Falconer

Years ago, I drank too much Scotch and spent the night in the guest house at Possum Holler. I’d come with a bunch of kayakers and river runners to “Uncle Art’s” house in NW Arkansas. He was the dentist who cleared his schedule, looked after everyone’s teeth, then took us all home to a gourmet meal and slideshows of river trips.

Built onto the converted garage/guest house was a 8×8 cage housing two Red Tailed  hawks. They had been injured and were being nursed back to health.  Over years of rehabbing injured birds, Arthur Foy Evans,II, taught himself to be a falconer.  One who lets a bird fly free but has it return at a signal. Being a somewhat flighty touring musician named Crow, I might have seen the writing in the sky, but I didn’t.

Arthur and I were militantly single and became good friends. Our other friends saw it, but it took us five or six years to fall in love. Forty years ago, we were married on Markham Hill in Fayetteville, AR, with 400 of our best friends and family, two hogs, a multi-decker wedding cake, and a light rain shower. We were each 40 years old. What a great midlife crisis!

Neither of us had had children. Arthur had not been married before. And my first marriage was a corny soap opera. She sobbed, “He left me for my best friend.”

 I doubted myself, and everyone, and chose to live in the woods with a terrier- poodle mix named Harley. And thinking maybe I wasn’t destined to love one-on-one, I figured I’d tour with my music and love folks by the hundreds. It sure fed my soul and it was safe.

It all changed when the falconer in the front of the boat sang a bit of opera. We were finally put in the same canoe by our friends on a trip at Turner Bend. I’d spent a couple of seasons working at Nantahala Outdoor Center in North Carolina and learned to paddle my kayak.

But when Arthur sang so joyfully and unabashedly he caught my heart. I have since learned to love opera—as long as the vibrato isn’t too rangey. We celebrate his birthday at the Santa Fe Opera each year now.

In the summer of  1992 or 1993  I went to south India and Arthur went to Holland for the big flower extravaganza. He hybridizes lilies, grows orchids, and drives a ‘73 Land Cruiser… a woodsy woman’s dream man. We each had a wonderful time but wished we’d shared it with each other.  So most years we have traveled to endangered exotic natural spaces to bird and critter watch. We see creatures in their natural habitats before they are gone. And our ecotourism supports the protection of the earth’s vanishing species.

We thrill as the other person flies free and settles peacefully back home.  Arthur has gone to Papua New Guinea and Australia without me, but I couldn’t manage the terrain.  I’ve gone to Kerrville Music Festival in Texas and many other festivals without him. He’s not one for managing huge crowds. 

I love my opera singing falconer. I’m not drinking Scotch these days. And I’m still loving the free flights and welcome homes.