Napa Conference a Go-Go

Our conference is in full swing. Day One was, as usual, organized chaos: welcoming newcomers, greeting returnees and old friends, handing out packets and name tags, steering people to the correct rooms at the right time. The weather was rather perfect, warmish-to-hot for us, yet a welcome relief to those coming from Texas (hotter than a pistol) or the East Coast (muggy as hell). After Orientation (first for the entire conference, then for each workshop), and then a pouring of notable Napa Valley wines to accompany a very delicious Mediterranean-inspired meal on the verandah, we gathered our chairs to sit on the lawn under the slowly deepening sky to listen as both Carl Dennis and ZZ Packer gave bang-up readings, the Mayacamas mountains a purpling backdrop behind them.

It doesn't get much better than that.

But ... there's more, like about four more days worth.

To be continued.

The Quiet Ruckus of Nature

I have the great good fortune to spend a few days at a nature preserve spelling a friend who needed a few days out of the woods. I'm only too happy to go into them. Not that this is so far out in the woods in the physical sense; town is really only a boulder-roll downhill, yet it seems another universe away. No traffic, few people (maybe once a day), plenty of critters: skittering lizards, birds galore, deer crashing around in the brush. The lack of civilization’s noise is disconcerting at first, but soon enough my ears give up scanning for screeching cars, cooped-up dogs, unhappy children, construction clamor, someone else’s tv or radio (always tuned quite loudly to the wrong station). Suddenly the racket of nature comes to the forefront: rustling leaves, rattling dry-grass, zooming bees, whining flies, chirping, trilling, whistling birds, the Woodpeckers Chorus drilling on the oaks across the stream bed. Sometimes a random dog barks from a ranch way across on another hill, and yes, airplanes do rumble and buzz across the sky, but these noises seemed dialed down as the rustling breeze seems dialed up.

I'm staying at what might be termed a Researcher's Residence. This is a far cry from the cozy country cabins one rents for vacation, yet no tents are involved. It’s much closer to camping with some decent amenities, such as a real bed, fridge, stove, bathroom, mudroom, washer and dryer. No need to go downhill into town for anything other than consumables and your choice of beverages. That said, one has to be prepared for what these amenities might be used for. The mudroom hosts nets and containers, boots, bib-waders, boxes of mysterious (to me) contraptions, all with the accompanying odor of muck and marshbottom. The freezer, handy for leftovers and coffeebeans, is also home to a variety of Tupperware containers and Ziploc bags labeled cryptically with numbers and dates. Some of the smallest containers hold desiccated bees and other critters I didn’t look at closely enough to identify.

There is, I notice, a distinction between Inside Bugs and Outside Bugs, with a sincere effort made to keep the Outside Bugs out and the Inside Bugs in. Tight screens and door seals work for the Outside Bugs; the Inside Bugs are trapped in more of those plastic tubs spread out on the kitchen counter, some large enough to serve as mini-ponds for the water bugs, others are those tiny little condiment containers we get with take-out.Most of the containers are labelled with black marker on blue carpenters tape: Whirligig beetle, Diving Beetle, Stonefly. Still other bugs have been identified and pinned into the display cases, with the tiny neat tags indentifiying species and location of capture. Every surface has reference books on insects, pollinators, flowers, local geography.

We humans get to occupy the DIZ (De-Insectified Zone) between the two, which surprisingly enough only has a few spiders in the corners, like any normal house. And here I sit amongst the bugs, inside or out, content to breathe the quiet ruckus of nature.

Can't help myself

...after dinner tonight (carnitas, Mi Pueblo, yes!), stopped in at Copperfield's, my favorite indie bookstore, where they were having a 2 for 1 on all sale books.Yowzers! Even though I'm reading my brains out, I didn't make it out of the store without these six books: Cheating at Canasta, William Trevor; The Florist's Daughter, Patricia Hample; Run, Ann Patchett; What Now? Ann Patchett; Peterson's Field Guide to Birds of North America (2002) and The Welsh Girl, Peter Ho Davies.

Okay, so I've read Run, but I don't own it. Want to keep my Patchett up to date and current. One can always use a good Field Guide. And Peter Ho Davies is teaching at the Napa Valley Conference! I've been reading a library copy of The Welsh Girl and I can tell already it's a keeper. So now I have it. And maybe I'll ask Peter Ho Davies to sign it.

Antonya Nelson

Only ten days away, that Napa Conference. Whooeee! I'm so ready!

We have a great group of faculty again, both fiction (Robert Boswell, Peter Ho Davies, Antonya Nelson, ZZ Packer) and poetry (Elizabeth Alexander,Carl Dennis, Jane Hirschfield, David St John) and I've been treating myself to reading their work.

Toni Nelson..well, I've been a fan since stumbling across her stories in the New Yorker way long ago. Her stories have a taint of nightmare about them, those oh-so-real nightmares: a dead cat in the swimming pool just before the family moves out, or a woman sharing an apartment for one month with a stranger, a woman undergoing radical elective cosmetic surgery and who appears for a good part of the story swathed in bandages. (Both of these stories appeared in the New Yorker and are in her latest collection, "Nothing Right," from Bloomsbury). Yet her work is firmly rooted in perceived experience, in our realities. Nelson has an astute understanding of the our emotional drives; she has a way of putting her characters in a heightened state of internal conflict, catching them at the pivot points, when their emotional stews are all stirred up. She understands that little bit of outlaw in all of us and lets it out; her people are always in a twist, whether they know it or not.

She also writes some bang-up sentences.

So, using a method running around Facebook; I've opened "Nothing Right" to page 56. Here is a passage beginning with the third sentence on the page:

"Abby investigated, the ample evident of plenty behind every door she tentatively tapped upon and then opened: the closet full of Christmas gifts that Santa would bring to the little children, the linen cupboard, currently depleted as sheets and towels had been distributed throughout the house, and in each of the five children's bedrooms the same-yet-different clutter, the way all of them had sprung open their luggage and left their intimate aricles everywhere--jewelry, pajamas, makeup, pharmaceuticals. The last, largest bedroom belonged to the patriarch; it alone was orderly, chilly as a tomb. On the mantel a clock ticked, and the air smelled of soot from the fireplace, of camphor and dust and the cool steam of a humidifier. A bathrobe hung from each of the footboard posts, two ghosts, and a large wooden cross was propped menacingly in a corner. In the top drawer of the dresser Abby found a stack of mint-fresh twenty-dollar bills--stocking stuffers, she wagered, slipping one in her packet. She'd taken less obvious things from the other rooms, pills and an earring and a pair of pantyhose, but from the genreation that occupied this room she wanted nothing but cash."
---from the story OBO by Antonya Nelson in "Nothing Right."

If you're in the neighborhood the last week of July, you'll have a chance to hear Toni Nelson read at the Robert Mondavi Winery, Thursday, July 29th. See Calendar of Readings and Lectures for more info on all events open to the public during the Napa Valley Writers Conference.

The Cat's Meow

While we all know it is pretty difficult to train cats (they have to be in the mood, they'll do it in their own time, on their own terms, they can't be observed doing it, they have to be about to do it anyway), scientists have recently confirmed (see article here) what all cat owners have always known: they train us.

And boy howdy, it sure doesn't take long for us to learn that we are their scullery maids, doormen, butlers and cooks. Though, on occasion, they will dispatch a rodent or two in honor of our services.

Where it's at:

We steer our life through so many dichotomies, asked to choose between Dem or Rep, vegetarian or omnivore, plastic or paper, Beta or VHS, BlueRay or DVD. Our choices describe us: Democrat, vegetarian, BlueRay, maybe one who’s jumped the fences and brings a bag to the grocery store. Perhaps no other choice, though, defines the techie-generations than Mac or PC.

Usually, I let my pocketbook dictate my choice of computers: PC, PC, PC. But now, my decade-old machine, so lovingly assembled by my son, then in high school, and for the most part a stalwart beast, has gone beyond limping along; it is stumbling all over itself begging for the misery-ending bullet. I’m sure its innards are thick and crusty with parasitic viruses and leeching worms; it can barely boot up half the time and once going, it usually takes the first opportunity to freeze and quit. Without a doubt, it’s time for a new computer.

This time I’m going Mac.

So of course the curious bystander wants to know why. Aesthetically, of course, any Mac is heads and shoulders above the rest, no doubt about that. But my tipping point boiled down to engineering: I’m sick of all these viruses (pun absolutely intended; don’t you too get sick when your machine has been attacked?), tired of repairs, burned up on updating and installing the latest point-whatever of another version of Windows, which then rearranges all the lines of communication within my poor beast.

