Speaking of Contracts....

With a Quaker parrot the house, one becomes accustomed to odd noises. So when I heard an unusual sound, I looked around, saw Marley up to her usual antics and thought nothing more of it. Until I went into the garage to put something in the trash.

Someone had left the door open. The hard plastic container lay on its side, contents strewn across the floor. I won't mention what I said, but when I found the neatly punctured hole in the lid it was obvious how this had happened, and my next utterance was one of amazement. It could only have been a bear.

Then I looked around and found four or five 50-pound bags of grain for the alpacas ripped down the sides, contents spilling out like so many alluvial fans, virtual horns of plenty for those this might appeal to--except it did not appear to appeal to bears. But the extent of the damage was such that, given the relatively short time since the door had been left open, there must have been at least two, possibly more. I'm no expert on bears, but this shouted a female with cubs,

The Summer of 2002 was a particularly dry one in Colorado, with natural food sources for most wildlife stretched past the breaking point. It was so dry, more than 100,000 acres had burned in a single fire earlier that year, and there were other fires as well. It was so dry that I had taught two hummingbirds to drink from the cascade falling from the garden house when I noticed them hanging around as I sprayed the alpacas. The hummingbirds had migrated by this time, but bears don't have that option: they must build up fat reserves to live upon as they pass the winter in a secluded den, sleeping away much of the colder months, waking in spring when new life returns to the mountains.

So after I picked up the trash I used a piece of cardboard to scoop the grain back into the bags, or into plastic trash bags where the original was destroyed. I do not practice any particular religion, yet as I worked I tried to bear in mind a piece I had written for the newspaper some years earlier. It had come to me as I grew increasingly irritated about how difficult it was to remove the encircling bindweed stems from those of strawberries without ripping the berry plants out of the ground. I had concluded that we all have contracts with our Creator, whatever that may have been, and how inappropriate it is to judge harshly another creature who may inconvenience us the course of fulfilling that contract.

So I sent forth my good wishes and hopes for the bears' future and went back into the house.

*

A couple of days later, around midnight, the guard dog began to raise a fuss. He was most insistent, and there was a slightly different note to his barking than usual. It was not unusual for an unruly neighbor's horses to come to call in hopes of getting into the hay or alfalfa, or for a hundred or more elk to pass through, but a glance out the window showed no elk, and the motion sensor light nearest the hay was not on. Yet the dog continued.

I got dressed and went outside. First I walked over and chucked a couple of pretty good-sized rocks into the woods. This was usually enough to spook the horses. There was no sound besides the dog, but now I was close enough to see his attention was focused on something inside the pen. The alpacas were safely shut in for the night, but I could imagine they were uneasy at least. Gripping the handle of the flashlight in my left hand, I opened then latched the gate behind me. First I picked up a hay fork, but thought better of it as I considered how an animal of any sort becomes twice as dangerous when wounded. I put the fork back and grabbed a heavy shovel.

The dog barely looked around as I patted him and stroked his head, and continued to protest. Now I could see why. Three dim shapes were visible in the light of a sliver of moon, one larger than the others. "Great," I muttered, as I approached and saw the dog food box, the alpaca pellet box and the metal trash can that held 50 pounds of grain, all overturned. Then she saw me, and rushed forward.

Now the only time I'd ever been up close and personal with a bear before this had been when a large one crawled up on the back of my brother's Honda Civic at a wildlife park in South Dakota, but this time there was nothing between us. I didn't really want to run from her. So I backed up, slowly. She kept coming.

Reaching the gate between the girls' and boys' sides of the pen, I knew there was a large, flattish rock sticking up an inch or so out of the ground and decided to retreat no further: pretty much the last thing I wanted was to fall over backward with a bear in front of me and an Akbash behind! When I stopped, she stopped.

