Quail Affirmations

My paperweight quail; my dear friend, Trevor, has its fellow. Bonded for life.

Let’s turn, now, to the quail.

These guys are the most determined creatures I’ve ever met. Yet they look like they’re in a terrible muddle. This way, that way? After me? You? Me—oh go ahead.

However timid they seem, quail manage to get where they’re going. Have you seen them shimmy over a freeway? Have you found, maybe foraged for, their careful eggs?

Well. If you’ve ever walked around the edges of a wood or an alley, you’ve probably heard the trill of a covey.

Covey: a group (family) of birds

Quail

Maybe you lingered there by your neighbor’s old shed. 

Did you find a family with bells on their heads? 

The littlest troupe hunted by all, yet so often 

forgettable

We left cracked corn for the quail. I saw them scurry across my neighbor’s yard the other night to this holdout, but I didn’t get a picture in time…

Like quail, I hesitate. It’s part of my personality. I waffle, I wonder—before and after decisions are made. I try things many times over before learning them the way I must. Thankfully my loved ones accept me for who I am, with occasional feedback.

I’m of two minds when it comes to my flighty nature. On the one hand, I would rather be a thoughtful person than…not. On the other, it’s so cussin’ tiresome. Sometimes I drive myself nuts. When that happens, I’d consider quailhood for the next life and take the risk of bird flu.

For example: Hey Sis.

It took me months to decide to write Hey Sis. Then, after I created the newsletter, I had to dwell on the pros and cons of talking about my dad, Parkinson’s, his life & death, and the mixed bag of caregiving. Finally, I wrote a first draft while my daughters slept. I did it! And then…I deleted it by accident. I mistook it for some weird sample content, not the post I wrote (and re-wrote) in crevices and crumbs of time. See my Note below.

After some back-and-forth with a Substack chatbot, I realized I could let it go. Start over. Adapt, man. Or, as my dad once said (in a random early-onset APDA documentary that we participated in and that I plan to share here in the future): Keep on keepin’ on.

“Two Sketches: Father and Daughter”, Henry Stacy Marks. Also, me confusing a chatbot for my dead father

Note: Substack makes it very hard to delete a draft. You have to actually type the word ‘delete’ and then hit the ‘seal my fate’ button in order for it to be irretrievable forever. And I did those things.

Maybe I was waiting for it to reassure me. Maybe I was looking for one of my dad’s -isms, like: It’ll all work out, sis.

Thankfully, the Substack chat bot dispenses a different kind of wisdom. Yes, it was enabling at first (“would you like some creative ideas to help you start a new post?”). But truth will out, and the bot ended up saying: I can’t write this for you, Bette Jane.

(Not really, but pretty much).

My dad was full of affirmations, even on his hardest days. He died in the summer of 2023. He lived with early-onset Parkinson’s for 30 years, give or take. All the while, he demonstrated to me and my siblings that we could—we would—be family. No matter what.

And he was determined to stay together down some weird, hard roads. But like the chief in a covey of quail, my dad ultimately steered us along the semi-trucks of life. Parkinson’s is a six-wheeler if nothing else.

It still feels strange to write about it each week. To stay true to this project, I know I’m going to have to relive some of the hardest years of my life. But I’ll stay the course. I don’t have to wonder about it too much more, for if I asked him:

Dad, should I write about us? What if I fail?

he’d say,

It’ll all work out, sis.

Thanks for being here. Let me know if you see some quail!

-Bette Jane

Caregiving in a covey