The raven nest was the big news this spring.

Our neighbor, Joe, who belongs to every social organization in town, found himself with very little to do. So, every afternoon, Joe parked himself in his Adirondack chair and watched the ravens -- frequently with a cocktail.

This pair of ravens got a late start, I thought. There was another pair I passed on my walk every day. They did some quick renovations on an existing nest and got right down to business. But this pair in our backyard seemed (like so many young couples) to realize a little late that they were going to need a home for their babies.

“Oh my gosh! We better get building a nest!” They frantically began collecting sticks to build the giant structure about 60 feet in the air, in the crown of the neighboring pine tree. Then, one day not too long later, we could hear the unmistakable sound of baby ravens demanding food.

From then on, it was a nonstop show, with parents madly flying back and forth trying to keep their demanding brood fed. That is when Joe began his permanent residency in the blue Adirondack chair. Both my husband, Peter, and Joe are retired, and the raven nest is between our houses. Comparing raven notes became the new thing that replaced all the other things Joe and Peter used to do.

It was last Saturday night that everything went wrong.

Peter woke up around midnight to the sound of ravens screaming.

“What’s going on out there?” Peter asked. After a terrific lot of noise, the commotion died down. But then, just before sunrise, it started up again and this time, it even woke me. It sounded like there was a war happening in the backyard.

The next morning, the nest was vacant.

“What happened?” Peter wondered. Nothing good for the ravens, that was for sure.

There were no more baby ravens screaming for food, no more parents flying back and forth, no more pairs of ravens flying at sunset. The sky was empty -- except for hummingbirds, but they don’t really count.

Peter wrote to a friend who used to be an animal control officer in town. He said it could have been a hawk or an eagle or an owl. He said ravens were ferocious fighters, and they might have moved the chicks to another location.

But I talked to our neighbor down the street who knows all about the world of birds. “Great horned owl,” he said, and he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

“There are two pair in the neighborhood. Ravens are very vulnerable in the nest. A great horned owl can kill a skunk with no problem. The middle of the night is when they do their work.” He did not think the little ravens had survived the night.

“There’s a whole world of things going on with birds that I never guessed,” I told him. “And it’s violent!” My neighbor agreed.

I brought the news home to Peter. He nodded. He didn’t really think the raven chicks made it either. Peter calls it the “Saturday night massacre” and he still watches the nest in the evenings. No one is there.

I lay in bed last night with the window open. The wind was strong and I could hear it blowing through the pine trees. I thought about all the things happening right in my backyard that I would never know about. I thought about all the dangers I never considered -- just because they were not a danger to me.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I think my next-door neighbors might be superheroes.

They both work with computers (at least that’s what they say) and then, every spare moment, they are off doing superhero-type things.

My neighbor, Jason, runs 100-mile marathons. He’s even done a few 200-plus-mile marathons. These are held in the mountains. He starts running before the sun is up, runs up a mountain all day, then runs down a mountain all night, then runs up another mountain the next day. He wears a headlamp so he can see the trail in the dark. Last weekend, Jason and a friend (who is probably also a superhero) left the house and ran 70 miles -- for fun.

“He’s crazy,” Jason’s wife, Allison, says.

I’m not sure Allison is in any position to judge.

Allison is tiny and she trains in their climbing shed. (Before I met these folks, I’d never heard of a climbing shed.) There is a window in the shed, so I am not technically spying on her when I see Allison climbing up the wall. The wall starts out vertical and then it gets steeper until Allison is hanging upside-down from her fingers like a spider. I don’t think this is something ordinary human beings are supposed to be able to do.

Our superhero neighbors never seem to get grouchy or tired. They are always cheerful and helpful. I sometimes bring them desserts because I figure superheroes are too busy saving the world to have time for baking. Unlike normal people, they never seem to worry about calories -- hanging upside-down by your fingers burns up quite a few, I imagine.

