For the Birds!

 

I see the two ladies, armed linked, still as can be, blocking our path, before I spy what they’re watching. And they must be watching something. They are rapt. Motionless.

            Dusk is quickly enveloping us here on Thanksgiving Day in the Wildcat Canyon. The air is crisp and still; the light is darkening to greys and oranges, the top of the highest hills have just lost their golden sunshine.

            I’m in a rush to get back. I am tired and achy. Not sure why. Maybe I need new shoes? But when we come upon the Watching Ladies, I stop.  Ian pulls up alongside me.

            They must be watching something, but I sure as hell don’t see anything. Of course, like I mentioned, dusk is on the move, so the path’s murky light dims my vision.

            Then we see it. Oh, so cute! A tiny little grey bird, flicking dirt all over itself, wallowing into a small hole it has created. At first, I think maybe it’s injured. It’s so spastic. I glance over at the ladies, “Is it okay?”

            They giggle in unison. “Oh, yes, it is fine. It is taking a dirt bath. That is all!”

            “Ahh….” I nod, “I haven’t seen that before. It’s really cute!”

            “Yes, it is cute!” one of them agrees, her eye twinkling over her mask. Even in the gathering darkness, I can see she’s delighted. Obviously; otherwise, they wouldn’t have stopped here to gaze in wonder at nature’s tiny bath for the locals.

            We try to step quietly, gingerly,  to sneak by the little guy, but he’s either through with his bath, or we startled him. Off he flies, flitting over the dirt path and into the brush.

            “Ohhh….” I cry, “we chased him away.”

            “It is okay,” one of the ladies says, “it will come back.”

            “Or maybe he’s dirty enough?” I offer, giggling.

            They laugh, “Yes….”

            We march on, pausing every once in a while to listen to the “Whooo whoooo who who whoooo,” echoing through the canyon.

            “Ian!” I exclaim. “Do you hear that?”

            “Yup, that’s the Great Horned Owl.”

            “Isn’t it cool?” The echoing calls continue, mysterious conversations in the twilight.

            “Yes, it is. They are having a conversation.”
            “What do you think they’re saying?”

            “Oh,” Ian chuckles and since I can’t remember what he said,  I’m making this dialogue up: “They are probably talking about their day and the night ahead. You know, ‘Yeah, I had a pretty lazy day. I only caught one small mouse and it was not satisfying at all.’”

            “’Well, then, you better work all night to make up for your slim pickings during the day!’”

            I crack up. Ian is so funny. He goes on to talk about the owls and how they are always flying on a mission. They have a destination.

            “Don’t all birds have a destination?” I ask.

            “Well, you see some birds and they seem to be just flying willy nilly back and forth. But not the Great Horned. They have a definite purpose in mind when they take flight.”

            I nod, okay, thinking of all the cute animals that could fall prey to this definite purpose. Nature is harsh this way. It doesn’t take into consideration the cuteness of the animals. They are the prey or they are the predator. That’s it, right?

            Kinda like people?

            I suppose you could categorize people this way. Either people prey upon others, take advantage of others’ weaknesses, or people are the prey, falling under the heavy hammer of the predator. Like the Great Recession Banking situation where the Evil Posers offered innocent, naïve and desperate folks unbelievably low mortgage rates only to have these ‘balloon’ in a short amount of time, causing the ‘prey’ to lose their homes. Predators: Prey. Business in America.

            

            I see another little bird up ahead, doing his dirt bath thing. I pause in mid-step, grabbing Ian’s arm: “Look, another bather!”

            We stand for a moment, watching in silence as the sweet little thing flails about in the dirt.

            I hear another “WHOOO WHOOO WHOOO…..” and shiver.

            “Let’s go,” I pull Ian away. “I don’t want to witness any nature slaying.”

            “I don’t think you would, but sure we can go…” Ian gets my natural inclination to leap to the worse case scenario. Esp when I’m tired, hungry and bathroom deprived. (They’re closed cuz of the Pandemic---a real hardship for me, but this is off the track of the story…)

            I can’t shake the image of a Great Horned Owl swooping down and scooping up this precious little guy. Yet, I know Ian is right. A Great Horned would wait till we’re gone.

            This makes me even sadder!

            We arrive at the car, Ian beeps the lock, another walker passes us with her dog and wishes us a good night.

            I climb into the car, every muscle aching, and sigh. It’s all for the birds, isn’t it? I hear a final "WHOO WHOO WHOO WHO WHO" as I close the door and Ian starts the engine. 

Danger? Or…Just Paranoia?

 

I feel him behind me. My senses finely tuned during these pandemic pacings. You just never know what may be lurking across the street, behind a bush, inside a car.

            He (or she? It’s hard to tell, but the energy is male) is across the street, maybe 50 yards behind me? I can’t tell. But not very close. Yet, close enough that I worry. Dressed in baggy blue jeans, red sweatshirt, black ski cap, and black mask, I can’t really see his face. Still,  I just want to get away from him.

            Why? Of course, there’s the obvious. He could be a COVID Carrier. But also, there is something ominous about him. Maybe it’s the black mask? Yet, everyone wears black masks, you know if they’re cool. Look at Kamala Harris and Joe Biden. Black masks. Cool! 

            Or, am I just being paranoid? I think I am until he crosses the street to walk directly behind me. Now this is weird, right? Everyone crosses the street to get away from each other cuz of COVID,  not cross the street to be nearer to someone.

            So, I cross the street to get away from him. Quicken my pace.

            He follows me. Crosses the street again to follow behind me. Too close.

            Okay, now I’m feeling a bit panicked. Why is he following me? What could he possibly want? It’s not like I have any money on me. Though he wouldn’t know that. Most people probably carry some money on them, even just walking around the neighborhood.

            I’ve been watching too much Noir. It’s not like I’m Lana Turner’s husband with a $10,000 life insurance policy and a Bier Garten Restaurant in Santa Barbara. There’s a motive for a murder.

            I turn the corner at Barrett, trying to lose him. But no, he turns too and continues following me. I hurry up Barrett and turn up 30^th street, glancing around at all the silent houses. Where is everyone? On Zoom? In bed? At the store?

            Yeah, it’s Thanksgiving week and everyone’s shopping. Like there isn’t a worldwide pandemic going on. We’re all just gonna gather together and chow down on turkey and pumpkin pie. When I went to Safeway on Sunday, it was packed with people obviously shopping for the holiday. In their carts: big frozen turkeys, aluminum throwaway pans for roasting, bottles of wine and beer. It’s Thanksgiving. Eat, drink and get Covid?

            Damn! I sure as hell don’t want Covid for the holidays.

            Which is why I’m trying to get away from The Follower, who seems to be gaining on me.

            Shit. What to do?

            Glancing up the empty driveways, I wonder if I can just run up and knock on someone’s door. “Help, Help!!! I’m being followed by a Masked Man. Call the cops!!!”

            But no. No one would open their door to a stranger, right? Not in the best of times and esp. not now with the Virus Surging through the Bay Area, felling folks in record numbers.

            I glance around and he’s still behind me. I turn another corner, up Roosevelt, and then rush down 31^st. I know some people on this street as I hurry down the sidewalk, my heart pounding.

            Is he still there? I look back. I don’t see him.

          

  Squiggy, the black cat, is out on his shady lawn. I pause, kneeling down behind a parked car, “C’mere Squiggy…” He gazes at me, golden eyes bored and placid, then sits down. Starts to groom his face.  I continue crouching, thinking how The Follower can’t see me now. Maybe I’ve given him the slip?

            Finished with his face, Squiggy comes up to me now, doing a head bump into my knee and nearly knocking me over. I start to giggle. “Squiggy! What are you doing?”

            He repeats his knock down bump. I give him a head pat as I keep an eye peeled for The Follower.

            I still don’t see him. He musta continued down Roosevelt.

            Standing now, I sigh, relief washing over me.

            I wait for a few moments as Squiggy continues to bump my leg, then bend down to give him a final pat. “Bye, Squiggy. Thanks for rescuing me!”

            Coming out of the shadows, into the bright mid-morning November sunshine, I shake my head. Was that guy really following me? He sure seemed like it, but I can’t figure out why. He could be some crazy guy, the Walking Wounded as Owen Hill calls them, just fixated on me for no apparent reason. Or he could be some guy just out on a morning stroll like I was. And he just liked to be behind me….why????

            Oh, it was probably nothing. I’m just being paranoid.

            Yet, I can’t shake the feeling of being pursued. Even though this seems farfetched, I can’t figure out why he followed me for so many blocks. I’m not young, or pretty or rich. But I am a woman alone, a small old one at that, which is always a risk. Yet, in broad daylight? In my neighborhood?

            Marching up my front steps, I unlock the door, trying to shake my fear.

            It feels so stupid now. But yet, next time I go on my walk, I’m not going to take that same route.

            Just in case….

Near Miss!

One of my biggest issues with the Pandemic Pacings is remembering to pay attention! I forget that I’m out walking in the middle of the street and a car could run me over. Or that a particular yard may have a ferocious barking dog in it that is ready to jump out and attack me! Or that a silent speedy masked person on a scooter could mow me down?

