Holiday Letter 2021

Copyright 2021 by Alan M. Puckett

Seattle

December 02, 2021 (Hey, that’s a palindrome: 12-02-2021 !)

Hi, Everybody—

So here I am, writing one of those All-Points Bulletin “To Whom It May Concern” holiday letters. What’s the world coming to, for cryin’ out loud? But greeting cards are harder to find this year and my old eyes get squiggly in short order when I sit down to scribble out more than a few lines by hand these days, so here it is: Happy Holidays! (Feel free to translate as appropriate in order to mollify the deity /-ies of your preference.)

A year ago I was telling whoever would listen what seemed obvious at the time: 2021 was sure to be a better year than the one we had just struggled through. We’d all get vaccinated in the new year; the economy would recover; and we’d finally be able to throw out that disgusting, moldy orange we were so sick of looking at.

Well, one out of three. At least the orange debris is gone to the compost pile, though not without a struggle. Democracy a dirty word in the U.S. of A.? Who knew?

In a belated effort to salvage any credibility I may have left, I’m not making predictions about much of anything this year. I’m done telling people what to eat or how to vote, or that they really should give yoga a try. If you can read this you already know what to do, so carry on.

After a hellish, scorching summer dry as a New Mexico drought year and periodically choked with wildfire smoke here, we’ve been getting caught up on our rainfall with a vengeance over the past couple of months. Those of us who haven’t been directly in the path of fires or floods this year know that we’ve been lucky, and are grateful. The ground is saturated now and after a few good windy blows it’s stick season here, with most of the trees standing bare and naked against the sky like skinny-dippers who haven’t worked up the courage to jump. Every fall and winter we see at least a few trees uprooted by strong winds after soaking rains, and the AmTrak line to the north between Seattle and Everett gets closed periodically due to landslides. Both these things have happened already this fall, but we’ve been much more fortunate right here in Rat City than folks in northwestern Washington and up into British Columbia, where there have been deaths and widespread property damage. Seems like Mother Earth might be trying to tell us something…

In early December at this latitude the sun makes a token appearance each day like the boss’s son who comes into the shop at 10am and leaves by 3pm. But the sun’s low arc to the south gives us a generous helping of warm rays through the front windows here at the Hermit Ranch, when it does show up for work. We’re grateful.

Some of the birds we see up this way are here all year ‘round: Black-Capped Chickadees; Dark-Eyed Juncos; American Robins; various Gulls (there are too many kinds, and too many of them—don’t get me started); Crows (ditto on their numbers, but only one variety here as far as I know); Surf Scoters that bob like corks in the treacherous waves along the rocky shore, and lots more. Western Towhees show up in my yard once in a while, easily mistaken for Robins with spiffier paint jobs (though no relation, far as I know). Western Scrub Jays also show up from time to time, looking like a Steller’s Jay in a tuxedo with sharper, brighter colors and a longer tail, but no mohawk on top. The Anna’s Hummingbird must have antifreeze in its veins, being the only hummer to stick around these parts through the cold months.

We also get winter migrants that drop down from points north, most of whom are here by now: Buffleheads and their cousin, the Goldeneye; Grebes; Common Mergansers, and other ducky folk. Thought I saw an Osprey a couple of weeks ago but didn’t get enough of a look to be sure; they’re common here in the summer and are fun to watch but it’s been six weeks or so since I spotted one for certain. I think the Harlequin Ducks are here year ‘round, but I don’t see them too often in my neck of the woods.

In the back yard, Towhees kick and pick at the ground as chickens do. A Northern Flicker digs in the grass with its rapier beak, always watchful as ground birds must be; raucous Steller’s Jays mouth off to whoever’s around. Juncos come and go in flash mobs, helping themselves to any grass seed I’m optimistic enough to spread on bare patches of ground.

On a morning walk along the water a couple of days ago a stiff, mild breeze from the south churned up whiteheads across the Sound. A flotilla of Mergansers bobbed and surfed offshore; a Bald Eagle soared and circled overhead in the updraft above a ridge just inland. Earlier this week a Harbor Seal moved along with me as I walked, swimming mostly underwater and more than matching my pace without apparent effort. A Great Blue heron stalked and waded along the rocky shallows, waiting for a careless flounder to volunteer itself for breakfast.

Sea lions are always here, though not as often where I walk these days as around the point on the leeward side of the West Seattle peninsula. It’s not hard to find them if one feels the need. Orcas and various whales turn up frequently in these parts, though I haven’t seen either with my own eyes in a couple of years. Harbor porpoises make an occasional appearance, usually moving like they’re late for an appointment somewhere. Gotta be in the right place at the right time to see any of those guys. Knowing that they’re here feels good, though, and keeps me watching when I’m near the water. The continuing rhythms of the natural world are a source of comfort and a respite from the follies we humans inflict on ourselves and each other.

On the other hand, murder hornets haven’t turned up in my backyard yet, but they keep finding them about an hour north of here—so that may be a matter of time, unfortunately. It’s always something, y’know?

With the state of the country and the world these days it seems uncertain what the next year will bring, or if we’ll all be here to see whatever does transpire. I’m sad that we lost my sister Peg’s husband, Randy, this year—he was the gentlest and most kind-hearted of all the Pucketts. Oh, wait–Randy wasn’t a Puckett. OK. Well anyway, I’m sad that he’s gone after being part of our family for more than 50 years, and of course the rest of us never know when our time will come. So my New Year’s resolution is to be more like Randy while I’m still here.

My previous statement about predictions notwithstanding, I’ll go out on a limb here: it seems a reasonable bet that 2022 will be an(other) interesting twelve months, one way or another. Ah, boredom—we miss you!

Whatever happens, I hope the holidays and the coming year are peaceful in your part of the world and that you find something to make you marvel or grin or laugh too loudly at least once in a while, during 2022 and beyond.  

Stay safe, I’ll write again next year.