Owls & Bob & Jen . . .

I love what Bob's sister, Nancy, said on a recent post, that Bob and the owl will be able to watch over me from the woods at Wrenwood. . . I know he is with me now and always, but there is great comfort growing (and let's be real—along with a hefty dose of fear, as well), as I take load after load of our things back to our house in the woods, of being and feeling, once again, enveloped in the setting he loved so much . . . with our owls in the backyard, softly calling in agreement.

I think about owls a lot . . . how Bob had been so drawn to their mystical presence, how they've been an integral part of the life I shared here on earth with Bob, yet I didn't really consciously think of owls when Bob and I together—they were just always "with" us, back in that former life . . . my heart warms, hearing how so many people now think of Bob when they see or hear anything owls . . . makes me laugh, seeing how "trendy" owls have become (seriously—Target, Pier One, boutique shops, Macy's—you name it, everyone's "into" owls these days—even one of my favorite bands, Trampled by Turtles, has an owl as their "logo," for the love of all things owls) . . . I've kind of become the Crazy Owl Lady, so many have shared gifts of owls with me in the past months. Owl necklaces, owl cookie jar, funky canvas owl prints, an owl purse, owl stocking cap—even a cute little owl coin purse and owl-shaped lip balm. Not kidding . . .

Bob used to call himself a trendsetter—all through high school, he wore tattered jeans and floppy flannels over band t's and hightops—he said he was grunge before grunge was grunge . . .(I have a few of his flannels, hanging between my clothes, in the closet. Makes me wistfully smile when I see them, as I pick my clothes out for the day . . .on the days I shower and actually change out of my "I've given up" sweats, that is). Anyone who knew Bob at all, knew he cared less about fashion than just about anything in the world. One of our famous debates was over pleated pants. I abhor pleated pants and any time we'd go shopping for him—which was maybe every Leap Year, mind you (he suffered from a serious, mysterious condition he self-diagnosed as Shopping-Induced Narcolepsy), I'd gravitate to the stylishly flattering flat-front Dockers. He'd counter with a pair of ghastly pleated slacks, and the argument would ensue:

Me (heavy on the dramatics): Oh, god! Pleeeease—pleated pants are soooooo 80s, Bob!

Bob: But, Jen, I'm an 80s man at heart!

Me: They make you look so bulky and puffy in the groin—

Bob: But, I want to look bulky and puffy in the groin!

Me: You're gross. I'm heading over to the shoes . . .

But, I digress (Ritalin, anyone?). I can hear him saying the same thing about owls now, that he was light years ahead of the pack, that he should have been a trend spotter. . .yes, kind of curious, how hip owls have become . . .

Bob's first encounter with an owl, to my knowledge, was when he was a very young boy. I wish I could recall the details of the story, I may be embellishing the details somewhat . . . so many things I don't remember anymore, so many times throughout any given day that I wish so badly I could just turn to him and say, "Hey, Bob—what was that story about the owl again . . ." Maybe Penny and Jim remember. . . anyhow, he said was at his grandparent's home down in southwestern Minnesota, in the little town of Ivanhoe. It was winter and I think it was snowing, maybe they were visiting for the holidays . . . he was supposed to be taking a nap in a bedroom upstairs but he was looking out the window, instead, to a field out back behind the house. As he scanned the landscape, his eyes came to rest on a lump at the edge of the field. He stared for a while until the lump that was nestled between the mounds of snow drifts took shape of a snowy owl. He ran down to get someone—his parents? His grandparents?—to show them what he was seeing. . .they came to the window and looked out. Indeed it was a snow owl, so far beyond its territory, even for winter. . . at that young age, Bob knew what a sacred honor it was to witness the creature outside his window . . .

He later learned that what he saw was a very rare sighting, as snowy owls don't nest in Minnesota. Their range is Canada and the Alaska, although they may be seen as far "south" as the northern half of Minnesota on occasion, if the Canadian winters are particularly harsh and their food sources is scarce. They are often seen perched on the ground; to see one in southwestern Minnesota was almost unheard of . . . Bob said he would never forget the image, as it was close enough to see the brilliant yellow eyes, almost illuminating the snowy surroundings. . .

