THE WILLS WILDLIFE SANCTUARY: MY UPCOMING TONY SOPRANO MOMENT

Frani and I's favorite Sopranos moment is an early one.  When the ducks leave Tony's pool, and he begins to have debilitating panic attacks.  The way James Gandolfini performs a character so vicious and yet deserving of a smidgen of sympathy is a gift the man had that many don't.  God rest him. 

A couple of weeks ago as Frani and I were going through the nightly constitutional of taking the dogs out, something stunned us both.  For a couple of consecutive nights, we surprised a mourning dove, who could be heard chirping and fluttering up against the ceiling of the patio in a panic of sorts. I felt guilty both times, but was wondering what in the hell he/she was doing there well after dark. 

The answer came days later.  While I was at work, Frani sent me a text that made me smile.  In the upside-down guard of a weed-whacker resting against the wall of the patio, right outside Cameron's window, was a nesting mourning dove.  A few days later, another text came, this time Frani updating me that babies (or squabs) were peeking out from under the adult dove.  They weren't just building the nest, they were brooding. 

Bursts of research showed that the doves pick spots like this intentionally.  The ceiling of the patio provides excellent cover from assholes like Blue Jays. It's wonderful in its ability to provide shelter from inclement weather, which Texas occasionally has in the spring.  And human activity keeps away multiple types of predators. 

We learned a few other things.  How often they feed.  How long the parents will stay, leave, and return.  How quickly they will grow.  We've become invested in these little guys, and hope that they do well. The parents have left them overnight twice as of this point, still returning to feed them.  When we go out with the canines we can hear their alternating calls, which are probably alerts for the young, since they are almost the size of their parents at this point. 

Sadly, they will be leaving soon.  We've seen one jump to a neighboring shelf only to return when the parent came back.   It won't be long before they legitimately leave, and according to what I've read, it's a one-way trip, in which the male takes over for a couple weeks teaching his kiddos to forage, seek shelter, and fly. 

I just hope I don't turn into Tony Soprano when they do depart without return and have an aviary psychotic break. 

Here's a video that I made in honor of this wonderful little injection of hardwired yet feathered and gorgeous nature into our lives. 

ADDENDUM:    As of four days prior to this writing, January 3rd, the twins as we call them, have flown the coop.  It's made me sad in a sense, especially right away, but hold on a minute.  Every day, they've returned in some form or fashion.  A couple times landing in the yard pecking around.   Two other times, I awoke, and upon walking out to scout the yard before taking the dogs out, they greeted me from behind the mimosa tree.  They don't seem rattled at all when seeing Frani or I.  They're tentative, for certain, but far from skittish. 

I've seen the parents separate them, still feeding them, fly off with them, only to return with them later.  The father, stopping to drink from the shallow water dish I left out, jumps over to the babies to give them water.  He joins his partner hanging out from the chimney, Mama from the garage corner, to oversee the babies as they play, hop, and peck around in our yard.  I hope, for them, the back yard feels like home.  Because the parents' recurring appearances after the twins fledged, and watching the babies grow has made Frani and I love having them around. 

I've read that mourning doves can become accustomed and less fearful of friendly voices.  We've always spoken to the birds as sweetly and kindly as possible, long before we became aware of that fact.  

All of this seems to have brought us a little flutter of love that, at least for a while, brings some joy to parts of our days. 

ADDENDUM II:  Sunday, June 6 was the last day the doves were here.  It was very melancholic, almost bittersweet in how it all came about.  During mid-afternoon, I caught motion out of the corner of my eye that turned out to be one of the adult doves.  They swooped in to the back porch, where it all started, and even briefly lit upon the genesis of it all, the weed whacker's guard.  He/She then flew off into the sky.  

Shortly after, I did what Frani and I had been doing all week, grabbing the binoculars in order to survey the back yard looking for "the twins".  The Twins had been in an out of the yard all week, pecking, playing, being fed by their folks, leaving and returning.  Eventually just before dusk, the parents would show up. and the family would venture off together for the day. 

I didn't need binoculars this time.  By dinner, I looked out the back door to see one of the young doves sitting in the rock bed next to the sidewalk.  Exactly the same spot that one of the babies landed when they first fledged.  That first day, the fledgling hung out in that spot for a few hours before disappearing into the dark at sunset.  Fran and I were so worried about those two at that point.  The other fledged to the top of a propane tank just to the left of the nest, joining their twin at dusk. 

