Author Archives: Molly

Grammy Jammies Times 21

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I’m now in my 14th year of creating Grammy Jammies. The grandkids wait with eager expectation at Thanksgiving time, knowing I will bring out the fabric bags that contain the newest iteration of Christmas fleece and footies. ”What color do you think they will be?” they wondered this year, inventorying all the past colors and designs. I never give away my secrets.

It’s a joyful mayhem, untying the bags, pulling out the contents and rushing off to don the new soft Jammies and present us with a style show. Karen’s kids were at our house for the festivities. Ben and Mya have self-selected out of the footies by now, but still willingly sport matching jammy pants.

Unwilling to miss the fun at Carl’s house, I made a special trip to Milwaukee for the presentation. I barely got in the door before they clamored for the bags. There’s nothing like hugging wiggly laughing grandkids in fleece.

That brought the tally to 7.

Not one to shirk my duties, I continued on to outfit the furry friends as usual. Many of them are the same shape and size, and thankfully they do not grow or change from year to year! I can dash off at least two of those in a day.

Now I was up to 14.

But this year there was more. After at least a year of not so subtle hints from the parents, I took on the challenge to outfit them as well. Even though jammy pants are naturally loose and baggy, I found that fitting adults was trickier than the forgiving slipper jammies on the kids. Especially when compounded by a rather outdated pattern that assumed we still wore pants up to our natural waistline! So I took a graduated approach, making two pair at a time, altering them after try-on sessions, and learning as I went.

Karen and Matt were my first guinea pigs, and thankfully they took my outlandish productions with a great deal of humor and good sportsmanship.

For the record, I managed to tame their pants down to more reasonable proportions.

I arrived at Carl and Chelsea’s house equipped with sewing machine and measuring tools. Fortunately, my latest revisions served me well, and their jammy pants required just minor adjustments.

By the time I got to Erik and Katie, I had the process down to a system and quickly modified theirs to fit.

The good news is that I now have six individualized patterns that should suit everyone for future years!

So that brings the total to 20 pairs of jammies this year. A credible effort, and weeks of fun in the process. But wait, the title says 21! 

Ah yes. Stay tuned for the next blog post to reveal the finale. (And no, I’d never get Rich to wear jammy pants!)

Bring on the Music

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There’s no doubt, the pandemic has left its imprint on me. After several years of hibernating and withdrawing from contact, with my social life shrinking down to the confines of my house and on-screen human connection only, it’s hard to re-engage.

I grew accustomed to an empty calendar. To unlimited personal time to pursue my hobbies. To the simplicity of life focused on the outdoors where I could mingle safely with friends while running, walking or snowshoeing in the woods. I admit that it has been hard to reinstate entertaining at home, to schedule events in advance and find myriad obligations staring at me on Google Calendar.

So I don’t know what got into me early this summer when I saw the banner atop the DECC announcing “The Doobie Brothers in Concert!” I immediately flashed back to my college days – well in advance of that pesky pandemic – and I blurted out “Look! Let’s go see the Doobie Brothers!” I was out with my running buddies on our usual route through Canal Park and back to Dunn Bros where we would hang out longer over coffee. I’m usually pretty oblivious to the show offerings in town, and it was pure happenstance that I even saw the sign. But the idea caught on, and soon we had six tickets in hand, dragging our husbands into it with us.

We started with dinner at Silos, which allowed us to walk over to the concert where we entered with the other gray hairs, and a few 70s clad groupies. We were just above floor level with a straight-on view of the stage. Right on time, the band strode out and struck up the music – just as I remembered it. I didn’t even own a stereo in college, but the Doobie Brothers were one of the few bands whose music I knew well.

This was a 50th Anniversary Tour, and I marveled at the number of original band members still up there playing and singing their hearts out. The lights and sound systems were modern but the tunes had not changed. They still had the fullness of sound and harmonies I loved way back when.

The music went on without a break for two and half hours, and we marveled at the stamina of the musicians, still out there doing it. The crowd went wild, bringing on an encore set that lasted at least 20 minutes, the best music yet. We were among them, cheering, relishing the familiar refrains and singing along. Carried away by the memories, the music and the momentum of the evening.