She was only about half the size of the dog, but armed with both claws and teeth and guided by a maternal instinct, I knew her size was no indication of how formidable she might be. I knew that the best defense against a bear is to hit them square in the nose, but she was a little to my left, and with the shovel in my right hand, that was not possible. So I spoke to her as quietly and calmly as I could, telling her I did not want to hurt her and that since her babies had gone up a fence post into a tree, there was no danger, she could leave. Especially since the tree her babies were in only overhung the pen. As I spoke she kept up a sort of moaning sound; I tapped, not struck her on the side of the jaw with the shovel..

I have no clear idea how long this went on. I don't recall whether the dog continued to bark. But eventually, she seemed to reach a decision. She stood on her hind legs. I remember thinking, "This is it," and raised the shovel like a baseball bat. I don't know if this made me look bigger or if she could see I was bigger anyway, but suddenly, she dropped to all fours, turned and soon swarmed up the same fence post into the tree.

Well, of course the dog charged after her. He stood, forepaws as high on the post as he could get, barking, barking, barking. In the light of the flashlight I could see them all climbing higher. Had they realized it, they could have come out of the tree and gone their merry way. But their Creator taught them nothing of fences, of man-made boundaries, so as long as there was a threat, they would stay in the tree. And as long as they stayed in the tree, the dog would bark. Catch-22.

I dragged the dog over to the girl's side and secured the gate. Shortly thereafter, seeming to think the threat lessened, they began to come down. That is, until this 80-pound dog either forced his way through the gap or climbed over the gate. They retreated. So I took him back to the girl's side and put him behind a corral panel and once again secured the gate. Once again, they started down, and once again he drove them back up. Finally, I put him in the shed where he slept, and threw my wight against the door. At double his weight, this proved effective.

Struggling, I suppose, with the warring desires for safety and for food, the bears finally came down. One by one, four (there was a third cub I had not noticed) dark shapes came out f the tree and crunched through the fallen scrub oak leaves and pine needles into the shadows.

I let the dog out, and he ran back and forth, sniffing and barking while I attempted to clean up. Having done the best I could, but fearful they might come back, I crawled into the dog's shed and tried to relax. But the dog kept barking, they did not come back (hardly a surprise) and when it began to snow I decided to go back to bed.

When they came back, I did not waken as they ripped the shed door off, dragging out and dumped everything I had restored. The saddest part of this tale is that aside from the garbage in the garage, nothing they found in their visits was the least bit like bear food, and it would not surprise me if some of those cubs did not survive their first winter.

This can be a harsh world, at times and not all dreams come to fruition, a bear's dream of a full belly and a quiet hibernation, an alpaca rancher's dream of more female crias than males. Sometimes one person's, one creature's dreams conflict with another's. Yet we are all bound by the same agreement, that contract we never signed but cannot escape. The bears have no choice: they know what they know, and deal with situation as their contract directs. We, on the other hand, have options, at least sometimes. I could have ignored the hummingbirds, so desperate for water they came close enough I could have grabbed them. I could have attacked the bear, instead of trying to reason with her. Each of us must, or should, I think, try to discover the wording of our contracts. I cannot be certain, of course, but I believe mine calls for tolerance of others, for an attempt to understand before I act, that I try to make sense of and tell the stories I encounter. I am certain it requires me to take the path with heart.

What is your contract?

http://youtube.com/watch?v=JQuksPhbUMc

I was pulling weeds in the strawberry patch the other day. Well, the other year, I guess it was. Growing increasingly irritated and frustrated as I carefully unwound the bindweed tendrils from the strawberry plants, I considered for a moment just ripping them all out of the ground and being done with it. How foolish would that be? Clearly, anger was not the answer.

So I sat back on my haunches and watched a lazy cloud drift across the sky, unaware of me, like as not, just as I would have been unaware had I not paused at that moment to look up. And it occurred to me, as it often does, how small I am in a big world, and how small my world is in the galaxy we drift through as that cloud drifted, and how small our galaxy may be in the larger Universe. And I pondered then, as I often do, the nature of existence, the factors leading to the intricate web of flora and fauna on this little world among so many others.

