A first time visitor might think that this blog should be re-titled, “Cemetery Scribblings” after seeing this post. A second sketch of a cemetery and a connection to the turbulent year, 1978. What brought me to this cemetery in Napa, was a 1978 film which the late film critic Roger Ebert hailed as a “masterpiece” and placed it on his list of the top ten films of all time. The film is Errol Morris’ first feature “Gates of Heaven”. This documentary follows the plight of two Californian pet cemeteries, one fails and is forced to close and the other survived (taking the 450 pets buried in from the first cemetery) and is still open to this day, run by the same family.

Bubbling Well Pet Memorial Park is in the foothills of Napa Valley and commands a view of this world famous wine region. It has grown since it’s screen debut but the twin lion-clad stone columns and flag pole remains much the same as in 1978.

(A still from the final shot of “Gates of Heaven”.)

It is easy to be dismissive of pet owners who treat their dogs and cats better than they treat fellow human beings. When I was a child our three dogs were simply pets that did not get dressed up in sweaters or have portraits painted of them which were proudly displayed above our mantelpiece because our dogs were just  dogs, the family pet.
As I walked among the graves, reading the many inscriptions, I was touched by the connections between pet and owner. It was clear that these animals played a large part in their owner’s lives, enriching it and giving meaning to it. This bond of trust and friendship is best described in “Gates of Heaven” by Mac, the owner of the now defunct Foothill Pet Cemetery in Los Altos:

People like people because they like one another. And people don’t trust one another thoroughly like an animal and a human being. I can know you very well. But when I turn my back, I don’t know you. Not truly. But my little dog, I can turn my back on my little dog and I know he’s back there. He’s my little friend. He’s not gonna jump on me or bite me or anything like that. But human beings cannot be this way.

Morris’ film is, on the surface, a documentary about two pet cemeteries but it is really about something much deeper. It is one of those films that can be viewed over and over again. As Ebert writes, “this 85-minute film about pet cemeteries has given me more to think about over the past 20 years than most of the other films I’ve seen.” Now that’s really saying something!

As I stroll through the Park reading the inscriptions: “I Love you Princess”, “My Best Friend”, and “God is Love-Backward It’s Dog”, I share this moment with the 12,500 pets buried here and the geriatric emu that hobbles around on the hill. This visit has given me much to think about and reflect on. Love and loss, hope and redemption, and the unbreakable tie we have with animals and the natural world.

The geriatric emu hobbling along with Bubbling Well Pet Memorial Park and Napa Valley in the background.

“Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

This quote is from a sign that hung in the pavilion of Jonestown, Guyana. It somehow seems prophetic than many in San Francisco, now in 2014, do not remember or know about the tragic events of 1978. Perhaps for many, it is something they want to forget. Some who hear about it now, simply cannot believe it to be true, as if the brain could not fully understand the senseless waste that occurred in a far off South American jungle.
It was the events of November 18, 1978, that brought me to a cemetery near Mills College in East Oakland. It was 36 years ago, this month, that this tragedy rocked San Francisco, the Bay Area, and the world. It was at Evergreen Cemetery that 412 unclaimed victims were buried. And I had come to pay my respects. In 2011, four plaques were placed here, listing all of the dead. Controversially, included among the dead is that of the mastermind and leader of the Peoples Temple: Jim Jones.
Cemeteries are here for the sole purpose that we do not forget the past; Those who peopled it and those who shaped it. As I look over the 909 names engraved in stone I wonder what we have learned from Jonestown and what we have vowed never to repeat again. The answer is varied to the many people who ask the question but to me the lesson is simple: never stop questioning and never stop learning.
And as we head into “the Season of Giving” I thank this experience, and this sketch for reinforcing a simple but deep truth.
And also that the past only exists if someone remembers it and takes the time to commit pen to paper.

A detail from one of the plaques including the name of John Victor Stoen, who is, in some ways, the catalyst to the Jonestown tragedy.

