I called my neighbors, who used to keep a birdfeeder so I knew they were interested in such things, to tell them there was a quail standing on the fence between us if they wanted to see it.

Oh yes, was the answer, we’ve seen him for a few days now–he keeps looking in our windows. Who would ever have thought a quail would show up!

And as the man was saying that, the little guy jumped off the fence and came running straight to me, again skidding on the patio in his rush to come say hello just as fast as he could. I love it.

I finally figured out what his funky running gait, profile, and staring in remind me of: the penguin in the Wallace and Gromit “Wrong Trousers” movie. Only way prettier.

Meantime, I continue to knit like crazy towards this coming weekend. I just need to remember to photograph all the projects I’m not blogging individually about before then. That closeout-priced cashmere I just finished up–chartreuse? For my family? Teal dye tomorrow, first thing.

I was talking to my older brother on the phone two days ago and said, By the way. Did you get the BYU alumni magazine that just came out?

The one with Jimmer on the cover? Yes…

Go over to it for me, wouldja?

Walking that way now…

Okay, now, open the back cover.

*Opens back.* Ohmygosh–is that?! It IS!!!

Yeah, he grew since the last time you saw him. Been too long. Can’t wait to see you!

(My son entered an essay contest at school and won. It’s now quoted from in an ad for the Independent Study department, along with a photo of him; he took some classes that way while serving as a congressional intern while he was an undergrad.)

My husband says I can’t call him Dan nor a derivative of such, that would make him from Indiana and he’s a California quail.

Point.

Changing the subject, my mom mentioned once, and I pass the word along for whatever it’s worth, that pouring boiling water down a drain was an environmentally healthy way to unblock it, and that doing so once a month, good maintenance.

Well hey. (I know, there’s a $3500 tree root job needing doing, but it’s just this one sink in the immediate term.) Let’s try at least.

What began as a thought at the first pot of water carried clear across the house quickly became action: why not use that heating-up for something I want? I’d had some yarn and a project that had needed dyeing for some time; a little pink in the sink never hurt anything. And that colourmart yarn that was a tad dark? I simmered it, guessing it to have been done in reversible dyes and it was; my midnight navy is now a happy dark-while-it’s-still-damp royal blue.

The drain is running slightly faster. There is a fine lace scarf blocking in a beautiful new burgundy from the previous taupe-brown and two skeins drying and I am very very happy with how they came out. All kinds of housework got done between water-carrying stints and that Malabrigo hat is finished, too.

We were off after that to a friends’ house for a dinner party.

Coming home, there was my quail, meandering about. Made me smile. I guess maybe this really is where he’s choosing to call home now after all; I like that.

I meandered about too, inside.

Finally, I came down and sat down at the computer a moment, my chair seven feet from the window, wondering where he might be now. That male quail immediately came *running*, so fast that he skidded on the concrete and one foot went right out from under him but he recovered fast and dignity reclaimed came right up against the window at the closest point right there–and looking in a few minutes, his head turning this way and that then facing straight on, the dear little thing sang to me.

When I made mamamama gestures back as if I were singing silently in return, he puffed out his chest and repeated himself.

It was so sweet. I am so charmed. But–dude…

I’m so sorry to have to break it to you. You’re just not my kind.

As I knit towards my trip and my sibling reunion next week…

I saw a large crow high-tailing it out of our airspace today, a tiny junco divebombing it again and again with the flicks of its black-and-white tail making exclamation marks in the sky while the crow was dodging out of its way: You stay away from my babies!

That blur near-center of the second photo–our quail came back, singing alone for a mate and fluttering his wings fetchingly. Michelle wasn’t taken with the idea of naming him Dan Quail; how about Mr. Potatoe Head? (Paragraph 6 under Vice Presidency.)

But meantime.  I learned today how spoiled I am by the professionalism of our falcon folks.

The idea that two men went into a peregrine’s nest, wore no protective headgear, went to band her eyases, and–

–the mind boggles.

I’ve been in the eight-story library across the street from our peregrines and watched one go past so fast that I had to ask someone if I’d actually seen what I’d seen; they’re not kidding when they say they’ve been clocked divebombing at 241 mph.

The Fish and Game guys are holding a livid mama peregrine off while they handle her babies (and normally it would be both parents attacking the intruders vigorously).

With a broom. And that broom ain’t lookin’ too new. And there’s apparently only one for two if not three people; I wonder what the reporter who was taking the photos had on their head?

It’s just not the way to sweep a lady off her feet.

I heard–something, this morning, and went to go check.  Looking out the window, there was a California quail on my neighbor’s roof!

I have lived here for 24 years and I have never, ever seen one here before. I was gobsmacked. Gorgeous, even from a distance.

And in the gorgeous bird department, my daily visits from my Nuttall’s woodpecker dressed in vivid black and white stripes glistening like silk ended around November;  I hoped it had maybe migrated, found better food, gone somewhere hawk-free, but I missed it.

This afternoon I saw one, a vivid red spot on its head, going up and down my trees. I have a Nuttall’s again!

I have a friend who’s about to fly out here on a business trip and she emailed asking about restaurants in the area. That got a good conversation going between Michelle and me re our favorites, and I was asking her, What was the name of…?

And as I started to answer my friend, something showed up to try out our own food offerings.

I am typing this with the quail pacing outside my window, looking in at me: why is all the good suet where I can’t reach it? Is that the stuff you don’t put on the menu that only those in the know get to ask for?

Richard walked in the door just now and got to see it.

It has this little deely bopper feather on its head that does the bobble-head shimmy when it walks or bobs for seed. I am utterly charmed. It has spent a lot of time looking in the window at me, and here it comes again.

I am typing this blindly as I’m being stared at. Feed. Me.

…And now I have quietly snuck more food just outside the glass door and it is ignoring it and staring in the window just the same. It hopped up on the outer window sill to come closer, not minding the three of us talking a few feet away. It has never seen people before, perhaps? It’s simply curious and happy to hang out with us.

But then, you can do that after a good meal at a nice place.

My car had major work done on it last Friday. It’s old, the family minivan with its age spots, the kids now off to university; it’s still here in part because our out-of-pocket medical expenses the last two years were more than my husband’s Prius had been.

My daughter and I had an errand we were going to run to Oakland and then San Carlos on the way home, some happy gallivanting with a little bit of bakery bribery to celebrate her being home.

And every time we thought about getting off our duffs and going and actually doing all that the last two days…somehow, Monday, it just didn’t feel like today was the day. Eh, Californians don’t know how to drive in the rain, let’s give it a pass. Nor Tuesday. Hey–let’s see if I can see Shadow take off on two wings and a prayer, I really do want to see him go. I sat tight and wound 2300 yards of a Colourmart.com cone into a hank, something that didn’t require looking, eyes glued to the unfolding falcon scene in the afternoon while still doing something useful.

But I really did need to get to the post office, so at least I finally got that done after the fledging. I then ran a quick errand to Trader Joe’s in the opposite direction.  I didn’t hear it the first few miles…

But which is why my car went straight back into the shop. They immediately took responsibility and told me they are not charging me: the power steering pump apparently cracked while they were working on other things and they didn’t notice–they were just glad the fluid had lasted long enough to get it back in there for me to say hey, what’s this new and rapidly growing noise? They told me on the phone this morning that it had completely drained out in their driveway and how glad they were that everything was okay.

Now imagine us on the freeway with all the freeway sounds drowning it out at first and then no place to pull over and suddenly no steering. We might well have been in the middle of the bridge over the Bay.

Someone was looking out for us. Not to mention all the people in all the cars that would have been around us.

Shadow fluttered to the low ledge behind the nestbox yesterday and considered the louver below where he’d so often previously heard his parents as they’d perched (where the kids couldn’t see).  It was close by, an easy hop skip and a jump, but again and again, he turned away from seeing the dropoff also there, down, down down beyond anything familiar. He preferred to be a grounded individual.

But he was outside the runway that had been his entire view but for the sky all his life till the last few days and there was no going back. Still–he slept tail to the edge and head towards the box as he snuggled tight against the concrete wall, facing the home he had known.

Clara stood guard in the night in her usual spot on the high ledge a few feet away. Ready to swoop over to guard and guide him at all times.

