Snapshots, Travels with the flock, Wanderings

Life is old there

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During some “off” time during the first day of the New River Birding and Nature Festival we wandered down a windy single-lane road to the long-forgotten railroad town of Thurmond, West Virginia.

You arrive in Thurmond by crossing the New River over a narrow bridge that doubles as a railroad bridge. It feels pretty old and rickety, but was perfectly safe. I held my breath most of the way across, just in case.

; )

A short walk from the railroad depot, lies Thurmond’s old downtown, built right along the railroad tracks. Several old buildings, including a bank with an impressive facade, make up the old downtown.

According to the 2000 census, Thurmond has 7 residents. Back in Thurmond’s heyday, more than 500 people lived here and the rail lines carried more than 97 thousand passengers a year, along with 3.5 million tons of freight (most of which was coal).

Making our way back to civilization, we found a small roadside waterfall that demanded a ritual toe-dunking.

: )

Crazy things i do to amuse myself, Snapshots, Travels with the flock, Wanderings

8/100

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Late in the week at New River, Beth G. and I had separated ourselves for an hour or so from the “serious birders” in order to photograph the Glade Creek Mill at Babcock State Park. It’s a very pretty setting and deserved some time of its own.

So Beth set up her tripod and we scrambled around on the rocks in the middle of the creek for a perfect view of the mill… of course I was distracted the whole time by the fishermen who station themselves along the way. I’m always on the prowl for interesting strangers to photograph, but more often than not, my shyness gets in the way of asking for a photo.

So this guy approached us, once we had given up on photography and decided to go back to birding, to ask us what we were doing there that day and where we were from, etc.

We told him we were there to look at birds and his response was, “The birds are all dead.”

Huh?

And he told us about, how, as a kid up at dawn, there used to be a deafening sound of song from birds. He doesn’t hear that anymore. Doesn’t hear birds singing, at all. So they’re all dead.

Huh?

Mind you, his accent was pretty thick, so maybe I misheard him.

; )

In my devilishly charming sort of way I suggested that maybe his hearing was just going… that birds were still singing, but his ears were just too old to hear them, maybe.

; )

This was the moment when I asked for his photo. It’s one of my favorites.

This photo is #8 in my 100 strangers project. Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at Flickr 100 Strangers or www.100Strangers.com

Birds, Travels with the flock, Wanderings, Wildflowers

The full report

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The full report on the New River Birding and Nature Festival will have to wait a bit; for now there’s just these couple images… of perfect roadside wildflowers, of rivers rushing across bared toes, of ghost towns nestled in the mountains, weathered barns along the way, of impossible to photograph birds, memories of twisty country roads, lush hillsides and scenic saw mills, the laughter of an impossible-to-imagine mix of friends, graffiti as art and, finally, a hug between two beloved Flock-mates for the sake of a little bird colored blue like the spring sky.

From the field

Told you so

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So I’d been almost patting myself on the back a couple weeks ago, thinking I’d earned my angel wings and all that…

That sort of thinking never turns out well, does it?

I’d managed to orchestrate a move for one of my most difficult mentally ill clients; he’s been living in something like a boarding home situation for about 16 years and has wanted out of that climate for most all of that time. He’d call me multiple times a week with a new apartment he’d found or a new real estate agent he’d harassed into helping him find a place… all of which led to nothing but frustration on both our parts.

See, the thing is, he’s crazy and has a hard time hiding it.

He has a small army of social workers that’ve been helping him to live a somewhat independent life… people that make sure he stays on his meds, washes his self and his clothes, pays his bills, doesn’t piss off his landlord too much (that’s my job!), etc.

We all sort of doubted that he could live on his own, but that’s not our choice to make, is it?

So after years of trying and when things with his current landlord finally reached a breaking point, I located an apartment that met his annoyingly particular needs and begged him to let me do my job and get him into it.

Stay out of it! Please! Don’t keep calling them with your craziness!

Instead he’d call me everyday with his questions and his rantings, trying to micromanage a process that he didn’t need to be a part of. There were a lot of glitches along the way, but I got him in, got the Salvation Army to move him and donate furniture and household stuff. A success, I thought.

I’d hoped so anyway, with fingers crossed.

The ink is barely dry on our contracts with the new landlord. My phone has been eerily silent… I wanted that to mean things were going smoothly.

Today I got the call that his landlord is filing a notice to cease. This is the first legal step in the eviction process.

After just 25 days.

Can I get an, “I told you so”?

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Most of my mentally ill clients are blessed with wonderful, caring and understanding landlords. The issues they deal with from their tenants are unpredictably varied. I want to be able to draw some conclusion from my experiences, but I’m not there just yet. It feels like the various support systems that are in place to support the mentally ill are not working very well.

Birds, In the neighborhood, PSA

Sandy Hook

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gull wing curve of beach terns
in flocks like sheep standing one-legged
weather vanes into the wind swirls
and eddies of clam shells mussels
chaff of dune grass pebbles drifting
the gentle swells of sand white caps
bottle caps fishing skiffs sand castles
afternoon lineup of jets overhead in the wind
a plastic bag rolls over and over

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Monmouth County Audubon’s bi-monthly field trip to Sandy Hook meets tomorrow at the Visitor’s Center at 10 am. Laughing Gulls have arrived as have other spring migrants. Join us to welcome them back!

Birds, In the neighborhood, PSA

The disappearing

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What do the disappearing know?

Can they change fast enough
with the few genes they have left
to make themselves more seen
in the sand? Will they learn that
what hides them
has become a clever enemy?

Can we read answers in their eyes
as they lead us away from their nests, piping
between flat beach stones piping
the same smooth recorder notes they piped
when no human threat
smashed their last eggs?

Do they
in their few numbers
hide until time
brings them a safe lover
or a place where their future won’t be shattered?

What can they know of a final going?

Will they continue to try
to guide us away
because it’s the only way they know how?

As if any of us, any fox or truck or boisterous dog could hear that song,
that piper in its low haunt
the possible dirge
of an almost invisible bird.

Snapshots, Wanderings, Wildflowers

Some poems

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some poems
you do not write

you wait
hushed
as the soil strains
its urgent whisper

this

listen
and remember
this

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Bloodroot is peeking through the forest floor now; stepped over and unseen by all but those who know to look for it.

The Wiki link above is worth a read for its explanation of myrmecochory that I referred to in this prior post, but which I almost believed to be a fable.

Just me rambling about birds, books, bunnies, or whatever!