A MOCKINGBIRD NAMED TEX

When we lived in Burleson, we began to feed the wild birds and got great pleasure watching them. Rick was an avid porch-sitter and kept a small galvanized "garbage can" for this bird seed on the back porch near his chair. I was the one with the binoculars and the bird books identifying newcomers and making lists. Rick just sat in his chair and enjoyed watching them. 

Sometime along in there, a Northern Mockingbird decided to make our yard his home. The first year his song was pretty but not very complex. We thought he might move on when winter came, but he stayed. The following spring, his song had become a bit more complex and he began to get friendly with us. We named him Tex since the Northern Mockingbird is the state bird of Texas. When Rick would mow on his riding mower, Tex would follow him flying from fencepost to fencepost, swooping down to gobble up insects stirred up by the mower blades. He wintered over with us again that winter. 

By the third spring, he became quite the entertainer serenading us with a much longer song. I did some research and learned that you can tell a male mockingbird's age by the complexity and length of his song. Each year he will add more bird calls and songs. This makes him more attractive to the females as they know that he is a strong, long-lived bird. Tex was rewarded that summer with a fine mate. They nested in a tall, thick hedge at the back of our lot and Tex was quite proud when his brood fledged. 

As the years went by, Tex became friendlier and friendlier. When Rick would do his woodworking in the garage, Tex would fly in and light on the wood he was so carefully measuring and hop from board to board chirping and giving advice. There was once that I thought Tex was going to follow Rick into the house. Tex changed his mind at the last minute, but Rick would have happily let him in. 

The spring that we sold the house to make the move back to the Houston area, we estimated that Tex was seven years old and near the end of his lifespan. We hated to leave him but hoped that he would serenade the new owners and give them the pleasure he had given us over the years. 

Once we were settled in our new home in Crosby, we again erected all our bird feeders and were rewarded with a large variety of birds in our big back yard, especially during spring and fall migration. We lamented the fact, however, that we didn't have a regular Northern Mockingbird to serenade us and we frequently talked about Tex and how we missed him. Oh, we'd have an occasional mockingbird but none were regulars. 

The morning after Rick died, I took my morning coffee to the back porch. There had been a violent, but glorious, thunderstorm the night before. It had cleared overnight and the air was clean and the droplets of water left by the storm were sparkling in the early morning sun. It was then that I heard him. A Northern Mockingbird lit in the tall crape myrtle and began to serenade me. Remembering Tex and times gone by, I cried. 

I don't think it was a coincidence that the mockingbird came that morning. I believe that he was sent to cheer me and remind me to continue to see and hear all the beauty that is in this world. He comes every morning and sings while I have my morning coffee. I have named him Tex.

The Race

Chris wrote this for our pastor to read during Rick's memorial service. There have been so many positive comments and requests for it that I decided I should post it here. THE RACE Chris Ulrickson May 16, 2010 There are many stories I could tell about my dad. I have known him as long as I can remember and I can remember quite a ways back. When my did first went into the hospital after his heart attack and his prognosis was uncertain, one memory of him stood out from the rest. I knew he would be okay. I knew he would survive the surgery. It was a late fall evening in the early- to mid-80s when I was in my early teens, I recall. My mom, my dad, my sister and I were sitting around talking. I cannot now remember what the conversation was, but my dad told me if I did something (I cannot remember what that would have been now.), he would "whoop" me. Being that I was young, cocky and stupid, I told my dad, "You would have to catch me first." The challenge was on. My boast stirred my dad up and he asked me if I actually thought I could out run him. "Who was he kidding?" I thought. Here I was young, running in P.E. at my school every day, climbing trees and riding my bicycle around Seabrook all the time. My dad was overweight and I could not recall ever seeing him run anywhere. He didn't even own a pair of sneakers. I didn't have to think about it, or maybe I should say I DIDN'T think about what I was going to say. I told him, "Yes, I can out run you." Quietly, my dad got up and grabbed his loafer shoes. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips as he slipped on his shoes and said, "Let's go." I put on my shoes and we went outside to the street. It was dark out and the street was illuminated by the porch lights from the houses. We lined up and my dad let me say, "Go." The race was on. We were racing to the end of the street. I knew I was going to beat him. I started off strong--or so I thought--until in the light I could see the silhouette of my dad running ahead of me. I could hear the sound of his loafers hitting the concrete in a steady cadence as he left me behind. Dad won. It wasn't that I was a slow runner or I let my dad win. It was none of these things. My dad won because he had the drive to prove to me that I should never make outrageous boasts. When I got to the end of the street, we were both out of breath and breathing hard. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say. Silently we both walked back to the house worn out from the full-out sprint. I realized a lot of things about my dad in that moment. I realized if my dad wanted to "whoop" me he was going to and I couldn't out run him. I also realized that I was stupid to be so boastful. Mainly, I realized you should never, under any circumstances, underestimate my dad because he will prove you wrong. We went inside and never talked about that race ever again. I never made a stupid boast or challenge to my dad again. Over the years, I saw my dad in many acts of courage, strength and kindness. In later years and over time, I realized I never had a chance that night. My dad had been through many situations and experiences I couldn't have competed with that night. I knew as he lay there in the Cooley 6A Intensive Care Unit that he was going to make it through the surgery and be back home with Mom sooner than later. I never ever had a doubt about my dad's strength and courage. In my memory, I can still see my dad's silhouette running off to my right beating me badly in that race. It is a memory I have held all these years and a lesson I will never forget. I told my mom this story when dad was still in the hospital. She told me that Dad had also talked to her about that race very recently. He told her he didn't think he could beat me in a race now. I wouldn't even try because the way I see it, he already won.