Attending a concert was everything the pandemic was not. And it sure felt good to be out there again, in public, in the moment, in attendance at an amazing performance. Experiencing it – live.

Fast forward to October. “So, are you going to the concert?” my sister, Susie, texted. “Concert?” I hadn’t a clue. “ABBA!” she replied. Now that struck a chord – Rich has been an avid ABBA fan forever. Rarely a day goes by that I don’t hear an ABBA music video emanating from his phone. How could we not have known? Quickly confirming the quality of Mania: The ABBA Tribune band, he soon pressed Purchase for the concert just over a week hence.

This time we were in Orchestra Hall, with aisle tickets on the main floor in a far more intimate setting. I was familiar with ABBA’s music, largely through seeing Mama Mia, although thanks to Rich’s CDs I’d heard all the rest as well. But I knew virtually nothing about the original band members. So I got my first glimpse of the players on this stage.

Agnetha, Frida, Bjorn and Benny paraded out along with their backup band members. It was clear that the women would dominate the show, as they quickly took center stage to sing, dance and encourage audience participation. Agnetha had a classic Swedish look in her first costume, and partnered seamlessly with Frida.

This group was first created in 1999 and put on their first show in 2000. They have since traveled the world, recreating the music and magic of ABBA. Throughout the show, Rich filled me in with trivia about all the original band members, fun tidbits that helped put the performance in perspective. It all sounded good to me, each song a close enough match to the recordings to draw me into the performance.

As the concert went on, revelers migrated into the side aisles to dance to the music. We made do with tapping our feet and swaying our arms in the air when prompted, equally engaged. Song after familiar song went by until we thought we’d heard them all. But there was one clear omission. Sure enough, for the encore the band paraded back out to perform “Dancing Queen” which brought the audience to their feet once again. Including us.

I left with my head full of music, energized by the experience. Once again, glad we’d grabbed the opportunity. Living life fully again.

There is life after Covid after all. It still takes some effort to overcome that withdrawal mentality. But sometimes we don’t hesitate. We already have tickets to Mannheim Steamroller for their upcoming Christmas Tour concert in December.

Bring on the music!

Troll Hunt

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What’s better than getting out in nature and enjoying the woods? Finding a giant troll nestled among the trees with his massive wooden hands wrapped around two thick trunks. Jakob Two Trees, in fact!

Jakob happens to reside in the heart of Issaquah, where our son Erik lives. We decided to make an afternoon activity out of finding Jakob and one more of the five trolls who are recent inhabitants of the Seattle area. He wasn’t hard to find. Following a wheelchair-friendly path into the woods near the community center, the string of curious walkers were a clue. Families meandered into the woods, children skipped, trees towered overhead and the city environs fell away. When a line backed up in front of us, we knew we were close. The beautiful fall weekend afternoon drew onlookers of all ages, and it was no hardship to wait and watch as we inched our way forward.

Like everyone else, we had to have our photo taken with our new friend Jakob.

Jakob and his buddies are the handiwork of Thomas Dambo, a Danish artist and storyteller.  Since creating his first troll for a Danish cultural festival in 2014, Dambo has received requests for troll installations all over the world, now numbering over 120. Those in Seattle and one in Portland were just completed in September, sponsored by Scan Design Foundation, which aims to promote Danish-American relations.

But why trolls? Dambo cares deeply about nature and uses his trolls to draw people into the woods. He hopes to spark their curiosity about the outdoors and think about protecting it. Trolls also provide the perfect vehicle for his love of whimsy and paying tribute to the troll folklore that was a significant part of his youth. To that end, he publishes a Troll Map that provides only a rough guide to the location of his trolls – preserving the fun of hunting them down in the woods.

Photo opp achieved, Erik, Rich and I wandered around Jakob to take in the detail of this massive troll. As I walked his eyes seemed to follow, peering at me from the side. We were impressed with his grasp of the trees, and the tangles of hair assembled into a giant ponytail hanging down his back. He sports a colorful collection of birdhouses for a necklace, and I wondered if any birds had taken up residence.

Danbo creates the faces in his studio in Copenhagen, and sometimes the more detailed pieces like hands and feet. The remainder of the 15-20 foot trolls are assembled on-site by his crew of 10 plus a slew of local volunteers. Everything is made from recycled materials, scrap lumber or locally available items from nature, such as driftwood, fir branches, moss and shells. We could certainly see that in Jakob’s hair.

