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Why Are The Crows Again On The Crow Tree?

Four houses down the hill, on my side of the street, a HUGE tree grows in a backyard. For many years it was a resting rook for flocks of crows on their daily migration.


The crows would leave the other side of the harbour around dusk. They would fly to their evening rookery on a university campus on this side of the harbour. I’d guess 5 miles (8.04672 kilometers) – as the crow flies. They would return between seven and nine the next morning, making another stop in The Crow Tree.
I estimate there were around two hundred crows, taking their ease for twenty minutes or so. There was some flying and fluttering around The Crow Tree, but generally they settled and stayed on the branches.

Other birds steered clear.

Then, about three years ago the university, which was the crows’ destination, decided to construct some additional buildings. This meant the removal of trees. Lack of trees meant that the crows would have to go elsewhere. So much for higher learning.

And, indeed, over the months, the crows visiting The Crow Tree diminished, and eventually stopped. I researched the situation and found out that “my” crows were just one cohort of a murder that could reach two thousand. And I found out that not all the crows stopped using the university for their evening roost. There were obviously enough trees for some of them.

But “my” crows stopped.

That is, until two weeks ago.

One morning, around 70 – 100 crows settled into The Crow Tree. It was a great surprise. They stayed an hour or so. With such few numbers, they were neither raucous nor flighty.  They murmured among themselves, but I could not decipher what they were talking about. And then they went on their way. They did not make a return evening flight, and I have not seen them since.

Was it some sort of reunion?


DE

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Hurricane Of My Youth

Place seems to be an important part of my memories. So, when I was seven or eight, I was on the lawn leading to the woods beside our house. This was the third house I had lived in. 

It was small, one-story, and the “front door” led directly to the woods. It was a rarely used door. The door from the kitchen was the main entrance, leading to a deck, and a flight of stairs to the driveway. No one coming to the house would think of using the “front” door.

So, I don’t know why I used it that day. Perhaps the wind was exciting the trees. It was exciting me. I apparently have always liked the wind – the more and the faster the better. Still do, though – maybe – I don’t appreciate a great, rushing wind the way I used to. It can probably knock me over far more easily than in those days of my youth.

But, out in the rushing wind I was. I know it was strong enough to make me stumble, though not fall. The trees were wild. Leaves and branches and missile-any raced through the air. I pondered if I might fly along with it.

I don’t know how long I was in it. I suspect two or three minutes  (every one of which I enjoyed thoroughly). Ready to fly. However, the unused front door burst open, my father dashed out, grabbed me up, and carried me into the house.

He said I was in a hurricane. He told me it was dangerous. He said not to do it again. I suspect he might have wanted to ask if I was crazy.

I generally obeyed my father, but must confess – today I did not. Nor have I done so many times in my life. I always try to get out into a hurricane. Sometimes unwisely, but generally with more attention to being careful, than I ever did going out that front door. 

Just did it this morning, going out for my ten minutes in Hurricane Lee. It really is as exciting as ever.

DE

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Kafka Changes His Life By Leaving His Old Life Behind

Kafka did not really live in this tiny house on this narrow lane – his sister did.

And she did not really live in this tiny house on this narrow lane – she rented it so she could have a place to meet her lover in secret.

The secret was necessary because her lover was a Christian.

So the house was vacant most of the time.

Enter Kafka. He  started to go there (at the suggestion of his sister) so he could have a place to be alone. Otherwise he would be with his parents, which was not conducive to either his (or his sister’s) desires.

He never stayed the night, but was there most evenings for months. He wrote a whole book of short stories in his book The Country Doctor  while there.

I set a third of my novel about Kafka in this tiny house.
I’ve visited it.
Peered from the windows.
Looked up the stairs.
Ducked in the doorway.
When I was there while the country was still under Communist control, it was a book store.
But – Kafka being Kafkaesque long after death – none of his books were displayed.From Kafka In The Castle

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

02 November 1917

               I walked to Alchemist Lane this afternoon. It is not really a part of Prague – high and removed by its ninety-eight steps. A cold, clear day – much like the day a year ago when I accompanied Ottla on her mad little quest to see it. But not (as I had thought) for the first time. In fact, she had already rented it – something I’ve only learned these past few weeks. She had wished my approval, but she didn’t need my approval. I am glad of that.

     It was strange entering the courtyards, and passing beneath the spires of the cathedral. But stranger still was to stand at the mouth of the Lane itself, and look along its length. I could have been away for years, or returning to resume yesterday’s thoughts. I felt both. It was if I were at the station, but not knowing if I were arriving on one train, or departing upon another.

