For the Birds

My mother hated birds. Seriously. They pooped on her car. She believed that if a bird got in the house, someone would die. And she had proof. My stepfather found a dead bird in the fireplace, a few days later he died after trying to save her life.

Should I tell you that story now, or save it for another post?

Okay, if you insist—here goes.  

My mother had some repair work done on her car at a local garage. The next day she went out to the driveway and started the car. Whoof! It was engrossed in flames. My stepfather saw this and rushed out to her, opened the car door with flames shooting up, and pulled her out. In most cases that would be the happy ending of the story.

 

But Tom was recovering from esophageal cancer and had a hole in his neck from the surgery. The smoke entered his lungs.A couple days later he was the one who died from the fire. But, to my mother, it wasn’t about cancer or smoke, it was that damn dead bird in the fireplace.

 

I have a lot in common with my mother, except that I really like birds. 

Tiny hummingbirds who fly so fast, I hold my breathe watching them at the bird feeder. I keep a tomato cage near the feeder and sometimes they’ll sit a minute, probably thinking up a flight plan.

I have a nice video of hummingbirds in the garden...but it won't load. Drats.

Last summer I went into the guest bedroom and heard chirping. I looked all around and then discovered a robin’s nest on the windowsill. After that I’d check everyday on the egg progress. Ms. Robin got used to me talking to her and stayed seated. Dad wasn’t as comfortable with me. And then there were babies…mostly consisting of open beaks. Sad part is we were in Wisconsin when the babies flew off. We missed graduation.

And then there’s the big, big birds. Not as in Sesame Street, but as in Turkey Vultures (should that be all caps?). They’re very ugly in close-ups. But in the sky, floating on air, they are exhilarating. They have a wingspan of 68-72 inches.

 

Turkey Vultures are raptors. Carnivorous clean-up crews. My granddaughter, Kristen, told me that because they eat roadkill and already dead animals, when finished with their lunch they pee on their feet. It works as a disinfectant for bacteria.

A lone bird will appear overhead. Watch it. And then another will join, and another. On Christmas eve I counted 18. They don’t even have to think about Covid. On the ground they’re a ‘committee’. In flight a group is a ‘kettle’. 

I only see them in flight. They rarely flap, mainly they catch the airwaves and soar. I feel something inside me lift with them, entranced by the community of them. There is joy and wonder. 

 

Happy New Year, my friends. 

Let your heart take flight like a bird, but I wouldn't suggest peeing on your feet.

THE USE-BY-DATE

 

I’m getting close to my Use-By-Date…seventy-nine on my last birthday. And no need to be a math wiz, you know what comes next. Holy crap!

I reconnected with a dear friend from my youth on Facebook, and asked John if I looked that old. He said, “Yes.” Sometimes what I like about him is his honesty. Sometimes. 

Okay. So, I look my age. So What? I’m just gonna keep wearing a mask when I go out. Covid’s still around. Also, I like the no makeup part of mask wearing.

Jievani Weerasinghe on Unsplash

Tragically, I’m also acting my age. I talk (out loud) to TV commercials. I mock them. Occasionally they deserve a yelling at. Also, I think I’m very good at an English accent when I help the woman with the voice over on the Viking Tours commercials.

Photo by Steinar Engeland on Unsplash

My memory is getting a tad slippery. I went to lunch with my daughter Sue, and I told her if I could go to a live concert from the past, I’d want to see Queen. The lead singer, umm, what’s his name. She suggested Adam Lambert. No, I said, the original lead who died. She said, Freddy Mercury. Right! Freddy. I watched the movie about him three times during the pandemic lock down. To be in that massive crowd at the Live Aid Concert, waving your arms, singing along, now that would be amazing.

 

Okay, so I’m going to remember his name. Freddy Mercury. When I can’t remember something—think “Freddy Mercury.”

 

Mostly I attempt to hide my memory lapses. Yesterday, I asked John what he was going to do for the day? I answered for him: walk the mall, get a coffee and look at cat videos on_________ on his iPad. I wanted to use the word for the App with videos, but I couldn’t remember Instagram until I checked my own iPad. The technique is called, “Filling in the Blanks,” so no one catches you forgetting. Replacing a word you can't remember, quickly with another word (whether it fits or not). It's a skill.

 

Photo by Vishnu Mohanan on Unsplash

I once mentioned to my son, Jim, that sometimes I forget a word. He suggested I take Prevagen. “Okay, sorry, Jim. You get the tirade that I give the TV commercials. Google it, Prevagen DOES NOT WORK.”

 

Some of the people on those commercials say they’ve been taking Prevagen for ten years, at $40-$90 a month, do the math: $4800-$10,800 for a product that doesn’t work. It’s apoaequorin (jellyfish protein) and vitamin D. 

 

Quincy Bioscience is making a fortune. Ads cost big bucks; I know that because I was in advertising for most of my career. And how often do you see their ads? Inundate us, why don’t you?  The actors in the ads seem so genuine. I yell at them. I know some really bad words and use them. You don’t forget fuck.

 

So what can you do for memory? The Mediterranean diet is supposed to be good. But I really like ice cream, it’s not mentioned on the food list. And cheese. 

 

I have a good brain food recipe for you.

Photo by Brian McGowan on Unsplash

BRAIN SALAD

Ingredients

No quantities are given, feel free to do as you like.

Kale: Tear into bite size pieces, soak in water, drain, put in a salad spinner, spin, add a nice dressing (I like Brianna’s Lemon Tarrigon) massage the kale with the dressing. Using your bare hands also adds a nice moisturizing effect to your skin as you soften the kale.

Quinoa: Toss some quinoa into the slippery kale. It’ll stick.

Blueberries: Add some Super BLUE brain food

Walnuts: Then go nuts with another super brain food...even better toasted in a dry frying pan.

 

Eat this, it’s good for your brain. Then eat ice cream, it’s good for your, um, what’s the word?

 

Also, __________um, there was something else I wanted to mention. Um. Ahh, wait a minute. Let me think a sec. Um…

 

Oh yeah! Freddy Mercury!!!

https://youtu.be/TkFHYODzRTs

 

PS: John just read this over. He said, “It’s good except for the kale recipe.” His main problem with kale is that it’s green.

 

PPS: If you leave a comment, PLEASE include a hint of who you are, so if Google lists you as Anonymous, I’ll be able to guess your name.

 

 

 POWERLESS

 

6:30 AM

 

I am powerless. It has nothing to do with my age. It has nothing to do with being female. 

 

The storm that hit at dinner time last night has taken my power. Twisting and turning and pounding, knocking out powerlines, and kicking two granite stones off Stonehead, which has always been a balancing act.

Before

After

So, after a bad night’s sleep (two glasses of wine on the back porch last night didn’t help the snooze fairy), I got up in the dark not knowing what time it was—no red numbers lit up the old alarm clock. My usual good morning texts to Sue, Kristen and Joy, can’t happen today. My phone is dead. Cause of death: no juice. Starved. Powerless.

I come downstairs in the dark with my electric candle. Coffee first thing in the morning is always nice. The good thing is having gas stove burners, you can bypass the electric ignition by using a fire stick. I have one that works! Yay!

 

So, coffee filter over a cup, spoon of caffeine, and I’m thinking, I’m pretty fancy…like this is a Starbuck’s pour-over. However, in the vague candle glow, I over pour the cup. Wet coffee grounds have plopped in places outside the cup. Somehow, I do get a cup of coffee, and it’s okay. But tea sounds better and easier.

 

I open my iPad naively expecting to see mail, the New York Times “Morning” and all the puzzles that start my day, but our WIFI is out.

 

We have a gas water heater, and later when it’s light enough to see myself, I could possibly take a shower.

 

My main plan today was lunch in a park with Ann. She’s making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I was going to bring cookies. But my car is inside the garage with an electric door opener. I’m trapped. I can’t call her because my phone is dead. I can’t email because the WIFI is out.

 

I can’t check the weather, or what’s happening with the power company.

 

And now I’m getting hungry, I could cook an egg, one of those beauties my brother Tom and his new wife Lizzie brought us. They have chickens. I have eggs. But they’re in the frig and I don’t want to open the door and let the cold escape.

 

I could toast bread in a dry pan, but my bread is in the freezer. Do Not Open!

 

There are things in the cupboard to eat. Oatmeal—ugh. Instant mashed potatoes—maybe. But then…

 

8:30 am

 

John’s up. But wait! His car isn’t in the garage. He’s taking me to Panera for breakfast and WIFI plugins. It’s amazing how many places along our route still have power.

 

We sit in Panera with all our devices plugged in, and eat too much, and it takes too long for everything to get charged. A group of loud elder men are talking religion and politics next to me. I listen, eavesdrop, snope, but make no comments. I disagree with them on almost everything, but my powers out.

 

We stop at a grocery store and buy bread and a few other things that we already have, but are trapped in the shut tight refrigerator at home. Dinner: open a can of chili, or maybe have PBJs.

10:00 am

Back home I try to reach Ann to cancel our plans but her phone just rings, and so I write an email. I worry about her and call several more times. And then, hours later discover that she had answered my email. 

 

Exhausted I lay down to take a nap, and I think, “hmm, maybe I should do some quilting. But then I remember. My Singer is powerless.

 

3:20 pm

 

I’m lying on the couch reading Joan Didion and having nothing to do with her dated essays from the 60’s, my world lights up! 

 

All the lights we turned on last night in the dark are casting a gold glow.

 

I have POWER! 

I could flex an arm muscle, but you wouldn’t be impressed.