Totally impressed with Jakob, we eagerly drove to West Seattle for our next troll sighting. We knew only that it was in Lincoln Park, and began to walk its many trails without any further guidance. Naturally drawn to the beach, we followed the long path that paralleled the water and before long spotted a crowd holding smartphones in the air. We had discovered Bruun Idun.

Standing with her back to the woods, she looks out over the Sound while playing her flute, an elaborate instrument with its origins in a piece of driftwood, shells and other ocean detritus. She plays a song to the orcas.

I was getting a sense for the unique nature of each troll, each with a different story behind it.

The trolls will stay in place for 3 years, possibly extended to 15 or beyond. The two we visited were merely weeks old, and I wondered how they might weather over the years. Apparently that is of little concern to Dambo. He knows they will not last forever. He’s more interested in the smiles they evoke in the meantime. But they won’t be left for nature to reclaim. It is up to each host site to determine when to dismantle their troll and recycle the materials.

With just that little taste, I’m eager to seek out the remaining three trolls in Seattle. I know I’ll be back to visit Erik and Katie, so it’s entirely possible I may get to see them. Back home in Duluth, the nearest trolls are in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and the environs of Chicago. But rumor has it that Dambo is looking at Rhode Island and Minnesota for upcoming US trolls. I can just see one living just across the street in the Lester woods! My troll hunt continues.

Orcas Island by Bicycle

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“It’s not that hilly, Mom.” I should have known better. In all the years of bike touring I did with Rich, we learned to never trust a motorist to give us directions. “Just down the road” may be hours of cycling for us. They don’t feel a headwind, and hills just mean pressing the accelerator a bit harder.

Erik and I had both been to Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands before, but only by car. When I arrived in Seattle to visit him and Katie, he was keen for an adventure. “Let’s bike Orcas Island!” My memory included hills, but I willingly quashed the image.

That just left the weather. In typical Seattle fashion, there was plenty of rain in the forecast. Comparing different weather apps only proved it was a complete unknown, so we caved to our inner explorers and set our plan in motion. Rising at 4:30am to reach the ferry in time for a 7:30 crossing, we sped through the dark in eager anticipation. The sun was just clearing the trees as we boarded the ferry in Anacortes, which we took to be a good omen for the day ahead.

As if to reinforce my premonitions, the road rose steeply from the ferry landing. I had borrowed Katie’s bike, shoes, pedals and helmet for this outing. Normally not a big deal, but this was a road bike – drop handlebars and all, which I’d never ridden in my life. Struggling to clip into the unfamiliar pedals, find the gear shifters and figure out which was which, I floundered immediately and ground to a halt. Relieved that I didn’t fall, I walked the bike a short distance to the first flatish spot to begin again. I took off from there, and never looked back.

Our plan was to bike the island – all of it. We’d cover all the paved roads we could before the 5:15 return ferry. Our first priority was to bike out to the far end of the sound and down to the tip on the far side of the inverted U-shaped island. Full of ambition and energy we tackled the hilly terrain.

Away from town, the countryside was quiet and rural, varying from farms and pastureland to forested byways. Pausing briefly in Eastsound Village to take in the view, we pushed on to the opposite side, eager to get more miles under our belts.

At Obstruction Pass near the tip we took time to venture out the long pier, soaking up the calm surroundings and serene view. Little was stirring – some children in a kayak, a fisherman docking his boat. It felt far removed from the season of high tourism, reclaimed by the locals.

Retracing the road north, we ventured off to follow smaller roads to the east. With each turn we left behind more cars and population, eventually reaching a quiet harbor at Kangaroo Point. Breakfast was a distant memory so we dropped our bikes on the grass and perched on a huge tree stump to pull out our sandwiches. Time easily slipped away as we refueled and relished the sunshine and undisturbed view.

Determined to explore it all, on our way back to Eastsound we made a short detour to the top of the island to peer out toward the water on that side. Then a long-anticipated stop at Brown Bear Baking for lattes and a blueberry tart to energize us for our final leg.

With clouds gathering overhead, we forged on toward Deer Harbor on the west arm. Just as the raindrops began to fall, a large parking lot materialized and we quickly stopped to don our rain jackets. Undeterred, we pushed on, determined to complete our tour. The road followed the shoreline, both flattening out slightly and giving us wet views of West Sound and a marina populated with sailboats. When we reached the Deer Harbor Inn just short of town, we did a time check. “I’m not sure there’s a later ferry,” Erik admitted. Calling it good enough, we turned around and pushed our pedals back toward the ferry landing. Sailing down that final steep hill, we could see the ferry chugging up to the dock.

I can now say with confidence that Orcas Island is indeed VERY hilly. Each downhill came with the guarantee of an uphill to follow, and visa versa. But I wouldn’t have changed a thing. It was worth every ounce of effort to spend the day with Erik, to share the unrelenting ups and downs, to brave the not-so-bad rainfall, to sit side by side munching on sandwiches.

Now we’re eyeing the other islands…

Christmas in July

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I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I knew it would take a lot of ingenuity, time and patience but I just had to do it.

A year and a half ago we made reservations to rent out a whole resort on Lake Vermilion for a family vacation. It’s a small place, and although we only needed four cabins we rented all five so that we could have the place all to ourselves. Just coordinating the work schedules, family plans and kid activities to find a mutual week for ourselves, our three kids, spouses and seven grandkids was daunting, but we finally agreed on the week of the 4th of July, 2023. The idea that each family would have their own space appealed to everyone, and as the summer began the excitement ratcheted up.

Knowing those seven kids would all be together, mingling day in and out at the resort, images of them in matching jammies kept dancing through my head.

The trick lay in the fact that these had to be summer jammies. Fleecy Grammy Jammies would not do. I couldn’t rely on the proven sewing patterns I’ve been using for 13 years, that I can make in my sleep. But I did know exactly what they should look like. I made them for my own kids year after year. Little knit t-shirts and shorts, or versions with long sleeves and full pants with ribbing at the bottom. I still had those patterns, but times have changed and even kids styles have evolved. My kids sported loose comfy garments. Today kids favor slim versions hugging their bodies.

Turning to the internet and the community of resourceful crafters out there, I found t-shirt patterns that not only suited today’s fashions but offered slim versions. For the shorts, I decided to alter my own patterns, taking tucks to narrow the flair. Whew, step one completed.

But what sizes to make? Pattern sizing is not uniform, so how was I going to translate the paper outlines to real kid sizes? The only answer was to be sneaky.

Both families with kids were due to visit in June. During each stay, stealth Grammy took action. When no one was looking, I swiped jammies lying in the hall. I snuck into their bedroom and rummaged through the pile of laundry. Suitcases held samples as well. I dashed into the laundry room with them, taking critical measurements and laying them on top of the patterns to match them to a size. Sometimes their clothes rendered different results. Waist measurements seemed to range all over the board. Were these well-fitting garments, or about to be discarded as too small?

My brain was spinning with the mental gymnastics and angst of trying to get the best fit. It was all a guessing game, but I ultimately had to commit to seven sets of patterns to use.

From there I was in familiar territory. I had already procured more than enough fabric. Now it was just a matter of cutting out the pieces and sewing them together. Soon I had seven little piles ready to go.

Three solid days of sewing later, the line-up was complete.

It was tempting to leave them out to admire, but I needed to package them up before I began to second-guess my work. That part was easy. The only fitting presentation was to use the same Christmas fabric wrapping bags that hold the Grammy Jammies every year.

It was so hard to wait…

But indeed, we have Christmas in July!

Fuzzball Lives!

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After mourning the demise of the baby owl, Rich was greatly surprised to spy Fuzzball high up in a tree! Having just left the nest with Mama Owl and the sibling, he knew it had to be Fuzzball. But how could that be?

Two weeks ago, we were so certain that this circle of fuzz and feathers was all that was left of Fuzzball after a fox got to him. But now it appears this picture tells a different story.

Rich figures that instead this must have been a meal delivered to Fuzzball, who then hopped down into the ravine for Amity Creek. He survived on his own – with help from Mom and Dad, no doubt – and recently made his way up into this tree where Rich spotted him. Clever Fuzzball!

Imagine the euphoria that blanketed the household when Rich returned with the news! Fuzzball reigns again, and Rich’s forays into the woods to check on the owl family have at least doubled since that day. Although he figures that Fuzzball used his talons to scale that first tree, he has since confirmed that both Fuzzball and his sibling “Junior” have fledged. He now finds them across the creek high up in trees they could reach only by flying.

These photos are from Rich’s reconnaissance.

Mama owl and Junior in the nesting tree
Fuzzball in a white pine tree across the creek

It would appear that “the rescue” was a success after all. The dramatic turn of events put us on a roller coaster for a few weeks then a nosedive. But we’re thrilled with this happy ending. All because Fuzzball lives!

What have I done?

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I believe in fate. As in things happening for a reason, and paying attention to what was meant to be. Or what I perceive as such. That’s exactly what brought me to a rash decision.

Six and a half years ago I naively embarked on what I thought would be a 1-year project. I confidently sat down and started writing. Feeling a book in the making, I plowed through thousands of miles of bike touring with Rich, capturing all the nuances of our day to day travels. Living on two bikes, our meager belongings in paniers, the ups and downs of married life for up to two months on the road at a time. I poured my life and creativity into that project. For over four years.

I learned a lot along the way. Writing classes, a writing coach and my writing group sustained and propelled me through the process. I wrote well into the pandemic, transforming our bunk room into my home coffee shop where I could hide and write. I tackled structure, scenes, dialog and the other essentials. Until one day two years ago, when I stopped. Stuck.

Bottom line, it’s not about the bike. I’ve now read enough cycle touring stories (thanks to the advice of my writing coach) to know that just chronicling our touring is not enough. In fact it can be pretty boring. It’s what is underneath that counts. What the real plot is. And I just don’t know what that is.

My manuscript lies buried in the hard drive of my laptop, untouched since then. I thought the plot would come to me, but it hasn’t.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a Zoom writing class that resonated with me. Nail your Memoir Structure by Thinking like a Novelist, taught by Allison K. Williams gave me a lot to ponder. It identified a lot of writing techniques, book editing tactics and good solid advice. None of it solved my problem, but it made me think, and it gave me hope. So when Allison mentioned she was teaching a class on Madeline Island this summer, I succumbed to the temptation and took a look.

The very first writing class I ever took was at the Madeline Island School of the Arts, eight years ago. The immersion experience of working in a small group with an instructor for five days and living on campus fueled my nascent foray into writing. Could the same environment re-invigorate my creativity? Could it help me find my way to the underlying truth?

There it was: Second Draft: Your Path to Powerful Publishable Writing. The dates could work for me by manipulating my plans on either end. So tempting, but a roadblock. No lodgings available. To me, being on campus is an integral part of the experience. I wasn’t sure I was game for being a day student, even if I could find nearby lodgings.

With some nudging from Rich, I half-heartedly emailed to ask about a wait list, or alternate accommodations. Already letting go of the idea. One day later, I received word that there had been a cancellation. Not only that, but it was a single room with shared bath – the exact room I wanted. I had to commit immediately to claim it. So I did. Certain that this was a sign. It was meant to be.

I was thrilled, riding on a high for the rest of the day. At night, all my doubts invaded. Will this really help me find the answer? More importantly, do I really want to do this? Am I ready to recommit myself to the task? To the mammoth, years-long process of manipulating my words into a viable story that others will want to read? Do I really want to spend all those hours sitting in a chair in front of my laptop when I could be outside on my bike, in a kayak or skiing? Or is this just what I need to refuel my self-confidence and provide a balance to my active life?

I’m about to find out. Between now and the end of July I will have to unwrap those dormant chapters and re-engage with the story. Remind myself where I was in the process, and hopefully rekindle the spark that began this journey. Only then can I travel to Madeline Island, settle into my room, partake of the healthy cuisine and become one with my fellow writers in class. Drink in the wisdom of our instructor.

And discover just what I have done.

Fuzz and Feathers

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That’s all that is left. Poor Fuzzball, he so wanted to be free. But it cost him his life.

Last evening there was a knock on the door. “Your owlet is on the ground, right near the trail.” Apparently Fuzzball just didn’t care for his chair nest anymore. He wanted out. Rich hurried over and sure enough Fuzzball was out exploring. He figured the safest thing to do was to find a protected area for Fuzzball to spend the night, and deposited him in a deep thicket.

At 5:15 this morning, Fuzzball was out and about once again. Rich found him near the trail, relieved to know he made it through the night but concerned for his safety. Returning just half an hour later, all he found was a ring of fuzz and feathers. Nature had taken its cruel course. Rich surmises that a fox found Fuzzball and after a brief struggle carted him off to his den to feed his own hungry family.

It was 11 days ago that Fuzzball first entered our lives. In that short time, he brought a lot of joy to the many people who followed his story – in Rich’s blog and mine, out in the woods, watching from the road, and hearing it from friends. Rich did all he could for the little fella, but just could not curb his natural tendencies. Fuzzball couldn’t fly yet, but he could scurry around on the ground. He wasn’t good at holding on to branches yet, but he could scratch and bite whenever Rich re-rescued him. He was a fighter, and we hoped he would make it. But it was clear Rich could no longer protect the impetuous owlet who longed to roam. Rich did all he could, and we agree that helping Fuzzball survive in his home habitat was the right thing to do. Rich would do it all over again, despite the hole in his heart right now.

It’s worth reading Rich’s final blog post about Fuzzball, as he included many photos and videos he was unwilling to share before in order to protect Fuzzball from too much human exposure.

This is one of my favorite photos from the whole journey. It was nice knowing you, Fuzzball. We will all remember you fondly.

Fostering Fuzzball

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It’s not easy being a foster parent. Especially to an owlet.

Fuzzball seems to have adapted to his new nest quite well. Rich calls it Lawn Chair Nest 2.0, and amazingly it has remained stable on its perch high in the tree. Fuzzball appears content to sleep on the seat by day and host Mom at night when she brings him treats to eat. Not much has changed since Fuzzball’s Rescue, but that is good news. The more time that passes, the closer Fuzzball comes to getting his flight feathers. We harbor hopes that one day he will be strong enough to fly up to his real nest. Until then, we wait and watch. Becoming complacent in our foster parenting.

This morning that changed when Rich returned from his visit with news. “When I got to Fuzzball’s nest, he wasn’t there!”

What?

“The seat was empty. But I looked up, and there he was, standing on the back of the chair!”

It would appear that Fuzzball was ready to try branching. Lacking tree limbs to walk on, he found the next closest thing. This I had to see. Sure enough, there he was, back against the tree, stretched up to his full height. Suddenly he looked really BIG! Even though the sun was already climbing in the sky, he was wide awake and turned to watch me as I approached.

Fuzzball seemed quite proud of his accomplishment, and I have to admit I was impressed. Something like parental pride blossomed as I left him and headed out for my run.

When I returned, a third ladder had joined the collection down by our garage. There was only one explanation – Fuzzball. Rich wasn’t home, and curiosity ate away at my psyche. I had to check on him.

Approaching the nest, Fuzzball looked at me from the seat of chair nest. I silently congratulated him on safely making it back down to his resting spot. I moved around to get a better look. All looked well.

But that was not the whole story.

“I found Fuzzball on the ground again this morning,” Rich reported. Apparently he wasn’t so savvy about getting down from his perch after all. But it didn’t end there.

Rich filled me in. Fuzzball fell on his own the first time, but he plunged two more times – with help. Rich had decided Fuzzball needed an opportunity to try real branching. So he carried him up to a branch and carefully set him down on the limb.

Fuzzball was unable to hang on with his toenails, had bad balance, or just lacked Mom’s training in how to navigate in trees. He tilted, scrambled, spread his wings then plummeted to the ground. Rich tried again. Fuzzball suffered a similar fate.

Rich just happened to capture one of the falls on video. (Note, this is a private video that Rich will delete in a few days, to prevent it from going viral and exposing the owlet.) Click here to view the action. Apart from Fuzzball’s unfortunate tumbles, what I found most interesting and reassuring was seeing the growing feathers on Fuzzball’s wings.

Three strikes and out. Rich conceded the failed experiment and returned Fuzzball to chair nest, where I found him, unaware of his recent drama.

Fuzzball must have been relieved to be back on a stable platform. It was bad enough causing his own fall. Now he has to worry about saviors who can be a threat!

We foster parents don’t always get things right. But our hearts are in the right place. Hang in there, Fuzzball!

