Woke up early on Father’s Day for my volunteer shift at the Juneteenth Celebration at Benicia Veterans Hall. I hurried up an almost deserted First Street except for a few dog walkers. Juneteenth became an official federal holiday last year when Biden signed a rare bipartisan bill commemorating June 19, 1865, as the official end of slavery in the U.S. Black Lives Matter event coordinator Nathalie Christian worked with us to transform the Hall into a festive marketplace for vendors, music, games, soul food, face painting, and a formal program. Some of the Black-owned businesses represented were Ethnic Notions Fine Art Gallery and Multicultural Book Store, Vallejo; Wisdom Natural Soaps, Sacramento; Kelene Naturals skin care, and Atiba Sylvia Thomas, assemblage artist/teacher. Jazz singer Ariel Marin provided musical entertainment. Posted by the front door were written testimonies from Black neighbors about their experiences living, working, and going to school in Benicia. Shock, sadness, hope, and anger surfaced while reading these accounts. Testimonials are posted at: blacklivesmatter.weebly.com under “Voices” and may be a revelation to those of us who are not African American.
Strolling back home, I stopped to listen to musician Jim Wingfield from Vallejo playing the whimsically painted “art piano” recently placed in St. Paul’s courtyard. The bright orange, blue and green upright was the work of Benicia artist Phyllis Hartzell. The City Arts and Culture Commission under the leadership of Terry Scott came up with the idea of a Benicia “Play Art Program.” People stopped to listen as Jim tickled the keys and passersby gathered. Roll over Beethoven and don’t say a word to Tchaikovsky.
Sitting on my patio working, I heard an ear-splitting “caw caw” and then a strange clucking sound emanating from the huge eucalyptus on East B Street. What a commotion! Couldn’t hear myself think. A man and woman had stopped to investigate, she, studying the tree with her binoculars. I tiptoed over and saw three large black birds furiously pecking at each other. “They are crows fighting over a nesting site,” she guessed. “They could also be ravens. It’s hard to tell the difference.” Back at the computer, I learned that although crows and ravens are in the same family they are a different species with distinct characteristics. Crows are much smaller and more numerous. Plus, they are very aggressive. Can you imagine a crow somberly repeating the word “Nevermore?” Wouldn’t happen. Crows communicate using a wide variety of other sounds besides the infernal “cawing” including clicks and bell-like notes. Ravens, on the other hand, make a raspy “kraa” sound. The clucking continued— yeah, definitely crows. Do I hear a “kraa?”
More fowl stories. Driving home down E. 2nd, barely had time to stop as a mother duck followed by a row of six tiny ducklings crossed the street without looking both ways. I slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car, urging them on before they became pressed duck. As the mother climbed the steps toward the water features at Pointe Benicia, the six babies followed, stretching their tiny legs up to the next level and placing their webbed feet on the hot bricks as they anticipated a refreshing paddle.
A neighbor reported that the Green Heron eggs in a nest on the Marina had hatched and four fuzzy fledglings were stumbling on the rocks. Graceful long-necked white herons I was familiar with, but green? Turns out adults are a deep green on the back and crown with a chestnut breast and neck. We hurried over to the fence by the Harbor Master’s and sure enough, four frisky feathered fluffs were attempting to fly to their mother, gaining a few feet in altitude and then dropping to the shore. The mother had returned from the hunt and was trying to stuff food down the gullet of one offspring who ate like a bird.
Hadn’t even stepped off of the curb in front of the Washington House when I heard a rumbling and then saw one of Benicia’s mammoth hook and ladders approaching. Jumping back on the sidewalk to let it pass was surprised and a bit embarrassed to see that the driver had stopped the gleaming behemoth well before the intersection, waving at me to cross. I self-consciously straightened my spine and marched across the street, stopping to salute them mid-way with a crisp snap of the wrist and on reaching the other side saluted them again. The two fire fighters seemed to get a big kick out of it, laughing as they cautiously rolled on. Thankfully, they weren’t on the way to a fire. I got such an adrenaline rush that I thought about waiting until they came back up the street for another red carpet moment. Alas, they turned left at East B and disappeared. Au revoir mes amis. May your fires be few.
Sarah Beserra is an artist, collector, Dharma practitioner, and former lobbyist.
Letters From Benicia 