Unexpected conversations

We watched the sun set behind the horses. A girl brought out some carrots, and we helped feed them a treat. Light filtered through their manes. My son and the girl giggled. The horses munched. It was perfect.

"Are they male or female?" my son asked.

"The horses? I'm not going to check. You check," I told him.

"How do you check?"

"How do you think?"

He got down on the ground, and gave us a report.

"This one has a penis. This one too. Man, some are bigger than others! This one doesn't. Does that mean it has a vagina? What do those look like?"

How did we get from a pastoral, rosy-hued Perfect Moment to horse penises? I wondered in dismay.

He re-emerged, fed a few more carrot pieces to each horse, and we were on our way.

Except the conversation continued.

"So do horse penises and vaginas ..." he trailed off.

"It works the same as with other mammals."

"Oh. Like people?"

"Yes. Horses use a different position, but basically it's like people."

"OK. Hey, I've been wondering. What does sex feel like?"

"It, well ... If you're an adult, and the other person is an adult, and you both are committed to each other and consent ... then, for adults, it can feel very good."

[Long conversation detailing consent for a 9-year-old audience.]

"So ... what if the people are kids?" he asked.

"That's not for kids."

"Ew! You're right. I think it's gross."

"Well, that's fine. You're kind of supposed to. It's not something that you even have to think about for a long time."

"So..."

"What?"

"What if one person is a kid, and the other person is an adult?"

I didn't think it was possible to yearn so badly for a return to the innocent topic of horse penises.

Isn't there a giant bubble I can keep him in?

Travel Tuesday: Mount Graham (a preview)

Travel Tuesday will be continued on Thursday this week. A preview: Mount Graham a few months ago. (The season for higher-elevation Mount Graham camping just ended. It's the highest mountain in Southern Arizona. It's cold.)

Monday goodies: Black-crowned night heron

Monday goodies is a perfect excuse to share some black-crowned night herons. I've already shared quite a few shots of the birds, in entries like this Species a Day post, but I've got a whole folder full of "spares." I thought these deserved a showing.

Black-crowned night herons' scientific name is Nycticorax, for "night raven," since they like to hunt at dusk or night, and have a harsh crow-like call. They bark. It even sounds like the word "bark." Watch for them in late evening or early morning around the water's edge, or roosting grumpily during the day in tree branches. If you can manage to get close without irking one too much, it's worth it.









Hope everyone had a good weekend! Happy Monday.

Friday 5: Mealtime

I'm a big, nature-loving softie. Still, predation is pretty cool. It's part of nature, after all. I've mentioned it here and included it in sets like this or this. Here are five more scenes I found gorgeous rather than grisly. (Your mileage, as always, will vary. My husband says if you're not me, you'll probably lean toward grisly. But he thinks I'm weird to eat during medical dramas too.)

Mantis on spider:




Heron on fish:



Orb weaver on cicada:



Red-tailed pennant dragonfly on mating damselflies (twin-wrapped snack pack?):



Milkweed bugs on cockroach:



Now then ... Who's hungry?

How (not) to help

Dear Non-Familial Acquaintance from the Past*,

I heard you learned that we've had some difficulty and loss in our family, and wanted to offer your love and support. Thank you. Truly, thank you. If the rest of this letter is totally off the mark, remember that most of all. We appreciate it. We appreciate you.

Now, then.

I understand you want to know if there's anything you can do. Thank you for that too. You could bring food, I suppose, or call and check on us in a few weeks. That would be nice. You could maybe spend some time with certain relations of ours you already see regularly, the ones who'd like nothing better than a plate of deviled eggs, a Village Inn pie, and an extended visit. You know who I mean. Mostly, though, you've already done it: Just be supportive.

Here's what not to do: Don't drop by.

I know. I'm mean. (It's my role in the family. My husband's the Nice One Who Says Yes to Everything; I'm the Mean One Who Says What Needs to Be Said, but Not Always as Nicely as I Should.)

I know you want to help. But it just doesn't make sense. We hardly see or talk to some of you anymore. We like you just fine, even love you. We just don't know how to spend time with you, next to each other, in the same physical space. For over an hour, sometimes. (Seriously, you guys. Did you know that?! Some people get together on purpose like this, and be sociable human beings, for hours! Who knew?) But my husband and I are tired from dealing with said loss/difficulty, and mostly, we royally suck at having company.

Here's what happens when you drop by.

