Tribute to Tikvah the Towhee

I wrote the following on February 27, 2008. Six months later, I'm still not used to her absence. Did you ever love a wild thing?

She was pretty much useless:

1) She only had one leg.
2) She couldn't even fly that well, for a bird -- she often came in
low, and toppled a bit.
3) She was plain to look at, and had one persistent feather that jutted
out the side, like a stubborn cowlick.
4) Towhees don't make breathtaking melodies, like mockingbirds do.
5) She stopped having babies several seasons ago.
6) She didn't know she had a name (Tikvah, meaning Hope) and we
couldn't pet her or hug her.
7) She barely knew we existed, and never said 'thank you' for the
expensive bird food we bought her.
8) After a storm I always had to go pick up the downed branches and
twigs, lest she trip over them on her one unsteady leg.
9) I constantly had to rush out to protect her from the cat next door
and, again, did she once say 'thank you'? No.
10) Now that she's gone, she's a real pain in the ass, because every
time I look in the back or side yards, fresh tears come.

Damned little nuisance.

"On Your Left!"

It happened again yesterday. I was walking on the Sonoma Bike/Pedestrian path, deep in thought, lost in other worlds and old worries. The path was nearly deserted; I felt alone with the exception of one lone killdeer softly calling out in the adjacent field. Suddenly, the near-silence was shattered by the harsh voice of a woman streaking up behind me on her Schwinn, yelling, "On your left!" Jolted out of my meditation, I jumped and lurched right, my adrenalin-drenched heart pounding. I was still trying to regain my composure when she was but a dot in the far-ahead distance.

"On your left!" bugs me. Although I'm sure bicyclists have the noblest of intentions and desire only to protect me from harm, these warnings still feel, at some level, as if they are demanding, "Out of my way!" And, even though I'm subjected to these bellows several times on my five-mile walks and should be used to them by now, they always startle me. The human voice is not the most melodic of nature's sounds.

But I'm open to other options. I find the bicycle bell much more civilized and quaint and European. Can we compromise with a bell?

Meanwhile, if you're speeding down a bike path one day and, just as you come abreast of a pedestrian she shrieks in your ear, "On your right!" and you startle and fall off your bike (unhurt, of course), that won't be me laughing. Oh no, I wouldn't do such a thing. RoadPeace forever, man.

"On Your Left!"

It happened again yesterday. I was walking on the Sonoma
Bike/Pedestrian path, deep in thought, lost in other worlds and old
worries. The path was nearly deserted; I felt alone with the exception
of one lone killdeer softly calling out in the adjacent field.
Suddenly, the near-silence was shattered by the harsh voice of a woman
streaking up behind me on her Schwinn, yelling, "On your left!" Jolted
out of my meditation, I jumped and lurched right, my adrenalin-drenched
heart pounding. I was still trying to regain my composure when she was
but a dot in the far-ahead distance.

"On your left!" bugs me. Although I'm sure bicyclists have the noblest
of intentions and desire only to protect me from harm, these warnings
still feel, at some level, as if they are demanding, "Out of my way!"
And, even though I'm subjected to these bellows several times on my
five-mile walks and should be used to them by now, they always startle
me. The human voice is not the most melodic of nature's sounds.

But I'm open to other options. I find the bicycle bell much more
civilized and quaint and European. Can we compromise with a bell?

Meanwhile, if you're speeding down a bike path one day and, just as you
come abreast of a pedestrian she shrieks in your ear, "On your right!"
and you startle and fall off your bike (unhurt, of course), that won't
be me laughing. Oh no, I wouldn't do such a thing. RoadPeace forever,
man.