Bufniţă (Owl)

An old photo reminds me of my family tree. I can never really find it even after digging through the hundreds of pictures in an old shopping bag where we keep them all. I do end up seeing it but I always end up burying it again. It was one with my grandfather and his brothers and sister all young and around the dinner table. It was made of one solid piece of tree that they cut and formed themselves. That was the first ever photo they had together. That must have been in the 1950’s. Since then, my grandparents moved to the city of Cluj and had my father. When he reached the age to leave the nest, my father then moved to America where he had my brother, my sister, and I, who make up the freshest branch of our family tree. Every summer or so, especially in our childhood, we would go there and visit. I can’t find that photo anymore. It must be buried in the hundreds of other family photos. As large as we are. We were once small.

My grandfather came from a farmer family, which means he had many siblings to help take care of the bountiful land. He had four brothers and one sister. Each of them had children and each of their children had children. So my family out there is very large. I have around one hundred plus members of my family, including uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins. We have a lot to visit out there and we do visit as much as we can. Yet we always go out to the farm where it all started and spent our time there. My great uncle, my grandfather's brother, still lives on the farm where they all grew up together.

My grandfather lived in the city, and it was far from the country, so it would be a full day trip when we would visit the old roots of the family tree. The road was flat asphalt and calm and smooth until we reached the sign that said, Acuma intrati in Dabaca (You have now entered Dabaca), then the potholes and the degraded grain began. It was a bumpy road all the way through like those ripples of sand you see on the ocean floor. It felt like the road was attacking us as we made our way. It made the car growl and turn out. Little pebbles made from years of gradation mixed with tiny canyons in the cement would fly up and dust the air. I would hold my head up against the glass as we drove out there. It was trembling against it and then I would wonder why I had a headache. I don’t remember what the reason for holding my head to the window was. I was probably trying to feel the cold of the glass. No matter how hot the air would blow through the ducts of the car, the glass would stay cold as ice. I can still smell the flood of warm cotton interior of the car like a warm snow storm. When we showed up to my uncle's farm, that headache would go away. All the remnants of the trembling glass and the heated car would flurry up into the melting sky.

We always parked across the street, making sure we left room in front of the house in case he was coming home with the tractor late or the cows were coming in. The gate has been painted red to cover up the old crusty rusted glaze that has been there for years. Only recently, I think it was the fall before we came, they poured the concrete that attached to the end of the gate and the part that holds over the little red door into the yard and replaced that door last year since the hinges tore off after many disintegrating decades. The pinnacle heat of the day passed as the sun melted around the tall hill. You could see the glaze of it over the grass turning their tips golden. It was always afternoon by the time we got there. We left in the morning and spent too long on the road.

My siblings and I ran to the house without looking both ways. There weren’t many cars on the road to look for anyway. We knew that the key was tied to a string just inside of the door by the gate. As soon as we showed up to the red gate with the cement ends, we would tuck our thin arms, scratching our skin against the cement through the little gap, and unlocked the door. We ran through and left my parents to close it for us. We immediately went to the animals. Usually the chickens would be running freely and making a mess of their droppings like little pebbles all over the ancient floor. Already in the yard, as scamperous and excited we were, checking to see if the seasons changed how many animals had been dirtying up the yard. Sometimes he would have all white chickens with very thick legs. Almost always there would be fluffy rabbits in their small cages right on the edge of the garage. He had two cages, one for the babies and another for the mother. They are kept separate so the mother can eat without the babies getting in the way. He had a dog tied up in the second yard. It was there to keep out any foxes that would come by at night. That’s where he keeps the outhouse and the hay and the corn for feed. We would go out and pet that dog and our great uncle would hear the barking and come outside to see us. He always smiled at us. We’d be happy to see him. We ran over and squeezed him with our hugs, feeling that rough country body with that leather skin and said, “wow, you sure got big” like the sarcastic kids we were and he’d laugh and say, “come work with me out here and you’ll get big like me”. I asked like I always did, “Hey Uncle, can I ride the tractor?”. He said he’d let me if I could find the keys, but I never would be able to find them.

