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The Morning Bird Pic will be going on hiatus for the following week -- feel free to tell me in the comments if you think it should return or stay gone…
Here’s the last one for now, a picture from one year ago almost exactly: a heron in the backyard of my Uncle Dewey and Aunt Dee’s house in Florida. Last July, when we were informed that Uncle Dewey was in home hospice, my dad and I made arrangements to fly down to visit. Dewey was the youngest of the five brothers my grandparents had produced; my father was the second youngest: Albert, Rodney, Harry, Walter, Dewey. My uncles Al, Rod, and Harry had already passed away over the last few years in eerie birth order, my Uncle Harry just nine months before in November of 2012. Dad had told me not long after Uncle Harry’s death, somewhat jokingly, that he guessed he’d be next. That wasn’t to be.
As it turned out, Uncle Dewey passed away while we were there. I know Dad was glad that he’d been able to be with him at the end, to support his ‘little’ brother and to say goodbye to him… and I know that Uncle Dewey rallied enough to recognize Dad when we arrived.
What I didn’t know then was that this would be the last trip I’d ever take with my father. He would pass away himself a bare three months later, after a fall that broke his hip.
The heron was a fixture at my aunt and uncle’s house; they fed it sardines, and it would come to the yard looking for fishy handouts a couple times a day. This had been going on for a long time -- in fact, Aunt Dee said she suspected that this heron might be from another generation entirely. They’d named him “Mort” (thanks, Kim, for reminding me of the name!)
So here’s Mort, standing in the backyard. And here’s my father, on the dock in that same backyard; if you look closely in the background of Dad’s picture, you’ll see Mort again, standing at attention by the window of Uncle Dewey’s bedroom.
Here’s the last one for now, a picture from one year ago almost exactly: a heron in the backyard of my Uncle Dewey and Aunt Dee’s house in Florida. Last July, when we were informed that Uncle Dewey was in home hospice, my dad and I made arrangements to fly down to visit. Dewey was the youngest of the five brothers my grandparents had produced; my father was the second youngest: Albert, Rodney, Harry, Walter, Dewey. My uncles Al, Rod, and Harry had already passed away over the last few years in eerie birth order, my Uncle Harry just nine months before in November of 2012. Dad had told me not long after Uncle Harry’s death, somewhat jokingly, that he guessed he’d be next. That wasn’t to be.
As it turned out, Uncle Dewey passed away while we were there. I know Dad was glad that he’d been able to be with him at the end, to support his ‘little’ brother and to say goodbye to him… and I know that Uncle Dewey rallied enough to recognize Dad when we arrived.
What I didn’t know then was that this would be the last trip I’d ever take with my father. He would pass away himself a bare three months later, after a fall that broke his hip.
The heron was a fixture at my aunt and uncle’s house; they fed it sardines, and it would come to the yard looking for fishy handouts a couple times a day. This had been going on for a long time -- in fact, Aunt Dee said she suspected that this heron might be from another generation entirely. They’d named him “Mort” (thanks, Kim, for reminding me of the name!)
So here’s Mort, standing in the backyard. And here’s my father, on the dock in that same backyard; if you look closely in the background of Dad’s picture, you’ll see Mort again, standing at attention by the window of Uncle Dewey’s bedroom.