The Red Pencil of Death

Found Mom's obituary the other day.

She wrote it herself (not too long ago from the handwriting) and stuffed it in the drawer of a small sideboard just outside the kitchen where the hall from the dining room begins. It's in with some old silver, flower arranging doodads, other household odds and ends and a poem (not her own) about not missing her when she's gone.

In the meantime, she did give me a slight scare last week. She keeps regular hours, going to bed between 10 and 10:30 and waking between 7:30 and 8. Last week she decided to "work in the garden," the flower-planted walk from the house to the driveway, and spent an hour sweeping dirt from the paving stones after my brother had been weed pulling. The next day she was exhausted, sat around all day, and went to bed at 9. The following morning at 8:30 her door was still closed. I listened at it, heard nothing, and decided to go for my walk as usual.

It's interesting how easily we can contemplate, and even accept, our own death, but not those of the ones we love and how we're still surprized by their acceptence of their deaths. I recall my father's mother saying a number of times she was ready to go but she was in a nursing home, had had several severe strokes and was old (to my mind). Then I realize that Mom is already five years past her own mother's lifespan and only two months shy of passing Grandma Rosinus.

Anyway, the obit covers most of the basics but really does not do her justice. I think I shall edit it and, when the time comes, post it here. I'll do a draft and sit with her and go over the details. Obituaries being a major moneymaker for the newspapers, when I'm done it will be too big (expensive) to submit to the News Press.

Oh, and when I got home, she was up getting her coffee and everything has been fine since.

Politics--and Warfare--As Usual

I wanted to write about something other than birds this time. I wanted to write about the amazingly traditional Southern politics of this little planned bedroom community where one of the city councilmen was just removed by the governor (The governor! Where else does a governor have the right to remove a local politician? This must be a legacy of Reconstruction.) because, as a contractor (every third person in town is a contractor) he allegedly cheated several clients out of their deposits and payments to the tune of a half mil or so, although he was upright enough to report it to the police when someone (a local citizen and wannabe contractor of an entirely different sort) offered to whack the plaintiffs on his behalf, and where the son of the chief of police just pled guilty to running a real estate Ponzi scheme along with a couple of friends (although as far as I can tell from the state of the housing market here, second only to Las Vegas for foreclosures, half the town must have been in on it), and where the mayor and a crony of his on the city council stand accused of running for office only so they could get their lawsuit against the city (something to do with contracting) moved along by being in position to move it along themselves (and, of course, they'd never ask the city to take a dive on that one), and where the council is trying to figure out how to bill utility costs to people who are not connected to any services and to vacant lots, and where the police just ran an undercover sting operation at a middle school fair to bust underage smokers.

That's what I wanted to write about.

But then I went out for my morning walk and witnessed a magnificent battle royal between a dozen and a half crows and three hawks. It was visible for a quarter mile and audible for three times that. The hawks hung on steady, like bombers in formation, as the crows swooped, circled and dove, claws out and beaks agape. At one point, a hawk and crow grappled (no idea who grabbed who first) and fell from the sky, a twisting ball of splayed feathers. They disappeared behind a tree before hitting the ground but when I got there I saw no evidence of a crash so I assume they broke before impact. The crows scored a tactical victory and the hawks retreated with as much dignity as they could muster. On my return the crows were settling in on the power line, their equivalent of the officers' club no doubt, where I could hear them discussing strategy, congratulating each other and loudly expounding their personal tales of derring-do which I have no doubt will only continue to expand in the retelling.

Personal note for Andrea: Python* season opened yesterday and runs through the middle of April. $26 for a license, free training is available for novices and there is no bag limit. Two extension agents caught a 15-footer and had it on the news a couple days ago.

*Includes Burmese-, Indian- and African rock pythons, green anacondas and Nile monitor lizards(!).