What a Hoot

For at least the past week, I have heard one or more Great Horned Owls calling in the early morning hours. The sounds wake me up around 2:30 or 3:00 AM. Last night, there was a new sound, one which was more than a little creepy. Listen to the sound on the third button at this link:

Great Horned Owl Sounds

That shrieking sound was disturbing. I opened the window to listen but could not be sure. It did sound like a bird. Naturally I thought it might be an injured animal or some prey they had not yet killed. Perhaps an owl fledgling, calling to its parents. There were are least three separate calls, all very close. I've stepped outside in the past in hopes of seeing the shadow of an owl in one of the trees. Unfortunately, they are masters of disguise and good at hiding in the dark shadows.

The owls always make me think of this song, a personal favorite:

There's been a hoot owl howling by my window now, for six nights in a row.

Thank you, owls.

The Sister

Me, Ted, Dave (March 15, 2013)

Brother Ted is two years older than me. Except for the occasional teasing and his insistence that I was adopted after they found me on the doorstep, he's been a great brother.

And boy is he ever smart.

Ted was every parent's dream. Thoughtful, persistent, talented, artistic, studious. He received nothing but straight A's throughout school, with maybe a hard-to-believe A- or B+ to mess with his perfect record.

We never had classes together. Because of the way our school system was set up, after a certain set of grades were completed, you advanced to another school in a separate building. We were at the same school while I was in 1st and 2nd grade, but rarely saw each other. When I advanced to 3rd grade, he moved to 5th grade in a separate school. When I advanced to 5th grade, he moved to 7th grade in yet another school. And on it went.

Ted was famous, though. Oh yes. All the teachers loved him. I was painfully shy and terrified of tests, especially timed tests. Although I was a fairly good student, I never seemed to pass muster when it came to being Ted Thompson's Sister.

Yes. That was my name throughout the years. Every class I was in, the teacher would ask, are you related to Ted Thompson? I would nod my head, yes, thinking... here we go again. As Ted Thompson's Sister, I was expected to be good at science and math and homework and studying and speaking up in class and even to excel at enthusiastically erasing the chalkboards. But, I was not.

By the time I got to 7th grade, junior high (middle school as it's called now), I had grown weary of the comparisons. It was the late sixties and I wanted to be a flower child. I deliberately screwed up in math class. I ditched choir (yes, choir). I began to get into trouble regularly and mom was having none of it.

Then, something miraculous happened. As a high school freshman, back in the same school with brother Ted for the first time since 2nd grade, I signed up for beginning typing. We had to learn on manual typewriters, you know the kind: with a platen you had to slam vigorously from left to right using a handle poised on the left. Only in subsequent classes were you allowed to use an electric typewriter.

Ted was a junior now, well established in high school and famous in his own right as an artist and athletic trainer and overall smart-guy extraordinaire. The miraculous circumstance was that Ted also signed up for beginning typing that year. There we were. Side by side. In the same class. Learning the same thing. And let me tell you what, I kicked his ass up one side and down the other at typing. While Ted fumble-fingered his way through one semester of typing, I was a natural. Finally, finally (thank you, God) I found something I could do that Ted could not. I was on my way!

A career choice had been selected. By this time, I knew I'd never be a veterinarian, what with my sketchy grasp on science and our family's complete lack of funding for any type of higher education. But business classes, oh yes! I excelled at everything in this arena, and threw in some Spanish and literature and writing and social studies for good measure. I finally realized I didn't have to be as good as Ted. I only had to be as good as me...

And it worked!

Years later, a reunion was scheduled for all students attending our high school in the seventies. There I was, milling about the crowd, with a nametag proclaiming "Debbie Thompson, Class of 1975." Still, some people looked from my face to the nametag with a puzzled look, until I would announce, "I'm Ted Thompson's Sister." Oh, oh, yes! Now I know who you are.

It's become a badge of honor.

Polite Conversations

Today I walked the dogs at the open space near our house. It has been so dry and windy; wildfires have been springing up here and there across the state. The wind calmed down a bit and we strolled down winding paths here and there. Much sniffing was accomplished.

Back at the main trail, an older fellow on a bicycle pedaled slowly towards me. He wanted to know about the dogs: whether they were male or female, their ages, breeds. Tonka pushed forward to get a scratch; Daisy held back.

He said he had just returned from a trip to the grocery store on his bike. Up the big hill. He was tired. It's been cold. He needs to do this more often. He's 72, going on 73. His birthday is in May. Told me that, twice. I said I just turned sixty. He said sixty is pretty good; seventy is a lot harder. I told him sixty was good, so far.

Then..........

Him: Are you a Christian?
Me: [silence...thinking, where did this come from?] Not really.
Him: You must have been a Christian at some point. [why, because I'm a blonde?]
Me: When I was a kid, yes.
Him: What kind?
Me: [what kind? really?] Episcopal
Him: Well, Jesus loves you [there seemed to be an implied, "anyway" here].
Me: I'm sure he does.
Him: You should read his word.
Me: [silence]
Him: I pray every day and you should too.
Me: [silence]
Him: We need to pray for our country. Things are so bad. The world is dangerous. Our leaders don't even try to work together for our country.
Me: No, they don't. And it's going to get worse with that new guy in charge.

Our polite conversation ended abruptly at this point.

Him: [takes to the pedals] Goodbye.
Me: You have a good day.
Him: [silence]

Our lovely walk resumed. I did not look back.

Here We Go

Good morning. Today is my 60th birthday, which I've been anticipating for a while. Since a number of family members died in their fifties, I figured if I could make it to sixty, I'd be set for a while. Fingers crossed.

So here's a question: Is sixty still considered middle-aged, or am I now a senior? Not quite ready for the senior title just yet.

Brother Ted tells me that I'm now "advanced" middle-aged. He is 62 and considers himself a senior.

Oh, and March came in like a lamb, as it usually does. Here's a post I wrote in 2011:

In Like A Lion