Know how sometimes you can’t think of a word? You might be right in the
middle of a sentence, and suddenly there is a word that just won’t come out.
You can think of twenty words to describe it, but not the one word you’re
looking for, then you remember it, and life goes on. That happens more and more to Judy and me, so I’ve had plenty of opportunity
to observe it. Know what struck me? It’s always a noun. I can think of
all the adjectives and adverbs to describe it, but I can’t think of the
noun. If the word I was looking for was the word “house”, I could describe
it as that square thing with the pointy top you have on your property in the
middle of the yard, that you live in, until the noun came to me. Why do you
suppose it’s always a noun?
Port a
We get to watch the egret fish our pond everyday.
Port a
The beach house.
Port a
I mean horned grebes. Those birds feeding in the surf were horned grebes,
not eared grebes. Now I don’t have to explain why they had thirty ears. —–Original Message—–
From: Steve Taylor [mailto:spt@thetaylorcompany.net]
Sent: Monday, January 02, 2006 11:15 PM
To: Bill Taylor (E-mail); David Taylor (E-mail); Tom Taylor (E-mail)
Subject: port a
We got a Wild Kingdom moment at Davis Mountains. We were watching the
sparrows and goldfinches at a bird blind, when with a burst, they all took
off at once. When that happens, we know to look up. That sudden flight
means there is a hawk. There was a hawk, a sharp-shinned hawk, blasting in
through the trees, like they do, nailing the slowest goldfinch. That
happened fast. Tough on the goldfinch, but feeding time for the hawk. From the beach we spotted a flock of thirty eared grebes feeding in the
breaker line, just offshore. Yesterday, we had that little least grebe
swimming at our feet. Loons, two kinds of cormorants, six kinds of herons
and egrets. Ibis, black bellied whistling ducks, geese, mottled ducks, a
white-tailed hawk drifts past. Went looking on the beach for the piping
plover and found the snowy plover instead. Killdeer, yellowlegs,
long-billed curlew. Turnstones, sanderlings, least sandpipers. Three kinds
of gulls, three kinds of terns. Inca doves and a great kiskadee. We saw a great blue heron lick his lips. Really. He has a long thin tongue that looks like a piece of wire. He can
extend and run it down each side of his bill, in a motion that could be
described as licking his lips, if he actually had lips. And who’s to say,
in fact, that he doesn’t? He could have lips. Really really thin lips that
we can’t even see, but he knows they’re there, or else why would he be
licking them in the first place?
Port a
Driving here, eastbound on Interstate 10, we decided not to drive through
San Antonio. We turned south at Kerrville on a small Texas highway, Highway
173, to skirt San Antonio, and followed it around to Interstate 37 south to
Corpus Christi. A random choice. It just seemed like a good idea at the
time. As we were driving, we were surprised to see the sign declaring this
to be the 173d Airborne Brigade Memorial Highway. How about that! My duty
assignment from forty years ago. Snuck up on me, that highway. I was surprised such a highway existed, and
surprised by my reaction. I haven’t had many good feelings about the Army
experience, but I felt really good about this. Glad they weren’t
memorializing me specifically, I survived the experience, but appreciated
the acknowledgement. Nice they did that.