What Would Sparrows Pay?

Oh to fly above like a bird, have you ever wondered?  To look down, have a bird's eye view without vertigo setting in, without a fear of heights and able to perch upon the tallest spire.  How they get through winter, mild or not, is a mystery, for their metabolisms are so very high and food is scarce.  Were they able to stay before humans doled out seeds and suet, and if so, what did they live on?

Coming in by car, or walking out through the parking lot, I am usually spotted by sentries of the air, the scrappy little sparrows.  One or two will sit atop the chain link fence near where I park, and wait for the car to pull in; if I am walking out to the lot, there is a rocketing brown escort who then heralds me expectantly with beeps and chirps, hurry, where were you, come on already.

I carry a bag of seed inside my car to toss around wherever I go; subsequently, there is seed on the car floor, which in the case of my leaky Chevy one year, sprouted into a lawn in the back.  It was amazing, I would show my friends my indoor car lawn, and they would tiptoe away.  Chia pet car.

Now I have a lovely, older Scion XB that stays dry and keeps scattered seed from developing roots and leaves.  Yesterday afternoon, after I arrived home and was chucking a handful of millet onto the grass edge of the parking lot, I used my foot to push about some of the paper cup trash which lines the area.  I just don't understand people.  One year, I picked up three garbage bags full in an afternoon, mostly cups, food trays, wrappers, a couple of syringes (I know, I am), and bottles.  This year, I have gotten smaller portions neatened up, only to have them refilled with fast food trash before I could blink.

Looking at the discards, I noticed familiar print lying on the ground, a small piece about as big as a square inch.  It was a fragment of a dollar.  At first, I imagined that it was one of those sham dollars that get you to pick it up to read the advertisement on the back, but no.  It was the real thing, in an odd presentation; well, now it's art and was pocketed to be used in some sort of societal statement later on.  Very handy, as it would give me the shivers to tear up a dollar.

Today, the car was parked a bit further down; as I tossed seed out to the peanut gallery, there was another bit of dollar, and what on earth?  Did someone tear up money and toss it into the air?  Maybe.  Or, more likely, did the sparrers find a dollar, and in Passer domesticus style, begin to pay in portion for the small amount of seed tossed out?  I certainly don't give them a whole dollar's worth, for if you are caught feeding the birds, you can eventually be evicted.  There be rats down here, yet in my opinion, it's the openly careless garbage corrals which build Ratticus City, not a handful of bird seed.

I like to imagine that payment is being doled out as the commodity is dispensed, and the sparrows, who have a harder time with pennies, are offering pieces of dollar in fair trade.  I now have two parts and sizewise, have six bits left to go.  If enough is able to be puzzled together, I can get a whole new dollar from the bank, but that would be unappreciative and possibly hurt feathered feelings.  I will keep it in a box, and when I die and my son has to clean out the apartment, it will be one of a myriad of treasures he will find.  I guess a ledger's note should be provided, a 'payments received' for birdseed.

Work is in a rougher part, but as I drove the city blocks this morning, it seemed that my eye was drawn to the green which flourished in yards, empty lots, or through cracked sidewalks.  It is still a fresh green, no leaves are browned or left ragged by insects or spores, everything is full, lush, pristine.  Grass by curbs or crooked trees, burdock in lots or dandelions taking hold in the minuscule amounts of dirt held in a fissure, they make it normal, they even out the broken, the hard corners, the lost.  As long as there is verdant growth, our hearts will be gladdened, and I believe that holds for animals as well, for they happily roll in grass just for the joy of it.

A cooler evening is coming, after an on and off rainy day; the catnip growing under the raised highway is lush, and I have gathered a bagful already.  There has been so much rain, that the wild mushrooms which grow under the nearby pines lining the roadway have sprung, Agaricus rodmanii.  I will pick them as I do the years they appear but do not recommend it for anyone else, you must be trained carefully to know what you are doing.  They are known as a city mushroom, for they favor compacted soil around bus stops or pathways; this gives them a compact sturdiness and more of a layer of dirt than other mushrooms. Another patch grows over by Buffalo General Hospital, and one that I suspect is Agaricus campestris grows in fairy rings at the museum.  I think I have a reputation with the neighbors.

