The Birds

Suspense and shock beyond anything you have seen or imagined!

This morning, while Cat and I were in my bedroom, we heard noises downstairs...loud indiscriminate noises, paper rustling....was someone in the house? A local friend told me the night before that there were forty break-ins in Kimberton in one month, including one at his home recently, so my first thought was, oh no, someone just walked in! We went to the top of the stairs to investigate, and an enormous bird, a falcon, flew madly around the foyer. Cat ran down the stairs and jumped in the air, barking and growling. She wanted it! The poor bird slammed itself into windows and walls and then perched for a moment on my sheep painting in the dining room. I was impressed by its size. I understood that this bird was a hunter, and Cat's eyes would not be immune.

Cat, too, is a huntress and had fixed firmly on this creature hanging from the painting on my wall. I feared one of the animals could get hurt (this would not be the first bird to find itself in Cat's jaws), so I closed Cat into an upstairs bedroom. Typical of me, I returned to the foyer and sighed, then sat on the staircase as the falcon's flying mayhem continued above me, and considered how to spend my time. "Dammit. I have other things to do this morning. Fuck."

So I opened the front door, hoping the big bird would fly through it. Instead, it flew into the high foyer window and futilely attempted to fly through that until it became exhausted, eventually hanging from the window's lock by one long talon, its feet above its head, its mouth wide open. Had it died? By repeatedly slamming into walls and windows, had it killed itself? I was horrified. From my perch on the stairs, I watched it for a while and saw that its body heaved gently...breathing...and its eyes scanned the room. I ran back upstairs and went into the bedroom to finish getting dressed. I hoped that by the time I re-emerged, the bird would be gone.

Well, it wasn't. It still hung there upside down, practically motionless. I decided to fetch a long bamboo pole from the garage. I could tap it gently with the pole, and it might come away from the window and fly through the door. On my way to the garage, I passed through the laundry room and saw...another bird! (What the fuck is going on?) This was a small grey bird, sitting on the floor near a pair of shoes. We scared each other, and it flew out of the laundry room and into the family room, frantically seeking escape through the closed windows. I sat on a chair feeling idiotic and annoyed. Surely, if I left the house to go to work, the falcon would eat the little bird...and perhaps that plan is what started all this....but I couldn't deal with the thought of such carnage in my home, so I got a dish towel and, after a while, the little bird became exhausted (it, too, had its mouth open) and let me pick it up and put it outside.

One down, one to go. I turned toward the foyer, hoping the falcon would be gone. I looked up at the window, and it wasn't there. Good. But when I approached the staircase to return upstairs, we stared quietly at each other. It had yellow rings around its eyes. It sat there on a step halfway up the staircase, calmly gazing at me, wondering (as I was) what the fuck was going on this morning. It was beautiful. But it was in my house, so I sternly recommended that it "get the fuck out!" and pointed to the door. And so it did, and I went upstairs to brush my teeth.

They are not all the same

Last night, I took James and a friend's son to Hoss Steak House. Shortly after we arrived, I saw Adam, father of Dan, imfamous songwriter of "The Curse Song," at the salad bar. He waved and told me where his family was sitting. James and Dan were delighted to see each other.

As soon as we sat at our table, I noticed that my gynocologist, Dr. K., was seated at the next table with his wife, daughter and grandchild. I would have acknowledged him, said hello, waved, smiled, winked, whatever....but he discreetly pretended not to know me. I wondered why. After all, as the patient, I am the one who must contend with the humiliation of the annual gynocological exam, not he.

His cold shoulder, as it were, got me thinking....After each yearly exam, he invites me into his office for a final chat, ostensibly an opportunity for me to relay any concerns or ask any questions. I never have any. I always feel somewhat embarrassed even though my clothes are back on, and all I really want is to leave and put the exam behind me. But the after-exam chat in the office is his procedure, so I go along. What happens though, is that I have to make up something to talk about, usually not problematic for me, but facing the man who, only minutes prior, has given me an internal exam, is (problematic, I mean).

Year after year, the after-exam chats become increasingly difficult for me. Last year, though, I did have a question and, as soon as we sat together in his office on opposite sides of his desk, he smiled and waited...for me to say something. "So tell me," I started, "do they all look pretty much the same?"

Without missing a beat, he smiled slightly, folded his hands on his desk and responded, "No."

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

"Really?"

"Really."

"OK," I said, nodding reflectively.

I thought of this exchange while my gynocologist sat five feet away from me eating steaks with his family at Hoss. I couldn't share my recollection with the children at my table, of course, but after a while, I wondered who felt more embarrassed, him or me.

Years ago, when my child was a baby, his father and I took him to Teresa's in Wayne for supper. My previous gynocologist. Dr. E. (who delivered James but passed away several years later and had been a partner of Dr. K.) was there, dining with his wife, grown children and grandchildren. He waved to us happily, and we waved back.

So next year, maybe I will have something to discuss with Dr. K. during the after-exam chat. Or maybe I won't.

Shelly and Superman

James telephoned from Connor's house across the street. "Mommmm! Shelly is missing!" Shelly is the hermit crab of Allie (short for Alexander), who is Connor's five-year-old brother. I heard other boys shrieking in the background. "James, calm down. All of you have to look carefully for Shelly...without stepping on her." He slammed the phone down. Five minutes later, he called again to report that someone had found Shelly, who was hiding (or sleeping?) in one of Superman's spare shells. Superman is Connor's hermit crab. Apparently, hermit crabs go indiscriminantly from shell to shell. Who knew? Yet another potential disaster averted.

One of our neighbors lost a limb recently. I was shocked to hear that, but James told me not to worry because it would grow back.

Twenty minutes later, a pile of boys ran in the pouring rain from Connor's house to our house and repeatedly rang the doorbell. Cat barked and ran downstairs. I opened the front door, and James remarked informatively, "Mom, we're here" and then "To the basement!" Numerous rain soaked children stampeded past me and descended, slamming the door behind them.