A fly.

A single incident perpetuates a series of unintended consequences that must each be dealt with in turn. Regardless of good intentions, each solution creates bigger issues to be resolved.

So maybe a fly is just a euphemism for… a bird feeder. An innocuous yet functional holiday gift gathering dust in the garage. Fine. There’s no logical reason not to use it. The entire town has been designated as a bird sanctuary, so what’s the harm in feeding the birds?

After a few months of bribing mother nature, I discovered the residual benefit of tripod photography. By photographing the birds, I have pictures to send my mother for special occasions, because seriously, she is older and she’s already managed to accumulate more than enough crap to be disposed of (god bless her soul [the Better Half says it mandatory to phrase such dark subjects in properly respectful terms]) after her time comes to uh, shall I say, kick the proverbial bucket. Pictures are easier to dispose of than say a gravy boat or a rocking chair.

Photography leads to the desire for better photograph, which also leads to more bird feeders, better food, and a bird guide so you can properly identify the species when attempting to discuss subjects that don’t include the weather.

Better food, better feeders, better photos, and more birds. Seemed simple enough until the chipmunks showed up (And by chipmunks, I don not mean the trio of over-commercialized musical vermin that continue to make subpar “C” movies at the expense of teenagers) .

The bird feeders are accessible from our deck, though the deck has no stairs to access ground level. Basically it is supported on posts and suspended seven feet above the ground. All posts, but one are recessed approximately two feet from the deck rail, making it difficult but not impossible for rodents to access feeders by climbing the posts….but this isn’t about squirrels. This time.

Once a week I run a garden hose onto the deck for a partial water exchange for a small goldfish pond, and sometimes I get a little lazy about coiling up the hose. Garden hose = convenient chipmunk ladder. Chipmunk access to roasted peanuts = tasty awesomeness. Chipmunk cornered by housecoats too domesticated too hunt properly = not so awesome.

While I was distracted by the fat cheeked wonders pilfering my bird feeders, a much less tolerable problem occurred.

Raccoon.

It was an accidental discovery late one evening. In the throes of cat ranching, I discovered the masked offender cleaning out a tray feeder with the Hunter watching intently. This will never work.

The garden hose was removed and a lid was fastened to the tray feeder to prevent access (a sheet of plexiglass held on by four spring loaded clamps. The first night it worked, so the raccoon opted to eat from the suet feeder instead. The second night, the raccoon stole an entire suet cake. The third night, the raccoon broke the corner off the plexiglass and cleaned out the tray feeder, The fourth night, Better Half encouraged little raccoon to leave. The fifth morning, we covered the most easily accessible post in aluminum flashing and coated it in cooking spray. The fifth night, the little bastard stole another suet cake. The sixth night, I remove the suet feeder, and left the tray feeder empty. The seventh morning, I can’t actually say because laws vary from state to state… but I cans say it is doubtful it will involve a shovel provided my goldfish pond does not become a sushi bar.

I miss not filtering my words.

Rocky Coast, California
9.5″ X 7.75″ (Oil paint on composite wood panel)

When I meet a person and we lack a shared interest, I pay attention to their hobbies, anxieties, in short, their lives. I want to be aware enough to keep the conversation moving, but mostly I want the person to know I am interested in their character on more than a surface level. It shifts the emphasis on someone else to be stimulating so I don’t feel pressured to be or account for all the mundane ways I choose to pass time.

You get to know who people are by paying attention to what they do, not just what they say. Most of us are more than our last travel destination, our last prepared meal, or our last, “you won’t believe what I saw or did” story. But maybe that is just the difference between friendship and acquaintanceship.

I stood in the card aisle, fingering poetic missives on embossed papers, struck by the inappropriateness of many of the messages. Regretful words spouting synthetic wisdom disguised as empty platitudes. In the rawness of the moment it hardly seems adequate lacing bereavement with the pragmatism of things being meant to be.

I know the recipients, but not well enough to profess a relationship, unless tolerance has an expanded meaning of which I am unaware. Finally, I call the Better Half for insight. Is he religious? I know she is. Apparently, if he wasn’t, he is now. It makes finding the right message less of a minefield A sympathy card should accommodate the needs of the recipient, not the dogma, or lack thereof, of the sender.

Loss can inspire embracing religion, or the denouncing it. I’m judging merely observing. Peace is seldom found in a centralized location. The quest for reason is a recurring plight of the human condition; whether it be in the form of spiritual or scientific explanations. We feel more closure when we can identify the cause (or place blame) on what produced the effect. Even if the effect is an unintended consequence. But a loss is hardly a consequence. It is a name, a face, a missed opportunity, and a dark hole in an aching heart.

When my sister was a toddler, she would with a tissue box completely captivated by the notion, that once you removed one, another would take its place. She would discard tissue after tissue until my exasperated mother took the box away.

Living in a region with clearly defined seasons has the same effect on me. The dramatic transformation between winter and spring still holds my undivided attention.