Been busy in revision cave but wanted to post an update on the red-tailed hawks.
Here is the mother (named Big Red on site) with the three fuzzy-headed nestlings:




And here's a shot of the handsome father (Ezra) taking a break from hunting duties:



Yesterday I was working at my standing desk next to the open window and heard a cry. 
I pushed the window open wider as I scanned the sky for the red-tailed hawk
but then realized the cries were coming from the livestream running in the other room.

It was Big Red vocalizing.

Right species.
Wrong state.

                    

            




I'm doing a middle-grade critique for a friend
and am carefully sifting through his words to help find the treasure within.


image from morguefile.com

Entrusting our work to others takes such an enormous leap of faith, you know?

                    

               
            



A landscaper friend of mine used to bring me 
plants she'd thinned from other people's gardens.

One day she showed up with iris bulbs and
when I asked what color they were she said, "Brown."

"Brown? Who wants brown flowers?
I've got plenty of brown flowers that didn't make it 
through the heat of summer and you bring me
on-purpose brown flowers? Really, Judi?  Brown?!"
(We had that kind of relationship)

Fast-forward to this morning when I was waiting in
the driveway for Zebu and Wildebeest.
I looked over at the patch of blooming iris
and thought, "Aren't they lovely?"



 I've grown quite fond of my brown flowers.
Most gardens throughout my neighborhood have an iris display,
but I've yet to find another showcasing these brown beauties.

My iris are unique.
They aren't brilliant yellow or gaudy purple or oh-so-delicate pink.
They're brown.
And Iovely.

Which just goes to show how taste is not only subjective
but also apt to change. And so I draw the inevitable connection 
to the writing life. No project will ever attract unanimous 
adoration and it would be pointless and silly to have those expectations.
What isn't silly, however, is remembering that tastes vary.



Sometimes it's just a matter of locating the right garden.


                     

  






Herman Melville was always using the image of the artist as diver. 
He loved that word. Having to dive from some height, meaning, of
course, taking a serious risk. Because if you dive and you're lucky,
you'll come up with gold from the bottom of yourself. You dive deep
into the self. But you can also drown, you can smash your head upon
the rocks --- there are terrible risks in diving from a great height. But
if you didn't dive, then you were not an artist in his terms. Without
risk you were just a middle-of-the-road type guy. 
               
                  ~ Maurice Sendak from Writers Dreaming by Naomi Epel


I'm afraid of heights
and sometimes I'm afraid to dive deep into myself.
However, I never want to be a middle-of-the-road type guy.

Inviting all my creative friends to join me in taking the plunge 
today and every day.

                   

            



Know what I've been doing?
Watching a pair of Red-Tailed Hawks in Ithaca, New York.
Wait, Tracy. I thought you were in Colorado.
That's true, but the Cornell Lab of Ornithology has a nest cam on a light pole
about the athletic field where this pair has nested for at least the last four years.
And I'm watching.
(Wildebeest and Zebu think it's a bit creepy to spy on birds without
their consent and I agree somewhat, but my curiosity wins out). 

This is the female (designated Big Red) during her nest shift: 


Here is what's underneath: the first hawklet that hatched early yesterday morning
and the two pipped eggs:


I'm including this second screen save because right then I saw movement in the egg on the 
left and the already-born hawklet was leaning in and chirping, as if offering encouragement.
(I know . . . anthropomorphism alert!)


(Also, I believe that red mass in the upper right is the remains of a pigeon.
Hawks are birds of prey, after all. Apologies for the graphic image but I'm just
learning how to do screen saves and that image was "grabbed" with everything else).

As I mentioned to a friend yesterday I thought my birthing experiences were hard
work (and they were), but I was never rained and snowed upon or worried about
attacks from owls or had to deal with one newborn while two others struggled to hatch.

Whew.

One more shot of the ever-vigilant mama:


(Warning: I'm sure I'll be back with more shots of the next hawklet . . .)
EDITED TO ADD:

Here's an exhausted hawklet #2 leaning against third egg in process of hatching:


Here are both hawklets while #1 gets fed:


And one more, just because:



                            

                




I grew up listening to The Band.
My parents had one of those huge cabinet stereos
that they'd hooked up to our intercom system
so music played throughout the house.

