Flights of Fright

photo: Eric Diesel

Any reader of Urban Home Blog knows that, around here, we have special affection for creatures of the night. Some of the earliest columns were about bat conservation, a cause I believe in and take every chance to evangelize. As did so much else from canning to sewing, my love of bats began on my grandmother’s homestead. Though by the time I came along she was on “city services,” the homestead had begun in a time and place where conveniences that we take for granted today – like water, electricity, and telecommunications – hadn’t sent their feelers that far. Accordingly, in the back yard, there was a well house that the menfolk had boarded up once municipal water pipes made their way down the road.

We couldn’t get into the well house, but hanging from its eaves was a colony of bats. Bats are so common in that part of the country that my grandmother didn’t pay them any mind. Though bats are communal they can be curious as individuals – sometimes to their detriment – so it was as natural as moonlight that a friendship developed between myself and a small brown fruit bat. I named the bat Bela, after the vampire movie I was obsessed with watching on the Saturday late show. Bela and I became good friends. He appreciated the grapes and berries I fed him, and I appreciated the trust he returned to me in exchange for my stewardship. In fact, I am convinced that his willingness to be my friend was an expression of gratitude on Bela’s part.

Appropriately for a creature who is freighted with the secrets of the dark side, Bela taught me that crucial, unavoidable, heartbreaking lesson of childhood when, one morning, I went to check on him only to discover that he had passed away during the night. Thank the dark gods for my grandmother, who understood the importance of this moment. We held proper rites for Bela, which not only laid this gentle, darling creature to his rest but helped me on my journey through childhood. I’ve never forgotten Bela. Every Halloween, I leave a piece of fruit for Bela on the plate on which we lay the sacred rite of the dumb supper, and I’ve no doubt that Bela makes it a point to find me wherever else his ghostly midnight flight takes him.

The gift of flight is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Witches have long been associated with flight. That silhouette of the witch flying across the face of the moon refers to the flying ointment that is as fundamental to Witchcraft 101 as talking to black cats and turning enemies into toads. If the “flight” of the ointment was more one of the mind than one of the broomstick and the moon, then that was because, if such ointments existed to begin with, they were constructed with hallucinogens. Whether flying ointments existed (or exist) or not, the flight is spiritual. It is the flight of the witch in contact with the other side, and it is the flights of spirits as they travel between the worlds of the corporeal and the spiritual on this sacred night when the veil between those worlds is at its thinnest.

Creatures that fly have always evoked our belief in the heights, but they carry the knowledge of the depths. Just as bats, who congregate not just on eaves but deep within caves, carry the secrets of the dark, so does any creature that flies. Flying creatures are vulnerable but strong: witness the birdie who hatched from the fragility of an egg and survived in the nest only to take its place among clouds, or the gossamer wings of the dragonfly who ushers in spring just as surely as bats usher in autumn. Anyone who’s boarded an airplane as often as I have recently is familiar with the frisson of fear that attends the act of faith, and with the gulp of courage it takes to sustain it. The great dark wing of song lyrics is protective but out of our reach; with these clumsy arms, human wings are spiritual. The ability to fly is a secret knowledge, and secret knowledge is the definition of the occult. Out of respect for the dark secrets of the soaring spirit, here are some feathered flights of fright

The scarecrow is as common a motif on front porches as it is in fallow fields during autumn, but in our urban homes, we welcome the crow. PBS’s special about crows introduced a widespread viewing audience to the world of these creatures so intelligent that they make and use tools and so spiritual that they hold funerals. But writers and lawyers have long respected the nerve-jangling caw of the crow as both the warning bell and call to order that it is. Appropriate to studiousness, when we redecorated our home office last year, we were chilled and delighted to string Pottery Barn’s crow lights along the eaves of the room. In compliment, we dressed some of the shelves with these knowing bookends and hung this artful crow tray on the wall. If you have a hearth, place a braided rug patterned with crow's silhouette in its rightful place before it, knowing as you do that the prevalence of the crow as a motif in American folk art is a manifestation of the sly, secret knowledge of crow.

Perhaps in discord with the sunshine, ravens are a common presence in Los Angeles. As you can see in the picture above, the birds regularly congregate in trees to watchfully guide our travels in our new home town. Their daily rounds from their Runyon Canyon nests bring them to our balcony to set up a racket in demand of their morning treat, but that’s really just their self-appointment as nature’s own alarm clock and proof that these magical birds choose their charges just as surely as Merlin did. In our urban nest, a toy raven appropriately named Edgar watches over us as we sleep. We set up this urban home around my birthday, which I share with Edgar Allen Poe, so it could not have been coincidence on that day to find this mocking talking raven at one of my favorite LA shops. I placed it on the bedside table along with a bottle of the namesake nail polish with which I've been painting my nails for twenty years. But then twenty years is nothing in crypt time -- if you doubt it, press the front of the raven box. You will be rewarded with the bloodcurdling reprimand of the raven inside, croaking NEVERMORE.

Every rodent knows the terror of the night flight of owls, but night is less scary when these wide-eyed predators light your way. With their squat bodies, swiveling heads, and x-ray eyes, owls have long been a favorite motif of home decorators. This is especially true in the children's room, where it's hoped that the protective wisdom of these raptors will influence delicate feelings and evolving minds. Target offers bedside lamps and Halloween lanterns figured after these stout birds, and since the early bird gets the worm, there are even Christmas tree ornaments. Pottery Barn’s suite of owl lanterns is appropriately wrought in black iron. If you’re still scared of the dark, this owl night light will watch protectively, and wisely, over your nightmares. On Halloween night, set your buffet table and serve your dumb supper with these plates – and don’t forget to set out the salt and pepper shakers.

When it comes to flying nightmares, vultures are second only to war planes and demons. Just as mold and mildew fulfill a vital role in the ecosystem by participating in the process of decay, so do vultures occupy a vital place by feeding on carrion. In our urban home, we love vultures so much that they watch over the home office from along the tops of the bookshelves. This harmonizes with the haunted houses, mortuary collectibles, and arcane scientific prints and equipment that round out the décor of this room. Most party suppliers have vultures in stock this time of year – you can get yours here and here. Most zoos have wild nights this time of year and in these tight economic times, all animal welfare organizations need your support. If you can’t make it to the zoo, send a donation, and then play these videos on a loop during your Halloween party, of captive vultures interacting with a jack o’lantern.

Along with the rat, few creatures are as unfairly vilified as the pigeon. It is a testament to the survival skills of these tough, smart birds that souls kind enough to see beyond the pigeon’s unfair reputation as being dirty don’t just shoo these vital players in our ecosystem from the parking lots but welcome them onto the rooftops. Homing pigeons are popular everywhere from the city to the country, and have done their part for humans since ancient times. But you don’t have to build a rookery to welcome pigeons into your home. They are a popular motif among crafters – from these origami birds to these home-sewn ones. Best of all, though, pigeons are right at home in your home library – from Andrew Blechman's study of them to Mo Willem’s children’s tales that teach vital lessons by building a relationship between a child and a misunderstood creature not unlike the one that began this column, and for that matter this blog.