Owls on the brain . . .

I really should be doing homework right now—I have a 400 page memoir to read (have yet to start) and two 2-3 page papers to write before tomorrow night's class—but I feel like writing about owls instead. Nice to know my ADD study habits haven't changed in nearly two decades . . .Looks like I'll be pulling an all-nighter . . . comfort (or anxiety) in the familiar, I guess . . . (when I first met Bob, I had just started classes at Winona State, and he was astounded at my haphazard study skills. He told me he had never pulled an all nighter, in all his college career. "What??!!? You mean you've never commandeered a booth at Perkins and guzzled endless pots of coffee while cramming for a final?" I asked in disbelief. No, I just kept up with the assignments all quarter, then reviewed my notes teh night before the test and went to bed early, he explained matter-of-fact. Such a foreign concept to me. Take the test, do your best, take a rest, he used to tell me the night before a big exam . . .

Owls have penetrated our lives, Bob's and mine together, going back almost two decades (his life, even further back) . . . little did I know at the time how symbolic the wise owl would become to my life, in my life, as I move forward, without him. This entry might be more of a photo montage, just sharing some images of a lifetime ago, a history, if you will, of Bob and me and owls . . .

This is the invitation Jill had created for my "personal shower"—aka, BACHELORETTE PAR-TAY, BEEEYOTCHES!!! Okay, okay—truth is, it really wasn't like that at all—I mean, we had fun, but it was a far cry from Girlz Gone Wylde! bachelorette parties of nowadays. I threatened my sisters bodily harm if they tried to make me wear anything embellished with a penis or condoms, or do a blow-job shot off some guy's crotch—that did happen to a friend of mine at her bachelorette, for the record and I was terrified . . . There was a penis cake, made by my evil ex-sister-in-law, which I have to admit, was incredibly creative and lifelike, down to the flesh-colored icing—but I'll spare you that image—this is a PG-13 blog, man. The date on this invitation says July 22, 1995, a couple weeks before our wedding . . . it's glued to a page of our wedding scrapbook, before I glued it in place, I had folded over the upper corner to reveal the little image of an ow on the back, proclaiming, "Who? Who's getting married?" I'd written in pen, with an arrow pointing to it, "supposed to be an owl, not a ghost!"

This owl "banner" graced the entrance to the bachelorette party. I'm pretty sure my sister, Jill made it. The photograph itself isn't very good—it's rather over-exposed—so I couldn't get a great picture of it. But the owl is so freaking adorable and the words beneath the owl say, "Who's getting hitched?" It's not like the whole party was owl-themed; these were the only two owl occurrences at the party. Like most other owl connections in our lives, they weren't deliberate or an overtly-consciously part of our lives, they just were. . . If I remember, Bob's bachelor "party" was pretty low-key (one of endless instances throughout my day, for a split-nanosecond, I almost went to ask Bob what they had done for his bachelor party, followed in the next split-nanosecond with the gutting realization that I can't do that. Ever. This phenomenon happens so many times throughout a day—you'd think I'd know better, by now. . . but my widow friends who have been on this path much longer than I say it never leaves, that desire to turn and just talk to their beloved, no matter how long it's been . . .god, this trip is gonna be a long one . . .). It may have been just a handful of guys going out for drinks in the St. Paul area . . . I seem to recall mention of the gratuitous strip joint visit (the only hooters sighting that night, I'm sure) . . . I remember that Bob really wanted to do a camping trip with his friends, but few seemed interested, and since he was only the guest of honor, not the one planning it, he just went along for the ride. . .

Exhibit C: a letter my dear sister, Jill wrote to Bob and me, a week before our wedding . . . the letter itself is so sweet and sentimental—I'd share the whole thing, but it's full of so many cryptic references that would take forever to explain (for instance: Jill saying that even though Bob and I were getting married, she still wanted to be able to spoon in bed with us . . . ummmm, yeah . . .that kind of stuff . . .) Anyhooooo. . . The salutation reads: Dear Bubo and Christopher—"WTH?!" I hear the collective confusion, so here's a longer than necessary explanation of that: let's start with "Bubo." I may have explained this in a previous post, but in case I didn't: Bubo is half of the Latin/scientific name for the Great Horned Owl, Bubo virginianus. Bob had taken several years of Latin in college, because he had planned to go tot law school. That knowledge came in handy, in learning and remembering the scientific names for all kinds of creatures. Clearly, at some point, prior to August, 1995, someone had already christened Bob "Bubo," (kind of a play on "Bob") and the name gained a permanent place in our family vernacular. Again, if only I could turn to him, or call downstairs to his office, where he often would be, working, and ask if he remembered the story behind his nickname, Bubo. My vague recollection is that it happened on a camping trip . . .

