June 2010

    A commotion was going on below my bedroom window.  The digital readout on my alarm clock read 4:30, two hours before my usual wake-up time.  Loud, weird noises crashed into the early morning quiet.  This was no fox.  The shriek of a wild pig?  (Are there wild pigs anywhere near here?)

    I got up to see what I could see.

    Kneeling at my window, quiet as could be, I could see three huge turkeys prancing in slow motion, circling around each other on the lawn and in the driveway.  Every few seconds, one would let out a shriek, to be answered by another.  They walked like runway models in training, one foot set down directly in front of the other.  They brushed the ground with their spread wings and fanned out their spectacular tail feathers in a ritual of some loud, screeching importance.  And there was I, voyeur to their exquisite dance of unknown delights.

    They left, and in a while the rat-a-tat of the pileated woodpecker took over the noisemaking.  I looked to the telephone pole at the end of the driveway and spotted him at his old riveting station right at the top.  The geese were back on the cove, seven adults and eight goslings, bathing and splashing.  As I write, I see a chickadee perched on the rusty rim of the old well pump, contemplating a dive down the pipe to the nest he’s built.  I ask: How in the world does he go down head first, and come back up the narrow pipe face up again?

    But then, I ask again: How can a two-ton bison jump five feet straight up in the air from a standing position?

    I am not required to understand these things.

    Animals, bird life – all nature – fascinates and delights us.  No one was a better friend to birds than my Grand-pere, the father of my mother.  He was born in Modane, France, in 1878. When he was six, his parents died and he was put in the charge of an aunt, who lived on the Italian side of the border.  Each family owned a hotel and restaurant that catered to travelers.

    When my daughter was ten years old, she produced a “family newspaper” and solicited contributions from relatives.  Grand-pere, her great-grandfather, was a frequent contributor.  Reading this dispatch in the March 1974 issue of Amie’s publication makes me think of him as a young boy in France:

    “At the age of six-and-a-half, me [sic], my brother and three sisters were separated in all directions.  My work was to take care of about eight sheep.  I had to rise at sunrise.  I begin to prepare my lunch of bread, salt mutton, and all the grapes I could carry.  And so, me first – and then the music – ba-a-a, ba-a-a, ba-a-a (tremolo).  We go up, up, up as fast as we can.  We find a nice spot with a river and decide to rest.

    “We lie down on the grass, watching the sun rise, the birds by flock, happy, singing.  It was beautiful and so peaceful.  Squirrels.  Birds in different colors.  Foxes, sparrows, nothing to do but enjoy the beauty of the French and Italian Alps.

    “Now, memories come back to me, and I look around for something to do.  I begin with pigeon, and now I have quite a collection.  Sparrow, blue jay, crow.  The past comes back to me.  I feed them twice a day.  My surprise is they are always waiting for me.  They do not need watches.”

    Grand-pere came to America at the age of twenty-two in the steerage of a French ship with only $30.  But it was in American gold pieces, obtained in exchange with tourists passing through his village in the Alps.  The immigration officer was so impressed that he admitted him immediately, even though he didn’t know anyone in America  Here was a young man who could fend for himself in a foreign country.

    I remember the Sundays we would meet Grand-pere and Grand-mere in Boston’s Chinatown, for dinner at the Good Earth.  Grand-pere taught us how to make origami birds from paper napkins and how to make a ring from a dollar bill that you could wear.  He loved cowboy western novels.  His favorite television program was “Gunsmoke,” but he turned off the TV when they shot the dog.  Perhaps one of the dearest anecdotes I could relate is the one about my visit with my newborn daughter to my mom and dad’s house, where he lived.  Our cat came with us, and we would all be staying for three weeks.  Grand-pere lettered a sign on a shirt cardboard and hung it up near the bird feeding station.  The message read: “For your own good I am forced to closed [sic].  See you all when the danger is gone.”  It was signed with his initials and the trademark he always used.

Oyster Stew with a Twist

2 T butter

1/4 c chopped onion

1 small garlic clove, minced

1/2 pt shucked oysters and their liquid

1/2 pt (1 c) half and half

1/2 c milk

2 oz Boursin-type cheese

1/2 t Old Bay seasoning

Freshly ground black pepper

      Melt the butter and saute the onion and garlic till the onions are limp and transparent.  Add the oysters and their liquid and simmer till the edges curl.  Add the half and half, milk, cheese, and seasonings.  Heat slowly, stirring often, till the cheese melts.  Do not boil.  If you know your times tables, you can double or triple this recipe easily.