Today, mostly back in the runway area again, he practiced flapping a number of times but with intermittent rain for yet another day, seemed in no hurry. One wing would raise higher than another, testing testing one two three how does that wind feel against these newly long feathers am I supposed to move these in tandem or- ? And what do you do with these big feet at the same time? Raising wings and one foot didn’t do it. Shall we dance?

Mid-afternoon, it occurred to me that the rain had stopped and the wind seemed to have settled down out there.

I guess he noticed it too. He flew the length of the upper ledge, came right to the very end past the nestbox and I thought surely momentum would carry him right on over–and he stopped right there.

Looked down.

Okay, well, that’s that, I thought.

And then, suddenly, deliberately, he raised his shoulders high and flew away out of camera sight as if he’d done it all his life. (To the louver, it turned out, just for that first little bit.)

From the reports later, it’s clear he had taken the patience to practice and wait till he was going to be good at it, and then he was good at it. The BOG, ie boots on the ground, the official fledgewatch crew looking out for our birds, reported all five falcons in the air at once as they tried to keep track of who was who going where.

It is night again. All three fledglings accounted for and safe.

And overlooking both the city and the empty box all her babies have hatched from, Clara stands, sentinel and witness.

To life!

San Jose holds a competition every year across their elementary schools to name the peregrine falcon hatchlings around banding time; after the fledgings, the winners get to attend a ceremony with the Mayor and have their names in the newspaper. It is one of those delightfully small-town parts of Silicon Valley.

And so it is that one young child is going to be standing there receiving an honor for having named Unita.

On the peregrine forum, one member wondered out loud if we should even be giving them names, saying, they are wild things, they are not pets; I’m sure he wondered what this was all going to be like for the poor little kid.

This was my response.

When the children are searching for what to name the falcons, they are
considering and discussing not just words and labels but the meanings of
those words and what they might carry and convey well into the future on
the wings of these magnificent birds. They learn about the nature of
language.

When one of our falcons dies, they have a chance, rare for many young
children in our society, to consider the meanings of all that life is.
They learn about the nature of Nature--and that the joys come to
outweigh the sorrows as they watch the living continue on.

And I would add, they learn the compassion that grows up from the ashes of the grief.

There were two eyases who successfully fledged from San Francisco’s nest today–and one had been given the name Phoenix.

To life!

We had drama day in falconland. The official nine-day Fledge Watch began yesterday, which I thought was too early; only one juvenile had even made it to the upper ledge yet. Usually they check out the lower ledge for a week or so, practice flapping and lifting off a bit (they did do that), make it finally to the upper, and then spend at least a few days chasing up and down there gleefully, seeing all these new things from this new vantage point, giving us watchers heart attacks, even teasing their parents into going off the edge to see them fly–watching, learning.

Not this year. Only Unita, the female, made it up to the upper ledge, just once, her mother keeping careful watch from the roof. They were starting to lift slightly off the ground the length of the the runway area, still spending a lot of time sitting on the lower ledge, often together.

Today was cold, rainy, and windy.

And one of the eyases, flapping and skittering backwards like a newbie, couldn’t hold onto that wet edge.  Over he slipped.

The area below had been papered with fliers, telling people what was going to be going on, what to look for, whom to contact, and a man in a deli and a cop saw the little one land on the sidewalk and made the calls; Ahote’ was rescued and taken back up to the roof, where, if he’s like previous years’ fledglings, he will eventually flap himself back down to home tomorrow to try again later. (The parents bring them food wherever they land as they need it the first little bit.) Eric’s got some wonderful pictures here.

Unita, a few hours later, the only female of the four, took off running/flapping/rising high and whoosh, over the lower ledge and away. Fledged!

Glenn’s student was on duty and saw her and got to her.

Word didn’t come right away. I wondered what was taking so long.

Apparently, a gust of wind that she didn’t yet know how to maneuver through had played a part in her smacking hard into the Rotunda building. The poor thing was gone instantly. It is glorious but dangerous and hard to be a wild thing.

The third didn’t seem to have deliberately fledged so much as misjudged the hop up in the context of the rain, from what I understand (I missed seeing it). Over the low ledge with him, too, and Hermes is now spending the night on a roof on the San Jose State University campus across the street.

