The Poldark Parrot

“There’s a parrot in the tree.” As happens so often on my walks, people appear out of nowhere. Even though I walk the same route mornings and evenings, I never know who’s going to appear.

            Today, a woman of middle age dressed in a tent-like tomato colored caftan stands in front of Taxidermist Man’s (more on this later) house. Ian and I stop at her proclamation. Follow her finger pointed up to a mammoth redwood tree in the lot next to hers. Sure enough, there is a parrot. I spy its bright orange belly and green head even though it must be 4 stories up. It’s squawking up a storm. No Polly want a cracker here. It’s a distress cry.       

            And Caftan Woman has come to its rescue. Or at least to its call.

            “I was playing the piano and I heard this tremendous squawking and so I came out and discovered it.”

            Ian and I nod.

            “I will get it some food. I hope it’s all right.”

            “Yes,” I say, “it seems distressed.”
            We all gaze up at the tree for a moment, taking in the parrot’s call. Where did it come from, I wonder?

            “I think it belongs to the family across the street,” she intones, seemingly reading my mind “they have a sign on their garage door about a parrot.”

            I wonder why she doesn’t just go across the street and knock on their door if they have a sign about a missing parrot, which is my assumption. Instead, I ask her about her piano playing. I’d been told by the Opera Singer more than a year ago (whom I was going to teach piano to but it didn’t work out) that there was a piano teacher who lived in this house. We’d discovered that we knew of this house because of the taxidermist. Who is a big %**hole! I think this is another blog, but he let his dogs lunge at me one day, barking ferociously, but I didn’t know they were restrained and when I screamed, he laughed and laughed and laughed. “Don’t worry your pretty head!” he’d leered at me. “They’re tied up!” On an earlier walk, I’d  spied him in his garage with his massive taxidermy collection of raccoons, deer, birds and other assorted dead animals. Well, obviously they’re dead. I sure hope the parrot wasn’t going to be added to the collection. Was she not letting the neighbors know for just this nefarious purpose?

            When the opera singer had told me that the piano teacher was married to the taxidermist, I was curious about her. It’d be cool to know another piano teacher in the neighborhood though as Ian pointed out later, she might be my competition.

            “I play the piano too,” I offer.

            “Do you?” She still is gazing up at the parrot.

            “Yes, and teach. Do you teach?” I already figure that this is the piano teacher that the opera singer had told me about. I want to find more out about her. I’m nosy that way.
            “Why yes I do. For the Fiat school.”
            “Ah…..I teach for IMC and then also privately.”

            “I also play the violin,” she said. “We should do a duet sometime.”

            “Well, yes, maybe when the pandemic is over.”

            “I was playing the theme to Poldark. The parrot must like it. Do you know it?”
            There was something a little crazy eyes about her--you know what I mean? She had a quality of floatiness that crazy people have. The theme from Poldark didn’t help with this assessment of mine. A show I know vaguely of on PBS that features a dark hero and many windswept heroines that need rescuing. At least from what I can tell by the ads.

            Now I tell her that no, I don’t know the theme for Poldark. Want to mention that I’m working on Corelli’s keyboard pieces, but decide against this, thinking that this might sound a little snooty.

            “You should play it. It’s beautiful….” She sighs, still staring up at the parrot who continues to squawk pitilessly all this time. Ian’s standing next to me, staring up at the tree saying something about this isn’t a really good climate for parrots: it’s not the tropics.

            We all laugh. Yes, Richmond is not the Caribbean. Is that where parrots reside?

            Now, getting antsy to continue our walk, I want to close the chat: “What’s your name? I ask.

“Cecilia.”

“I’m Carol. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, Are you on Nextdoor?” I tell her I am and then ask her about the house with the parrot sign before we take our leave. She points across the street to a nondescript grey abode with birch trees overhanging the sidewalk. Again, I wonder why she doesn’t just go over there and let them know she’s seen their parrot. But then, since she does have that crazy eye thing going on, maybe there’s some sort of estrangement between her and these neighbors?

            Ian and I decide to go over and check out this house, leaving her to continue calling to the parrot.

She’s right, there is a sign on the garage door with kids’ paining, ‘Parrot come home.’ And then a painting of the parrot, all oranges, greens and blues. We go and knock on the door. No answer. I suggest to Ian that he write a note on the parrot sign and he does, “Parrot across the street in redwood at 919. Tuesday, July 14^th”.

            We leave it at that and continue on. I glance back. Celia is still standing on the front lawn, singing up to the parrot. I wonder if she’s singing the theme to Poldark. There’s something haunting and dark about the tune. I wonder if the parrot will come to her.

            I hope not. She just doesn’t seem trustworthy. And maybe this is just my innate prejudice against her because she is married to the Taxidermist, or maybe it’s more than this.

            Ian starts in talking about how he’s still not heard from his optometrist about his new glasses. “Why don’t you call him?” I say for the 100^th time.

            We turn the corner and head up McBryde. I still hear squawking in the wind.

            Poor parrot….I worry….I hope his family sees Ian’s note!