Warm Nuts Over Mississippi

I've been told I tell a pretty good story. And as it happens, I've got some good ones.  "You should write a book," they say.  I don't even have to make things up, my life has been so weird.

A couple of years ago I was on a red-eye flight from my home in Alaska to my Dad's house in Georgia.  Through some dumb luck, or possibly an excess of frequent flyer miles, my daughter and I found ourselves in first class.  She was 9 or so, and it was her first time in Row 1.  She's a darling to travel with, and entertained herself and slept, in between staring out the window.

I couldn't sleep.

Somewhere over Mississippi, the flight attendant brought me a hot towel and some warm nuts.  Warm Nuts.  At 30,000 feet.  I pondered briefly as to what process resulted in warm nuts being served to me at 2 a.m. in seat 1 B.  Did they microwave them?  Had they been warm since we took off 3 hours earlier?  Why is this necessary?

I chuckled to myself and the absurdity.  All of the stories of my life have culminated in this moment.  Warm Nuts Over Mississippi.  I decided if I ever got around to writing my book, that would be the title.

Fast forward to 2017.  I found myself in the Exit row on my way to Maui.  I was running away from home for a few days.  For some reason I actually engaged the woman next to me in conversation.  I almost never do that.  We talked for most of the 5 1/2 hour flight.  A retired teacher, married to the love of her life, it was as though she was visiting from the future to give me the advice I needed to hear in my late 40's.  I'm paraphrasing, but the gist of it was this:  It doesn't really matter what your job is.  Hopefully you enjoy it, but be sure to cultivate a passion over the next few years.  Try different things.  When you retire then you'll have a passion to keep you busy (hers was making stained glass).  Take care of your body and your mind, so when you arrive at retirement your body will be able to let you enjoy it.

She asked what I would be doing if I could do anything I wanted.  I said I'd be writing. 

Bird Watching

My grandfather loved  birds.  I didn’t get the appeal at the time.

Once, while driving the hour and a half between home and college, I tried to engage this quiet man in conversation by asking, “Hey, what do you call those black birds on the side of the road?  The ones with the red wings?”

He replied:  “Red-winged black birds.”

We drove in silence for another 45 minutes.

Today, 30 years later and 26 years after his death, I finally understood the appeal.

I’m on Maui for some ocean therapy.  I walked down to the beach early this morning, before it got hot and crazy.  As I was walking home, I saw about a dozen little green birds with white circles around their eyes.  I couldn’t wait to get back to my condo and google what they were.  (Japanese White-eyes, as it happens).  In that moment, my grandfather’s interest in birds suddenly made sense.  I’ll always remember exactly where I was when I saw my first (second, third, fourth, and eleventh) Japanese White-eye. Just like I’ll always remember those red-winged black birds on the side of I-29.

I didn’t take a photo.  I was simply present with the little birds for a few minutes.  If I kept a bird log I could mark it down.   Or, you know, I could finally get back to writing.  

Turns out the Japanese White-eyes are an invasive species on Maui.  So, there's that.  

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