My parents owned a mountain cabin in the Laguna Mountains in California, within San Diego County. We often spent the weekend, vacations, and summers there. As a child I enjoyed taking long walks alone and often ended up at the horse stables to spend my babysitting money on an hours ride through the forest.

A nest of Martins was in an old decayed tree trunk. Each year, we would stop at an egg ranch and get a large bag of chicken feathers. Standing on the uncovered porch, we would toss the feathers, one by one, into the air and watch as the Martins would swoop down and catch them in the air before they fell. Sometimes we could entice one of the birds to take it from our fingers. Martins are of the swallow family and fly with grace and beauty.

Also, I can recall holding seed in my hand and having a chick-a-dee land on my hand to eat it. There were many birds there and I learned to love them at a young age. There was a breed of wren somewhat larger than a sparrow, with a black head. I named him Patrick. Most likely it wasn't the same bird, probably several, but Patrick was what I called him.

Woody Woodpecker often could be heard with his rat-a-tat-tat in the trees around us. That mountain cabin brought a lot of happiness to a shy girl who while growing up, preferred birds and animals instead of people for friends.