When we were first dating, I learned early and quickly, of Bob's love of all things nature. I also learned if I wanted this relationship to go anywhere—which I absolutely did—I would either need to be okay with not doing at least 75% of what Bob enjoyed doing—hiking, camping, canoeing, outdoor photography—or at least give it the ol' college try and see what happened. See, I was not a nature girl by nature. My memories of previous "camping" experiences were damaged ones—cramming seven people (my family) who didn't always play well with each other in spacious quarters, much less in the suffocating (and by "suffocating," I mean "choking from by my dad's continual chain-smoking) confines of a station wagon crammed with tents, sleeping bags and groceries, heading "out west" to South Dakota or Yellowstone, where we'd find a KOA campground along the way, unload our stuff and ditch mom and dad for the tiny "campground" arcade, glued to the Centipede or Space Invaders machines for the duration of our stay . . .ahhhh, the Great Outdoors . . .

Our first real camping excursion together, just the two of ous, was right around when we married (I'm thinking it was after, as my memory of photos of that trip are of me with my post-wedding, super-cute, boy-short haircut, which I sooooo loved and Bob sooooo didn't). We spent a week on Lake Superior, camping our way up the shore at various state parks. Lucky for me, it was one of the best camping weeks, ever, in the history of camping, or I may have never gone again. We couldn't have had better weather, had we special ordered it ourselves—low 70s during the day—perfect for hiking—cool enough in the evenings to enjoy dinner and wine by campfire, not even a hint of rain all week. . . I befriended a little chipmunk at one of the campsites, and Bob snapped photos of me feeding the little rodent perched on my shoulder. . . thankfully, my maiden voyage camping trip with him started out so well and not a near-disaster, as a few of our later trips were, or it could have been my last. . . that definitely solidified, for me, a new-found appreciation of nature, wildflowers, birds of all kinds, hiking, sunrises on the north shore. . .

The summer Bob and I married (again, another lifetime ago), my sisters planned a bachelorette party for me. Jill designed adorable invitations with a little owl in the corner, announcing, "Whooooo's getting married?" At the party, the front door of my friend, Pam's house was covered with a huge hand-drawn owl, again announcing, "Whoooooo's getting hitched?" Kinda became the unofficial mascot of our wedding, our marriage, the owl . . .

Bob took Latin in college, had planned to go to law school before the lure of the wine industry pulled him in—four years of the ancient language at the U, he used to sign many of his letters to me with a Latin phrase that I was either supposed to figure out on my own, or wait till I saw him again so he could translate (this was back in the olden days, kids, before the invention of the Internet. . .though I did live in Winona at the time, and could have walked down the block in any direction, to one of countless Catholic churches in town and asked a priest for a translation); his informal nickname became Bubo, from the Latin name for great horned owls, bubo virginianus . . . I don't remember who christened him with it—so many things I don't remember—might have been one of our old camping pals . . . I do know that Bob's friend, Jayne, a graphic artist, reproduced a MN "vanity" license plate for him, with the BUBO on it. . .

One of our favorite owls (as if there isn't a favorite) is the barred owl, so named for the vertical barred pattern across its chest feathers. It's an adorably social owl, one that is easy to call into the vicinity of a campsite, provided you're camping in an area where barred owls hang out. They're very vocal and will call back and forth to a human, even if your attempt at calling is only "sort of" close to its call, which is often described as sounding like, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you, alllllll?!"

Shortly after we were married, for our first anniversary, or maybe it was for his birthday (for sure, it was during my insane-but-thankfully-short-lived craft phase when anything that wasn't nailed down was fabric-pained, hot-glue-gunned with lace and dried-flowers, or stenciled . . .), I hand-painted a canvas apron for Bob, with the likeness of a barred owl on the front, along with the words, "Who cooks for you?" in a cartoon balloon above its head (I packed it up and brought it out to Wrenwood already, otherwise I'd post a picture of it. A craft paint masterpiece, if I do say so myself . . .)

