Trips and Sickness

It's been awhile since I last posted, and you can blame it on a trip and sickness.

I'll mention the sickness first, since it's the freshest thing on my mind. I've been reeling from a nasty sore throat and general lethargy over the last couple of days. I felt so bad when I woke up this morning that I canceled my class. My throat felt raw, hot and dry. It probably looks like a desert and feels like it's being pricked with cacti. My body aches, as if I'm the Tin Man and need some lubrication to the joints. I just feel pretty crappy all in all.

Unfortunately, my wife is feeling worse. She's got the same sore throat, only worse, because it's rendered her nearly hoarse. She's also got nagging headaches, something I haven't had to worry about. Poor thing.

Michelle was the first to come down with the symptoms. She began complaining Tuesday last week of a sore throat. She missed work on Wednesday, then went in on Thursday. We left for Texas that afternoon.

Ah, Texas. Balm for the sick. I forget how much I miss this place until each time I return for a visit. My dad and stepmom live in the Hill Country west of Austin, a land of rolling hills and long vistas. The trees are scrubby – a mix of cedar, mesquite and oak, the soil is pockmarked like a teenager's face and the terrain has a yellowish tint from all the exposed limestone. Doesn't sound too flattering, but it's quite lovely. It's wide open spaces, just like the country song. Peaceful. Tranquil. At my parents' place, you can sit on the back deck and drink in the quiet. Leaves rustle in the breeze. Birds chirp. And that's about it. You can be alone in your thoughts. Michelle remarked that it would be a perfect celebrity rehab center.

We saw lots of turkey vultures. These are graceful birds, elegantly gliding on the currents, their long, black wings fully extended to capture all that the wind has to offer. They fly in a relaxed way, hardly flapping but tilting their bodies ever so to set their direction. They reminded me of noiseless B52s, lumbering along high in the sky.

Up close, these birds aren't as pretty. I wouldn't call them ugly, but many folks wouldn't share my view. They have loose, flappy skin on their faces, like a turkey, beady eyes and a long, curved beak. They are big birds, and around those parts, you saw them everywhere, circling, circling, waiting for animals to die or looking for those already dead, a carcass on which to feast. Some Texans have jokingly said they should be the state bird.

When we weren't enjoying the vultures or the view, we got a whole lot of rest and simply stuffed ourselves with Texas grub. Enchiladas one night, baked by my stepmom. Beef brisket the next. Nachos and chicken-fried steak another night. We clearly were not paying attention to our fruits and vegetables. After four days, the gorging ended, and we returned to Rhode Island, greeted by brisk winds and bitter cold. So much for those 70-degree days.

Now that we were back to our frenetic lives, the sickness that had gone into hiding reappeared in Michelle. Her sore throat had returned, and with intensity. And of course I was next to get it. And that brings me to now.

Can you pass another tissue?

Super Shock

It's two days since the Super Bowl, and it's fair to say New England remains in a state of super shock.

As I wrote a few days ago, I took a trip to central Massachusetts to watch the game with a friend and former media partner in Rhode Island. Central Massachusetts is a beautiful region -- rolling hills and small tracts of farmland cut by the Connecticut River, a wide-brimmed body of water that has long since set the geological tone of this area. My friend Av and his family live in an old farmhouse within spitting range of the river. He says the Connecticut is a major bird migratory route, and they've seen a whole assortment of birds: falcons, hawks, cardinals, juncos, tufted titmouses and more. I'm quite jealous. The Connecticut and Av's country homestead are magnets for all sorts of visitors, far more than we could dream in our patch of land in the heart of our town.

There were still several inches of snow on the ground when I arrived on Sunday afternoon, and the lake across the road from their home had ice thick enough to walk on. By contrast, there is no snow in Rhode Island, and the lakes still haven't gotten enough ice cover to be safe to walk on or fish. You miss those things, because that's how February should be. Cold, with snow and thick ice on lakes. Fronts with powerful names like Alberta Clipper and Nor'easter. Instead, we have rain and temperatures in the 50s. Too spring like for my tastes.

So, I went to visit Av to catch up and to watch the big game. I took the bus to Amherst, a vibrant town pulsing with faculty and students. This area is known as academic central. Everywhere you turn, in every town in this area, over every litle ridge and in every narrow valley is a college of some sort. University of Massachusetts-Amherst, flagship campus of the state school system. Mount Holyoke College. Amherst College. Hampshire College. Smith College. I'm sure there are more. The NPR affiliate is called Five College Radio, reflecting the identity of the area and likely its core listeners. Education and a not-so-faint whiff of entitlement reside here. I wonder where the workers live.

