Migration

I’d planned on making the trip to the Skagit valley in January. A book packager I was working with told me to wait, pointing out I could combine the trip with research I’d be doing in British Columbia. By the end of January the book was in doubt. I plugged away at a technical assignment, reading hundreds of pages of laws. By the last week in February, I’d finished. Though it would be the end of a steady paycheck for a little while, I felt like celebrating, even if gas was $3.30 a gallon, a near record so far in 2008. Before prudence could get the better of me, I put my binoculars and a change of clothes in the car and headed north. It was early March and I knew it was now or never for this year, anyway. Before much longer, wintering swans and snow geese would leave the Skagit valley to nest in the tundra.

From Portland, it’s not a bad drive on I-5. I crossed the Columbia River at 10:10 a.m. and arrived at the LaConner exit at 2 p.m. There were about 200 swans in a field along the west side the interstate before I reached the exit. On a clear day, the Cascades are a majestic backdrop to the east. This day, though, they were shrouded by clouds, making it easier to focus on birds. My first stop was a parking lot on Fir Island, a fan-shaped estuary where alternating fingers of land and water from the Skagit River meet Puget Sound. The lot was half full as people came to watch snow geese descend in a field adjacent to the Sound. There were close to 8000 of the geese, with more arriving each minute. I walked up to a fence, joining other birders. The geese, white with black wing tips, seemed to greet each other, so much honking. The juveniles were present in almost equal numbers, easily distinguishable by their gray feathers.

After so much anticipation, I stood there, present, taking in the sight and sound of snow geese. I turned, and there, in a large, deciduous tree, were two adult bald eagles and what looked to be a fairly new nest. Turning back to the Sound, I walked out, seeing a few ducks in the distance before returning to the geese. By now, another section of the field had turned from green to white and black and gray.

I got back in the car and went in search of swans. They’re found in fields, and the best place to observe them is from the side of the road. This can be tricky in the Skagit area where shoulders have been replaced by ditches to catch water. Here and there are tractor roads, little graveled places where one can park and watch swans.

The year before I’d spent two days driving up and down nearly every road in the area, carefully looking at each swan in search of a whooper swan usually found wintering the Aleutians. This year I could relax and simple drink in the beauty of these birds. There were a couple of hundred here, a hundred there. In fact, there are hundreds of wintering swans near my home west of Portland. But not in the numbers seen in the Skagit flats. And here, the swans are closer, easier to see. Perhaps they’re used to reverent tourists like me. Trumpeters are bigger and lack the little bit of yellow between the black beak and eye found often, but not always, in the tundra swan. Watching them at rest in a lush, green field, I was reminded swans represent transcendence to some native tribes.

A male Northern harrier, or marsh hawk, swooped in and hopped along the edge of the field, looking for rodents. 

I could spend the remaining hours of daylight here but a friend offering a place to stay east of Blaine was waiting for me. I took the Mt. Baker Highway at the southern end of Bellingham and drove east /northeast to my friend’s country place. I love the drive, and knew I’d see bald eagles and their nests regularly in the intervening 40 miles or so. I stopped at a couple of flooded fields and saw American wigeons and green winged teal. There were a few swans still wandering about, but most had already flown north. Within a mile of my friend’s house, I saw eagles on the ground in a nearby field. I pulled the car over to the shoulder and grabbed my binoculars. There were 2 adult and 3 immature bald eagles. One adult and two immatures were about 20 feet from 2 Labrador retrievers. The other birds were further away. One dog trotted toward them. As the dog neared, the birds took off, landing close to the other birds. The other dog, so close now to 5 eagles, seemed totally uninterested.

On a clear day, you can see Mt. Baker out my friend’s kitchen window. The next morning, however, it and the surrounding mountains were hidden by clouds. There was a steady, light rain. I didn’t care. I gobbled oatmeal, threw on my slicker and offered to drive. We headed to Birch Bay first, stopping along the way to check out eagles and nests.

The rain was a fine mist when we got to the bay. We got our scopes out. Mine is old and inexpensive, perfect really: powerful enough to see birds in the distance, and old enough that I don’t mind if it gets a little wet. There were loons, scoters, and my favorite duck…well, one of my favorites…harlequin. Its blue, white and rust colors remind me of Northwest Native art. These ducks winter along the coast, going inland in late spring to nest inland on rivers and streams.

Next we went to Semiahmoo, a resort across from the Blaine. In past years, we’ve seen long-tailed ducks here, along with yellow-billed loons. On this day, there were rafts of pacific and common loons floating north toward Canada, a stone’s throw away. We walked down an old pier and saw a red-throated merganser.

The next morning the sun was shining on all the mountains, now revealed, sparkling against the blue sky. I moved out here almost 9 years ago, yet the mountains are still riveting. I could take the diagonal route to I-5, but instead, I drove due west to Blaine. The early morning sun glistened on evergreens and field after field of raspberry canes.

Once on I-5, it was all I could do to keep my eyes on the road. To east are the Cascades, to the west, the Olympic Mountains. Even the Seattle skyline was beautiful. I drove a little over a hundred and fifty miles to Gig Harbor and had lunch with my friend Wendy. I’ve spent a lot of time hiking on the Olympic Peninsula, and I was tempted to stay a little longer. But the call toward home and family was stronger. The night before, my grandson had called me. “Where are you, Nonna?” he’d asked. “I’m in northern Washington, watching birds,” I replied.

“But Nonna, it’s dark outside. How can you see any birds?”

We’ll have to go owling some night.

Being Nonna

I picked my daughter up at the school where she teaches and then drove to her house where I would fetch Sweet Grandson (SG) for a weekend at my house. My daughter told me SG had been asking questions about college, wanting reassurance that she and his father wouldn't change their phone number or move while he was away at school. "He's only six! How can he be worrying about such things?" I asked.

She said the topic had come up when he'd asked how his parents had come to be married. They explained they'd met in college.

I walked into their house with my backpack so I could change out of the suit I had worn to an interview that day. SG asked, "Nonna, why do you look pretty?" His mother explained, "She had a job interview today." SG: "Do you have to look pretty when you have a job interview?" I expected more questions about job interviews once he was in the car and we were headed to my house. The first thing he asked, though, was if I had visited Mommy when she was in college. I said I had made the trip from Madison, Wisconsin, to a small town in Iowa regularly. "Were you so excited to see her, Nonna?" I said I was. "My mommy and daddy will visit me when I'm in college," he said. "Will you come, too, Nonna?" I said I would.

The topic changed to what we'd have for dinner. Periodically he'd ask, "Are we still in Beaverton?" or "Are we in Hillsboro yet? Mommy's school is in Hillsboro." Once we reached Forest Grove, he announced, "I'm going to go to college in Forest Grove."

"You can go to Pacific University," I said. He and I often take walks around the campus in search of acorn woodpeckers.
"Is Pacific University a college?" he asked.
"It is," I replied. "There are lots of colleges in Portland you can go to."
"I want to go to college at Pacific University," he said. "I can walk to your house when I'm at college, Nonna!" he said. "I can eat lunch at your house every day!"

Having that major decision out of the way, he enjoyed dinner, played with trains and then got ready for bed. We woke up Saturday to snow. While he ate breakfast, I put my sheets in the washing machine. "Did you pee your bed, Nonna?" he asked. I explained I washed my sheets every Saturday morning even without pee.

We went outside and threw snowballs at each other. He giggled and threw until he announced he was cold. We went inside and made oatmeal cookies. "I'm glad I don't have a sister or a brother," he said. "I don't have to share the beaters."
I asked him if he shared the beaters when friends came over. He said he did. I asked him if he felt good when he shared. He said he did . But he was still glad he didn't have to share all the time.

After lunch, we went to my neighbor's house where he ate about 14 of her cookies, and made a city out of Legos. He pointed out where the parks and schools were. Then it was back to my place where we read some stories. I asked him what he wanted for dinner. "My stomach doesn't feel very good, Nonna." We had chicken soup and watched Babe. It was a new movie for him, with more questions than I have time to record here.

Sunday morning we took a walk around Pacific. He wants to be in plays when he's in college, and asked if Pacific had a theater with a stage. I told him there were at least two that I knew of. The buildings were locked, however. We looked for woodpeckers. I pointed out a large sequoia. "Wow. That's a big tree at my college," he noted.

Mommy and Daddy came to get him while he was eating lunch. "I'm going to college here, " he announced. My daughter took me aside. "Thank you so much. We slept 12 hours Friday night. It's such a gift when you take care of him."

After they left, I vacuumed cookies crumbs and loaded the dishwasher before answering some emails and going to a meeting. I knew he was the gift, and after I came home from the meeting, I'd miss him.

Walking with a Zen master

I found my mother in the living room with several other residents. She jumped up out of her chair when she saw me.

“There’s my sister,” she said, happy to see me. A few minutes later we were in the car, driving west into the lush hills of Vermont township. Lucky, my golden retriever, stuck his head into the front seat and licked Mom’s face.

“Quit pestering your grandmother,” I told Lucky.

“He can kiss his grandma as much as he wants,” cooed Mother.

Lucky gave me a quick look of disdain and then turned his attention once again to my mother.

“Isn’t the color glorious?” I said. We were surrounded by red and orange oaks and maples. “Doesn’t it remind you of West Virginia?”

“Oh yes,” my mother replied.

I’m not sure if she really did remember her childhood home, but the hills touch something deep inside her.

“We had a good time,” she said. “They had several of them. He did a good job. But that’s the way it goes.”

Most of Mom’s speech is now made up of short sentences strung together, making no sense. She can’t carry on a conversation. If you ask her if she has children, she’ll say no. She has no recollection of me as daughter or my two sisters or my brother. She can’t remember my father, who died in 1978.

Alzheimer’s disease has taken so many memories away. Yet on that lovely day on Lakeview Road, just north of Barneveld, I was thankful Mom’s sunny disposition was still with her. Although she no longer recognized me as her daughter, she was still very recognizable to me as Mom.

When she was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago in Texas, I was gripped by fear. I knew very little about what kind of care she would need. I didn’t know how to judge the various assisted-living homes in the area.

I did know enough, however, to call the Alzheimer’s Association. I talked to Mary Anderson, the director, at least once a day for the first couple of weeks. She cared for her husband’s parents when they had the disease. She has extraordinary patience and compassion. Thanks to the information I got from Mary and the Alzheimer’s Association, I found a wonderful assisted-care home for my mother, who gets loving care there. And I am free to simply enjoy her, savoring each meeting.

On that day in the country, we got out of the car and walked up and down the hills of a friend’s land. I stood and watched for minute as Lucky bounded the hill and Mom sauntered along after him, smiling, calling to him, enjoying the beauty and the sunshine of the day.

At the bottom of the hill, Mom kneeled down and embraced Lucky, laughing as he lavished her with dog kisses. She was still my mother in essential, telling ways.

Published in the Wisconsin State Journal 1993

Debby Thompson de Carlo

Blue Collar White/Collar

©1986

“Wouldn’t you know she’d fall in love with a farmer,” my father lamented when he learned I was marrying a college classmate who had grown up in Iowa. Dad was a native New Yorker and assumed everyone in Iowa was farmer. I explained my fiance’s father was a milkman.

That was worse than the farmer scare. My father was an executive in a major corporation. He had firmly held beliefs about people paid an hourly wage or labor union members. Those beliefs were based on vague fears and prejudices, surprising given my father’s own humble beginnings.

My father-in-law had similar views about executives. He was sure they sat in comfy chairs with feet propped on desks, drank three martini lunches and padded their expense accounts.

The only time the two met was at the wedding of their children. I thought of their silly prejudices years later when my father died. By then, I knew my father-in-law well. He’d delivered milk when people still had it brought to boxes kept near the door. His day started at 2 a.m. when he went to the dairy to load his truck. Then he’d start the route, running out of the truck with milk or cream, running back for extras or changed orders, collecting payment from customers, trying to stay warm during cold winter mornings. He worked most holidays, including Christmas. He took his son with him during summers, stressing the importance of hard work and honesty. Later, when people bought milk at the store instead of from milk trucks, he got a job in a factory. He missed the opportunity to be outside, but he was happy to have a job.

My father had grown up penniless in New York during the Depression. He spent every spare minute in the public library, reading all he could. His first employer, a Wall Street brokerage firm president, saw my father’s quick mind, knowledge and hard work. He was steadily promoted, eventually working for a large corporation. He worked 60 hours a week routinely and brought home work every night. His loyalty to the company was fierce and his commitment to honesty unquestioned. When the company considered making an illegal campaign contribution in the early 1970s, my father steadfastly refused to go along with the deal, almost losing his job. Later, just weeks before he died of cancer, he read about an acquaintance being investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission. “You know,” he said, “it nice to die knowing your professional life has been above reproach.”

It’s too bad he died without knowing his son-in-law’s father had very similar values. They had a lot more in common than their grandchildren.

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