WHAT'S IN A NAME?
SOMETHING SPLENDID
Journal of Healing – March 12, 2003
By Mary Koch

There was a time when neighbors leaned across the fence to chat. But in this high-tech era, at least in our neighborhood, we e-mail. For one thing, the fences are too high. For another, the weather's still a bit brisk.

It's eagle weather. We've been relishing the sight of bald eagles along the river for several weeks. One has an almost daily routine of soaring up the valley around 6 or 6:30 a.m., just ahead of the Federal Express plane.

He perches at the top of our neighbor's pine tree while we below quietly admire the majesty of this eagle on its lofty throne.

One day, the neighbor on the other side of the pine tree e-mailed: "Have you been keeping your eye on Baxter, the bald eagle who has started spending the better part of the day in Joe's tree?"

"Baxter? BAXTER!?" I replied. We were aghast. What self-respecting eagle would call itself Baxter?

Another e-mailer chimed in, suggesting something more suitable, such as "E-Rex" or "King Talon."

Apparently the debate got too heated for the eagle, who stopped making his morning visits.

The Baxter neighbors defended themselves, saying the name more or less evolved out of our street name, Bartlett. Besides, the e-mail continued, "when he returns I can say, 'Baxter's back,' which sounds like Baxter Black, the cowboy poet and big animal veterinarian. And that amuses me."

Ahhh. Then I remembered. Baxter Black, poet, veterinarian, newspaper columnist, public radio humorist, and truly good guy.

A few years ago Baxter Black came to our community as the headliner for a couple shows benefiting Mathew Culp, now 8, who is challenged by a rare disorder called Cornelia De'Lange Syndrome.

I'd agreed to take tickets and while standing at my post, who should I see wander by but Baxter Black himself. He asked where the men's room was, and I pointed it out. I was waiting for him when he emerged.

"Would you take just a minute to say hello to my husband?" I asked. "He's in a wheelchair at the back of the theater."

Black's hesitation was barely noticeable — just a fraction of a moment. It was getting close to show time, and maybe he was about to beg off.

"Sorry, but I just don't have time," he could have said. Instead he allowed me to propel him through the doors to John's wheelchair.

I didn't have the chance to explain to Black about my husband being unable to move, unable to speak, but very able to use his brain. I've seen all kinds of medical practitioners who couldn't figure out for the life of them how to communicate with John. They'll shout, as if he were deaf, or talk only to me, as if John weren't able to comprehend simple English.

Black took in the situation with a single glance, perched himself by the side of John's wheelchair, and threw an arm around my husband as if reuniting with a long-lost buddy. He jabbered away, cracked a few jokes, and then — almost reluctantly — allowed as how it was time for him to head backstage.

Later, Mathew's grandmother Janet told me Black surprised the family by declining his usual fee for his performances, asking only that his travel expenses be covered.

The other morning I got a two-word e-mail from my neighbor.

"Baxter's back."