Flaco soared free, but like all of us, eventually fell

At dusk a couple of days ago I was driving along a two-lane county road not far from my place, one that follows a ridge line to a nearby town. On my right, high in a bare tree up ahead was what I assumed was a hawk, a proud creature quite common out here. I turned to say hello as I passed and noted with surprise that she had ears, so I knew it to be an Eastern screech-owl. Her presence made me think of a Eurasian eagle owl in New York City, an owl named Flaco, one that escaped from the Central Park Zoo a year ago, taking up residence in the park.

Zoo officials tried unsuccessfully to capture Flaco and return him to his cage at the zoo but he wasn’t having it. As you might imagine, he became a major attraction in the park. New Yorkers were thrilled with the independence and free spiritedness Flaco represented, however, they also feared he’d feed on a rat that had been poisoned, but he seemed to thrive, until the end of last week when he slammed into a window, fell to earth, as we all do eventually, and died.

There is something about birds and their ability to soar above the bonds of our earth that is inspirational and mystical. Standing in a parking lot of a liquor store situated by the Mississippi River a week ago I watched two American bald eagles soaring high above tree-filled bluffs, circling higher and higher until they were out of sight, never flapping their wings, riding thermals to the heavens. I was envious. The only thing missing was a soundtrack, maybe ‘Jupiter’ from Holst’s “The Planets,” or Mozart’s “Exsultate Jubilate.”

Over the weekend I pulled into my lane late in the evening, rousing half a dozen deer that had bedded down for the night, as well as a woodchuck (better than the term “groundhog”) that scampered onto the lane, racing ahead of me almost to the house before diving into the underbrush. Sorry to bother y’all, as historically you were here first and I am an interloper.

Sometimes I feel like I’m also an age interloper, never expecting to become this old. It’s been a few years since my wife took the last boat home, me watching from the dock, not understanding any of it. Soon enough I’ll see sails on the horizon, knowing my ship will finally arrive, but not yet, not now. I have too much to do, too many people to meet, too many brief chats to have with others about nothing much.

There is a global position system (GPS) in my car and I finally broke down and attempted to use it without the assistance of others. Everything was going well until I took a detour through a downtown district before crossing a big river to another state to pick up some scotch. Every block for five blocks I got, “In three hundred feet turn left,” from a female voice that really began to annoy me. After a couple of, “Make a legal U-turn,” admonitions I pulled over to peruse the car’s owner’s manual. Nothing. GPS has its own booklet, one not in my car. Once I got to the original destination entered into the system, the woman’s voice disappeared. I’m sticking with the maps in the glove compartment. I fully realize that I am stuck between who I once was and who I should be, but I don’t care. Spare me the brave new world, and pour me another.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald recently published a 60-page magazine of Kurt’s columns. The magazine can be purchased here.