Playing with Food

This is Mr. Muffinman.  He and his spouse came to lunch this afternoon.  Here he is getting cozy with Daughter, who also stopped by for lunch.

This is Mrs. Muffinman, giving Mister an earful for getting cozy with Daughter.

Shortly after the second photo was taken, Daughter consumed the Muffinman couple; first, Mister, then his jealous wife.

Other than the muffincide, the afternoon was pleasant.  Daughter and I chatted about all sorts of things, watched the squirrels scamper through the trees, ate our lunch of red beans and rice with andouille, then chased rainbow sundogs and the most beautiful sunset.

On the way back to her house, Daughter's stomach rumbled loudly.

The Muffinmans were still at it, I guess.

Goodbye, Bil.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, your life’s path will intersect that of another’s and you’ll be better off for it, no matter how brief the encounter. A few weeks ago, a man I barely knew but greatly admired died, and I’ve been trying – in the days since – to put into words just why his passing pains me as much as it does.

I met Bil Gilbert in 1973 or ’74, can’t remember which. The occasion was a get-together to celebrate the return of my (first)ex-husband’s cousin from a trip with Bil to the Arctic Circle. I remember thinking, when we were introduced, that he was a lot shorter than I thought he might be, and a heck of a lot scruffier. But, then, Bil wasn’t put on this earth to grace the cover of GQ or Playgirl magazines. Bil was here to write (among a great many other things), and he did a damned fine job of it.

I wasn’t in Bil’s circle of friends, though I would have liked to be. He had a wicked sense of humor and was a great storyteller. Bil paid attention to the people around him, almost as if he were studying them with the same interest as the wild animals that caught his attention. While he gave me the impression he didn’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise, he was civil in letting you know you were an idiot. At least, that was my experience as a result of an incident involving me, my First Husband and a beautiful black snake I almost drove over. FH and I thought, for some long forgotten (and ill-conceived) notion, that it would make a fantastic gift for his cousin, whose house we were leaving after a short visit. We, rather too gleefully for our ages, hurried back to Cousin’s house to bestow upon him our great offering. Bil was visiting there the day we acted the fools, and his ultra-quiet suggestion that we put the snake back where we found it made us snap out of our silliness and do precisely that. I believe Bil was one of those people who could wield sharp words so skillfully that you wouldn’t know you had been cut until you stood up and your butt fell off.

Most of what I know – or think I know – about Bil Gilbert I’ve learned from his writing, for, as I mentioned above, I barely knew him. I think I’ve encountered him four, maybe five, times since that first meeting thirty-eight or so years ago. I wish there had been more occasions. There were so many things about his life I wanted to ask him, so many of his stories I wanted to hear. He unknowingly fostered my continuing interest in crows and other corvids. Bil lived the kind of life I told myself, when I was twelve years old, I would have: the life of an adventurer, an explorer and a writer. I think that’s what drew me to him and made me want to be in his circle of friends.

However, I am glad to have met him, to have crossed paths with him, no matter how few and far between the meetings. The last time I spoke with him was at Cousin’s 50th birthday. I was telling him observations I’ve made from watching my backyard crows. Bil said I should write them and submit them to the newsletter for an organization he started, the American Society of Crows and Ravens. I haven’t yet, but his encouragement meant more to me than any I’ve ever received from anyone else. I’ll remember Bil and his kindness forever.