I washed dishes to The Band,
tanned outside on the deck,
lemon-oiled paneling and washed windows to their music.
I spent hours in my room, studying the album covers and liner notes
as I listened to the stories-in-songs they sang while trading verses and 
marveled at the many instruments they played and the sounds they created.

These were the soundtracks for much of my childhood:

   
      

Rick Danko
Levon Helm
Garth Hudson
Richard Manuel 
Robbie Robertson

I knew their names and faces.
And I loved them even more when I found out they'd been
Bob Dylan's back-up band before becoming The Band.
(Dylan painted the cover art for Music From Big Pink)

I spent my fourteenth birthday at home during a snowstorm
in Wisconsin while they played their very last concert together
in San Francisco. I was heartbroken I couldn't be there with them
and their many friends: Bob Dylan (see#23), Joni Mitchell, The Staples,
Neil Young, EmmyLou Harris, etc.  But I've watched that concert
"rockumentary" (see #24), many times since.

In the spring of 1985, Rick Danko, Garth Hudson, and Richard Manuel 
played a small club somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.
My friend, Scott E., and I went, lining up at the door well before the show 
so we'd get good seats. We were front row. No Levon and no Robbie, but it
was still remarkable basking in the music and memories.

Richard died the following spring.
Rick died in 1999.
And today, we lost Levon Helm.

Levon was the drummer but he also sang some of their most famous songs.
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down and Up On Cripple Creek. And not-so-
famous Ophelia. When I was pregnant, I made a mix tape of songs for my labor soundtrack.
I wanted music so familiar to me I wouldn't need to expend any energy on
thinking or processing the songs. I wanted to be able to sing every single word 
without hesitation. The Weight was one such song.

But right now, as I mourn the passing of yet another member of The Band,
I offer you Levon singing All La Glory.


From Wikipedia page, Levon Helm 2004

Thank you for all the beautiful music, Levon.
Wherever you are, I hope you're still smiling and laying down the beat.

                     

                




I'm this side of exhausted.


image from morguefile.com

Thanks for asking, though.

                         

              



We planted a red maple in our back yard about twelve years ago
and every spring it leafs out as expected.
This year, though, it's covered with those "helicopter" seed pods
and the squirrels are in gastronomic heaven.

This guy was in full view this morning when I came out to the kitchen:
 
© Tracy Abell 2012

I watched him cram pods in his mouth as if he was on an assembly line.
Chomp, chomp, chomp. Next! Chomp, chomp, chomp. Next!


Another squirrel was higher in the tree, eating with the same focus and determination.


When I go out on the deck the squirrels scold me, probably because they're used to me
chasing them from the suet feeder. I keep telling them it's cool if they want to eat all the
seed pods, except now I'm wondering how this works when the tree is covered with seeds 
and no leaves. Will it leaf out when the seeds are gone?

Please tell me the squirrels aren't eating this tree to death.

              

Last fall I started using a treadmill desk
but have since stopped walking and writing
due to vision issues.

However, I still use that desk to stand while writing
after coming to the realization my body feels icky-numb 
whenever I sit for long periods of time.

This is my writing desk at the window:


This is part of my view:


Along with plenty of fox, coyote, hawk, deer, etc. sightings in the open space, I also 
witness human interactions because of the many people who walk dogs, teach kids 
to ride bikes, jog, etc. on the path.

Here's a man and dog I've seen before:


The dog has three legs and shaved fur around the neck/chest area, indicating
a recent medical procedure. S/he moves well, hopping along with tail held high. The man 
is kind and patient, frequently reaching down to pet the dog. Today he waited as she rolled 
on her back in the grass, kicking her legs in the air. One day last week I had tears in my eyes
as they headed home and the dog stopped to rest beneath a flowering crab apple tree. The man
stood by for about five minutes, waiting patiently for her to gather the strength to continue.
Throughout, he talked and petted his canine friend. 

I am grateful for a view of the world that includes both natural wonders and people-
powered dramas. Sometimes I do more watching than writing, but I believe these mental snapshots
will someday make their way into my stories. 

                                

             




I'm noticing lots of amorous behavior from the male doves in the neighborhood
and admit to chuckling at the way they follow the reluctant females from limb to
limb, wire to wire, hoping for attention.










