12 October 2023

Last night I was out on our deck having my usual evening chat with my late husband David, my habitual practice ever since he left this dimension some four plus years ago.  I sit and look at the stars and report out loud how I spent the day—both a good test of memory and a way to keep track of all that can too easily slip away without my noticing; I’ve learned this is a hazard of a retiree’s less structured time.  Just a few moments into this outdoor recital, I heard a scratching on the deck railing less than a yard in front of me as I sat in the deck’s southwest corner sunk in my Adirondack chair.  I snapped my head around at the noise and yelped, so startled was I.  I then saw only a flash of feathers as who or what had tried to perch there took off away from me, sailing in low flight down the hill to the south.

Methinks my visitor was likely an owl, to whom I then apologized for my less than welcoming response.  Wish I hadn’t made a noise; I would have loved a closer look.  But I was so taken by surprise that any bird or beast would come so close while I was speaking.  I always associate our barred owls with my late father George.  Back in April 2002, I was awakened by a sadly expected early morning call from my mom telling me Daddy had just died.  I was in bed with David.  When I hung up the phone he asked if I was all right.  I answered yes.  And then, just moments later, we heard the owl’s “Who cooks for you?” cry just outside the bedroom window.  “George?” we both said, hoping perhaps that was George Murphy’s parting adieu as he made his way out of this world.

And then there was that time at the Grand Canyon.  After a day of sightseeing, David and I returned to an overlook toting fixings for Canyon Cocktails to enjoy while watching the sun set.  We lingered there appreciating the view until it was quite dark.  Then, on the way back to the car just a few feet behind us, I heard and felt on my cheek the whoosh of a wing sweeping by me at very close range.  I’ve learned from my photographer friend Jay (who sent me the stunning shot you see above last Halloween; see https://www.jayhawkphotography.com/ for other remarkable photographs) that owls are specially adapted for near silent night flight.  According to the Cornell Lab Bird Academy, their large, broad wings let them stay aloft at a slower, and therefore quieter, pace.  Specialized feathers take soundproofing a step further, and comb-like serrations on the leading edge of wing feathers and fringes on trailing edges reduce air turbulence and the noise they make as they fly.  Another marvel of the natural world.

I’m especially grateful for last night’s close encounter because this past week, my birthday week, while graced with a visit from my dear nephew and niece, has been full of overwhelmingly awful news.  Aside from our unbelievably broken Congress and the appalling criminality of our ex-president (not to mention the absurdly egregious behavior of George Santos with his grifting lies, Bob Menendez with his gold bars, and Clarence Thomas’s complete disregard of judicial ethics), the war in Ukraine rages on even as Hamas militants let slip the dogs of war on Israel.  My poor sister, herself having the fight of her life with cancer, was reduced to tears by the televised carnage; just the audio NPR coverage is enough to lay me low.  The day before my very dear friend Diane endured 14 hours of surgery.  And today I heard from my friend Trish in New Orleans, who writes that a “saltwater wedge” is moving up the Mississippi River; she worries that it will damage the NOLA water pipes.  Both the City and Jefferson Parish are putting in pipelines to get fresh water from Kenner.  To quote Jack Boyle in O’Casey’s Juno and the Paycock, “The world’s in a terrible state of chassis.”

So, Dear Readers, I have decided to focus these next few posts by taking advice from Mr. Roger’s mother, and “look for the helpers.”  I know they are out there.  I had a brush with one just last night.

And guess what?  Immediately after I typed that last line, I went downstairs to make my weekly call to another dear friend, Cameron in North Carolina.  And as we spoke, George returned just outside, where s/he surely heard my voice as clearly as s/he had last night on the deck.  I discovered I can both talk and snap photos on my Samsung Galaxy S10 at the same time.

Owl encounter?  Or Visitation?  I’m happy to embrace the mystery.

And grateful.