QUAIL MUTTERINGS #20. Owl Serenade (February 2013)

Posted on March 26, 2013 by chivarnado

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #20. Owl Serenade (February 2013)

Every night, lately, the owls have been making their voices heard in the canyon. Recently, when I got home after dark, I could hear two owls nearby, in the creekbed, communicating in the old familiar “Whoo whoo” language. I also thought I heard a dog barking in the distance. But it wasn’t my dog. He’d met me at the gate. Then I realized it wasn’t a dog at all that I heard and it wasn’t all that far away. There was actually an owl up on the mountainside. It had a repetitive, staccato-sounding hoot. After a little research I figured it might have been a Spotted Owl, although there don’t seem to be many of those in this area.

I love hearing the symphony of the owls each night, floating in through my open window. Even if I’m having trouble sleeping the calming sounds of the natural world are soothing and make me wish that our world could always feel this peaceful. The week leading up to full moon, like this, always gives me pleasure when I look out over the creekbed or up at the shining boulders speckling the mountainsides. There’s a magical feel to it – lending a possibility to all good things, even if only right here and right now.

I wonder how owls have become affiliated with wisdom. Is it because they can swivel their heads up to 270 degrees independently from the rest of their bodies? Is it those big, inquisitive eyes which seem capable of pulling your thoughts straight out of you? Or is it simply their nature of staying up all night like those intellectual members of academia?

I remember my mom writing a little song when I was a kid. She was taking a piano class, as an elective, while attending San Diego State College (not “University” yet) pursuing her Geology degree. The lyrics were as follows:

The wise old owl

sat in an oak.

The more he heard

the less he spoke.

The more he heard

the less he spoke.

At the time it had sounded rather simple and repetitive to me, but I think I understand it more clearly now. As a teacher, I can see its significance. We, as parents and educators, may find ourselves continuously preaching at our children. Sometimes, it seems that the more we say the less they listen. If all they hear from us is constant noise then it can’t help but dull their senses. At some point, everyone needs to shut down from anything annoyingly repetitive to keep from going crazy. It’s a little like that torturing procedure where they strap you down and simply drip water onto your forehead at regular intervals.

John Holt, a well-known child advocate, teacher and author, said that once, as an adult, when he noticed his own defensive reaction in response to not grasping what was being taught [told] said, “…Please stop talking about it, and just let me look at it.” Then he thought to himself, “Remember what you have learned about learning. Be like a child. Use your eyes. Gag that teacher’s mouth inside your head, asking all those questions. Don’t try to analyze this thing, look at it, take it in.” He reminds us in HOW CHILDREN LEARN that “What is essential is to realize that children learn independently, not in bunches; that they learn out of interest and curiosity, not to please or appease the adults in power; and that they ought to be in control of their own learning, deciding for themselves what they want to learn and how they want to learn it.”

I’ve noticed, too, that kids pick up on things when they’re interested and care to learn about it. Hammering a youngster with letters and numbers when they don’t have any context to associate it with begins an exercise in frustration for both student and teacher alike. That’s one reason why it’s important to expose our youngsters to many different experiences so that when they are learning to read they can associate the words with some real thing they can identify with. Without tangible evidence in our memories, there’s not much hope of understanding or absorbing anything when the task of learning how to read is so new and challenging, in and of itself.

On the other end of this spectrum, when we’re older and have been reading for decades, simply flipping through a magazine has the potential to spark a new interest. Perhaps something we didn’t even know we cared about. That’s partly because we’ve had more exposure to life’s experiences and can associate it with many things.

Anyway, just last month we’d gone to Pennsylvania for my husband’s step-mother’s funeral. She was a wonderfully positive person who’d always been interested in others, letting them expound about themselves instead of going on about herself. Listening and helping others feel worthwhile came naturally to her. She constantly allowed herself to learn new things.

Kent and I stayed in the historic district of Philadelphia for those few days in January. We wandered Elfreth’s Alley, which was lined by well-preserved three to four story buildings with trap doors out front leading to basements below. I would guess that some, if not all, of those beautifully painted doors have been replaced over the centuries. They looked to be in strikingly good condition. These eighteenth century townhouses were actually inhabited by current renters. I found it intriguing that modern day people lived in, what seemed to me, a museum. The architecture of those old brick buildings struck my fancy. A few blocks away, in Carpenter’s Hall, where the First Continental Congress met in 1774, a small portion of a wall was opened up to display the aged lathing underneath. Horse-drawn carriages parked along the streets awaiting patrons wanting to sight-see. The Liberty Bell rests inside a building where no admission is charged. While Kent read every placard containing dates and other historical jargon, I stood in awe of the physical beauty of all that incredible hand-built history. Our interests as well as our preferred methods of learning differ. I was never much of a history buff – with all those important figures and dates. Perhaps it was subconscious, on my part, that I ended up marrying a historian. Who knows, we just might be able to pick up a few things from each other by osmosis.

