Illinois Valley News, Cave Junction, Ore. Wednesday, August 8, 2018
Page A-9
Winding Trails: by Al Hobart
Thursday, August 1, 1968
Illinois Valley News
Birds –Bandida
Like the flowers, low water
and other natural phenomena that
we greet with mixed emotions
each season, desertion time has
come early this year to Packer’s
Gulch. The pleasure of watching
the interesting goings-on in my
handkerchief-size front yard from
my kitchen window, especially in
the early evening when everybody
comes fluttering in for a final
snack before seeking a cozy hidden
roost for the night, now has to be
postponed for an indefinite period.
The baby vireos, four tiny bits
of life, who first saw the light of day
in a dark corner of my woodshed,
grew to exuberant teen-hood
practically overnight and slipped
away without allowing me a final
inspection to see how their color
or any special markings on their
miniature new suits compare with
those of their elders. First feathers
of the young of any bird species are
usually drab and inconspicuous,
in the interest of natural protection
I suppose, and it’s interesting to
watch the change of the baby garb
to the characteristic, often colorful
markings of the adults. But my wee
vireos have flown the coop and
I’ll probably not see the shy little
rascals again till they look just like
mama and papa, dressed in dark
tan and greenish-yellow, and with
conspicuous white rings encircling
the eyes.
My colorful Western towhee,
with her sharply contrasting colors
of black, orange and white with
ruby-red eyes, proudly presented
her two babies for my admiring
inspection – for another front-yard
first. This beautiful towhee is one
of my favorites. It is a ground and
low-cover bird and the way it slips
nimbly about in a tangle thicket of
brush appears to be more of a crawl
than a flight. The babies were very
shy, only occasionally venturing out
into the open, usually lurking under
the low-hanging dense foliage of
the lilac bush, waiting hungrily for
mama to come from that dangerous
open space with another beakful
of chickenfeed. Now the towhee
family too is gone, and I miss
the plaintive, mewling low cry of
the female that told me when a
strange bird or animal was around
and posing a possible threat to her
babies.
Last week a pair of mountain
quail brought in their brood of
newly-hatched young for their
introduction to the feedyard.But
now even these year-round visitors,
the mountain quail, seem to have
deserted me. Once in awhile a junco
shows up for a halfhearted peck or
two at the chickenfeed, but insects
and early-maturing plant seeds are so
plentiful now that food is no problem
for any of the birds.
And so the parents are away
with their new broods, teaching them
the tricks of survival in their new,
hostile world and showing them
the wonders to enjoy along shaded
streams in the cool forest and in the
flowery, sunny meadows.
But in the temporary absence of
the familiar bird songsters I am still
reminded by the doleful cooing of
the ever-present mourning doves that
I haven’t been altogether deserted by
my feathered family. And until the
birds all come flocking back I can
always rely on Bandida, the masked
clown, to furnish me with evening
entertainment.
Bandida, my dependable little
raccoon, never fails me, and some
of these days I’m hoping she will
show up with some wee coonlets in
tow.In early evening she climbs up
over the end of the porch, stands up
tall on her hind feet and peers into
the kitchen window, then, takes up
Breast Caner 101: by Laura Cogdell
Cancer ages you -
sometimes I feel like 20 but
mostly I feel like 100.
“Invasive ductal
carcinoma,” the words
sounded like something the
dermatologist freezes off. A
few days later I looked it up
on my phone. I had breast
cancer.
My recent mammogram
showed no indication. Why?
I am blessed with dense
breasts.(Sarcasm intended.)
It was discovered on self
exam. Had it not been for the
urging of a persistent, OK
annoying, friend, I would
have blown it off as one of
many cysts I had before.
Even at the biopsy stage - no
problem. I had those before
too. Ironically, we were
watching the other side the
past year. The ultrasound and
biopsy showed it was small
but dangerous.
OK, so are you ER+/
PR+, HER? And what about
your BRCA testing? What
…? I have had friends
with cancer, even breast
cancer, but this was a totally
foreign language to me.
You quickly learn the lingo
and that cancer treatment
involves both actualities and
probabilities. It really has
two phases. The “get it out of
me before it kills me” phase
and the “prevent this thing
from coming back” phase.
Genetic testing plays
a huge role in both. The
BRCA blood tests identify
whether you are born with
harmful mutations in either
one of the two breast cancer
genes. These hereditary
mutations can be linked to a
woman’s risk of developing
breast, ovarian and other
cancers. The Oncotype DX
test analyzes the activity of
a group of genes within the
tumor itself to determine
how likely cancer is to recur
distantly and if chemotherapy
is recommended.
Understandably, a
cancer diagnosis can evoke
some interesting responses:
“I am sorry. I will be praying
for you,” helpful; “Aunt
Flo had breast cancer and
survived. You will be fine,”
not helpful; “You are in
my thoughts. I love you,”
helpful; “They have many
advances now, piece of
cake,” not helpful; “Anything
I can do to help, just let me
know;” helpful. “Who do you
think you are in that turban,
the Queen of Sheba?” not
helpful; “You are a fighter.
You can beat this,” helpful;
and “Well, you did drink a lot
of diet sodas,” not helpful.
Cancer is no respecter
of persons. All cancer is
serious and can be deadly,
from the tiniest melanoma
all the way up to devastating
glioblastoma. People die
from stage I and survive
stage IV. That is why the
staging system gave way to
a multiple factor system in
2018.
There are tons of
suggested remedies and
preventions out there,
most of them chasing after
wind. Study the science.
No one knows for certain
what causes cancer. There
is, however, great promise
in immunotherapy. These
treatments and vaccines
will revolutionize cancer
prevention and treatment.
Progress, though slow, is
being made.
Until then, love on
someone suffering from this
dreadful disease.
her position right at the crack of the
door, sitting there patiently on her
haunches just like a little watchdog,
waiting for me to come out with
her supper. About an hour after her
main meal she always comes back
for a little snack, usually a handful
of dog-food pellets, which she is
especially fond of before retiring to
her mysterious retreat somewhere
out there in the dark woods beyond
the creek.
In spite of my friendly
overtures and generous patronage
the birds will only allow me to
approach them to within what they
consider a reasonably safe distance.
But appreciative little Bandida will
now accept food right from my
fingers. Only once (just last night)
did she miscalculate, and nipped a
finger with her needle-sharp teeth.
It hurt like fury, but in order to keep
from hurting her feelings I stoically
pretended not to notice.
After all, hasn’t one of our
good American customs always been
an occasional nip among friends.