Recently, Paul and I learned about a moonlight / sunset paddle offered through CSU, Chico’s aquatic center. The program included kayak rental and a guided tour of the Lake Oroville Forebay. For some reason, this resonated within our hearts. We were eager to enjoy the experience and recruited two other couples to join us.
The excursion did not disappoint us. The weather was perfect and the kayaks were easy to maneuver. We enjoyed the sunset and an up-close view of a beaver lodge. We slipped along merrily singing, laughing, chatting, and having a wonderful time. We were soaked when we finished and our arms ached slightly from the 2 ½ miles of paddling. The trip was so wonderful that it sparked an intense desire in our hearts to own a canoe and make paddling around a regular event.
Paul and I both share the same romantic notions about canoe trips. We can envision ourselves putting in somewhere in the mountains and paddling noiselessly through glassy waters surrounded by tall pines under puffy white clouds amid a clear blue sky. Somewhere along the shoreline a pristine beach would beckon us ashore where we might spy on a family of beavers or watch eagles soar overhead. In such a setting we would be compelled to overlook our petty squabbles and idiosyncrasies and be swept up in a romantic reverie. Ah, the canoe, it appeared the ideal vehicle for marital bliss.
Fueled by such notions we decided to buy a canoe. Craigslist was consulted and we identified several potential craft by the following afternoon. A 1976 Sears Model # 61032 captured our attention. It was advertised as seating three and having a capacity of 425 lbs. Constructed of fiberglass, this canoe weighed 55 # dry. We called the seller and he agreed to show us the canoe the following day.
The drive to the seller’s location was filled with plans for our summer canoe excursions. We thrilled with the anticipation of discovering nearby lakes, boat-in camping, and having adventures together. Occasionally, a snippet of reason crept into the conversation.
“Maybe he’ll have a pond and we can try it out?”
Any such moment of lucidity was swept away with the next round of “Then we could go to …” Caught up in excitement, we lost all uncertainty and were ready to hurl wads of cash at the seller the minute he appeared in his driveway. We tumbled out of the truck, glanced at the canoe, and asked the seller if he knew how to strap it to the top of our vehicle. He produced a handy set of foam blocks and proceeded to school us in the art of canoe hoisting and securing. We shook hands and counted out the cash, while wriggling with excitement to begin the paddling stage of our lives.
The seller tried to slip in a word of advice as we bounded into our seats.
“Take it slow and careful, y’know – no sudden moves.”
“Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. We’ll take it nice and slow. We’re very cautious.” We reassured him as the gravel flew from under our wheels and we sped off to purchase paddles and outfit our rig.
The ride home was filled with more of the same magic. We vowed to launch our canoe on Ellis Lake, the jewel of Marysville, that very evening. In the same conversation we planned and discussed our next three outings. So far, being a boat owner was one of the best things that ever happened to us.
Ellis Lake is the centerpiece of Marysville. One might instantly think of the many recreation opportunities available at this sparkling man-made lagoon surrounded by lush greenery, flocks of geese, and a variety of other birds. One might have memories of paddle boat rentals, the annual catfish derby, the Fourth of July fireworks shows, or watching mini jet boat races. One might think of the lighted fountain that runs every night filling the sky with color and beauty.
But Ellis Lake’s appearance waxes and wanes with the Marysville’s park maintenance budget. When we moved to Marysville in 1989, the lake was in terrible shape. It had been taken over by a strange weed and efforts to eradicate it included lowering the water level and scrubbing the concrete shoreline. Several summers have passed without paddle boat rentals and an overabundance of fowl leave slippery deposits all along the concrete pathways. Several years ago a tragic rocket accident caused the cancellation of the annual fireworks display.
As we hauled our craft to launch it on its maiden voyage, our enthusiasm for canoeing caused us to repress the involuntary shudder that accompanies any serious contemplation of the muddy waters of Ellis Lake. Despite its rich and varied history, most residents of our area associate Ellis Lake with just one thing – the discovery that was made there on October 20, 2002. On that date a car and intact skeleton were found in just 7 feet of murky water. A crowd gathered to watch the vehicle as it was pulled from the water. A strange blend of horror and fascination accompanied each detail of the investigation – especially the revelation that the car had rested there for more than twenty years. A missing person case was resolved, and I along with thousands of other area residents rejoiced in the knowledge that we had never consumed anything caught at Ellis Lake.
