Monarch Butterflies Are Special

Across the Fence #510

The Monarch butterfly is probably the most recognized of all our butterflies. Who among you can raise your hand and say you’ve never seen one? Not many of you, but the day may come when very few hands will be raised. Monarch sightings are getting fewer all the time.

We’ve always had a lot of monarchs around our place. Milkweed plants are plentiful along the fenceline behind our house. I try to protect them. I’d hate to see the day when that fenceline and all the natural habitat that goes down the lane alongside the fence is destroyed. Milkweed plants are essential for the life cycle of the monarch butterfly. I think that’s why we still see a lot of them when many people say they’ve only seen one or two all year.

Most people don’t give much thought to the extraordinary life cycle of the monarch. Ever since I first learned that those little fella’s fly up to three thousand miles south to spend the winter in central Mexico, I knew there was something special about them. At the Mexico wintering sites, the butterflies roost in the Oyamel trees, a species of evergreen. They form large communities numbering in the millions of individuals. Illegal logging of those trees in Mexico is destroying much of their habitat and in 2012-13 a survey showed a 92% decrease in the monarch population when compared with the 1996-97 count. That’s alarming.

I’ve always found them fascinating and wondered how those little butterflies find their way from Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota, all the way to central Mexico. Most of us humans would have to be equipped with maps and GPS devices to find our way and then we’d probably get lost. The other thing to consider is that the butterflies doing the migrating have never flown that route before. They aren’t the same ones that migrated north in the spring. Since the normal lifespan of a monarch is two months or less, those butterflies are long gone. However, the last generation of the summer that heads south can live for seven months or more. Scientists now think flight navigational patterns are inherited, and based on a sun compass that uses the earth’s magnetic field for orientation. Those are pretty sophisticated navigational instruments for a little butterfly. We need to give them more respect.

Monarch Caterpillar eating on a milkweed plant.

The overwintering monarch’s mate in the spring in Mexico prior to migration. The eggs are laid on the leaves of milkweed plants. After four days the larvae (caterpillars) hatch. They feed on the milkweed and store a type of cardiac glycoside, that becomes their protection against predators. The caterpillar stage lasts about two weeks. The caterpillar then spins a silk pad on a twig or leaf. I know many of you have seen those green cocoons. The caterpillar lives in this for another two weeks while it goes through a transformation and emerges as a monarch butterfly. There’s also a summer breeding period while they are here in the north country. I came across a mating period a couple years ago when I saw dozens of monarchs flying around in the field near the fenceline behind our house. I grabbed my camera and went closer to get some photos. I watched as they chased each other around until the male would make contact with a female and they would eventually fall to the ground. This is where the mating took place. They were then so preoccupied I could get right next to them to take photos. 

The offspring from that mating frenzy would be the monarchs that migrated to Mexico in the fall. Once again, it’s such a marvel when you think of them finding their way. Several generations later, a new batch will find their way back to us next summer.

I mentioned earlier about the caterpillar feeding on the milkweed plants and ingesting cardiac glycoside. This substance gives the monarch a foul taste and they are poisonous to birds and other predators. When they see those bright yellow and orange colored butterflies, they know they need to avoid them.

Unfortunately, the monarch’s still have a lethal enemy… it’s us. Man has become their biggest enemy. The yearly decrease in their population has been linked to the decrease of the milkweed plant that provides their primary food source. The use of herbicides to control weeds in their reproductive and feeding areas, has destroyed much of this food source. Also, the removal of fencelines in order to make bigger fields, destroys the brush and habitat where the fences were. The mowing of brush and plants along roadsides has also destroyed much of their food source and habitat.

Unfortunately, this is what has happened to hundreds of milkweed plants that were in the ditches along our country roads. All mowed down and the monarch's food source destroyed.

Is it any wonder that people are seeing very few monarch butterflies in their areas these days? We’re lucky to still have some around us, but how long will it be before they become scarce here too? Perhaps someday, future generations will have to visit a zoo to see monarch butterflies in a zoo environment, or go to a natural history museum to view another extinct species, like the passenger pigeon, that once numbered in the millions. We can still save the monarch butterfly by not destroying all of it’s habitat and food source. My hope is that people are willing to do that?

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Pacific Cruise and Sightseeing Tour

Across the Fence #509

After the story about my summer cruise in the Pacific ran, I had an e-mail from my cousin-in-law, Lou Wagner. He was married to my cousin, Sandy, who is often mentioned in my stories. He reminded me that he also had a late summer cruise, also on the U.S.S. Gordon, a year before I did. He went over with the 1st Cav Division when they deployed to Vietnam in 1965. His cruise was very similar to mine, long, hot, boring, rough seas, and seasick people. 

He had also gone ashore at Qui Nhon, and the 1st Cav set up camp at An Khe near there. Lou was back in Wisconsin over the weekend to attend his class reunion in Wausau. He met my brother David and his wife, Barbara, my cousin Mary, and Linda and me in Spring Green on Friday night, where we had dinner in the bank vault at Freddy Valentines. 

Needless to say, we had to talk about our cruises. My brother David flew over in 1969 when he went to Vietnam and ended up in the Delta with the 9th Infantry Division as a machine gunner. We had to rib David about missing out on a great Pacific cruise. David told us that after they got off the plane in Vietnam, they were standing in formation, waiting to be told where to go, when a sergeant asked if any of them had any construction experience. David had just graduated from college in Madison with a Civil Engineering degree. He knew you didn't volunteer for anything in the army, but thought, “I’m headed for an infantry unit as a grunt and just maybe I can get a job with an engineer unit doing construction instead,” so he raised his hand. All those who raised their hands spent the next four hours filling sand bags, while everyone else sat around on their duffle bags waiting to be told what to do next. No more volunteering for him! 

I had a similar experience at the reception center in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. The first day a sergeant asked if any of us had any college experience. Several of us raised our hands. We were told to show these other scumbags how to pick up rocks. We spent several hours picking rocks from a ditch and throwing them alongside it. That was my last volunteer job in the army too. The ironic thing was, the next day we saw a newly arrived batch of recruits throwing rocks back into the ditch!

My friend, David Giffey, had a better experience than we did at being assigned to a job more in line with his civilian training. He had a fall cruise in the Pacific in 1965 on the U.S.S. Mann, compliments of the 1st Infantry Division. He was trained in artillery at Fort Riley, Kansas, but was reassigned to work as a journalist on the 1st Infantry Division newspaper after someone stumbled across records of his civilian experience in journalism. He ended up working as a combat photographer/journalist in Vietnam. 

The three of us cruise participants, all left for Vietnam from San Francisco, sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge and past Alcatraz, as we began our cruise.  

Giffey said, “Being at sea was fascinating, having grown up on a farm in Fond du Lac County. It was also difficult, hot, and overcrowded. I was lucky to be responsible for publishing the ship’s newspaper. A Navy seaman taught me how to operate the printing press, and turned the print shop keys over to me. It gave me something to do other than smoke cigarettes and play cards.

“We anchored at Vung Tau, went ashore on amphibious landing craft, climbed into trucks and were hauled to an airfield where we boarded Caribou and flew to Bien Hoa, the 1st Infantry Division staging area (The entire division was deployed that fall).

“Our journalism unit lived in tents, built underground bunkers against mortar attacks, and took turns on guard, along with all the infantry and artillery personnel in the division. We tried to piece together a 1st Division newspaper at the same time. We soon moved to Di An and began to establish a base camp for the Division.

“One of my most vivid and ironic memories about arriving in Vietnam - which was a beautiful country until we began to destroy it - was being given “A Pocket Guide to Viet-Nam” as an introduction. It was a little propaganda booklet, sort of a tourist guide, published by the U.S. Department of Defense. The first chapter was titled “Opportunity Unlimited.” The second paragraph began like this: ‘The dangers of ambush and raid will make sight-seeing impossible in some places; but, when security restrictions permit, be sure to see something of the lovely country you are visiting and get acquainted with the charming - and tough and courageous - people who call Viet-Nam home.’ (David quoted from a copy of that little book that he has). The opportunity for ‘sight-seeing’ never presented itself to me or any of my comrades. Sight-seeing wasn't included on combat assaults, search-and-destroy missions, and ambush patrols.”

Howard (left) and Sarg checking their "sightseeing" map to see what 
attraction they should "visit" next. Maybe they can meet some of 
the charming, tough, and courageous people who live there.

The U.S. Department of Defense makes it all sound like a wonderful, all expenses paid, cruise and sight-seeing tour. I think Lou, David Giffey, my brother David, and I, who all served with Infantry units, would heartily disagree!

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Prairie Ghosts and Root Beer Stands

Across the Fence #508

We had our Hanson cousin’s reunion over the weekend. We are the grandchildren of Oscar and Julia Hanson. When we were growing up, most of us lived within three miles of each other, except for our Indianapolis Hanson cousins. The rest of us were together all the time; for every birthday and every holiday. Now we’re scattered to the four winds, and seldom get to see each other. It was great to spend some time together again, along with kids and grandkids. One scary thought was brought up; at least it’s scary for me. I’m the oldest person at these reunions now. Uff da ney! 

Some of us were talking about how seldom we went out to eat when we were young. It’s not like today when people eat out more than they eat at home. A big outing for all of us was going to the root beer stand.

It was always a treat to go there on a summer evening. It was a reward after working all day and we looked forward to it. The whole family piled into the car and headed for the local drive-in. There was the Wayside Drive-in between Westby and Viroqua, and later there was Perk’s Drive-in on the north edge of Westby. 

When we pulled in, a pretty car-hop in shorts would come to the car and take our order. It seems like we always ordered the same thing, a hot dog and a mug of root beer. Soon she returned with a tray full of cold, frosted glasses of root beer, which she fastened to the open window of the car. I always marveled at how they could balance those trays full of food without dropping them. Our father handed out the mugs and hot dogs and we’d sit there watching the people come and go while enjoying a hot dog and washing it down with a cool root beer. I can taste that hot dog now, as I write about it. It was really a treat when I found out about chili dogs. Think I’ll have to find a root beer stand and order one after I finish this story. 

When we were very young, we had to drink a “baby beer.” I think they came free when you ordered some food with it. When we got older we sat in the back seat and kept an eye on the city kids sitting at the picnic tables alongside the drive-in.

I envied them being able to walk downtown by themselves and not have to be driven to the drive-in by their parents. They were all laughing and having a good time. The boys would be fooling around, trying to impress the girls, but I thought they looked stupid. I think I was just jealous of them. Sometimes I’d recognize some of the girls from my Sunday School class. I hoped they wouldn’t see me sitting in the car with my parents, and I’d slouch down in the back seat of the car so they wouldn’t see me.

As kids, our only mode of transportation on the farm was the bicycle. I guess we could have pedaled our bikes into town to the root beer stand, but we never did. My bike was an old one-speed with fat, balloon tires. The one speed being, as fast as I could pedal it. It was a used Schwinn that Dad bought for $5.00. It was a big, heavy, green machine. The area from the handle bars back to the seat post was enclosed and at one time there was a horn that was supposed to sound when you pressed a button on the side of that panel. I can’t remember it ever working as long as I had the bike. The word Schwinn was written on each side of the panels. It had a headlamp, that at one time had also worked, but I don’t remember the light ever working either. There was a seat rack over the back tire, that was handy for carrying someone when riding double. The balloon tires were great for gravel roads and back pasture cow paths. It had only one speed of course, and to stop the bike, you applied the brakes by reversing the pedaling motion. I thought it was the best bike in the whole world and I could go like the wind over the gravel roads. There were very few places we couldn’t go with our old bikes. 

When our friends rode their bikes with us, we envisioned ourselves as tough Hell’s Angels, roaring down the road on our Harleys. We put baseball cards in the spokes, fastened with clothes pins to make a motor noise. We had some great imaginations. Unfortunately, some of those cards would be worth good money today if we still had them. This was back during the days when the Milwaukee Braves had some great players. 

At least it provided us with some fun adventures as we roamed the countryside as the Prairie Ghosts on our old, clunky bikes, disguised as Harleys. All young kids need a secret club, even farm kids, and we formed the Prairie Ghosts. If we’d been smart, we’d have ridden to the root beer stand and recruited some girls to join our club and ride with us. Darn, too soon old and too late smart!

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Fun Times On Hot Summer Nights

Across the Fence #507

Hot summer nights, filled with blinking fireflies, brings back memories of summers long ago when our limited rural world became a wonderful playground for us after the sun went down.

Summertime for farm kids wasn’t filled with baseball games, swimming lessons, or going away to summer camps. Our days were filled with work and chores from the time we were old enough to carry a pail, feed animals, and wield a hoe in the tobacco field and garden. Farm kids learned early in life how to work. We didn’t have a choice. It was the only life we knew and all our friends had to work too, so it was the norm for us.

Feeding chickens: Sandra, David, and Howard (holding rooster)

But after the evening chores and milking were done, it was time to relax. We often sat outside on the lawn under the big maple trees. We’d sprawl out in the cool grass while Ma, Dad, and Grandma Inga sat at an old picnic table or on lawn chairs. It was cooler outside than in the house on hot, humid days, and that’s where we experienced the magic of summer evenings.

If there was a breeze, the sound of the windmill creaking and groaning was background noise. As darkness descended around us, the fireflies came alive, their blinking lights punctuating the darkness. We always had to capture a few in mason jars with air holes punched in the lids to let air in. Then we had our own lanterns as they lit up the jar. The cricket symphony soon joined the creaking of the windmill, and a frog chorus could be heard somewhere off in the distance in the direction of the pond. The doves in the cupola of the barn added their soft cooing to the night sounds as they settled in for the evening. It was a soothing, relaxing mixture of sounds.

Arden, David, and our father, Hans Sherpe

We’d lie back in the cool grass and gaze into the star-filled sky. I wondered if anyone else was out there someplace looking back at us and wondering the same thing. The mystery of the night sky fascinated me then and still does. Today we have a lot more answers about the mind-boggling size of the universe, but there are still so many unanswered questions. We still don’t know if someone is out there looking back at us from the 100-200 billion, far-off galaxies in the universe, but I’d bet we’re not alone. As we gazed at the sky in those days, hoping to spot a UFO, an occasional bat would go darting across the night sky in search of bugs and mosquitoes for supper. They weren’t extraterrestrial, but they were still a bit unsettling to us.

Summer evenings were also fun when we had company from neighbors or relatives, and when we had our monthly 4-H meetings. There was always time for some evening fun after the meeting and eating was done. While our parents sat around and visited, we headed outside to play in the dark.

There were always games of tag and hide and seek. We had lots of places to hide if you weren’t afraid of finding some dark, secluded area, where chances were, they’d never find you. One person was chosen to be “it” and a base was selected, usually a tree, where the “it” person would stand with their eyes closed and count to 50 out loud. Then they’d announce, “Here I come, ready or not.” Meanwhile everyone had scurried off into the dark in search of a hiding place. Sometimes people would hide together. That was always more fun if it was a girl you liked. When the “it” person found someone, they would run back to the base tree and if they beat the person who had been hiding, that person was out. This went on until everyone had been found or until the person who was “it” had found all the people he/she could. Then they called out, “Olly, olly oxen free,” and all those who hadn’t been found would emerge from their hiding places in the dark. Depending on the rules of the day, the first person or last person found was “it” for the next game.

I’ve read about another version of hide and seek called “Sardines.” We had never heard of that when I was young. That’s too bad, because it sounds like it would have been interesting. In this version, the person who is “it” does the hiding and everyone else counts to 50 and then they all try to find the person who is hiding. When a seeker finds the person hiding, they join them in the hiding place. Each person who finds them also hides with them, until they become packed in like a bunch of sardines, hence the name of the game. The last person to find the sardines is “it” for the next game. Now, doesn’t that sound a lot more interesting than hiding alone in the dark?

Country kids had to work, but we also had fun, especially on hot summer nights, whether we were relaxing in the cool grass, listening to the night sounds and searching the stars, or playing hide and seek in the darkness of a country night with our friends.

Just one more thing. Who’s up for a game of “Sardines” with me? 

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Trying To Restore Natural Habitat

Across the Fence #506

I was sitting on the back deck the other day, enjoying the beauty and fullness of the green summer foliage around us. Majestic, puffy cumulus clouds filled the sky, all the way to the horizon. Patches of blue, the color of Robin’s eggs, were visible between the clouds, accentuating the white highlights and bluish-gray shadows of the clouds. The afternoon sun shone brightly through the breaks in those clouds. I basked in the warmth of the sun’s rays as I remembered the bitterly cold winter we had all endured not that many months ago. Summer feels good!

There was a slight breeze, but the leaves of the trees were barely moving. Then I heard the wind as it began moving through the large tree along the fenceline behind our house. It began slowly and increased in volume until it sounded like waves crashing on the shore. It was a wonderful, soothing sound. As I listened and observed the movement in the tree, I couldn’t help but wonder what our world would be like without trees.

I know I’d miss their beauty, the many changing colors in the fall, the snow-capped branches and evergreens in the winter, the magic of hoarfrost clinging to the trees, the soothing sound of leaves rustling in the wind, watching birds and squirrels build nesting places in them, seeing birds and other wildlife seek shelter there, listening to the chorus of tree frogs in the night, sitting or lying in the cooling shade on a hot, muggy summer day, attaching a rope swing to a limb, and watching children climb and play in trees as I remember the days when I did the same thing. I see how they form a windbreak barrier against winter storms, and provide a refuge, shelter, and home for wildlife, all year ‘round. Yes, trees are essential to all life.

It takes years to grow a tree to maturity, and only a few minutes to cut or bulldoze it down. We don’t have the respect and reverence for trees and nature that Native Americans had and still have. I like this quote by Chief Qwatsinas of the Nuxalk Nation. “We must protect the forests for our children, grandchildren, and children yet to be born. We must protect the forests for those who can’t speak for themselves, such as the birds, animals, fish, and trees.” Another Native saying I like says: “Nature is our mother, our home, our security, our peace, our past and our future. We should treat natural things and habitats as believers treat their temples and shrines, as sacred – to be revered and preserved in all their intricate and fragile beauty.”

Sherpe Road before the DOT destroyed all the trees.

There’s an area of land between the Uff da Bahn and Sherpe Road that’s now owned by the state. When they built the new four-lane highway and multi-use trail between Viroqua and Westby, they destroyed every bush and tree that lined both sides of Sherpe Road. Those areas were used as natural habitat for all types of birds and other wildlife. When I look at the areas that were destroyed, I see where they could have left most of the trees and brush on the east side of what is now the new location for Sherpe Road. I guess it was easier to destroy than work around them. That area is now wide open and was filled with wildflowers until they were mown down. We’d like to restore that area to again provide wildlife habitat with wildflowers, brush, and eventually trees. It would also provide a better sound barrier against the traffic noise on the Uff da Bahn. 

Trying to restore this area between Sherpe Road and the Uff da Bahn, but people keep mowing it down and destroying the habitat. 

I realize it’s state-owned and no longer our land, but hopefully the state and county won’t mow everything down and destroy the new growth. It takes a long time to grow brush and trees of any size. I doubt if I’ll see that area restored to the way it was during my lifetime. But, as the Native American quote says, we must protect areas like that for our children, grandchildren, and the children yet unborn, so they may enjoy it.

It would be great to have that area of land become a bird and wildlife refuge in the middle of humanity again, so future generations can enjoy the views, sights, and sounds, as they walk along the road. We used to enjoy seeing deer suddenly emerge from the brush and trees, the singing of birds filled the air, butterflies and bees feasted on the wildflowers, Monarch butterflies found milkweed plants that are essential for their life, wild blackberries grew along the ditches beside the road, and plum trees provided us fruit for picking and canning. That was all destroyed by the construction of the Uff da Bahn. Now we’d like to restore that natural habitat for those who come after us to enjoy. We need to be conscious of the environment in which we live so we don’t end up destroying the land, water, and air, that all the animals, fish, birds, butterflies, bees, and yes even us humans, depend on to sustain life on this very small, blue dot in a very vast universe.

I’ll leave you with this Native American proverb, “A frog does not drink up all the water of the pond in which it lives.” Such a simple statement with such a powerful and profound message for all of us to think about.

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A Summer Cruise In the Pacific

Across the Fence #505

I imagine everyone has dreamed of taking an ocean cruise at some time in their life. I took one in July of 1966. My cruise wasn’t like the movies, where there are lots of girls, champagne, dancing, and all sorts of social activities. Our Social Director was the sergeant who conducted the exercise classes, better known in the Army as P.T. (Physical Torture). We also had the opportunity of attending various lectures held on deck. Actually, we were ordered to attend. These informative lessons included; booby traps, snakes, what to do if captured, and various social diseases existing in Vietnam. We received many lecture classes on “How to stay alive or go down fighting.”

That still left countless hours to fill. Once a day we scrubbed out our compartment, which occupied all of half an hour. My job was throwing the mops over the fantail of the ship and letting them drag behind the ship, getting spotlessly clean. I consider myself quite an expert on this procedure, and if ever the conversation rolls around to the fantail cleaning of mops, I’ll be able to hold my own with the best of them.

Meanwhile, back on the sun deck. Actually it was a dirty old deck with a rail to keep us from falling into the ocean and getting out of going to Vietnam. Mainly the rail was used by seasick soldiers to lean over, while heaving their guts into the water below. I was never sea-sick, but a good share of the men were at one time or other. I attributed my sea-worthiness to my good old Viking blood. 

The decks were always overcrowded with men; sitting, standing, lying, playing cards and craps, or just talking and watching the water roll by. We spent endless hours staring at the ocean and thinking our private thoughts. Every day there it was... more water. The only change was the color and height of the rolling waves. There’s something refreshing about standing by the rail with the ocean breeze and spray hitting your face. The sun rising and setting on the water was spectacular. And the water kept rolling by!

We had three meals a day. It was nothing to brag about, but we ate it. After standing in the mess line for up to an hour to get our food, we stood at chest high, long tables and shoveled it down. In rougher water, the boat rocked so you could hardly stand up. Your coffee spilled, and anything round rolled off your plate, unto the floor, and kept on going. I think every ship must have a corner where all the apples and oranges end up. A sort of Wayward Fruit Graveyard. Ah, the joys of an ocean cruise!

When the weather was bad and the water rough, walking was quite an experience. When the ship went up on a wave you were pressed downward and could hardly lift your feet. Then the ship went down between the swells and you were walking on air, in a prancing movement. Meanwhile, the latrines (heads to you Navy boys) and sleeping compartments were filled with men on their hands and knees, so sick they’d have to get better to die.

After a few days at sea the novelty wore off and the whole situation became one of boredom. We reclined on our crowded bunks, stacked four high, and read the books and magazines floating around. Inevitably, the last pages of a story had been torn out, usually because a picture of Miss Bikini of the Month was on the other side. Soon we’d read all the books and magazines, and looked at all the pictures (several times).

We wrote letters. After we’d written our folks, our girl or wife, all our friends, grandparents, aunts and uncles, we started on distant relatives and people we hadn’t seen for years. Then we could write again the next day and tell them all the thrilling happenings in our life since we last wrote.

There were endless card games. We played Dirty Clubs and Hearts for hours on our bunks. Even a penny a game adds up when you play all day. If those stakes were too small, you could always get into a high stakes poker or craps game.

There was always someone strumming a guitar with a group of GI’s singing around him, usually country western songs. From the stairwells, rose the sound of the Black guys harmonizing on blues and soul. Ray Charles is one of my favorite singers, and one group of guys let me sing along with them on some Ray Charles songs. Ricks, also a medic, was in that group. I didn’t make any points with some of the “good old boys” from down South. They let me know I shouldn’t be singin’ with those N…. I asked them if they’d worry about whether Ricks or me treated them if they got wounded. 

The closer we got to Vietnam the hotter it got and even sleeping became unbearable in the hot, crowded, bowels of the ship. We just sat around and watched each other sweat. We developed heat rashes where I didn’t know you could even get heat rashes. Tempers got short and fights broke out. We needed to get to Vietnam so everyone could start fighting the enemy instead of each other.

That was my wonderful 23-day, summer cruise in the Pacific.

View of the U.S.S. Gordon from our landing craft, as we headed for shore.

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Birds Pose Questions To Ponder

Across the Fence #504

Since I retired at the end of May I’ve been walking 2-3 miles every day and trying to get back in shape. I’ve spent too many years sitting at a desk. It feels good to be doing something physical again and being able to walk up a hill without getting winded.

Walking for me is a solitary activity. It’s my time to think and let my mind wander. That’s hard to do if you’re talking to someone or listening to an iPod while walking. I’ve always preferred to exercise alone. Even when I used to run every day and cross country ski in the winter, I did those activities alone most of the time.

When I was younger, my “thinking time” was in the silo while I was throwing down silage for the cows. I’ve referred to that period of my life as “Silo Philosophy 101.” Everyone should have a quiet time each day, where you are by yourself and can meditate and think. By thinking I mean that you should be asking yourself questions about life and searching for answers. I question everything and try to figure out the hows and whys. I don’t mean questions like, “Why does it always rain when you wash your car?” Some questions just don’t have easy answers. Maybe you should have washed the car on a different day?

I have a lot more questions than I have answers. So many of them deal with life and death. Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going? I don’t have blinders on when it comes to thinking about these subjects and new scientific discoveries. I once heard the phrase, “A closed mind is like a steel trap that’s rusted shut. It’s no good for anything.”

My walks often give me questions to ponder. Today while walking I came across a baby robin sitting in the middle of our country road. Two robins, who I assumed were the frantic parents, were calling excitedly as I approached. Their baby was in harm’s way, and just like a couple of human parents, they were going to protect their baby even if it meant sacrificing themselves. The closer I got to the young robin the more excited the parents became. The one was flying from branch to branch in the trees next to the road and finally began flying in circles above me and loudly scolding this monster that was approaching her baby.

I stopped briefly to examine the bird and it made no attempt to flee. I wondered if it had tried to fly and found out it wasn’t ready. Now it was stuck there in the middle of the road, at the mercy of anything that came by; a walker, a car or truck, a wandering cat, or a fellow winged carnivore looking for a meal. I continued my walk to the end of our road, turned around, and headed back. It hadn’t moved and was still in the middle of the road. I couldn’t let it sit there and be hit by a passing car. I had to move it. As I bent down and gently picked it up, it opened it’s mouth expecting food. Then it realized it was in the clutches of a giant monster and began squawking and flapping its wings. The parents were now in full panic mode and began dive-bombing me. I set it down gently in the grass on the edge of the road and continued on my way. One robin was on the road in front of me, acting like a killdeer, trying to lure me away from it’s baby. It didn’t flap its wing as if it had been hurt, like I’ve seen killdeers do, but it lowered one wing as if it was hurt. Meanwhile the other robin was circling and dive-bombing at me. They didn’t seem to appreciate that I had tried to save their baby’s life. I have no idea if the little one lived through the day or became a meal for a hungry predator. Such is life. Nature can be cruel and the story doesn’t always end, “and they lived happily ever after.”

Later in the day I heard a killdeer making a lot of noise in the road near our house. When I checked, it looked like a bird was lying in the road. I went to investigate and the killdeer that was doing all the squawking was reluctant to move at first. It appeared to be guarding and mourning the loss of it’s mate. It finally flew off, but kept circling and calling as I took the dead bird, that appeared to have been hit by a car, and put it in the ditch beside the road. It will probably become a meal for another animal or bird, as the circle of life and death continues.

In the space of a few hours, I had witnessed parents trying to protect their young baby from harm, and another bird mourning the death of it’s mate and not wanting to leave it's side. This morning when I went for my walk, a killdeer was wandering around in the road near the spot where the one was killed yesterday. Was it the mate? I don’t know, but the two incidents involving birds give me more questions to seek answers to.

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