Still, it's a beautiful area, rich in history, intellect and nature. I feel enlivened when I visit, comfortable in the small-town atmosphere and its slower gear. It suits me well. Perhaps one day I will come for more than a visit.

Well, I won't dwell on the game here. My students have done that already. Their ears fall deaf when I tell them that sports is entertainment and not to take it too seriously. Then again, I can't blame them; I took sports way too seriously when I was their age, and my emotions marched in step with my teams' performances. Silly way to live, really.

Some of the adults at Rafters apparently haven't gotten the memo. They were heavily invested in the game. When Av and I took seats at the bar, a brawny, white-haired man still stuck in his glory days snarled at us, thinking we were Giants fans. We told him we weren't, and he was mollified. Back to the car bombs with his buddy, a shaved head plug of a man proudly wearing a silver Patriots jersey with Brady's name stitched on the back. I wonder how much of the game they remember. They were with an Asian lady also wearing a Patriots jersey and who had donned those black stickers under her eyes that athletes wear to cut down on glare. I thought she had done this all in good fun until the game began. She was a raving lunatic of fan, hopping up and down when the Patriots did something well and sulking when they didn't. Then there was the guy who pounded the table with all his might exhorting the Patriots defense, and the other guy doing his best to open a chasm in the floor with his stomping. I watched with amusement, these grownups going batty over the game. Meanwhile, I was pounding on the bar, yelling "Defense!" until my throat hurt, and I was panting between plays.

Guess I cared more than I thought. Or would have cared to admit.

Super Craze

It's the day before the Super Bowl, and our nook of New England is in a super frenzy.

People are walking around decked in their New England Patriots gear. They're wearing Patriots winter jackets, Patriots sweatshirts, Patriots ball caps. Pickups drive by with Patriots bumper stickers. A local bar has a huge blowup figure of a Patriots offensive lineman straddling one of its entrances. I saw a woman this morning in the post office with a Patriots Santa hat. A diner has a poster in the front window that reads "G-Men + Pats Wow!" Across the street, a pizza and bakery was alerting customers to beat the rush with a handmade placard that says, "Order your Super Bowl Pizza's Now!" I guess punctuation can be sacrificed during such times.

Our town even painted the center stripe on the main street red, white and blue – the Patriots colors. Then again, that's left over from the Fourth of July parade, but, hey, it works, right?

While people are excited, it doesn't feel the same as when the Patriots played in their first Super Bowl (of the current streak) in 2002. I remember that one vividly. I had been living in Rhode Island just a year and knew only a handful of people. None of them were really sports fans, so come Super Bowl, I walked from my apartment to a bar in downtown Providence to watch the game. I was nervous I would be able to get a seat for the game, so I arrived at a place called Blake's a couple of hours early. There were maybe five people there. As the game drew closer, though, more began arriving. Even better, many of them had come alone, and soon enough our corner of the bar became one happy, celebratory group of strangers who were looking for an evening of camaraderie, with the underdog Patriots providing the kindling. We cheered each defensive stand, each time Tedy Bruschi stuck it to one of the Rams receivers. We erupted when Adam Vinatieri nailed the game-winning field goal, hopping around the bar and hugging each other. We fired up the jukebox and danced the night away. It was a spontaneously combustible night of joy with strangers who I never saw again and with whom I could never recreate the same electricity.

It was a night to remember.

This year, I don't feel the raw, "Can you believe it?" buzz that I felt in 2002. I get the sense that fans feel more entitled; they expect the Patriots to win, to cap their perfect season and to earn their fourth Super Bowl in seven years. I even would imagine that some may turn off their televisions and turn it in for the night if the score gets out of hand. I can't blame them. The uniqueness appears to be gone. Perhaps that's to be expected from such a run of success.

I'm not going to Blake's this time. It just wouldn't be the same, and besides I can no longer walk there. Instead, I'm hopping a bus to Amherst to watch the game with a good friend of mine. We'll cheer lustily for the Patriots, but that sense of romance with the first Super Bowl run won't be there. There won't be that same sense of awe and wonderment.

Some things simply can't be recreated. That's why those moments are so special, and, I guess, that's why we remember them. If they happened regularly, they wouldn't be so special.

Not every Super Bowl has to be super.

But I sure hope the Patriots win.

Backyard Visitor

A newcomer visited our backyard this morning.

A crow came by briefly. It's the first time this bird has landed in our yard, but that's not very exciting, and it's not why I'm telling this story.

