cynthia

The bluejays are at it again. When I moved to Oregon I was charmed to find not only the old, familiar white-bellied jays of my youth (Scrub Jays, a name that's frankly condescending and ought to be changed) but also the sleek, sapphire-and-black Stellar Jays. They're both beautiful critters, a pair of each live in my backyard and, for the most part, they get along pretty well (or at least they keep a lid on disagreements). ...except in spring, when they go to war for my back porch light.

"You know," Dad said grimly, "If you ever achieve half the talent, intelligence or kindness of your mother, you'll be very, very lucky." He was right. I'm still working on it. When he said that, I was maybe 13, in trouble again; most likely Dad had caught me arguing furiously with Mom and sprang to her defense. (My teenage years were not exactly smooth sailing--I think of them as one long and arduous fight against authority.) I suspected he was right, but boiling oil wouldn't have gotten me to admit it. Thank heavens we grow up...

The old woman totters into the store and gives me an anxious look. "You're not the regular girl! She knows I can't buy anything but she lets me just look. That's still OK, isn't it?" I smile and tell her I'm fine with her visit to Fireborne, my friend Becky's gallery. Reassured, she turns to examine the glass in the window. She moves slowly, painfully, sidestepping her way down the display, and misses nothing. "I see she sold the green bowl," she says, pointing to the vase that's apparently replaced it.