The Nest

About two weeks ago, Tom and I sat out on our deck after work enjoying a drink, the sun, and waiting for Taylor and Alex to arrive so the four of us could go to dinner. Suddenly, several birds began squawking and circling overhead.

The majority appeared to be bluebirds, but also joining in were hawks, crows, and robins. First there were about three birds, then over 10, and suddenly the sky was filled with them. It was just like a scene out of “The Birds,” but without Tippy Hedren and the arty camera angle.

Margot began barking and suddenly darted down into the backyard, furiously trying to get behind a bush under our dining room window. Tom went down to investigate, and found a wounded baby bluebird. What appeared to be the parents darted in and out of the bush, trying to attend to the injured baby while avoiding Tom, who was now wielding a shovel, and Margot, who couldn’t decide if she wanted to eat the bird or if she was afraid of it.

Taylor and Alex arrived in the midst of the excitement, and the four of us tried to come up with a game plan. I won’t identify the proponent of each plan by name, but half of the group wanted to take the bird to Dove Lewis Emergency Animal Care Center, and the other half wanted to expedite the little guy’s delivery to the Great Nest in the Sky so we could make our Hiroshi reservation on time.

I say little “guy,” because by now Alex had named the bird Riley, and she and I were convinced it was a boy. Once the bird had both a gender and a name, especially one as endearing as Riley, it was clear that we would be doing our best to ensure his survival (the Life of Riley, as it were).

Dove Lewis ended up taking Riley to the Audubon Society. When I called them the next day to inquire about his condition, I was promised that once Riley was rehabilitated, he would be brought back to our house and released in the back yard to increase his chances of reuniting with his family. With any luck, he will make a note of our dining room window, and steer clear of it in the future. I plan to not wash it for a while, which should improve the life span of birds in my neighborhood and will also get me out of at least one chore for the time being.

I feel bad not only for Riley, but for his parents too (Nick and Nora). My vivid imagination has conjured up a picture of what happened in the moments prior to the accident. Riley was peering over the edge of the nest nervously, and asked his parents, “You want me to do WHAT?”

“Just jump out, sweetie,” cooed Nora, in her best Mommy Believes In You voice. “Really, you’ll be fine! You just flap your wings, and you’ll soon find yourself aloft with the other birds in the neighborhood. Go have fun with the other chicks, sweetheart. Just stay away from the crows on Shenandoah, they’re a murderous bunch.”

“Hey mom,” Riley likely protested, “Maybe I’m just not ready for this yet. My wings aren’t fully developed, and I think I feel a leg cramp coming on. Can’t I just hang here with you guys, maybe help feather the nest or something?”

At this point, Nick takes over. “Look son,” he urges Riley, “You are the last chick in the neighborhood who hasn’t flown the coop yet. You are starting to make me look bad. Do you want to be known as a coward? Do you want to live with us and eat regurgitated food from your mother’s mouth for the rest of your life? Good God, boy, just do it!”

And with that, Nick probably nudged Riley out of the nest with a loving but firm peck on his head. Maybe Riley soared for a while and started to get the hang of it before he hit our window and his day took a very bad turn. Maybe his accident was immediate, and his parents should have known that a child can often accurately sense their own limitations. Either way, Riley still ended up taking the right of passage known as his first flight, as all birds must eventually do (unless they are ostriches, of course).

In a similar vein, last weekend I put Jake on a bus for his second trip to camp Four Winds Westward Ho on Orcas Island. Last year, camp lasted just one week, and although he had trepidations at first, Jake loved the Four Winds experience and couldn’t wait to go back. The difference this year, however, is now that Jake is nine years old, the camp session is four weeks.

FOUR WEEKS. That’s 28 days. 672 hours. 40,320 minutes without my kid around.

For the past few months, I asked him repeatedly if he was really sure he wanted to go to camp. I peppered him with questions and hypothetical situations to ensure he was ready for a month without his family, friends and pets. He assured me he was prepared to go on this adventure, and while my heart ached as we dropped him off at the camp bus last Saturday in Seattle, it also swelled with pride at the little man he had become. He and his cousin Michael were anxious to get on the bus and get going, while I silently clung to the tail of his shirt, chewing the inside of my mouth to stop the tears and hoping for a few extra minutes before the campers were called away.

When it was time for us to go, Jake gave me a big hug and kiss, and whispered in my ear, “I know you’re worried, Mommy. Don’t be. You loved Four Winds and so do I. Be happy for me, don’t be sad. I’ll be home soon.”  No really, he talks like that. 