Feed someone, feed something, it is a satisfying thing to do, a way of sharing, a way of saying that you would like that being to progress or be successful, which is a continuation of creation, that proliferation of evolving growth.  Then you will have done a great thing.  Sleep comes easily to a giving heart, which I know you have; it shows in your actions, your song that has no lyrics.

Let night slip over your window sill, sleep in dream-laden darkness; time will come, everything will be fine.  Let night.

Dermscam

My rent check bounced.  After living here for 18 years, a check bounced.  What on earth, I am not good with money and have a tendency to buy surprises for people which is part of the Sagittarian code of Whee.  I don't understand budgeting, or want to; but I do keep track of expenditures and check in on my bank account every two weeks or so.  Payments are timed to pay stubs, and everyone gets paid.

Yesterday, a letter arrived stating that a $25 fee was slapped on to this embarrassed check, and that for the next six months, my rent would have to be paid via money order.  Not a life-changing event, but an inconvenience and was my credit sullied?  The credit union had not fined me, no additional charge was added to my account so far.  But what the heck happened?

Dermlove and Dermbright, that's what happened.  For the prices of $98.31 and $92.23 charged to my debit card, two jars of miracle foo-foo creme that will turn an aging face into velvet dewiness kissed by kitten fairies were sent to someone who used my card number.  In April and May, so this happy crook was enjoying $400 of my paycheck.  Oh ho ho.  And that is why my check bounced like a fat baby with a Fudgcicle.

Never ordered the stuff, never read anything about either product, and would rather stick my finger into a pencil sharpener than buy anything with a stupid name like Dermlove.  My face is not that bad that it needs a $100 jar of radiant idiocy, and for what they've snagged from me, a couple hundred dollars more would get one--or two with a Groupon, vials of Juvederm.  For all anybody knows, Mrs. Flopsybottom is filling jars in her garage with dollar store lotion, that's if any creme du walrus fat was sent anywhere at all.  It's ethereal and mysterious, the 800 numbers for each don't answer or will click off, and the only sign is the gentle ebbing of my bank account.

The credit union was wonderful, and gave me the payback phone number for reimbursement; I closed the old card and will wait out the ten days before the new one arrives, any transactions will take place with a check or ye olde paper and coin currency.  It was sad to see my debit card be cut up with scissors, it was like losing a small pet, like maybe a goldfish or a plant.

That whole day was a minor hell, starting out with me learning that a smoke detector will go off if your shower is steamy, and that stumbling out of the bathroom to see if anything is on fire should be done calmly.  I knocked over the clothing steamer, managed to crash and dislodge the toilet seat, had to pull the alarm off the wall because the silencer button was not working, and dislodge the battery before the thing shut up.  No cats were seen until later in the day, in spite of the morning aroma of Sea Captain's Choice cracking open.

Then, that afternoon while I was in a meeting, one of my kids had a melt down.  Let's call him Frangipani.  He is not nice, his mother has spoiled him to the point that his brain is a syrupy, odious sludge; pencils, crayons, papers were thrown, and his delight in performance was punctuated by his yelling guttural sounds every few minutes while stomping in circles.  After I appeared in the door and heard the news, he sat and watched me, to make sure I wasn't going to peel my skin off and emerge as Gorgonzola the Clouded One.  Okay, Frangipani, I will think of a consequence.  We organized, got information straightened out, (YOU DID WHAT???), and the kids got their backpacks and coats.  Put your chairs up, walkers line up.

"Ms. Coburn, there's a puddle under Frangipani!  He peed himself!" Frangipani, who was looking right at me.  Aw, come on.  I just came from a meeting where we were instructed to get technologically ready for iPads and teaching kids in circles next year.  I'm tired, you're tired, for heaven's sake, no more drama.  I know, I know, there is a tangle inside of the child, but for all the blather about teacher responsibility, is there an adequate team of counselors at the school?  Do children receive state mandated treatment or support?  Har de har har, Alice.  I spoke to his mother when she picked him up, and revisited old Frangipani this morning.  And we keep going. And then my check bounced and Dermbright ran to the car, pulled out of the driveway, and went to the casino with my four hundred bucks.

The air remains spring fresh, it's now dark but there are birds still calling, I'm here, I'm here!  A breeze pushes into the kitchen window, knocking the wind chimes about and filling the apartment with the cool night.  It's time for bed, take yourself in, gather children, dogs, cats, each other and latch the door, turn out the lights.  Let visions enter your sight, entertain angels.  Sleep well, sleep safe.  Good night.

Blood You, and Turkeys

My alarm goes off at 4:30, which seemed appropriate to accommodate this day's scheduled blood test at 7 a.m.  Driving in the early morning gives you a look at a different world, at the risers, the gleaners, the last of the nocturnal critters, feathered, hoofed, or wobbling on the sidewalk with a steak sub in hand.  Morning light is unique in illumination, as if the buildings and trees themselves blink awake as much as we do; as if the cat were punching out at the clock, mouse in tow.  No one else is on the road in most instances, except for people who have to be somewhere.  Not a shopper, Sunday driver, or a carload of kids going for ice cream are out and about; you and anyone else have direct purpose.

I wore sleeves able to be pushed up, found a list of to-do things in my purse from last year while in the waiting room, and was musing 'what on earth was I thinking's while going down the roster.  Wooden rug?  Really?  I was called and followed the lady into Room 1, which had photos of pets dressed up as Universal movie monsters, and a plastic goldfish bowl with a plastic goldfish in it.

"Oh, how cute!" I said, thinking that not only would my class of first graders enjoy a fake goldfish, but it would be one they couldn't kill.  The phlebotomist did not respond, tending to her work, and I then surmised that this was not her room.  How could she be responsible for pictures of a daschund dressed as Frankenstein's monster, or a corny plastic goldfish?  This gal was cold business, no fun or conversation was overlapping her borders.  Okay, no problem, everyone has their worries for the day, I can sit still for a minute, here's my lab order.   I signed a paper, verified my phone number and made a fist.

"Keep your arm straight," she said while tightening the band above my elbow.  'Kay.  She tapped where my vein was supposed to be and slammed that needle in like she was saving my life.  What?  Ow ow ow!  Jeezus H.  I thought she hit an artery. There was no name tag on her paper lab coat, so I began memorizing her physical features in case identification was necessary for filing a police report regarding the size of the bruise I was going to develop.  Older, short, glasses, balding with two headbands pushing back her hair to a starting point above her ears.  Pale turquoise nail polish.  At-ti-tude.  Ow.  It was over quickly.

She pulled the needle out, and fumbled with the cotton while my arm spouted dark blood.  Blood is not bright red like in the movies, but dark, like oxblood cherries.  It doesn't turn the familiar Crayola red until it oxidizes--cut open a package of fresh ground beef, give the newly exposed meat a few minutes, and it will become scarlet.  She used three cotton balls to stop the blood, put the tape on lopsided, added more tape and said You're. Done.  Have. A. Good. Day.

I pressed down on the spot to staunch the flow and get the coagulation going, it was 7:20 and I was back in the car; wanted to head out to Trader Joe's as it wasn't much further, yet they didn't open until 8...by this time, I was headed past the cemetery where my grandparents are buried, and hadn't checked in on them since last year.  The gates were open, so here was somewhere to be for fifteen minutes; morning light still made everything ethereally pretty, and driving slowly allowed the headstones to be seen.  There was a Viking helmet on a slab, Father Time standing with a baby angel in front of him; most were simple rectangular chunks of granite with names engraved.  I swear there was a Ringenbel.

Well, that would be nice, a stone marker, I'd like that, when--turkeys!  There was a pair of handsome, giant turkeys, their feathers shining bronze in the sun emerging from the brush, as my car nosed towards the area where my grandparents are buried.  I stopped to let them pass, except they didn't.  The Turkey King started bobbing his head, his red-skinny neck undulating up and down, gobbling.  Another not happy with me.

Come on, move it, you two.  Nope, no moving o metal square beast, you have entered our kingdom and must answer questions three to pass.  I nudged forward to more irate gobbling and the Turkey King started pecking the car bumper indignantly, the other hung back a bit, letting the boss do the work of telling this intruder off.  The more I came forward, the more aggressive the animal became; is the winter broom still in the car?  These things were huge, large enough that they could really do damage with their spurs unless I grabbed one by the neck and made him into dinner.  That would happen only if I'm attacked, and I won't be attacked if I don't get out of the car.  That however, was not happening, as no turkeys are keeping me away from my grandma and grandpa.  What the hell is in this car that will help?