A huge statue of Ben Franklin presides over the cemetery where he lays buried – a little like a wise old owl in a tree surveying his hunting grounds. This fellow was an extremely industrious U.S. statesman, writer and scientist – a true academic. His contributions include setting up a printing house in Philadelphia, inventing the lightening rod and helping frame the Declaration of Independence. His ‘Franklin’ stove used less wood than a fireplace and when he got tired of taking his glasses on and off he came up with an original pair of bifocals – framing the individual sections of glass. He also made a catheter for his sick brother and a simple odometer for his mail delivering carriage…. This guy really knew how to keep the love of learning alive.

After all the hassles of a missed flight and other modern security irritations we felt grateful to come home to our little nook in the canyon. Where, once again, the owls and other natural inhabitants fill the night with their reassuring voices. So, I say “Whoo whoo” to you. Open your window tonight and see if you, too, can hear their wonderful notes of wisdom.

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs the Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #17. The Buzzards are Back (August 1, 2012)

Posted on August 2, 2012 by chivarnado

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #17. The Buzzards are Back (August 1, 2012)

During the hot summer months my usual hikes up the mountain turn more into walks down the road. The trails are now covered by weeds and brush obscuring the resident rattlesnakes. This year hasn’t seemed too bad yet, I’ve only seen three so far, but I’d rather be safe than sorry and opt for the path a little more traveled – at least for now.

As I write this though, my nineteen-year-old son, Chance, is walking back down the dirt road. He’s been trimming the trail leading to the Saddle with long-handled pruning sheers and a folding saw. He tells me that he saw three deer this morning. The first he came across earlier during his run and then later there were two fawns up at the Saddle. He’d heard a noise and jumped up onto a boulder to observe them. They just looked at him, since he was holding still, before heading up toward the 2,200 foot peak. He said that their ears looked overly large compared to their small heads.

The image reminded me of our visit to the town ofNarainJapanwhere the deer seemed to outnumber the people in the streets surrounding the large, central park. We had gone to visit our oldest daughter, Jessie, while she was an exchange student studying Japanese.

These days I prefer to start out walking in the early mornings before the sun peeks over the ridge. Dawn has always been my favorite time of day. When I let myself sleep in and don’t go outside until the sun is already shining I miss the exciting awakenings in the canyon. The song birds begin their joyful melodies pre-dawn, about the time the Poorwill ceases its nighttime call. The Red-tail Hawks have already flown from their sleeping perches and are circling high above. The rabbits are hopping about finding tasty morsels under the bushes and young squirrels are cavorting over the boulders.

Mussey Grade Roaddead ends into a gate overlooking San Vicente Lake. To me, walking or riding a bike down the old winding cement road feels like being on vacation. It strikes me sometimes how this paradise lays practically in my own backyard. The only downside is that the more difficult part of the walk, or ride, is on the way home – huffing and puffing at the end of the exercise instead of near the beginning when I’m fresher and have more energy. But as they say, “It’s all good.”

The Mussey Grade creek is still running – a little more than a trickle. That’s pretty good considering how late in the year it is and how little rainfall we’ve gotten. I chuckled happily to myself when I peered down through the grass and noticed the sparkling water below on last Sunday’s walk. A neighbor had joined me that morning, forgoing her usual late slumber, grateful for the incentive to exercise.

This area known as Fernbrook had also been called Buzzard Gulch in the past. During all my years growing up here, and on into my thirties, dozens of big, beautiful vultures nested in the eucalyptus grove down our dirt road. My dad used to “Caw… Caw…” at them when he was outside working in the yard. He seemed to have a real affinity with them. I’d forgotten about that, but was later reminded when I noticed our eucalyptus tree full of them one morning shortly after Dad returned home from open-heart surgery.

Does this mean he’s gonna die? I thought. Or are they his protectors? Well, I guess they were the latter.

By then most of the vultures had vanished. Now, decades later, they’ve come back. In the mornings they can be seen atop telephone poles sunning their outstretched wings and surveying their domain below. In the evenings these shrouded sentinels can be spotted dominating entire eucalyptus trees. They are back! And I love them! When driving by I roll down my window to talk to them. “Hello, beautiful! You guys are gorgeous!” I don’t even care what the neighbors think.

These Turkey Vultures have lots of wrinkly, red skin all over their heads and necks. Sometimes they can be so ugly that they’re beautiful. I find them to be tremendously awesome beings. They live off of everybody else’s discarded waste and make do.

Recently my daughter, Kali, convinced me to go get a pedicure with her. I reluctantly agreed deciding that having someone else massage and decorate my toes once every couple of years or so might not be too bad. I selected a color that could blend in with the shade of dirt that I tended to walk around in. But she informed me that it was “Not my color.” She stated matter-of-factly that I should “Do red.” At last, a burgundy nail polish was agreed upon.

For the next week, every time I happened to glance downward I was taken aback. My sympathetic nervous system informed me that my toes were bleeding! Each time my brain had to re-adjust to the “painted toenails.” And then I would think of the buzzards with their floppy, red skin hanging off their heads encrusted with all the disgusting trash and dead things that they eat. Somehow, I’ll bet that this is not an image that most women see when they look down at their recently pedicured feet.

