Squirrel Justice

The squirrels at our house are a constant circus act, and provide us with amusement from dawn till dusk. We pay them well by providing all the corn and seed they can eat. We throw in a few peanuts every day. Sometimes there is water in the bird bath... So they almost always have the necessities of squirrel existence. And it is worth every nickle as this feeding frenzy keeps them off of the roof, and away from the temptation of chewing their way into our house. They have, however, started on the patio furniture.

You might say we are the mesa government... and they are the poor little squirrels trying to scratch out a living, and we help them along. After all, we live well, and in fact we have all of the money... they could not go to a store, much less buy the things that we can provide for them. It is sort of a squirrel welfare program. We are that 2% at the tippy-top that can, and should, take care of their needs. And from what I can tell, we are providing about 100% of their dietary requirements. We have carefully worked out the system, so the squirrels have their own feeder, and the birds have theirs. We want to make life fair here on the mesa.

 

Of course, there are very specialized feeders for one small sub-group, the humming birds. It is true that they get special treatment. But then their food is very cheap and low maintenance compared to the rest of our freeloaders, and nobody else wants it. It's not a perfect system, but so far no complaints.

The squirrels think this arrangement is great. They are out there every day, playing their hearts out, not a care in the world... some of them actually lay in the feeder tray like epicurean Romans, scooping the grain and shoveling it in with both hands. They tag-team that feeder, and they never miss a day. And they never complain. They never question our motives, or ask for more, or suggest that we could do more for them. They are squirrels. The never get together and vote us out of office, or call us mean names. It is a fairly peaceful coexistence with mutual benefits.

I was watching them the other day and suddenly it hit me, the beauty of Squirrel Justice. They are doing better than they have ever done before, and we have a backyard full of happy, daredevil bushytails. Even if it is an absolute dictatorship.

I thought how absurd it would be, if in some crazy acceleration of squirrel evolution, kind of like Planet of the Apes, they evolved, organized, and had elections. And the only way we could get their votes, so we could continue to live there and be their rulers, was that we had to agree to their demands. And another couple, who wanted our house, began to promise the squirrels all kinds of crazy things... I don't know where I got this crazy scenario... But the election became a referendum for more feeders, more variety of seed, and truckloads of peanuts. They ordered us to replace our dangerous electrical lines with squirrel-friendly solar panels, and to dispose of the offensive daffodil plants on the deck. Also they demanded more oak trees and a 24 hour veterinarian on the premises. 

 

Now, the squirrels have never bought their first seed. They have never done anything for us. In fact, every time I walk into the back yard, they scamper away as if I am their enemy! No squirrel has ever offered me as much as a pecan pith. And they never plan to. In this imagined hell, they have decided that since we can afford it, we should have to. And do it more. And do all of these extra things. And the competing couple, they began to gain support by accusing us of being rodent haters. I swear, we never use the R word.

Funny Huh? Ridiculous, that these cute little characters, so entertaining, but underprivileged, could be so bossy. It's not like they have ever been taxed or ever will be. They have never, will never ever carry any of the burden of their welfare. They are squirrels. You don't tax squirrels.

 

But I wondered, should these dependents, who never contribute anything to the pot, have any say about what kind of seed we buy, or how much we put out each day? Should they get to vote and control us? They have a somewhat unfair advantage, since there are many more of them than there are of us. Should they be given a say about who buys the seed, or what seed they buy, or how the mesa government manages the funds appropriated for Squirrel Justice? Of course not, they are squirrels. It was a dumb thought. I don't know how that popped into my mind.

And that's the point... squirrels are delightful fur-bearing creatures, who work hard and play hard and chisel every advantage they can out of their environment... without endangering it of course, but they never have a say about where their food comes from, or how much they should get, because it's up to higher authorities, (God and His helpers) who do what is best for them. They have no expectations to get anything, because they have never really contributed to the largess which gives to them so generously. It wouldn't be right. It would be.... nuts. And as I watch them demolish the corn every day, I cannot help but believe that they are grateful, in their own squirrel way.

And then there are people. People. People are nothing like squirrels.

Regarding the Stone

Moving to Bell County, Texas had several unexpected benefits, and for me one of the most exciting was my proximity to arrowhead hunting... I'm talkin' 'bout in my own back yard!

A worn and ancient spear point, with nine chips or dents.

 I soon learned that they were there because the mesa we lived on was some kind of Native American chert projectile manufacturing site. There were not so many points as there were broken chips and chunks of “flint” rock, strewn in piles all over our property. And there were mostly large skinning tools, makeshift stone implements, and some broken points left laying around. I scoured the property and after a few weeks found a few things that satisfied my arrowhead hunting fantasies.

 A chert knife.

 Part of the process is training the eye.

 

When I flip the ancient tool, its shape suddenly pops.

A large hide scraping tool.

I found some very cool things. And I wanted to share the coolest of all- a real find, a three inch spear point. I found it one evening after considerable searching, when I had stooped over and was scanning the ground at almost ground level. I spied a fairly dusty, nondescript inch-wide nub jammed between two layers of limestone. It was probably nothing. I had pulled scores of similar bits of chert from their primeval burial nooks, just to toss them back into infinity. But when I tugged on this one, it was stuck “fast,” as they used to say, like an ancient tooth in a petrified skull. I took the challenge.

Finally it began to loosen... and as I worked it out of its eternal resting place, it just kept coming... one, two.. three inches! WOW! (See the point above in first photo.)

Almost as quickly as I loudly guffawed, I slumped in disappointment. It was broken. It was chipped- damaged, and basically worthless. I washed it up and tossed it into my “found on the home site” chert collection. Sure it was cool. But I have gotten like so many these days... an intolerant perfectionist. We shouldn't, but we value everything according to what the guys on Antique Roadshow would say. And they would look at it and say “Too bad.”

But then, months later I looked at it again. Having recovered from my disappointment, I really loooked at it. It was large for an authentic Amerind point. And even though it was damaged, it was trying to tell me a story. And when I began to ponder it, I got fascinated. Over the next few months I had several sessions, as the old spearhead and I locked horns. I studied the various chips, the dings, all nine of them, suddenly interested in how they got there. What kind of animal might inflict such damage? There was none except maybe a large wild hog, with huge tusks, that could damage a stone point that much. But they were not imported to Texas until much later when chert weaponry had become obsolete. No, this damage was done in battle.

Someone had repeatedly knocked the large spearhead away, perhaps trying to avoid having to kill the person jabbing with it. Each time they knocked it way, they inflicted serious damage to the edge of the blade. One, two, three, four- five, six times they hit it away, or blocked a jab, each time chipping the stone weapon. Seven, Eight... until both of the “arrowhead” barbs at the base had been knocked off, as well as the very tip, until the once deadly, three-inch blade was now dulled up and down, until the thing was no longer very dangerous... and perhaps in a last desperate lunge, it was impaled into the limestone bluff where it stayed for centuries.

 The angle with which it hit the limestone suggests that it was almost horizontal, probably thrust or thrown from the hip, and obviously, it missed its intended target. It appears when it was attempted to pull it out, the shaft broke off, breaking a tab on the base "tail." This was no possum hunt. 

It was no normal skirmish between opposing tribesmen. Opposing tribesmen did not have anything so effective as the long, sharp tool used to repel this spear. And no Amerind would have been so amazingly accurate while defending himself, to hit an oncoming spear point exactly with his own, so many times. Not even if his life depended on it.

There was one huge ding, a half-inch long, concave pothole in the blade which suggested something sharp and powerful. And something harder than chert. The Amerinds had few metal weapons, except copper, which was rarely used and was not hard enough to chip chert. This effective and debilitating defense was made by a sword, probably in the hands of a Spanish conquistador. This chert blade found in my back yard is the lasting evidence of a forgotten conflict where people probably died, perhaps four or five hundred years ago. And it was not any kind of routine conflict, but one between two vastly different cultures, where one would eventually destroy the other. The men of ships and iron and horses and yes, pigs, would overcome and decimate the men of stone and leather and bison.