Bird seed.  I have a bag of birdseed in the car at all times to feed sparrows who have learned to wait  at the parking lot fence in the morning.  I rolled down the passenger window, and launched a fistful of songbird mix at the two avian knuckleheads who knew what it was and left the bumper as quickly as if they were Trick or Treaters, and I had thrown full-size Baby Ruths onto the lawn.  I wondered if someone fed them regularly so that they've learned to carjack visitors for a shakedown.

I was able to pull up the last thirty feet to where I needed to be, and eyed the birds, forming a strategy if these bastards came after me while checking the grave.  I grabbed a handful of seed to take, and went to my first visit, Mr. Kontos, who is just a few feet before my grandparents.  George Kontos was my high school art teacher, who died supposedly from lead then used in pottery glazes.  He was a kind, gentle man, and I make sure to say hello and pull the overgrowth away from his plaque.  Here, Mr. Kontos, have some birdseed just in case the turkeys come by.  There were now three of the hoodlums pecking the grass in search of millet and sunflower seed who weren't interested in my presence at all, perhaps they didn't associate me with the seed exploding from the car, perhaps the car itself was considered to be an obedient serf. 

My Grandma Ida Ruth and Grandpa Stephen Potter are just under the purple martin house that has been repaired, their plaque is in good shape, and I need to get some flowers for them, with an American flag.  They were both born in 1896; Grandma would have loved watching the turkeys, so I sprinkled some bird seed about, telling her that she might get visitors.  Her maiden name was Rechenberger; her mother's maiden name was Coburn, and that's the name I selected for myself and legally paid for.  I said goodbyes, went to where my Aunt Dorie is buried, then turned towards the Boulevard.  I made it to Trader Joe's and bought a consolation bouquet for myself.  Now, I am done.

The day is on the other side of afternoon, soon to be evening, then midnight dark; my sore arm is still achey from the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper, yet it has been a good day overall.  Good to see a friend.  Mackerel clouds tell of rain within 24 hours, their scalloped ridges ordered in rows as they swing through the prehistoric sky.  This is the atmosphere that hovered over the dinosaurs, with a tad more oxygen then than now; there float particles that existed when megaturkeys lurched through forests, when Rome was contrived and diminished, when bread came in cellophane wrappers with a Jiminy Cricket sticker on the end.  When thylacines and quaggas cantered over ground, before starlings were introduced to Central Park, before the first gong sounded, before the last ankylosaurus laid down.

Float into the world of the subconscious, where sandman dreams collect and sort themselves out, where wishes and cakes soaked in rum syrup sit in jars, waiting to be opened.  Be the sky, and watch the earth unfold.  Sleep well, dear heart.

Green Woods

The annual leek gathering has been occurring for twelve years, give or take an annum.  If there was a human who ever reminded me of a fairy, my friend is one; many of my friends could be fey, thus explaining a certain tilt of head and scrutinizing look.  I am surrounded by myth in endomorphic ectomorphic mesomorphic disguise.  Yes, I mean you.  Here is Karima, another.

We connect in May, when dormant earth warms, and rotting logs sprout with mushrooms, seedlings, roly-poly bugs, and moss.  Like a dog who has caught a scent,the floor of the earth has a solitary purpose; alert, respond, produce.  Millions of green living beings push through layers of last year's leaves, between braided tree roots, crowding aside shale and limestone, blanketing the brown alluvium with shoots vibrating like a plucked string.  An orchestra of trout lilies, trillium, ferns, solemn jack in the pulpit, wild geranium, pincushion moss, the umbrellas of mayapples, all are crowned with new, tender leaves of the rising trees.  You almost hear the sounds created by shoving, expanding, unfolding.  Amid this visual cacophony stand wide blades of the leeks, our purpose.  

It was a chill day, both women had bundled their own gathering equipment, and we headed southeast, to where bluebirds still lived.  On the way, my friend spied a lovely cement urn, something you could easily put atop grandma when she goes, it was ornate and sitting at the end of a driveway.  Large garbage day in the country brings many good things; the fairy hauled in two plastic lanterns, a substantial door mat, buckets, and lots of other plant pots.  She stuffed the car with the loot, merely desiring the urn for her enchanted backyard garden back in the city.  I benefited from just being there.

