Fly Away

When I was younger, my favorite part of going to the beach was flying kites, the bigger the better.  I loved that sense of being pulled into the air.  At 79 I don’t fly kites anymore, but I still feel that pull when I watch flocks of shorebirds streak down the beach, burst into the sky,

swoop back over the water, 

change directions, 

head back toward the water

only to settle back down a short distance from where they took off.

(There’s supposed to be a sentence here, but I didn’t like the way my first attempt sounded and I couldn’t come up with anything better, so this entry has been sitting here several days now and I don’t think I’m ever going to find a better way to say what I wanted to say no matter how long it sits here.  So, I’m just going to post it with this gap in it. Perhaps you can find the perfect transition to the next sentence.)  Feeling it second-handed keeps me grounded.

Common Loon

In a chaotic year where little seemed to go as planned, I searched harder than usual for signs that the natural order of things was unaffected by mankind’s pandemic.  While the very fact that I had to search harder than usual was not reassuring, in the end it seemed Nature was still on schedule.

Observing Common Loons in breeding plumage at Ft. Flagler and, particularly, Westport has become one of my favorite traditions since I saw one there in 2010.  I saw my first Common Loon in breeding colors at Ft. Flagler on April 6th — unfortunately, it was a long way away.

Inspired by that sighting, I went to Westport on April 11th and found a single Common Loon in breeding plumage.  Luckily, he was a very cooperative loon and posed a few feet away,

rising out of the water, flapping his wings to reveal his full beauty.

Unfortunately, he insisted on keeping the sun right behind him.  I had to wait until my May 8th visit to get a photo that shows the green band around its throat.

When I returned May 15th in a final attempt to catch the Shorebird Spring Migration I only found a single juvenile 3rd year Common Loon,

It would probably seem unimportant whether or not I got a shot of a Common Loon in breeding colors since I already have twelve years of shots, but, if I’ve discovered anything this year, it’s that small habits, small traditions can become quite important.  

I’ve done a lot of birding this year, perhaps even more than normal, but it hasn’t felt the same because I couldn’t stop at the restaurants I’ve always eaten at in previous years.  A trip to Ocean Shores isn’t the same without stopping at the Galway Bay Irish Pub after a morning of birding.  Birding the Port Orchard Marina isn’t the same without stopping at La Palpa without my Lime Jarritos and Chile Relleno. 

This year may well have been a disaster, but it did remind me that those “unimportant” traditions may be much more important than we realize. 

Black-Bellied Plovers

It’s been a very strange Spring here, and I somehow managed  to miss the peak of the Spring shorebird migration. Luckily, I’ve twice managed to get shots of migrating shorebirds before the big migration started.  I’ve already posted shots of Dunlins and others, but I was hoping to get a better shot of a Black-Bellied Plover in breeding plumage before posting any shots of them.  Unfortunately, my Monday trip was  totally washed out, despite a much more optimistic forecast.  Resigned to the fact that this 

is the best shot I’m going to get of a Black-Bellied Plover in almost full breeding colors this year, I’m going to focus, instead, on some shots I got of one in the midst of changing from winter plumage to breeding plumage.

I got these shots at Fort Flagler nearly a month ago.  I’m pretty sure this is one of the small flock of plovers that overwintered there.  It must have adjusted to the presence of people because I’ve never managed to get this close to a plover before (which probably explains why I try so hard to get a good shot of them).  

I must have photographed this bird nearly a half hour as it fed

and flew up and down the beach in front of me.

In the past I’ve always tried to focus on the striking black patch on their belly that gives them their name, so until I got these shots I’d never realized just how beautiful their wing pattern is. 

Floyd Skloot’s Approaching Winter

I recently started reading Life Purpose Boot Camp a book that describes a process for creating a meaningful life, which, I’ll admit, seems a little foolish at this stage of life, but, anyhow, it begins by having you list “meaning opportunities.”  One of mine was reading poetry and responding to it, although it’s clear from recent blog entries that I have not been doing much of that. Coincidently, Leslie and I are spending some time at her daughter’s house and it is raining, so I have some extra time to read and reflect.

