Rest In Peace, lIttle Bella

Tarra & Bella

Remember Tarra and Bella, the elephant and dog who were inseparable friends? Bella was the flamboyant little stray who showed up at the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee about eight years ago and she and Tarra, the Sanctuary's founding elephant, quickly became completely devoted to one another. Last Wednesday, as Sanctuary residents often do, Tarra and Bella spent the night in the hills. The caregivers at the Sanctuary believe that Bella must have briefly wandered away from Tarra's side and was attacked by coyotes. Of course Tarra rushed to her rescue and drove them off but, sadly, Bella died anyway. I don't hold it against the coyotes. They have to eat too but Bella, sweet sweet Bella, I mourn for her and Tarra and the purity of the love they shared.

The following day, caregivers noticed Bella was missing, she's always near Tarra so, fearing trouble, launched a search for her. They found the little dog's body by the Asian elephant barn Tarra and Bella share with a few other elephants. During the night Tarra had carried her friend home.

Happy days

More Tarra and Bella videos here.

BP Update

In case you're lying awake nights wondering if the little birds rediscovered the Bird Park, worry no more. They have and all is well again. Even the crows dropped by for breakfast the other morning. They are really quite impressive. Even the impertinent magpies show them respect.

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Just so you know, the tip of my left index finger has a painful splinter blister on it which I nevertheless endured to type this report.

Back to the starts right direction

You know I'm with Willie on this one.

Wonders big and small

Baby Leo & Thea Bella at the Oregon coast.
Photo by Kristiana

I'd sure like to know what wonder Baby Leo is expounding on to his cousin, Thea Bella. From the looks on their faces, it's gotta be good.

Bird Park report

The magpies showed up for breakfast the morning after we got home but, though the feeders are full and waiting, the little birds still haven't caught on that we're back. :(

Jiggity jog

Home again, home again but, as I've mentioned before, it doesn't exactly feel like home. Base camp again, base camp again jiggity jog. This concludes the trip begun in May.

Ridin' the Dog

This is the first post from my new Droid and my first post from a Greyhound bus. I just spent the week in Portland, first with my friend Kimberlee and her two-year old son Reid then with Thea Bella and Baby Leo who is no longer a baby but an exhuberant toddler. Reid was a doll and first class traveler. I say that after sharing a room with him and exploring Portand with him and his mom via mass transit. Thea Bella is heartbreakingly sweet, smart and beautiful and, at 14 months, Baby Leo is a story teller, soccer champion and wild man. More on them later.

I am loving my new phone but I can't quite say the same thing for the Dog.ù Well, it's not too bad, better than tolerable, an ok way to pass an afternoon, but not exactly "fun“. The quality changes with the passengers but the seat is really comfotrable. However, at the moment there's a good old girl chatter box in the front seat who hasn't drawn a breath since she boarded in Eugene. The driver doesn't mind. He's a rolling talk show host expert in the fine art of passing the miles. We learned during the Portland to Eugene leg of the journey that he's been driving for 37 years. He talked about some of the crazy things that have happened on his bus over the years, stabbings, shotings, births, heart attacks, naked people jumping of the windows. Anything and everything you can imagine has happened on his bus although he made a point of explaining these shenanigans are confined to the lower 1% but spread out over 37 years even 1% adds up hto a whole lot of crazy. A French speaking magician type, black top hat, vest and pants, white gloves barded in Eugene. So far, no rabbits.

The Upper 1 Percent

"WE ARE THE 1 %"

Traders at the Chicago Board of Trade verbally mooned the rest of us, the 99 %, with this sign in the window the other day. The irony is that so many middle and lower income people still support Wall Street by voting for its lap dog Republican and Tea Party politicians.

Screw the bloody bastards.

Update, Saturday Oct. 8:
We're dog-sitting Heidi for some friends who are currently vacationing on the East Coast. They ended up attending the Occupy Wall Street demonstration in DC and, as it happened, got interviewed by a reporter from the New York Times. He is quoted in the opening of the article:

“There’s a lot of people here with different ideas and various causes,” he said, “but I think that the bottom line is that we feel we’ve surrendered our nation to a corporatocracy.” - Gary Wood, Minden NV

Well said!

Heidi says: Way to go, guys!

Steve Jobs, RIP

I tried

Señor Pierna

Yay. I was worried about him. The one-legged magpie showed up at the Bird Park the other day. He's traveling alone. After watching for a few minutes I saw why. Two magpies still hanging around from breakfast, 7 and her friend who keep their eyes on the place all day, pounced and pummeled him. I broke it up and he came back later on his own but what a drag. Magpies are a rough crowd.

