I got to see my hawk yesterday–twice. The second time, he flew in to just outside the window and perched awhile, choosing to be eye-to-eye for several minutes, a wild thing taking my measure. It made me want to measure up. He had a meal waiting below the window, but first things first.

And I saw him Sunday after the kids and grandkids left, right on cue.

As if he knew.

Christmas Eve more blood tests were run and the day after Christmas, they told me.

Who knew that feeling energetic was a symptom of disease? Fine, can I keep it? It can crash the heart? Oh. Okay. I remember when George HW Bush, his wife Barbara, and their dog Millie were all diagnosed with this at about the same time and some thought the change in him as they tweaked the replacement hormone levels after killing off his out-of-control thyroid possibly cost him reelection.

I know they often name diseases after the person who got the press for describing them first, but I just have to say as an editorial comment on the word: Graves’ is a really, really laughably-stupidly-unhelpful thing to call what you’re going to tell patients they have, don’tcha think?

Autoimmune diseases! Get them here! Collect them all!

Just before we left I saw a big swoop of striped tail and I scooted down on the floor so I could see high up into the olive tree. I get to see him! On Thanksgiving! thought I. How cool is that! I made sure to blink big blinks so I wouldn’t look like I was challenging him nor a predator, y’know, basic social graces from a raptor’s point of view.

The hawk was totally cool with that. Coopernicus relaxed, preened, wagged his tail a bit as he settled in comfortably, raised a foot to rest a moment, and basically said hello. Blessings of the day to you.

A few minutes later he was on his way and then so were we, to where towering redwood trunks surround all.

The little up and down and up again dip in the road where the Loma Prieta quake broke it all those years ago. Incoming, it seems like we always reminisce a moment about back then before we continue beyond.

Aunt and uncle, our niece and nephew, us, four grown cousins who grew up in that house with three spouses now and five little kids–seven when the last showed up after spending dinner with their other set of grandparents: helping, laughing, stirring, cooking, laughing, wiping, scrubbing, laughing, serving, eating, laughing, washing, playing, the little fireball of a toddler in pigtails happily demanding “Chase me!” and her ten-days-older much more reserved cousin who looked at me with big eyes when I said his name: how did *I* know what it was? They were both a month younger than our Parker, and I hugged the bright red stuffed toy we knew well and then gave it back to the chasee, not quite three, who was delighted that her beloved Elmo got attention too.

The eight-year-old, big sister to the reserved little boy, was herself a fairly quiet one, but she smiled and looked in my eyes and quietly took in the measure of me and found me good when she found there was a chocolate cake made in her name and safely within the range of her allergies: the shared blessing of perfectly normal treats. Her aunt made dairy- and egg-free rolls, too, and the blessing of not being singled out, just, pass the rolls please? Would you like some homemade nutella on that? (Nobody did, I don’t think–not spread on anything, just simple spoonfuls sampled serenely, that they definitely did.)

And a good time was had by all.

We know how lucky we are.

And we are very grateful.

It suddenly dawned on me: the stove. The fan for it is retractable, lowering down behind it, and for 20 years I’ve been closing it up on winter nights.  It staggers noisily downward and then the little flap flips over at the end to cover it to be one extra layer attempting insulation: crashing and bashing and then this graceful little, Blip! One of its charms.

This fall for whatever reason it wouldn’t budge. Broken or just unplugged? I kept thinking I ought to check it and fix it if it was something really simple like that and yet every time I went to do that–to cut out that source of cold fresh air so that that end of the house wouldn’t be quite so chilly in the morning–it just didn’t feel… some part of me, I recognize only now, was adamantly pushing back No No No don’t do that, loudly enough that I never did get around to checking that plug behind the pots and pans underneath.

Who knew.

Midnight last night. We were just settling in.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Thirty-three hours after we disconnect the furnace?! After we air the house out all day?! (Oh wait–I opened the windows in all the *other* rooms–talk about CO-stupid.) NOW it tells us.

“Maybe the unit’s telling us it’s going bad–that one *is* old,” opines the hubby. Adding that he’d tested them to know their sounds and the real alarm is a straight-on siren.

So I unplug the little monster, I open the windows in there, turn the space heater to full blast, get the CO monitor from the kitchen, and and plug it in instead.

It stays blissfully silent. (Um, and the bad one was quiet in the kitchen. Details.)

Meantime, Joe saw Richard coming out the door to leave for work this morning and stopped him where he was, standing gently guarding a moment. They shook hands–it was the first time they’d seen each other during this job–and Joe pointed out the tiny bird at his feet lying on its side.

It had hit the window, “But we saw it move, still,” and he didn’t want any further harm to come to it if possible. He was just making sure it got noticed and not stepped on. It had been fleeing crows, and as a matter of fact, they’d seen a big hawk with a meal and the flock of crows harassing it trying to steal it, and this little one had scrambled to get out of their sight. (Joe got to see my hawk!)

Richard explained that if you just left it alone a half hour or so, and if the crows didn’t notice it, then it might well recover and fly off. Sometimes they would be blinded by the impact, though; we all hoped not.

I had joined them as the conversation was going on. Went back inside a few minutes later, got the phone and got its picture, pleased to see it sitting up now. Tiny, tiny little thing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a California gnatcatcher before, or certainly not up close. They come an inch and a quarter longer than a hummingbird–with gnats on the main menu, yeah.

About a half hour later I wondered if I could get a better photo–but it saw me coming and it flew over and into the tree, dodging quickly away from me. Safe! While I thought, it saw me! It’s not blind!

One of the last things Joe said on his way out the door at the end of the day, in a tone and shaking of the head of, but of course you didn’t, was, Did you see what happened to the little bird?

I told him, and in great relief he exhaled, OH good!

(Edited to add, if you didn’t see this story, don’t miss it. A Make A Wish wish went viral and 11,000 volunteers turned out to cheer on Batkid as he saved Gotham (San Francisco) from evildoers. The Batmobile. The damsel in distress tied to the cable car tracks. The kidnapped mascot, saved at the ballpark!  Even Lois Lane came out of retirement to write the story, Clark Kent leading. So cool.)

I looked out the window this morning and to my delight, that gap in the fence was still open after all. They must have been reinforcing some other part.

So I went out this evening to check on the potted cherry tree and the blueberries that did not need watering, in case they, y’know, needed watering.

The fence was now closed.

But they work on it when the sun is low, and so I heard the neighbors on the other side and our ladder was right next to there and I walked over to it and asked, “Knock knock?”

They laughed and welcomed me on up to look down at them, and I whipped out my phone and showed them today’s hawk photo taken through the double-paned glass. Fuzzy, but it was what I had.

And then the wife was the one who said Y’know, we really ought to have that gate, shouldn’t we?

Meantime, I finished the qiviut project and went on to the next with December coming at us at the speed of hawks’ wings.

On a whole different note…

One of the things John did for me while he was home was he moved my big pots with my blueberry plants over by the side of the house. Six months ago we went from none to two and then three big pots at the edge of the patio below and left of the big birdfeeder.

The jays learned to strafe the plants, feet grabbing berries on the go like a knitter doing stockinette stitch in the dark. They were good at this!

He set up a birdnetting enclosure for me, well away from where the birds would be coming in for the meals I actually intended for them. Safflower seeds, gitcher safflower seeds, come’n’get’em!

I had never connected the dots between those pots and the in-retrospect-sudden dearth of up-close sightings of the Cooper’s hawks. I’d seen so much less of them since spring but I could always tell when one was around; the other birds vanished.They knew.

But where were they?

I had been wanting a clearer line of sight across the yard and I guess so did the hawks looking in. Suddenly there was Coopernicus, looking for the finch that had hit the window (but escaped), doing that endearing raptor waddle looking under the picnic table, lifting gracefully up to perch on the back of the chair, looking steadily in the window at me–you know, right? Where is it? Spending time right on the other side right there.

Hanging out with his peeps.

And again two days later.

And again two days later, there on the elephant ears today where the finches often flee to, and he spread those huge wings wide and his talons reached for the far-too-small perch on the little wooden feeder just above there–but nope, nobody hiding behind. Ah well. And he zig-zagged off and away. And then to my surprise he flew right back. If I’d had leather gantlets and a piece of raw chicken he’d have landed on my arm and accepted the gift. Instead he offers me one.

He’s not only been hunting for a good meal, he’s back to people-watching. I have my totem again. The male was always less skittish and more curious and I can’t tell you how good it feels to see him back.

Got my flu shot today.

And so I had the car, and as I was coming to pick Richard up from work, I found I had to stop rather than pull into the company’s driveway; it wasn’t a busy street in that direction at that hour and there was nobody coming up behind me, so that was okay.

There was a coyote crossing that driveway right in front of me.

And then it passed by the side of my car.

It was not trying to thumb a ride.

Another woman just then was leaving that parking lot that I was to turn into, and she too stopped to stare. (I was both staring at it and repeatedly checking for traffic.) After what seemed like forever she took her eyes off it to look over at me to make sure I didn’t miss out–DO YOU *SEE* THAT?!

I mouthed WOW! back. Another car came up behind her and that driver too did a doubletake, and he watched. Nobody was in any hurry. The coyote raised her head and sniffed and looked around to get her bearings.

I’ve seen one in the wild before at quite a distance, but never anything like this. Long, long thin legs, long ears, a speckled top of the coat. What a view.

Wow. Wow! But turn around, I thought at it, go back up that hill, it’s all city from here on down.

Hudson snoozing….

It was Autumn Equinox on Sunday, and I was wondering where my Cooper’s hawk was; usually he makes a big show at each change of the season. Clearly he’s been here because there have been long gaps with zero wildlife in sight the last few days.

I was coming home from the post office this afternoon when, as I came into my neighborhood, I pulled to the side of the road: there were two of them high above the pines, soaring, circling, courting, claiming.

I came home a little lighter.

Then later back in the car again and near the foothills, another flew down over my car and led the way above the roadway, high enough not to be in danger, low enough for me to briefly see that it had its dinner tucked in close, heading home.

And all of nature seemed in balance in the moment.

How to tell when your apples are ripe (Googling).

Can’t tell by color.

The apples farthest out on the tree ripen soonest.

Lift one sideways; if it snaps right off, it’s ripe.

So that’s what I waited all day to try.

We had a major downpour for the last day of summer. I have to show you, just because I’ve never seen one poof out quite so much: this one house finch finally shook herself off and went for a dry perch. The birdseed was all over at the feeder she’d just left, but it was somewhat exposed and enough already with this wind and the randomness of water falling out of the sky–since when does it do that? (I wondered if she’d hatched this spring.)

By evening the storm had blown over and I went outside with scissors and a bowl to hold stuff.

I snipped open the tape on the clamshell that held the biggest two apples and a few leaves and one small one in there too, photo above. I carefully, carefully opened it and found to my surprise that there were actually the two big ones and three, count’em three little ones crammed inside. I did thin those, I’m sure, I think there were four each side originally, but there you go.

I lifted the nearest big one to the left and it came right off in my hand. Into the bowl, done.

I lifted its mate to the right. Nuh uh, nothin’ doin’, ain’t lettin’ go.

Oh okay, so, I put the clamshell back on, grabbed the shipping tape out of the bowl next to the apple and sealed the thing back up again. Sorry raccoons, these are still mine.

And I would tell you how the first ripe critter-free Fuji after 21 years’ anticipation finally tastes, except… I waited for the others so I could share the grand moment with them too.

Michelle got home at about ten o’clock. It’s bag night. (Every third night I can’t eat past dinnertime so that I can change the dressing in the morning. It’s a Crohn’s thing.)

The apple. It awaits.

Its head is turned away in this photo so you don’t really see that huge beak that looks like a straight-on continuation of that dark stripe across its face–I guess for this photo you could call it the vanishing point.

This is a Black-headed Grosbeak, a little bigger than a Towhee, and I only get to see them a few times a year. Today was definitely its day.

Some history: the scrub jays were eating all the suet in the large suet cage awhile back, dominating everything in the vicinity and chasing all the smaller birds away all day.

So I took the thing down and left only the small cage.

And that worked for awhile, till they found they could leap up from below at it, aiming just so between the metal grid and emptying the thing in a couple of days instead of weeks. And again not letting the other birds near. They’re pretty and funny like a cat and interesting, but a little variety, please.

You can never feed a jay enough to satisfy it. They are ceaseless hoarders, endlessly territorial, and they and the squirrels watch each other and steal from each other all year ’round.

I used a twistie to tie the (empty) big cage so that it covered three sides of the little one and the area below it. There. I figured it was only a matter of time before they remembered they could land on that one and clawed their way over to the food–but they never have.

The grosbeak showed up today to my delight, its orange chest to the sun, and after trying out the safflower seeds for awhile decided that that suet over there looked mighty tasty.

He landed on the big cage. It swung wildly at first and he wasn’t sure about that but he stayed put. The suet level was very low, which wasn’t a problem for the little chickadees, which can dance right through the squares in the grid–but it took some real acrobatics and stretching for him. He walked carefully slowly all over the thing till he found an entrance to where he could reach what was left–there you go!

And had himself a good meal. Talked with his mouth full from time to time. I would have loved to have known what he was calling out, how it sounded, to whom.

I wished I had my camera in hand.

One of the scrub jays, not happy with this sudden change of fortune, tried after awhile to assert ownership and strafed the area.

The grosbeak utterly ignored him. I imagine that big beak looked threateningly powerful, no matter how peaceful a bird he was. The finches over on the seed feeder to my surprise took their cue from him and they stayed put, too–I had never seen such a thing. (And I have seen a jay stab a house finch to death–they have reason to scatter at the sight.)

Then instead of taking its frustration out on one of the little ones, the scrub jay and its mate simply vanished for the day. Defeated.

Score one for the friendly birds.

I was at Purlescence tonight and spread Hayes’s afghan on the floor in front of Rachel to show her what her yarn gift had grown up to be–and while I was halfway through the last color band, to ask her advice.

Stop here and go straight to ribbing or do the full 24-row repeat?

Make it longer, she said. I’d keep going.

So I am. So, so close. It will seem so odd not to be working on it anymore.

(Oh, and I almost forgot: lessons on how to be a better predator to the baby seal or whatever the heck that thing in the water was, as given to a National Geographic photographer with a far higher tolerance for risk than I have by a curious, huge leopard seal. The doofus kept letting the proffered penguins get away from him.)

The funky Fuji feat.

I had an avocado pit, a really big one, with the usual toothpicks and in a glass of water and sprouting four roots.  I don’t know why I do this every few years, but there it was. Maybe it was the fact that it was trying so hard to give life that I decided to give it a chance to.

Biologist daughter told me the thing was living off the sugars of the pit only and that to grow well at all it needed soil, to go plant the thing now, not wait for the stem to show.

Oh okay, thinks I, no junk food for baby trees, minerals and future chlorophyll here we come, taking that as my motivation to get going. I got out potting soil and a plastic pot, nice and light and easier to transplant out of later, rather wishing I’d done this with the one that sprouted twin stems a few years ago. That one was cool!

I plant the pit. I water. I put it out by the containered blueberries where it will get lots of fresh sunshine and be faithfully watered every day. I wait.

You know what’s coming, right? You know it took only one night. Ooh, who brought the big nut?! Opened, even!

Seeds are the most concentrated form of nutrients in nature, yonder biologist reminded me just now, and while I might think of an avocado pit as having all the charm of a rock, there was utterly no sign of the thing this morning. None. We had an impressive display of free-range, unconstrained dirt.

I might start another one out of sheer cussedness just so I can sprout it inside. Maybe I’ll even get twins again.

Hey, don’t steal from my Gramma’s fruit trees!

The raccoons climbed into the Fuji some time in the night and worked a little more of the shipping tape loose on several of the boxes, but at least one length held on each one and they just couldn’t quite manage to get their little paws in there this time. But they got real close.

I retaped the clamshells. (Again.)

A few weeks ago, one managed to pry open a box just wide enough to swipe a clawmark out of one of those apples–and in the process broke the stem, and the still-mostly-sealed clamshell tumbled to the ground.

The two half-squared apples that had been growing inside were still there in the morning, the one nailed, the other untouched: the tape had held just enough.

Square apples. Seriously odd-looking. I’m rubik-cubing the little critters a puzzle. You know, I could maybe grow some really funky shapes next year–I wonder if a raspberry double-pint flat would hold up against the growing apple inside long enough to… We could have an apple that looked like it swallowed an apple!

Okay, I have about eight months to think up ways to make them grow into funky shapes while keeping them safe from the critters. Any ideas?

Meantime, ripeness is scheduled for the end of September. I am so going to win this year.

From their beachcombing yesterday…

It took me a moment to figure out why the barnacles on the crab claw the girls found so charmed me.

Pearls. It looks like a string of little oceany pearls strung around it. (The top ones also look like Hawthorne, the crab in the Sherman’s Lagoon comic strip.)

And then I gave my brother and nieces all one last hug, the car doors closed, and they were off.

A few pictures from the Aquarium:

Making waves from plastic ocean debris, creating good out of that which one wishes were not there.

An American Avocet (I think) in the shorebirds area.

My seahorses photos didn’t take in the darkness, which I regret–turns out most of them are on exhibit only temporarily; if you’re local enough, go see them before the month is up. Did I really see that big orange one blink? Sure seemed like it. Fish? Blink?

And it took me a few tries to figure out that to snap a photo of the tuna I had to hold the camera still long enough for them to swim into the frame I wanted at the random moment the picture snapped.

A good day at church. And then after the UV rating sank to one out of sixteen on Wunderground.com near the end of the daylight, we drove out to the marshlands by the Bay and took a good walk in the park together: seagulls flying overhead, an egret posing just so for their cameras repeatedly, and I watched, too, how graciously my brother’s children interacted with each other and with us; I adore them. Great kids. Morgan’s a single dad and he’s doing a great job.

A lot of habitat restoration had happened since the last time I’d been on the trail we went down. No, sorry kids, you can’t see the Golden Gate Bridge from here, but we could keep going to that causeway over there and back around.

We all looked at each other and kinda laughed and went, uh, I think not.  A bit regretfully, though; it would take us far out and well over the water but long beyond sunset.

And then we came home to Michelle’s homemade rhubarb and strawberry pie.

It doesn’t get better than that.