His eye is on the sparrow

The entrance to the basement laundry room is directly below my living room window (well, four flights down) and for the past couple of days I heard a plaintive chirping sound emanating from there. Yesterday I went to check and found two little sparrows frantically hopping around the corner of the stairway landing. We annually have lots of these birds nesting around here in the Spanish tiles out back, but I've never seen this behavior before. The larger of the two was hopping more slowly and chirping at a lower volume than the other. I approached them to see if I could help somehow; but of course they totally wigged out, monster that I am, so I left them alone.

The chirping and hopping kept up all day and into the night. Then I noticed this morning that only one bird was still making a noise. When I went to investigate, the larger bird was, of course, dead. I wanted to move the sad little corpse away, but the remaining sparrow acted as though she'd go all Hitchcock on me, so I backed away and left her there with her fallen mate. Her mourning continued all day, the sound of intense sorrow and alarm. There were a couple of moments wherein I wondered if I shouldn't just deal with the dead bird and chase the other away, because it was so hard to listen to; but I got the sense I would be disturbing something almost holy.

Early in the evening there was silence. I walked down knowing what I would find--and there they were: Jack and Nancy Sparrow, lying Romeo and Juliet-like on the cement and already covered with little ants, their story done.

What else could I do but give them a resting place behind a green Eugenia bush?

The ever constant

Not only did Robbie on the first floor move out today, but now the sweet young couple next to us gave their notice, too. Apparently they're going their separate ways. I enjoyed their laughter and friendliness, the bottles of wine and food gifts, and especially the fact that they didn't care if I washed my dishes at 1 a.m.-- a big deal, since my kitchen shares a wall with their bedroom.

Robbie gave me flowers, the first tenant to ever do so. Wow. He's the one who talked me into trying the loquats that grow outside, and I found I really like them. Now his job has gone >poof< and so it's back to the Bay Area with the family. Robbie, we hardly knew ye.

Now we have four empties, and a whole lot of changing of the name register on the front porch coming up.

The Eyrie, Too is now OPEN

My habitation is The Eyrie, situated on the top floor of a 1927 Mediterranean style brick front apartment building in a mid-size West Coast city. From its windows I see my little world as it occurs; within its walls I see plenty, too. I've lived here since 1996 (only one tenant has a longer tenure.) For nearly five years I've been the on-site manager, which is another way to say "Cleaning Lady/Resident Mom with Limited Authority/She Who Is Summoned When Keys Are Locked Inside".

This is not earth-shattering reporting here, no political opinion or wisdom for the ages. It's a goofy little blog that exists simply so I can chronicle my life here. Nothing more. I want to remember the silly things that remind me of an episode of Seinfeld, and the small pleasures that lift me up. Occasionally I will vent, for the manager's life is one of mastering the art of smiling while really, really wanting to yell at someone. At other times I'll probably bore even myself. Life is like that.

Welcome to my home.