Fears were allayed.  They both returned the next day and for the week.  Until Sunday, that is.  

The baby continued to hang out in that rock bed for a couple of hours.  Being a worrywart, I approached him, softly asking if he was alright.  The young dove looked up at me and proceeded to just venture down the sidewalk and into the yard, under what Frani calls "the bee house", a wooden contraption meant to attract honeybees.  It remained there until just before dark.  At that point, the young dove flitted up to the fence, remaining there for about 15 minutes as the sun dipped.  

Then he was gone. 

Part of me thinks, naively or not, that it was a goodbye visit.  The parent checking in on the nest one last time.  The youngster returning to where he/she first set themselves after fledging.  One last spell under the bee house by the mimosa, where the twins spent the vast majority of their first week out of the nest. 

And then giving the yard one last going over from the fence before departing.  Leaving to join, as the reading showed, a flock of other younglings to begin their adventures.  

Be well, young doves, We have nothing but love in our hearts for you. Thank you for giving us a window into the wonder that is Mother Nature, and the beauty of the circle of life.  It is not lost on me that in this era of strife that we are consistently dipped in every time the news is turned on, that the opposite showed up on the patio.  With all of the harsh and ugly intrusiveness that our current culture is practicing, it was a joy to see such splendor flutter outside the window.  

In the form of the dove.  The symbol of peace.  

MOVIES I STAYED UP LATE FOR: THE SAVAGE FIVE

My first exposure to The Savage Five was during a late 1981 WGN TV theme week of martial arts films. I believe The Seven Deadly Venoms and The 36 Chambers of Shaolin were also included in this batch. As I recall, the Friday night flick of this particular week was the film I’m writing about right now. 

 In Kurosawa's The Seven Samurai, the plot line was driven by the anticipation of oncoming bandits, the preparation of the fearful villagers and recruitment of help to defeat them.  In The Savage Five the bandits are already there and doing damage from nearly the get-go. 

The Bandits attack this pacifist enclave, abusing everyone, robbing the businesses, committing murder, and eliciting sacrifices that are heartbreaking and unspeakable.  One of them displayed in an absolutely wrenching scene that is completely unlike the typical kung-fu flick victim faire; it's emotional and raw.

I grew up watching martial arts films on "Blackbelt Theatre" and the like as a kid. The frequency bred familiarity.  In this particular film,  I was moved by the far more plot-driven feel than the contemporaries I’d encountered.  However, the awful dubbing makes it very difficult to gauge the quality of the performances.  
I really don’t believe a lead villain was saying shit like: “Hey let’s take a look at what’s going on outside!”,  Just as a villager is helping an abused rebel down from a tree the villains had hung him from.


The facial expressions and expressive emoting during the dialogue however are easy to buy. 
John Woo’s future number 2 and 3, Ti Lung, and Danny Lee, respectively, and Kung Fu legend David Chiang lead a great cast guided by the master Cheng Cheh.  Beautifully shot, and wonderfully choreographed, but still minimalist, The Savage Five is arguably among the most grounded of the Shaw Brothers output, as its realistic narrative takes steps their more aspirational flicks never had the guts to take.

Out of all the Kung Fu movies of the 70's that blew up in the wake of Bruce Lee's Asian martial arts film explosion, Five is not among the highly regarded.  But for me, outside of Lee's oeuvre, it may be the strongest.  My memories of that early 1980's Lichter Road living room screening, which prompted my own side-kicking and air-punching along with Ti, David and Danny, are still strong to this day.  I'm sure my chop-socky aura is still floating in the air of that Southern Wisconsin living room.

MY TEACHERS: A HARD ONE TO FIGURE

Seventh grade was hard.  I felt like I was wandering onto another planet.  The first few days memories still have a tug on the gut.  I can remember nausea rumbling while hearing Taco's Puttin' on the Ritz on the radio in the morning waiting to leave for the city bus.  

Not only would I know absolutely no one as I traversed from elementary school to Junior High because of a district switch, I had to ride to school with very few kids my age, but a lot of adult strangers.   Many who talked to themselves.  Many elderly.  

Many crying babies.

