The weather eagle pays a visit to the Naturalist
’Twas a few days before Christmas, and all through the house.
Many creatures were stirring, among them a mouse...”
—With apologies to Clement Moore
As 2021 draws to a close, it is fitting, in the words of A Christmas Carol, that immortal tale of redemption by Charles Dickens, both to make “some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time,” and to reflect on the year soon to pass.
I certainly hope I’ve done my proper share to help—“many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts,” Dickens reminds us (and, alas, the numbers have only increased many and many-fold since the writer’s time)—and because my caring portfolio also includes preserving the health of the planet, well, I find myself with an unending task list.
Then, there are those reflections. So, “at this festive season of the year,” I’ve taken some time away from the party... and the Party Mix... to review the last 365 days and nights. In thinking back, the lines of a 1970s classic Grateful Dead song emerged spontaneously: “What a long, strange trip it’s been.”
As the winter solstice arrived on the 21st, I began the day with a cheery but annoying chittering from one of the white-footed mice that, every year as the weather turns cold, find their way into the house and make a variety of mischief. In a perfect world, I’d be able to plug every possible entryway from the woods and fields outside to the relative comfort and occasional food sources within our walls.
Alas, this is not that world, and it’s almost impossible to seal all the myriad spots through which a tiny and flexible member of the rodent family Muridae can squeeze. Still, when our trio of felines was with us—the death and disappearance of our cats Sophie, Arlo, and Rocky was one of the worst heartbreaks in a heartbreak year—our collection of predators did a decent job of keeping the mouse population down to a reasonable number. Without the hunters on the job, I’ve had to resort to trapping. I’m hardly happy about having to take on the feline job, but after the murids figured out how to avoid entering the Have-a-Heart traps and continue eating far too much of our larder, I had to resort to measures sterner than issuing increasingly dire warnings about the consequences of dining on our supplies of nuts, pasta, cereal, and sugar.
“Go away,” I yelled at the critter yet to be tempted by the peanut butter and oatmeal bait that often enough proved to emit a fatal attraction.
“Surely you don’t really mean that,” came a reply from a somewhat familiar speaker muffled by sheetrock and fiberglass insulation.
Now, when I hear voices emerging from thin air... or wallboard... I usually attribute it to “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato,” as Ebenezer Scrooge did when confronting ghosts. I figured, as Scrooge did, that there was “more of gravy than of grave” about the words, and since I didn’t appear to be having a stroke or a bout of schizophrenia, I attributed the queer reply to a digestive inconvenience that would soon pass.
But then, I heard this: “Naturalist, I could leave now, but what fun would heading away without dispensing my annual dose of enlightenment be?”
I sighed, pretty sure of the identity of speaker. “Weather Oracle, if that’s indeed you,” I said, “come forth and deliver your prophecy.”
“Sure thing, Nat,” the Oracle replied. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can determine a way out of this wall.”
I found this dilemma hard to fathom since, on every past visit for the nearly half-century I’ve known the meteorological prophet, the WC, being something of the magician, has simply apparated out of thin air. Oracles can do that.
But on this apparition, our prognosticator of prognosticators was forced by some inexplicable supernatural wardrobe malfunction to break through the wall, and when the Oracle emerged, I could see that problem. Instead of a bearded, oracular, Sage of Sages, there was, in front of me, a Steller’s Sea Eagle, the fabulously rare Asian raptor that had surfaced in Massachusetts on the 20th as the best pre-Christmas present a birder could ask for.
“Nice disguise,” I said, eyeing the colorful, 20 pound bird with the lurid yellow beak and magnificent eightfoot wingspan.
“I like to spread holiday joy wherever I go,” said the WC. “And all that publicity was great for the ego.”
“I imagine,” I replied, “and speaking of joy, do you have any of the meteorological variety to spread my way?”
This was code, we both knew, for my fondest hope that the New Year would bring the sternest of winters, with an abundance of snow and cold.
“Oh, my dear friend,” said the Oracle, puffing up to his haughtiest eagleness, “sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but you known those new cross-country boots you purchased as your own holiday present?”
“Don’t tell me,” I answered, crestfallen.
“Yep, you should have bought new sneakers.” “Climate change?”
“The same, and as long as we have a certain senator from West Virginia and an entire political party of deniers scuttling every move to blunt the damage, I’m afraid I’m going to be delivering the same annual forecast. Now, would you mind opening a window? I’m feeling that urge for goin’ and I’d like to put in an appearance in a warmer locale, especially one with adoring fans. See you next year,” the WC intoned as he flapped his mighty wings and headed skyward.
“What about my wall?” I yelled as he gained altitude.
“Oh that,” he replied. “Already fixed it. Sometimes the old magic works.”
Sure enough, the damage was completely repaired.
“Wish you could do that to the climate,” I yelled as he headed off into the distance.
“So do I, Naturalist,” said the WC. “But that’s not in my hands. Good luck with the project, stay safe and well, and Happy New Year!”