Iowa

Barack Obama has won the Democratic Iowa caucus, and no matter what happens after this, I am here to say how amazed, stunned and utterly thrilled and grateful I am to have lived to see a black man (with his black wife and black children) on a platform declaring victory in a run-up to a U.S. presidential election.

People say nothing changes, but that's not true. When you have a black man and a white woman both vying for the office of president, both having a legitimate shot at getting elected, a lot has changed, and for the better. We have a long way to go, but as the old Virginia Slims ads used to say, we've come a long way, baby. A long, long way.

Update on The Big Storm: Had some decent rain this afternoon, and it's sprinkling right now (9:15pm), but so far no sign of the monster winds that have been forecast. I expect to be disappointed in my hopes for a big one, though later tonight and tomorrow could bring some good stuff.

Yesterday and tomorrow

Riding my bicycle yesterday afternoon, heading west along Rd. 29, came on a big red-tailed hawk at the edge of the opposite side of the road, hunkered down over his lunch of fresh rabbit; above him on the wire, a turkey vulture waited patiently for his turn.

The weatherpeople are forecasting a big storm for tomorrow and Friday. High winds and lots of rain here in the valley, blizzard conditions and snow levels in feet, not inches, in the Sierra. I'm excited at the prospect; we haven't had an honest-to-goodness good storm in a long time. But I'm not holding my breath; more and more it seems that forecasts of big weather turn out less so in the actual event. But maybe this time I'll get lucky.

Do hawks hunt in the rain? Are there any critters out in the rain to be hunted?

Save the date

New year, new calendars. I always have several of them—they're cheaper than buying art—and there are a couple of them hanging in the kitchen, one or two in the bedroom, and one on the wall next to my computer. This year, I also have a page-a-day one that sits on the desk, each day featuring a New Yorker cartoon, which will give me no excuse to begin any day in a grouchy mood.

Looking back through the "main" calendar for '07 (the one I write on) makes me realize how much goes on in my life—little things, like haircuts and dentist appointments, and bigger things, like vacations, weddings and (this past year) funerals. I'll transfer the birthday and anniversary reminders from last year's calendar to the new 2008 model, but I'll save the outdated one; old calendars are my diaries, and unearthing a 10- or 15 year-old one from a box or drawer can make me remember the details of those long-gone days better than anything.

The obessive-compulsive birdwatcher

I hung a tube feeder on the rail of my deck a week or so ago, and for the first few days, I didn't see a single bird in its vicinity. Then I went away for a week, and when I came back, the seed level in the feeder had dropped significantly. Seeing a scrubjay nearby, I figured it was he and his pals who had been at the feeder, but in the last couple of days, there have been several different kinds of birds showing up. Every time I see one out there, I grab my binoculars and stare at it, hoping to get some idea of what it might be; a finch? Could be . . . Or a sparrow? Maybe . . . but what kind of sparrow? Leaf through the Sibley's field guide, look fixedly at the drawings, try to match what I'm seeing on the deck with the beautifully drawn illustrations in the book. Hmmmm . . . Decide to record what I see (or think I see), and get a new notebook to write my guesses down. They kept coming, sometimes just one at a time, sometimes two, or three. Spot bird, grab binoculars, focus, stare, get Sibley's, stare some more, make notes, think I might have misidentified, make another note . . .

Birding . . . it's not just for Sundays . . .

A birthday remembrance

Today my older son, John, would have been 44 years old. He died Oct. 12, 1986, a few weeks before his 23rd birthday. I guess you really can't wish a happy birthday to someone who no longer celebrates them, but I don't care; I think of him every day.

Happy birthday, son. I miss you.

John at 18
August 1982