Baseball, Birding, and the Healing Balm of Hope

 

“It ain’t over till it’s over!”

The time-tested battle cry is never truer than in baseball. I can’t even count the times my team rallied back bottom of the ninth, two outs, one man on. And I watch straight though until that last out is called because, in baseball, there is always hope: hope that my team will come from behind, hope that I’ll see something new (I’m still waiting to see a live triple play), and if my team doesn’t make it to post-season, hope for next year. 

Birdwatching is like baseball as it, too, fills me with hope. I’ve backyard bird-watched for years but am still new to the deliberate world of birding. This is the world where I traipse through woods, cross meadows, and straddle creeks to catch sight of something I’ve never seen before: a new species, a strange activity, an unprecedented flock. 

Even though I average 7 poor days of birding for every great day,  I am undeterred. Why? Hope. 

Tomorrow  holds the possibility of being better. The odds are in my favor. And I’m filled with hope, the healing balm that soothes the pain of losing. Or of losing out.

There have only been a few times I recall feeling hopeless. The most devastating, the time which cut the deepest, was losing my son. For over two years I – our whole family – hoped that chemo would work. We hoped the cancer would go into remission. We hoped for a cure. New remedies were being discovered every day. Just hang on, we whispered, until that next breakthrough. And then, sadly, one day it was over. And I had to do two terrible things: say goodbye and let go of hope.

The ancient Greeks understood hope’s magic. In the Myth of Pandora’s Box, a young woman is given a box and told under no circumstance is she to open it. Curiosity, of course, gets the better of her and she opens the box only to unleash all the world’s ills, mischief, and sorrows. Once released, they could not be re-contained. But when she looked close, in the very bottom of the box, there was one small, significant thing that remained: Hope.

Not only is hope healthy, it gives me reason to get out of bed. And who doesn’t need that these days?

I cannot replace what is gone forever, but I can – and do – hope for new things, good things, things that heal me like baseball, birding and the balm of hope itself.

 

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It’d be hell if there weren’t any birds -- and I’m not the only one who thinks so. In the old Japanese culture of Ainu on the island of Hokkaidu, one of their concepts of hell was the exact world in which they lived – but with no birds at all. No birds, and no hope of birds.

 

Hiking in the Time of Quarantine

Overlooking the Shenandoah Valley

Scarlet Tanager hidden in the green

**UPDATE** - As of June14, we have hiked 288 miles. With only 12 more needed to hit 300, I'm raising money to do so for the Sarcoma Foundation of America. If you've enjoyed seeing photos of our hikes, or your life has been changed by cancer, I hope you'll consider a small donation. For more information, visit my fundraiser.

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I'm one of the lucky ones, I know. 

I live in Virginia and, as such, have access to long miles of hiking trails through deep green forest, along burbling creeks, and across thick meadows. Currently unable to gather in crowds, during lockdown, I turn to nature. 

I have done my best these past 12 weeks to revisit the outdoors quiet, its calm, its buzz, and yes, its hyperactivity. 

Because while our nation's daily work life is stalled by pandemic, life goes on else-where. In fact, it's thriving. 

Hikers hike for different reasons. Some do it strictly for the challenge, both physical and mental. Others take to the trails to view emerging plants and wildflowers. And others go outdoors to watch for butterflies, bugs and birds. For me, it's a combination of these -- with a strong emphasis on bird watching. 

Quantico Creek in Prince William Forest

As far back as I recall, my soul's compass has pointed me toward the outdoors, if just to the garden. Now I find that hiking is as close as I'll get to viewing the innards and edge of an enormous universe.

I am not a religious woman, but immersed in nature is where I hear God the clearest. Because in spite of the man-made maelstroms we create, the black-and-white zebra butterfly is completely oblivious. Regardless of voter polls and market drops, bankruptcies and analyses, the speckled wood thrush couldnt care less. They have their own lives. 

There are creature cultures out there -- just a few feet away -- unaware and unconcerned with our problems right now. And I wish to watch that world, unplugged and unencumbered, for at least a few more hours. It's an escape, I admit. But I gotta have it. 

Zebra Butterfly

In Virginia's Commonwealth, our state parks remain open during the quarantine. Not only do the parks have well-marked trails, but you can download a map showing which trails are rated easy, moderate, and difficult. Wildlife Management Areas throughout the state also have some good hiking trails, as do local forest areas. Even parts of the Appalachian Trail remain open allowing hikes into neighboring states. And there's always the walk down a country road to soothe and satisfy. 

As of this posting, I have hiked more than 160 miles since the end of February. Some of the reasons I love it can be found here: 

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Appalachian Trail Overlooking Potomac River

If you're new to hiking, here are a few tips:

• Wear loose (not baggy) clothes to allow movement to bend, squat, pivot, etc. You never know what you'll see or where you'll see it. 
• Although not mandatory, a good pair of hiking boots is worth the expense.
• Hydrate. Bring water with you and have it handy. A couple of natural and/or high protein snacks are usually a welcome treat as well. 
• Pack In/Pack Out - Take out any trash you have. This includes - but not limited to - drink bottles, snack wrappers, hand wipes, tissues. Nothing makes hikers cringe like seeing trash on the trail. We're all adults here.
• If the trail name includes words like crest, ridge, or overlook, you're probably in for a steep climb. I learned this one the hard way. 

For more information about Virginia State Parks, visit their website. 

Me and Rex, my delightful husband and hiking partner who often claims
"The agony of hiking is the joy of hiking."

A Stranger in East Berlin

An afternoon trip to East Berlin and a random glance out the window would forever change my view of patriotism.

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Looking across the wall into a bleak and dismal East Berlin

Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

I leaned against the window of our duty bus and glanced out. It was the spring of 1982 and we had just pulled up to a red light in East Berlin. There was a young couple in the car beside us. Cramped in the back was an old woman. I watched as she steadily tap-tapped her window.

I had arrived at my West Berlin duty station a few months earlier and, like most, was curious to see Communist East Germany. So when our flight chief announced a day trip to East Berlin I signed up. For security reasons we wore dress blues that day, no name tags, and were ordered to stay together in pairs. There was a preassigned itinerary including a list of places we could and could not visit. “Don’t wander off,” our leader had warned. “Don’t converse with the locals. Don’t give your name. Don’t ride the S-Bahn. Don’t drink the soda pop, there’s something funny in it. Laxative, I think. And for God’s sake, stay together.”

Charlie Flight in our dress blues. I'm front row, far left

Our first group stop was the Soviet War museum where the Russian doyen proudly walked us through room after room explaining how the resilient Soviet Union single-handedly defeated fascist Germany in the Great Patriotic War, or World War II. Next we were driven to the Karl Marx Plaza, the “showcase to the west,” with its dismal store displays and long queues of East Germans hoping for something – anything – to arrive in bulk. I bought a cheap notebook, its paper flecked with wood pulp. When the clerk handed me my change I thought the coins were fake, they were so lightweight and flimsy.

My friend Rex and I grabbed lunch at one of the few approved cafes, declining the soda. We poked around another shop or two, its wares just as depressing. I was taken aback by a small silver plated dustpan and brush for sale. It looked out of place next to the thick wool stockings and cheap alarm clocks. But for centuries the eastern part of Germany had been home to its aristocracy.

Now, the eastern part was Communist and there was no call for silver-plated anything. So someone’s family heirloom sat on the dusty shelves with scant chance of finding a new home.

After a short walk, Rex and I headed back to the duty bus. East Berlin, unfortunately, lived up to everything I had read.

At the end of World War II, Germany had been divided by the Allies. The western half worked to become a free democracy aided by Great Britain, France, and the United States. But the eastern half had fallen to Communism. The city of Berlin itself, although geographically located in East Germany, was also divided.

West Berlin, a little “island city” behind the Iron Curtain, was still part of West Germany and therefore free. But that had not been the Soviet Union’s intent. 

Immediately following the war the Soviets halted all western traffic into the city by road and rail. They tried to choke off supplies to the city’s western half in order to ensure its downfall. What they had not counted on was overhead airspace. Within weeks, planes from the US and UK began flying into West Berlin delivering cargo to keep the bedraggled city running. The year-long airlift brought everything from dry goods to canned goods, wheat, fat, fish, milk, coffee, coal and books. Aircraft came in so steadily that at the height of the airlift a plane landed once every minute. And there was the beloved Candy Bomber who had dropped chocolate bars from the sky, each equipped with a tiny parachute. All told, nearly 400,000 tons of supplies were delivered during the Berlin Blockade. Those who lived through it never forgot. 

The American Candy Bomber dropped chocolate bars each equipped with a tiny parachute

Twelve years later, with the Allies still firmly entrenched, the Berlin Wall went up -- virtually overnight. East Germans were told it was to keep corrupt western capitalists out, but most understood it was to keep themselves in. Those who were able, quickly grabbed what they could and had fled to West Berlin, to loved ones, to freedom. Unfortunately, many older folks, perhaps like the woman tap-tapping her window, could not move that fast. Once the cement had dried on the wall, there was little to no chance of ever getting out.

By 1982, West Berlin had risen from the rubble to become a thriving cosmopolitan city again. But East Berlin paled in comparison, like a malnourished cousin. Walking through its streets I noticed very few advertisements on its beige buildings. Clothing was outdated and ill-fitting. Music in shops was sparse, very little modern and nothing at all from the west. Propaganda signs, however, were prominent in the east, touting the virtues of soviet reform.

The graves of those killed trying to escape to West Berlin. "Unbekannt" means unknown.

Our bus was headed back to West Berlin now, to our barracks, to a vibrant downtown, hopping bistros, and bulging department stores. I continued to watch the old woman as she tapped. I tapped my window and waved. She looked up and, smiling, waved back. Then she pointed to something just below my window and, to my surprise, began crying.

There was a small American flag painted on the side of our bus. She pointed again and saluted. Then I understood. 

She must have been a young woman when Allied forces marched in at war’s end. Perhaps she had watched as our planes brought life-saving supplies to Tempelhof Airfield. Maybe she stood in line waiting for her daily rations. And when the wall went up in 1961 maybe she had had small children and couldn’t get to West Berlin fast enough in a last-ditch effort. Maybe she tried but just couldn’t. So she had stayed in the east. Trapped behind the Iron Curtain.

I like to think when she saw our little painted flag she once again felt hope. I like to think she still felt kindness toward an ally who had nothing to gain but goodwill and gratitude. 

We could not have been at that red light for much more than a minute, yet I still sense the impact. I was proud to be a very small cog in our post-war mission in Europe. Proud to help stem the tide of Communism that had washed over Eastern Europe; to stand fast surrounded by opposition. But it pained me to see this frail woman saluting our bus, tears streaming down her face, knowing she had so little hope.  

It’s been almost 35 years since she and I waved, and I will never know if she lived long enough to see the wall come down in 1989. I’ll never know if she reconnected with family living in West Berlin. Or West Germany. I don’t know if she thought of escape or was ever able to leave the city. But I have never forgotten her tap-tap-tap. And I’ve never forgotten why I served our country.

1982 in my fatigues right before going on a 

swing shift in West Berlin

This story was first published on the National VFW website in honor of Women in the Military, March 2017.

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On a Side Note . . . 

Rex and I were married September 1982 at Rathaus Steglitz in West Berlin

The Year of The Chat

Every garden has surprises. Some are just more noticeable in winter.

 Yellow-Breasted Chat rests on our chair

“A yellow-breasted chat?” Mike, my bird-seed supplier repeated. I had just posted a picture of it online. “What’s he doing here in January?”


I had no idea what he was doing here, nor did I know that he wasn’t supposed to be here. A cursory glance through my bird field guide showed this little warbler is normally in Virginia during warm weather. By now, he should be in Central America – or at least winging his way.


But instead, he’s here. In my garden, brightening this dull weather with his impish charm and stunning yellow waistcoat. I first saw him January 10^th and did not recognize him. He had the color of a goldfinch, the movement of a wren, and the eye of a robin. After some quick research I found he was a chat. A yellow-breasted chat.

"I've never seen one," Mike went on. "What's he eating?" Mostly suet cake and Bark Butter, I said. But he likes those fruit-and-nut cylinders too. 

Not only was it unusual for a chat to still be here in January, but even in the warmth of summer, you're more likely to hear one than actually see one. The Cornell Lab says that chats like to skulk in low, thick brush. Another site claimed they’re shy, singular, and move furtively among vegetation.

Shy and furtive? Really? Not this guy. While he may feel more at home in low, thick brush, he doesn't have a problem sitting out in the open: on garden pots, 

at the feeders, 

and more recently, up on our deck. 

He’s been showing up at least twice a day, every day for three weeks now. At first, the other birds (sparrows, finches, cardinals, woodpeckers) would clear out as soon as the chat flew in. I don’t know if they were being snobbish, or they understood this was unusual and wanted to give the chat his space. But gradually, as the days moved into weeks, the usual crowd accepted his presence.

“You’ve been chosen,” my girlfriend Melanie proclaimed. “What an honor!”

I don’t know why this happy chat is here in the cold weather, or how I got so lucky. Maybe he's gone rogue, broke from the flock, and decided to take winter in Fauquier County, Virginia. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for his time. I'm old enough to recognize a treat when I see one. And just forgetful enough to know next year I'll appreciate anything I might write down today; to always remember that this was my Year of the Chat. 

Chat with a friend (look closely)

A Christmas Quirk? Or Quantum Prank?

This is the Christmas card my parents sent out circa 1960-1961. As far as any of us kids remember, this was the only time they sent one out that included a picture. 

Signed: "Shirley, Steve and the children

There’s nothing really remarkable about the card, even though the photo was taken in front of a neighbor’s fireplace because mom felt our fireplace wasn’t quite good enough and theirs was much better. Otherwise, it is a standard photo card of the day. 

Except there's one other tiny thing.

We grew up in the small town of Lafayette, California. It was a San Francisco bedroom community, but back then it was my entire world. I wasn't aware of much beyond the Bay Area. And that was fine when I was little.  

Jump forward 20 years: I enlisted in the US Air Force, was trained as a Russian Linguist, and shipped overseas to West Berlin. 

While stationed there I met this guy, Rex Bowman, also in the Air Force. Rex was from Roanoke, Virginia. 

Roanoke? Never heard of it. It was 3,000 miles from Lafayette, on the other side of the country. It could have been on Pluto for all I knew. But it didn't matter, Rex was smart, fun, and I loved him even though he played pranks on me. He'd hide my hairbrush, or pretend he forgot his wallet at restaurants. Goofy stuff like that. 

We got married in 1982, both eventually left the military, moved around, had kids, then happily settled in Rex’s hometown. Roanoke, VA.

Mom passed away in 2000 and I flew back to the west coast to help my sister, Pamela, go through mom's things and choose items with sentimental value. The Christmas card was tucked away among some paperwork. Pamela did not seem interested, but I was drawn to it. Not only did I love the photo of the four of us, but that retro greeting on the front was a hoot! So I brought it home to Virginia with me.

A few weeks later, I showed the card to a girlfriend at work. She looked at it, flipped it over, opened it up, and flipped it over again. 

      “Wait,” she said. “Did you grow up here in Virginia? I thought you grew up in California.”
      “I did. This photo was taken in California where we lived.” But before I could launch into my story of being dragged in front of our neighbor’s fireplace, she blurted out –
      “Look at the back. It says Roanoke.”

What? Why would it say Roanoke? I squinted and there it was in small print at the bottom: “Photocraft, Roanoke, VA.”

I had never noticed it before. 

Of all the thousands and thousands of towns in America, why would this card stock have been printed in Roanoke? 3,000 miles from Lafayette? On the other side of the country? The very same town where Rex grew up?

Did Rex do this? Did he -- or rather, will he -- manage to time travel long enough to prank me when I'm growing up? I've heard about time looping back on itself. Is that what this is? Is it a quantum prank? Or is it all just a happy coincidence and overactive imagination? 

I know what I believe. But you decide for yourself.

And Happy New Year.