 

And that is what this beat-up old arrowhead was trying to tell me. This spear point was driven into the caliche long before the Texans came. Long before the buffalo had been exterminated, the passenger pigeons hunted to extinction. Long before the jaguars retreated along with the Amerinds into Mexico.

And this all made sense. Our bluff, which we know today as “Crescent Mesa,” was a source of chert for tribes in eastern Texas for many millennia. No doubt Amerinds came there from all points east to extract chert and work it into transportable “blanks,” and some camped there and made weapon points and traded them. With little convenient water, none of them stayed very long. But for that reason there were probably often squabbles and skirmishes over access by competing groups to this valuable foothill to the Hill Country. If an eastern party came there to mine the chert and was repelled, it would have to travel even deeper into the hills, which was crawling with hostile tribes, and remove them farther from home and safety. So conflicts on our bluff were probably common. It had been defended many times. 

 

And the mesa and others around it would have been the front line of defense for local tribes, who felt ownership of the bluffs and their wealth of colorful chert. Whoever “owned” the chert hills was on top of the pecking order. And they would be the first people to smite, as they claimed the place the conquistadors would have gone to shut down native weapon production. Yes the Spanish supposedly came in peace and wanted to tell the Amerinds about God, but first on the agenda would have been to try to disarm the population. And that might have been the kind of conflict illustrated by my battered flint projectile; the loser in a historic clash of uncompromising cultures.

Well, now you might understand why a normal, pristine Native American point no longer holds any mystery or much value for me. It is like an unissued military artifact. No story. No action.

Give me a relic with some character. A story to tell. The mystery. There's the value.

Squirrel Wars

 Cute little gray squirrels are the oppressed minority on the mesa.

 

I guess no matter where you go, there are squirrels to provide comic relief. We have two species here in Texas- red and gray, and both are amazing athletes, able to hang by their toes while stuffing themselves, as they constantly try to decimate the bird seed supply. 

 The mature red squirrels can wipe out a bird feeder in a few hours.

We decided to try and slow them down... and give the birds a chance, so we purchased a couple of different “squirrel-proof” bird feeders. Both automatically close off the feeding ports whenever a squirrel puts his weight on the feeder. They may only slow the little buggers down, but they have finally stumped them over time because squirrels are extremely impatient. They try to stick their hand into the contraptions and manage to get a few crumbs, but the progress is too sporadic to satisfy them. Sometimes they have to go rest and get their nerve up, then try again.

 This split-eared old red battler gets so mad he gets depressed.

Part of their challenge is the red ones are always chasing off the gray ones in an ancient blood feud, which drains them of energy but sure helps prevent gluttony. The little gray ones are very cute, and seem to only come out when the coast is clear, cramming in as much seed as they can before the big red bullies show up.

 Gray Squirrel has learned to stop, look and listen.

Anyway, after the “squirrel proof” feeders began to take effect, we began to feel sorry for the little guys, even the red ones, and bought some squirrel food, consisting mostly of corn, and hung that out as a peace offering. The squirrel food comes with an occasional peanut here and there, and they clog the feeders. So now the squirrels are more trouble than they ever were. BUT now there is relative peace in the valley. The birds can feed in peace but the red vs. gray skirmishes continue.

Here is a little video featuring the  change to the "squirrel proof" bird feeders.

During the rain some kind of predator... perhaps a cat or fox, came up on the porch and tried to snatch one of my furry comedians as it fed on one of the bird feeders which I had taken in out of the rain. There were muddy paw prints all over the porch, but I did not see any blood. Mr. Squirrel was almost too smart for his own britches, as they used to say. I found myself angry with the carnivore who caused such a near tragedy... and had to remind myself, these are not pets. Our back yard is WILD KINGDOM!

Yes, I see a moral to this little observance. When I was a kid, we used to torment the squirrels by wiring pecans to the boughs of the Chinese Tallow tree in our back yard. The unsuspecting squirrels would zip down the tree, grab the pecan in their mouth, and then instantly zip back up- as the well-bound pecan ripped out of their mouth. That had to hurt. Over and over. The squirrels would tug and bark furiously at the confounded uncooperative pecans. It was great fun to watch them go ballistic trying to get the tempting nuts, which sat low on the tree and a little too close to us for their comfort. But the squirrels would not be bested. They would keep returning, and eventually chew them free, and go to the very top of the tree to enjoy their prize...

And we would tie on another one!

It was great. So to I will be paying restitution for the rest of my life, picking peanuts out of the corn barrel, refilling the squirrel feeder every morning, trying to make up for my fun at that poor squirrel's expense. Thinking about those days, I still get a chuckle. So I guess it was worth it!

Just and Unjust.

We have these HUGE white-winged doves here on the mesa. About a dozen of them hang around daily and gorge themselves. At least the other birds come and go... you know, sort of look busy. But the doves just eat and eat and eat. Except when it rains. But they don't go far.

They look so pitiful, hanging on their wet perches like lumps of wet seaweed. So sad and dependent and unproductive. I had to remind myself they would soon be leaving... to join their dove brethren in great flocks to fly across South Texas grain fields so they can get SHOT TO HELL. It won't be long until Texas dove season. 

Only a handful will return next spring. Anyway those sad, drenched, condemned birds seemed to take the form of a sermon illustration...

It says in the Bible that it rains on the just and the unjust. Now rain can be a good thing or it can be a bad thing... depending on your situation. Farmers in the Holy Land during biblical times probably thought rain was a very good thing. But it says that the "unjust," in our modern lingo meaning bad people, get rain right along with the good people. In other words, life is not fair.

Sweet fat doves get "harvested"... some of them, and some make it to Mexico. Bad things might happen to good people, and good things might happen to bad people. Those who look for, or expect justice in this life are more than likely going to be disappointed. 

We who follow Christ trust that our Creator has His reasons... and He will distribute ultimate "Justice" in good time. Those who cannot trust in a Holy and Just God are doomed to the worst scenario possible, since life is not fair; no justice now, but justice for their God-rejecting soul for Eternity. 

And that would mean separation forever from the Creator of this magnificent Earth, the giver of all good things... our very lives... Nature... love... the rain... To me that makes even Texas heat sound good. But this brings us to Hell, whatever that means, all because of a human miscalculation. Jesus referred to it as "Gehenna," known then as a local garbage dump... but in his metaphor, for souls.  On the surface, to our limited and mortal intellects, this seems so unjust... but if Jesus was speaking of a real spiritual destination, it is the determined, half-baked choice of millions.

 The Apostle Paul wrote that Nature itself was sufficient evidence of a benevolent God. And I concur.

Still, some are staking their whole Eternity on Paul, not to mention Jesus, and all his billions of followers, being wrong. After TWO THOUSAND years of sun and rain on this earth, with so many millions of followers from all over the globe worshiping this God who made extraordinary measures to facilitate our fellowship with Him... FOREVER, still they turn their nose up because He has, in their estimation failed to either prove Himself, or earn their Faith and obedience. Yet no philosophers or great teachers have ever proven that the God of the Bible or Jesus were just a myth. Quite the opposite.

"Unbelievers" see an unjust earth, condemn any god who would allow that, second-guess Him who set the stars into motion, and choose Hell... out of insolence. They are those hapless, for the most part harmless, innocent birds, animals gorging themselves, following their instincts... to certain destruction. 

These "birds" pretty much live a hedonist lifestyle... exploring anything that could be judged as NOT-God; grasping for the fullness of human existence, pleasing their own idea of life... and fashioning their own concept of a personal legacy. And their own idea of justice. They spend their lives trusting in themselves, asking for no mercy and giving little, making sure they get all they can out of the only life they know... the one they live. They don't want a God any greater than their own conscience, and refuse that one even exists, or that anyone knows what is true. They are quite content with the now, no God above, no afterlife.

Jesus promised, "Seek and you will find"

And in the end, these sad, willful atheists will get all of that which they have sought. And that will be justice.

Always... the rains finally come

Rain over the Lake Belton area.

It seems every summer we suffer a drought and wonder how our plants will survive. And some don't.  But always a rain comes, and keeps the Earth green and replenishes her reserves. The Earth is a timeless organism, that has managed to provide a beautiful and fairly generous home to mankind. And rather than random physics or geology, many of us discern a mighty hand of genius at the helm of this incredible world and its biodiversity... and most importantly, its balance and longevity.

Everyone needs a safe place.

Everyone needs a safe place, a place where they can hear themselves think. A place where their voice is more than just a sound- where they are truly heard. Grace Mesa is that place for me. Where, if I ran the world, this is what it would be like.

The Proverbial Empty Nesters.

It has happened before that my fascination with birds has launched a blog... and this blog will be no exception. The whole Grace Mesa thing is really about how God so faithfully cares for us, and there is no better illustration of this theme than this little slice of our daily bird watch.

After the neighborhood birds began to recognize our place as a reliable source of food and water, soon representatives of the various Hill Country bird species began to honor us with the status of bird day-care center. Most thrilling, besides the presence of so many young birds, just learning how to fly, how to fend for themselves, how to SURVIVE, was watching the Cardinals raise their young.

First of all, the baby cardinals are... well, babies only a mother could love. They are sooty-beaked, patchy and scruffy, and their head feathers stand straight up as if there are all running for Indian Chief. They are charmingly ugly and ridiculous. This must be to confound predators into thinking they are some kind dangerous species, not to be messed with. But the fact is they are just gangling adolescent brats, totally spoiled and dependent on their meals being delivered regularly.

But here is the interesting thing, like the intrepid Emperor Penguins of the far north, the cardinal father plays an indispensable role in the daily care of his offspring. And this is very necessary, as Mrs. Cardinal has raised a bunch of needy crybabies who refuse to grow up.

 Cardinal fathers as a rule are much more devoted and useful than most human fathers. 

Each morning Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal bring their more manageable youth to the feeders, where they are carefully monitored. The babes just stand there, waiting. Surely someone will bring some food shortly. The parents watch out of sight, waiting for them to try to feed themselves. But the rotten little things just look at each other, barely taking a step, and peck randomly, as if they do not know that they are standing right on top of a pile of breakfast. The young cardinals can fly, hop, fight, whatever, but they apparently cannot feed themselves.

Finally one of the devoted parents will flit down and pick up a seed, and approach one of them. Now it is time for the young cardinal to put on his best act, the most pitiful flapping and shaking he can muster, as if to day, Oh God, I am dying here, somebody feed me. This seems to work every time.

 Here stupid!

The parent cardinals are the living embodiment of the phrase “helicopter parents.” They put the kids out, as if to set them on their own, but then cannot stand if one of them is the least bit inconvenienced. It's very cute, and reminded me of human children. They want to grow up, be independent, avoid parental oversight, and even refuse criticism, but are often slow to really fend for themselves. It's fun to play baby. A long as mom and dad go along. 

 

 And these parents make humans look lame, as they go out on a limb to spoil their helpless flock.

The cardinal babies are experts at managing their parents, making demands so constant the parent birds have little time for themselves, and keeping them busy for weeks as the young ones mature. And they are in no hurry. After all, what else do mom and dad have to do?

 It was birds, not humans who invented the “empty nest” syndrome, and cardinals who perfected the procrastination of it.

 You can't blame me!