"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes." That quote by Sherlock Holmes in Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles" jumped out at me as I was reading while iced in several days ago. How ironic that a performance a bit later also jumped out at me.
Being iced in was a great time to read. Several have told me they did just that. I did too. How's that for a possibly incorrect sentence? I read -- pronounce that "red" like Razorback red -- this doggone mixed up English language. I read -- now pronounce it like "reed" -- a chapter or two in a book, then drift off into another room, pick up another book and settle in for a different hour or two of literal enjoyment.
Most people probably start a book and finish it, even if it means staying awake all night. Then they remember what they have read. I have to confess the way I scatter among three or four books at a time, the old noggin sometimes gets things all mixed up. And, admittedly, the memory span ain't what it used to be. Frustrating? Not as frustrating as when I'm trying to match a name with the person with whom I'm having a conversation. But, what the heck, just enjoying a varied reading regimen (probably not the right word) works on an iced-in day. The old noggin seems to accept the result.
That's 'nuff stuff for this 'cuff. Let's pause from reading and go on to ... no, it ain't writin' or 'rithmetic, it's about what I saw while glancing out a window toward ice-covered trees and ice-stiffened grass, the kind that crunches underfoot. The result? Isn't (not ain't) it amazing how Mother Nature mingles her talent, combining beauty with inconvenience in a way that causes a person to pause and accept the fact that we live in, or on, a well-planned sphere which escapes our understanding, no matter how hard we try to fit it all together.
The sight on the lawn? There he was, dressed all in black. Walking around on the ice-covered grass as if he owned the place. Walking really doesn't describe his movements. They were more of a strut. His head was tilted back as he twisted it in every direction. Then, dipping sharply, he seemed to concentrate his attention to the ground near his feet. His steps were distinguishable, one foot before the other, very deliberate, yet sometimes one foot before the other at a speed that a track coach would call real running. I wondered at how he did this, not falling or being tripped up as he continued to look in every direction. After watching this display several minutes, the book in my hand regained my attention. After reading a few paragraphs again I glanced out the window. Something had happened. He had disappeared completely. It was like one of those scenes which mystery writers taunt you with as being unexplainable. I returned to the book.
Very shortly curiosity again overcame the printed page and my eyes drifted to the window. There he was again. I'm not sure how many times the disappearance act had occurred, but there he was. I'm not sure if he or she was the same searcher. And he was not alone. There with him, singularly strutting around, were four of his friends -- maybe. All four friends were marching around, eyes turned to every direction. Occasionally a head would stop and, believe it or not, I wondered if he or she was focused on the eyes staring from the window. Eventually, the four paired off and they seemed to assist each other in their search for what was on the ground. It was quite a show, perhaps rivaling a Broadway musical, though only silence penetrated the window. The theme was search and find, then find and eat. I watched five crows, which included the scout, devour in rapid time the seed that had been scattered on the lawn in that particular area.
Nowhere to be seen were the cardinals or bluejays or doves which were often feasting there. No starlings, no sparrows, just a few finch and titmouse (titmice). And where was the red-bellied woodpecker that often joined the banquet? Soon it was over, the napkins were folded (use a little imagination) and 10 strong black wings suddenly stretched and almost in unison lifted the visitors as they flew off to who knows where. Haven't we all heard that crows are probably the most intelligent of birds? Some develop quite a vocabulary which they can shout to the owner who calls them pets.
Returning to the story, that lone black scout returns quite often, marches around to survey the pickings, then flies off to escort back for a feast his four found friends. They really are amazing birds and, as they come in for a landing, the other species seem to disappear. Almost instantly, when the five feeders fly skyward, the others return to continue their now diminished meal.
It is amazing how so many seem to get along very well, while their counterparts march or fly to a different drummer with a type of greed that seems to infect much of humanity. Isn't it amazing different senses or values are found deep inside various wildlife, just as they also seem different inside the human species? Listening to the news, reading the papers and just by observing, stored somewhere in the noggins of mankind are those various, and sometimes characteristic, greeds which so often take over.
Editor Randy's columns often have a very simple and realistic explanation that sorts out the causes and the effects, as well as the remedy that can overcome the strut and selfishness, which took, often cause such individual and collective battles among an ever-searching society.
There is another old saying, "It's for the birds," which describes so many of humanity's seemingly unsolvable problems, such as those the semi-intelligent crows exhibit in their relationship with other birds. Guess there's a little crow in all of us. Sometimes it doesn't taste very good.
Dodie Evans is the former owner and long-time editor of the Gravette News Herald. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 02/21/2018