Traveling on, us yipping merrily over the finds, she did it again.  Look.  Alpaca.  Llamas?  Do they have yarn?  We turned about again and visited Flamingo Art Studios, who have a small herd of alpaca not llamas in the back.  They had just been sheared, and a mill was turning their shorn coats into yarn, coming soon.  The owners were delightful, and had not only their own art, but that of many local artists besides.  We each bought a treasure, I a small syrup pitcher, and she a stitch ripper and honey, maybe feeling we owed the local economy something after snagging free treasure from unsuspecting driveways.

We arrived at the familiar place, and followed the road to where the leeks grow; they are bound by a ridge, a dried creekbed, and the road.  Violets and trillium tumbled over the ground, pale green jacks stood in their pulpits before inattentive congregations.  It was so good to breathe in the air; cleared and refreshed by burgeoning plant life.

Karima had her traditional garden shovel, I had my mother's old hand held garden fork; we separated, each looking for ready-to-dig specimens, or patches of larger leaves, indicating older growth.  Some of the growing leeks are yellowing already, signaling their season's end, some lives are so fleeting.  Snowdrops have come and gone, daffodils are waning, yet tulips are at their apex.  If the weather stays cool, the leeks will be there another two weeks.  The rains have softened the ground, making the digging easier--the garden fork only has to loosen clumps, which allows a short pull to release the bulb.  Shake off the dark soil  and dead leaves from last year, and put it in the bucket.

Just minutes of digging, and our containers are full, the garlicky onion green aroma ascending through the woods; she trotted off to the car, while I snapped a few photos of trillium and immense tree trunks.  Tripping lightly over briars, I spied a rubbery appearing lump about the size of a baseball growing above the forest carpet.  Examining the lump revealed it to be a false morel, Gyromitra esculenta, which on a bad day can kill you; the thing contains gyromitrin, which becomes monomethylhydrazine upon ingestion.  It was wonderfully huge, as if Rumplestilskin was escaping from his earthly trap, his bulbous, wrinkled brown nose breaking ground first.  I had never seen this variety of Gyromitra before.  Didn't touch it, I know better than to mess with strange mushrooms in the woods.

The car now was leekful, planterful, stuffed, and thankful; birdseed was tossed into the grass as a small offering for what the woods gave us once again.  Arriving back in the city, people were out walking dogs, tending yards, smiling as green spring cut loose after prying away the cold grip of a northern winter.  At home, I put the leeks into the bathtub for a rinse, then tended to dislodging dead dead dead curly spiders from the plastic lanterns.  The lamps don't look bad at all, and will be put in the building's hallway by the window.  If they get stolen, so what--they were free; one is sitting next to a philodendron.

I had put plants out in the common area of our floor, it looks institutional otherwise; six fabric tulips have overnight become five.  One of the red ones was taken, and it temporarily vexed me but then I vexed myself for crabbing about it.  Stealing is wrong, I had huffed, why should I bother decorating the hall if the denizens are helping themselves?  Pain!  Time!  Expense!  But think, Susan.  Why would someone take a fake flower?  Maybe a child for this Sunday, Mother's Day.  Maybe a grown being for themselves.  Looking at them lifts me up, perhaps someone else needed lifting up too, and will smile when they see the flower.  Who knows, but I hope whoever is enjoying it doesn't take more.  I will set the cats on them.

Swallows are darting on hairpin turns midair, catching bugs.  A brown ragdoll cat is on my lap, a white Volkswagen is washing it's paws next to me; Lulu is up in the cat tree, and the orange cat is god knows where.  The day is ebbing towards night, a cloud cover obscures clear sky; I still ache from digging and hauling, and a pot is full of chopped leeks sauteing in butter for potato soup tomorrow.  Change in seasons, changes in lives, never an easy metamorphosis, but it happens all the time; it's supposed to.  Tuck under the covers, there's a spring chill to take you into the furthest depths of sleep, where wild leeks grow and mushrooms wrinkled as an ancient face live.  Let Nod sort you out; fall, fall, sweet stranger.