Raven

For the past few weeks, whenever John has gone out to the carport at night to collect wood or plug the plow truck in, he's heard what seems like a bird flying away.

This morning in daylight, I saw scat in the snow underneath the beams in the carport.  Tonight, when I went out with the flashlight to see if I could catch a glimpse of our visitor, I actually saw a bird flying away, and I could hear the muffled thrumming of its wings beating in the air.  It was alerted to my presence by the not-so-subtle sound of my boots tromping through the snow.  I tried as hard as I could to be sneaky.

There is a raven roosting in the roof beams of our carport. 

So, Step One of Plan Raven has reached fruition.  Now for Step Two.  But how do I entice this raven to hang out and become my best friend, or at least to stick around and not abandon the roost?  The obvious answer is to just leave him/her alone.  But I think I'm going to be leaving some food out there, just to see what happens.  I'll probably have to sign some kind of contract with my husband promising that it will be me, and only me, who will collect the rotting food remains come spring.

So, I'm pleased as punch that our property is inviting a host of bird friends.  The jays still come around, though they are not quite as fond of the discount cheese.  We have tons of chickadees and other tiny little birds that seem to dart from tree to tree but neglect to eat the gourmet seeds from the bag of bird seed I bought from Fred Meyer.  And now this solitary raven.

But otherwise, January was a rough month.  At least one of us has been sick since mid-December.  I've lost count how many colds I've had.  I thought this whole breastfeeding thing was supposed to ward off sickness in the baby, but at least I know that Theo is building up his immune system.  (I feel like Calvin's dad for saying that, like it's some kind of character-building exercise, this slogging through the mucus bog of life.)  We are just now emerging from the congestion haze of the latest bug, so my hopes are high for a healthy February.

I'm not volunteering as a docent this semester.  I miss hanging out at the museum, but with all the bitter (and I mean bitter, like 40 or 50 below) cold we've had, and the viral kind of cold that this family has been struck with, it's very much a relief not to have a morning commitment.  I've lost my will to lead a productive life before 9am.

I am singing with the Choir of the North again.  It's somewhat easier to have a standing weekly activity at night.  Especially when that means that John is the one who's putting Theo to sleep while I'm off gallivanting around singing my Stephen Foster madrigals.  Apart from a handful of other, older community members, I'm one of the oldest members of the choir.  And that is weird.  Very weird.  I usually arrive early to choir, so I can sit and read for a few minutes (I've got to eke out the personal enrichment whenever I can), but I usually end up eavesdropping on undergraduate conversations.  Topics generally entail drinking, campus dorm life (like, oh my god, I can't believe the RA found out about us drinking in our dorm room), or boys.  I can't hear what the tenors or basses talk about, but I bet the topics are exactly the same.  Some of the kids (kids! I call them kids! I must be old) sweatshirts emblazoned with Class of 2010 mottoes or 2011 All-State Choir tees, and my brain automatically does the simple arithmetic.  I graduated high school in 1996.  These kids are fifteen years younger than I am.  It's fun to sing again, that's what I keep reminding myself.  I was one of the youngest members of the Seattle Symphony Chorale, so being one of the oldest in Choir of the North is just another notch in my belt of choral experiences.  We're doing Brahms' Zigeunerlieder (gypsy songs!) and some Gold Rush-era nostalgia songs for our spring concert on May 4th.  I am totally going to hit you up hard later this semester to entice you to go.

And now for a photo of Theo: