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‘Our Cute Little Killer’

By Gib Check

            Wife Ruthie is the bird-watching expert, though even I can tell the difference between, say, a duck and a woodpecker. One swims and the other doesn’t. In any case, I like watching the antics of our feathered friends as much as her.

This last winter I glanced outside and spotted one I’d never seen before sitting atop our backyard feeder. Robin-sized, with black and white markings on a pale gray body, it looked very striking. Funny, though, how it was ignoring the birdseed on the feeder platform. Instead, its perky little head kept swiveling from side-to side and down at the ground where seed had fallen onto the snow.

What a cute little birdie, I thought. Ruthie wasn’t around to identify it, so I just kept admiring it.

Suddenly it froze to stare at something below. A second later it swooped down, thrust its tiny beak into the snow, and pulled up a seed-hunting mole! The bird promptly killed it with a few jabs of its beak. Next it flew off with it to the island across from our pier. The bird’s line of flight jogged up and down with its heavy burden, but it made it.

I stood there flabbergasted. Then I was even more surprised to see this cute but homicidal little bird soon resume its perch on the feeder to find more victims.

Interrupted by Ruthie coming home, I rushed her to the window and told her what I’d seen. After laughing like I was only joshing her, she studied our little visitor.

“It’s pretty, but I don’t recognize it. I’ll go find my bird book.”

When I came home the next day, it was her turn to grab hold of me. “I’ve got to show you that bird! You won’t believe what it did!”

As we peered out at our pint-sized killer perched on the feeder, she said excitedly, “I thought you were kidding me yesterday, except it just now grabbed a mole!”

She laughed, “And here’s the crazy part! A squirrel ran over and tried taking the mole away from it! But then little Killer fought him for it!”

She said the two of them had a tug-of-war over the poor mole until the squirrel finally won and ran off with it.

Opening the bird book, she showed me that our mystery guest was a Loggerhead Shrike, a rare species that sometimes visits from the far north. Truly a killer if ever there was one, it preys on small birds and mammals. If thorn trees are handy, it impales its victims on long thorns to snack on later. This explained why no other birds were using the feeder. They were staying way clear of little Killer’s reign of terror.

Visiting friends stood with us at the window, all of us watching it on the feeder and hoping to see some blood-sport. Disappointingly, there was no savagery this time. Maybe it had already knocked off all the moles.

Since our squirrel had revealed itself to be carnivorous, we looked it up, too. Sure enough, we learned that yet another of our cutesy backyard critters often feasted on things besides acorns.

We always thought our backyard was a place where wild creatures peacefully mingled, but as it turns out, it’s a slaughterhouse. And so, dear readers, does all of this sound a bit grim? Then here’s a cheerier note, or at least it is for Ruthie and me; we sure won’t be plagued with any mole problems this year. Better yet, if you don’t mind a bit of bloodshed, maybe we could even send little Killer over to deal with your moles!

Author Gib Check

Retired from construction, I live on a Wisconsin lake with wife Ruthie and am finally exploring being an author. When I write about our travel adventures, I focus on the fun we have meeting people and exploring these places. I’m also big on hiking, biking, canoeing, and thrill to stargazing. (I keep hinting to Ruthie and the kids about a new ‘scope). But always, it’s the writing I love.


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Write Away: Attitude (Part 1 of 5)

“Everywhere I have sought rest and not found it, except sitting in a corner by myself with a book”

– Thomas a Kempis

Most people think “writer” is a noun and “writing” is a verb.  Not quite.  Writing is a talent, a skill.  Writing well is a gift.  But it’s also a calling, every bit as much of a calling as is the “call” to be a pastor, missionary, doctor, lawyer, butcher, baker, or candlestick maker.  What kind of “calling” is writing – and how do you know if you have it?  Let’s start with some of the differences between “Writer Wannabees” and “Real Writers.”

It’s not unusual for Writer Wannabees to fancy themselves the Real Deal.  Lord love ‘em, these are the folks who dabble in, play at, or “write” bi-annually, “whether they need to or not.”  Their version of “writer” is anyone who can bang out a few semi-coherent sentences or pages to wow the fam or undiscriminating friends and associates.  Some think their attempt at cranking out the next great American novel earns them the appellation.  Or their degree in English.  Or landing a book contract.  Or getting published.

I beg to differ.

Call me old-fashioned, but my version of Real Writer – as opposed to hobbyists or the occasional, haphazard Writer Wannabee – doesn’t have so much to do with talent as it does inspiration, motivation, and attitude.

More later, so stay tuned.

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A Little Lowder * Twitter * Facebook


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“That’s Amore! Life With an Italian Father, Mother, and Uncles”

Somehow, somewhere, some unknown number of years ago, Joseph B. Olivieri, Sr. prefaced an unpublished manuscript with:

“This book is being written for my children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces who never knew their grandparents and their uncles.”

I am one of those nieces.  And I really should clean out my filing cabinet more often.

I received the unpublished manuscript for Life with an Italian Father, Mother, and Uncles from my step-mom, who mailed it to me shortly after my father passed away in 2003.  I gave the mss. a quick, cursory skim, stashed it away and promptly forgot about it until just recently.[1] I was looking for something else in my personal “archaeological dig” (aka: The Dreaded Filing Cabinet) when I noticed an oversized manila envelope wedged in the back.  Curious, I hauled it out, blew off the dust, opened it, and found myself instantly transported back some forty years or so to Michigan and the Olivieri home.

You see, Joseph Olivieri, Sr. was my uncle.  He married my Dad’s sister, Charlotte.  Their three kids are my cousins.  I only met Uncle Joe once, during my one and only visit to Michigan in the 1960s.[2] I was very young and don’t remember much.  What I do remember about my Uncle Joe:

1) He was as bald as a billiard ball

2) He wore glasses and seemed as tall as a giant (everyone looks like a giant when you’re six years old)

3) He was always smiling or laughing

4) The smells from the Olivieri kitchen were divine, and

5) there was something about… smoking a cigar.

If only I’d taken better notes!

Fortunately, Uncle Joe did.  What I found in that dusty manila envelope was nearly one hundred single-spaced, type-written pages of his unpublished memoirs.  The editor in me danced a jig.  A word about that is in order.

When working on an edit, I usually warm up the ‘ole red pen or pencil, roll up my sleeves and bleed red ink all over dangling participles, misplaced modifiers, incorrect usage and the like.   It may sound corny, but I just couldn’t do it this time.  The closest I got was adding “That’s Amore!” to the title, because it seemed appropriate and a good fit.  But there was something about holding my uncle’s manuscript that was like holding his hand.  I couldn’t bear to slash any more red ink anywhere.[3] It seemed sacrilegious.  So I refrained.  The editing and keyboarding process are “speeding” along like a gimpy snail on crutches mired in a molasses factory, but it seems the respectful thing to do.  It also means only minor edits and reformatting for publication by yours truly.

My Uncle Joe passed away several years ago.  My Aunt Charlotte continues to reside in Michigan.  Unfortunately, the manuscript is undated.  Although there is no way of pinpointing its date of origin, the paper and type font used suggest it was printed off a 1980s-vintage Macintosh computer.  Whatever the date or age of the manuscript, I’m working on wrapping up my Uncle Joe’s story, in his words.  Que bella!

[1] I am still kicking myself for not giving this manuscript more attention sooner.  But  as they say, “better late than never.”

[2] I’d give you an exact date if I could, but I can’t remember it.  Possibly 1967.

[3] In truth, Joe’s original manuscript is so well-written that the editorial attention required is minimal.

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