Bird Days Part I: Something to Crow About

It's been a week for the birds. Really.

On late Monday afternoon, on my way to quench the thirst of our parched vegetables growing in the front yard, I was hailed by my neighbor across the street. The problem: Bird troubles.

I walked over to their house to find out the problem only to see a young, black crow smashed up against the bottom stone step, not moving. This did not look good. It kind of looked like it had flown into the step almost like a cartoon character smashes up against a wall.

Just to preface this situation, I think we're known as the animal folks in our neighborhood. We fostered a baby crow nine years ago that fell out of its nest and was injured. No rescue place would take it (believe me, we tried to find a way to foist that responsibility off on someone else.) Nurturing the little crow was an incredible amount of work, but it turned out to be an amazing experience. I still respond internally to the sounds of a baby crow's call -- kind of like once you're a mom, you instinctively respond to the cries of other infants.

In our shared neighborhood history, my husband has also shown the neighborhood kids a variety of snakes, lizards, rats and mice that he has caught. Flashback to the time we accidentally killed two parent mice (actually I think we relocated one prior to our knowledge about the young 'uns and the other was accidentally done away with when my husband took out the drawer to try to catch it and then unfortunately squished it when he put the drawer outside.) Subsequently, we found out that they had babies after the fact. One at a time. We would be sitting in the living room and then see a streak go buy in the kitchen. So, we ended up catching each baby in the humane trap over a course of a week.

They seemed way too young to be able to survive on their own in the wild. They were wee little things (actually, really cute and silly.) Usually, if we encounter any kind of rodent problem, we catch the rodents in a live trap and then move them out to the hills where there are no human residents close by -- this way they have a shot a life or end up being someone's dinner rather then us having to distasteful do away with them in a snap trap or some other killing device.

So, we ended up caring for these little mice babies in a special aquarium box until we deemed them old enough to be let go in the big, bad world out there. It was kind of fun. An educational experience. Did I mention that we home-school?

Okay, we're suckers. Bleeding-hearts. Animal crazy. Whatever you want to call us.

Back to Monday: So, after observing the crow for a moment, I could see he was a fledgling by his feathers -- meaning he was just learning how to fly.  He wasn't a wee one (I felt secretly relieved because, now that I think of it, these same neighbors were the ones we inherited the other crow from. While that was a wonderful learning experience, I really didn't want to try to add another animal rehabilitation endeavor to my overburdened schedule right now.)

The young crow had beautiful, dark mature feathers growing in.  But, his neck was jammed up against the step and he wasn't moving at all. "Please, don't let it be broken,"  I prayed.

I had several warring emotions going on. One was worry for this crow's physical health; I find an injured animal upsetting, especially when its injuries are mortal. Another was worry for me -- hell, I did not want to have take on another animal injury case; I am way overloaded in my life right now. At the same time, I felt in awe of the moment and excited by the opportunity to be in close contact with a wild animal. Such a moment seems sacred to me -- rare and special.

I gently picked him up by scooping him under his breast and under his feet, carefully moving him and cradling him in my hands against my body. I could feel his feet grip around my fingers.  As I moved him away from the step, his head seemed normal -- it didn't tilt in an odd way - which looked good to me. His wings didn't appear broken. I moved my hand down a bit to check out his feet and make sure he wasn't lame.

I noticed blood on my finger. His blood, not mine. I got a little worried, but when I really inspected his feet they seemed to be gripping my fingers just fine. No toes curled up in lameness. Looking more closely, there was a scrape on the top of one leg going onto his foot that was bleeding a little. Didn't look like worse case scenario. Phew.

His mouth opened slightly. My neighbors were concerned about giving him food - so I suggested some dog food soaked in water - but he wasn't interested in eating. Really, he seemed in shock. Of the flight, fight or freeze reactions, he seemed to be in freeze. Poor guy, probably thought he was going to be lunch.

I can't tell you how wonderful it felt to hold him in my hands. It brought back so many memories about our other experience with our foster crow, Henke. To have the chance to hold a magnificent wild animal in your hands is just so cool. I felt a warm feeling in my heart. I loved looking at his blue-grey eyes, feeling his shiny, silky feathers and feeling the weight of him in my hands. I felt really blessed to get the chance to hold him.

He seemed fine enough that we just needed to find a safe place to put him where his parents could find him and he wouldn't get attacked by a cat. First thought was my neighbor's roof. But, once we got up on the balcony and my neighbor got on the roof, it seemed decidedly too slanted and unsafe - we could imagine the poor thing rolling to his death if his foot wasn't really sturdy.

Back to the drawing board. I didn't like the idea of the plants or the ground. Too many cats. The ash trees were really tall -- we would need a ladder and still we had the problem of not knowing the exact damage to his foot and if he would be able to stay in the tree safely. In the end, we ended up putting him on top of their car on a towel with some wet dog food. That way his parents could find him.

My husband later suggested to our neighbors that they might want to put him on their balcony during the night so he would be safer. I didn't know about this suggestion until the morning and I woke up in the middle of the night totally freaked out with alarm because I realized that on the car he was a sitting duck (or crow!) for owls.

My neighbors got busy and forgot to move the fledgling crow. I found this out in the morning from my neighbor when I woke up really early to go check on him. He wasn't there.  We didn't see the young bird anywhere.

There was, however, a big crow poop that looked pretty fresh on the top their car (I am very familiar with crow poop). And no feathers left over from an attack. So, I was hopeful that the little guy wasn't an owl dinner, but reunited with his parents.

As it turned out, the fledgling did survive the night. We discovered this when our neighbor told us that the crow was on their porch hiding behind the large, blue planters. Sure enough, as the Bee and I observed through our window looking at our neighbor's porch, every now and then the little guy would peep out or start strutting around back and forth in front of their door.

He looked good. Neck fine. Wings fine. Legs and feet in darn good shape. Everything appeared to be working. And he survived the night!

That morning we could hear several mature crows calling out and saw them flying around our neighborhood. His parents had to be out there.

The Bee loved observing him and asked lots of questions. Eventually I needed to go grocery shopping and move on with my day -- the Bee was decidedly unhappy about this. Did I mention that our children are animal crazy, too? Apparently, there is a genetic component to this strange madness.

Later, when I our saw our neighbor's teenage son, I asked about the bird and he said that he wasn't there anymore. I felt both happy and sad. Happy, because I do believe he fully recovered and managed to fly off to be with his family again once he figured out what to do.  Sad, because that moment of interaction with a beautiful, wild creature was gone.

And yet, it stays with me -- the moment where two different species interact and affect one another. One gives the gift of caring and help. The other gives the gift of appreciation for the magnificence of life. Something to crow about.

Nurturing Tolerance

Last week I took a special field trip with my oldest daughter. Usually we go on field trips altogether, both of my daughters and I, but this was a special place not appropriate for my nine-year-old. Our destination? The Museum of Tolerance.

I have passed by this sign so many times on the freeway. I'd always noticed it, but didn't know much about it. Actually, something about the word "tolerance" made me feel vaguely uneasy - somewhere in my mind it seemed linked to the word "torture."  I am not the only one who thought that; when I told Daughter #1 we were invited to go, she mentioned the same uneasy feelings about the tolerance/torture connection. Which seems weird, I know, because tolerance is an essential and beautiful thing. But, I guess the word also triggers a unsettling feeling of the consequences of intolerance (which is unfortunately rampant in the world.)

It wasn't my idea to go. A very dear friend whose daughter is the same age (and who will be celebrating her Bat Mitzvah next summer) invited us to join them. Which was perfect as my daughter had been studying World War II (probably part of the reason she didn't want to go as she had an inkling of what to expect.) The potential of this experience was further enhanced by our cultural backgrounds. My friend and her daughter are Jewish and lost many family members in the Holocaust; my husband's mother (now deceased) was German and lived in Germany as a teenager during WWII - she lost a brother in the war (he was a soldier) and her pastor father was tortured by the Nazi's for helping Jewish people.

Our field trip started out in a bizarre fashion. Or, rather, I've just lived a sheltered life. When we arrived at the parking garage, I was stopped by a guard who mumbled something about needing to see my driver's license and something else which I didn't catch. So I fumbled around for my license, which of course I had not put in the proper slot, while the guard walked back up the incline - which I thought was little strange, but maybe he was worried about another car possibly entering. Finally found my driver's license and waved it out the window so he would know I was ready. But he stayed where he was and sternly said something about my needing to open the trunk of the car. Oh! That's what he had mumbled before (it wasn't just me, my daughter didn't hear the dude say trunk either). That was astonishing for me - I don't think I've ever had my car inspected before as if I could be carrying dangerous weapons and this encounter suddenly highlighted for me a visceral sense of the potential danger of hatred. I thought I was just going to a museum. Instead, there existed the possibility of violence.

Upon entering the exhibit, we needed to have our persons and purses go through the scanners like at the airport. I failed the test and had to be pulled aside to get scanned with the handheld doo-hickie and for some reason I needed to lift the hem of my pants so they could see my ankles (I hadn't shaved my legs for a bit, so that was slightly embarrassing!) My thirteen-year-old found my inspection very amusing. Her dowdy old mom - a suspect!

There were swarms of school kids there for field trips - junior high and high school. We descended the spiral ramp adorned with beautiful black and white photographs of the Holocaust survivors who volunteer at the Museum of Tolerance (MOT). The tour begins with information and exhibits about bullying and hatred and social justice and tolerance by looking at both historical and contemporary examples. Many of the exhibits are interactive using video footage and computer screens.

In the school crowd, there were all types of students. Some really into it. Others just passing the time. Some just goofing with their peers. I felt grateful that our daughters were there with my friend and me. In our small group of four we got a chance to discuss our impressions and feelings about the subject matter. This was heavy-duty and sensitive material and some of the exhibit had pretty intense, violent imagery. After the video about cyber-bullying our daughters got a chance to share with us what they might do in that situation (that was actually thanks to my friend - she is great at asking questions while I usually like to take in everything silently.)

We then began the section on the Holocaust. The newly acquisitioned Hitler letter detailing his plans was on display. We tagged along with one of the groups and we got to hear the docent explain about WWII and how many people blame only Hitler for the atrocities when in fact there were so many people, ordinary people, who were also to blame for the immense human suffering that occurred. I really liked how the Holocaust section began with each person taking a card with the picture of a child who lived during that time; at the computer stations we inserted our cards and we got to know about our child and their family; at the end of the exhibit, we find out our child's fate.

Midway through the Holocaust exhibit we left to hear a Holocaust survivor speak in the auditorium. All I can say is - wow. This is a must for everyone over the age of thirteen. Hearing this incredible woman share her story left the greatest impression on me, my friend and our daughters. All we saw, heard and discussed up to this point in the exhibit was brought poignantly to life. Living and breathing in front of us.

After a quick pick-me-up lunch in the upstairs cafe (we were literally wilting as we had already been there three hours, although I felt a little guilty about feeling hungry after hearing the Holocaust survivor speak), we had enough energy to resume the Holocaust exhibit - which we all exclaimed was made so much more tangible after hearing an actual Holocaust survivor share her story with us. The part we resumed at was the point where a lot of human suffering and really unimaginable acts perpetrated on people were illuminated. This level of atrocity and suffering - there are no words to describe the feelings that learning the specifics of it invokes.

As a mother, I felt overwhelmed just imagining the heartbreak and agony of the families ripped apart. The human suffering. The gross cruelty. Since I work with mothers and babies, one of the last sections detailing newborn infants thrown out of windows their to their deaths was particularly disturbing and shocking to me - I just can't get that mental image out of my mind; the complete detachment one has to have from the very essence of their humanity to do such an act - I find that so very frightening.

I guess what is so truly frightening is that human suffering at the hands of others due to hate, fear, ignorance and bullying still happens every day. All over the world. And not just in far away places, but here. Here in our own cities. Perhaps our own neighborhoods and schools.

Going to the MOT reminded me of both our vulnerability and our responsibility. As a mother, I worry for my children, all of our children, entering a world inhabited by people who act upon intolerance, bigotry, fear and hate. As a woman with daughters, I am constantly aware of our vulnerability just as women. Hatred, discrimination and violence across the world is directed towards women. But, such acts also happen to men; and to children. Hatred is hatred and where it is fostered it will always try to find a target - any group, person, race - that it can fixate on.

Which brings us to responsibility. The responsibility of nurturing tolerance in our own lives. We can't control what others say and do. But we can control what we say and do. We can be conscious of how we respond to others and make a point to de-escalate violent words and actions. Not by force, but by trying to understand. We can become aware of our own prejudices and intolerances. We can help by being aware of what we think and say. Being aware of how we deliver what we want to say. Being aware of how we treat people. Being aware of how other people are treated. Having the courage to take action when someone is treated wrongly.

As mothers and fathers we can take action by nurturing our babies and children. Loving them, honoring them and gently guiding them seem to be the first steps in the mission to a more tolerant and accepting world. If a baby or child does not experience loving nurturance and acceptance, then how much more difficult may it be for this child to be able to give this to others? To exhibit forbearance and tolerance later in life?

I am someone who likes happy endings - I never finished Tess of the d'Urbervilles because after I awhile I saw where that novel was headed. So, I probably wouldn't have gone to the MOT without the encouragement of my dear friend. My daughter wasn't so eager to go either. But we were both blown away. We learned so much that day. We felt the fear of violence. We felt the sadness of loss. We felt the triumph of survival. We felt the hope of building a better future. This experience made such an impression on us that my husband wants to see exhibit, too; especially to hear a Holocaust survivor speak since the chance for this precious encounter will not always be possible. So, we have a date planned for the near future. A date for the heart, the soul and the mind - a date for a more tolerant future.

Tolerance. Compassion. Love. Believe in it and live it.



Photo credits from Flickr: 
"Holding Hands" - M.MartinPhotography
"Tolerance" - Peconic Windsurfer