"Christopher" was a joke between Bob and me . . . ages upon ages ago, when I was living in Winona, a friend's little boy (maybe 5 years old or so), was introduced to me. "Joey, this is mommy's friend, Jennifer," my friend told him . . . later that day, I heard a little voice saying, "Christopher? Christopher??? Hey, Chriiiistopherrrr . . ." It was several moments before I realised he was talking to me . . . Christopher became one of Bob's many nicknames for me . . .

This is the apron I made for Bob, during my Krazy Krafting Daze . . . the photo doesn't have a date on it, but we're standing in the little apartment in St. Paul, near St. Thomas University where we lived when we were first married, so it must be 1994-95-ish. Bob loved to cook, and maybe I made it for his birthday? A wedding gift? Maybe just for the hell of it, because I was Krazy for Krafts! at that time—nothing was safe from my glue gun or fabric paints, or dried flower embellishments, not even Bob . . .  I hand-painted a Barred owl on the apron, with the caption above the owl, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you aall!!" (The "Who cooks for you" phrase is what birders say the barred owl call sounds like.) Below the owl it says, "Strix varia," the Latin/scientific name for the barred owl. I still have the apron, hanging in my kitchen . . . Often, when I think of the barred owl, I think of a story Bob told me; again, the details are fuzzy, but the gist of it was, a coworker was excitedly telling Bob about his camping weekend, and said he thought a barred owl had visited their campsite. "I'm pretty sure it was a barred owl, Bob—it's the one that has the call that you said sounds like, "I'm late for dinner! I'm late for dinner!" Bob thought that was the funniest thing, and any time we saw or heard a barred owl in the woods after that, he'd call out, "Hey! There's that owl that says, 'I'm late for dinner! I'm late for dinner!'" Geeky birder-nature-boy humor that's probably funny to no one but me . . .

I purchased this watercolor painting of an owl at the first salon I worked. It's not very big—maybe 4" x 6". It is an original work and was a "frivolous" expense—Bob and I were both just starting out our careers, just starting our married life together—splurging on a $45 painting was reeeeally stretching the ol' budget. The salon featured some work by a local artist and this owl painting had sat in the display rack for a long, long time. . . I don't remember why I bought it—could have been for Bob's birthday, could have been just because—because I didn't want anyone else to buy it—it should be for Bob, I thought. So I saved up some tip money and bought it for him . . . he liked it a lot, and had this up in his office for a long time. . .

And, here is our silly little collection of stuffed animals. We truly weren't "into" stuffed animals, but once in a while, on a vacation or browsing a state park gift shop, we'd happen upon a little critter that endeared itself to us, and ended up going home with us. Other times, it might be that one of us had taken a trip without the other (a very rare occasion), and a little stuffed owl or Husky might be presented as a "glad I'm back home" gift. On the right is a big hand-puppet wolf (Bob loved wolves, too)—pretty sure that was found up north near Ely; there are a couple of doggies in the pack—Huskys and malamutes, of course—and of course Taz is also part of the mix (Bob was a big fan of Warner Bros. Taz—he said, at one point many years ago when I first got my tattoo, that if he had been a tattoo kind of guy, which he wasn't, he would have gotten Taz inked on his bicep). But the bulk of the collection is owls. A couple of snowy owls, a little barn-owl looking owl, a couple that are vaguely reminiscent of great horned owls, a little finger puppet owl . . . A couple of the owls were gifts from others when Bob was going through his cancer ordeal nearly two summers ago . . . precious Otto loves to play with these stuffed animals. He sits on the floor and I gently dive-bomb him with stuffed animals. . . he squeals with pure delight as they bounce of his head and onto the floor around him, whole-body laughing, grabbing at the balls of fur as they assault him, burrowing his face into the pile of furry creatures . . .

Since Bob's death, I have been inundated with owl gifts. I love them all, am grateful for all, and hope to proudly, lovingly live out the fast-developing "Crazy Owl Lady" reputation/persona. . . maybe a future blog entry will feature these owls I've acquired . . .