The last little one, probably the one that hatched two days after his siblings all did, all alone now, seemed bewildered. Shadow paced the nestbox.  He ran/fluttered back and forth and up and down and even lifted, after much eyeing of distance and flaptime, on up to the upper ledge, searching, looking, up, around, way way down, over and over. He hopped back in the box and examined this corner then that, staring at each feather drifting down stirred up by the wind. Where did everybody go?!

Clara finally flew in with food for her son, feeding it to him in the nestbox as she’d done when he was a hatchling. He settled down; she stood in sentry mode above him awhile, then took off with the rest of the food, probably to feed someone else.

Shadow was right back out of that box and running, flapping, searching again. Finally, his mother came back again and he settled into the corner against two sides of the box if he couldn’t touch his siblings. A bit of white fluff still peaked out of his feathers in just one spot as the wind picked up on it.

Clara is standing sentry in her usual nightly spot on the upper ledge in close sight of the nestbox, a steadying presence. He sleeps.

Now she has it–now I can say it.

My friend Chan, whom I’ve not yet met in person–we tried last time I was back East but we didn’t quite pull it off–listened to me agonizing over knitting that cotton chemo cap I made for the in-law who does not wish to be named (there are two, actually, and their diagnoses were three days apart; it was not a fun week. Only one wanted a cap.) It was so terribly slow in the making–my hands could only handle a few rows a day. Cotton just has no give to it.

Chan made the trek to her not-close yarn store after carefully asking me about colors and came home with some very soft cotton yarn. No, she would not let me pay her back for it. Yes, she was determined she was going to do this, for a woman she’d never heard of before. (And isn’t that just the coolest construction?)

I got an email this morning from the recipient, exclaiming over her new hat, saying it fits well, saying how perfect it is as their weather has been getting hot, and saying that she believes that knitters are loving people.

My words are terribly inadequate but they’re what I’ve got: thank you, Chan. Thank you for being  in this life thing together with us. We feel very blessed.

The baby peregrines at City Hall have discovered that it’s fun to sit on the lower ledge and watch the world go by, and now they’ve started flapping their wings up there, not willing to just sit and stare anymore.  Their white fluffy down is almost gone. They’re not quite ready to fly, but it is possible to get caught up and over by a burst of wind doing that–it happened a few years ago.

Somehow, though, (watching one step around his brother by holding onto the outer edge) birds just don’t seem to be very afraid of heights.

Meantime, my friend Karen of the Water Turtles shawl fame (OOP but Purlescence has copies) was told by her neighbor that a small bunny had been eating the neighbor’s flowers and then had gone into Karen’s yard to hide.

She went out to see, and there it was. Smaller than her fist. It froze when she came near, letting her get it into a box; she released it by a pond and grassy area nearby.

Knitter’s notes re the falcon-colored hats: needles size US 5, loose gauge, 68 stitches, 2×2 rib, one entire skein each very soft Di.v’e Autunno merino wool bought at Purlescence.

Funco the Jinch/hybrid stopped by again several times today. Cute little bird! Energetic and spunky and fun to watch: there is no fear in him, only the necessary prudence.

Meantime, Michelle from the other room heard a Rubbermaid box thwacking against the door of the closet as it tumbled down at me and called out, Are you okay, Mom?

I was just starting: going through boxes, taking out yarns, assessing yarns, you stay, you go, you maybe, I debated, I consulted. Old plans vs new.  Not quiiiiite the right shade… If I haven’t been inspired enough to use it or overdye it in how long and it still doesn’t call to me? Well then? (Being able to buy yarn in person at the store has its definite advantages over online sometimes.)

And yet. A cone of 35/35/30 cashmere/silk/merino from Colourmart.com got hanked and scoured in hot soapy water in happy anticipation–their yarn with all the mill oils still in is a lot of extra work but the price had been sufficient inducement to get past that. Definitely. I’ve used it before; it is luminously soft. Dry, dry! I want to play!

Some cashmere/merino that I’d plied years ago on my wheel from infinitely thin up to a workable yarn finally hit its reality check: I was still never going to use this one. Wrong color and too dark to overdye–it’s going where it needs to, out.

I was in hyper-busy mode without an actual project to make me sit down and hold still and catch my breath. Organize, choose… Hamsterball time, where you can’t make yourself stop running and bumping into things.

I needed my knit night. I took two balls of yarn and two pairs of needles and decided I’d let them duke it out once I got there–I still hadn’t granted myself time to think out what I was actually going to start making right now today.