Sometimes, I think it would be fun to be a superhero. I’m a writer and I started writing late in life, so I figure I need to keep busy if I’m ever going to be any good. But the truth is, writing is easy -- not because I am super disciplined or have any super talent. It’s easy because I enjoy it.

Some days I do stare at the proverbial blank sheet of paper for a few minutes, but that’s OK. I look at the pine trees outside my window. I drink a little coffee. I remember how lucky I am to be able to spend time doing something that makes me happy. I think I’m probably as happy as Allison when she’s hanging upside-down or Jason when he’s running up a mountain in the middle of the night.

The word “should” kills a lot of joy.

I know a lot of writers who found out they could write and so they decided they “should” -- and that was the end of the writing. At that moment, writing became a chore. I know even more people who say they “should” exercise (or save the world) and they never get a moment of the joy Jason and Allison experience every day.

I admire what Jason and Allison can do, but more than that, I respect how much they enjoy it. When they said they were going to build a climbing shed, I admit I thought, “How often will you use that?” “Every day” is the answer. Allison climbs in that shed every single day. Jason doesn’t go running to win any prizes -- although I’m sure he’s happy when he does. He spends his free time running for superhuman distances because he loves it.

I’m sure, like me, they sometimes hesitate before they start. Maybe they even get discouraged. But then they do their superhero things -- not because they should, but because being a superhero makes them really happy.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I don’t think it’s my imagination that Father’s Day seems like a last-minute add-on.

“Oh! We have Mother’s Day. We probably should do something for fathers ... ”

On Mother’s Day, a bouquet of flowers or brunch seems to do nicely every year. There isn’t an equivalent gesture for Father’s Day. The gift suggestions now being advertised all seem a little desperate. A watch? A wallet? A gas grill? A “whiskey set”?

Since my dad’s watch and wallet are with him 90% of his waking life, I’m thinking he’d rather choose his own. A gas grill seems a bit much. (Mom gets eggs Benedict and dad gets a $1,200 grill?) I’m not even sure what a “whiskey set” is, but I know my dad wouldn’t drink whiskey if you paid him.

My dad has now spent more time retired than he spent working -- which is a wonderful milestone. He was hired while he was still in college to work as an engineer, and he stayed with the same company his entire career. My dad wore horn-rimmed glasses and carried a pocket protector and a slide rule in his shirt pocket. He sang bass in the church choir, which meant he was always in the back row and I could only see him when he was stretching for a high note and got up on his toes to reach it.

My dad was always ready to try something new. He raised bees in the backyard and helped us dip candles in his workshop and polish agates in a tumbler. I remember the sound of the rock tumbler, polishing away, and a perfectly smooth agate coming out.

Then, every July when the plant where my father worked was shut down, my family would pile into the car pulling a pop-up camper and head out on vacation.

The story goes that my sister and I were quarreling. We generally got along pretty well but a full day in a hot car could get on anyone’s nerves. On this particular day, we were arguing about (of all things) who was going to get in the lake first once we got to the campground.

Dad was driving. Mom was sitting in the front seat with the dog. My sister and I were busy squabbling, and no one saw my father as he quietly emptied his pockets, removed his belt, and silently unhooked his seatbelt. (This was before cars had all the buzzers and bells.) We drove into the campground and, the moment we hit the parking spot, my father threw open his door and sprinted straight to the lake and dove in. My sister and I sat there in stunned silence.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I just remember my father, flying into the lake, proving both of us wrong -- and what an amazing dad he was -- in one lightning move.

My dad doesn’t move quite as fast these days. He calls himself “an old geezer,” although I can’t imagine anyone else does. He still builds things in his woodshop and splits wood with the log splitter and rides bikes with mom. He still routinely surprises us. And he still listens to the worries and complaints of his daughters.

My sister and I hand these worries to him like rough stones and my dad handles them like the agate polisher we had as children. By the time my dad is through with them, our worries are worn smooth. Our worries are no longer sharp or dangerous. They are polished to a gentle luster by our dad’s loving concern.

Happy Father’s Day.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION