I do not know what would possess a free little bird to explore narrow dark stove pipe. Perhaps it is the coolness of such a nook in the heat of the day when no fire has been lit for a month or more. Whatever their reasons, birds do explore such pipes from time to time, and when the pipe they choose is the one extending from my parents roof, they find themselves at the bottom trapped in a small round room of glass. The flue of the chimney is arranged in a way that makes it rather surprising that a bird could ever find its way around it, and not at all surprising that they never find their way back.
Today as I sat on the sofa with a glass of iced tea, reading a book and thinking about nothing in particular, I heard a scratching sound and discovered such a sparrow exploring its new cell. This time of year the fireplace is converted into something of a greenhouse for my mothers houseplants, and amidst the leaves and stems the bird must have felt well enough at home, for he didn't seem too frightened yet. But when I moved closer to inspect the tiny prisoner, he started suddenly and began to dart about, desperately seeking an opening in the glass walls.
I stepped back to contemplate how best to release him. When this has happened before, we have opened the large picture windows on either side of the house and chased the birds out with brooms. But I was alone at the moment and not at all sure that I could direct the bird to the window without another person to block off other routes.
Finally I thought of the collapsible laundry hamper that Colby had brought back with him from college for the long weekend. It was nearly the right size to set against the door. I spread some bread crumbs in, opened the fireplace door and set the basket against it. Mr. Sparrow was not to be tempted by the food however. He resolutely kept flying against the transparent glass on every other side of the fireplace. I would have to scare him into the hamper.
This took a bit of creativity with tapping on the glass using long objects to reach around the fireplace, but was eventually accomplished. I slammed a piece of cardboard over the hamper, and moving slowly, so as to scare the little bird as little as possible, carried the makeshift cage out of doors. As we walked, the sparrow flung himself against the net sides and against the cardboard, quite panicked. There was nothing someone as big as I could do to comfort him, although I tried to tell him that his journey would last only a moment or two longer.
Finally, out under a juniper in the front yard, I set the hamper down and took off the cardboard. The sparrow, however, had hidden himself in a corner and refused to come out - I suppose he thought I was waiting for him at the top of the basket. I tipped the hamper on its side and fairly shook him loose. For an instant he tumbled on the ground, then, gathering himself took off flying away as fast as he could and chattering to himself non-stop.
25 May 2009
11 February 2009
Bibliophile
On this cold, cloudy February evening, I settle in to work on some research for the website I'm helping my professor develop (it will be part of this series - but devoted to the Bill of Rights). Like most students in the 21st century, I do 90% of my research online. The resources available on the internet astound me. But even in the age of global communications, it is not quite true that everything is available online.
Today, as I look through relatively obscure information on the First United States Congress, my work takes me away from the computer screen to a worn collection of documents from the formation of the United States. The volume arrived yesterday through Interlibrary Loan, and tonight I settle in at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea, a ginger cookie and the book to see what I can find. Almost immediately I remember my childhood fascination with books as books. Even before I could read, I loved how a book looked, how it felt, how the pages sounded and smelled.
Tonight I remember that delight, as I examine the odd volume. It is a big book - about half again as tall as a dictionary (although no wider) and as thick as a lawschool casebook. The dark blue cover is worn almost to white around the edges, but is otherwise undamaged by the years. The only ornamentation on the cover is a thin gold border and a gold imprint of the United States Seal - not much bigger than a half-dollar.
The pages are thin and yellowed and slightly textured. The title page tells me that it was issued by the 69th Congress, 1st Session and the GPO publication date is 1927. On the next page, someone has written in pencil along the inside edge of the page. It's a fine script - reminds me of my grandmother's. 20 Sept '38 and U.S.C. Bookstore - Soc.Sci. - 2.85. My curiosity about the significance of the 2.85 is satisfied when I turn the page and find a message from the publisher in capital letters:
I sigh thinking of the book I purchased for class today. $27. Compared to this book it was hardly more than a pamphlet. . .
My research will be slower tonight. Its not easy to find what I'm looking for when there's no "ctrl F" function. But I don't mind . . . there's something nice about taking it slow and enjoying the source as much as the information.
Today, as I look through relatively obscure information on the First United States Congress, my work takes me away from the computer screen to a worn collection of documents from the formation of the United States. The volume arrived yesterday through Interlibrary Loan, and tonight I settle in at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea, a ginger cookie and the book to see what I can find. Almost immediately I remember my childhood fascination with books as books. Even before I could read, I loved how a book looked, how it felt, how the pages sounded and smelled.
Tonight I remember that delight, as I examine the odd volume. It is a big book - about half again as tall as a dictionary (although no wider) and as thick as a lawschool casebook. The dark blue cover is worn almost to white around the edges, but is otherwise undamaged by the years. The only ornamentation on the cover is a thin gold border and a gold imprint of the United States Seal - not much bigger than a half-dollar.
The pages are thin and yellowed and slightly textured. The title page tells me that it was issued by the 69th Congress, 1st Session and the GPO publication date is 1927. On the next page, someone has written in pencil along the inside edge of the page. It's a fine script - reminds me of my grandmother's. 20 Sept '38 and U.S.C. Bookstore - Soc.Sci. - 2.85. My curiosity about the significance of the 2.85 is satisfied when I turn the page and find a message from the publisher in capital letters:
THIS VOLUME MAY BE PURCHASED FROM
THE SUPERINTENDENT OF DOCUMENTS
GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE
AT $2.85 PER COPY
THE SUPERINTENDENT OF DOCUMENTS
GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE
AT $2.85 PER COPY
I sigh thinking of the book I purchased for class today. $27. Compared to this book it was hardly more than a pamphlet. . .
My research will be slower tonight. Its not easy to find what I'm looking for when there's no "ctrl F" function. But I don't mind . . . there's something nice about taking it slow and enjoying the source as much as the information.
29 January 2009
22 January 2009
Thursday Evening
An evening with a few hours of unexpected free time finds me making my way to the coffee shop to work and to study. As the California sun sets behind a blanket of clouds (for once!) I make my way down the escalator from the parking garage. This development (very chic, modern mixed residential/commercial) is the sort of place I could go on a philosophical tangent against. Its gaudy, fake-big-city in the Los Angeles suburbs. Its a cheap substitution for community, a-historic retro with no real roots.
And I love it.
I can't help it. I love the old-fashioned elevators and doormen in funny caps. I love the huge hotel-like lobby open on one side to the outdoors with its marble floors, overstuffed chairs and player piano. I love the huge bouquet of stargazer lilies and pink orchids in the woman's restroom, the heavy paper-linen napkins, the bottle of William-Sonoma hand lotion next to the sink.
It makes me laugh to watch people riding the replica trolley around the one square block of shops. It is driven by a conductor in a black hat and double-breasted uniform. The passengers sit straight in the wooden seats, looking anything but comfortable.
In the center square there's a huge fountain with dancing water on the hour and on the half.
The fountain is my favorite. I am glad they don't use coloured lights, there is something more truly beautiful about the simply lit water coreographed to familiar big-band standards. Something exciting about the sound of the water as it laughs and bubbles about the fountain. Even if I did complain about modern development, I wouldn't criticize the fountain.
I like the little permanent booths situated around the lawn, selling all sorts of treats from cheeseburgers and pretzels to crepes and gelatto. I like the perfectly manicured grass. I like the retro streetlights with the tiffany glass in their lamps. I even like the ridiculously gaudy crystal chandelier that hangs over the street.
Despite myself, I find myself admiring the window-displays in Tiffany's or Armani Exchange. I watch the diners in the dimly lit restaurants. They are dressed in clothing more expensive than I will ever own, sipping drinks more expensive than most meals I will ever purchase.
Everything about this place is extravagant, overpriced, overdone. Its neither small town nor big city . . . nor even quite something in-between. There is nothing authentic about the development and probably very little authentic about many of the diners and shoppers. But that doesn't mean they aren't interesting. In fact, there is something fascinating about the whole spectacle.
So fascinating that I think I probably shouldn't come here anymore when I'm trying to study. I'm not getting anything done.
And I love it.
I can't help it. I love the old-fashioned elevators and doormen in funny caps. I love the huge hotel-like lobby open on one side to the outdoors with its marble floors, overstuffed chairs and player piano. I love the huge bouquet of stargazer lilies and pink orchids in the woman's restroom, the heavy paper-linen napkins, the bottle of William-Sonoma hand lotion next to the sink.
It makes me laugh to watch people riding the replica trolley around the one square block of shops. It is driven by a conductor in a black hat and double-breasted uniform. The passengers sit straight in the wooden seats, looking anything but comfortable.
In the center square there's a huge fountain with dancing water on the hour and on the half.
The fountain is my favorite. I am glad they don't use coloured lights, there is something more truly beautiful about the simply lit water coreographed to familiar big-band standards. Something exciting about the sound of the water as it laughs and bubbles about the fountain. Even if I did complain about modern development, I wouldn't criticize the fountain.
I like the little permanent booths situated around the lawn, selling all sorts of treats from cheeseburgers and pretzels to crepes and gelatto. I like the perfectly manicured grass. I like the retro streetlights with the tiffany glass in their lamps. I even like the ridiculously gaudy crystal chandelier that hangs over the street.
Despite myself, I find myself admiring the window-displays in Tiffany's or Armani Exchange. I watch the diners in the dimly lit restaurants. They are dressed in clothing more expensive than I will ever own, sipping drinks more expensive than most meals I will ever purchase.
Everything about this place is extravagant, overpriced, overdone. Its neither small town nor big city . . . nor even quite something in-between. There is nothing authentic about the development and probably very little authentic about many of the diners and shoppers. But that doesn't mean they aren't interesting. In fact, there is something fascinating about the whole spectacle.
So fascinating that I think I probably shouldn't come here anymore when I'm trying to study. I'm not getting anything done.