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My Journey into Birding

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I have less than two weeks in which to become an avid birdwatcher.
I’m taking a trip with my husband, my brother and his wife (Dan and ‘La Bella’).

We’re planning on spending a few days at Malheur National Wildlife Refuge.
Over 320 species of birds.  The Pacific Flyway.
Three members of our party are experts in birds.
Ornithological gluttons.

Me. I’m a word bird.
Did you know that avid comes from the Latin avere, to desire, crave?
And avian comes from the Latin avis, bird?

LBJ.
That’s my favorite bird identification.
Little Brown Job.

I’m getting a crash course in optics.
Call it Binocular 101.
In theory, I can distinguish
between a raven and a crow.

It’s gonna be a hoot.
We’re going to spot birds we’ve never before seen.
I’m going to tap into the enthusiasm around me.
It’s good, I remind myself, to feel inadequate.

 I’m looking for a Sora Rail.
And a Yellowthroat.

I’ll bring some books along.
We’ll take some hikes.
We are bringing the old Pentax K1000 out of retirement.

My brother Dan, who, if he didn’t sing opera, could make
a lovely living as a professional photographer, (Exhibit A below)

will have a big lens.
Already I can’t wait to see his pictures.

Oh, yeah!

How to Read Slowly

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Early on, reading became for me a way of life–
joyous, fascinating, refreshing, challenging.

I’m thankful, for my sake, that I read a borrowed copy of James Sire’s book How to Read Slowly.  It slowed me down.  Instead of marking and highlighting passages and turning pages, I read with a journal and pen and copied copious notes and quotes.  Instead of zipping through 179 pages in three evenings, it took me almost a month to complete. 

Sire writes for readers on every level.  If you like the idea of reading, but haven’t finished a book in a year, this book is for you.   If you enjoy reading, but sense there are better books, Sire will guide you.   And if you, like me, can’t not read, you will get a great refresher course on how to better do what we can’t escape doing. 

How to Read Slowly is a simple book.  He devotes a chapter each on reading non-fiction, poetry and fiction, followed by a chapter on contexts and one on finding the time.  Simple.  Really.

I was immediately captured by the dedication: To my father who in his eighties still reads voraciously.

Sire doesn’t just tell you…he shows you.  His chapter on poetry would make the most reluctant reader of poetry want to dip his big toe in the pool of poems.  Here’s a sample:

The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams

So much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Simple enough, right?  Yet Sire asks questions and makes observations which make me want to jump up and click my heels!  Visually, what do you see in this poem? Sire concludes, “Williams’s poem is like a still-life painting.  Quality presents itself quietly and yet persistently.  And, though we cannot say why we see, we see.” 

Excellent questions, superb commentary, quotes that express what I’ve always felt, more book titles to read: that’s what you will find in this wonderful read.

We will just have to realize that ignorance will always
be our lot and then get on with the task–often
a joyful one–of learning what we can
with the time and abilities we have.


You see, I have a problem. I read too much.
I pay attention to plot, image, character and theme
when I should be paying attention to wife,
sons and daughters, the peeling house paint
and the leaking toilet tank.
Actually, I need advice
about how to spend time not reading.


Here is where I believe reading becomes of most value.
We are not just bifurcating our lives into the dull
pursuit of information and world view on the one hand
and the exciting pursuit of sheer entertainment on the other.
We are putting together what should never be split–
excitement and knowledge, joy and truth, ecstasy and value.
Indeed, in such moments of reading we are living the good life.


Indeed, great books teem with peoples and lands,
with ideas and attitudes, with exuberance and life.
Let us take our fill, doing it slowly, thoughtfully,
imaginatively, all to the glory of God.

I Love a Good Wedding

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A young friend of mine (a former student) was married on Saturday.  Loree’s wedding to Andrew was simply splendid.

It began with multiple groups of grandparents processing down the aisle to Moonlight Sonata.  Exquisite music.  I immediately thought, “Why have I never played this for a wedding before?”  When we thanked the pianist after the ceremony, Summer said “I told Loree that I regretted getting married without a bit of Debussy.” 

The kiss: what I loved is the look Andrew gave Loree–a full thirty seconds I’d guess–drinking in her smile before the kiss.  We got the sense that this remarkable young man is deliberate in all he does.

The knot: the two fathers brought up a large coil of nautical-grade rope.  The bride and groom took these two ropes and made a lover’s knot.

After the bride and groom tied the knot the wedding party all tugged on the rope to tighten the knot.  It was festive and fun!

A favorite moment was meeting Andrew at the end of the receiving line.   Smiling, he extended his hand and was genuinely pleased to meet Curt and me.  But when Loree leaned into him and said, “She wrote the words,” Andrew changed into hug mode.  Of course the words are not my words, but a quote I wrote in a card.

