This won’t end well

We have been seeing some small birds flying around our front steps for a while, and then we saw them flying up under the porch. They are building a nest on an electrical box from which a light hangs. It seems like a great spot, sheltered from the weather and well up off the ground. Unfortunately, two or three cats frequent that area, and one of them is a killer.

This is Chloe watching the bird perched on the bottom post of the stairs. Chloe is very interested. When the bird flew to the other side of the steps, Chloe’s head followed.

Chloe is not the real threat to the adult birds. That would be Sylvester. He is a natural born killer.

I had intended to check the nest, and tear it down if there were no eggs or baby birds, but I’m afraid I’ve waited too long. We know what is going to happen. If the adults escape Sylvester’s bloody mouth, the baby birds will fall prey to him, or Chloe or Dusty. Chloe and Dusty are not the killers that Sylvester is, but I don’t know a cat that can resist killing a baby bird on the ground. The killer might even end up being Mollie, since she goes out for a while every day. She has already brought one bird in, apparently to play with it. It was still alive. We opened a window and it flew out.

This is apparently a pair of white-breasted nuthatches. They are fairly common throughout almost the entire United States.

Lilies of the mountain

Our lilies have come up and are in bloom. They seem bigger, healthier and more numerous this year. Here’s Leah, doing her Vanna White impression.

The tallest are over five feet.

We have a nice variety of colors.

Some of our other bulbs have bloomed and faded. The lilies and the other bulbs have multiplied. We’re going to have to thin them this fall and plant in some other places in the yard. Maybe where all the vinca that I planted last year showed that they were actually annuals in this climate.

Down in Mississippi

Some time last week Leah asked me how old my grandparents were when they died. I couldn’t remember, so I searched for their obituaries. What I found was not my maternal grandmother’s obituary, but a version of my mother’s that my brother Henry had posted on his blog. I didn’t often read his blog, so I started checking it out. That led me to actually look at the name of the blog, The Narrow Gate*. The subtitle was “A continuation of the blog ‘Down in Mississippi’.”

What? Henry had a blog called “Down in Mississippi”? Why didn’t I know that? The blog recounts his experiences when he took a week’s vacation to go down to Pearlington, MS. His blog starts on the first day of his vacation (dated November 2006 in his blog, but described as covering events in 2008 and 2009).

In this case, Henry’s idea of a vacation was to work all the livelong day with a group from the Presbyterian Disaster Agency (PDA) trying to help people rebuild homes that were destroyed or almost destroyed by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Many people whose lives and homes were damaged by Katrina were still trying to rebuild three years later, down in Mississippi.

I’m not going to try to retell Henry’s stories. They are still there for anyone to read, down at the bottom of his Narrow Gate blog.

Henry’s work in Pearlington changed his life. At that time he was working as a materials scientist for a company called Steward in Chattanooga. He was not particularly happy. The company ownership had treated him poorly considering all he had done for them. It was a materials business, and he was the only materials scientist there. So he decided to quit and go to work full time for PDA in Mississippi, continuing the work he had done on his vacation. He lived at the PDA facility in Pearlington for a couple of years, until the agency decided that they had to close that operation and move to Texas to try to help with another disaster. 

It wasn’t long after he left PDA that he decided to find a seminary school and become an ordained Presbyterian minister.

I wonder if he ever wrote anything about his experiences at seminary school.

Henry was always argumentative, with me, with my parents, with his classmates, and, I suspect, with his instructors. It might have been uncomfortable for some of them to deal with someone as intelligent and educated as him. He was certainly not the typical ministerial student.

After he completed seminary and was ordained, he worked with a Presbyterian church in Chattanooga. One of his projects was working with homeless people. Some of them attended his memorial service. He also started a huge garden to try to grow food for people who couldn’t afford groceries.

He eventually ended up as the minister at a little church in Spring City, Tn. It was an old church with a small congregation consisting mostly of the type of conservatives you might expect in a small Tennessee town. There had been a split in that church, as well as the Presbyterian Church as a whole, over gay marriage. The majority of the members were in the anti-gay faction, and they wanted the church for themselves. However, the Presbyterian Church (USA) owned the church, and the Presbyterian Church gave it to the smaller faction that supported the church’s new stand allowing same-sex marriage.

That was the type of church where Henry would have felt at home.

The last post on Henry’s blog is dated February 6, 2018. It was a sermon he had prepared for a Sunday service at the Spring City church. He died two months after that.

Henry and I were alike in many ways, but very different in some ways. As a scientist, I can’t find any reason to believe in any god. Henry apparently felt no conflict. All I can say about that is that he lived the underlying Christian message better than most people who call themselves Christians

*”Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it.”

40th

Today, 18 May 2020, is the 40th anniversary of the catastrophic eruption of Mount St. Helens in Washington. According to the Wikipedia entry, the eruption, which killed 57 people, is said to be the most economically destructive and deadly volcanic eruption in US history. I visited the site many years ago, but it was cloudy and foggy and we couldn’t see anything.

I started to say that I was sure everyone in the US remembers the eruption, and then I remembered that not everyone in the US was even born then. In fact, it seems that less than half the people in the US were alive back then.

Coincidentally, today is also the 40th anniversary of my 30th birthday. Under better circumstances, Leah and I would probably go to our favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch, where we would celebrate by having our Wednesday huevos rancheros on Monday, but we are still sheltering at home. It finally dawned on me that when the authorities said that those with health issues and the elderly should continue to shelter at home, they were talking about us.

Death visits the mountain

Before I start, I want to say that nothing bad happened to Leah and me.

Friday afternoon we went down to the grocery store and stopped to get some takeout. As we drove back towards our house on Huffaker Road, an ambulance came up behind us and passed. A minute later a second emergency vehicle, this time a fire department rescue truck, also passed us. They disappeared before we reached the turnoff to go up the mountain, and we assumed they had kept going towards the next road that leads into Texas Valley.

A neighbor called as we drove up the mountain and asked if we knew what was going on. She heard the sirens coming up, but nothing came by her house. We drove up to her house, which is around the curve beyond us, and were talking when another neighbor came by going down. A few minutes later he came back and told us that Ron, the man who works with John, the grading guy, had turned over his four-wheeler down at John’s house and had been killed.

It was quite a shock to Leah and me. Leah had not seen much of Ron, but I had. He and John worked on our property while we were building, and I’ve seen and talked to him quite a few times over the years. He was as nice a guy as you could want to meet.

The real connection with Ron was that he was the one who actually brought Sam, our dog, to John’s house when John acquired him for his step son around six years ago. At that time Sam was afraid of everyone except John’s step son, John’s wife, and Ron. Sam always came to Ron when Ron was around. He would never get anywhere near me unless Ron was there. Even after Sam came to live with us, he always seemed to recognize Ron’s car, even after Ron bought a new one.

Later in the evening, the same thought occurred to Leah and me: Ron had gotten up Friday morning just like every other Friday, and had gone to work expecting it to be like every other work day. He probably planned where he and his wife would go for dinner. It was a completely normal day. The only difference was that this was the day he died.

We, too, get up every morning, expecting the day to be the same as ever, and never, ever the day we die. But it might be.