The Loons Have It!

I don't have a particular affinity for birds if they are too close to me. As a youngster, Helen was interested in having a parakeet. We lived in a 1970's mobile home which was quite modern for the time but still drafty and difficult to keep consistently warm. We buried quite a few parakeets before we realized there was no point in bringing home another to find it flat on its back with its little legs in the air in the morning. They received good care from Helen, a really well-cleaned cage, and a lovely floral cover for nightime. The ingrates succumbed to the cold within days of coming home.

I would have to say mourning doves are my favorite bird. I love the soft cooing at sunrise and sunset. They are pretty to look at: dressed for church in grey and white with just a hint of rouge on their cheeks. When they fly their wings make a soft warbling (my mother said sounded like they needed oiling). She hated the doves. Too many sadnesses in her life were associated with their sound and they made her feel low in spirit. Having grown up on the farm, she had unerring aim with a rock. To my dismay many a bird ended its song short of a finale because of Mom. Marc never knew Mom as she died a year after Helen was born but her dislike of the doves is carried on in him. His daughter Bett loves them as much as I do as does Helen. They are a comfort to us.

Crows win the field whenever there is a choice between them leaving or me leaving. I respect that God created them and they serve a purpose. Did you know wolves and crows work together? When wolves are finding tough hunting, they watch for crows to be circling. Where they are there is usually also a dead carcass or a wounded animal. Teamwork. Once playing in the yard with Bett and Belle, I called back to a crow. It came ever closer until it was in the tree in the neighbor's yard. As the nature of the bird goes, it was soon joined by other curious crows. Bett glared at me out of big bitter-sweet chocolate eyes and said, "Now look what you've done! I'm going in!" Belle didn't seem to mind but we all went in until the crows left.

Dave and I with Helen and Bett and Belle have taken an almost annual drive to Red Wing, Lake City, and La Crosse Minnesota in the spring to see eagles. The timing varies but if all is right, the birds are in migration. The national bird is lovely in flight or swooping to catch a fish on the river. On the other hand, if the ice is not all gone from the river they look like disjointed penguins waddling and falling as they maneuver to find sunny patches to preen. When they land in a tree, it is a coin toss as to whether they will land and stay or fall, or worse yet, land but slowly swing to an upside down position on the branch with wings flapping and prehistoric screaming. We have counted sightings of hundreds some years and other years one or two. The day is still fun.

On a couple of those drives, we have also been privileged to see huge flocks of swans. There is a refuge just on the Wisconsin side of the river where a backwater collects hundreds of swans in migration. They are stately and graceful birds. They watch all the people watching them. They probably think we are migrating and wonder how we travel with all the paraphenalia we bring along. Binocculars, cameras, sketch pads and art boxes, easels and pallets. One year we were on our way back home and saw one of the ponds covered in solid white. We pulled over and took the glasses out of the case. Swans! There had to have been a thousand or more swimming and eating before they moved farther northward. Once the girls were with us and we heard a cacophony of squaks and honks high in the air. There was such an enormous  flock of swans going over that we watched for ten or fifteen minutes before they had all passed out of sight.

Remember, I've told you I am older than dirt. Still it was only within the last five years or so that sandhill cranes have entered our lives. On our way to our favorite knit shop which happened to be housed at one end of a barn on a working farm, several giants of the air rose from a field to our left and flew right over the sun roof in our car. We had absolutely no clue what they were. Buff grey with tinges of rosepetal pink and a small bit of red. They had a wing span like nothing we had ever seen before and legs that went on forever! We pulled the car to the edge of the road and got out the bird book. Belle loves looking at the bird book when we are on long rides. We determined as best we could they must be whooping cranes (a species on the endangered list). When we got to the knit shop, we were informed what we were enthusing over were sandhill cranes and they are an abiding nuisance in the area every spring and fall as they are greedy over seed in the fields and noisy. Our thrill is merely tolerated by those who live in the migration path. The complaint about noise is valid. The birds can be so high in the air they are barely visible but you can still hear the gargling warbling cry they make. Get more than two going overhead and they rival jet noise.

Time to tell a story on Bett and Belle. They've marveled at the brown pelicans to be seen in Virginia Beach, Virginia. They've gone on eagle hunts with us, argued with Bacca (the name Bett gave Grampa Dave when she was about a year old) about whether the sighting was truly an eagle or a turkey vulture, and picked his pockets for treats and souvenirs on every trip. We were on our way to the above mentioned knit shop. Large birds flew over the sun roof and caused the strangest conversation between the four of us. It went something like this:

"Are those our friends?" asked Bacca. He was referring to sandhill cranes.
"Oh, no! I think they're storks!" Bacca amended.
I replied I didn't know what they were but they were big and not the right color for cranes.
"They were pelicans!" came the voice of then 10 year old Bett.
"Pelicans is what I meant," said Bacca.
"I don't think they were pelicans," I chimed in.
"Pelicans. I saw their gulpers." stated Bett with finality.
"Bye orphans." came the wistful voice of Bell, aged 8.
"Why'd you call them orphans?" asked Bett.
"That's what Bacca called them," answered Belle.
"Dork! He said 'our friends'," snorted Bett.
"Oh! I wondered how he knew they didn't have parents," laughed Belle.