It was so nice to just sit down at Purlescence and decompress. For once, the group was very small; it was easy to hear. Perfect.

The Dive’. Their soft merino won, because there was only enough of it to knit it simply while I listened. A hat is in progress. The fingers did the walking while the knitters did the talking.

And hey, there’s one last cone of that 35/35/30. Don’t look at the clock, I could go hank it up right now… (Stop!)

Wait, what on earth was…? (Consulted Sibley, Google.) I tried several times to get its picture and failed.

Remember my male junco/female house finch couple last year? Turns out they do occasionally mate and rear hybrid offspring.

There’s nothing else it could have been. Curious.  Given that it was molting a bit but only on one side, I’m assuming it’s a yearling from that coupling last year.

I saw it come in three times today. It was small, like its father; it stayed on the ground and never flew up to the feeder, again like the junco.  It was bolder than either parent’s species, perfectly willing to scoot under the wooden box for the bit of food I put under there for the wrens in the mornings so that they don’t get bullied away by the bigger birds, a place where normally only the wrens go . There was room for it to stand upright, too, just barely, and the towhees and finches never do more than a nervous reach and grab with their beaks while standing as far outside as they can manage.

But this one, having been different from the others on the patio from its first moment, didn’t mind doing the job properly of taking care of life, even if it meant thinking underside the box. The best food is worth the effort!  It danced out a moment later with its prize, then hopped back in fearlessly for more. Cool.

What would you name such a bird?

Meantime, the Malabrigo Rios watchcap in a dark Solis colorway is done; it took 46 g of the 100g skein. On to the next project!

Finished that project, blocked it, wound a hank of Malabrigo, went looking for my other size 5s for it…

And found the second pair in a UFO.

Abandoned projects are often handy things when you want knitted gifts fast. I looked it over, saw what had stopped me, figured out a work-around, and an hour later, bam! Done! New FO!

That one had just needed a little motivation, is all.  Wish I could do everything that fast.  (Casting on…)

So many people to knit for all the sudden. Two weeks. No idea re favorite colors. The result today was my spending way too much time dithering: this yarn? (Digging through bins.) No, this? Started to wind one–no, that won’t do, not soft enough. My friend Robin sympathized with the dilemma and I guess that’s all I really needed: some other knitter who knew well what it was like.

And with that I grabbed the odd skein of royal baby alpaca that I’d knit two congresswomen’s hats out of , declined to be bored with it, and started in on it, figuring red was good for a lot of people and supersoft was great for pretty much everybody.

No way will I be able to do all that I want to do in the time that I have, but I’m far happier doing what I can do.

And Michelle at last saw a raptor above the house today. My camera zoomed outside.

Kids called home.

We remembered that we were kids, too, and called our parents–and our daughter-in-law, to thank her for being such a good mom. We video-chatted baby noises and I love you’s at Parker.

A hummingbird hovered outside the kitchen in the afternoon, seeing the red and pink roses on the table and trying to figure out how to get through the glass, wanting its Mother’s Day feast–so close.  Too far.

I discovered, over at the Washington Post, the ospreys’ pictures: DC and the Park Service had begun to build a bridge for a nature trailway over the railroad tracks near the Anacostia River.

High? Isolated? Above the river? Perfect! And so the crane operators came to work one day to find a nest of those fish-eaters at the top (that’s an awfully straight stick, is that a piece of rebar in its talons incoming?) and there it will be till the young have fledged. That delights me no end, that they were trying to make nature more accessible and nature got in the way by making itself more accessible.

Meantime, Michelle greeted me with hot chocolate with extra chocolate melted in, first thing in the morning; later, she cooked the dinner. She called her father for help with the veggies and he came chop-chop. She made a blueberry and raspberry tart from scratch.

I’d told them not to buy me any presents, though, because I already had a really big one.

Two of my sisters said they were going to fly across the country to celebrate our dad’s 85th birthday in a few weeks–it would be a few days early, but you do what you can when you can, one arriving from Atlanta, the other from New York City.

Then our sister who lives near Seattle said she was coming, too, then.

Then our brother in New Jersey.

We’ve been close but far too far for far too long. And so now I’m coming too. I can’t wait!