On an outing to Afton State Park with the dogs (Gaia and Liddy) one day, many, many lifetimes ago, we were hiking along the trails, deep in a ravine on the forest bottom, along the edge of a little stream. Bob said it was prime barred owl territory and as if on cue, we heard the call of a barred owl in the distance. I thought I'd give it the ol' college try and see if I could call it in closer. Bob scoffed at me. "No way, you couldn't call in a barred owl," he challenged. I had heard our friend Jayne do it on previous camping trips; I can say, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all????!!! and set it to a hooty-yodeling-kind of tune—I was very confident in my thus-far-highly-underdeveloped (read: never tried before) owl hooting skills.

We stopped along the path at the base of a hill. I cupped my hands around my mouth, tossed my head back let loose, squawk-shouting out my best, "WHO COOKS FOR YOU??? WHO COOKS FOR YOU ALLLLLL!!!!!!"

"That is the call of a dying owl," Bob laughed at me."You'll scare them away, not call them in!" Undaunted, I continued to call as he continued to laugh. A few minutes later, we saw a flash in the treetops above our heads. A plump little barred owl landed in a branch of a tree right above me, turned its head to look straight down at us with its black marble eyes, as though saying, "You called?" I looked at Bob, beaming. He looked at me, in disbelief. Yes, you all can call me the Owl Whisperer. Or Squawkerer.

I called again and the owl responded. Back and forth, for several minutes, I carried on a conversation with a barred owl; I hooted, it hooted back, over and over. I'm not really sure what I was saying (nature mimicing life), but clearly, even in clumsy Owlese, I am a riveting conversationalist. . . finally, we had to wrap things up, as the dogs were getting restless, and we were beginning to repeat ourselves . . . For a girl who still wasn't overly keen about the Great Outdoors, I think I rose a few notches in Bob's eyes that day. . .

I went on many Great Grey Owl "hunts" with Bob (I vaguely remember going to a dive bar called Sanitary Harry's somewhere in the middle of nowhere), driving along the barren, snow-packed back roads of northern MN, in search of the elusive bird when one (or more) would occasionally wander further south than their normal territory, in search of prey, when winters were particularly tough. . . whenever either of us went on a trip without the other (which wasn't very often) we'd often come home with a little nature creature—the vast majority are stuffed owls—sort of a, "Thought of you a lot when I was gone," gift. It became more of an unspoken ritual, as a result, I have a basket full of stuffed owls, a large timber hand wolf puppet, a little hawk finger puppet . . .I sometimes get them out for Otto to play with, though have to be careful, or Rocco, like a stealthy coyote, sneaks in and tries to maul 'em . . .

I had another story about scaring up a Great Horned Owl from the dilapidated old barn at my grandparents' farm down near Comfrey, but I can't remember all the details of that one, either—one of my sisters was with us‚ which one, I couldn't say for sure . . . Bob had his camera, as he always did—was so sure this would provide such a great photo op: abandoned farm, sun shining through the gaping holes in the roof of the weather-ravaged barn, lots of great shadowy images, an owl perched on a rafter would complete The Perfect Image! He was sure an owl had to have taken up home in such a perfect setting . . . Bob went well ahead of us, to scope out the lay of the old barn, my sister and I clung to each other as we tiptoed into the horror-movie-setting, and for some reason—something scared us—we screamed and bolted back out to the yard, and at the same time, looked up just as a huge GHO (Bob's abbreviated name for the owl) swooped out from the hay mow, gliding just over our heads. My sister and I froze in our tracks as it turned and stared at us, as though paralyzed by its powerful gaze. A few minutes later, Bob emerged from the barn, disgusted that we had scared off what was could have been his Pulitzer-prize winning photo . . .

Thinking of owls brings up so many memories, so many snapshot images of my blessed time on earth with Bob. Makes me, at once, so infinitely full and grateful for the endless blessings he bestowed upon me during our far too short time together, and infinitely empty, such a gasping, gaping hole in my soul . . . what an incongruence, to feel so full and so empty at the same time. . .

a p.s. — I'm going to be getting a moving van for this coming Saturday (the 28th), to move the last of my things out to Wrenwood. Anyone not doing anything that day, feel free to come on over to my St. Paul house and lend a hand . . . food and beverages and gratitude will be plenty. . .