Resources:

Books

Raven: The Untold Story of the Rev. Jim Jones and His People

Tim Reiterman

This classic study of Jones and the Peoples Temple is written by a San Francisco reporter that covered the story and was shot on a visit to Jonestown on its last day on Earth and lived to tell the tale.

Season of the Witch

David Talbot

An excellent overview of a very turbulent time in San Francisco history, including chapters on the City’s most infamous spiritual leader.

Documentary

Jonestown: The Life and Death of Peoples Temple

PBS (American Experience)

A 2007 PBS production featuring the anonymous letter reproduced on the left hand page. A haunting viewing proving that truth is stranger than fiction.

 

“The raven is a bird whose historical and literary pre-eminence is unapproached.”

– R. Bosworth Smith, Bird Life and Bird Lore (1905)

San Francisco’s Fort Funston, known as Ft. Fun to locals, is loved by hang glider pilots and off led dog owners alike. Situated in the southwestern corner of San Francisco at the southern end of Ocean Beach, this is one of the only places you can legally hang glide in the city. It is also a place where dogs of all shapes and sizes can stretch their legs and get a vacation from cramped city living.

On this calm, clear November day, the winds off the Pacific were mild and no hang gliders where up in the air. There is one other population that loves Fort Funston and that’s the common raven, the true master of the air.

These ebony birds filled the air, riding the updrafts above the 200 foot cliffs. This consistent updraft is known as the “Funston Shear” by local hang glider pilots. Lying back in the ice plant, watching the largest songbird spin, soars, dive, and invert I am  amazed by the shear joy ravens seem to display at simply flying. Raven are considered to be some of the most intelligent animals in the world. They are highly social and have developed a strong bond with human beings, going as far back as nomadic hunter-gatherers. Their intelligence and adaptability has helped them expand their range into more urban areas. Ravens started to appear in San Francisco in the early 1980’s and now they have a strong foothold in the City by the Bay.

Ravens also share something else with humans: a complex communication system. As corvid researcher John Marzluff writes, “Ravens have perhaps the most complex vocabulary of any bird. They scream, trill, croak, cackle, warble, yell, kaw, and make sounds like wood blocks, bells, and dripping water. . Variety and unpredictability define crow, raven, and other corvid calls, so whenever you hear something inexplicable in the forest or field, odds are that a corvid is the source.”

Common Raven (Corvus corax) perched at the entrance to the hiking path at Fort Funston. The ravens at Fort Funston allow close approach and provide many opportunities to observe this endlessly entertaining bird.

Reclining on an ice plant “love seat”, sketching, watching ravens, and reveling in nature. A wonderful fall day at Fort Funston.

The last time I visited the sea elephants at Ano Nuevo State Park, you could walk out onto the beach on a docent-led tour that took you within yards of these massive marine mammals, the largest pinnipeds in the northern hemisphere. Now, almost thirty years later, the beach has been taken away by the fingers of the ceaseless tide. You can no longer walk among the seals but on this foggy November morning I was blessed with a large gathering of juvenile seals and a high tide, placing them at the base of the viewing area.

What prompted me to make a right turn into Ano Nuevo on my way to Santa Cruz, was the book I am currently reading to my fourth graders: Island of the Blue Dolphins. This book is loosely based on the Lone Woman of San Nicolas Island. In one chapter, the main character, Karana, tries to hunt a sea elephant (northern elephant seal) for it’s tusks. It has been a long time since I have seen elephant seals up close and to my surprise I was about to see them very close.

On the way out to Ano Nuevo Point, a sign noted that there were 50-60 seals at the South Point viewing area and 200+ juvenile seals at the North Point viewing area. I first stopped off at South Point and looked over the bluff to see a juvenile cow, right below me on the beach. There was no use for my binoculars as I sketched her into the lower right hand corner of my journal. I then immediately headed out to North Point. The tide was high and all the seals were pushed into the cove making viewing easy on the eyes. I filled in the rest of the page with layer upon layer of sleeping seals and two young males sparring in the surf. As I was sketching, the docent, who had been out for 13 seasons, told me she had never seen the seals so close. I guess timing is everything.