Yet, there we were sliding our canoe off the truck and into the waters alongside steps cut into the concrete shoreline. I took my place in the bow and Paul gently lowered himself into his position in the stern. The canoe rapidly rocked back and forth snapping us to attention. Our reverie began to drain.
“It’s wobbly,” I noted.
“Really tippy,” Paul agreed.
Try as we may, the wobbling continued. My heart raced and my knees began to shake. This increased the wobbling. I took deep breaths and steadied myself. Gradually, we felt confident enough to dip our paddles into the water and we began to move. We glided along staying close to shore. If I stayed really still it barely wobbled.
“It’s more stable than it feels.” Paul reassured me “Just because it’s wobbling, it doesn’t mean it’s going to tip.”
My confidence grew a tiny bit. We passed under the footbridges and neared the Gold Sox Stadium. Children waved at us and I was pretty sure a young couple looked wistfully at us enjoying our romantic evening. As we rounded the picnic island at the north end of the lake a dreadful premonition settled upon me. I imagined that someone we knew might recognize us from the shore and call out to us. What if, in responding to them, I made a quick move and we capsized. I shared this concern with Paul and together we dismissed it, laughing it off. We were really getting the hang of it now. We began to discuss our next outing.
Without any warning, the boat overturned. My dream of never experiencing the depths of Ellis Lake was instantly wrecked. I sputtered and bobbed to the surface, spitting out water, gasping, and treading water violently. Together we pulled the canoe towards the shore where we once again saw the young couple their eyes reflecting more terror than romanticism. My feet found the bottom of the lake, and my hand grasped at a slimy cobblestone. The young man offered his hand to steady me and helped us right our canoe. Being far from the truck, we reluctantly climbed in and resumed our voyage.
We quickly applied a new strategy. I would sit perfectly still while Paul paddled. The only problem was that my entire body was now shivering violently. I forced myself to sit as still as possible to minimize the wobbling. We hugged the shoreline but occasionally veered into open water to make better time. In the open water, time stood still as I replayed the incident over and over again and constantly calculated the shortest route to shore. The capsize had completely surprised us. The only “sudden move” could have been an extra deep breath. We had rushed into buying a tippy canoe.
We made it home where I showered and shot off an email to the Craigslist seller. He agreed to refund our money. We strapped it on today and concluded our 2 days of being boat owners. Our enthusiasm has been dampened, but we still plan on buying a canoe – or maybe a kayak. We’ll be sure to test drive it first though – but maybe not at Ellis Lake.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A Tarantula Tale
[Disclaimer: This story includes a dramatic re-enactment and is told strictly from MY point of view. Other eyewitnesses and participants may have differing viewpoints.}
Sunday my husband and I were able to get away for the day with friends. We went to Sunset Magazine's headquarters in Menlo Park for their celebration weekend. It was beautiful and we both enjoyed exploring more about our interests (mine - cooking and veggie gardening, his - travel and ornamental gardening). We left our daughters at home to take care of the house and animals.
Right about the time that the birds are fed in the afternoon, my cell phone rang. I answered it to find BOTH of my daughters on the phone crying and squealing hysterically. I calmed them down enough to hear them inform me that there was a baby tarantula in the loft. Apparently, when they went out to begin their loft duties, the aforementioned arachnid startled them - causing a hasty exit and panicked phone call.
I doubted whether it was a tarantula because they aren't found in our area. However, my girls insisted it was HUGE, hairy, and DEFINITELY a tarantula. They were very upset and begged me to send someone over to rid them of this situation. We were en route to home, but were still a couple of hours away. Additionally, we were spending the day with two couples that happen to be amongst our closest friends. In other words, we couldn't call either couple to ask them to help the girls out. I gave the girls permission to shirk their duties for a couple of hours until we returned. I told them I was quite sure that it wasn't a tarantula, but they could look on the internet if they wanted to see one. This instruction was a mistake.