It was all so intimidating.  A nice windy additive to the cyclone my life had been since Dad got sick.  The teachers were also a series of anomalies.  Particularly Mr. Malone. 

Dude was hard to figure.  He taught Social Studies, and he did know his shit.  But he was odd.  He'd go into these internal monologues when angered by a student's chatter, outright rudeness, or lack of classy behavior.  Mr. Malone would stare you down.  He would develop an evil, guttural chuckle and bitterly sarcastic grin as he dressed you down.  He'd narrow his eyelids and begin muttering to himself about failed psychologies; "I'm okay, you're okay...."   Flat out irritated by the immaturity of his 12 and 13 year old Social Studies students.  Us Current Events aspriationals. 

One day, because there was a little too much effort behind a yawn,  that ire was directed at me.  I got that treatment I had seen so many times before.  I was embarrassed.  I was downtrodden, and didn't want to destroy my school year.  This other outside shit, the strangers, the buses, the inner city school student body, often gang members (sometimes stoned) that I wasn't used to being around. 

The mocking.  The bullying.  The instantaneous violence. 

All that shit was too much already.  I didn't want to condemn my academics.  

This end I could control. 

So I went to visit Mr. Malone after class to apologize for the yawn. We spoke for a little while, talked it out a little.  He made it seem like we were good.  Then he said something to me, without a true facial expression, without a smile.

"You seem different from the rest."

That felt weird.  But I felt like I had accomplished what I needed to do.  Later in the year, when end of the day "clubs and groups" were formed, I joined Mr. Malone's hiking club.  Basically we walked as a group down to Lake Michigan and back.  As summer's frothy head deflated down to fall, it transformed into The Chicago Cubs Club, which corresponded to the Cubbies 1984 run at the playoffs.  Somewhere the North Shore boys hadn't been in decades.  The Cubs were better than hiking, an activity that gave Tom Murphy the opportunity to turn around, and just before hawking a monster loogie at me, chortle out "Dance, Buddy".

Fuckin' nonce.

We gathered viewing materials, Mr. Malone rolled in a TV set and we watched the Cubbies run at it.  My Dad was a big newspaper reader, and every Saturday Morning during this exciting season I would run with a quarter to the row of newspaper machines in the covered walkway of the plaza across the alley from our house.  That quarter gave me a Chicago Sun-Times and a fresh full page color poster of one of the Wrigley Field Warriors starting players. 

Mr. Malone used my newsprint substrate mini-posters to help create a display in one of those glass encased hallway windows for our club. I was pretty proud to make such a major contribution to it. I didn't get along with the kids in the club at all, most of them were a clique of diques, but Malone?  Thanks to that Mr. Malone guy, despite how most of the 7th grade felt about him, despite how angry and strange he could be, Malone was all right.  He had valid reasons to feel the way he did, teaching was turning a corner into not just being difficult at this point.  

Mr. Malone was spittin' jewels at us. Pearls before swine. He knew his stuff, was well versed on 200 plus years of American History, from the Constitution to the Falkland Islands crisis blasting at us from Roger Mudd every night.  No one respected that nearly enough. 

 I could deal with the other kids thanks to all of that.  

I never did get my mini-posters back.  Never was able to hang Rick Sutcliffe, Bob Dernier, Gary "Sarge" Matthews, or Ryne Sandberg on my bedroom walls. 

But, as far as the Cub Club kids, I know that I was different from the rest of them.  Because Mr. Malone said so.

And I still am. 

HERE IS MR. MALONE'S OBITUARY.

ADDENDUM:  In the winter of 1984, Mr. Malone assigned us a brief essay on something out of the days news.  I picked the budding negative controversy surrounding the horror film, Silent Night, Deadly Night and its depiction of a murderous Santa Claus.  I even attached a newspaper theatre ad from the same day's paper to highlight my eloquent observations about the silliness of the whole thing. 

Mr. Malone, I have since learned, was a conservative.  I got an A anyway.  That's who he was. 

SALEM'S LOT UPDATE

 Well, the video goes into more detail, but finally a SPECIAL EDITION of Salem's Lot is released, and just a hair shy of 50 years after it aired.  Ridiculous. 

But here we go...

I'm a little more photogenic than Barlow, but I didn't feel like typing all that shit.