On that visit on the farm, like the other times, the shade helped our brains put the day to a close, we ran around chasing chickens and when we caught one we would hold them up to show him and the others gathered around. My great aunt and my grandfather and my father and mother and a cousin would sit in the yard and watch us play. The chicks were easier to catch since they were smaller. The one time we chased the rooster it bit my brother so we figured we’d leave it alone. The ducks flapped away from us. Sometimes across the entire yard. And the rabbits in their cages were the easiest to pet since they would stay in there and we would pick them up, rub them, and put them back so they wouldn’t run away. Rabbits are very fast, especially the small ones. He had pigs too. They were tucked in the second yard, next to the barn. My brother would jump on the metal board between their cage next to the trough and it would make a metal thunder noise that would scare them away and he would laugh. He’d do that while I would stare up at a few chickens who were put up in the barn. They were sitting on nests, making me wonder, why were they up there? Then I heard my father yell out to me, “Come on Paul, the cows are coming home”. My favorite part was when the cows came home from grazing all day.

They left in the morning, my great uncle told me on our first trip to the country years ago. They walked around with a man who took all the cows from all the neighbors of the street and he would bring them to certain hills and they would eat and get their exercise all day. Then when the shadows hit the trees like night they would all come back to their respective homes. We would open one side of the gate to watch the herd of milkmakers walk by like warm hay traffic ebbing waves. She was orange like the sunrise and her mouth smelled like fresh grass and the rest of her smelled like old grass. She’d walk in with her dirty hooves and make tracks on the ancient flattened ground from decades of hard farmwork. Past the tractor and the chickens, “Hey Paul open up their house” my great uncle would yell out to me, who was the most excited to see it. Sometimes he would have two or more cows but this one was the first one I remember. I went over to their shack that was attached to their house and unhooked the little metal piece from the wall and the makeshift door would creek open. It was a few two-by-fours in a vertical row that were stapled to two two-by-fours on the top and bottom that were attached to hinges that would squeak the door open. Another two-by-four piece was angled across the back part of it to make sure it was sturdy enough. It swished open with the breeze like you would expect a boat sail to push, I was skinny and still kind of am, so it tripped me back and I sat making sure it wasn’t in the way. I was holding it against the outer wall as the giant mountress walked into her home. I pet her rough outer body as she went along. It felt like rubbing a dry grassy ground.

My great uncle followed with a small chair and a bucket we used earlier for handling soap with. He washed it out. I felt like he didn’t wash it enough and said the milk would taste tart, so he told me to go and wash it again. I did so very eagerly as I felt like a farmer for a moment. Like one from the 1950s who worked bringing in crops from the land and fed the chickens first thing in the morning and milked the cow at night. I brought it back and put it under her and he had a rag and he was stroking it along her four utters. One was bad and didn't work, but he wiped it anyway. He asked, “Do you want to see what real lapte (milk) tastes like?” I said of course. “Go get me a cup from inside,” he said. He first tried shooting a squirt of milk from the cow upwards but it twitched and moaned and said he shouldn’t do it again because we would upset the cow and the milk would turn sour. I went inside and got a cup and he poured it into the clay cup and I drank the small collected amount of liquid with the fat at the top like thick foam. It tasted like sweet clay and weirdly warm then my mouth tasted like too ripened grapes the rest of the day.

We finished milking the cow and we finished chasing the chickens and we petted the dog and the rabbits a few more times and tried to catch the ducks until we were exhausted and ended up sitting in the yard talking to one another. The night came down, making the walls and the gray farmhouse look blue. I asked the question I forgot about earlier when I saw and heard clucking from upstairs in the roof of the barn. I asked, “Hey uncle. Why are those chickens up there in the barn? Did they do something bad and are being punished?”

He suppressed a laugh and replied in a warm airy voice, “No, they aren’t bad. They laid eggs for hatching. They are in the season of it. They have to stay on them until they hatch. I keep them up there because it is warm up there even in the night time. Also, so the coyotes don’t get to them. Sometimes an owl comes by to bother them. I learned my lesson about that. If you attack the owl and shoo it away, the next night it comes right back. And if I upset the owl it might hurt them or even kill one of the chickens. They will fight back but they cannot stay off their eggs too long since they might freeze. And dangerous it must be to be up there with the chickens. They are very violent when they are in heat. The other night they were clucking real heavy. Every bock they made woke me up and I went out there in the brisk air. It must have been 2 in the morning. I could tell by the stars. Orion was just over the hill which makes it closer to the sunrise than the sunset. I looked at the guard dog. Chained by his lance and sleeping. I went to pet him. I held his neck and checked his pulse to make sure he was asleep and not dead. He woke up with a growl then eased himself quickly when he realized it’s me. I patted him on the head and said, bun caine (good dog). Then he slowly closed his eyes. I said to myself I would get him a piece of meat from the fridge as a nighttime snack. That way he’d fall back asleep much easier.”

I stopped him and asked, “Did he sleep better?”

“Yes but only after I checked on the mother chickens. I went up the ladder my dad built ages ago. The grains of wood like dusted sand clump on my house shoes since the dew is freshly dropping. I was guessing as I went up the steps, what could it be? And there it was like a stuffed animal under the roof but in that opening where there is that little gap. You see there?” He pointed at the barn between the roof shingles and the main building part. There was a long gap. Enough space for a bird or an owl to fly up into. Not enough for the coyotes and foxes to reach though.

“Up there I see an owl. An old one with eyes that stare at me like the night. It must have come by when it felt the heat of the chickens. That must be the cause of all the clucking. It got too cold at night and it felt the need to be somewhere warm. The chickens became frightened and territorial.”

My grandfather interrupted, “How did you know it was an old owl?” Which was a fair question. How could he tell, especially at night?

“I guessed.” And they laughed at each other like two kids. He continued since he saw that I was aching for him to continue the story. “I place my hands on the chickens' heads to calm them. Much calmer than you would when you guys chase them around. I walked over to the little gap where it sat. Owls are sleep by day, eat by night animals. This one should be out foraging but the season is changing and this one is a late bloomer. She’ll go south where it is warm, the rest of her friends already left. I figured I would get her some food and with the dog too. They’ll both eat and then the chickens will calm down and then I can go back to sleep. I walked back down the steps. I almost trip on the last one. I felt that ankle acting up again. It’s that loose joint I never got fixed.”

Then my grandfather interrupted again. “We said to take you to the city to get it looked at” And my great uncle replied, “It’d be too much and they said it’d take me a few days off the land and I can’t take too much time off since someone has to harvest the crops. And my wife can’t, she’s too busy taking care of the chickens. I said I'll wait until winter. Then I don’t have to worry.”

“And if the snow comes by” my grandpa laughs. If the snow came by they would have no way to the city because the train station would be shut down and the roads would be covered. There is always a heavy winter in Dabaca.

“I’ll walk to Cluj if the snow comes” he laughs back.

Then I urged him to finish telling the story, “Right, so anyway. I get back in the house where my wife is awake and I see her at the front door. ‘Where were you?’, I asked as I pulled out a slice of bacon for the dog and half of an apple for the owl from the fridge. ‘I was using the bathroom’ Our bathroom is outside, just a wooden room with a hole in it. You’ve seen it in the second yard.”

“Yeah the dog protects it from anyone who isn’t allowed to use it” I replied.

“‘You better sweep up those wood chips you dragged in here’ she adds. I looked down at the dim floor. ‘I’ll do it in the morning,’ I said. Then I headed towards the door, she stopped me halfway, ‘Where are you going?’. ‘To give the dog a treat and I saw an Owl in the barn.’

‘Don’t you give it any food because it will come back’ she replied.

‘It’s almost winter. It will fly away by tomorrow night. I’ll toss it in the field and it will fly out to it.’ I said to her, I love those little time chats between me and her. ‘Ok, good night,’ she said under that babushka wrap. She always had that beautiful way of making me second guess myself. I knew she was right. She’s still always right. So I won't give it food in the barn, even though that wasn’t the plan anyway. It’ll have to fly out if it wants to eat. And it makes sense that it was hungry. All the rodents and small animals already left. The ground is too cold for them. Warm enough for the beans and carrots and the chickens up there in the barn. I walked out to the other part of the yard and I walked up to the dog and gave him that bit of bacon. Then I followed over the fence and stared at the field. It has that dim look over like a brush of dark blue paint on a million flowers in neat rows and columns. I took a bite out of the apple to test how sweet it was. We only keep the sweetest apples in the fridge. Then I held it up and stared out that little gap and whistled. It peeked its head out and I flung the apple in the field. It waited a few moments then came slinging down in a swoop like a fresh breeze soaring for its food. I went back in, left my house shoes outside, and walked barefoot through the already dirty carpet and splintering floorboards and went back to sleep.”

“And you still haven’t swept the front patio” My great aunt adds.

“I was being a good host. You know how it’s going to get dirtier when we go in with all this mud on our shoes.” He winked at me.

I think of that farm whenever we go there. And whenever I get to see that picture of them, I think of how they probably sat in that yard and talked with each other and chased chickens and asked questions that prompted their parents and grandparents to tell them stories.