Nature boy

listen to this or watch this

My Dad had a love of nature that was thoughtful and unassuming. From him I learned my observant appreciation and wonder of our world.

He didn’t identify as “a bird guy” and wear binoculars on vacation but he loved to watch the birds. He didn’t buy mugs with morning glories on them, but he might sit and marvel at their sky-blue blossoms for an afternoon. And, despite all his efforts to dissuade the squirrels from eating food left for the birds in the feeder, he’d congratulate them for their incredible gymnastic abilities and general fearlessness. Whether he sat inside or out, I don’t think a single day went by that he wasn’t lost in a moment of natural contemplation.

Different times of day bring a host of varied programming to the nature show on our screen porch. Pre-dawn hours, missed by most, include the rush of bats and the tuck-in of all the nocturnal creatures headed for bed. The bird show is incredibly popular with residents and guests alike and include a multitude of species, many of whom are colorful, busy and vocal.

The afternoon line-up is a less appreciated time slot, but one that I often found Dad taking in outside. The soles of his boat-shoed, wool socked-feet up on the table and one hand slowly going back and forth over an eyebrow in a sort of physical mantra. This was his home position, his idle. Peaceful, thinking, open and receiving.

Here is a poem I wrote the night I spent in the hospital with him, tears streaming down my face and jazz music quietly playing from my phone near his pillow. I read it to him a couple times, I think he heard me.

Buzz is Brubeck

Navy blue, charcoal tweed

Corduroy and elbows patches

Pipe tobacco early on, then Old Spice, then none.

Buzz is canoes and glassy lakes early in the morning,

Loon calls and Webers filled with charcoal

Bright orange light coated with furry grey ash.

Buzz is eyebrows and boat shoes on the table after supper time,

wool socks that give way to hairless legs and pale smooth skin

Buzz is love and tenderness

Poetry and pine trees.

Less than twenty-four hours before Dad left his body, from the bed we made in our dining room, three large black crows perched on the railing outside the sliding door by the head of his bed. Now you could say that they were there to eat the delicious bird food mom had sprinkled there for her “little birds” the finches, chickadees or even the blue jays and, his imminence, the Cardinal. But the food was most often there- and the crows were certainly not.

The Rice family crest features three crows, and today I looked up the significance. According to various sources online (many of which would like me to purchase prints of Coats of Arms and more detailed results) -

‘the raven is a symbol of divine protection and of the spiritual connection between humans and nature. It’s a sign of God’s presence and a representation of the power of nature and the [Rice family] respect for such.’

Our 8-year old daughter, another descendent child of nature, might point out on a different day, that ravens and crows are not the same thing. But today, that’s good enough for me.  

-e