Rescuing Fuzzball

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He’s known as The Owl Guy.

The name originated when my husband, Rich, was in the hospital for open heart surgery. He was relegated to a hospital bed for nearly two weeks, and in that time numerous staff members came and went, attending to his needs. Rich was always polite, thanked them profusely and inevitably talked about owls. In particular “his owls.” Soon hospital folks would enter his room and say, “Oh, you’re the Owl Guy!”

For five years, Rich has been watching the same Great Horned Owl couple. Starting in February he stalks the snowy woods near our house in the dark, listening for their hoots, tracking them down until he finds their nest, which often moves from year to year. Once spotted, he haunts the site, watching and photographing the miracle of life. From eggs in the nest under Mama Owl to fully grown and forced out of the territory in the fall, he chronicles the lives of the owlets. From fuzzballs to independent owls. They have become “his owls.”

Rich’s owls first gained fame during the pandemic. Isolated by Covid, Rich spent more hours in the woods than ever, and the owls chose to nest in a spot with a perfect vantage point for photography. There were three owlets that year and Rich blogged about them almost daily, posting pictures of their development and progress. His readership boomed. Others, similarly isolated, followed the owlets – a cute and endearing diversion provided by nature during that period of seclusion. Over time, Rich created a children’s book with his best photographs of the beloved owlets and their journey to adulthood.

This year, there are two owlets. Due to the long, harsh winter Mama laid her eggs much later than usual, and the first fluffball did not appear until well into May, followed by a sibling a week later. Rich was elated, once again back on owlet watch. And then the unthinkable happened.

Fuzzball fell out of the nest.

Rich happened to be near the nest with two trusted photography buddies late one afternoon last week when one of them spotted Fuzzball huddled in a depression, 80 feet below the nest. Estimating the baby bird to be about four weeks old, Rich noted that it did not yet have any flight feathers. It had not even started “branching” yet (walking out on branches near the nest). With the nest at an unreachable height, the poor owlet had no means of survival. Rich donned his falcon gloves (he’s rescued owls before) and laid the frightened but seemingly unharmed bird in a towel-lined tub.

Rich contacted Wildwoods, the local animal rehabilitation center, but they were already closed for the day. As we had dinner with Fuzzball resting nearby, Rich’s brain was churning. Surely the bird would be better off near Mom and Dad than doomed to life in captivity? Was there a way he could create a new nest for Fuzzball, where he could be watched, protected and fed by his parents? Abandoning the unwashed dishes, Rich sprang into action.

I had no idea that a lawn chair could simulate a nest. But apparently Rich did. Covering it with a packing blanket for cushioning and to prevent the bird’s talons from catching in the mesh, he finished it off with bungee cords to hold it all in place. Next he hauled our longest ladder into the woods, and with the help of a family hiking past, he hauled the “nest” as high as he could and secured it with bungees stretching around the tree.

Getting the bird up into the nest was a tricky climb, but at last Fuzzball was installed in his new home.

We both heaved a sigh of relief with Fuzzball off the ground and in sight of his real nest. The question was whether Mom and Dad would find him and take care of him? Sleep was elusive that night.

Morning brought good news. Fuzzball was alert and active – he had survived the night! Rich talked to Wildwoods and convinced them that the owlet was better off in his new nest, and promptly secured the site with Caution tape and a warning sign to leave the little guy alone, and NOT post on social media. Humans were as much a threat to Fuzzball as his natural predators.

While pleased with the decision to leave Fuzzball in the woods, I also knew it would enhance our home life. Not only are they Rich’s owls, they are Rich’s owlets. My only role may have been iPhone photographer, but I couldn’t help but feel invested in these birds. Rich’s wellbeing and mine was secured as long as this experiment went well.

A few days later, Rich installed his trail-cam opposite Fuzzball. He was richly rewarded when he caught a nighttime feeding on video! Fuzzball sat upright, seemingly looking up in the direction of home. Soon Mom flew onto the chair seat alongside Fuzzball and immediately began tearing up bits of food which he rapidly devoured. It was working!

Rich still lives day by day, checking on Fuzzball morning, noon and evening, and spying on him with the webcam at night. I get detailed reports. Fuzzball’s rescue is our newest entertainment.