pamelagmusings

Musings

Pam's Musings

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

A long time ago or once upon a time, stifled by the desire to get everything right on paper, rendered immobile by my inner and nasty critic, I was encouraged to read Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott.  I have read it numerous times and often wish I could commit it to memory.  Ah, the perfection that comes from the memorized verse.  Lamott strikes out at the need and desire for perfection.  Instead, she pushes me to embrace the messiness of writing, to muse.  She tells me to let go and not worry about destination or the big picture.  She set before me the creed by which my musings are written, by which my inner wild woman craves to live:  “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right.  Just dance.”  When I muse, and this is a necessary part of my writing process, I don’t look.  I just write.  I hope you enjoy these musings.  I hope you muse as well.  

Nature’s Peculiarities, September & October 2025

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When animals were created to live on our planet, certainly some rules were established and the ways of individual groups were determined. Cows were to follow the ways of cows, and earthworms the ways of earthworms. Boundaries might blend and dissipate, behaviors might change to suit the shifts of the planet, but for the most part, dogs were the house pets and elephants were not.

I have always appreciated Nature’s ways. My days including daily walks, I relax in knowing that some unpredictability might occur, but for the most part, I dig into my thoughts and know that I am not going to be startled by something terribly peculiar.

Yet, in the many years past, thought provoking oddities have issued forth. After our family members’ initial incredulity, marked with laughter and the assumption of a momentary quirk, we soon realize that the oddity may possibly be permanent, or at least long-lasting. Our thought is always the same: What did we do to exact this oddity? What is it about us that draws these anomalous characters toward us? Are we perhaps the oddities? Does Mother Nature delight in deviating from the script? In shaking us up? In hearing that things like this just don’t happen?

In 1989, our family moved from Wyoming to Pennsylvania. We bought a house in the country. Our sons, amazed at all the colorful birds in the regions, asked if we might put up a bird feeder. My husband built a simple feeder, and we hung it from a metal laundry post, just outside the kitchen door. Some birds scattered the seeds while feeding. Some perched on the narrow little rails and ate assiduously from the feeder’s floor. The days soon grew short and cold, and we explained migration to our sons. The boys ceremoniously started calling out their goodbyes to the birds that lingered and then were gone. They accepted that the feeder would wait silently, vacant, until Spring.

One exceedingly chilly afternoon, our oldest son looked out the kitchen door toward the birdfeeder. “There’s a bird in it,” he called. “Nonsense,” I thought, but wandered to my son’s side. Sure enough, a puffed-up little brown bird was scrunched against a leeward wall of the feeder. As is typical of a mother, I quickly told one of those happily-ever-after stories about a bird who had a good map and his family’s excellent directions. That gray-gloomy afternoon, we said goodbye to the bird.

The next afternoon, my oldest son said, “He’s back.” Sure enough, the little fellow was again in his place from the day before. I could tell a whopper of a sad story, or--! My goodness, what was I supposed to say? Local confused bird freezes to death before the eyes of innocent children? What the heck was Mother Nature doing to me? To my kids?

We named the bird Rushmore because of the profile he cast. He came to the feeder as often as we checked for him. We spread seed daily. He certainly flew off on occasion, but his posture was always the same, through the long, cold, wet winter. Spring’s warmth eventually arrived, and Rushmore suddenly was gone. I’ve told the story to a few bird-enthusiasts, and most simply shrug and say the feeder must have been well designed. Yes, it was, but I think Mother Nature loves to play with the minds of the supposedly “highest” of the species.  Rushmore’s stay was indeed quite odd.

And then there are the ladybugs. It doesn’t matter where I go in my backyard—or even sometimes in my kitchen. A ladybug, often a baby, or even the tiny black alligator-looking creatures that will one day be beautiful ladybugs, will find me. Do I really look like a mother ladybug? They refuse to leave my body once they have landed. I try creating exits in leaves, rocks, even the tissue from my back jeans’ pocket. Nothing doin’. We’re stickin’ with you, Mom. Perhaps I was a ladybug in another place or time. Perhaps it’s just ladybug vibes in their tiny gossamer wings. I think they know. I never will. Silly human.

From the tiny to the large, these creatures with whom I coexist baffle me. I once had a horse. His name was Oliver. He loved to eat. I was told back then by numerous sources—and have learned otherwise since—that horses have little in the way of memory. We moved away from the ranch where Oliver had spent his first thirteen years. When we returned several years later, someone shared that Oliver would not remember the place. He did. He skittered backwards out of the trailer, turned toward the corral gate our friend Anna was opening, and then trotted with purpose to the east area, made a hard left and another hard left, entered the barn where Don had always fed the horses, slid into his old stall and knickered, several times. He would not be budged.

Oliver also had a memory related to a tree. Standing alone on the prairie south of our home, the small pine was Oliver’s nemesis. Whenever we passed the tree on our near-daily rides, he shied from it. I asked Anna, ranch owner and amazing horse trainer, what I should do. She said, “Ride him hard past it. Kick your heels. Urge him hard.” I did that. It seemed to work, probably because Oliver must have thought a banshee was on his back and had no time to think about horse-eating trees. Then, one sleepy summer day, Oliver and I slowly made our way toward the tree. We passed it! I leaned toward his ever-listening ears. “You forgot to shie,” I said softly. How I stayed in the saddle in the leap and twist, I will never know. As I reminisce, I think the whole thing was, on his part, for kicks. Perhaps the beautiful animals of this earth, of God’s creation, are all in it for the kicks.

And then there was Nelson. One year ago, in mid-summer, my husband and I noticed the small bird at the very tip of a long leafless branch at the highest point of a cottonwood tree, about 50 to 60 feet in the air. Evening after evening, he rode the branch even in the fierce wind. We named him Nelson because, like Lord Nelson of military history, he defended and sat proudly on his noble perch. He engaged repeatedly in a single military maneuver: flying from the branch, making a wide circle, and returning to the branch. Soon came the autumn frost, and Nelson came no more. We looked to his vacant perch and said our forever goodbyes. But of course you’ve guessed the ending to this story, haven’t you? The little guy returned this mid-summer: same branch, same proud perch, same maneuver. He had a little friend with him, though.