BIRD BRAINS

We were awakened in the grey dawn by the frenzied barking of an angry Jack Russell, announcing the return of Henry, our semi-resident crow. Henry and his pals come to scrounge our yard and annoy us periodically. Our prejudice is reflected in our language; after all, a group of crows is called a murder, which seems a good idea, and their relatives, the ravens, are called an unkindness. Is it their color, their loud voice or their aggressive behavior?

It is too bad that these glossy black corvids have aroused the same suspicions as black cats, black sheep and black hats. A sexy little black dress might elicit some suspicion as well. I think it has everything to do with the voice. When the crows come to town, their raucous cawing announces their arrival. I have the same opinion of certain politicians. Their aggressive behavior can be frightening, as well.

The same sentiment is reflected in art: American realist Winslow Homer’s iconic 1893 painting Fox Hunt depicts the popular nineteenth century notions of crows as symbols of doom. In the painting, two low-flying crows harass a red fox as he makes his way over a snowy landscape, while in the background more crows lurk ominously. In the painting the crows are chasing and frightening the fox, and the viewer wants to shoo the birds away. And despite the fact that the most famous quote of his writing career is attributed to a raven, even Edgar Allen Poe considered the whole crow family grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous.

In 1989, the British House of Lords rose in outrage that corvids should receive some sort of protection like other birds. But one lawmaker cried out “What if the ravens left the Tower of London?” Legend warns that this would mean the fall of the Kingdom, and to prevent such a catastrophe, the nation employs a royal raven keeper.

But these birds aren’t a gang of nasty villains. They are really just birds who are among the most family-oriented birds in the world. Crows and their relatives are expert tool users. They actually make tools to help them accomplish their goal, and they can use two different tools in succession. They frequently work as a team.

When in Alaska visiting many fisheries, Dr. A often witnessed ravens working together to steal shrimp off the large trays in the packing houses. The shrimp were covered with tarp, and the crow army assembled in well rehearsed formation. Some on the ground, a couple on the tarp, and of course, watchmen to announce human arrival. As the ravens threw the tarp off the shrimp, they threw them onto the ground, where waiting ravens took them away.

In the city, crows go even further; they manage to use human tools to their ends. Walnuts are a crop new to Japan, but lately groves seem to be springing up everywhere. Crows find walnuts tasty and nutritious, but the shells are hard to open. The solution; crows pluck the nuts from the trees, then fly to perch on the traffic signal at the nearest intersection. When the light is red, they fly down and place the nuts in the front of waiting cars. When the light turns green, the cars run them over, cracking the hard shells. when the light turns red again and the cars stop, the crows fly down to safely eat the nutmeats.

The answer to facing up to these efficacious winged intruders is don’t get mad, get smarter.

THE NEWNESS NEVER WORE OUT Kate’s Journal

Episode 34 Kirkland 1969-1974

“Inuit Mother and Child” watercolor by kayti sweetlanhd rasmussen

There was some success selling my sculptures in Seattle, and a minor bit of chicanery. If someone doesn’t try to cheat you, you haven’t made an impression.

For our second Christmas in the Northwest, Dr. A with the aid of a large truck and a large friend, brought home an enormous tree which reached to the ceiling of the barn, and became home to a number of enormous papier mache elves, while several more elves, dressed in colorful velvet clothes, straddled the rafters. The California family arrived in full force. and audience participation prevailed while serving up the old Rasmussen Christmas breakfast, with a few aebleskivers thrown in.

We learned that a family isn’t complete without a new generation, and in 1973 our California daughter gave us what we knew to be the world’s smartest and cutest grandson. It was troubling that he lived in California while we presently lived in Washington.

The flu can make a wet dishrag out of you, and in the midst of feeling sick and sorry for myself, alone on Valentine’s Day, our youngest daughter announced that she wanted to get married on St. Patrick’s Day. Better than that, she wanted to get married in our barn. Dr. Advice was traveling two weeks out of every month, so he was slow in getting the news, good or not so good.

Large print by Marvin Oliver, Professor of Indian Studies, University of Washington

It’s amazing how fast a wedding or a climatic catastrophe (there isn’t much difference between the two) can get you out of bed. The amount of time spent on wedding arrangements today can give you plenty of time to change your mind on the whole thing. We had a month, and our daughter was in the middle of finals.

Handmade invitations, wedding clothes and food appeared in the appropriate time with the help of friends including pickled oysters from the Hood Canal from Georgia and Emmett. When everything else was set, we needed someone to marry them, and believe me, it isn’t easy when you do it at your home cold turkey. After a number of rejections, including all the regular churches, someone had a relative who was an unemployed Mennonite minister who would come.

The day of the wedding gave a display of weather the Northwest is famous for; rain, snow, hail and brilliant sunshine, not necessarily in that order. The bride walked down through our meadow on the arm of her handsome father and into a warm and cozy barn with sunshine pouring down through a large window near the ceiling. The groom was a lapsed Catholic, the bride was unaffiliated, and we were just guests, and we built a chuppah which was covered with daffodils and daisies. The new grandson slept peacefully in my arms throughout the service, undisturbed by the festivities.

“North Coast Shaman” sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen

We sent the new couple off with the bride carrying a small cage of crickets (don’t ask) and found that the Mennonite minister had not signed the wedding certificate. Ominous? Everything got straightened out eventually.

There are strange sights in the country which you don’t usually see in the suburbs, a lot of them involving animals. A small Shetland pony being led down our road at 5:30 Christmas morning would be one of them, an entire line of cars at morning commute time regularly stopping to let a row of ducks cross the road, a couple of escaped horses stomping through our newly planted lawn., and of course, the belching goat.

One of our friends was a weaver of lovely things, which led me to try my hand with the warp and woof, but without her expertise. It seemed a shame not to be able to even weave a reasonable set of place mats and napkins, but it was a nice feeling to sit and try on a rainy morning.

The barn allowed us to have more parties involving more than four people. On one such occasion, a woman guest left in a huff when her husband told a raunchy joke. She just didn’t fit in or got tired of her husband’s boorish behavior. At another party, planned to entertain guests from California, fell apart when the belly dancer planned for the entertainment, refused to come when she discovered one of the guests was Jewish. Later, when our house was for sale, she wanted to buy it to use the barn to teach belly dancing in. She couldn’t come up with the money.

Seattle is one of those places where float planes fly in and out to Lake Union, taking you to places further north, and if you want to, you can go even further north to see the Iditerod races, fishing and meet new friends.

A 12 pound turkey graced our table on our last Thanksgiving in Kirkland. Complete with all the trimmings; potatoes, gravy, dressing and pumpkin pie, it brought home the fact that we had a 12 pound grandson waiting in California. Not that he was eating all this stuff by then, but you couldn’t ignore the weight or cuteness similarity.

Dr. A had supervised the building of the Alaska pipeline, caught a respectable number of fish, and made a lot of new friends, so we semi-reluctantly pulled up stakes and headed back to California.

Addendum: This post was written without using the word “I” even once. In this day and age of people like Donald Trump who seems to have a monopoly on the word, and even nice people who don’t realize they are doing it, it seemed a good lesson.

LIFE AMONG THE 2 X 4s Kate’s Journal

Sam 1969

What is a farmhouse without a barn? It seemed we had been building or planting something ever since we moved in, but nothing so ambitious or large as an honest-to-goodness barn, whose purpose did not include the housing of 4-legged animals.

In the midst of chaos, dear and curious friends began arriving to check up on us. A car or RV would sometimes arrive unannounced except by the honk of a horn in the driveway. Since the lack of space had been apparent from the start, a necessary part of the new barn was a sleeping loft, which when finished slept six grown people. The main part of the barn became a multipurpose environment, where we entertained, I worked and taught sculpture classes, and where our daughter chose to be married.

For city people who had no building experience, it was a genuine accomplishment. On a visit to Grants Pass to see my parents, we found a Civil War cast iron pot-bellied stove in an antique store on which we put money to hold it. Knowing we might like it, but unaware of our transaction, a friend tried to buy it for us. He and my mother had a few words regarding his “trying to take it away from us” before the truth came out. After the dust settled it looked great in the new barn and gave nice heat both there and in my Fremont studio later. With an antique copper tea kettle steaming on top it gave an instant cup of tea whenever needed.

Some readers may remember the belching goat who injected fear into a silent midnight.
Who knew that this cute creature could sound like a rude belching man?

People suddenly appeared on our doorstep, old friends and family from the South, and soon new friends from Alaska, some like the Buchwalds became extended family. Emmett and Georgia Oliver eventually moved to their home on the Hood Canal, and through them the Johnson family with their five wonderful children.

My Mother-in-law drove several times to see us and wonder if our brains were still functioning. In those days Washington had blue laws against buying alcoholic beverages on Sunday. Since we often had people visiting, the lack of liquid refreshment was sometimes a problem, so MIL would bring us jugs of wine in the trunk of her car. She was stopped for speeding once, and fortunately the Law did not open her trunk. We may worry about teenagers but not about those in their late 70’s.

Hood Canal from the Oliver’s deck.

The Hood Canal became almost a second home for us and gave us countless oyster, shrimp and clam feasts with the Olivers and the Johnsons. The Northwest is famously noted for its abundant seafood. We went often also to Campbell River in British Columbia to fish and explore.

I was told that instead of a fish on my line, I had hooked onto the bottom. (Some bottom.} We pulled over and had a barbecue on the shore of Quadra Island on the Georgia Straits.

We had another memorable occasion in the Georgia Straits when fishing in a small boat with a friend whose small boat was surrounded by curious killer whales. They circled and surfaced, giving us an intimate look while we watched one of Nature’s close encounters.

Between visitors and exploring, I began sculpting some of the people I saw. The native people, both in appearance and culture, were much different from the Southwest people, and I placed a few small pieces in a Seattle gallery. It was my first experience in selling my work, so when they actually sold, it was a pleasant surprise.

ALASKA, THE WILD COUNTRY

Every fisherman or hunter has a few bear stories to tell around the campfire meant to raise the hairs on the back of your neck before bedtime. Some stories are humorous, some scary. The bear is usually the winner. One story told of a large old grizzly who snatched an unsuspecting salmon out of the water with one swipe of a large paw spiked with five inch claws. Not feeling especially hungry, he tossed the fish into the air, caught it and tossed it again and again until there was not much left of the poor salmon, and then calmly walked away leaving the shattered fish for the birds. It is well known that bears also like berries, and spend a great deal of time nibbling wild blueberries and other tasty berries. Blueberry bushes are small the further north you go in Alaska, and an impatient bear frequently simply rips the entire bush out of the ground to hurry the process.

Once at Lake Shasta in California, we watched some people on a houseboat toss some meat to a waiting bear on the shore. As they were floating away, the bear, seeing his food source depart, plunged into the lake and began to swim after the boat, which was by that time filled with frightened and screaming tourists. Since he could not catch the boat, the bear finally went back up onto the shore and began tearing all the bushes up in his frustration.

We had been following the Kobuk river for most of the morning, alone in a vast Alaska wilderness of scraggly spruce and quaking aspen, beside water the clearest and purest I had ever seen. As the riffles rushed over rocks half submerged, the water caught the sunlight and deflected it back into our eyes

In the deep green pools sockeye salmon, red in their spawning coloration, sluggishly dragged their tired bodies over the gravel at the bottom. Above them, small grayling flickered nervously in and out. Other than the beauty of our surroundings, our fishing excursion had yielded nothing save a few grayling which we returned to the water.

Though I heard no sound, and saw nothing out of the ordinary, I had a disturbing feeling that we were no longer alone. The forest was silent; there was no longer the sound of birds chattering in the trees. In the slight breeze the late summer aspen leaves had turned yellow and were beginning to drop into the river. It gave the impression of expectancy; as if the forest was on alert, waiting for something to happen. We felt a sudden chill in the air and decided to retrace our steps back to our base camp.

When inquiring about the weather in Alaska, a native might shrug his shoulders and say “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” The trail alongside the river was damp from a recent shower, and in the wet weeds and dirt, we began to see the tracks of an unwelcome follower, obviously hoping we could supply him or her with a salmon dinner. Though we walked a mile or two there was no sign of our companion, and before long the tracks disappeared into the woods.

“This was his country, clearly enough. To be there was to be incorporated, in however small a measure, into its substance–his country, and if you wanted to visit it you had better knock.

His association with other animals is a mixture of enterprising action, almost magnanimous acceptance, and just plain willingness to ignore. There is great strength and pride combined with a strong mixture of inquisitive curiosity in the make-up of grizzley character. This curiosity is what makes trouble when men penetrate into country where they are not known to the bear. The grizzley can be brave and sometimes downright brash. He can be secretive and very retiring. He can be extremely cunning and also powerfully aggressive. Whatever he does, his actions match his surroundings and the circumstance of the moment. No wonder that meeting him on his mountain is a momentous event, imprinted on one’s mind for life.”

“excerpt” from “Coming Into the Country” by John McPhee

A BLIND DOG COMPETES IN THE LAST GREAT RACE ON EARTH

The Iditerod Sled Dog Race is on; with mushers and their sled dogs competing in this grueling race which commemorates a 1925 rescue mission that carried diptheria serum by sled dog relay to the coastal community of Nome. It has been an official race since 1978, and draws mushers and their teams from all over the world to test themselves and the stamina of their dogs.

Competing for the second time this year is a plucky little fifty pound blind dog named Laura. Her owner and handler, Kelly Maixner, a pediatric dentist, says that rather than being a liability she is a cheerleader for the rest of the team and
is comfortable running in any position except the lead. The sweet-faced dog is a victim of an eye disease called pannus for which there is no cure. It is a family affair this year as her family is running with her; her father Shane, and siblings Big Mike and Flo are part of the team.

The 1,049 mile race beginning in Anchorage and which varies according to which route they take, generally takes 9-15 days as teams race through blizzards and whiteouts over trails running into the sparsely populated interior of native villages and along the shore of the Bering Sea, finally reaching Nome. As it takes the teams through harsh landscapes and over hills and mountain passes, the Iditerod symbolizes a link to early history.
In Alaska “Mush” means more than hot oatmeal, it’s a rallying cry to “Get Going!”

WHERE SHEEP MAY SAFELY GRAZE

Life is much different in the countryside. City and suburbanites usually know what to expect, good or bad. If the lights don’t work, one calls an electrician, plumbers are available to fix a leaky faucet, and if the neighbor’s fence falls into your geraniums, get a carpenter. The craftsmen who operate in the country may be out fishing or hunting, or merely lollygagging around, and will come when it suits them. In the meantime, phone calls are made at a pay phone, laundry is done at the launderette, and you gain an education in patience.

We were made aware of this phenomenon in the first week we took over ownership of the old farmhouse in Kirkland, Washington years ago. It sat amongst ancient trees within walking distance of Lake Washington, with no neighbors within shouting distance. There was a small orchard with pears, apples and cherries and a patch of large juicy raspberries ready to pick. Nearly were enough blackberries to keep the freezer filled with pies for those willing to pick them.

To say it needed some loving care and a good push into the twentieth century would be an understatement, but we were game and filled with the enthusiasm of stupidity. It sat alongside a shady lane at whose culmination were the two homes of an old Swedish man who adored us, and his daughter who seemed to wish we would move back to California. Mr. R. watched with interest while we labored day after day, lending us tools, giving advice and sharing rhubarb wine. He was a retired homebuilder who miraculously had built our small house for himself and his late wife, and was filled with stories of the families who had subsequently lived in it. We felt very fortunate.

We had managed to find a roofer, who was not only available immediately, but expected us to help him. It was apparent that “us” meant “me” as Dr. Advice set off for Alaska, Montana and points North, leaving me on the roof with an old gentleman in his 70’s to teach me where to place the shingles. At our first dinner party I had not planned ahead and neglected to take into account the small size of the dining area, so our next project was a new family room.

Looking back it seems as if we tackled all the projects at the same time, until I began to feel like the heroine of Betty MacDonald’s “The Egg and I”. I wrote page after page to family back home describing in detail each unfamiliar endeavor. I stopped holding the various craftsmen in awe as we learned each trade by virtue of do-it-yourself books.

The acre and a half we sat on began taking shape, with sprinkler systems, ornamentals such as rhododendron, azalea and camellias tucked in amongst the trees, and the whole enclosed by a circular driveway and white fencing.

It also became evident that we needed a large building to be used as entertainment, extra sleeping quarters for the many curious friends who thought we were out of our minds, and not least, studio space for my sculpture and teaching.

So with no prior experience and the grace God gives to idiots, we built a barn with sleeping loft ready to hold eight intrepid visitors willing to climb a ladder for access, which passed all inspections the City sent us, all within about 200 feet from the house.

Life was good until the neighbors horses got loose one night and discovered our new lawn. We woke that morning to find them munching happily on the ripe pears in the orchard, with broken sprinkler pipes poking up, and with no name tags on any of them.

During the five years we lived there, Dr. Advice spent two weeks of every month in Alaska and points north and east, giving me additional experience in ditch digging and containing the small creek which often overflowed, and the various projects of home repair. A whole new market opened up in the Seattle area for my work, and my North Coast education began in earnest.

“Haida Shaman” sculpture by kayti sweetland rasmussen

My work day in the barn usually began about four in the afternoon and lasted until midnight. I have always preferred working at night when things are quiet with no interruptions, the creative juices seems to flow more easily when alone with no thoughts but your own. The young today would say it’s “zoning out”.

One late night when sleep overtook me, I put away my tools, turned out the lights and locked the barn door, ready to walk back to the house in darkness like the 9th plague of Egypt. I remember the silence and the darkness with no moon. Suddenly I heard a very loud belch as from a nearby man. I ran the rest of the way to the safety of the house and of the two dogs whom I had neglected to take to the barn with me. Needless to say there was no sleep for me that night.

Early in the morning I took the dogs and went outside, where looking at the meadow behind the house I saw a small flock of sheep which had moved in during the night. Speaking with Mr. R. later in the day, I learned that these cute fuzzy creatures DO burp—rudely and loudly.

The lambing once over, the sheep moved out and several horses moved into the corral behind the barn, and in due time, we moved back home to California to a new grandson.

ANOTHER WHALE TALE

Another wonderful “urban legend” is flying around the internet, and this one is really a peach.  It shows what a great tool photoshop can be.

I even photoshopped a friend’s husband completely out of the picture as she knelt to speak in Polish with Pope John Paul II.  After all, she is Polish, and Catholic to boot.  She keeps it in her office to impress clients.

Then on our 50th wedding anniversary, when I saw that no picture had been taken of us together, I got rid of the two other people we were standing with and now for the family history book, we are together with a completely different background.

We have done a lot of fishing, boating and some kayaking, and have spent a lot of time as well in Alaska, so this photo was pretty exciting.

You will see that the whale is taking a whale-sized bite out of the kayak with the man in it.  The trouble is, it never happened.  It’s the work of photographer Tim Shobe, who photographed the whale and the kayaker separately, and then tried to feed the  humpback whale with the paddler.  Good job.  Wish I had thought of it, as we have fished many times in those same waters, and have seen  lots of those fabulous denizens of the deep.  I never tire of watching for them, and the thrill of seeing them breach always reminds me of how insignificant man really is.

Sam fishing in Sitka, watercolor KSR

 

A BIRD IN A CAGE

Many years ago, before I discovered a classier way to earn some extra Christmas money, I painted signs and Santa Clauses on store windows.  It was seasonal of course, and on the first of December, your hands froze on the glass windows, but lots of people stopped and passed the time of day with me, and you’ll have to admit, it was easy and fun.

One morning a woman stood watching me and then said she was writing a children’s book and wondered if I was interested in illustrating it.  Wow! would I!

The story was about a little Eskimo boy named Nootka of the North.  (Not too original,but it could always be changed.)

Her parents had been missionaries in Barrow, Alaska, and she brought old photo albums of their life to our house that evening.  It looked like the main excitement of their village was being tossed high into the air off a sealskin blanket, or perhaps a share in a little seal meat if the hunters got lucky.

I returned the albums to her a few days later after making a few drawings I thought she might like.  She lived  on a boat in the Redwood City marina, which was just across the bridge.  When I found her small boat, nearly hidden among larger and more posh ones, she called out to “come aboard”!

As soon as I stepped into the small cabin, a loud voice shouted “Fuck you!  Go home!”  There in the middle of the cabin sat a very large cage containing the largest and ugliest parrot I had ever seen.  She told me she had bought him from a bartender in Anchorage, Alaska, and since she lived alone, he was her “watch bird”.  It made a lot of sense, but I asked her if she would kindly cover him with a blanket while I was there, since he so obviously did not like me.

I made another couple of visits to her when the book got going, and we were both filled with hope that she could sell it to a publisher.

Time went by, and it became apparent that the book was going nowhere, so I thanked her very much for the opportunity.  The only payment I got was a few glasses of cheap wine, and the chance to be abused by a very loathsome  parrot.  But hey, it’s a great memory!