And so I let go of my little boy, and surprised myself by not crying. I could have kept him home with us all summer, but I know this experience will reward him with maturity, new skills (sailing, horseback riding, guitar, and hopefully, making his bed), as well as introducing him to a host of friends from all over the country. I had to let him fly, despite the uneasy feeling I had turning his care over to someone else for such a long time.

As we pulled away, we noticed one child sobbing into his mother’s arms, shaking his head “no” and clearly not wanting to get on the bus. This was a poignant scene, and my slight disappointment that Jake hadn’t lingered longer by my side was instantly replaced by relief that he trusted himself enough to take this step. Patrick, Crista, Tom and I all began to talk about how sad it was to see this child crying, not only for the kid, but for his mother too, who must have been tremendously conflicted over whether to wrap him in her arms and take him home, or give him a peck on the head and send him on his way.

(Then we all had a good laugh as we imagined really mean things to say out the window to this kid, including, but not limited to: "suck it up, loser!"  "get on the damn bus already!"  and last, but not least, "man up, you little brat, mommy needs a vodka!")

As I connected the experience of Riley learning how to fly with Jake leaving for camp, it dawned on me that a nice ending to this blog would be to give an update on Riley’s condition. The last time I spoke with the Audubon Society they informed me that Riley was doing well, eating a lot, and extremely friendly. Sounds like Jake, right? They thought Riley would be ready to be released into my yard within a week or two.

So, I called a few minutes ago and gave the woman on the phone the reference number that should have allowed her to look up Riley’s status and give me a report.

She put me on hold twice. After the first hold, she came back, asking me if this was an adult spotted towhee. “No, no, this is a baby!” I said, getting frustrated. “His name is Riley, and he is a bluebird. He ran into my window. You guys promised you would release him back into my yard when he is better so he can find his family.”

“OK, hold on,” the woman said, and disappeared for about five minutes. When she came back on the line, she was apologetic. “Hey, I’m really sorry, but we can’t seem to find Riley. I can’t find a record of him or you anywhere. It’s like he just disappeared. Are you sure Dove Lewis brought him here?”

I’d like to write more, but I am driving to Orcas Island to install video surveillance cameras on the camp property. I’ll blog from the road.

“You are worried about seeing him spend his early years in doing nothing. What! Is it nothing to be happy? Nothing to skip, play, and run around all day long? Never in his life will he be so busy again.” ~Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile, 1762

Eponymous; RIP Phil Mosley

My heart is heavy and sad tonight.

It has been 20+ years since a good friend of mine died so I am not accustomed to this type of shock and dismay.  Today, Portland lost Phil Mosley, the much loved and revered proprieter of Phil's Meat Market in NW Portland at Uptown Shopping Center.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, loved Phil.  Phil was the embodiment of what it means to be a small business owner in our little hamlet of Portland Oregon.  He was a true entrepreneur in the best sense of the word, and ran his business in a most informal and friendly way.  Forget your wallet?  No problem...Phil would put it on your "tab" and then try to convince you the debt was paid upon your next visit to the store.   My perception of Phil is that he always strived to be a kind and generous boss, in addition to being a truly great man.  He succeeded.  Phil was a young man when he died today, far too young to leave his wife, his son, and all his customers and friends who can't imagine Portland without him in it.

I met Phil many years ago when my father would bring me along with him for the sacred selection of meat for Sunday dinners.  Phil was always friendly, funny and warm.  He also had a masterful sense of how to pair wine with food (don't worry, I didn't figure that out until later in life), and I always relished joining my dad for those trips into his store.

Years later after I started a family of my own, I became one of Phil's most loyal customers; not only because he had the best selection of meat and seafood and wine in town, but because each trip into his store was a cheaper version of a visit to a therapist.  Phil always knew what to say, whether you were happy, stressed, down, whatever.  It was ineveitable that if you came into Phil's Meat Market, you left feeling better than you did when you walked in.  Can you say that about many other places?  Do you go to Zupan's and feel like you have interacted with family?  I mean "family" in a good way, of course...

Over the years, business after business disappeared from the shopping center.  First to go was the Uptown Broiler, then Baskin and Robbins, and the flower shop called Stems Uptown.  Still, Phil and his incredible wife and partner Becky Mosley hung in there, knowing that the association people had with the Meat Market in that particular location was a strong component of their success.  The film store, the real estate agency, the blues bar Dandelion Pub all faded away, but Phil's Uptown Meat Market stayed, and prospered.  Thank goodness, so did the liquor store.  I have often noted how convenient it is to be able to make one stop for vodka, Marlboros, and tenderloin.  If you have those three things, what else could you possibly need?  Besides a very good doctor, obviously.