     The narrow lane was deserted, so I walked along its length slowly. There were new curtains on the windows of my little house. When I returned, I did pause before my old door, and glanced between the curtains to see that all of my furniture had been removed. Much as their owner.

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Dead And Drowned And Waiting To Go Home

It was another body,

Washed up,

On the rocks.

There are a number every year,

Coming in on the waves.

A fisherman by his garb.

You can’t tell anything

From his face,

Or extremities.

Food for fishes.

I put up two flags,

For assistance

And for death.

Some incoming boat

Will heave to,

And take the remains

To port.

I used the  peavey, 

To get him out of the water,

And rolled him in a tarpaulin,

And left him in the trench

I’ve dug

For just this reason.

Then I sang

“Nearer, My God, to Thee“,

Because,

What else can I do?

I wished Sister Darling

Was here,

To say proper prayers.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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High Winds And Seas And Whitecaps Smashing On Shore Keeps A Cat At Home

Paw,
The cat/kitten,
Black as storm clouds
With one white mitten,
Made no objection
When I kept him in
Today.
I had put him
In his cage,
And took him
To the door,
Which I opened.
But he hissed,
And looked at me
As if to say,
“Are you nuts?”
So I walked to
The Lighthouse
On my own,
Holding for dear life
To the rope secured
Between both houses.
I marvelled at

The height of the waves,
Attempting to tear
The island
Limb from limb.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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A Meal For Sailors Home From The Sea & Staying Together During A COVID Pandemic Lock Down

It is ever-practical Linda who knows a thing or fifty-two about what sailors who have been long on the sea want to eat and drink when first ashore, who suggests a menu, and is more than willing to prepare it all herself, but is convinced by Bridget that, in this instance, too many cooks will not spoil the broth.

“So what’s first?” asks Bridget.

“Always beer,” says Linda. “And a small bowl of nuts. And since this is so special, make them cashews.”

“That’s like a tease,” says Amanda.

“Yes.”

“And what’s next?” asks Alison Alexandra.

“Potato canoes, with lots of bacon in the mix,” says Linda. “And cook the bacon at the time, so he can smell it.”

“Crafty,” says Bridget.

“Tricks of the trade,” says Linda.

“What’s up next?” asks Amanda.

“As fresh a salad as you can make,” says Linda. “If there are cucumbers and mushrooms, so much the better, because those don’t keep well on a ship.” Linda winks. “And throw in some dried cranberries.”

“You’ve entertained sailors home from the sea,” says Amanda.

“I have,” agrees Linda. “My father and my brother. All this I have learned at my mother’s knee.”

“Home cookin’.” says Alison Alexandra. “What’s the main course?”

“Steak – always,” says Linda. “Sirloin tip with the cap on – or better.” She speaks sternly. “And don’t overcook it – even though they say that’s what they want. They don’t. They want the taste, and will appreciate it.”

“I hope we’re all getting this,” says Amanda.

“And fried onions,” says Linda. “On the side.”

“For the smell,” says Bridget.

“Always a winner,” says Linda.

“Any other side dish?” asks Alison Alexandra.

“Fried rice,” says Linda. With BBQ pork and onions in it.”

“But we already have potato,” says Amanda.

“They can’t get too much starch,” says Linda. “And they get to choose as much as they want out of the bowl.”

“Large bowl,” says Bridget.

“You bet’cha,” says Linda.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“What about dessert?” asks Alison Alexandra.

“We offer apple pie with ice cream, and rice pudding with a velvety skin on top.”

“That’s quite a choice,” says Bridget.

“Oh, those sailor boys will choose some of each.”

“Is that it?” asks Amanda.

“No.” Linda smiles. The end is a pot of bitter Chinese tea, a plate of thin, crisp, mildly sweet cookies, and a bottle of amber rum.”

“I’m stuffed,” says Bridget.

“Welcome home,” says Linda.

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Escape From The House of Hell

alh5baf0f_ottla[Franz & Ottla]

Franz Kafka lived way too long with his parents (his discord with his father is famous), and stayed in the city of Prague (which he described as “The little mother with claws”) for most of his life. But his sister, Ottla, escaped both. In my rendition of Kafka’s missing diary entries, in Kafka In The Castle, I show his reaction to his sister’s escape.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

20 April 1917

Fate laughed up its sleeve, and this morning’s post brought a letter from Felice. A letter of no consequence, except for its arrival.

And I, in fact, have answered it. Perhaps too hastily. Perhaps too truthfully.

I have praised Ottla so much previously that F. has, upon occasion, made comments about my admiration.

That was her word, and I think it was not used favourably.

But the truth is – I have great admiration for my youngest sister. She does not think and think and think.

She does not discuss things for weeks.

She acts.

My God – she got away from Prague!

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