James D. Hogan

Sundays | For the birds. And titmice.

On March 3, 2013

A Tufted Titmouse. Via allaboutbirds.org

Learning to love the least of these, my brethren.

One of my favorite things about our new house is that it has several big windows, which look out onto a wooded yard. Given how the house sits on a sloped lot, and the land falls away in the back, it can feel at times as if you’re on the side of a mountain. I love it.

We have a lovely window over the sink in the kitchen that looks toward the neighbor’s house, and right outside is a mature dogwood tree. It’s bare now, of course, but I cannot wait for spring to creep forward a little further, so I can watch it bloom.

My mother-in-law gave us a bird feeder for Christmas, and when we opened it up, I knew exactly that we ought to hang it outside the kitchen window from one of the dangling branches of the dogwood. So we did. I went to the store and bought ten pounds of seed. I filled it up and fashioned a hook from which to hang it. And then we waited.

It didn’t take long for a flock of birds to arrive. They were gorgeous. I’m no Audubon, so I cannot deliver a rundown in Latin, but there were blue birds and finches, cardinals and red-bellied woodpeckers, jays and warblers and whippoorwills.

And then there was the Tufted Titmouse.

Deep in the Heart

By James D. Hogan

On January 13, 2013

In diary

FAMILY

“If anyone asks, just say you’re from Texas, and if that’s not good enough, tell ’em to go to hell.” —Nana

It’s summer between seventh and eighth grade in middle school. I would turn 13 that August, and my grandparents on Dad’s side were taking my brother, Brian, and me to Texas. It was like a family vacation, only it was two weeks and change long, and my parents weren’t coming along. I guess you could call it one of my grandparents’ retirement trips. They took off for a couple of weeks because they could. We got to go with them.

We drove the entire way in a burgundy Oldsmobile, winding west, stopping now and then to rest along Interstate 10, Nana and Brian in the backseat, Paps and me in the front seat. I was the designated navigator, outfitted with cool shades, an atlas, and a sense of direction much better than my grandmother’s. Brian played pocket video games, and his most urgent request was that whatever motel we stayed in that night had a swimming pool. We laid up for the second night of our trip some place in Louisiana. We’d pulled off the highway early, probably four in the afternoon or so. Paps was taking the drive down slowly.

It was a classic side-of-the-road motor lodge, the kind where the pool and its concrete deck were off to the side, near the parking lot, with a teal iron fence around it. The wind was blowing the bayou air, and leaves and bugs littered the water’s chlorinated surface. We had about thirty minutes to splash around (although I only remember Brian jumping in) before the thunder started rumbling beyond the interstate. Soon the thunderheads rolled over for a drenching rain. We ate supper at a Shoney’s that night and fell asleep to the glow of a television broadcasting a baseball game, the room’s air conditioner blasting away under the window.

In this brilliant moment

By James D. Hogan

On December 11, 2012

In writing

Go back to the beginning. Start over.

I am thinking of the beautiful seconds in life, the kind where a passing glance is an open window, is a brief respite, a new beginning, a slow warming inside.

I think of an Indiana sunset, of being struck by the empty expanse of earth around me, the perfect altitude of clouds, the urge to pull over, stop the car on the side of the interstate, and gaze for a few moments.

This morning on the way to daycare, my daughter, in the backseat, looking out of the window at the world passing, watching like I’ve never seen her watch before, paying attention in new ways. She turns, catches me watching her, and smiles. I reach back and pat her knee, and she reaches out and pats my hand in turn.

I needed to get away from my email this morning, so I walked downtown for coffee. I see the fellow who runs the local inn, who pedals his guests in a pedicab in the mornings. They have stopped to admire the old buildings on campus.