David and the Squirrel

David hangs the bird feeders from a couple of tree branches.

About the tree: David, a master gardener who should know, says it’s a Chinese elm; but the tree specialist who trimmed our trees a couple of years ago called it a post oak—either way, it lacks charm. It looks dead most of the year and it’s slow to grow. So, not so enamored with the tree. 

On the other hand, we enjoy the feeders because they attract so many birds—painted buntings, cardinals, goldfinches, the black-crested titmouse, and house finches—just to name a few. A red-winged blackbird flies in at the same time every afternoon, signaling his arrival with a boisterous Caw!

An aside about bird watching: We thought it was an insignificant pastime until we visited the Kinabatangan River in Borneo, where there was an abundance of birds that are found nowhere else in the world. At one point we spotted a rare type of kingfisher hopping from branch to branch along the bank. This kingfisher is a much-desired sighting on birdwatchers’ lists; and later we met a man from Australia who’d been coming to the lodge for twenty years hoping to catch sight of one, and we saw it on our first time out. Amusing, right? 

Back to the squirrel: It climbs out on a branch and slides down the wire to the feeder. In an effort to thwart it, David fastens a slinky at the top so that it bounces and dangles down the length of the wire. This idea comes from Sam’s childhood friend, Jimmy, who, even when he was a kid, had a gift for using items in ways unintended. The slinky puzzles the squirrel for a day or so, but then it starts simply free falling to the feeder, paying no attention to the slinky at all. 

David’s next move is to add a barrier over the feeder, an unattractive plastic hat. It hangs crookedly, but does the job in that the squirrel is deterred—until it realizes that it can jump directly to the feeder from the trunk, coming in under the barrier. This causes the feeder to swing, which means the squirrel is not only getting to the birdseed, but also enjoying a fine ride. 

David’s reasonable response to this is to move the feeders as far out on the branches as possible, a distance of about eight feet from the trunk. Both of us, when we see the squirrel make the jump, go, “Whoa!” 

At this point David goes to The Tractor Store for professional advice. I go along just for fun. 

“Them squirrels is ninjas,” the guy at the store tells us. “There ain’t a thang you can do.”

At this point I suggest to David that he utilize the old umbrella base that has, for no reason I can discern, been out behind the rock line ever since we moved here. (Here’s something you may or may not know: the word “utilize” is not a synonym for “use”; it actually means to make use of something in a manner not originally conceived.) 

“Stick a tall pole in the base,” I say, “and move it away from the tree so the squirrels can’t get to it. Then put a PVC T-junction on top with a couple of pipes acting as arms and hang the feeders from them.”

He gives it thought and likes the idea. 

We go to the specialty plumbing store, a manly hangout for contractors and ranchers. David explains what he wants to do and why to John, the man behind the counter. The other customers chime in. 

“Shoot’em,” one man says in a way that makes me think this is probably his response to every problem.

“Stop feeding the birds,” another says.

Even though it’s for a futile mission, a sale is a sale. John is happy to saw the pipe to David’s specifications.  

We pay for the pipe and as soon as we’re home David constructs his new feeder stand. The pipe we purchased is of a larger diameter than the pole he found in the garage, so duct tape is involved. It ends up being the most unattractive object I’ve ever had in a backyard.

The first night something big knocks the whole shebang over, which makes the squirrels happy because all the seed is on the ground; they don’t have to go to any trouble at all. 

Finding his new contraption in this subjugated position prompts David to hook some rebar through the base and pile rocks on top of it. 

“That squirrel won’t defeat me!” he insists. “And I think it was a hog that knocked it over.” 

But he can’t be sure, so he buys a motion-activated camera that will enable him to see what’s going on out there at night.

Tongue in cheek, Sam cheers David on in this squirrelly combat, advising in an email that this new bird feeding stand could be quite a money-maker because people everywhere want to keep squirrels off the bird feeders. 

“You can come up with all kinds of inventions,” Sam says. “You’ll live like Wallace and Gromit.” 

Curtis wisely points out, “Maybe the issue isn't so much the design but the idea of putting food in the middle of the squirrels' habitat and expecting the squirrels not to eat it.”

To David, I say, “One of my Mahjong friends told me that when she put out a squirrel feeder, the squirrels left the bird feeders alone.”

“I’m not going to feed the squirrels!” is David’s response. 

I don’t know what makes birds more deserving than squirrels, but that seems to be the case.  

“The squirrels never bother the squirrel-proof feeder. Why don’t you just get another one of those?”

“The birds like the brick.” This spoiling is the way birds gain a sense of entitlement. 

