Three things from DAH. Free every Friday!
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DAH is me, David Anthony Hance. Looking forward to another fine mess or two or three.

First up this week: Birdsong … 
I carry a bit of bird guilt. I acknowledge three bits: 
1. My parents gifted me a book featuring birdsong when I was still in elementary school. It included one of those floppy vinyl 45 RPM records so I could listen to and learn the birdsong, as part of bird identification. I never listened all the way through.
2. "The Birds." Hitchcock scared me with that movie. A hesitancy and fascination about birds lingers.
3. I've got books about birds again, and was gifted a bird-feeder by CHance. Books browsed and not yet read, plus a bird-feeder yet to be deployed. 
My citizen-scientist parents gifted me an introduction to birds (and to roadside geology, plant identification, rock-hounding, and more). I was too busy acting and singing to keep up. I think about that birdsong book often. And I still carry the could and should notions about studying nature. 
 
Second up this week, Birthright …
My birthright: An appreciation for science in our world. Along with my mother's guidance in philately. Would that my parents still lived so that I might yet express some citizen-science to reward their persistence. Or some well-conceived topical stamp collection for Mum-Anne. Who knows? Perhaps there's still hope for some bird-business and stamp-savoring. My parents' natural inquisitiveness and open-mindedness about the world and its wonders … the closest my home-life came to any sort of spirituality. My birthright was the doors of intrigue and understanding opened by rocks and birds and trees and postage stamps. No, that's only partially correct. Add their encouragement to try things, and their caring acceptance of my choices (even some of the dubious ones). Thank you, Mummy and Daddy. 

Third up this week, Birthday …
My birthday was yesterday. Stan Laurel (of Laurel & Hardy) died on the day I was born. That feels appropriate. A somewhat famous vaudevillian leaves the long march, and little David joins it (the long march of human existence, not the Chinese Red Army retreat of 1934-35). The thrill of a birthday was greater when I was younger. Now the day serves as another mile-marker on that long march, a walk I expect (hope) will continue long after I fall by by side of the road. Still, any excuse for a celebration is good!

A book for which DAH is late to the party … 
The Song is You, by Megan Abbott
I enjoy a gritty tale set in Golden Age Hollywood. Raymond Chandler isn't going to be writing any new novels, so I'm pleased to "discover" a modern author of hard-boiled fiction. "… fierce, fast and fresh … With abundant style and a tight, convincing story, Abbott provides a retro thrill ride" (Kirkus Reviews, Jan 2007)

And a bit more: 

A Birthday, by Christina Rossetti

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.


And that's all for this week.
From Mary Oliver's Sometimes

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.