Around 7:20, I was just about to make some coffee when I looked out the window. There were no birds on the feeders hanging from the shepherds' hooks. There were no birds along the fence where I had put out sunflower seeds earlier in the morning. There were no birds around the suet block, either. That's strange, I thought. Birds generally feed in the early morning.

I looked toward the row of hedges that separates our backyard from our neighbor's for a clue. That's where the sparrows and black-capped chickadees tend to hang out. No birds. I looked at our row of gardens, the place where the juncos hop and peck on the ground. No birds.

And then I saw why: Perched on the hedge was a sharp-shinned hawk. Its body was erect. Its head swiveled from side to side; its yellowish eyes scanned the surroundings for prey. The hawk knew breakfast was hiding in the hedges, and it regularly looked down and tried to follow the movements of the sparrows flitting within the hedge. From time to time, the hawk would take two exaggerated hops along the hedge, shaking the limbs as it tried to flush the sparrows out.

The scheme wasn't working, so the hawk moved to plan B. It would spy a sparrow within the hedge and swoop downward, crashing through the branches as it pursued the little bird. But sparrows are fast, and they can maneuver more adroitly within the tangled confines of the hedge. Time and time again, the hawk tried. But it was having no luck. The sparrows had homefield advantage.

After about ten minutes of this avian version of cat-and-mouse, the hawk perched itself again on top of the hedge. It seemed to be thinking, "If I can't get it myself, I'll have it come to me." The hawk puffed its chest, billowing its feathers to protect itself against a stiff northerly wind. It waited for its prey to arrive.

After about ten minutes, I saw a bird zoom from my left toward the feeder or the hedge. Already the hawk had lifted into flight at the bird's approach. Within seconds, the hawk had shot forward to meet the incoming bird, banked sharply to the right and appeared to smash against the side of the neighbor's garage, located at the end of the hedge row. I saw a small bird fly away from right to left.

The hawk was now on the ground. It appeared to be evaluating what went wrong. But then I noticed that it was gripping something with its three yellow talons. It had caught a bird after all, a sparrow. I never saw it happen. Either the hawk had snagged the arriving bird or had snatched another in the melee. In any event, breakfast was served. With quick, jerky pecks, the hawk began disassembling its prey. Feathers scattered in the wind as the hawk tore into the carcass. Little specks of blood wet the snow. Within moments, the victim's head had been severed, and the hawk drilled into the stump that remained. Soon, there was nothing left except a smattering of feathers and a wing on the ground. The hawk left, and Tigger, our neighbor's cat, had already come to search for leftovers.

I guess I should feel sorry for the sparrow. But I couldn't help but be fascinated at the spectacle of watching this sharp-shinned hawk hunt for food in an unlikely setting.

I haven't seen a single bird in our yard since the encounter. I hope they're not too traumatized.

I wonder if we'll see the hawk again.

Seagull Smarts

I always thought seagulls were dumb, but I may have to revise that.

Remember how they were portrayed in "Finding Nemo?" A herd of birds hypnotically chanting "mine, mine, mine..." as they pursued our favorite clown fish huddled in a pelican's bill.

They don't appear that much smarter in real life. I watch them circling fishing boats, a swirl of snapping beaks, as they jostle each other for scraps from the day's catch.

But yesterday while I was running on a bike path along the water, I watched as a seagull swooped upward before me, its arched wings catching the wind's current as it levitated higher and higher. Then the seagull dropped something on the rocks, and it made a crack. I watched as the seagull descended, landed on the rocks and inspected what it had dropped. Then, I watched it eat.

Then I figured out what had happened.

You probably already know. But if you don't, the seagull was dropping a clam on the rocks to shatter its shell, so it could eat the meat inside. How ingenuous. It makes me wonder how they learned how to do it. Is it hereditary, passed from parent to baby? Is it evolutionary, an adaptation to the environment? Or are there some genius seagulls out there?

As I pondered this, I realized I was making a lot of crunching sounds on the concrete path. I looked down and saw shell fragments all over the place. Clearly, the seagulls were dropping the shells on to the bike path as well as on the rocks. I didn't see any shells in the surrounding grass, so I can only guess that the gulls had figured out they could accomplish the same thing dropping the shells on the path as they could on the rocky shore.

And that made me wonder even more whether genetics or evolution was coming into play here. Did some seagull drop a shell on the path and make the connection that the path would yield the same result as the rocks? Did other seagulls notice and imitate what they had seen? Are the "smarter" seagulls surviving better as a result? Or is it all just happenstance?

I don't know the answer, but it sure makes me wonder.

But I know now that seagulls are smarter than I thought. At least some of them.

In The Tank

I think a lot of people are hurting nowadays.