Sorrow

"The pain was not gone, he doubted it would ever go, but it had changed from violent grief to sorrow. The tears no longer came in torrents." These thoughts were attributed to John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, following the death of his first wife, Blanche, of the plague in 1369. (Carol Sargeant, Love, Honour and Royal Blood, 2009, p74). I am not quite to that point 100 percent of the time yet, but I can tell I am getting there. Tears seem to be so near the surface at all times and I never seem to know when they are going to start flowing, but they have come in torrents only once in the past week. The ache is becoming a bit duller as time passes. Perhaps I should say a word about John of Gaunt who has been my favorite character in history for over four decades. The third and oldest surviving son of Edward III of England, he was one of the most powerful men of 14th Century England. He was a close friend of both Geoffrey Chaucer and John Wycliff. I have studied his life and the life of his third wife, Katherine Swynford, for years. In 2000, while doing research on my family history, I was astounded and delighted to learn that I am a descendant of John and Katherine. They are my grandparents seventeen generations back. It is hard for me to realize that yesterday marked the ninth week since Rick's heart attack and the fourth week since his death. Most of the time it doesn't seem that long. Last night was the easiest Friday evening I have had since his passing. I was sure to keep myself busy and avoided looking at the clock so that I wouldn't mark the events of April 9 and May 14 as I have on previous Fridays. I'm sure that I will always recall special memories on Fridays. After all, we met on a Friday evening in 1962. I can still visualize the way he looked the first time I saw him. I was standing on the second floor exterior walkway of the apartment house I had just moved into, and he was standing on the ground looking up at me when my new roommate introduced us. Last week was good. On Monday we learned that our niece, Joan, was in town from Kansas. On Wednesday she came over with her daughter who lives here and four of her grandchildren. Amy and Ray stayed home and Chris came with his three children so we had a mini family reunion. It was so good to see Joan, Shelly and the children. Joan reminds me so much of her mother, Rick's late sister, Rose Mary. On Thursday my long-time friend, Karen Carter, came over to take me to lunch. We had a nice, long (and delicious) lunch at the Teapot Depot and then went "junking." She's a great one for thrift stores. Maybe together, she and Donna can convert me. We came back to the house and just visited. It was a near perfect day. Thanks, Karen. I am feeling a need to get in touch with old friends. I guess it's because I now realize how tenuous life is. I realized that Rick's and my time together was growing shorter each year, but I thought we'd have at least another 10 or 15 years. Shortly after he died, I realized that if I live to be the age my mother was when she died, I will live 17 years without Rick. It seems almost unbearable but I know I can make it. I just pray that I make intelligent decisions about my future. It's Saturday and Amy and Ray are selling at two farmers' markets today. Katherine and William are up and so my day has started. Yard work, here I come.