Like a million other end-users, I just want a machine that works, works well and never stops working. I want the Maytag, not the Sylvania. I’m not interested in re-coding, inserting new cards, coaxing it tho function using a screwdriver and voodoo rituals and holding interventions to make it speak politely to the printer. Printer, say you’re sorry for going offline; CPU, say you’re sorry for setting the parameters too wide. The fact that Macs just plain work, don’t take sick-days and look gorgeous while doing it put them miles above PC’s and most of my old boyfriends. Even my son, PC-maniac that he once was, encourages me towards a Mac machine, any Mac machine. Yes, they cost more. But it’s a well-deserved investment in my sanity and patience. Not to mention that, with all this talk of furloughs and layoffs on campus, I may not be buying another computer for a very very long time; this one has got to last.

So here I am: liberal, Dem, bring-my-own-bag, omnivore, Mac-ecstatic: Mac-tastic!

IOU's...oh joy.

Sooooo, IOU's. Next week. Don't you think the California legislators should be the first to receive them?

And Arnie: what's this crap about vetoing a budget bill because it doesn't meet your specs?... because, oh horrors, in order to keep the parks open and health services for children, there are some raised fees in it? If a budget bill passes, you should honor the work the Legislature has done and sign the damn thing; we have another round coming soon enough and it doesn't look any better than this one.

And maybe you should accept the very first IOU, you know, like the Head of State you are, setting an example, taking the lead. Show that as a Captain of the Ship, you'll do the honorable thing, that women and children should be taken care of first, and you'll get by. It's not like you have to pay for health care or don't already have enough money for any Hummer you might fancy. Maybe you need a deep swim in the Sea of Reality that you (and some recalcitrant Republicans) can't seem to imagine.

Sing like Handwriting

The Summer Solstice, Father's Day, rich blue sky with warm winds. We gathered: students from every decade, well back into the 60's, admirers from nearby and abroad, friends from every context and almost every continent, musicians of every stripe and creed, family, families, fellow teachers, all of us honored, blessed, downright lucky to have studied with or known such a magnificent musician, such a compassionate teacher.

We spoke of the power of his music, the way one note could break your heart, the way one note, pulled two steps this way, one step that and every shruti (micro-tone) in between, could be melody, the way he could make the hair rise on the back of your neck, the top of your head expand, spin, take off. We spoke of Khansahib's generosity with his music, his willingness to teach anyone, to water our world with the likes of Rag Chandranandan, Desh Malhar, Bhimpalashri. In the heat of a Marin afternoon, thuds and dribbles of red earth, pebbles, roses echoed from the butterscoth-blonde hills as we each marked our last tangible connection with this giant of a musician, this short Bengali with the knowing smirk, the generous smile and the all-encompassing desire for us to learn to "sing like handwriting--not typewriters", our Baba, our Swara Samrat, Emperor of Melody.

The Ali Akbar College of Music that he founded in San Rafael, California, is in the midst of preserving and archiving thousands of hours of his music and teachings. In lieu of flowers, or if you just want to help, the family asks for donations to continue the cause.

Preservation Project

And if you are unfamiliar with his music, this is a pretty decent YouTube video:
Khansahib: Shree

Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, 1922-2009

We lost a genius last week, an unparalleled musician with an extraordinary gift of melody and a passion for teaching. He gave to the world music so devastatingly pure and direct that it could ruin you for anything else, while at the same time opening your ears, allowing you to understand all music, to comprehend that music the world over is ... music. As long as it's in tune and in tal (time/rhythm), that is.

Khansahib to most, Baba to his family and close students, he was a generous teacher, dedicated to sharing his music with the world, with you, with whoever happened to be sitting crossleged in front of him, with eager ears and a receptive mind. He gave all he had and then some; more than this, no one can do. The world is a much better place for him being in it; music the world over is richer.

But, darn it, Baba, we miss you.


Marin IJ
NYTimes
SF Chronicle
Ali Akbar College of Music

Letter to Arnie Published

After some thought the other day, I took a section of my Dear Arnie letter (see below), slapped it around a little, trimmed and tightened, took out the obvious slurs and sent it to various newspapers. Lo and behold, SF Chronicle ran it today: Shut Parks? Danger!

A nice little surprise with the breakfast coffee.

p.s thanks, Lucia for your encouragement!

Dear Arnie

With all due respect, you've had your share of ridiculous schemes, social gaffes (remember the Nurses?) and ill-conceived programs. But closing the State Parks? Not only is it impossible to enforce (closed road? no problem. We'll just four-wheel over or hike in from down the road) but it's truly dangerous. Of all your hare-brained ideas, this is the worst I've ever heard.

First of all: the State Parks are a tremendous resource for the stressed-out populace whose non-existent incomes can no longer provide other forms of relaxation and entertainment. This is a time when we need the parks the most, where folks can exercise or be in nature to relieve their economic worries. It is not only healthier to be at the beach, but even with parking fees, it's cheaper than movies, or walking around a mall stressing out about what you can't buy. And camping is a much less expensive alternative to Disneyland or other travel vacations.

Secondly: have you tried to book a camping vacation? Most of the parks are already full, meaning income, Arnie, income. Parks bring in money. Maybe not as much as you'd like, but it's money coming straight to the State. Why turn off the spigot? What the bleeep are you thinking?

Thirdly: With no rangers or staff around, who do you think will be the first to populate empty campsites and avail themselves of bathroom facilities? Will a closed fire-gate keep the riff-raff out of beaches or wilderness? I think not, Arnie. Without supervision, parklands and campgrounds will become squattervilles and party-down HQ's. Who's going to patrol the parks? The Rangers you just fired? Certainly not the over-stretched police and fire forces. Can't you see the scenario? Alcohol, drugs, impulsive, thoughtless behavior, and worst of all, un-monitored camp fires. You thought last fire-season was bad; wait until irresponsible riff-raff have unfettered access to our treasured woodlands. And fighting fires, of course, cost money. Now where's the savings?

This idea might look good on paper, Arnie, but it will only cost us, not only in the long run, but as early as next month. Myself (and others I'm sure) would rather see increased fees and better tax schemes, as painful as it might be, than lose our parks and woodlands. It makes more sense for legislators to take the same 15% pay cut, lose their perks and pay more for their healthcare like the rest of us than close parks, an act that punishes everyone in California.

Legislators need to accept the fact that when prices go up and income goes down, sometimes the adults in the family have to get another job. It's time for the legislators to grow up and admit that California needs more income in order to maintain the basic functions as a government.

Heathens in the House

A sharp ping: the doorbell. Who could that be, 1 pm on a dull Saturday afternoon? We haven't been getting many Solicitors for Jesus since we posted that "We're Finnish Pagan Unitarian Buddhists" sign years ago. Friends and family tend to walk in the back door with maybe a rap on the door frame and a quick "Yoo Hoo!" --if we're lucky.

I opened the front door, swathed in XX-Large grey and red bathrobe, blue-striped pj legs just showing above my bare feet. (It was that kind of dull Saturday.) And instantly and infinitely glad I was swathed; three men, all in gold-edged kurta-paijama, with snug round brimless topis on their heads, stood at staggered heights down the narrow steps. Muslims from the mosque a few blocks up and over. Yes, there is one in our fair town, in a church building purchased from a Pentecostal private school that went bust about five years ago.

"Is the Khan here?" the nearest and oldest said through the screen, as all of them averted their eyes, turning half around in their confusion to avoid looking straight at me.
"No, no, he's not." The nearest, in white, turned back towards me a bit and raised his eyebrows. He'd had some practice dealing with the likes of us.
"No?"
"I was married to a Sanauddin Khan once, but no longer."

Now they all sort of glanced back toward me without actually looking at me, truly askance; though the youngest, maybe in late 20's, in a lovely blue outfit, then snapped his head back around, having already retreated to the sidewalk.

"He's in Pakistan. But thanks for coming by. Have a nice day!"
"Oh," the oldest fella said, nodding a bit. The two still on the steps glanced at each other, then waved their hands and walked down.

"Salaam Alaykum," I said, hoping to break the ice.
"Alaykum Salaam," I think they muttered as they left.

I closed the door, quick-like. Obviously, this was not what they came for. I'm sure they were hoping to rope another Khan into their mosque. But Sonny (as he preferred to be called) wouldn't have been a good prospect anyway; he hadn't been that good of a Muslim when he lived here. He moved to America for a reason.