A squirrel shimmies up the pole, climbs all the way to the top, crawls out the arm of the bird feeder, and drops to the feeder. 

David attaches the slinky to the pole. 

The squirrel climbs to the bottom of the slinky and makes a giant leap to the feeder. 

David sets the feeders higher. 

The squirrel picks its way over the slinky, making it all the way to the top, where it drops on to the feeder.

David runs outside, waves his arms, and yells, “Get out of here!”

And I gasp, concerned for the startled squirrel as it drops ten feet to the ground. It seems to be limping as it scampers away. 

David adds a new obstacle—a broad cone placed about midway up the pole. So far it seems to be working. This battle has been going on for several months.

So far David’s gone after armadillos, deer, hogs, and squirrels. What will he do when there are no more backyard enemies to fight?  

Not exactly gorgeous, is it?

Chinese elm or post oak? What do you think?

More difficult to knock over now.

This is what a slinky looks like when you hang it from a pole.

This collar seems to be working. 

On the Water

Summer has been slow in coming this year and today is only the third warm day we’ve had. The sky is clear blue and it’s unusually windy, which is the reason we decide to aim the boat up the river as opposed to taking a right out of the marina and heading toward the dam-end of Lake Travis. The river is more sheltered.

This is our last time to use the boat club, which we joined a year ago. The contract is for two days a month, but we’re confined to Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, which means those of our friends and family who are only available on weekends are unable to join us. Also, the contract doesn’t recognize weather, which means that we paid a monthly fee for the winter months. This is called “The Toe in the Water Plan” and is designed for neophytes who don’t know whether or not they like boating. We like it fine, but it irked to pay for those months when we didn’t use it. And, with the obligations David’s taken on, sometimes we had trouble finding the time. 

There’s a difference between the river and the lake coastal topography. For the most part, summits and dramatic cliffs surround the lake. The houses that offer views of the water are massive, elegant, and highly perched. Elevators carry homeowners to their boats. A house on Lake Travis is very expensive, which you’d think would make it cost prohibitive, yet its shores are greatly populated. There are a lot of really rich people in Austin. 

The land along the river is flatter and the homes are less flashy; though, as the lakeshores have become more and more crowded, river properties are being developed. 

Coming out with us today are David’s sister, Leanne, and our friend, Charlie. Charlie owns a house on Lake LBJ, so he’s comfortable in a boat. Leanne recently moved to Sun City, a Del Webb community in Georgetown, which she refers to as adult day camp. She’s gone boating with us quite a few times. Now that we’re no longer going to be in the boat club, our next water experiences will most likely be on Lake LBJ, as it’s much closer to us. 

Leanne is useful to have around because she researches things that I’m too lazy to look into. In this instance, she shares information about the Lower Colorado River Authority, which was created in 1934 and consists of six lakes, formed by six hydroelectric dams along the river. In addition to providing energy, the LCRA oversees forty parks and recreation areas; and it works to conserve the water and keep it clean. You might have heard the names of the lakes and not realized that they’re part of the chain. The lakes in order are Buchanan, Inks, LBJ, Marble Falls, Travis, and Austin. Because they’re basically the managed Colorado River, they’re all elongated in form.

This area is called The Highland Lake District and if you live here, you most likely have a view of the accouterments of electricity—wires, towers and power plants. It’s something I’ve heard people complain about, but if we didn’t have the dams, we wouldn’t have the lakes, so I’m okay with it. To sum up, the LCRA is a major entity in this part of the country. 

David’s in control and we zip across the lake with the wind coming at us so hard that the force pushes me into the seat. He slows a bit and Leanne and I both start slathering on the sunscreen. When we get to the river I take the wheel so David can have a visit with his sister. We were right to head for the Colorado because it’s quite calm. In the back of the boat Charlie has his phone out, following our progress. Every once in a while he’ll call out our location: “Lago Vista!” “Spicewood!”

About fifteen minutes out there’s a huge resort called The Island. Its buildings are spread out overlooking the water. There’s a shiny dome in the center. 

“I wonder about this place,” I say. “I’ve never seen anybody here. I think it’s abandoned.”

“The fountain’s running and the grounds are in good shape,” Leanne responds.

“But the marina’s totally empty.” Three long banks of slips, enough to berth sixty boats. 

“Maybe it’s haunted.”

I cut the motor and break out our snacks—cheese, crackers, pita, hummus, tangerines, wine. We munch and discuss common interests. Charlie and his wife, Diana, just bought an RV, and Leanne and her husband, Doug, have a pull-along, so traveling is the main topic. 

This RV business doesn’t appeal to David and me, though it’s very popular in our area. We’d just as soon fly to our destination. And when we’re on the road we like to move fast. I tend to curse at the bloated slow-movers. 

Charlie surprises us by jumping in the water, which we all know is only seventy-one degrees. He’s crazy! David takes the challenge and he, too, goes over the side. Leanne won’t be outdone by her brother, so she dives. 

I sedately sip wine from a plastic cup and pop another cheese cube into my mouth. This is an adventure I’m happy to miss. 

David only stays in for twenty seconds, and Leanne comes out right after. Charlie stays in a bit longer. The three of them are shivering, but they warm up quickly in the sun. 

As we bob in our boat bliss settles over me. It’s one of those wonderful times when there is absolutely nothing negative in my head, no worry or pressure or angst, just friends talking in a boat on a beautiful day. 

The resort. Haunted? Abandoned? 

Signs of the LCRA are everywhere.

Here we are. 

Maudlin

Here’s a snippet my father enjoyed telling: When he was around twelve years old his mother invited him to go to a movie with her. 

“It’s one of the greatest movies ever made,” she told him. In fact, she loved it so much that she had already been to see it twice. 

Thinking that a film that earned such high praise and repetitive watching was surely worth seeing, he agreed; and was dismayed when his mother spent the last half of the movie mopping at her tear-soaked face. At this point in the telling he would mop at his face and make sobbing sounds. 

“What was good about it if it made her cry?” he would ask. “And, knowing that it made her cry, why would she choose to see it again and again?”

He gave a snide chuckle, obviously thinking his mother was silly. Apparently he didn’t understand women at all. 

Spoiler alert: Barbara has died.

For those of you who don’t watch BBC’sCall the Midwife,Barbara was the daughter of a vicar, the wife of a vicar, and the encouraging force behind half the births in the East End in the sixties. She was spunky and funny and cute, a charming character who was so sincerely good that I had trouble liking her. 

And yet last night when it became clear that she was a very sick young woman—a diagnosis of meningitis coupled with septicemia—and her handsome husband and all her broken-hearted friends gathered around her hospital bed as she sank into death, I cried like my German grandmother—copiously and with gusto.

I cry through that damn show every week. 

The next day I talk to my friend, Jane, who also follows the show. 

“They killed off Barbara!” I tell her indignantly

“Yes. I think she wanted off the show.”

“Then why didn’t the BBC do what they usually do with these drawn out period dramas—send her to Australia and bring on a new character?”

I often cry over books and movies. I can still remember crying at the end of Bridges of Madison County. Why? It was known to be a soppy novel and I saw the ending coming from the first page. I should have been ready for it, yet it got to me. Those two people so in love, living their lives apart. How tragic.

Having called the book mawkish, I admit to being incapable of writing anything that would make someone cry. I simply couldn’t do it. 

Full disclosure—also, I cried at the end of Toy Story 3. But who wouldn’t? Andy gave Woody away and was going off to college. Just thinking about it makes me feel gooshy and sentimental. 

That I cry over stories, but seldomly over real-life tragedies makes me question my humanity. 

For instance, one of our yoga instructors has recently been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. So now she’s at home, dying. My friends whisper her names in hushed tones. 

At yoga, when it was announced that this woman would no longer be with us, women started crying. A box of tissues was passed around. 

Impatient, I looked at my watch. This carrying-on ate up twenty minutes of our class. 

How is it that I was prepared for it when no one else was? The woman was quite old. She’d been repeating herself, forgetting words and the names of the positions; and often, when she turned around, she was surprised to see us all standing there, awaiting her instruction. 

And here’s my pragmatic assessment: she will be missed. But I’m more worried about the husband she’ll be leaving behind. The two of them have been married for fifty-seven years. How will he cope? He won’t know how to navigate without her by his side. 

Now that’s something to cry about. 

Because I needed a picture to put here. 

Cabo!

Arrived in Cabo San Lucas yesterday afternoon. I froze all day getting here, so the thaw was welcome. We’re staying in a two-bedroom villa at The Westin, which looks toward the ocean. The coastal formations are dramatic and the surf is fierce. David wonders why no one’s in the water, but from what I see, a swimmer runs the risk of getting bashed into the rocks.

It’s difficult to slip into vacation mode when my mind’s focused elsewhere.  

Old Buildings in North Texas is being released this month in the US. This is exciting and intimidating. I was welcomed with enthusiasm in the UK market. The British readers found the main character, Olivia, to be self-aware and self-absorbed, which she definitely is; but they sympathized with her predicament and enjoyed her sense of humor.

It’s an unusual book and if people knew about it I’m sure copies would fly from Amazon to Kindles by the thousands. 

And on this matter, I’m adrift. Arcadia’s in-house publicist’s ideas are good, but they have yet to materialize. My agent said I should contact the independent bookstores in Austin and set up readings. She envisioned a whole scenario where I get a mediator (one of my friends, she said. In my whole life I’ve never had a friend I would impose upon in this way) to glowingly introduce the novel and me. Then I’d read an excerpt, after which the mediator would ask me questions, and then this mediator would invite the audience (How many people? Three? And how did they find out about this reading?) to discuss and ask questions.

If this were an organized event I’d be happy to do it. I’d stand where I was told to stand, do the reading, answer queries about the creative process, and sign the many books (and where do these books come from?) people were standing in line to buy. But it’s beginning to seem that not only am I expected to be the star of the event, I’m expected to organize it and populate it as well. I haven’t got a clue how to go about this.

David just got up. He has trouble getting the coffee maker going. Frustration with cursing. He figures it out. The waves outside are crashing on the beach, one of my favorite sounds. We’re going for a walk later. Then to the steam room. I slept in an awkward position and woke up with a crick in my neck, so I’m hoping the heat will relax the kink.

This afternoon, reading by the pool. What am I reading? A guilty pleasure. I’ll never in a million admit that I read this author.

After OBiNT was published, it was surprising how many friends and strangers worriedly asked about my personal experience with drug addiction.

Here’s one response I gave:

“I haven’t ever been addicted, but I sympathize because I form habits, which hound me to the point of obsession. Back when I smoked cigarettes I’d check my purse for my pack at least five times before allowing myself to walk out the door. And these days, I don’t feel comfortable unless the wine rack is full.” 

To a good friend who should know better, another response:

“Do you think I’m incapable of imagining drug addiction without actually having gone through it? I’m a fiction writer. Writing about things I know nothing about is what I do!”

My experience with drugs is limited to smoking pot in high school and college. Surprisingly, considering that it was illegal then as it still is in Texas, the thought of getting caught was not a deterrent. In every other aspect I was the consummate goodie-goodie; but, when it came to marijuana, in a decision contrary to my values, I chose to ignore the law because it was stupid. And now, as its legitimacy spreads from state to state, my heart hurts for people who were born too early. Lives were ruined because of pot.

Oh. I see that Curtis, my oldest, has sent me an article listing five cool bookstores in Austin. Two look suitable for a reading. The others—one presents itself as a trendy new-style bookstore, but it’s really an old-fashioned book mobile; another is dedicated exclusively to science fiction and fantasy; and a third is only interested in selling books that link politics to conspiracy theories. Huh.

The publicist in the UK has suggested that, because of the addiction aspect of the book, I write a posting about drugs in the US. So I look up statistics and try to write an informative piece, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m not Fareed Zakaria, and no one wants to know what a fiction writer from Texas has to say about this critical issue.

I do have a rather simple opinion, which is that as a population we’re both impatient and gullible. If we’ve got a pain or a twinge, we take a pill. I pop two Ibuprofen every morning. Just because.

And if the television tells me I might have inflammatory bowel disease or thyroid cancer, I take it seriously. If someone has asthma and there’s an advertisement for a new medication claiming to work better than what they’re currently taking, they run to the doctor and demand that drug.

The other day I counted six one-after-the-other pharmaceutical commercials.

I know four people who have been on anti-depressants for years. Tragic things happen, but doesn’t it make more sense to join a support group instead of taking pills forever? And isn’t it healthier to process painful emotions in a natural state rather than an artificial one?

Olivia, the main character in Old Buildings in North Texas, is a product of this drug culture. All her friends used, so she did, too. She was raised to be the best she could be. She was held to a high standard. Her mother discouraged detours and didn’t understand failure. Yet somehow, with her mother’s voice always in her head, and while living her successful professional life, Olivia succumbed to addiction. Rehab was a humiliating backward step, which she handled with determination and equanimity.

And OBiNT is funny, too. Who wouldn’t want to read a comedy about addiction recovery? It’s just a question of getting that lovely book cover in the public eye . . .

Breakfast is delicious—a buffet. I’ll make a list: fruit, pancakes and waffles, cold meats and cheeses (Brie!), poached eggs, potatoes, yogurt, sausage, cereals, pastries; and an omelet bar, too!

Off for our beach walk.

Nothing solved.

See? Quite dynamic.

The resort from the beach.

From the interior. 

Another beach shot.