Here are the words.

All kinds of things rejoiced my soul in the company of my friends–
to talk and laugh and do each other kindnesses;
read pleasant books together,
pass from lightest jesting to talk of the deepest things and back again;
differ without rancor, as a man might differ with himself,
and when most rarely dissension arose
find our normal agreement all the sweeter for it;
teach each other and learn from each other;
be impatient for the return of the absent,
and welcome them with joy on their homecoming;
these and such like things,
proceeding from our hearts
as we gave affection and received it back,
and shown by face, by voice, by the eyes,
and a thousand other pleasing ways,
kindled a flame which infused our very souls
and of many made us one.
This is what men value in friends.

~ St. Augustine

Making a Good Place to Live

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The culture of good place-making, like the culture of farming, or
agriculture, is a body of knowledge and acquired skills.  It is not bred
in the bone, and if it is not transmitted from one generation to
the next, it is lost. 113


There is a main road–not Main Street–that grew out of our small town, much like roads spawned in every town.  We call it “the Strip”.  Fast food restaurants, gas stations, box stores, service-oriented businesses and a few banks populate two miles of avenue.  Buildings are plopped at random angles to the road, all out of joint with their neighbors; instead of continuity there is discord, and most structures are simply ugly. 

I appreciated reading The Geography of Nowhere: The Rise and Decline of America’s Man-Made Landscape because it helped me answer why an ugly urban/suburban landscape is so typical, so, so common.  The quick answer is a lack of connectedness, a lack of respect for the surroundings, a premium on convenience and a strong shot of individualism.

The organic wholeness of the small town was a result of common, everyday attention to details, of intimate care for things intimately used.  The discipline of its physical order was based not on uniformity for its own sake, but on a consciousness of, and respect for, what was going on next door.  Such awareness and respect were not viewed as a threat to individual identity but as necessary for the production of amenity, charm, and beauty.  These concepts are now absent from our civilization.  We have become accustomed to living in places where nothing relates to anything else, where disorder, unconsciousness, and the absence of respect reign unchecked. 185

Cars, televisions and the resulting cultural decay get a scathing condemnation. So do faux front porches and front garages.

The main problem with [the suburban sub-division] was that it dispensed with all the traditional connections and continuities of community life, and replaced them with little more than cars and television. 105
The least understood cost [of long commutes]–although probably the most keenly felt–has been the sacrifice of a sense of place: the idea that people and things exist in some sort of continuity, that we belong to the world physically and chronologically, and that we know where we are. 118
 

Nor do shopping malls escape prophetic wrath.  Kunstler points out that a vacuum of human contact and conversation led to the phenomenon of shopping malls.  Malls are little islands isolated from the community.  And if your dream vacation destination is Disney World (she rolls her eyes), be prepared to be disabused of some of your jolly ideas.

...new merchandising gimmick called the shopping mall…offering a synthetic privatized substitute for every Main Street in America. 108

The decay of property is the physical expression of everything the town has lost spiritually while the American economy “grew” and the nation devised a national lifestyle based on cars, cheap oil and recreational shopping. 184

Neighborhoods in Maine seem to me the best examples of good place-making.  New construction is architecturally designed to fit with the older homes; there are “greens” and “squares”–shared public spaces–built into many new subdivisions.   

This book is a diagnostic tool, not a solution manual.  The tone is quite pessimistic.  But if you have an interest in architecture, in sociology or cultural trends, you may find–like I did–much to ponder.

I just can’t stop myself.  Here’s one last quote:

Americans wonder why their houses lack charm. […] Charm is dependent on connectedness, on continuities, on the relation of one thing to another, often expressed in tension, like the tension between private space and public space, or the sacred and the workaday, or the interplay of a space that is easily comprehensible, such as a street, with the mystery of openings that beckon, such as a doorway set deeply in a building. […] If nothing is sacred, than everything is profane. 168

A Story in Four Pictures

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1. January 9, 2010
Jeff spends an afternoon with our college friends
Norm and Michelle in Budapest.
We’ve not seen Norm and Michelle since 1976;
 however we managed to stay in touch all these years.
J, N & M are all missionaries in Diósd, Hungary.
We met Jeff in February 2009 when he preached at our church.


2. February 23, 2010
Jeff is in our home in Oregon.
He brought us hugs and Hungarian paprika from Norm and Michelle.
(Thanks, Michelle! I can’t wait to make Chicken Paprika!!)


3.  Our Katie is the reason Jeff is in Oregon/Idaho now.
She is a precious jewel.
Katie is an honorary member of our family.

 
4.  It’s Facebook official: they are in a relationship. 
Katie’s Dad gave his blessing.
We are giddy! (times twelve!)
As Curt puts it, we are gurgling joyfully.
And, according to FB comments, so is the rest of the world!