I spent the day today feeling sorry for myself, having suffered some sort of bizarre back injury that kept me in bed and sleeping all day.  What a waste of 8 hours, because who among us knows when our time will be coming to a close?  When the call came from Becky Mosley today, I simply could not believe it.  "He's gone," she said, and all I could say was "no."

No.

Mark Knopfler wrote in a song once that death would be a sweet release.  Well, it isn't.  Perhaps it is for those who pass, but for those who remain in the wake, death is an enigma.  I miss Phil.  I grieve for his wife and his son and everyone else in this city who knew and loved him.  My visits to his market were at least 3-4 times a week, more when Tom and I handled a legal matter for him (we were paid in steak and wine, and as a result became very fat, but that's another blog).  Tonight my son and I stopped by his store to deliver lillies and a card and I simply broke down in tears.

How is there a Phil's without Phil?  For those of you who knew Phil and frequent his store, this question is likely on your mind.  However, I urge you to be a continued loyal patron to this family-owned Portland landmark.  Phil's will go on into the future, under the guidance of Becky and her family, who include not just those people related by blood, but the family that is the Phil's staff.  It is inevitable when people hear about a death, especially a sudden one, they ask, "what can I do to help?"  This is what you can do.

Recent musings of mine have focused on a disbelief in a higher power and an afterlife.  But if there is a heaven, please tell me Phil is playing a fabulous round of golf, cooking a Kobe rib eye, and enjoying a bottle of Owen Roe.  His health in recent years had limited his enjoyment of simple pleasures such as these, and I hope that in the hereafter, God always sets a full table, cooks the meat medium-rare, and decanters the Burgundy

We all love you Phil.  May you rest in peace, my friend.

My heart is heavy and sad tonight.

Sisters are doing it for themselves

You are wondering why I haven't written in so long.  I know, I know...you have missed me.  And I have missed you.  I worry about my throngs of adoring readers checking into my blog every thirty minutes to see what new clever missive I have fired across Al Gore's Internet.

Would you like to know where I have been and what I have been doing?  I think the picture below says it all.

Why does this picture explain my absence?  Because this is a plant that was given to me by my company to adorn my office, also known as "where I have been."  Art will follow, though I plan to supply my own.  My job which initially was part-time has become quite busy, and when I am not toiling away in the office, I am working from home.  This is of course in addition to my other three jobs: mom, wife, and aspiring golf professional (I drove the ball 240 yards testing a driver the other day!  Needless to say, I purchased it).

In my efforts to become an all-around SuperWoman, I also recently attempted (and succeeded) at something I never thought would have been possible: I assembled a piece of furniture.  Tom and I finally purchased some teak loungers for our deck about two months ago, but we never put them together because as some of you may recall, it rained all May, June, and well into July.  However, one evening recently I found myself home alone with nothing to do.  I looked at the boxes holding the chairs and they challenged me to challenge myself.

This is what the chair looked like out of the box.

These are the materials I used to assemble the chair: screws, phone, directions, a screwdriver, and a Screwdriver.

Making progress!  The sliding tray and the legs are firmly attached.  OK, the legs were backward at the time, but I figured it out eventually.

Voila!  Those of you who are wondering why the assembly of this chaise is blogable don't know that I attach symbolic importance to many mundane activities in my life.  It makes me edgy and deep, much as my blog name does.  The fact is, there was a time in my life when I never would have even attempted to put this thing together.  Furniture assembly definitely fell in the "ask a man to do it" category of tasks, along with anything having to do with the car, the electrical panel, and killing bugs.

My first husband (a.k.a. The Canary in a Coal Mine) loved doing projects like this, and all other jobs which could be deemed manly.  Luckily for me, he also did all of the cleaning and laundry.  Oh Patrick, sometimes I really miss you...

Tom also loves to do manly tasks, but since he has been working so much lately, I wanted to surprise him with a nice chair to relax on when he got home.  Unfortunately for him, I was on it.

I am thankful every day for my husband, whose charm and sex appeal know no bounds.  However, it is nice to know that I can do the boy jobs myself.  I earn my own living, I assemble my own furniture, and I recently found the electrical panel.  While I draw the line at Bug Duty, I did manage to shoo a spider out the door the other day, which I call progress.  I can't imagine being taken care of, like a child, not willing (and therefore eventually, not able) to do for myself.  Where is the pride in that?  Why be a barnacle, when you can be a boat?