We all laughed. Forever more the sandhill cranes will be "our friends" and pelicans will be "orphans". We laugh every time we go birding.

I know that one of the merriest of calls by birds comes from the redwinged black bird. The males head out to the mating ground and find a house, get a job, and then wait for the females. During the waiting period they trill and flit from cattail to cattail in the marshy areas around our home. When the females come those boys get together a chorus to make Handel weep for joy. It quickens my soul every spring and autumn. There is a marsh covering approximately five acres just north of where we live. Dave and I were enjoying an evening walk one fresh spring evening when we became aware of a steady din. It rose and fell but never ceased. It grew louder as we approached. You bet we were curious! We had not a single idea of what it could be. As we rounded the curve that took us past the trees blocking our view, we saw the entire marsh was solid black. It was tens of thousands of redwinged blackbirds. There was so much noise it was impossible to hear each other. As though someone had fired a marathon starting pistol, the birds rose as one body into the air. A solid cloud of birds flew in rhythmic pattern first over us, then away from us, then wheeling and turning and then spiraling higher in the sky. Some returned to the marsh to land and there were still enough in the air to blot away the sunset. Those flew north. The ones in the marsh were still a large congregation. We have never timed our walk just right since that one evening.

I sat at the edge of a lake one morning to watch the sun usher in the day. I had coffee (very important to me early in the morning) and I was in our van on my way to work. I had pulled into the parking lot at the beach to have my coffee and silence before reporting to work and a busy day ahead. It was late October and the sun was just tipping over the horizon making a scene of color and light and reflection all around. The lake was iced over from the shore to a third of the way toward the center. There had been no wind so the thin skim of ice was smooth and shiny. It would take little time after the sun rose to melt away.

From the east came a flock of geese in perfect V formation. They were headed right for the lake, coming in low, and would come right across the view from my windshield. The flight commander came in low and fast and feet forward as they do. Perfect landing style at the ready, he landed on the ice. He skidded, flopped, and spun. Honking like an angry driver in rush hour, wings flapping uselessly, and feet peddling to gain a purchase, he wound up flat on his back. The two immediately behind him tried to change course, but they, too were ignominiously flung into the heap. Behind them the rest of the flock broke pattern and flew in ungainly turns to land on the edge of the ice and fall into the water or actually obtain a somewhat normal landing on water.

I laughed so hard I spewed coffee in all directions. I was choking and tears ran down my cheeks. I mopped at the spilled coffee but continued to laugh until my sides hurt. It didn't help that the trio who landed first were hobbling around the edge of the shore intact and unharmed, but looking sore and embarrassed. Every time one of them looked toward the other birds they gave a little muted honk that would set me off again. Having spent my life as a klutz, I could sympathise, but I could not stop laughing. My family will tell you that laughter out of me in the morning is as rare as finding a diamond in your front yard. I like darkness, silence and coffee in the morning and not much else! I spoke out loud, "God, you did that for me didn't you? Thank you for the laugh! I'm so glad I stopped in time to see what you had planned!" Where else can you go to receive a free show centered just for your pleasure than into God's creation? I just ask you to tell me if you can.

You loon! Someone can be crazy as a loon! Going to the loony bin. Loony as can be. The common loon puzzled and pleased my dad for years before he finally saw one. He had heard many on his solitary jaunts into nature, but he had never seen one except in pictures. White and black houndstooth patterns the back of this bird. Around its neck is a bowtie of black. A small head is oddly balanced with a long, thin beak. The bird rides low in the water with its large body that shows a broad back just visible above the waterline. It has a call like someone laughing. The laugh can be very human sounding and range from a chuckle to insane cackling. They mate for life and and have only one or two young per mating. They nurture their eggs as a couple and tenderly care for the hatchlings. The first time a hatchling enteres the water is the last time it is sheltered in the nest. Thereafter, when the young bird needs respite from swimming it is given a ride on a parent's back.

They fish. A loon will duck its head in the water looking for food; sometimes, like ducks, they will float tail in the air while they search. They will dive for a prize catch and disappear from sight for long periods of time. Just when you are sure they went after a fish that was tougher than the loon, the bird will appear yards down the lake in a new spot. They are gifted under-water swimmers. They are fun to watch. We have played games with our kids when they were younger betting on where the loon would reappear after a dive.

In 1966 on a pretty August day, Dad saw a loon for the first time. He thrilled as the loon seemed to be performing for him alone. He, Mom and Pat had taken their first vacation in years and were staying in a cabin somewhere in northern Minnesota. I don't remember where. The loon dived, swam, called, and entertained for hours. Dad mentioned he wasn't feeling good later in the day; he hadn't been feeling good most of the day but said nothing. He was experiencing a fatal heart attack. Once Mom and Pat knew how ill he was, they loaded the car and brought him back to Minneapolis where he breathed his last breath in the parking lot of the hospital. Pat said he died smiling because he saw the loon.

I've seen many loons: both bird and human types! They became a celebratory part of our stay at the island resort. They entertained and delighted me. I'll have to say they also gave me a feeling of closeness with Dad. I've laughed at their antics and cooed over their babies. Staying at the cabin of our friends and mentors Jack and Gail also provided much loon watching. One evening as we gathered at the dock to watch twilight fade into evening, a pair of loons with one chick swimming between them came past the dock. We remarked how unusual it was for them to come so close to the dock with ten or fifteen people sitting there. They paddled out of sight, and we resumed our conversations.

The loons began calling. The call began to change making all of us stop talking. The call was now restless and worried. We saw them coming back up the lake. By this time they were swimming in frantic concentric circles calling loudly. The young chick was not with them. None of us could take our eyes from the pair as their movements increased in intensity with one diving and coming up while the other remained above water to cry out. The chick did not reappear. Jack who was pretty seasoned to the outdoors and a hunter, spoke around the lump in his throat. "I'd like to do just about anything to make them stop!" he said. We were all in agreement. They swam past the dock finally uttering grief tones and gutteral sobs. Soon there was nothing and silence settled over the water and those of us on the dock. Conversation never really picked up again until we were all back inside.

We finally reached a point in family life where we could no longer afford summer and winter sports for growing teens and set aside enough to return to the island resort. Knowing this would be our last summer for quite awhile and maybe for always, we tried to take in as much as we could for memories to last our lifetime. By now I had quit barking at ground squirrels, but I barked at a few anyway just for old-times sake. We watched sunrises and sunsets and ate berries (others picked them and shared as we never made a repeat visit to the berry patch). On the last day, we were all a bit sad as we packed our things for the ride home. We had a lovely time but this part of our life was over. I seem to remember we sat up a little later than we usually do when we are facing a long drive the next day. We had said our goodbyes to the friends we had made. As we lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, we were serenaded in wild abandon by loons. We were used to post-sundown calls but this was out of the ordinary. The birds were calling from every direction on the lake. First from one side of the island then from the other. Back and forth the calls went and they undulated from soft to powerful, sweet to sad, and stirring. The concert lasted for almost two hours. Never had we heard such prolonged song. Even though we were all awake and listening, not one of us spoke. In the morning, we packed the boat, were taken to the mainland, and then loaded the car. Coffee was poured from thermoses and sipped and donuts were nibbled in silence. I think we were almost half way home before anyone mentioned the loon concert from the night before. Once and again, we will think back to that night and talk about it. We never share exactly what it meant to us individually while it was happening. Each of us holds it in that place where we lock away the special things God has given us to remember.

I have called out in fear and panic like the loon searching for its young, when life has shocked and hurt me. Raising young is not easy and God never said it would be (I've read the Bible from cover to cover and never found that promise). Marc's pain over the death of pets, Helen's tenderness over the cat that died in her arms, both of them suffering through young love, courtship, and loss. Dave and I sat by Marc who was struggling so hard to find his footing in a life that seemed more threatening than pleasant. We prayed our way through searing pain for him to find meaning to keep on trying. We agonized and prayed during Helen's fight with cancer. There were times I wished God had made me uninhibited enough to cry like the loons while we were battling for our children. A few years ago, Dave fell down the five steps to our front deck. It was an icy Superbowl Sunday. As he lay in the puddles from a thaw at the bottom of the steps, I called for emergency help and tried to comfort him with blankets and conversation. We thought he had broken his hip. Once again I could relate to the pain in the voice of the loon fearing and feeling loss. The hip was not broken but badly bruised.  Due to morphine administered in a hypo at the hospital and pain pills at home, Dave never saw the Superbowl!

I have also laughed like a loon. There have been moments of pure pleasure in nature like my morning with the geese. Dave liked to waltz me around the kitchen, (my husband and lover) while he sang "Waltziing Mathilda" and caused yet another meal to burn to charcoal. I watched antics of growing children and had long conversations with them where we shared the humor in each other's day. Marc and I would play with his children and watch them be children and we would laugh. Helen and I sometimes play Cribbage. It is a game that can be serious for some people. We played an entire evening with one card lying on the floor at our feet and never noticed. I've danced at lakeside with my grandchildren not caring who was watching. Four-year-old Bett once asked me if I knew why she liked me best. I replied I had no idea. "Because you are four, too!" she stated. Bliss. It doesn't matter that Dave says she is now a teen but I am still four. Three-year-old Belle asked me to wash her hands for the hundredth time during lunch. I told her to wait until she was all done. She repeatedly asked until I was exasperated and stated I was not going to wash her again until she was done! Carefully tapping index finger to thumb, she looked at me with her milk chocolate colored eyes, and said hesitatingly, "Um, Grammy? Sticky is just not the best for me!" Laughter and a warm wet washcloth ended that discussion.

Warble with the cranes, mourn with the doves, rejoice with the blackbirds, and dance with the loons. Surprises await us in each and every day if we are alert to see them. They ease the pain of a world awry, gentle the temper pushed to the limit in traffic, and give our soul a reason to sing praises to God the creator for the wonderous gifts He provides.