There was one thing missing from my sketch and that was the emblematic adult bulls. These huge, two ton seals with oversized snouts and deeply scarred chests would be arriving in December and January to claim their patch of the sand to try and become the beach master. There were plenty of four year old males sparring with each other in a mock fight, honing their skills for a real grudge match in four or five years time.

To sketch an adult male I had to head further south to the Seymour Marine Discovery Center at U.C. Santa Cruz. Here I found the three life-sized statues of a bull, cow and calf. I sketched the male on the left side of the page. I certainly had no problem sketching this specimen, he wasn’t going anywhere.

25 feet! I can barely stay back 15!

 

“Write what should not be forgotten.” -Isabel Allende

While my journals are filled with landscapes, urban scenes, and birds, I sometimes use my journal to simply take notes. Such was the case when I attended a talk by bird guru Kenn Kaufman at the Monterey Bay Birding Festival. Kaufman is the author of Kingbird Highway, an autobiography about his quest on a shoestring to see as many birds in one year (a big year).
As I was waiting for the talk to start I began sketching the black oystercatcher that was displayed on the screen. I placed the sketch in the far corner of the page. As I looked at the shape of the bird and concentrated on its beak, what happened then is what always happens when I sketch, I lose sense of time and I don’t seem to realize what’s going on around me. I am just focused, seeing. A meditation in public. Sometimes when I pause, I sense that I’m being watched. The odds that someone would be looking at me in a room full of perceptive birders is very high. But I sensed that someone to my right was watching my progress. That never really stopped me from sketching. I didn’t look up from my work.
When I did look up from my work, I met the woman sitting next to me. It turns out that she is the editor of the Albatross, the newsletter of the Santa Cruz Bird Club and she took an interest in my note taking. There are times like this, these serendipitous moments, when life provides a fork in the trail. A time when the right person sees my work and as a result my note taking page, which was done for no other reason than self knowledge, is published in the November-December issue of the Albatross.
You can find the article here:

http://santacruzbirdclub.org/59-2.pdf

A black oystercatcher at Big Sur.

Having grown up in the Valley of Heart’s Delight with my bedroom window looking out towards Mount Hamilton and the flight path of airplanes on final approach to Moffett Field, I developed a love of aircrafts and all things that fly. I built scale models of the P-3C Orions that where stationed at Moffett and the drone of their four turboprop engines where part of the sound track of my youth. The monotony of P-3s passing by my bedroom window, returning from submarine patrol, where occasionally disrupted by a C-130 or the largest airplane in the air, the C-5 Galaxy and occasionally, the far sexier F-16 Falcon. No aircraft was more eagerly awaited than the Blue Angels, the blue and gold A-4F Skyhawks arriving for the annual air show.

My fascination with military grade planes and the Blue Angels has waned over the years like my interest in Star Wars action figures. I have left the Valley of Heart’s Delight ( now known as Silicon Valley) and moved north to the city of St. Francis. In 1994, Moffett Field was closed as a navel air field and the Blue Angels followed me up north to San Francisco and Fleet Week.

San Francisco has a love/hate relationship with Fleet Week and the Blue Angels. With the increased traffic and deafening roar of supersonic jets overhead I can understand why. I got out of Dodge during Fleet Week and retreated to the peace of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I did return to the City on Sunday, in time for the last Angel show of Fleet Week. I climbed to the highest point within a two block walk: Sunset Reservoir. I look north towards Golden Gate Park, the Marin Headlands, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Mount Tamalpais.