I am not so wise as to know why we are here, but we seem to be. Just like the cloud, millions of people and millions of creatures go about their daily lives without my being aware of their existence. Now I believe that all things happen for a reason, in both the physical and metaphysical sense. In which case, we can assign any name we like to that reason, be it random chance, God/dess or simply “the Universe.” And if it is all random, we may as well stop considering the question, but I defy you to watch something as simple as a dandelion turning from golden petals to drifting seeds, the more complex metamorphosis of a caterpillar becoming a butterfly or a child going through all the stages between infant and adult and tell me there is no pattern.

If there is a pattern, some creature / being / thing created it. And, as stated above, there is reasoning behind that pattern. Our planet may exist in a vacuum, but we do not. We cannot. Each living thing has a function, programmed, as it were, into its cells, the totality of which makes it what it is. And so, for the sake of convenience, I began to think of this as a contract, as unbreakable as the laws of gravity, an agreement to perform a given function as long as life allows.

The bindweed cared not for the inconvenience it was causing me. It was simply fulfilling its contract, holding on to another plant, and if you have ever seen bindweed unchecked, it spreads and will make a dense mat of vegetation. It does it quickly, and thoroughly. As it wraps its tendrils around other plants, that plant become part of the dense mat. And what that does in the long term may kill the other plants, but in the short term, it checks erosion and gives other plants a chance to grow long enough to, for instance, bear fruit. Falling rain’s power is dissipated by the leaves and stems, the strength of rivulets remains a trickle and the overall runoff is slowed. Which means the fertile soil remains largely intact instead of being washed away.

In one sense, then, I was the aggressor, interfering with the bindweed’s ability to fulfill its contract. Which once again makes me think of the “might makes right” notion. The bindweed had the might to kill the strawberry plant before it could bear, and I had the might to slow, if not stop that. Had I not planted the strawberry I like as not would have been elsewhere that day, would not have felt the anger, would not have seen the cloud and would never have had this little epiphany. All things for a reason, and at their appointed times.

What is your contract? If you know what yours may be, I am glad for you. What is my contract, I wonder? I do not know. Perhaps it is to simply wonder.

"The Living Camera"

draws the Eternal City almost flawlessly after viewing by helicopter - once - for just 45 minutes

I'm not reposting everything from that earlier, elsewhere blog, but some things just scream to be shared. After watching this, check out the other links to this amazingly gifted man.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJThxLloY9E

From Honest Abe...

Some Quotes from a US President who was truly a Statesman, not a politician.... The one leading off with "No gentlemen" seems to have been especialy aimed at GW Bush, considering his party purports to be "the party of Lincoln." They both have the same name, those parties of disparate ages and ideals, but without the labels, considering only their actions, I see little reason or right to mention them in the same breath.

“The shepherd drives the wolf from the sheep’s throat, for which the sheep thanks the shepherd as a liberator, while the wolf denounces him for the same act as the destroyer of liberty, especially as the sheep was a black one. Plainly the sheep and the wolf are not agreed upon a definition of the word liberty; and precisely the same difference prevails today among us human creatures…”

“The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just.”

“ No gentlemen; I have not asked for the nomination, and will not now buy it with pledges. If I am nominated and elected, I shall not go into the Presidency as the tool for this man or that man, or as the property of any factor or clique.”

“It has been said of the world’s history that might makes right. It is for us and our time to reverse the maxim, and to say that right makes might.”

The Gettysburg AddressGettysburg, PennsylvaniaNovember 19, 1863

On June 1, 1865, Senator Charles Sumner commented on what is now considered the most famous speech by President Abraham Lincoln. In his eulogy on the slain president, he called it a "monumental act." He said Lincoln was mistaken that "the world will little note, nor long remember what we say here." Rather, the Bostonian remarked, "The world noted at once what he said, and will never cease to remember it. The battle itself was less important than the speech."