I've been thinking about the economy lately. I've wondered whether the downturn has been a self-fulfilling prophecy, a correction of an unrealistically bloated housing market and ridiculously low interest rates, a comeuppance for those who have mired themselves in debt they never could afford or some combination of the above.

If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it's a blend of all those things.

The hair stylist I go to has been cutting hair for more than 20 years. She's built a fairly solid business, which she now operates out of her home. I walked in today for my $15 cut, and she tells me she's looking for a part-time job to supplement her income. She asked about delivering papers. She may wait tables. She already offers dog sitting and dog walking services. She's a single woman who lives pretty frugally as best as I can judge. Yet she's living month-to-month. And for now at least, she has little to retire on.

There are five homes within a block of our house that are for sale. At least two are owner-occupied. They haven't moved for months. There are dozens more around our picturesque town on the bay. I walk by these houses day after day, and the For Sale signs remain, as if they've become lawn adornments. Nobody can sell, because apparently nobody is able, or willing, to buy.

A police officer three houses down sold his Toyota Tundra for a Nissan Something because it was killing him to fill up the truck.

People are feeling it in ways big and small.

We are, too. We've turned down the thermostat, keeping it really cool at night and during the day. We watch TV under blankets. I'm writing this now wearing long underwear.

I know people who have bought into the apocalyptic news that the economy is like a rowboat that blows a new hole every other day. I know people who bought homes they realistically couldn't afford but pulled it off through sub-prime loans and the rosy belief that their home's value would continue to rise at the pace that it had been. I know people who are overloaded in debt, owing thousands of dollars in credit card bills and able to pay only the interest.

It matters less how people got themselves in their respective predicaments than how or whether they can get themselves out.

I wonder whether the stimulus plan bandied about the president and the Congress will help much. Don't get me wrong: I'd welcome $1600. We'll either stash it away or use it to pay bills. I know economists want us to spend it on goods, but I guess if we pay bills with it, we're spending, too.

Still, it just doesn't seem like it'll do that much. It won't help my hairstylist much. It won't help our neighbors sell their homes. And I doubt the policeman will use it as a down payment on a new truck.

The tank needs more water than that. Is it up to the government to fill it?

Holiday Meaning

I didn't do anything special for the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday.

I feel guilty about that.

I knew about the holiday, of course, and I know about King.

But knowing about King and taking a few moments to remember why there's a day named after him are two separate matters.

I think many of us are in the same boat about our holidays in general. Veterans Day, Presidents' Day, Memorial Day, Columbus Day, Independence Day (and Victory over Japan Day for those of us in Rhode Island, the only state that still marks it as a holiday). These holidays kind of pass us by in the blur of our lives. We know they're there, but we've forgotten why.

We know why there's Christmas, Easter, Hanukkah, Yom Kippur, Ramadan and other religious days. We know why there's Thanksgiving. Most of us pause for momentary reflection on these days (depending on religious persuasion and nationality, of course). We remember why they're special, even sacred.

But not the other holidays. Can anyone name the presidents for which Presidents' Day is named? I would say Washington and Lincoln, and I'd be guessing after that. Maybe Jefferson? Teddy Roosevelt? I'm just not sure.

But I'm sure that most of you don't know the answer either. (It is below.)

I'm not casting blame. These holidays come, and they go, and sometimes I scarcely notice. I spent nearly the entire King Day holed up working on the syllabus for my college class and some lesson plans. I spent Independence Day watching the annual parade in our town and grilling with my wife, father and stepmom. I couldn't tell you what I did for Veterans Day.

Year before last, I did do something on Veterans Day. I went to a memorial ceremony at the old town cemetery. I walked there, about two miles from where we live. I wanted to pay my respects. I was also curious. The ceremony was held on a hill, just off an overlook of Narragansett Bay. It was early morning, and the air was crisp. There was dew on the graves, and the miniature flags planted in the ground flapped in the breeze.

Dozens of veterans, young and old, dressed in their uniforms, were there. They snapped to attention when the national anthem was played. They stood in silent salute when the names were read of veterans who died that year. They even applauded some of the politicians who spoke.

I was happy I had gone. I felt like I had taken the time to remember the importance of Veterans Day. I saw how important remembering is in the eyes of those who had served our country. But I felt guilty I had never shown my face at a ceremony like this before.

I had forgotten what the holiday was about.

Today, I forgot what the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday is about.

I'm not the only one.

Let's remember next time.

(Presidents' Day – Honors all presidents, but originally made a holiday to honor two iconic presidents, Lincoln and Washington, whose birthdays were in February.)