I have also had the same reservations about the Blue Angels and the use of taxpayer dollars as I look out across the crumbling infrastructure of San Francisco’s streets, not to mention the underpaid and overworked teachers, the true homeland security of the United States. But waiting up on that hill for the first sighting of the F/A-18s, I am brought back to my childhood, eagerly waiting at my bedroom window for the blue and gold gashawks to appear. While I scan the skies the costs and my mixed feelings about the military fades away as the the blue diamond appear over the City.

Blue Angels taking off at San Francisco International Airport in 2010.

The sketcher on the tarmac of SFO with Blue Angel F/A-18 H number 1.

The other day a student brought in a nest that he found in his grandparent’s backyard. I suppose it really was just a matter of time that a student brought some sort of bird biofact into the classroom. I do talk about birds quite a bit in class and I was thankful it wasn’t an old owl pellet or a dead bird. And of course I did what any sketcher would do, I took the nest home and I drew it. The more I sketched the nest, it’s twists and curves, the more I was able to see its architecture and design. I began to see things I hadn’t noticed before, like the petal-less flower stems that ringed the base and the variety of materials used. At first I though the nest belonged to a scrub-jay but upon further measurements and research, including looking at Maryjo Koch’s wonderful book The Nest, I determined that the nest was made by a California towhee.

I like it when the detective work is taken out of the equation when it comes to identifying a  nest. Such as seeing a scrub-jay fly into a rose bush at a community garden or a steller’s jay nesting in a potted tree on the patio of a busy restaurant (See the bottom sketch in the Mission #1 post). One nest discovery that made it into my journal was from an experience  hiking around the alien landscape of French Meadows Reservoir in the Sierra Nevadas. While hiking among the rocky shoreline I startled a spotted sandpiper who limped away from me with a “broken” wing. I had seen this mock behavior with other ground nesting birds like the killdeer and I know that I was very close to it’s nest and the bird was trying to lead me away. I was careful not to step on the nest and I found it after a short search. The sandpiper’s nest contains four blotched eggs. An interesting fact about the spotted is that the males broods the eggs instead of the female.

I have always believed that if you’re patient and wait, the birds will come to you. It also helps that I live in a city that is surrounded on three sides by water and is situated on the western edge of the North American continent. I am also aided by the small army of birders that prowl their patches and report their sightings, both mundane and unusual, on the internet. Birds frequently get lost during migration and head west instead of east on the journey to their tropic wintering grounds. There has been times where I have contemplated travelling to the North Midwest to see the mystic snowy owl only to find that one appears only an hour and a half drive from San Francisco. Or a large seabird, which has never graced the west coast, has taken up residence on Alcatraz Island, or that a rare warbler is spending some time in Golden Gate Park, fueling up for it’s epic migration. This is exactly the bird I spotted, early one foggy Sunday morning, sipping nectar from the monkey hand tree in the San Francisco Botanical Gardens. This magnificent bolt of sunshine was the prothonotary warbler. This oddly named bird with the nearly unpronounceable name gets it’s moniker from the Late Latin word: protonotarius (according to Dictionary of Birds of the United States) which refers to a Vatican notary who wore a yellow robe. I think this is my sort of Sunday worship!

After the horde of binocular wheeling and zoom lens canon bearing vikings moved off into the arboretum, having checked this bird off their life list, Lecy and I lingered to spend some time with our visitor. It paid off as the the warbler paused near a monkey hand tree blossom, ten feet above our heads. I lower my binoculars and and looked at the bird with 1x magnification. It’s not often that we simply have the time to look at a bird, to notice it’s feather patterns and the rich tones of it’s plumage, the shape of it’s beak, and color of it’s legs.

One of the strangest San Francisco life birds has to be the Northern Gannet that was spending time on Alcatraz, displaying to the resident cormorants. One morning I strolled out to the end of Aquatic Park Pier and was helped by a birder with a scope. The East coaster was easy to spot, it was the largest white bird on the island. This gannet was the first record on the west coast and it was fitting that it was taking up residence on Alcatraz, a Spanish word meaning “pelican” or “strange bird”. This gannet was a strange bird indeed.