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

—Abraham Lincoln

"Stadium Pal," by David Sedaris

Whilst correcting the broken Apocalyptica link, I discovered a familiar name. I've been an NPR listener for decades, interrupted only by living in the UK, where it is either not available, or I lacked the sophisication of knowledge and / or eqipment to receive it. At any rate, since my return to the States in 1998, the occasional Sedaris essay on the radio has brought anyhting from a smile to a guffaw. The "Stadium Pal" surely ranks as the latter, at least the first time I heard it.

Apocalypica: Farewell

Sometimes you discover the hitherto unguessed-at. This is one of those, 3 cellos and a drummer playing what can only be termed rock. I've heard they play the music of Metallica, but do not know if this is accurate. I only know that "Farewell" is a stunningly sombre, achingly beautiful song

River rock

It’s March and in the Rockies, this means that spring will be coming soon. Birds speak of it, their songs beginning to sound hopeful, as their bodies make subtle changes in preparation for another cycle of breeding, and rearing chicks to replace them in the web of life. After several years of droughts of varying intensity, the snowpack this year is above normal across the state, something that has not happened for quite some time. And when the snowpack begins to melt, the runoff will begin. Streams that are only trickles, or even dry washes part of the year will become torrents, relative to the size of the channel. The water’s power, a function of both volume and steepness of the channel, can undercut and dislodge boulders, carrying down downstream until they find a new resting place. And there they will wait, trembling, perhaps rocking slightly or even violently on occasion, until another runoff of even greater power dislodges them and they continue downstream.

Whether the process involves one stop or many, the rocking, trembling and even rolling has the same effect: it serves to knock away the loose (or loosened) material, shaping the piece as a flint-knapper or diamond cutter might, clearing away the detritus, leaving only the core that although perhaps perfect for no other environment, is nevertheless perfect for existence in a riverbed. Might take a decade, might take millennia, but as long as snow falls and melts, as long as there are rocks in the channel, there will be river rock. River rock is smooth, rounded, generally a perfect ovoid shape, scoured by as much time as required to smooth it, flip it like a pancake, and smooth it some more. Grains of sand abrade it as they pass in their own journey downstream, all part of the process we in our transitory existence call “geologic time,” a brief nod to something so unimaginably vast that most people prefer not to think about it, for therein lies the certainty of an existence far longer than we can aspire to, something we cannot share, control or for the most part even comprehend. Our lives span some portion of a century, rarely more, often less.

The process of smoothing river rock applies to people, in a way: some come crashing past or into us, or we them, and little notice might be taken, aside from the by no means guaranteed “excuse me,” or “so sorry” before our separate existences continue separately. Other times, whether briefly or a long time, a rock will run into or land near us, and being of more or less equal size and mass, we remain together, scoured by the same flow of water and sand, gently rocking in rhythm as our impurities drift away, being shaped in similar ways, become better suited to our present, shared existence.

Whether granite or quartz, our internal composition may be vastly different, but we share enough density (strength, if you will) to not be washed away, to hold our ground and yet give in, being shaped by each other, and at the same time, shielding each other’s weaker side as we present our strong sides to the larger stream.

And as the softer, weaker soils and stones around us wash away, as summer comes and wanes and the flow slows to a trickle, we may find ourselves an island, strong enough to withstand the next year’s runoff, imposing enough that others wash against us and remain, adding their strength to ours, until the next torrent sweeps us all away.

Without the irritation of the grain of sand, an oyster could never make a pearl.

Against all odds, a smile...

In the early 1960’s American music underwent a change, with Folk becoming a popular alternative form. One of the most mainstream exponents of that movement was the trio, Peter, Paul and Mary. Along with the new radio frequency, FM, which was often broadcast in that marvelous new medium, Stereo, musical entertainment gained a new dimension, for me and a lot of others my age. And in a trend started before me and continuing long after, I spent what money I earned working for my dad on records.