© Tracy Abell and Zippy 2012


The females will put up with that behavior for only so long before taking wing.

                   

          




Creative writing is a harrowing business, a terrifying commitment 
to an absolute. This is it, the writer must say to himself, and I must
stand or fall upon what I have put down. The degree of self-exposure
is crucifying. And doubt is a constant companion. What if I am not as
good as I thought? is a question that always nags, and can cripple.
                                                        ~ Walter Kerr



image from morguefile.com

Today I'm struggling to stand upon the words I've put down.
Begone, doubt!

                                    

          




1)  Whenever fifteen-year-old Zebu winks at me, I swing between feelings of admiration and 
intimidation since I've never felt confident enough of my winking ability to do so.

image from morguefile.com

2)  At my suggestion eighteen-year-old Wildebeest is reading Stephen King's MISERY,
and enjoying himself mightily.


3)   Zoey and Coco want me to remember that when I choose to bathe them and    
spray them with water, I must be prepared for the relationship to suffer a loss of trust.

© Tracy Abell 2012

4)  Zippy is reading a library e-copy of 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami, a 944-page
novel, and was thrilled to discover even though his copy is overdue he can 
still read it as long as he doesn't close the file.


5)  I've been battling flu-like symptoms much of the week but plan to get
on the treadmill in a couple hours for my cardio workout, and hope to feel
those "endolphins" kick in (so I'm, in the words of Zippy, "swimming in the dolphin tank.")

image from morguefile.com

Wishing everyone a lovely weekend!

              

            



I've been missing in action and so wanted to pop in with a quick birdie greeting:



© Tracy Abell 2012

                
Hope all is well with my friends, both feathered and non-feathered.

(* And now I have the song in my head:
Please don't be long, please don't you be very long . . .)

                                     

           

 





(Fine for you, Agnes, but you can bet I'm not waiting around to be appointed dictator.)

                

    




Out of all the birds that visit our feeders, no one beats the Mourning Dove for mellow.


© Tracy Abell 2012


I can always use a little more mellow.

                              
                 

      




I share a home with three males,
and often feel odd-person-out.
Males and females are different in many ways,
and I'm not just talking an appreciation of farts.

In addition to the gender gap there are also generational divides
between Zippy and me, and our teenage sons.
Oldsters and youngsters don't always have the same outlooks,
and not just because certain people can stay up all night.

There's also the whole issue of us being individuals,
which fosters our unique perspectives on the world.

When I think about it this way, it's nearly a miracle
the four of us can agree on anything.
But we do.
And on days of particularly bumpy familial relations
(I'm looking at you, Today!),
I find it helpful to reflect on the list of our shared interests:

1)  All four of us love Arrested Development!




2)  All four of us love The Clash!




3)  All four of us love Indian food!




4)  All four of us love March Madness!




If you were to draw a Venn Diagram of this household,
those would be the four major points of intersection 
between Zippy, Wildebeest, Zebu, and me.

And as you know, we are now in the month of March
which means we can focus on our shared passion for non-stop college basketball.

Save this family, March Madness!

                   
  

           



Comments on my most recent post inspired me to new fashion heights this afternoon.
anabelgonzalez, this one's for you!


Take 1:


Take 2:


Take 3:


Pastafarians, unite!
All hail the Flying Spaghetti Monster!

                

   




As some of you know, I am a Pastafarian and 
member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

I was touched by His Noodly Appendage.

So in light of the current crop of ridiculous blather about "religious freedom"
in the United States which is code for "freedom for Christians" 
(religious freedom sure as hell doesn't apply to Muslims),  
this admittedly old news from Austria made me very happy.

Short version: a man named Niko Alm learned that the only headgear 
allowed in Austrian drivers' licenses was confessional headgear.
Mr. Alm said that because he is a Pastafarian,
he should be allowed to wear a pasta strainer on his head.
Authorities required a doctor's note saying Alm was mentally fit to drive
and then issued him the driver's license. 

Doesn't he look great in that colander?

                    

          














Such a dapper fellow, wouldn't you say?

Wishing everyone a red-feather** weekend!

**like red-letter, only better!

                
                   

               




Exhibit A:


Exhibit B:


Exhibit C: