Like everyone, I’ve pondered what’s to be done with my remains upon expiring. It’s unfortunate that mummification fell out of fashion. Initially I planned to donate my body to science. They use human remains for many things, some as organic crash-test dummies. I learned that from Mary Roach’s book Stiff.

My following choice was to donate my corpse to a body farm. I envisioned this to be a natural thing, to decompose out in the elements. Plus, there was a gruesome forensic factor that fulfilled some sort of morbid glee.

Then I read about sky burials. Tibetans place the deceased high up on the side of a mountain in their funerary ceremony. They leave the body to the Himalayan & griffon vultures, who eat their fill. Then the dearly departed are borne aloft in the bellies of the birds. This was the one for me!  

My first infatuation was with birds. I was 4, & told anyone who would listen that I was going to catch a bird one day.

All were amused. “Oh sure, you just do that,” they’d quip to my resolute little face. I’d stalk our fenced backyard (a confined space is better to accomplish the task, I thought) despite the naysayers in my midst.

By this time we’d lived in Washington state for a year. ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore.’ Something wicked was wrong with the sky. I’d stare out the window & pipe up with “A patch of blue!” any time there was a break in the clouds. [Though it’s a movie title from that same year, I obviously wasn’t referring to the film.]

The ominous foreboding of that wrong sky made me anxious. Birds had the freedom to just take off, perhaps to where the sky wasn’t scary. Stirred a grim admiration in me. Our new home changed the channel abruptly from a screwball comedy to a noir. Under this moody ether, heavy & dank, the ability to fly was enviable. 

The year before I turned 5 also came with a novel phenomenon. My mother & I were the only ones home when the floor turned to jello. An exciting rattle & rumble filled the house, & Muz made us crawl under the kitchen table. Right after, she opened our front door & looked across the street to our neighbor at her own open door, & yelled “What was that?” The lady yelled back “Earthquake,” & they both slammed their doors in unison.

In that brief moment the door was open I glimpsed outside. After my mother closed the door I asked “Where are all the cracks?” I was disappointed the street wasn’t riddled with fissures.

Back to my ‘catch a bird’ endeavor, I made observations. Robins were hard to sneak up on. Smaller birds, like wrens & chickadees, are limited to hopping, whereas robins can run. Crows were out, big & intimidating with long stabby beaks. Our neighborhood was avian-limited. The 60s, era of much DDT usage, put many bird populations in steep decline. Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring was yet to be released.

Creative work leads me hither & yon, like a bird who flits from branch to branch. I read about one bird hunted to extinction in the wild. The Northern bald ibis, once migrated from Western Europe to Northern Africa, was reintroduced to their ancestral habitats courtesy of a captive breeding program from the few left in zoos. Then I discovered the kākāpō, the largest parrot. A flightless bird in New Zealand whose numbers fell to a mere 50 due to hunting & the introduction of non-native predators. Though I care deeply for all life, birds are featured in much of my work.

 But so are plants. Frustrated by trying to capture a desert scene, I looked up tumbleweeds. The most common is Russian thistle. I read about various species of tumbleweeds the world over. Most are considered invasive. Why? What can be more enthralling than a nomadic plant? Yet it’s impossible to depict a moving weed in paint. I switched my subject to a roadrunner. A running bird denotes movement in the arid stillness of a painting, where only film can catch a tumbleweed.

[If you look really close, the roadrunner is in the lower right corner.]

There is a recurring theme to my fleeting interests. That I didn’t end up an ornithologist is almost criminal. You never really get over your first love, I guess. 

It was a typical day for a 4 yr old. Summer or a weekend, as my sisters were about the house. It was warm & the back door was open. I was looking out the screen door when I spotted movement. I crept out, careful to keep the screen door from slamming shut. I saw a sparrow hopping leisurely in the grass. Slowly from behind, & before either of us knew it, I gently scooped her from the yard.

We were both astonished, as if the other had appeared out of thin air. Eyed each other with the wonder of youth. Surely it had to be her maiden voyage from the nest. I briefly considered she may be ill or injured, but that was too sad so I decided to remain positive.

The startling reality of this event finally sank in. I made my way inside to confront my disbelieving family with irrefutable evidence. A few paces in the door I ran into Muz & said “Look!” I held out my hand at the exact instant the tiny bird had had enough of my sweaty mitt & squirmed, so I opened my fingers. She flew straight to the door & clung to the screen.

Before my mother could even get a sentence out, I ran to the door & opened it. The sparrow flew away to my happy relief. I had hoped she would. Muz said “You finally caught one! Why’d you let it go?” I shrugged. “I wanted to catch a bird. I didn’t want to keep her. She’s wild,” as if that should’ve been self-evident. I believe this was the birth of my ‘duh’ face.

Though I’ve had the pleasure of holding many birds since, there’s a certain awe that comes with the first. I will never know why I was able to pick her up. Whatever the reason, my obsession with birds would take a breather for some years. I had accomplished the improbable. That was enough. 

Being of a tumbleweed mind, I go where the winds of curiosity take me. Yet instead of scattering seeds, I catch them up & put them to use. Then let them go. I use the internet like the reference section of a library. Y’know, the place in those hallowed public spaces where actual scientific & academic information is kept. The PBS version of online content.   

I wish my remains to give back to Nature what she gave to me: sustenance for the living. That said, if someone could drive my corpse out to Death Valley & dump it, let the California condor feast, it’d be much appreciated. It’s akin to paying the sparrow back for letting me hold her. Plus, it’s iconic of Wild West tales. What could be more American than going to the buzzards?