Then, in late 1964, a British band, the Beatles, burst upon the scene and suddenly Folk music was passé. Although the Beatles played here, at Red Rocks (one of the only 3 places they appeared on that first tour), the $4 ticket price was a little rich for my blood, so I decided to buy their records instead. And because Rock and Roll was much cooler than Folk, I sold my PP&M records to my youngest brother, who adored the group.

Fast forward to 1978, and many things had changed in music: the Beatles had broken up some years before, as had PP&M. And Mary Travers was touring as a solo act. By this time, my youngest brother was managing the drycleaners my dad had sold to a trio of investors, and, clever guy that he is, when he went to see his beloved Mary at a local club, he sent a large bouquet backstage with a note offering to clean anything Mary or her band needed done. If you’ve ever been on the road, you may have some idea how welcome such an offer would be! Of, course, she accepted. So he made arrangements to have her interviewed for the local paper and asked me to do the photos for the article, in exchange for seeing both shows and meeting her.
So I did a series of shots, of Mary on stage, Mary backstage, Mary and the newspaper reporter, Mary and my brother. Then she asked if I’d like a shot of the two of us, and I handed my Nikon to my brother. Those of you who know me know I absolutely freeze when I know my picture is being taken, and that night was no exception. Someone said “smile,” to which I replied. “I can’t.” At which point, this warm, marvelous and totally genuine woman put her arm around me and gave me a squeeze. And, astonishingly enough, I not only smiled, but my brother actually managed to get a picture. This is a scan of a print from a slide, so it’s not the best quality. But it is proof that I can smile for the camera on occasion.

And by the way, Mary Travers will turn 70 on November 9. She has Leukemia, and has undergone a bone-marrow transplant which was apparently successful last year, but I found myself thinking of her a couple days ago, and I hope that does not bode ill. When PP&M got back together and did their Reunion Tour, my brother and I had the pleasure of being their guest, and getting their autographs on various items: they were amazed that I still had what was then a 20+ year-old songbook, and I still have it, now autographed by all 3. But meeting Mary was one of the high points of my life. Be well,

Entry for October 29, 2006 this just in...

another forwaded mssge from the friend who sent the link to Chris Bliss. I saw her recently and told her I hoped she didn't mind my not sending everything back to her, and she said god no, she only sends about a fourth of what she receives. It's probably old news to most folks, but it hit me between the eyes this morning, so...

Read Each One Carefully and Think About It a Second or Two

1. I love you not because of who you are, but because of who I am when I am with you..
2. No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry.
3. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
4. A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
5. The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.
6. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
7. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
8. Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to waste their time on you.
9. Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right one, so that when we finally meet the person, we will know how to be grateful.
10. Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.
11. There's always going to be people that hurt you so what you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you trust next time around.
12. Make yourself a better person and know who you are before you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.
13. Don't try so hard, the best things come when you least expect them to.

REMEMBER: WHATEVER HAPPENS, HAPPENS FOR A REASON.

Entry for October 30, 2006 Fwd: Mother of the Year

Sent by my daughter, I cannnot resist passing this on. There were 4 photos, but selecting each deleted the previous one. Oh well...

In a zoo in California , a mother tiger gave birth to a rare set of triplet tiger cubs. Unfortunately, due to complications in the pregnancy, the cubs were born prematurely and due to their tiny size, they died shortly after birth.
The mother tiger after recovering from the delivery, suddenly started to decline in health, although physically she was fine. The veterinarians felt that the loss of her litter had
caused the tigress to fall into a depression. The doctors decided that if the tigress
could surrogate another mother's cubs, perhaps she would improve.
After checking with many other zoos across the country, the depressing news was that there were no tiger cubs of the right age to introduce to the mourning mother. The veterinarians decided to try something that had never been tried in a zoo environment. Sometimes a
mother of one species will take on the care of a different species. The only orphans"
that could be found quickly, were a litter of weaner pigs. The zoo keepers and vets wrapped the piglets in tiger skin and placed the babies around the mother tiger. Would they become cubs or pork chops??
Take a look........ you won't believe your eyes!!