Despite the lack of blog entries, I have been reading poetry steadily throughout the years; I just haven’t been motivated enough or have been too busy to respond to what I’ve read. Of course,I also have several books that I started reading and haven’t finished for different reasons, and I’m not going to discuss  a book I haven’t finished.  That would be hypocritical since in the past I would penalize students heavily for taking credit for a book they hadn’t finished. I’ve resolved to finish up books I’ve started — at least those that seem worth finishing — and write something about them.

A book that I finished awhile ago was Floyd Skloot’s Approaching Winter. I doubt I would have appreciated this book when I was a college undergrad, but I can certainly relate to many of the poems now that I am well into my own Winter. The older  I get the more I feel compelled to work out, even though I seldom worked out in the past beyond playing basketball two or three times a week and hiking whenever I got a chance.  Since we moved to Tacoma some fifteen years ago, I have been a member of the local YMCA (at least until the Covid 19 epidemic, and have faithfully used a rowing machine for most of that time. Few things will make you a better observer than repeating the same stroke for fifteen minutes, unless, of course, it’s going nowhere on a treadmill, which I steadily refuse to do.

At the Fitness Center 

 Framed by a picture window,
 two old men climbing stairs to nowhere
 watch the river flow.
       As though gliding on air
 them, a woman with violet hair,
            wires dangling from her ears,
                      keeps her eyes shut tight
 and sings out of tune while she strides
            on the elliptical machine
                                 next to mine.
 A husband and wife jog in place
            on treadmills side-by-side,
                                 keeping pace
 with each other and trying to plan
 the next two
            nights’ dinners though they can
                      barely speak. A teen
 with his cap on backwards cycles through
                      a mountain pass
            as his girlfriend screams
 and kickboxes behind shaded glass.

One of the ways I used to get ready to hike in the mountains during the summer was using the stair-stepper referred to in the opening lines. It’s hard work, much harder than climbing in the mountains, precisely because you aren’t going anywhere. If you’re an old man, and I am, it’s hard not be distracted by younger people working out; it’s impossible not to notice violet hair or strange tattoos in odd places.  

I, like most people, used to think gyms were full of jocks or fitness fanatics, not your average citizen. That view has definitely changed over the last fifteen years.  When I go to the weight room, which is, admittedly, in the middle of the work-day, there are lots of women, and lots of older people simply trying to retain some of the strength that aging robs them of.  There’s even husbands and wives, though more often than not it’s actually just Leslie and I.  Of course, there is always the young hotshot who shows up in the middle of the day to to reveal just how out of shape you really are, and, less occasionally, he’ll show up with his hot girlfriend to show you something else you have lost through old age.  

Many of the poems in this collection are early memories, but, in retrospect, the author realizes that the world he saw as a child wasn’t the “real” world.  Despite the fact that my daughter accuses me of being “the least nostalgic person in the universe,” I’ve been going over old photos and old records trying to get rid of everything that no one else could possibly want. In doing so, I have discovered, like Skloot does, that what I thought was the truth for most of my life has actually been mis-remembered.

Near the end of the collection, he turns to even more unpleasant realities, like those in “Today.”


 Johnny is John now, and Billy is Bill.
 Though I haven’t seen them in fifty years
 it feels like we’re boys together still.
 When his voice breaks, John’s boyhood face appears
 across the miles, and when Bill speaks of storms
 we survived on our barrier island home
 I forget and call him Billy, which makes
 John gasp because it hurts so much to laugh.
 The cancer has come back. He says it takes
 all his strength some mornings just to take half
 a breath, but then there might be a whole day
 when he can almost forget, like today.

Because my father’s job required us to move regularly, I really don’t have any childhood friends. Jim Wiese, who now lives in Vermont, is my longest friend; I don’t think he would’ve become a life-long friend if I had called him “Jimmy” in Junior High where I first met him. Still, the poem rings true even for me.  Jim and I can almost pick up a conversation we’ve had a year ago and go from there.  We may not be boys, but we’re still kids not seniors.  Thankfully, Jim and I haven’t had to talk about cancer lately, but that’s not true when I meet with a group of teachers that I started teaching with.  When I get together with that group, all too often someone brings a newspaper clipping with the funeral notice of a friend.  You don’t reach 79 without becoming aware of death as a constant possibility unless you have Alzheimer’s, a fate worse than death from my perspective.  Still, any day when you can still laugh is a good day.

Though I wouldn’t suggest this book to a high school student, I suspect that most of my regular readers are a little older than that and might find Skloot’s work as interesting as I did.