Anyway, we seem to be having a fairly mild summer, although it hasn’t been very consistent. We run the gamut through dry, humid, hot, warm, cooler, nice breeze, no breeze… But I really do appreciate these long days of summer. So many more activities and fun can be packed in and enjoyed. When I was a kid summer was my favorite time of year. Probably because there was no school. And I could swim in the pond. Perhaps things haven’t changed all that much. I still enjoy many of the same things I did half a century ago.

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are available on www.amazon.com. Chi directs the Ramona Dance Centre. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #16. There’s No Place Like Home (June 1, 2012)

Posted on June 11, 2012 by chivarnado

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #16. There’s No Place Like Home

(June 1, 2012)

“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…” These are the words Dorothy concentrated on trying to get back to her family inKansas. Even though she was standing in the middle of a wondrous, magical kingdom she still couldn’t wait to get home. Such is the case for me when I venture out to new places.

Just last week I took a road trip, by myself, up to Bishop, California. The occasion was Mule Days. Every Memorial Day weekend the place floods with donkey and mule enthusiasts excited about the wild-ass adventures that take place there. The parade on Saturday morning is the largest, longest running, non-motorized parade in the country. They’ve been doing it since 1969. The mule and donkey show includes packing, jumping, western pleasure, coon jumping, dressage, roping, races, gaited classes, chariot roping and races, gymkhana classes… You name it. Words can’t come close to describing it.

Anyway, it had been several years since I’d been so I was looking forward to going. My husband and I couldn’t get away at the same time because of our old dogs that need so much care and it was decided that I was the one needing a get-a-way. Unfortunately, I was unable to convince any of my friends to go with me. So instead of canceling my plans I went alone.

A friend from Bishop was showing her new mule in a few of the classes. During the summers she is a wrangler for a pack station up in the Eastern Sierra. She was busy with her own activities so we didn’t get much time to visit, but I did get to meet her mule and watch her perform. In spite of her mule being green and inexperienced I thought she did quite well.

The whole area was abuzz with activity. The restaurants were packed, the streets were crowded and the loudspeaker from the fairgrounds was audible all over town – especially during the evening shows when everywhere else was quieting down. I poked inside Spellbinder’s Bookstore to collect on my recent book sales and meandered through the aisles perusing the colorful displays. I spent most of my time petting the mules in corrals and walking around the fairgrounds, park and downtown. Walking, walking and walking.

All this time on foot gave me ample opportunities to ponder – more than usual. What came up for me mostly was home: the beautiful canyon, my comfy house, our family… What? I thought I came up here to get away from all that, but evidently not. I missed home. It’s funny how being away can trigger fondness in such a strong manner. You stop seeing the negatives and see, instead, only the good things. Normally, while immersed in a situation, it’s almost impossible to see only through rose-colored glasses. Our wiring seems to change depending on the setting of our environment. At least it does for me.

On Friday afternoon a chilly wind picked up and forced me to head back to my motel room for long underwear, wool socks, boots and down jacket. I just happened to pack these things at the last minute – just in case. That night, snow dumped all over the White Mountains to the east of Bishop which made the weekend much colder than the average temperature for this time of year. Great – cold and windy. My favorite… Not.

When Sunday finally rolled around I packed my bags and said goodbye to the Eastern Sierra. Starting out on the drive I purposely did not listen to any music or books on CDs. This way I could enjoy the grandeur of the scene without the influence from outside, auditory distractions. I do love those jagged, snow-capped peaks. So, for the two hours descending into the desert I became one with my surroundings and relished every minute of it.

Of course, upon arriving home I immediately got right into the tasks at hand: unpacking, watering, eating fresh greens from the garden… But then I escaped for a short walk up the canyon to reconnect with the familiar. The first pink hollyhock was flowering on the bank by the house. Penstemons were blooming again and a few lilacs still had the faded blue remains of the Spring’s blossoms. A hawk called from overhead and my dog took off through the bushes after a squirrel.

I’ve lived here all my life, over half a century, much longer than most people stay in one place. I’ve heard that one can become rooted to an area. But the natives before us recognized that the land can take hold and pull you in an even stronger way than your own roots can take hold of the land. I feel that. It’s a powerful sensation. Images of certain places in the canyon come to me, complete with smells and the feel of the air. Even just a log laying next to an old fence post under an oak tree – the damp mustiness floods my senses as if I am in that spot right now, even though it had been forty years ago. It’s a difficult thing to describe. Linear time disappears momentarily and I’m taken aback. Sometimes the feelings can be too strong, and I fight back tears of nostalgia. I’ve hiked all over this canyon and surrounding mountains and know it like it’s a part of me. Not separate at all. I’m connected to this place in ways I’ll probably never really understand.

Someone once told me of a Spanish term which describes this. La querencia – the place where my life is. It seems to fit perfectly. And so, for me, there’s no place like home. There’s absolutely no place like home.