Praise God from Whom all blessings flow…

Diamond Days

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Diamond days.
Rams, lambs, llamas, geese.
A bald eagle convention.
Bracing cold and piercing bright.
Grace multiplied.
Newborn babes with rosebud mouths.
Singing that carries you to heaven.
A grand slam sermon.
My husband, a car and a country road.
A cup of chai to go with sunset.
A heart quaffing mercies,
attempting to print these wonders
permanently in my memory.

O taste and see that the Lord is good.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

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A pillow case from my friend Noki in Zimbabwe


A Delft vase given to me as a wedding present
by my Grandma Harper’s best friend


a cross-stitch piece my sister made for Curt


My Grandma Stover’s pocket New Testament/Psalms
in Dutch…as a girl she brought it to America from the Netherlands


Here is Psalm 103 from the back of the Dutch Bible.


I bought this at a craft show for $3. It makes me smile.


A photo Katie-of-my-heart gave me of a kitchen in El Savador


Hanbury Print 1/25 made by one of my student’s moms. (Silkscreen?)
She cut out all those intricate details for the stencil.

 
An image made of butterfly wings, brought back
from Africa by Kerry in 1978.

 
A small plaque that I grew up with.  I think it was
in the pantry.  This is my inheritance and I love it.


My brother Jim paints watercolors when he visits Monhegan,
an island off of Maine.  After I wheedled and begged, he
gave me one of his creations. I’m a spoiled younger sister.


Katie made this cork board.  The corks were supplied
by my brother Dan, the wine connoisseur. 

 
Curt made this for me during the first year of our marriage.
It’s made out of curly fir.


Matt, a craftsman in our church, made this Celtic cross
which graces our entry way.  This was my Christmas/
Birthday gift to my husband. 
It’s the best money we’ve spent on art.

~     ~     ~

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
~ John Keats

Little House on the African Highlands

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Sometimes she [Tilly, the author’s mother] spoke aloud in my presence
without exactly speaking to me; I was a kind of safety valve, helpful to
her feelings even in a passive role.

Pioneer stories capture me.  I cut my reading teeth on the Little House books; I have a secret desire to test myself in a lifestyle where one has to adapt, work hard, keep cheerful, play with pig bladder balloons and make corn husk dolls for one’s daughters.  Even though I’m a capital W-Wus, I like to secretly preserve the happy fiction that with courage and determination I could survive in the Big Woods.  

At such times, when all the furtive noises of the night beyond that
speck of firelight crept unasked like maggots into your ears, you
could feel very isolated and lonely.

The Flame Trees of Thika: Memories of an African Childhood is an extreme version of the Little House books.  When Elspeth was six her parents, Robin and Tilly, purchased a desolate piece of land northeast of Nairobi, hoping to establish a coffee plantation.  The year was 1913. Naturally, the mores and the customs of the Africans and the Europeans were not in sync.  Robin and Tilly have the friendship of other colonial settlers, but have to learn how to operate their “farm” with the native workforce they’ve hired.

Tilly was downcast; as with all perfectionists, it was the detail
others might not notice that destroyed for her the pleasure of
achievement. I doubt if she was every fully satisfied with
anything she did.  But she breasted each failure as a dinghy rides
 a choppy sea, and faced the next with confidence and gaiety.

Flame Trees differs from Little House in that you never fully hear the author’s childhood voice.  No other children appear, she never calls her parents Father and Mother and curiously Elspeth-Huxley’s first name- is never once mentioned, nor is a pet name like Half-Pint.  She has an exotic story, but Huxley’s prose made this book.  Rich, delightful, capable of expressing universal responses:

This declaration put a full-stop to the conversation,
as Hereward’s remarks were apt to do, whereas
with Lettice and Ian, or Robin and Tilly, talk would
volley gently to and fro until halted by some external event.

One story line, told with tact, of neighbor Lettice’s infatuation with Ian (as in not-her-husband) and the resulting tension, would never be included in Laura’s world.

“[Shooting] is much less alarming when you fire [the gun] off
yourself than when other people do,” Tilly explained.

“Like sins,” said Lettice.

“What sorts of sins?”

“Any sort. 
When other people commit them you are startled,
but when you commit them yourself,
they seem absolutely natural.”

Naturally, a book set in Africa will have mosquitoes and mosquito nets:

No sound concentrates so much spitefulness and malice
into a very small volume as the pinging of mosquitoes,
as if needles tipped with poison were vibrating
in a persistent tattoo.

I thoroughly enjoyed The Flame Trees of Thika.  I have half a dozen Africa books in my Read Around the World plan, and I am eager to compare this book with others on my list.