First scenario: You don't call at all. We hear a car door slam. I run up the stairs, almost breaking my neck falling over the cat, to get a visual on the driveway. I see you coming up the sidewalk, so I barrel back downstairs (almost breaking my leg falling over the other cat). I holler at my husband that you're here. He and I run around in crazed circles for a moment as we decide which one of us is going to answer the door and which one of us is going to shovel the debris and laundry into the office to hide it while you're here. As he plasters on a smile, I'm dumping most of our belongs beside the computer desk. As he opens the door, I'm scrubbing the toilet at light speed. As you sit down ("Sorry for the mess!" I holler from the bathroom), I'm changing out of my possibly-offensive Lost-reference T-shirt ("Hell of a book. It's about bunnies."), while simultaneously grabbing a few pairs of soiled boy's underwear and shoving them under my shirt so you don't see as I sneak them to the laundry room. Finally, we awkwardly entertain you for however long you plan to stay, which is never really made clear to us.

Second scenario: You give us a small warning, like twenty minutes to an hour. This gives my husband and I more time to do the stairs running/ cat kicking/ junk hiding/ shirt changing/ toilet scrubbing routine, and maybe even time to half-assedly vacuum or hide the dirty dishes. (We like to go the extra mile.) Unfortunately, it's not enough extra time to do a good thorough job, but it is enough extra time for us to fight about where to hide the junk, blame each other for not cleaning enough, gripe at whoever left the mess in the first place; and somehow, by the end, we're having a HUGE SCREAMING MATCH about whether the TV trays look best stacked behind the dining room table or next to the Guitar Hero drums, and why it is or isn't a waste of time to wash them first. Then, the doorbell rings. We awkwardly entertain you for however long you plan to stay, which is never really made clear to us.

Those are the only two scenarios that ever happen. Somehow, I suspect it would quickly derail even if you gave us ample warning. Because, get this, we're busy. With lives, and obligations, and a kid, and jobs. I know, I know. I work from home and the road; and my husband works nights, so it's not like either of us have "real" jobs. The thing about our "easy" jobs? They can actually be quite a bit more exhausting than normal-hour jobs. We just don't have that many hours left in the day, and when we get to them, we're up for being in the company of one or two other people, tops.

Obviously, I make some exceptions. I'd look forward to going out to eat with you, Acquaintance. Especially if we just had a good time, and left it at that. Just having a good time. That would help. But don't feel obligated, because I'm totally fine just keeping in touch with you, especially right now.

And in our own home, we just want to sit in our ugly clothes, not worry about the dingy toilet or the pizza box on the kitchen shelf or the underwear mountain in the bathroom, pet the poor cats, fib on the time so we can tuck our kid in early, and watch Terra Nova until we fall asleep.

*Like I said, non-familial. Family has a standing free pass, even if our house is awful. Also, if I've ever actually said "We should get together" or some similar phrase (no matter how bad I am at following through), I don't mean you. I don't say things I don't mean, and trust me, I don't solicit unwanted social contact. I'm like Sheldon, you guys. But even Sheldon has friends.

Interfaith conversation on the playground

Written yesterday; held off until I got my son's permission.

We had a loss in the family this week. My son found out just before going to school, and found himself explaining why he was crying at school. A brief conversation ensued. (Names changed, except for my son, David.)

He told me about it after school. It was a normal conversation to him. Everyone's conversations should go like this.


David: "I told Cody and Brandon about what happened."

Me: "And what did they say?"

David: "Cody said he was sorry for my loss, and that [insert religious belief here]."

Now, we talk about these things all the time, especially the last few days. David is enormously curious, compassionate, and opened-minded; which I think is a fantastic combination. He's changed his mind a million times on the Big Questions, which I also think is fantastic. I knew he did not believe this particular religious claim, at least today. He happens to think it's kind of silly. The Oh-no-what-did-you-say alarms started to go off in my head.

Me (in a deliberate, level voice): "Hmm. That's interesting."

David: "It is interesting! I think it's really interesting. But it's not true. At least, I'm pretty sure it's not true. I don't even know if I want it to be true, but it really doesn't make any sense to me. That's what I told Cody."

Me: "Oh? What exactly did you say to him?"

David: "Well, I just said 'Thank you. That is comforting. I don't really believe [religious belief] is true, but I think it's a nice story. Thanks for being so nice to me.'"

Me: "And what did he say to that?"

David: "He asked me why I thought that. I told him, and then I asked him if he was someone who thought anyone who has different opinions goes to Hell. He said, 'No; that's stupid. Everyone can have their own opinions.'"

Me: "I am really, really proud of both you and Cody. What happened next?"

David (shrugging): "Brandon told me a story about his dog dying. I think he was trying to be sympathetic, so I told him thank you. Then we all played kickball. Only WE use special rules..."

[Fifteen-minute soliloquy on special kickball rules omitted for brevity.]

Kids. They are freaking awesome.

Travel Tuesday: Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch

The following review appears in this month's Times Publications.

"Ostrich bite." *

Truth in advertising at its best. Among things that were bitten at Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch last weekend: My hand, my camera, my shirt, my hair, and my son.

We’re going back as soon as we can.

If you're not heading to Picacho Peak, you might not even slow down enough to see the farm, off Exit #219 on Interstate 10, but you should. Nestled at the base of historic Picacho Peak Mountain, it's the largest ostrich ranch in the country. Over a thousand black South African ostrich hens live at the ranch, laying eggs and roaming its 600 acres.

Visitors can buy ostrich eggs (fresh, hollow, or painted), ostrich jerky, ostrich feather dusters (the owners insist they're the only kind that pick up dust), several other products at the entrance gift shop. But the real draw is participation.

Entrance is $5 for “kids 6 to 106,” and this includes a huge cup of pellet feed for the ostriches; as well as deer, goats, and donkeys; which can also be hand fed. The fee also includes a cup of nectar, which visitors can feed to rainbow lorikeets in an enclosed forest.

The products offered were fine, but I don’t think my son, David, has ever bypassed a gift shop so quickly. This should be a compliment, though -- he simply couldn’t wait to get to the animals. As we parked, a pair of ostriches peered over the fence at us. He was hooked.

Owner Rooster Cogburn (his given name’s D.C. Cogburn, but he took on "Rooster" in Oklahoma), sensitive to the fact that most people aren’t used to birds topping out 350 to 400 pounds, provides three levels of ostrich feeding. To stay unpecked, you can pour feed into chutes through the fence, where the ostriches will come and eat, safely on their own side. If you're feeling brave, walk up a wooden ramp and place the food in pans. If you’re insane, or are my son (OK, or me), you go immediately for the “ultimate ostrich interaction,” and invite the ostriches to eat from your hand. David was up the ramp, hand outstretched, in about 30 seconds.

Here's the thing: Ostriches are huge. You think you realize that, but it's a whole other thing to stand beneath a herd (“flock” doesn’t cut it) of giant, panting birds. These modern-day dinosaurs have presence. They towered over us at seven or eight feet, their enormous clawed, two-toed feet kicked up dust, and they breathed heavily, beaks wide open, waiting for food. Occasionally they’d get impatient and launch their heads over the fence in search of stray food. Unwary photographers focusing in the distance, leaning against the fence, are also ripe for enthusiastic pecking (something I learned firsthand).

With hundreds of ostriches wandering around the enclosure, you’re ensured a stampede of panting visitors. The humans learn the drill too -- hold your hand flat, down low, raise it slowly, and don’t curl up a stray finger. No leaning against the fence. Start small if you’re nervous. Feed the birds through the chutes first, and work your way up.

All of this makes the experience sound harrowing, and it was. But mostly it was ridiculously fun. It’s like the animal-feeding equivalent of riding a roller coaster -- everyone approaches it with a sense of foreboding and false bravado, a few folks scream or laugh, and as everyone walks away laughing and bragging, several people get right back in line.

After the ostriches, we took our nectar cups to the Rainbow Lorikeet Forest. The lorikeets are Australian parrots, and are absurdly beautiful, hence their name. They’re loud, playful, and inquisitive. David and I made our way to the back of the 5,000 square-foot enclosure, opened our nectar cups, and held out our arms. We were swiftly covered in a cacophonous blur of green, blue, orange, and yellow, as the lorikeets perched on our arms and sipped the nectar with their specially adapted tongues.

Many travelers make the ranch a quick stop on their way to Phoenix or Tucson, but there is plenty to occupy visitors. After the lorikeets, we refilled our pellets and fed the fallow deer (soft, adorable, and gentle enough for toddlers), the donkeys (frisky, and there are usually babies), and goats (from our lips -- you've got to try it). The ranch even runs 40-minute monster truck tours through the ranch and desert on weekends, for an extra behind-the-scenes look.

So, yes. Ostrich bite. But don't let that scare you off.

*In the printed version, you'll notice it's been amended to "Ostriches bite," which is quite correct. In fact, my son and I immediately noticed the sign's wording, but were a little distracted by the ostriches, well, biting. I imagine if you're warning someone, efficiency is more important than grammar.