He's a persistent fellow though. In fact, he landed on the fence just now. The breakfast bunch left about 10 minutes ago. He's enjoying sunflower seeds. Oops. I spoke too soon. Heidi, who I'm dog-sitting for the next week, just wandered into the Bird Park.

Ok. Reset. Heidi's back inside. I tossed out a few more peanuts and he's back. This guy needs a name. Señor Pierna. Mr. Leg.

7 o'clock Magpie, faithful as she ever was

Yay! The 7 o'clock Magpie just showed up. That's my girl! She's a bit late this morning but hey! Other than a few days a couple of weeks ago, I haven't been here for five months to put out her morning peanuts so that's pretty good. I may be a bit obsessive but, when she hadn't arrived by 7:05 AM, it did cross my mind that something terrible might have happened to her but, barring injury or death, I never doubted for a second that she'd be by for breakfast. She's knows I'm good for it. We've got a thing.

Note to future self

The Gathering a photo by ashabot on Flickr

Home. It doesn't feel like it. I've been mostly gone or coming and going since last March. Five months. We got back this afternoon from the loop to Seattle for my high school reunion then Oregon to see family and friends and now... home. It's a strange word. I filled the bird feeders, picked up the mail, watered the cactuses and now, before trundling off to bed, have checked in here.

Hello. That is all for now.

Reunions and the point of no return

Seattle. We're staying in a great basement apartment on 92nd for the next couple of nights. M. Lee found it on AirBnB, which is the place to look if you want cool, cheap lodging. I'm here to attend my high school reunion tomorrow night. I'm a bit apprehensive. I was a total outsider so it's not like I'm here to re-live a lot of happy memories but I grew up with these people and, even though they are all basically strangers, I am interested to see some of them again before, you know, we're all dead. Also, and on a coldly voyeuristic note, there is a delicious ghost-like, time-travel quality to reunions that adds a curiously attractive twist. I didn't go to the big cocktail party get together tonight though. M. Lee and I had veggie pho at a tiny pho house on Capitol Hill instead. It's been a long drive wrapping up our summer travels, Nevada to Centroamerica to Florida to Seattle with points in between and today's leg of that journey was enough for one day.

Also some of the people from my Catholic elementary school days want to meet for brunch tomorrow before the Big Event but I'm passing on that too. And after brunch a few of them are going to visit some of our teachers at the old nuns home. It would almost be worth it to see them without their habits. They were always so mysterious in their black Bride of Christ head to toe robes, stiffly starched white bonnets, collars and huge crosses with the limp body of Christ nailed to the huge crosses laying where their breasts should be... but not this time... and probably not ever. I don't believe in putting people or animals in zoos, for Christ sake. I don't have anything to say to them. I'm not Catholic anymore. I'm not even Christian any more. It was bad enough visiting the Dallas Krishna Temple. They all want to believe you still belong but you don't.

Touch down and take off

Tonapah's legendary ghost,
the Lady in Red

I just got back from my bi-annual weekend in lovely Tonopah, semi-ghost town and still and always, Queen of the Silver Camps. Once again, the guy ahead of me in the hotel check-in line won the Tonopah Station lucky roll of the dice free room. I did not, again. But the Big News from Tonopah is that somebody finally bought the Mizpah Hotel, probably for pennies on the dollar, and the place is scheduled to reopen in a couple of weeks. I hope they do better making their deadline than the Belvedere Hotel across the street. The sign announcing the Belvedere's 2008 reopening still hangs on the front of the building above the broken windows, fading into oblivion. This trip, I counted more broken windows at the ol' Belvedere but was puzzled by the lack of pigeons who normally reside there. I am not going to say foul play? No. I will not even think it.

Anyway, the Mizpah wins my Tonopah Zombie Hotels Back from the Dead Award (for the day) so my hat is off to them. I hope I get a chance to tour the place before it closes again. I have been photographing it through the windows for years. I really want to meet the Mizpah's legendary Lady in Red who tragically, in a crime of passion, was murdered on the fifth floor back in the 1920s. It's not because the new owners claim she leaves pearls under people's pillows. I dig ghosts.

Tomorrow we leave again, this time for points north. Got to have tea with Ms. Thea Bella and Baby Leo. I realize I'm pushing the limit still calling Leo a baby now that he's turned one, but come on... I've hardly spent any time with him. Once he starts walking I'll stop. It won't be long. These days it's all he wants to do. So, our odyssey Cross Country American Road Trip (Florida and back again to Washington and back again) won't be officially over until mid-October when Kimberlee, Mr. Reid (he's two) and I do our Portland meet-up.

So, what the hell am I doing fiddling around with my blog? Must. Pack. Now. See you on the road.

The 7 O'clock Magpie and Battlelines Drawn

Here's what's amazing. The 7 o'clock magpie showed up this morning at 7 o'clock. This is our first morning back after an absence of four months and she is still coming to the Bird Park at 7 am to check for peanuts. Yes, peanuts were waiting. Naturally, the first thing I did when we pulled in last night was fill the bird baths and feeders and put some peanuts on the table. Some hornets have colonized one of the empty feeders so they get to keep that one (I'll toss it when they move out this winter) but I filled the other three. That's enough for a start. Anyway, how 'bout that magpie?

That's the good news.

The bad news is that it just about took the jaws of life to jack myself back into my office this morning. The shelves are always crammed and bloated with stuff giving the room that WALLS_CLOSING_IN feel then last night I cluttered what precious little work space I do have with the things I brought in from the car... laptop, tablets, notebooks, various writing instruments, books, camera, sun glasses, phone etc. plus the different bags I carry everything in. And the tiny floor space has been reduced to a single channel connecting the door to my chair where I sit marooned in this flotsam of projects unfinished, current and yet to come. It's paralyzing. Must dig my way out. Must organize.

When we were driving across the country, anticipating this encounter and wooed by that special camaraderie born of the road, I invited M. Lee to help me gut my office and reorganize this winter. I may regret that. He is way too eager to help but I am already crushed by even the idea of tackling this. After all, the stuff is not to blame. It is my own self I must wrestle and tame, or at least cut a new deal with. As it stands, my mind has colonized my refuge from it. No one else can stand up to me but me.

Trip notes

We're in Kingman Arizona for the night. One more day and we'll be home but I'm really missing Florida. I miss Alligator Creek, the little house and the pineapple palms and I miss Frida Kahlo the squirrel and her friends. I miss all the critters who sing in the night. I miss the egrets and ibises. I miss the congregations of little plovers scurrying in and out with the waves. I miss watching the squadrons of venerable pelicans pass overhead, wings outstretched, gliding the thermals like ancient gods. I miss the Great Blue Heron who likes to people watch at the beach. I miss the friends we discovered there. I miss the gulf.

I am reading 'Love in the Time of Cholera' by Gabriel García Márque as we drive across the country.

When we were in Dallas the other day we ate dinner at Kalachandji's, the very excellent vegetarian restaurant at the Hare Krishna temple. I lived at that temple many years ago.

Must sleep now. We have to drive through rush hour in Las Vegas tomorrow morning.

Frida Kahlo the Squirrel RIP

This is a post I did not want to write. I've been putting if off for weeks as though writing it would make it so. But we're leaving Florida in the morning and heading back to Nevada so it's time to wrap things up around here.

Frida stashing a nut

I am very sad to report that Frida Kahlo the squirrel is MIA and almost certainly dead. And I'm feeling pretty guilty because I played a part. I've been feeding a lot of squirrels and birds all summer and, of course, the inevitable happened. A hawk noticed and started hanging around. Then Frida vanished.

Frida stashing a nut

She's gone. It's been weeks. We both really miss her and feel the great big empty place she left behind. That probably sounds odd. After all, what kind of relationship can you have with a squirrel? But we got really attached to her. Frida had moxie. I'm embarrassed to use that word, it's corny, but it fits her. Every morning, while the other squirrels were busy chasing each other around the yard arguing over who could have a peanut, Frida was busy licking then stashing all the peanuts, one by one, into separate hiding places.

Frida enjoying a morning peanut.

And when I threw peanuts down from the balcony, all the squirrels took off except Frida. She'd look me in the eye, cup her hands and wait for the toss.

Frida ascends her pineapple palm.

Then, once everything was done and tucked away, she'd scamper up into her pineapple palm to savor a peanut in peace. No one dared approach her in her tree. Frida Kahlo the squirrel was like Frida Kahlo the painter... as they say... una perra nacida... born a bitch.

Frida Kahlo savoring a peanut in her favorite pineapple palm tree

That tree was hers and hers alone, and even though she's gone, it's still empty.

Ghost of Frida Kahlo visiting us.

That is except recently one morning. M. Lee call me to come quick to the window, that the ghost of Frida Kahlo had come back to say goodbye. It looked like her. It felt like her. And no, we haven't seen her since but I get the feeling that, wherever she is, Frida Kahlo is doing just fine.

Pelican's morning at the jetty

We biked to the south jetty in Venice the other day. It's about 20 miles round-trip from where we're staying.

Mother Pelican at the jetty

Lucky us! A mother pelican and her baby
also decided to spend the morning at the jetty.

Mother Pelican and her baby

She sunned herself on the rocks as Baby P.
paddled around in the water in front of her.

Pelican Baby

 He still had that fuzzy baby look and was a total darling.
This is first time I've seen a baby pelican up close...

Mother Pelican watching her baby

...and the first time I've ever had a good look at a pelican's feet.

Mother Pelican's beautiful toenails

They are huge and rubbery flippery silvery blue.
And they have toenails, amazing toenails!
I did not know that pelicans had toenails...
...and such very cool toenails at that!

 On second thought.... those "toenails are probably considered claws, bird claws, she says blushing.

Local News at 20:27 hours

Our time in Florida is running out. Everything feels different. I don't want to go but I am detaching in spite of myself. In fact, with all the travel we have been doing the last few years, detachment itself is becoming the normal mode. It's appropriate at this point in my life. I don't love less but with fewer conditions.

Mid night choral

steamy
mid
night
cricket
plainsong
after
heavy
rain

Between worlds

Time to slap a new post on top of this wobbly pyramid of words.

Birds at the jetty

In two weeks we begin our cross-country drive back to the west coast but I am really going to miss this place..

Jersey Shore 1904

Atlantic City, circa 1900. Swimsuits were either flannel, serge or Alpaca, went from head to toe, included vest and collar plus skirts for the women topped off with modest caps.

And in case you are wondering.... yes.
The women are wearing swimming corsets under their suits.

Source: Shorpy

Even though we saw topless women on Miami Beach the other day, and even though no one seemed to mind or, for that matter even notice, the crowd still reminded me of the subdued, modest bathers from more puritanical times. I think it was the general disconnect people seemed to have regarding the environment itself as though being in a crowd offered protection from the power and uncertainties of Nature. Like I said before, creepy.

Diorama of a Midsummer's Day

We went to Fort Lauderdale last week to visit M. Lee's cousins and explore the area a bit. His cousins are nice fellows and basically hermits. They live in a big pleasant house in a skeevy part of town with their mother, kids, a sweet, pony-size pit bull who is not neutered and six hens they treat like children who have their own place out back. We saw everybody for dinner both nights and during the first day biked around Ft. Lauderdale and the second decided move on and check out Miami Beach.

It wasn't a particularly pleasant drive. Imagine "dragging yourself shirtless across a desert of blazing hot broken glass, your back full of arrows, predator birds tearing at your flesh". That's how Lee described driving to Miami Beach. 

America is already a tax haven for the world's wealthiest people and Southern Florida is one of their favorite spots. Everyday millionaire retirees roost all over Florida but South Florida is known for it's high-stepping billionaire, and very shady, richer-than-god crowd. Even from the street Miami is a gaudy showcase questionable wealth.

But, for us, there really wasn't any there there, just more urban sameness.

When we finally got to the beach, the world famous Miami Beach, I ran like someone escaping a fire, well, with a few stops along the way.

 

I'm a surrealist and, surprisingly the beach was surreal, so I should have loved it but, instead, I was horrified. I already knew that every inch of ground, mangrove and shoreline in Miami is developed, and has been for a long time so, of course, its "world famous" beach would be no exception but it was so dismal. Whether I looked north or south, it was hotel after hotel after hotel—no trees, no shade, no wildlife—and on the sand— thousands of people laying under umbrellas or standing in the water. I assume for them it was a lovely summer day at the beach.

To me the scene had a musty and unreal quality as though, rather than at the ocean, people were in a diorama built by a Jersey taxidermist and titled Day at the Beach. And mostly it was just sad. We're back along Alligator Creek today. The development here is bad enough but I'm still caught in yesterday's mood but grateful to be back in the small world here on the gulf.

No ghost but a mango

No ghost. In fact, no nothing. Pelican Alley is closed on Tuesday. This is the second time the place has evaded me. The last time was last fall when I went in ordered but then, for seemingly other reasons, canceled and left. Hmmmmm....veeeeery strange, eh? Anyway, for the record, I do and do not believe in ghosts, like everything else and I did not see the pantie tweaking ghost of Pelican Alley today. I will try again later. The day ended with a mango party. We ate the last of the mangoes we got at Pine Island a couple of weeks ago. Except for the crappy Tommy Atkins, the one most often imported to the US, they were all fantastic. So, for today, no ghost but 11 mangoes down and hundreds to go.