . . for there is not another masterpiece exactly like it . . . . No one else can do what you do!

- M^^W-

LAUGHTER IS AN ART!!

I have just decided - an imperative - a vote from one - and I hear others join me in this campaign.  HA! What is Art exactly?!?: Somewhere in there must be Joy - and Joy includes laughter.

Yesterday I finished loading all the computers in my lab with a new word processor:  OOo4Kids.  Its got a lot of cool features which will just work better with kids than Word, such as: the ability to use the mouse to move objects around on the page. Cool!  Well, I never really had the time to give it much of a test run so I decided to introduce the application to the third grade classes and then just let them explore.  That teaching method worked so well with Stykz - I was astonished and pleased that the children surpassed me in their skills. Even the little ones - so being the lazy teacher that I am  . . .

The kids were wonderful with OOo4Kids. They asked me how to use it and I shrugged my shoulders, "Click around, read the Help section, see what happens and then share with each other."
The resulting activities were fantastic to hear and watch. The kids discovered so many unique features, such as draw, stamp, shapes and other items. They were able to change the backgrounds and headers, fonts and other cool things appeared as if by magic. The favorite was the music feature, where you could add sounds, music and your own voice. Children were running around the room helping and encouraging and I mostly just sat back and watched and enjoyed.

BUT - I live in a universe run by time. Time rules - clocks are Hellish - plus they are never correct but that's another story. I realized I had another class on my schedule. I needed these students to stop doing whatever they were doing and go through the closing procedures I have structured for my classes. "Apple-Q; close your folders and log out of 'Students'." Unfortunately, the sound volume of children's voices is usually pretty high and although my voice can carry across a playground and quite possibly the city I just couldn't get their attention. So I blew my whistle.

Just a couple of light breaths through my whistle and I thought all would be calm - so I took a sip of tea. The children quieted down for a second and then I heard someone say, "What was that?"

And another little girl said, "I don't know but it sounded like a Dollar Tree whistle." Which made me start laughing so hard that I snorted tea out of my nose, and I knew I was going to choke to death in front of these beautiful people. I haven't laughed so hard in years and I would have enjoyed it more without the mouthful of tea - but I was quickly surrounded by a mass of concerned little people, all hugging me and laughing also. A good time was had by all . . . since I lived, and procedures were followed  . . . and although it sounded like a riot in my room and the other teachers were peering through the door (a little fearfully) . . . I think my class was very successful.

So what did I learn from all this? Not to be insulted when someone says that my very expensive whistle sounds like a "dollar store" item? How about, not drinking tea around eight and nine year old people?  Its OK to be lazy? Keep my eye on the clock always? I think maybe I learned that I am right when I say - Kids are born to learn and they learn best when they play.
PLAY IS AN ART!!

Grownups play too:

My review:
Bringing me back to the day - what fun we had in those golden California days - what a blur they were - but fun. Riding around in our convertibles, with the radio up loud - LOUD - and singing, and rocking, bouncing down the freeways totally oblivious to everything else but each other and our exhilaration at living such a free and easy existence.

Yes - smashed would be a great word to call that existence. I just love this album for bringing back that free wheeling life-style and giving us the great guitar work - the outstanding singing - the lyrics - the adventure, the SUPER music. Although this album is not entirely like those golden-olden days - it is close enough to that groovy spirit that it makes me visualize - ah - my younger days. You guys are the best!

Warning: Sadness Here Below!

So now I have a sad poem - which flew into my mind when I was thinking about Jamendo and the issues applied therein - and dealing with my strong "rescuer" self-image and how truly frustrated I become when I can't fix things - so if you are looking for laughter please don't read this poem unless you are easily amused.

When bodies began to fall

when there were bodies falling
while the fire raged
and the wings did not appear
as promised by our dreams
who was there to catch
the burning bodies . . .
our hearts turned in despair
and our eyes glazed over
as if not to see. . .
that the bodies were falling
into a tempestuous sea

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This little poem is about 9-11 and how I felt at not being superman.  I was traumatized for two years and unable to sleep without dreaming that I was one of those people who had to jump from the heights of those burning buildings and I would waken in the middle of the night with my heart flying out of my chest.  Every single night the very same dream of reaching out a hand to someone else, standing by a broken window, and leaping together as the flames stormed up around us. . . . every single night.




 

Books

Life is a story and we are always retelling our part of the never-ending tale. If someone catches us at it they may call it a lie. But we know better - the true tale, worth telling, resides in another realm, one within the imaginings.

So maybe, life isn't real, but a series of books on a library shelf, located somewhere in the heavens. Could be: think about it.

I have loved books my whole life. I am a voracious reader and have accumulated over 2,000 books in my library. A few are worth sharing. Some deserve to be hoarded and kept for posterity as long as their molecules hold together. Others are for pure entertainment. Many are full of important knowledge.

I revel in my library.

I begin now a Post which will be focused on books. Particularly the ones which have endured in my heart and have added a layer to my life.

The author I chose today is: Louisa May Alcott, a woman of such integrity and enduring stamina that she should be any girl's hero. Let me find something to tell you about her. I have something in my library. . .

Here is a link to a pretty concise biography of this lovely lady. http://www25.uua.org/uuhs/duub/articles/louisamayalcott.html

Louisa May Alcott was born in 1832-1888 in Philadelphia. She never went to school but was well educated at home by her father, Bronson Alcott. Her father was a Transcendentalist Philosopher and Educator and ran a small school of his own for a short while. Some of the close family friends who were a strong influence on Alcott were, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and Nathaniel Hawthorne; all worthy of emulation.
The Alcotts lived a hard scrabble life and moved often. Louisa May Alcott took many menial jobs to help support her family during these hard times. These jobs included being a servant, seamstress, and nurse during the Civil War, much to the detriment of her health. She became an advocate of abolition, women's rights and temperance. Her big break came when "Little Women" was published in 1868, a story about her family during her childhood. She continued to publish a book a year until her death in 1888.

I remember when I was given an ancient copy of "Little Women" when I was eleven. I loved the smell of old books and would bury my nose deep into their pages until I had absorbed as much fragrance  and other worldly essence as I could stand. Then I would read. First sniff. Then engorge on the colors and details of a well told story. My brain would race with mental pictures to accompany these tales and I had a vivid imagination which holds true today.

Although I had been an avid reader since the day I could hold a book, and had a real strong desire to read every book in the public library, I had never fallen so hard for a book as I fell for this one. To this day, this book is my love. I have her stashed carefully away in safekeeping, her pages fallen in disarray and her cover scuffed and abused. I took her out today to look at her, but put her back for fear of any more damage. Sadly the incense is also gone but the memory of it is so strong that it will never fade away from my mind.

I did want to include a couple of covers from my collection of children's books. These two are from my Louisa May Alcott collection, both of which I also owned as a child: