Began the month of July by doing something I hadn’t done in almost 30 years: Going to church with my mom in Milwaukie.
My family went every Sunday, including my high school years, when the family members still living at home consisted of only my mother and me. I am sure I went with her a handful of times during my college years, though I honestly can’t remember any specific instance of doing so.
Before the service, my mom warned me that at present there was an interim pastor who was not real good, and she was right. It was a woman probably in her mid 50s, and she was pretty much a brutal combination of ditzy and windy. The somewhat disorganized service ran 80 minutes, which is at least 20 minutes longer than I can easily handle.
“I bet you’re sorry you came,” Mom said afterward.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “Sometimes it’s just about being somewhere.”
After church was a game of Scrabble, a staple of every visit. On the strength of a 63-point turn early on, Mom led until I played “they” on a double-word score on my final turn to use up my letters and steal the victory. Hey, just because she’s 86 doesn’t mean I’m going to patronize her and let her triumph; that would be insulting.
After a post-win cup of coffee, it was time to head for Albany for the DH team’s softball game. But before I could fly south, there was a little matter of:
My ornithology is not fantastic, but I think this might be a varied thrush; if I am wrong, please correct me.
What I was sure of, though, was that I didn’t want to drive off with this creature sitting mysteriously and placidly in the bed of my pickup, so I grabbed a Rawlings Tom Seaver baseball glove out of the cab — doesn’t everyone keep a 45-year-old mitt in his vehicle — and tried to nudge the bird into it for a gentle relocation.
What happened instead was, the bird flew off, which seemed fine for a brief moment until another one of its species dive-bombed it and chased it into a fir tree. Apparently the bird in the truck was hiding from an enemy, and I blew its cover. How was I to know?
Birds can be quite mean, as I’ve observed on a few occasions. Next time there’s a bird in the bed of my pickup — that has never happened before, btw — I am just going to drive off.
In addition to photographing the bird whose future I jeopardized, I squeezed off a few other frames before leaving the area: