The light was spectacular and the birds were having a good old time preening and resting.  All was idyllic — if a bit chilly — until two women accompanied by two little girls and two unleashed dogs arrived.

The dogs gleefully plowed into the flock, scattering the birds to the wind.  One of the little girls exclaimed, “Oh, it’s so pretty!” As the birds attempted to settle elsewhere on the flats, the dogs relentlessly kept them airborne.

When I suggested to the women that perhaps they shouldn’t be letting their dogs do that, they said it wasn’t illegal. Well, that was true, but only barely. The pelicans had been taken off the Endangered Species List only six days earlier; until that time, such activity would have violated the Endangered Species Act and been punishable by a fine of up to $100,000 and a year in prison.

Of course, these folks didn’t know that, so it wouldn't have stopped them anyway.

Unfortunately, there is no law protecting unlisted animals from harassment and no one enforcing or educating the public about most of the conservation laws that do exist.

When your children are grown and have partners, holiday visits are often split between families. My sons were here for Thanksgiving. It’s their favorite meal and it never fails to bring them home. My youngest son and his wife decided at the last minute to make the trip from Salem, even though Dana had to be back at work early Saturday morning. They arrived Thursday with my then-3-week-old granddaughter just as I was putting the turkey in the oven. My early Christmas gift was holding Kayla while she slept through Thanksgiving dinner and feeling her baby breath on my face.

I thought long and hard about what to give her this first Christmas. I chose a music box with a ballerina inside that twirls in front of a mirror—I had one just like it when I was a little girl. And I got her the Nutcracker Suite CD so that in a few years when we go to the ballet together she’ll be able to hum along with Tchaikovsky!

One group devotes this time of year to honoring a homeless family that lived half a world away and 2,000 years ago (while some insist that the homeless who live here and now go away). Another group honors the almighty dollar, as represented by a fat man in a red suit.

I offer help to the homeless when I can, having been so myself, and wrap gifts in Santa’s workshop, knowing that every child deserves a gift and a dream. While I participate in the various celebrations and love latkes, it’s the winter solstice I choose to honor in ceremony.

Pagan midwinter feasts and Christian days of celebration and obligation have become so intertwined that it’s nearly impossible to tell where one leaves off and the other begins. At the root of all our ceremonies this time of year is the ancient fear that the failing light will never return unless we intervene with anxious, penitent vigils or joyful celebrations.

That can easily happen at the conclusion of a 10-year period that bears no name. And we’ve got more anonymity ahead of us. Think about it: You hear references all the time to the final eight decades of the last century, the ’20s, the ’30s and on through the ’90s. But what do you call a century’s first two decades?

Nothing.

You might hear an occasional referral to, say, “aught 6” as a reference to 1906. But if you talk that way you sound old-fashioned, as if you might harbor personal memories of 1906. And I’ve heard no one apply the “aught-something” approach to one of the years in this decade. The next one will be worse: Are we going to call it the “teens”?

What’s that you say? Technically this decade doesn’t end until Jan. 1, 2011? Balderdash. This was settled 10 years ago when some folks argued, with mere mathematics on their side, that the new millennium would not begin until 2001. Then the Y2K computer panic kicked in and everybody pretty well accepted the fact that the big change came when that first digit changed from a 1 to a 2.

Ergo, since it’s been 10 years since we partied like it was 1999, another decade has come and almost gone.

Around 1988, while I was living in Los Angeles, a friend and I were fishing off the Malibu pier. It was a beautiful day in Southern California. A homeless man approached me and asked for money.

At this time, it was common to see the homeless in L.A., but you really didn’t see them here in Crescent City. I had always been curious about their story so I asked the guy, “Be truthful with me, are you just going to buy alcohol?” He said yes.

I told him I would walk over to the small store across the street and buy him a six-pack if he would talk with me about his life. He agreed. As we walked, he told me his name was Tom, and began his story.

He was from Florida. He told me that one day about five years ago, he had gotten tired of his life, the bills, the job, his family, and just walked away from it all. He had been a milk man for 20 years. He had owned a nice home, had a wife and two kids and a Corvette in the garage.