Ugly Pole, Beautiful Songs

It is the scourge of anyone who buys a house with a "million-dollar view." What's more, it leans at such an angle that the right windstorm will topple it onto our shop building. It's ugly, old, and right in the middle of our panoramic view of the Carson Range.

I have hoity-toity friends who place furniture just so in order to hide infrastructural elements. One friend went so far as to place throw pillows in front of electrical outlets. Their random positions only looked more absurd. When I had the temerity to ask why, she cocked her head in her imperious manner, fluttered her lashes for affect, and stated, "I don't like looking at things that remind me of how the house functions." Wasn't she concerned about causing a fire?

So, I looked at this monstrosity when we first arrived at our new house and sighed. "If anything is a reminder of how the house functions, that's it … with a capital F." A thick, twisted cable wire spanned across the garden from the pole to the house, bringing us Internet and TV. Other wires provided power to our neighbor's house. Even though he has relocated, leaving his house empty, removing this eyesore would require some major agency negotiations.

After a decade of staring at the thing, the power company finally installed a much taller pole, standing erect in perfect alignment, and slightly to the side pf our million-dollar view. My Beloved informed me the cable company has to remove their wires before the power company can remove the old pole. The cable company, however, is taking their sweet time. So now we have two poles.

After a decade of looking around this pole to the mountains beyond, however, I have grown accustomed to its place and purpose in the natural habitat. Scanning the tendrils of wisteria twisting along the wire near the house, I realize the pole isn't an aberration; it's an adjunct to the trellis. Not only does a host of doves enjoy swinging on the cable, they and many other birds perch upon it throughout the day, searching for the cat who enjoys lying in the shade of the birdbath. It is where all kinds of birds court and woo in earnest, using this trysting place as a literal jumping off point for their next family. And often as I relax in the lawn swing, I watch lizards scurrying up, down and all around, chasing each other in territorial, or perhaps amorous, pursuits.

It has become a landmark, an institution, a vital part of our environment. 

It's a concert stage for desert thrushes, one of whom perched there to let loose long arias of passion, plagiarizing every other bird's pickup line. Like the lilting nightingale heard along coastal California, the desert thrush's trills and arpeggios can be heard for miles through the dry air. Sound carries here in a way that birdcalls cut through the calm wild land silence like a finger tracing a wine glass. Whenever he sang, as if just for me, his song shattered the malaise from my consciousness. Nothing mattered any more when that melody blessed our one-acre Eden.

It turns out, also, that the ugly pole is a local hook-up bar for owls, one of which called to another for about a week. One night, I decided to see if I could catch a glimpse of its. The hooting was loud, followed by another call far away. This owl, though, had to be just outside my doorway. As I crept under the wisteria trellis, the voice almost deafened me. Peeking upward toward the sound, I spotted the silhouette of an owl in the full-moon light, sitting atop the ugly pole.

Last summer, we saw a strange, brilliant yellow blob in the fork of one of our elms. The tree is a favorite haunt for raptors and owls who gaze lovingly at our hens in the chicken run. We thought this oozing, alien glob was ... well, an oozing alien glob, some kind of fungus invading our tree. Then we went on with our lives, allowing it to become whatever Andromeda strain it was destined to become.

Yesterday, I looked at our ugly power pole and there was this brilliant yellow, oozing, alien thing growing out of the top. A closer look, though, revealed it was actually a child's stuffed toy, perhaps a wayward and bedraggled Winnie the Pooh who had wandered into our One-Acre Wood. There's a very strong and playful raptor out there having far too much fun. Or maybe that amorous owl is getting desperate for companionship. Ravens also have been known to borrow anything that piques their interest.

After the new pole was erected and the crew cut part of the old pole off for reasons that escape my logic, the birds rarely perch there. A ragged sliver of wood shoots skyward from their stage, perhaps making a graceful landing more difficult. There are other venues in the neighborhood … such as the taller new pole.

Something, though, has happened to our neighborhood. I don't know whether it's the late snows from the past few years or the spiritual vibration caused by human angst, but the area has become a little bit bereft of natural voices. I haven't seen or heard a desert thrush in years. While there were more owls last winter crooning for love, they have also kept to themselves during summer. Ducks and geese make their presence known, but the frogs, their pond frozen in a late storm, are slowly returning to the chorus. I do believe I spied something froglike hopping through the lawn a couple of nights ago. We're keeping the grass a bit longer in an attempt to create a wildflower meadow. (That's another saga.)

Actually, it's not silent so much as it is a change. New species have entered our garden. The old ones still appear, but in fewer numbers. With the diversity of newcomers, the ratio of dominant species has shifted. And just the other day, I watched with delight as what I think was a kingbird perched upon the wire. Now and then, it would dart out a few meters, then return to its place. Again and again. I realized it was snatching bugs in flight. I remembered the little kingbird chick I found near the henhouse and fed for a couple of weeks until I released it. I wondered … hoped, really … that this was my little kingbird returning, or perhaps one of her progeny.

Whatever my Disney-fed dreams, that ugly old pole is still standing there, slanting toward the shop building, ready to collapse. It's still doing its job of keeping the household and the garden functioning. And I hope the cable company forgets it's there.

All of these fuzzy photos obviously have been taken by Sue Cauhape’s ancient cell phone.

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