The internet is a wondrous tool that can take one to faraway lands where information of all types may be accessed. It's a blessing... and a curse - especially when accessed by 14 and 16 year old paranoid arachnophoibics.
An hour later I received another alarming call. "Mom!" daughter #1 exclaimed, "there are tons of baby tarantulas"
"AND they eat baby pigeons," daughter #2 added.
My heart began to pound and I was briefly sucked into their whirlwind of hysteria. I took a deep breath and regained my senses. "How many tarantulas?" I inquired.
"Seven hundred," they replied in unison.
"Seven hundred tarantulas! There are SEVEN HUNDRED TARANTULAS in the LOFT!" My anxiety and disbelief rose together. All the other conversations in our merry vehicle ceased and everyone politely eavesdropped on the conversation.
"Well, we haven't seen all of them yet," one daughter offered.
"How many have you seen?" I asked.
"Just the one, but the internet said that they have seven hundred babies at a time. So 699 must be under the loft. They live in burrows."
My relief was mixed with annoyance at this revelation. I began an new line of questioning. "Okay, let me get this straight. You've seen one spider. You're convinced it's a tarantula. You haven't seen any adult tarantulas. Is the spider near the babies?"
"No, it's in the center section of the loft behind the file cabinet."
"Just leave everything alone until we get home."
"But what if it eats the babies? We saw them eating babies on YouTube," daughter #2 sobbed.
"There are videos of tarantulas eating baby pigeons on YouTube?" I reeled slightly from the mental picture and the shock. "Don't watch that garbage. Did you watch it?"
"We couldn't watch the entire clip. It was too gross. But there were tons of tarantulas in it, and..."
"If you see any more," I interrruped, "then call me back. Otherwise, just stay inside, I'll be home soon. Besides, how much could one spider eat?"
"There are 700."
I'll have to admit that I returned anticipating at least one big hairy spider and was already brainstorming extermination strategies which included pants, long sleeves, gloves, and possibly a ski mask. However, when I finally made it home the culprit was nowhere to be found. I couldn't even locate the single baby tarantula - much less the hoarde of pigeon marauding arachnids marching through teenish imaginations fueled by Google, YouTube, and Wikipedia.
Sunday my husband and I were able to get away for the day with friends. We went to Sunset Magazine's headquarters in Menlo Park for their celebration weekend. It was beautiful and we both enjoyed exploring more about our interests (mine - cooking and veggie gardening, his - travel and ornamental gardening). We left our daughters at home to take care of the house and animals.
Right about the time that the birds are fed in the afternoon, my cell phone rang. I answered it to find BOTH of my daughters on the phone crying and squealing hysterically. I calmed them down enough to hear them inform me that there was a baby tarantula in the loft. Apparently, when they went out to begin their loft duties, the aforementioned arachnid startled them - causing a hasty exit and panicked phone call.
I doubted whether it was a tarantula because they aren't found in our area. However, my girls insisted it was HUGE, hairy, and DEFINITELY a tarantula. They were very upset and begged me to send someone over to rid them of this situation. We were en route to home, but were still a couple of hours away. Additionally, we were spending the day with two couples that happen to be amongst our closest friends. In other words, we couldn't call either couple to ask them to help the girls out. I gave the girls permission to shirk their duties for a couple of hours until we returned. I told them I was quite sure that it wasn't a tarantula, but they could look on the internet if they wanted to see one. This instruction was a mistake.
The internet is a wondrous tool that can take one to faraway lands where information of all types may be accessed. It's a blessing... and a curse - especially when accessed by 14 and 16 year old paranoid arachnophoibics.
An hour later I received another alarming call. "Mom!" daughter #1 exclaimed, "there are tons of baby tarantulas"
"AND they eat baby pigeons," daughter #2 added.
My heart began to pound and I was briefly sucked into their whirlwind of hysteria. I took a deep breath and regained my senses. "How many tarantulas?" I inquired.
"Seven hundred," they replied in unison.