At least I wasn't in frayed jean cutoffs (above the knee!) and a ratty tee-shirt (a cleaning-on-a-hot-day sort of Saturday) when I opened the door, like the last time this trio of Muslim men came by, scouting for the Khan in the little house on B Street. In micro-seconds, they had completely turned around, scuttled down the steps in their soft-soled shoes and stood with their backs to me, talking very briefly from the safety of the sidewalk. All of us were furiously blushing.

Yes, once again, there be heathens in this house.

Pushing Pedals, Digging Clams

So ...what do you call those mid-calf pants, the ones that are neither proper knee-and-above shorts nor proper to-the-ankle pants? They seem to show up every decade or so, sometimes closer to the knee than the ankle, sometimes closer to the ankle than the knee, fitted or baggy, with pockets, without. No matter what, they are for people with good ankles and a well-turned calf (i.e. not me). I've heard them called toreador pants, calypso pants, pedal-pushers, capris, clamdiggers and, most recently, cropped pants. But for all those names, aren't they describing the same style of pants? Or are there differences? and if so, what are they?

Perhaps those with a better sense of fashion or fashion history can set me straight. Not that it would convince me to wear them; I just want to know. I wouldn't want to insult a pair of pedal-pushers by calling them clamdiggers. Lord knows I have enough trouble with putting together get-ups and outfits; I don't want to incur the wrath of the Fashion Gods or Gremlins with misplaced references. A Clothing Curse I can do without.

And if I should ever dig for clams (not very likely, just saying) I'd simply roll up my jeans.

8 Things About Books on Tape

1. Can fully appreciate the cadence and rhythm of beautifully written prose.
2. On the other hand, the horrible clunkiness of language is revealed as well. Some authors really can't be listened to.
3. Let's say you miss an important detail the author so craftily slipped by you. Trying to "re-read" a passage is a far different proposition: rewind, nope, rewind, nope, rewind, wait, this is before that important bit, FF...no, not yet...FF, too far! rewind, FF, rewind, where the heck is it, end up listening to the whole second chapter in reverse order of the scenes...oh, drat, just hand me the book. Over there, under the chair...
4. You can get dressed, feed the cat, wash dishes all while listening to a fabulous story! As long as there's no one to tease you when you scrub a pot for five minutes at the good part. And better check the mirror before you leave the house. Just in case.
5. Be forewarned, people will think you are demented if you start sobbing for no discernible (to them) reason. The pantomime explanation of "earbuds,listening, big woman shot by crass ex-lover, fell in canal, ....oh never mind!" only seals the deal, in their opinion.
6. Can't answer the phone. That's what voicemail is for.
7. All the aural pleasure of talk-radio without annoying callers or knuckleheaded hosts.
8. More mentally engaging and creative than tv or video. You can dress the characters anyway you want (until the author tells you otherwise), even vary it from scene to scene...who cares? You can have your own interpretation of wine-dark sea or bowlegged or flinty-voiced; maybe the Snopes's have an uncanny resemblance to your ex-spouse's cousins by marriage.

Worst Stoopid Cold Ever

Well, I'm finally down from 1 to .5 TBPD*; I think I'll make it. Don't know exactly what this disease is. Never snorted nor squealed, so it wasn't that Swine-ish Flu; didn't crave super-thin pancakes or meatballs in cream sauce so it wasn't the Swedish Flu either. But hands down, it was the Wickedest Damn Cold on the Planet. It sucked 4 days out my life like an anteater on an anthill. According to the Germ Theory of Disease, no one actually cursed me -- they just coughed in my general direction. This is the sort of thing people should keep to themselves, hiding it at home with the blinds drawn.

An absolutely wicked, awful, horrible, no-good, very bad head-cold and lung thingey. Been down for 5 days, shuffling from one resting spot to the other like a blind elderly cat, intermittently lapping up a bowl of soup, slurping a cup of Gypsy Cold Cure tea, batting at toast. Not enough energy to read much or even watch stoopid daytime tv. A good day was getting out to the hammock for the first mid-morning lay-about in the sun. Books-on-tape (and a humidifier, thanks, Cory!) saved me, getting me through the hacking afternoons and restless, sweat-drenched nights.

And I was blessed by having on hand a CD of Toni Morrison's "A Mercy," read by her. What a treat to listen to Morrison's remarkably beautiful and cadenced voice; I was lost in that fictive world so beloved by authors and readers alike. The poetry of her prose sprang out, was song; the story unfolded as if sitting around a fire late into the evening, each character's voice taking over the dirt stage in turn, speaking their truth. I was enthralled, entranced. I flung up my arm to stop hasty actions by Florens; I reached out a hand to wipe Rebekkah's brow as she lay abed with pox (then I snatched it back; wouldn't do to get pox, too); I tried to pound Sorrow's back when she was hauled out of the river.

Or maybe I was just plain delirious. Whatever, I'm back to work tomorrow, for as long as I last. I promise not to cough in your general direction.

*Tissue Boxes Per Day

Sotomayor ~ yes!

Funny that talk-radio right-wingers are all up in arms about the New Haven fireman's case Judge Sotomayor ruled on years ago. They are beginning to seem a bit desperate if this is what they resort to, dredging up one case and stomping all over it. Or a few remarks here and there. For one thing, I like to look at the overall picture, to consider her whole record, not simply one case. Certainly Judge Sotomayor's life experience is an invaluable viewpoint to bring into the Courts.

.. and the charge of her being racist? Give me a freaking break! Wasn't so long ago some of those folks were damnably proud of being racists their own selves; seen in that context, it could be a (perverse) complement. Puhhhhleeezze!

An Egretful Morning

Yes, some things are irresistible, like egrets and puns. When they occur simultaneously, well, pack me in cotton and send me to China, I'm a happy camper. (zoooom! I'm back now, whew.) Meanwhile, an essay was published in SSU's Newsbytes last month (April 10th, tbe) and I neglected to post the link. So here it is, An Egretful Morning.

Love to hear what you think....

A two-timing, Twleve-stepping, twentysomething temptress....

The other Saturday I went to a book signing party for a friend, Z Egloff, whose book "Verge," was just published this year by Bywater Books. This was a party with balloons, streamers, a signing table, a reading, a nun (ersatz but still!), a cake, a fire ceremony (which I regret that I missed) and a blue bike. Z was totally stoked; friends from all her many walks of life were there to cheer, clap, stomp and yell. At any moment dancing could break out, and for all I know, later on it did.

A bunch of us loitered by the wish-writing table and reminisced about reading the first chapters of "Verge" in it's maiden workshop up at Wellspring, when it was but a workshopping virgin. From the get-go, this was a dynamite story. We loved its pacing and verve and characters and smart-alecky voice. The bookjacket blurb pretty much captures it: "Can a two-timing, Twelve-stepping, twenty-something temptress find happiness with a nun?" Of course to discover the answer...you'll need to read the book. Don't forget, there's a bike involved.

How To ... what?

I don't know if anyone else caught this event, The White House Correspondent's Association Dinner (by Dinner we mean Roast) last Friday night, but this was the quip by President Obama that caught my attention:

"Dick Cheney was supposed to be here but he is very busy working on his memoirs, tentatively titled, 'How to Shoot Friends and Interrogate People'."...and there's much more posted here along the same lines, some pretty darn hilarious lines. Plus some rather pointy barbs, amid the great giggles and guffaws.

Just had to share.

Quick and Quirky

The buzz bzzzt buzzz was annoying and close, disturbing the few minutes of peace I'd snagged to read in the back room that had once been a porch. Come to think of it, I'd been hearing it all afternoon. Stepping through the laundry room to the tiny back-stairs landing (what's left of the outside portion of the porch), I stood transfixed by the flit and flutter of some tiny upstart perky-tailed birds all around the back yard. Definitely them making all the noise.

There had to be a flock...or maybe just four or five, or wait, really just two moving around so fast they seemed like a multitude. Up on the eaves of the nearby garage, over in the roses, down on the end of the kid's slide below me, bouncing through the branches of the plum tree, moving too fast for my poor old eyes to track. And such a brash little thing, suddenly hopping along the railing not even two feet from me, flicking its standing-straight-up-at-attention tail, chut-chut-chut, it goes, posing for a micro-second, only long enough for me to glimpse a long thin white streak just above its pert eyes, like a uni-brow borrowed from Steve Martin. Then, down it flits, to weave in and out the lattice work along the steps in quick hops, reminding me of a game from my suddenly ancient childhood (and the song that went with it): Go In and Out the Window. Cheeky rascals; endearing.

It didn't take so long with Sibley's to identify the sassy little things. Bewick's wrens, facing extirpation in parts of the East Coast, but still abundant here in the West. And it's only taken me another day to realize they are nesting right under the porch.