"When you do the common things in life in an uncommon way,
You command the attention of the world"

Entry for November 04, 2006 (fwd) WARNING!!! OMG!!!

Generally, I hate the hoax warnings that get sent around, but I have to admitthat this one is important.Please protect everyone you know by sending this to your entire email list.If a man comes to your front door and says he is conducting a survey and asksyou to show him your butt, do not show him your butt.This is a scam - it is not a survey, he only wants to see your butt.I wish I'd gotten this yesterday. I feel so stupid.

well...

y for January 16, 2007 - My brother sometimes sends one too good to pass up...
A Northeast Iowa farm wife called the local phone company to report her telephone failed to ring when her friends called - and that on the few occasions when it did ring, her dog always moaned right before the phone rang. The telephone repairman proceeded to the scene, curious to see this psychic dog or senile lady. He climbed a telephone pole, hooked in his test set, and dialed the subscriber's house. The phone didn't ring right away, but then the dog moaned and the telephone began to ring. Climbing down from the pole, the telephone repairman found:
1. The dog was tied to the telephone system's ground wire with a steel chain and collar.
2. The wire connection to the ground rod was loose.
3. The dog was receiving 90 volts of signaling current when the number was called.
4. After a couple of jolts, the dog would start moaning and then urinate.
5. The wet ground would complete the circuit, thus causing the phone to ring
Which demonstrates that some problems CAN be fixed by pissing and moaning.

Chris Bliss Juggles in synch to Beatles...

http://youtube.com/watch?v=H8f8drk5Urw

Entry for February 07, 2007 In the end..

Arrived at work this mornning to find my boss's sister-in-law passed away yesterday. She had the flu, was a smoker and overweight. They think she may have contracted pneumonia without being aware. She was 37.

I just watched the "Fields of Gold" video from an earlier entry, and if you have not seen it, I cannot recommend it highly enough. Eva was about that same age when she died, and I am left thinking of what I'll leave behind when my time comes. My life has been strange and wonderful, frequently not doing the things that were expected of me, not doing the things that could have given me material wealth as I face the end of my own life. But, looking back, I cannot imagine doing other than I have done.

And so I find myself pondering life, the universe and everything, probably not much closer to a meaningful answer than I was when I set out for work this morning, but happy to be able to think, to breathe, to share my thoughts with some special people. I barely knew Kelley, and never heard of Eva Cassidy until after she had passed. I wonder at the transition from life to not-life, whether the instant of death, no matter how long or short the suffering the suffering that precedes it, is a moment of anguish, or one of joy - and it seems there is but one way to find out. In that case, I am in no hurry to know.

But I do believe, as the Beatles sang....
"and, in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make..."

RIP, Kelley Singleton, Eva Cassidy, those who have recently persished in the frigid weather East of here and all the others whose names I will never know. I hope you made enough of a difference in someone's lives to be remembered, with a tear and a smile.Be well,

see to believe.. or not

You really have to see it....

Another forward ftrom my brother...

A man and his wife were working in their garden one day and the man looks over at his wife and says: "Your butt is getting really big, I mean really big. I bet your butt is bigger than the barbecue."

With that he proceeded to get a measuring tape and measure the grill and then went over to where his wife was working and measured his wife's bottom."Yes, I was right; your butt is two inches wider than the barbecue!!!"


The woman chose to ignore her husband. Later that night in bed, the husband is feeling a little frisky. He makes some advances towards his wife who completely brushes him off."What's wrong?" he asks. She answers:

"Do you really think I'm going to fire up this big-ass grill for one little weenie?

Ok, perhaps I am easily amused, but...

take a couple of minutes and watch an artist transform a piece of board into a portrait... I was particularly impressed at how she went from looking like a child to being a woman... be well


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDpENuk6ywE