"Seven hundred tarantulas! There are SEVEN HUNDRED TARANTULAS in the LOFT!" My anxiety and disbelief rose together. All the other conversations in our merry vehicle ceased and everyone politely eavesdropped on the conversation.
"Well, we haven't seen all of them yet," one daughter offered.
"How many have you seen?" I asked.
"Just the one, but the internet said that they have seven hundred babies at a time. So 699 must be under the loft. They live in burrows."
My relief was mixed with annoyance at this revelation. I began an new line of questioning. "Okay, let me get this straight. You've seen one spider. You're convinced it's a tarantula. You haven't seen any adult tarantulas. Is the spider near the babies?"
"No, it's in the center section of the loft behind the file cabinet."
"Just leave everything alone until we get home."
"But what if it eats the babies? We saw them eating babies on YouTube," daughter #2 sobbed.
"There are videos of tarantulas eating baby pigeons on YouTube?" I reeled slightly from the mental picture and the shock. "Don't watch that garbage. Did you watch it?"
"We couldn't watch the entire clip. It was too gross. But there were tons of tarantulas in it, and..."
"If you see any more," I interrruped, "then call me back. Otherwise, just stay inside, I'll be home soon. Besides, how much could one spider eat?"
"There are 700."
I'll have to admit that I returned anticipating at least one big hairy spider and was already brainstorming extermination strategies which included pants, long sleeves, gloves, and possibly a ski mask. However, when I finally made it home the culprit was nowhere to be found. I couldn't even locate the single baby tarantula - much less the hoarde of pigeon marauding arachnids marching through teenish imaginations fueled by Google, YouTube, and Wikipedia.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Mowing the Lawn
I never was one for yard work or gardening. I grew up viewing outside chores as a man’s work. My Dad always kept the lawn looking neat. If he didn’t mow it himself, then one of my brothers did. I can’t picture my mother or one of my sisters using a lawn mower. Dad was highly skilled in outdoor maintenance. My memory is bursting with images of Dad weeding, trimming, and gardening. Dad’s garden was expansive yielding a bountiful harvest to eat and give away every summer.
A couple of times the gardening bug has bit me. I’ve been swept away with the idea of fresh home grown vegetables and fruits gracing my table. In a flurry I would till up some ground, hoe, fertilize, and plant rows of bush beans, mounds of cantaloupe and squash, and containers of tomatoes. Usually the gardening bug has lasted slightly longer than a common cold. I would become impatient for the harvest, tired of the maintenance, and my garden would die a slow death with the weeds choking the life out of the crops.
So what am I doing out in the back yard this morning? As I survey the calf-high grass I recall Dad’s tradition of not mowing for a couple weeks before Easter. His lawn had to be high enough to hide eggs. I’m sure it annoyed him to let it go for those few weeks. Almost as soon as the hunt was over, the lawn was mowed again. As I examine the clumps of high grass and weeds I spy some impressive hiding places. Maybe I should have an Easter egg hunt? I ditch this idea because we’re going out of town for Easter.
I sigh. Putting this off isn’t the answer. The lawn really needs mowing and I’m the one who’s available to do it. Yuck. I begin to pick up the back yard. There are palm fronds, tools, chairs, a hose and an extension cord lying about. All of these are potential hazards for the power mower.
I open the shed and wrest the lawn mower from its winter quarters. I position it and tug the cord. Nothing. I give it another couple hearty pulls without getting any response. I know I’m forgetting something. I stop and perform a thorough visual inspection and discover a red button. Something primal tells me to pump it a few times. I tug the rope and the mower roars to life.
I push the sputtering and chugging machine through the tall grass. I have to tilt it on its back wheels to reach the highest patches. My arms are aching and my legs are straining to run it back and forth over the weediest spots. I push, pull, and maneuver the apparatus until it stops catching the clippings. I pause long enough to empty the bag, reattach it, and begin again. The mower stalls out. I’ve run out of gas and have to decode the gas can instructions so I can refill the tank.
It never used to be this way. Lawn maintenance was one area where Paul always scored an A++. For years he mowed the lawn regularly without me reminding, asking, or maybe even noticing. He never complained about it or put it off. He even mowed the rental house lawn in between tenants. Mowing this morning stirs a conviction that I didn’t appreciate his efforts enough.
I’m not enjoying this. I decide to look on the bright side and think about the positive aspects. I’m quite sure that lawn mowing qualifies as a workout. My First Place for Health program equates 19 minutes of gardening to 1 mile of walking. Another website claims that one hour of pushing a power mower burns 374 calories. As I push the mower I think about the healthy benefits I’m getting while making my yard look better at the same time.
Mowing the lawn also gives me a chance to enjoy memories of Dad and be thankful for the example he was to me. I am also grateful for my husband’s strong yard work ethic. Straining against the mower makes me admire his strength and consistency in performing yard work.
In spite of being thankful for all those things, I can’t help but note that I’m the one mowing the yard today. Now that I think of it, I’m mowing more often. Paul started off strong in the yard work department, but somewhere along the road he started slipping. Maybe it’s due to poor time management. Between his full time job and his four part-time jobs, time is always getting away from him. Maybe it’s that 50-and-over softball league he joined this year. Those Tuesday night games are taking away time that he could be spending on chores.
I sigh again and resign myself to the fact that mowing the lawn has become a woman’s work in my home. It’s hard to swallow, but who can argue with the facts? It’s happening repeatedly. It happened in April, 2008, and now it’s happened again in April, 2009. That’s TWICE… in twenty-four years.
I put away the lawn mower and smile.
A couple of times the gardening bug has bit me. I’ve been swept away with the idea of fresh home grown vegetables and fruits gracing my table. In a flurry I would till up some ground, hoe, fertilize, and plant rows of bush beans, mounds of cantaloupe and squash, and containers of tomatoes. Usually the gardening bug has lasted slightly longer than a common cold. I would become impatient for the harvest, tired of the maintenance, and my garden would die a slow death with the weeds choking the life out of the crops.
So what am I doing out in the back yard this morning? As I survey the calf-high grass I recall Dad’s tradition of not mowing for a couple weeks before Easter. His lawn had to be high enough to hide eggs. I’m sure it annoyed him to let it go for those few weeks. Almost as soon as the hunt was over, the lawn was mowed again. As I examine the clumps of high grass and weeds I spy some impressive hiding places. Maybe I should have an Easter egg hunt? I ditch this idea because we’re going out of town for Easter.
I sigh. Putting this off isn’t the answer. The lawn really needs mowing and I’m the one who’s available to do it. Yuck. I begin to pick up the back yard. There are palm fronds, tools, chairs, a hose and an extension cord lying about. All of these are potential hazards for the power mower.
I open the shed and wrest the lawn mower from its winter quarters. I position it and tug the cord. Nothing. I give it another couple hearty pulls without getting any response. I know I’m forgetting something. I stop and perform a thorough visual inspection and discover a red button. Something primal tells me to pump it a few times. I tug the rope and the mower roars to life.
I push the sputtering and chugging machine through the tall grass. I have to tilt it on its back wheels to reach the highest patches. My arms are aching and my legs are straining to run it back and forth over the weediest spots. I push, pull, and maneuver the apparatus until it stops catching the clippings. I pause long enough to empty the bag, reattach it, and begin again. The mower stalls out. I’ve run out of gas and have to decode the gas can instructions so I can refill the tank.
It never used to be this way. Lawn maintenance was one area where Paul always scored an A++. For years he mowed the lawn regularly without me reminding, asking, or maybe even noticing. He never complained about it or put it off. He even mowed the rental house lawn in between tenants. Mowing this morning stirs a conviction that I didn’t appreciate his efforts enough.
I’m not enjoying this. I decide to look on the bright side and think about the positive aspects. I’m quite sure that lawn mowing qualifies as a workout. My First Place for Health program equates 19 minutes of gardening to 1 mile of walking. Another website claims that one hour of pushing a power mower burns 374 calories. As I push the mower I think about the healthy benefits I’m getting while making my yard look better at the same time.
Mowing the lawn also gives me a chance to enjoy memories of Dad and be thankful for the example he was to me. I am also grateful for my husband’s strong yard work ethic. Straining against the mower makes me admire his strength and consistency in performing yard work.
In spite of being thankful for all those things, I can’t help but note that I’m the one mowing the yard today. Now that I think of it, I’m mowing more often. Paul started off strong in the yard work department, but somewhere along the road he started slipping. Maybe it’s due to poor time management. Between his full time job and his four part-time jobs, time is always getting away from him. Maybe it’s that 50-and-over softball league he joined this year. Those Tuesday night games are taking away time that he could be spending on chores.
I sigh again and resign myself to the fact that mowing the lawn has become a woman’s work in my home. It’s hard to swallow, but who can argue with the facts? It’s happening repeatedly. It happened in April, 2008, and now it’s happened again in April, 2009. That’s TWICE… in twenty-four years.
I put away the lawn mower and smile.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Pigeons' Progress
I began my journey in this world – a humdrum existence filled with busy-ness of technical writing, church, huswifery, and homeschooling. It is completely acceptable to consider whether I should categorize any of these activities as “humdrum,” and indeed, they are not. Yet – my life lacked an outlet. I had no memory, even in childhood, of becoming deeply attached to a hobby or pastime that brought fulfillment, relaxation, and enjoyment to my soul and spirit.
Many diversions had been attempted in this world. Reading was chief amongst these pursuits. But reading was a necessity in my business transactions and my eyes and mind tired of it. Bowling was another pleasure in which I had partaken. Especially dear to me were memories of bowling on a team with my father and sister – the renowned Pinheads of Poway Bowl. Those days were long behind me and I did not hope to discover any Pinheads in my current locale. I had, of late, begun to ski in earnest. Yet, my skill on the slopes was lacking and the seasonal aspects of the sport made for limited improvement and enjoyment each year. For a time, I attempted artistic endeavors and strove to master the fundamentals of drawing. This required great amounts of concentration and was more of a strain than a pleasure.
One day a sign appeared on my front porch. A pair of pigeons had nested there and I sought to observe their nesting habits. The young fledglings were pushed out of their abode before they were able to fly and I was compelled to rescue them from the claws of death and attempt to save their very lives. In this pursuit, I was exposed to many wonders found in that sacred voluminous expanse aptly dubbed “Internet.” I was drawn into the web and there I found expositions of pigeon racing, showing birds, and the intricacies of differentiation between various expressions of the species Columbidae.
My heart thrilled to this newfound pleasure, my breathing deepened, and tension fled from my shoulders and neck. It would not be fain to imagine that my blood pressure dipped as I clicked from site to site observing the dove in flight, doves on landing boards, as well as the dove in display cages. The paraphernalia of those entrusted to the care of these magnificent creatures fascinated me. I learned of crates, box perches, feeders, watering systems, baskets, feed bins, grit, nest bowls, and many other wonders too marvelous to list. A plan began to hatch in my subconscious that involved a white dove release business of my own.
And yet, how absurd this would appear to many of my associates! I had virtually no background with birds, except for units of time spent on the opposite side of a pair of binoculars from various species. I never owned a feathered creature, never held one, and had very little in terms of knowledge about their care and well being. Yet, I envisioned fluttering and soaring at weddings and gravesides and thrilled at the idea of venturing into a dove release business. My husband placed great faith in my inspired state of being and humored me. I also sought heavenly assistance and was alert to the appearance of signs each step of the way. I thus observed many notable indicators everywhere I looked. Dove chocolates left on my chair at a conference and packaged atop aisle four in Wal Mart were both ominous. Dove adorned bodywash, soap, and deodorant contained hidden meanings. Allusions to doves leapt off the page in my Bible. I was alert to every reference and innuendo, and each confirmed my heart’s desire.
The travails and comedy of moving a purchased loft, examining zoning ordinances, training young birds, and being trained by my birds are chronicled elsewhere in this blog. Throughout these experiences I have learned valuable lessons in faith, persistence, and common sense. These pale in comparison to the lessons I have learned about patience, observation, and personal enjoyment. At one point, I foolishly believed that my phone would be ringing off the hook with pleas for my services. As I continued deeper and deeper into this foray it became obvious that this would be more of a slow-growth enterprise. Weddings have been booked and I anticipate the frequency will increase. As I look forward to this bridal season, I am excited to share with all some of the peace and well-being that my observing my flock so regularly grants to me.
A lack of business has not saddened me as my desire to use the birds to make money has been replaced with the awareness that my quest for a hobby had been realized. And so, after beginning my journey in a hum-drum existence I have now reached the celestial city of Columbidae devotees. I awaken each day to cooing and find myself regularly observing and being observed by the curious eyes and bobbing heads of an entire flock of newfound friends.
Many diversions had been attempted in this world. Reading was chief amongst these pursuits. But reading was a necessity in my business transactions and my eyes and mind tired of it. Bowling was another pleasure in which I had partaken. Especially dear to me were memories of bowling on a team with my father and sister – the renowned Pinheads of Poway Bowl. Those days were long behind me and I did not hope to discover any Pinheads in my current locale. I had, of late, begun to ski in earnest. Yet, my skill on the slopes was lacking and the seasonal aspects of the sport made for limited improvement and enjoyment each year. For a time, I attempted artistic endeavors and strove to master the fundamentals of drawing. This required great amounts of concentration and was more of a strain than a pleasure.
One day a sign appeared on my front porch. A pair of pigeons had nested there and I sought to observe their nesting habits. The young fledglings were pushed out of their abode before they were able to fly and I was compelled to rescue them from the claws of death and attempt to save their very lives. In this pursuit, I was exposed to many wonders found in that sacred voluminous expanse aptly dubbed “Internet.” I was drawn into the web and there I found expositions of pigeon racing, showing birds, and the intricacies of differentiation between various expressions of the species Columbidae.
My heart thrilled to this newfound pleasure, my breathing deepened, and tension fled from my shoulders and neck. It would not be fain to imagine that my blood pressure dipped as I clicked from site to site observing the dove in flight, doves on landing boards, as well as the dove in display cages. The paraphernalia of those entrusted to the care of these magnificent creatures fascinated me. I learned of crates, box perches, feeders, watering systems, baskets, feed bins, grit, nest bowls, and many other wonders too marvelous to list. A plan began to hatch in my subconscious that involved a white dove release business of my own.
And yet, how absurd this would appear to many of my associates! I had virtually no background with birds, except for units of time spent on the opposite side of a pair of binoculars from various species. I never owned a feathered creature, never held one, and had very little in terms of knowledge about their care and well being. Yet, I envisioned fluttering and soaring at weddings and gravesides and thrilled at the idea of venturing into a dove release business. My husband placed great faith in my inspired state of being and humored me. I also sought heavenly assistance and was alert to the appearance of signs each step of the way. I thus observed many notable indicators everywhere I looked. Dove chocolates left on my chair at a conference and packaged atop aisle four in Wal Mart were both ominous. Dove adorned bodywash, soap, and deodorant contained hidden meanings. Allusions to doves leapt off the page in my Bible. I was alert to every reference and innuendo, and each confirmed my heart’s desire.
The travails and comedy of moving a purchased loft, examining zoning ordinances, training young birds, and being trained by my birds are chronicled elsewhere in this blog. Throughout these experiences I have learned valuable lessons in faith, persistence, and common sense. These pale in comparison to the lessons I have learned about patience, observation, and personal enjoyment. At one point, I foolishly believed that my phone would be ringing off the hook with pleas for my services. As I continued deeper and deeper into this foray it became obvious that this would be more of a slow-growth enterprise. Weddings have been booked and I anticipate the frequency will increase. As I look forward to this bridal season, I am excited to share with all some of the peace and well-being that my observing my flock so regularly grants to me.
A lack of business has not saddened me as my desire to use the birds to make money has been replaced with the awareness that my quest for a hobby had been realized. And so, after beginning my journey in a hum-drum existence I have now reached the celestial city of Columbidae devotees. I awaken each day to cooing and find myself regularly observing and being observed by the curious eyes and bobbing heads of an entire flock of newfound friends.
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