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Melodye Shore

A Joyful Noise

photography

Super Blue Blood Moon

February 1, 2018 by Melodye Shore 18 Comments

The life blood of photography is a kind of holy curiosity, where life is viewed with reverence and awe and some measure of understanding as to the transience of it all.” —Donna Hopkins

Did you hear? The “supermoon,” “blue moon,” and “blood moon” put on quite a show this morning. Lucky me, I had an unobstructed view of this celestial event. It was an awe-inspiring performance—a magic trick, unparalleled. The supermoon hung low in the sky, a luminous pearl against a backdrop of black velvet. As it passed through the earth’s shadow, it turned blood red and then vanished.

When I first spotted the oversized moon, it was peeking through my picture window—a bright orange orb, nestled into a cradle of shimmery white.  I ran outside, cell phone tilted upward,  and did a celestial show-and-tell with my friend Donna.

We talked a while longer, but the moon had already cast its spell. As soon as we said goodbye, I tossed a jacket over my pajamas and grabbed my car keys.

By 5:35 a.m., I was enjoying an ocean-front view of the eclipse.  There were other people there, of course: pros, lugging fancy equipment into position; and casual observers, snapping selfies with their smart phones.

Most, however, peered up at the moon through their windshields, windows cranked so they could listen to the ocean’s lullaby.

I stood alone on a sand berm, wrapped in a cloak of silent reverence. Salty mist stuck to my lashes; bracing winds tousled my hair. No need to be shy about having tossed a hoodie over pink ostrich pajamas—everyone was sleepy-eyed, anyway.

The moon shone down on all of us…

…eventually fading into a rusty glow.

It winked at the rising sun, and then slipped into the ocean.

You’ll find better pictures elsewhere, of course. I don’t own a high-powered, fancy-pants camera, and I’ve got lots to learn about manual settings. But you know what? I sincerely doubt that any camera (pen or sketch pad) in the world could’ve captured the deep-seated joy—and the wide-eyed sense of wonderment –that came of saying yes! to the magnetic pull of the moon this morning.

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“Because nature doesn’t know about borders”

November 5, 2016 by Melodye Shore 6 Comments

We should bow deeply before the orchid and the snail and join our palms reverently before the monarch butterfly and the magnolia tree. The feeling of respect for all species will help us recognize the noblest nature in ourselves. –Thích Nhất Hạnh

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Overwintering Monarch Butterflies (Huntington Beach, California)

I’m honored to share with you some wonderful news:

Thanks to my blog entry about Overwintering Monarchs in Orange County, California, I get play a small part in a program designed to raise public awareness about overwintering spots for Monarch butterflies in Mexico!

A team of biologists from Ensenada approached me a while back, asking permission to use the photo I’ve reposted at the top of this page.

We have some pictures and diagrams of the Monarch but we don’t have pictures of the Monarch when they are clustered in the eucalyptus tree. We would like to have this pictures so people have an idea what to look for to find the Overwintering spots…. We applied thru the National Park of Sierra de San Pedro Mártir to get founds from the CONANP (National Commission of Protected Natural Areas) to raise awareness of the status of the Monarch Butterfly in Baja California. We got a [grant] to make a 2 day workshop for 20 people. We are inviting personal from the Natural Protected Areas from Baja California, also representatives of the Nongovernmental Organisations that work with Conservation and Wildlife in the area (Terra Peninsular, Pro Esteros, FASOL, etc). The workshop will be given by my fellow Biologist Ibes Favian Davila and Felipe Leon, who recently attended a Monarch Conservation Conference in Alamo Sonora…

As part of this public awareness project, biologist Saul Riatiga and his colleagues created posters and brochures that 1) distinguish the Monarch from other butterflies; 2) identify native milkweeds; and 3) describe Overwintering spots. These print materials will be shared among conservation groups, and will also be distributed to communities in and around Ensenada.

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I was thrilled to see my photograph in this trifold brochure–while  I don’t read Spanish, it speaks to a lifelong wish to make a positive difference in this beautiful world we share.

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I’ve learned so much in the process of becoming a Monarch Waystation, and then witnessing the miracle of metamorphosis in my own backyard! So gratifying, to have my own experiences linked to this larger conservation project!

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I’ve not yet mastered everything there is to know about Monarch Butterflies — not even close! — so I’m excited to see where this international partnership might lead.

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Oh, the places you’ll go…

Dr. Seuss’s words couldn’t be more prescient. This what comes of indulging your curiosity and following your passions, wherever they might lead you. Because, as of my new scientist-friends so wisely said, “Nature doesn’t know about borders.”

 

You can follow this project on Facebook, at Monarchs en la Oeste. Community members will be interacting with scientists, sharing anecdotes and contributing photos to the overall data collection efforts.  

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“Let yourself be great!!!”

September 21, 2016 by Melodye Shore 9 Comments

“These seals seem to know you,” said the movie producer who shared the beach with me this morning. I was snapping photos in the rocky cove; his crew was sprawled across the sandy shoreline, filming a promotional piece for Visit California.

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It’s true that the seals are comfortable with my presence. They talk to me, and vogue for the camera.

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So naturally, I’ve been posting lots of photos & videos lately. Because: seals. Who doesn’t love ’em?

But there’s also backstory to this, my most recent obsession.

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You see, my friend in New York loves seals. She’ll drive all the way to Maine, just to watch them play.

“Do you see seals on your morning walks?” she asked me one day.

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them around here.”

She was really disappointed, because: seals. Who doesn’t love ’em?

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It didn’t seem all that likely at the time, but I promised her I’d take pictures–if I ever saw them here, that is.

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In a poignant twist of fate, I first saw these harbor seals on the morning of my friend’s cancer diagnosis. I’ve been taking seal videos and snapshots for her, ever since.

These harbor seals keep showing up–for my friend and me, and for anyone who finds delightful these gifts from the sea.

So there’s another other thing I haven’t yet mentioned. Trust me: It’s very much related.

My friend and I are working in tandem on some special projects for the Hillary Clinton campaign. It’s a coast-to-coast connection that makes us feel as if we’re doing something good in the world. And despite the miles between us, it’s brought us very close.  Illness or no, we are stronger together.

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Well… I didn’t know it when I visited the seals this morning, but my friend had sent a handwritten card to our candidate of choice. She tucked a short note inside, and addressed the envelope to Madam Secretary, Hillary Clinton. “Let yourself be great!!!” she said, and then she signed her name.

And so it was that while my friend was at the hospital this morning, hooked up to the IV line that delivered her third chemo treatment–and while I was in Goff Island Cove, circumventing the film crew and capturing these images–my friend from New York heard her cell phone ring.

Guess who was on the other end?

Yes, that’s right. Madam Secretary, Hillary Clinton.

If you know me, you know already that my eyes were swimming when my friend let me know how things went down. Hillary was gracious, she said, and so very encouraging: “Get well soon,” she’d said, with genuine warmth in her voice;  and after thanking my friend for the personalized card (and her volunteer efforts), Madam Secretary mentioned the four, smallish words that touched her so deeply.

“Let yourself be great!!”

A softball coach first shared those words of encouragement with my friend from New York. She was just eleven years old. But as so often happens with words that resonate, my friend never forgot that handful of words. And when the just-right moment presented itself, she passed them along.

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You never know where a moment’s kindness might eventually travel.

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You might be surprised about the reach of a few, carefully selected words of encouragement.

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Like these seals, they imbue a special kind of magic. When you least expect it, they find their way back to you,  carrying treasures of their own.

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A downside to drones

September 8, 2016 by Melodye Shore 3 Comments

Can we talk about drones for a minute?

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Not FAA regulations and local laws, because those are debated elsewhere–more knowledgeably and objectively than I might. Let’s talk, instead, about the ways in which these sky cameras, built for fun, might negatively affect wildlife habitats and the places we’ve come to know as our private sanctuaries. Not a high-level discussion, but an up-close-and-personal, eyewitness view.

Imagine that you’re enjoying a morning walk on the beach, toes digging into sand, as gentle waves splash ashore.

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Now that the tourists have gone home, the beaches are nearly empty. But look! There’s a trio of seals to keep you company–further out to sea, sunning themselves on Goff Cove Island.

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They’ve come to know and trust you, because you approach them with a quiet reverence…

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…zooming in with your camera but never encroaching on their comfort zone.

They snooze while you’re scrambling over the rocks, investigating the tide pools and snapping photos–ever watchful, but never fearful. You’re buddies now, and they even talk to you.

“What do you see out there?” a newcomer asks.

You point, and then marvel together at their sleek beauty.

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A bull seal reveals itself, watches you watching him. The potential for danger is always near, for both of you. But instinct is a powerful thing. You know you are safe, and so does he.

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You pan your camera across the ocean, sun-kissed waves to sandy shore.  There is no curating to be done here. It’s their habitat, and you are the guest.

The seals doze, perk up now and again, no doubt attuned to sounds your human ears aren’t sensitive enough to hear.

And then, near the very end of your videotaping session, you hear a menacing whine.

The seals are on heightened alert, now.

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A strange beast crests the rocks…bobbing, whirring, careening back and forth in unpredictable patterns. Then it drops, dozens of feet, at high velocity.

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The herd panics. The bull seal gives a signal, and they dive into the water, all four of them, and vanish.

Maybe it’s a stretch to think that drones will eventually stake their claim on everything, within and beyond a human’s reach. Maybe it’s wrong to extrapolate, from my own experience, that we’re edging toward a world in which curiosity outstrips compassion, privacy goes by the wayside, and convenience trumps all. But there’s no doubt in my mind that we should set some ground rules while we can.

UPDATE: This encounter inspired me to take action–one voice of many, writing letters & making calls. In response to  community concerns, Laguna Beach passed into law an ordinance banning drones over city parks, near beaches, and over government buildings! As of 13 July, 2017, “Drone-flying is still allowed over private property and over the ocean, but harassment of marine wildlife will not be tolerated,” Laguna Beach Police Chief Farinella said.

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From Motown to La La Land: Meet American Girl’s newest doll, Melody

August 28, 2016 by Melodye Shore 8 Comments

Meet Melody Ellison, a 9-year-old African-American girl who loves gardening, singing in the church choir, and listening to Motown music. Her story, No Ordinary Sound, is set in 1960s Detroit during the height of the Civil Rights movement. Inspired by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches about equality, American Girl’s newest BeForever™ character picks “Lift Every Voice and Sing” for her very first solo performance. Change is in the air, and when the unspeakable happens in the Deep South, Melody’s voice is silenced.  Can she recover it before her upcoming solo? Enter the book giveaway at the end of this blog post, and be among first to find out!

Most girls choose dolls that look like them. They want dolls that spark their imagination and inspire them in some way. Melody and I aren’t twinsies, but then again, I didn’t look like my beloved clothespin doll (Miss No Name), either. But we share the same name, and our stories are similar. Best of all, Melody Ellison’s built for adventures, just like me.

She arrived in her “meet” dress, accessorized here with a pillbox hat, cat-eye sunglasses, and a patent leather handbag.* Motown all the way, but ready for her adventures in La La Land.

We took a quick tour of my backyard first, because that’s what gardeners do. So flattering, the California sunshine on her beautiful hair and skin!  I tucked some flowers into her handbag and then we headed to the beach.

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Lovely view, don’t you think?

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Melody opted quickly for a more casual look, ditching the handbag and slipping out of her patent leather flats.

#CaliforniaDreaming

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She scrambled up the lifeguard stand…

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…and splashed in frothy waves.**

Salty breezes tousled her hair, and her sunglasses slipped down her nose.

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We explored the tide pools together, collecting sea glass and ocean-smoothed rocks.

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Then we leaned against this outcropping, watching the surfers and listening to the seagulls.

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Melody didn’t bring a beach hat, but she protected her curls with this fetching little number. A passerby pivoted, called over his shoulder: “Hey, isn’t that the doll I saw on the news?  She smiled and waved, like the celebrity she is.

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It was a memorable day, start to finish–lots to write and talk about when we got home!

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We had so much fun on our beach adventure, and I can’t help but think that girls of all ages will fall in love with Melody Ellison.

Kudos to American Girl for designing this beautiful doll, who reflects so well the changing face of history. Author Denise Lewis Patrick should be congratulated, as well, for adding No Ordinary Sound to the growing collection of diverse books.  Melody isn’t just a doll–she’s a phenomenon. In lifting her voice for positive change, she’ll inspire girls of all ages to do the same.

 

*American Girl collaborated with a six-member advisory board that provided input on all aspects of Melody’s appearance and storyline, including her outfits, accessories, hairstyle, historical events and settings.

**Thanks to videos like this one, I knew ahead of time that American Girls don’t like to get drenched. Not to worry, though: If Melody gets water-damaged, the AG hospital can fix her up, good as new.

And now for the book giveaway contest! You have until Labor Day to enter–good luck!

No Ordinary Sound: A Melody Classic Book Giveaway

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Flight Plans: #AugustBreak2016

August 1, 2016 by Melodye Shore 3 Comments

Sunlight spreads itself across the neighboring hillsides, nudging the earth out of its slumber. A hummingbird glides easily between palm dates and salvia, chittering as it sips nectar, and I celebrate with her the sweetness of this new day.

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This is my first entry in the monthlong, collaborative photography project,  “August Break 2016,” a mindfulness activity that draws participants away from their daily routines and into the wider world. Inspired by a specific prompt, you snap a new photograph every day in August.  No need for fancy equipment, and you can bend the rules to suit your needs or interests.

I’m using Susannah Conway’s #AugustBreak2016 as an opportunity to practice something I’ve struggled with: capturing sharp images of hummingbirds in flight. I’ll also be spending lots of time at my writing desk, polishing up a special project. Each creative act, inspiring and informing the other…

Some of you might remember that I participated last year. Aside from the healthful benefits of venturing outdoors, those photography outings had carry-over effects on my writing, all for the good. Focus. Experimenting with light and dark. Seeing things from different angles, and expressing myself in new ways.

If this sparks your own creative urges, I hope you’ll grab your camera and join us!

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On the morning after Donald Trump became the GOP’s presumptive nominee

May 4, 2016 by Melodye Shore 8 Comments

Be still, and the world is bound to turn herself inside out to entertain you. Everywhere you look, joyful noise is clanging to drown out quiet desperation. –Barbara Kingsolver

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This handsome hummingbird made his presence known while I was sitting in my backyard this morning, savoring a steaming mug of coffee. With a flash of his red gorget, he somehow managed to pull me away from the hyperbolic headlines and to notice, instead, the beauty that surrounds me.

When he preened, his gorget flipped. Voilà: Bozo the Clown.  Tend to the things that matter, he seemed to say, but never lose your sense of humor.

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Fight or flight? Given the stakes in this election, I see only one choice. But first, I had to get quiet. We do our best work, I think, when we’re attuned to nature’s beauty, and to the joyful noises all around us.

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Walking on the beach, last Sunday morning

April 20, 2016 by Melodye Shore 4 Comments

I was thinking:

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so this is how you swim inward,

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so this is how you flow outward,

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so this is how you pray.

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Excerpted from 5 a.m. in the Pinewoods, by Mary Oliver

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KKK Rally in Anaheim: Where were the helpers?

March 4, 2016 by Melodye Shore 17 Comments

Caution: Graphic descriptions and images.

I participated in a counter-protest for a Ku Klux Klan rally at Pearson Park last weekend, just a few miles from The Happiest Place on Earth. I’d come to help eradicate racism at its roots, armed only with a camera and a hand-lettered protest sign.

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Inspired by Gandalf, the great wizard in Lord of the Rings.

Some reports said the KKK had scheduled their permitted march for 10:00 a.m. The Anaheim police, however, said the rally was scheduled for 1:30.

The counter-protest was equally confusing. Someone suggested we’d be gathering on the corner of Harbor and Sycamore at 9 a.m., but that area was already occupied by Jehovah’s Witnesses.  A nearby display table was blanketed with Watchtowers, free for the taking.

A stone’s throw away, a cluster of men slouched across metal benches, wooden crosses standing sentry as a street preacher read admonitions to them from his Bible. Under the pavilion, his wife spooned shredded meat into bowls; but when counter-protesters wandered into their encampment, she smiled but told them firmly that the food was “just for the men.”

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At long last, I spotted our group. Multi-ethnic and cross-generational, we  stood in a loose-knit circle around a picnic table, scrawling slogans on tag board as we shared condensed versions of our life stories. Olivia, the unofficial, one-woman welcome committee, wore a rainbow flag like a shawl. “I’ve done all the things,” she told us, “incarceration, rehab, you name it.” Now, however, she spends her off-hours tending to the needs of the homeless in the north Orange County area, and shielding the most vulnerable from harassment. “I show up for them,” she said, “because I want to make our community a safe haven for everyone.”

Martin scanned the park’s perimeter as he talked about the punk rock concerts he orchestrated, in order to feed and buy clothes for disadvantaged children in his neighborhood. “This is our home,” he said. “We’ve gotta look out for each other, you know?”

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I’d come to Anaheim that day to confront racism–to link arms with people like Martin and Olivia–good souls who’ve watched it slither through their neighborhoods, who see Donald Trump’s threats as very real, and who worry that their voices are being muted. Those were the words that I carried in my heart to Pearson Park, but they seemed too highbrow for our first meeting. So I told them instead that while I live at a distance, I want to join ranks with them against racism.

“There you go,” Olivia said, “Community means everybody.”

But as it turned out, “community” is a fractured concept when it comes to this kind of battle.  I witnessed an outpouring of generosity from unexpected quarters, but I also experienced deafening silence on the part of those whose microphones have the broadest reach. Violence, too, brought about by self-proclaimed peacekeepers. And as for the police officers–whose primary job is to remain vigilant in its protection of citizens, all of them equally–they didn’t show up at all, until it was almost too late.

As soon as the news broke about the planned KKK rally, I’d contacted every candidate for political office in California District 46 (Anaheim/Santa Ana), including Congresswoman Loretta Sanchez, who is currently running for U.S. Senate. In my emails, website contacts, and tweets, I linked the OC Weekly story that first brought the KKK rally to my attention and asked each candidate if they planned to speak or otherwise respond to community concerns.

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Who knows? Maybe every tweet, email and website message–theirs and mine–got lost in the ether. All I know for sure is that my queries went unanswered.

“I’m not surprised,” said the guy wearing dreads and an InLeague Press t-shirt. “There aren’t any cops here, either.”

Heads nodded. We’d noticed.

He floated a theory: Perhaps the conflicting timelines for the KKK rally were intentional. (See OC Weekly update, here). Maybe the police wanted to dissuade people from also participating in a commemorative march for Ernesto Canepa, an unarmed citizen who was gunned down by a Santa Ana policeman in early 2015. The accused officer was quietly absolved of any charges this past January, and no surprise, the community was angry.  “I mean, just think about it,” he said, before he wandered off to join another group.

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However sketchy the timeline, my best guess is that 75-100 counter-protesters had assembled in the park before lunchtime. The Jehovah’s Witnesses had long since scattered, but the street preacher was heading into overtime. If civic leaders and political candidates were in attendance, they were watching from the margins, blanketed by invisibility cloaks.

It was around 12:30 when the event organizers set up a portable mic. We stood in loose-knit clusters of presumed solidarity. A disembodied voice blasted a call-and-response very similar to this through the loudspeaker:

Any KKK members in our midst?

“No!” The counter-protesters answered.

Any white supremacists?

“Hell, no!”

Well good, because if you’re hiding among us, you’re a chickenshit.

I glanced at my friend Cathy in horror. “That was really, really bad,” I whispered, but when she tried to respond in kind, her voice was muffled by cheering.

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At some point, someone held a cardboard sign aloft and pivoted. I zoomed my lens in his direction. There it was: naked hatred, sketched with a Magic Marker:

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Benny Diaz (President of LULAC-OC) hurried to the microphone. Worry etched into his face, he invoked MLK’s memory and pleaded the case for nonviolent activism.  But by that point, the brewing conflict was stirred and frothed to the point where anger was boiling over.

The larger crowd drifted into smaller, more peaceful alliances: hungry, thirsty, and sweat-soaked; brimming with the optimism that’s born of shared causes, accompanied by an undertow of dread.

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Cathy and I staked out an empty picnic table and talked quietly among ourselves. Self-appointed vanguards kept watch. If you judged by appearances only, you’d be hard-pressed to tell malignant forces from good.

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The street preacher, finished by now with his stemwinder, wandered through the park with a mostly empty box of fundraising chocolates.

“The almond bars are gone, but I still have dark chocolate, crispy milk chocolate…”

I handed him $5.00 for two, and waved away the change.

Just then, a glossy black SUV rounded the corner at Harbor Blvd. As it crawled up Cypress, wary vigilance transformed itself into a kinetic frenzy, and dozens of counter-protesters flooded into the street, pounding on the windshield and obstructing its path. “Come into the park,” they taunted.

In a blur of black shirts, accessorized with KKK-related patches, members of the Klan erupted from the SUV.  When they tugged “White Lives Matter” placards and Confederate flags from the back, the counter-protesters pounced. If they had weapons, I didn’t see them, but someone used a flagpole as a spear.

The counter-protesters, on the other hand, wore no uniforms; nor did they share similar philosophies about peaceful protests. Some watched from a “safe” distance, tagboard signs overhead. Still others jumped right into the fray, pummeling the Klan, faces shielded by masks and bandanas.

While unsung heroes tried desperately to keep both the KKK and counter-protesters at bay, bystanders captured the moment with their cell phones.

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My hands were trembling, but I was there to bear witness. I kept walking toward the action, kept pressing the shutter button.

Anaheim police officers, however, didn’t make their presence known until a Confederate flag was ditched at the curb, the SUV had sped away, and a stabbing victim was writhing in a spreading pool of blood.

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While eyewitness accounts are typically unreliable (and wildly divergent), cameras don’t lie. “I have photographs,” I said to Sergeant Wyatt when the Anaheim police finally arrived on scene. He handed me his card and moved down the street, where wounded counter-protesters were being treated by paramedics and KKK members were being detained for questioning.

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Cypress Street was emptied, save for a handful of gawkers and a smattering of counter-protesters. As Cathy and I made our way back to the grassy park, I spied a baseball cap with blood inside the rim. I tucked it behind my protest sign, safe from prying eyes, and signaled to the cops who straddled the yellow line.

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“I found something that might be important,” I said when an officer sauntered over. He barely glanced at the cap, stifled a yawn. I couldn’t see behind his aviator glasses, but I felt certain that he was staring past me when I talked. When pressed, he jotted down my contact information and asked me a few questions.  He didn’t write anything down. He told me he had a good memory, though, and pointed to the personal camera on his chest. When he looked away, I snapped his picture.

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By that point, the elusive SUV was being searched on a side street, my camera battery was almost out of juice, and the untouched chocolate bars were melting into the bottom of my bag. I was heartsick, and more than ready to leave.

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Community activism has its place, but this had gone horribly awry. I wanted to watch the sunset with my husband, and to see “our” hummingbird tucked safely in her nest, iridescent feathers gleaming in the evening’s last light. I needed to find peace within my own garden.

Even so, I managed a wan smile for the grizzled old man in the leather vest and bandana headband–the counter-protester who shuffled past me in a daze, muttering to no one in particular, “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

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Faith, trust, and a little pixie dust

February 20, 2016 by Melodye Shore 5 Comments

So much has changed since we last talked about Aryana’s hummingbird hatchlings on this blog. In brief: Within the span of 24 days, Wendy and Peter broke free of their eggshells, sprouted feathers and needle-sharp beaks, and took to the skies on iridescent wings.

I’ve already posted countless pictures on Facebook and Instagram, because…#bragbook. But from the online album my friend Carol Meadows so graciously curated, I’ve culled a few of my favorites. Pull up a chair, and I’ll tell you all about it…

When they first hatched, a Facebook friend suggested they looked like plump raisins with candycorn beaks. They were roughly an inch long, and were less than 1/3 the heft of a U.S. dime. But look how much they grew and developed, in just 2 weeks!

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Even when their peepers hadn’t fully open, they sensed their mother’s approach.

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Aryana was a whirring blur of motion. No surprise, given that she had two mouths to feed, and a nest to defend against fluff-snatching rivals. I actually saw a female hummingbird snatch a wad of cotton from Aryana’s nest; but before she made her way clear of the fuchsia, Aryana was in hot pursuit, scolding and dive-bombing her like a fighter jet.

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On very rare occasions, she cozied up to her brood in the nest. Even then, she was watchful.

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In that shaded alcove, Aryana’s babies were relatively safe. They were shielded from the elements and well-camouflaged. But when the afternoon sun brightened that dark corner, she used her body to shield them from eagle-eyed predators.

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Wendy and Peter grew bigger by the hour, it seemed, and looked more like their mama every day.

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As their bodies expanded, their walnut-sized home seemed to shrink.  But the nest held fast, thanks to the magical properties of spider silk, one of the building materials Aryana instinctively knew to use.

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While their mama was away, the hatchling flapped their wings (wingercizing, some called it), and watched the skies for her return.

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Aryana seemed unfazed by my presence, mainly because I was quiet and unobtrusive. Once they were moving around more, she even allowed me to record a short video.

In the blink of an eye, it seemed, Aryana’s babies were ready to make their way into the world. Wendy flew away first, leaving her younger brother more room in which to spread his wings.

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It wasn’t long before Peter got the urge to follow her. Here’s what that final push looked like.

“Never say goodbye,” said Peter Pan, “because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”

 

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I saw both hatchlings take to the sky. Sheer magic, like few people ever get to see in their lifetimes! And just so you know how rare and wonderful this really is: researchers estimate that only 17-59% of a nest’s inhabitants actually make it from hatching to full feathering and fledging.

We’ve hosted several hummingbird families at Chez Shore now. Blessings though they may be, they sometimes revealed to us the darker, seemingly cruel aspects of nature. But on the whole, their stories had happily-ever-after endings, same as Wendy and Peter’s.

They’ve flown the coop, but they haven’t gone far. Aryana’s watching over them in our garden, showing them the best food sources (including but not limited to “her” window feeder), and teaching them how to find/defend their new territory.

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A couple of days ago, I was trimming the sweet potato vine in our side yard. A hummingbird whirred past my ear and landed on a nearby branch. It watched me work for a long while, tilting its head and cheeping. Most likely, it was Aryana or one of her fledglings. Heartwarming epilogue, am I right? But lemme also tell you about the task I’ve been avoiding. To wit: those teensy birds spattered a huge (yuuuuge!) mess o’ poop on the stucco walls that surrounded their tiny nest. The Crap They Leave Behind: let’s include that chapter title in a book for ‪Empty Nesters‬.

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