Nature is keeping me awake at night with worry and you know who I blame for my sleepless nights? Walt Disney.

Yeah. Because I was raised on those lovely movies where bunnies had eyelashes and skunks that were endearing. Somehow, though, I didn’t make the connection between Bambi’s mother and the dead deer that my father shot and strapped onto the top of the station wagon.


There’s a nest in the cavity of my 100 year old maple tree. Apparently the squirrels that occupied it over the winter have sub-let it to a Wood Duck. I wouldn’t have known this, had I not spotted it running around in a panic underneath my sheets that I hung out on the wash line. Honest to God. A duck, with a cuter than cute duckling, also in a panic, peeping at her webbed heel.

Since when do ducks build nests in trees? My question exactly. Well, according to the go-to-source-for-all-things, i.e. Wikipedia – the Wood Duck builds her nest in tree cavities to keep her ducklings safe from skunks and other predators, sometimes 50 feet off the ground and then when the 16 or so eggs hatch, momma duck pushes them out of the nest and leads them off to water.

And here in lies my worry, uh, make that worries. Let me zoom in on the phrase other predators.

It was just a week ago that I saw three little kittens prowling around my lilacs, and while I am not a cat person, the kittens immediately became something out of a Beatrix Potter tale. I was certain that the only reason they weren’t wearing their little jackets and caps was because they left them on a hook inside their rustic, yet fully appointed home before they went out to play.

I would have picked one up had it not scurried through my fence and into the gap from a missing piece of lattice under my neighbor’s front porch. And, that’s when I started thinking. I thought about what kind of future they would have? Living paw to mouth. Foraging for food in the alley, cold and wet. Beatrix Potter turned into Charles Dickens with a touch of Blade Runner.

I thought about corralling them because that was the only way The Humane Society would be able to put them up for adoption, but then . . . what about their mother? She’d come back after a night out and wonder what happened to the kids and return to her seedy life on the streets? I couldn’t do it.

Uh. Oh. Worry number two: I have a dog. A very fast dog. A retriever. What if he went after the kitties, and he, uh, got a hold of one and treated it like he did when he got hold of my late OvGlove? He ingested most of it, but not before he ripped it to shreds. All I found was the cuff. The rest? Heat-resistant poo.

And, then I shifted my allegiance and went over to the duck side.

The once cute and furry kittens were now The Enemy. The rival gang invading Wood Duck turf, like something out of West Side Story, only instead of Jets and Sharks, I have Kitties and Ducklings all getting ready to rumble and I’m stuck playing the part of Officer Krupke out on the patio, armed with pebbles and a flashlight.

Worry number three: Let’s say the ducklings all survive and it’s time for mom to lead them to water. Water? The nearest body of water is the Milwaukee River – at least a mile away – and to get to that body of water, she’s going to have to cross National Avenue. What was she thinking? Why my tree? In my yard? With my dog? Obviously her real estate agent didn’t sell her on the mantra: Location. Location. Location.

The Wild Animal Rescue lady who I phoned and left an anxiety riddled message called back and gave me some peace of mind. “Not to worry, not to worry. Momma duck knows what she’s doing. She picked your tree because it suited her. Wood Ducks pick the same nesting site where they were born, so, she survived from last year. Sometimes you’ve just got to have faith in nature.”

Easy for her to say. I’ve got no problem with nature. It’s the buses, semis and drivers on cell phones that I don’t have faith in. This is why I have been known to risk my life and limb, dodging logging trucks, to help a turtle get to the other side of a two-lane highway.

Well, guess what? I let the dog out this morning, took up my post on the patio and turns out the squirrels were back in the hole. The ducks have moved on. So, I can breath easy. Until next year.

Auction Hero

The 3rd annual Mining for Silver Dinner and Auction was last night at The Rice Palace and if you weren’t there, then you missed out on what was a really, really fun time, and I’m not just saying that because I was on the committee. I’m saying that because of how I feel this morning – bone-tired and a tad hung over – but, basking in the glow of what I think was a job well done.

Not only did the donors come through – we had 76 silent auction items and 7 live auction items – so did our auctioneer, Mr. Dylan Out-Of-The-Box Bolin. Check out his website. I put a link up for it to make your lives that much easier.

His job description for the evening was to “. . . separate you from your money . . .” which was difficult since on that particular day, Wall Street took a nose dive, but Dylan managed to pry the cash from the audience’s cold dead hands. How? He did it with his surgically sharp wit.

He started off with a little story about how he and his wife had recently become home owners, and how that brought to the fore the importance of the neighborhood . . . and how, since he and his wife signed so many papers – enough to make the recently passed Health Care Bill look like a leaflet, he has morphed into That Guy, the one who is a little anal retentive about lawn care issues, especially that no-man’s land of your lawn, that little strip of sod between the sidewalk and the curb, which, by the way, is property of the Forestry Division, which I would have thought involved more shrubbery and a better habitat for furry woodland creatures instead of weeds and a few casually tossed, empty 40 ouncers.

He added that extra something that was lacking in auctions past . . . I did the duty last year, and I thought surely it would launch my stand-up career, instead it was my David Letterman-Academy-Awards moment. Ouch.

They are still tallying up the numbers, but, how ever they come in, this year’s auction was a hit, not a miss.

It's Not About The Spoon

I’m a big Everybody Loves Raymond fan. There was an episode, last week, Deborah snuck over to Marie’s kitchen in the middle of the night, under the pretense of returning a spoon. She bumps into Robert, the NYC cop, and tries to sell him on her version of why she’s there at 2 a.m.
“In my career, I’ve been to a lot of break-ins, and, one thing is for sure . . . it’s never about the spoon,” he said.

Kind of like all the hoo-ha that’s going on over the Silver City Townhomes project – and by project I don’t mean it in the Cabrini-Green sense of the word, I mean it more like in the sense of an endeavor, like an art project, or a Science Fair project. Project with a small p.

When I first heard about this – I remember my disbelief, because, well, something this cool in my neighborhood? Finally. After all the meetings. All the blockwatches. The spring clean-ups, were all beginning to have a positive effect. And we were going to have these very nice, very green (I’m talking rooftop gardens) town houses built on a stretch of cracked, neglected asphalt.

And, that’s where the problem started. On and about that asphalt. See, to some people (me) that asphalt is an eyesore. Nothing more that a dried scab. To others? It’s a meeting place, an open and inviting place where children can run free . . . just like we did back in the good old days before bicycle helmets.

There are 2 full basket ball courts and something that passes for tennis courts. Those courts will become new and improved, which has some people’s undies in a bundle because, I guess new and improved is a bad thing. There’s something about old and used and the patina of broken bottles and litter.

And then, there’s a problem with the Who. Not the band, but the people behind the project (again, small “p”). Layton Boulevard West Neighbors – an organization started by the School Sisters of Saint Francis and we all know what a bunch of selfish, power hungry people they are! Yeah. They’ll stop at nothing to do woo you with their Franciscan values . . . here’s just some of the bad things they’re into:
* Implementing peace education programs for children and adults;
* Supporting immigration legislation and just treatment of immigrants;
* Rehabilitating victims of violence and neglect;
* Promoting conscious stewardship of the environment through education;
* Growing organic and herbal gardens;
* Helping children who are victims of violence and abuse;
* Promoting projects for marginalized people, especially women and children;
* Raising consciousness through "socially responsible" investments;
* Fostering equal treatment of employees in the workplace.

See? What did I tell you.

The neighbors whose lives will be affected by this are upset over the way they’ve been treated – no one bothered to ask them how they felt about it. Well, there were meetings, but only 2 and no one was allowed to ask any questions. Typical. Oh, I suppose the neighbors could have asked questions, but, undoubtedly they were too afraid to get whacked by a School Sister wielding a concealed ruler.

You want to start something? I have two words for you, my friend: Affordable. Housing. Them’s fightin’ words. I think I can simplify this with logic – what I gather is at the heart of the anti-townhomes sentiment.

Prostitutes + drug dealers = low wage earners.
Low wage earners = low income.
Low income = affordable housing.
Affordable Housing = prostitutes + drug dealers.
I guess low wage earners can’t be landscapers, or teachers, or anyone else.
What’s really at the root of all the discontent? Is it that feelings were hurt? Basketball courts will be moved? The town homes will make the rest of the neighborhood look shabby? They’ll bring in “those people?”

I don’t get it. You know what I think? I think Robert Barone was right. It’s never about the spoon.

To get more information on the Silver City Town homes, see the link list on the right.