            What?

            I will grant you that this time, I was NOT paying attention when I started across the street.

            I was distracted by a Tabby Cat!

            Yeah, it’s stupid, but I spied a big tabby sitting on his perch in the window of a house across the street. He was calling to me. Well, at least it seemed that way with his round emerald eyes following my path across the street.

            “TABBY! You’re a PUDDIN!” I called out to him, starting across the street when out of nowhere…..

            The scooter! It was completely silent. One of those that runs on what? Electricity? Must be. That is silent. And it was going fast! I mean, It musta been going at least as fast as the cars that zoom past me. 25 miles an hour? Do scooters go that fast?

            Fortunately, I stopped in time. Before it mowed me down. “WHOOOOAAAAA!” I cried out.

            Scooter Operator made no response. Just plowed ahead, completely oblivious? Probably. Why would they expect a Distracted Tabby Cat Event to happen on their way to wherever?

            I remember when I worked in The City, these scooters were everywhere. Zooming down the sidewalks, causing much fear in pedestrians. I didn’t really have any near misses like I had this morning, but I had read about these accidents in the SF Chronicle. How there were moves to ban them from the sidewalks. To no avail. That people would stop and yell at them to slow down. Yeah, right!

            I had a student at GGU.  From Russian. He rode one of these scooters into class every week. Hop off and balance it against the wall of the classroom. I thought it was kinda cool. But then again, I thought it was kinda weird too. I mean, who rides a scooter into their Graduate Writing Class?
            So, today, when I was nearly mowed down by this scooter, catching my breath as it whizzed by, I counted my blessings. That would have ruined my day if I’d been hit by a scooter! What kind of injuries might I have incurred? Many for sure. Plus, it’d hurt. And I have a very low pain threshold.

            I have to be more careful. I have to pay attention. I’m not in the indoor pool blissfully swimming laps with no hazards to watch for.

            I’m outside. And I’m at risk.

            “Hello!” Two Peas in a Pod hail me from across the street. “How ya doin’?”

            Should I tell them about my Near Miss with the scooter? Warn them? After all they are seniors. Though I bet they don’t cross the street for Tabby Sightings.

            I don’t tell them. Holler back that I’m fine.

            “You think we’ll beat the rain?” he asks, grinning.

            “I can’t wait for the rain!” I yell back.  “But there are still patches of blue. I think we’ll be fine.”

            They nod behind their masks. I hurry down the street, the wind whipping up the leaves into swirling miniature tornados on dead grass lawns. A stray black plastic bag tumbles down the middle of the street.

            I’m distracted. For sure. But from now on, I will try to be more aware of silent scooter hazards.

            Damn, I miss the pool!

I'll Never Know.....

 

“Your father is getting up every morning and unloading the dirty dishes from the dishwasher with his bad back.” Lanky Frustrated Man complains to Sorta Mean Bird Woman as I march past them up 31^st street.

            I can’t hear her response. But he bellows, “I don’t know what it is. I know he’s sleeping a lot….”

            I walk on, wondering, what is the situation he’s describing for all the neighborhood to hear and what is his relationship to her? If he were her sibling, then he’d say ‘our father’ right? Unless of course, they are half-siblings. Then they could share the same mother but have different fathers. Maybe this is the case? There is a definite intimacy between them, a sibling sort of frustration floating through the crisp post rain air.

            Or I suppose he could be some sort of caretaker? Her father has some sort of dementia and his lack of awareness of dirty v. clean dishes is a symptom of this condition? And Lanky Frustrated Man just is at the end of his rope. Wants her to solve the problem? Or at least be aware of it?

            I’ll never know. It’s not like I know these people. Like so many people I see every day on my walks, I know very few of them. There was Evie last week, whom I finally ‘met’ after telling her about Biden’s win. There’s Two Peas in a Pod, whom I finally introduced myself to and they did likewise. Yet, for most of my walks, I just see the same people since I go on the same route and I never know their names or their stories. Sometimes like this morning, I hear a snippet of a story, but I will never know what the real story is. Maybe Sorta Mean Bird Woman is in denial. She doesn’t want to acknowledge how far gone her father is.

            I get this. Denial works wonders a lot of the time. Esp. now. I can go through my day, walking, grading, teaching, swimming (sometimes) and just pretend like everything is okay. That there isn’t a worldwide pandemic killing thousands of people every day. That we don’t have a narcissistic, misogynistic, mendacious dictator in the White House who refuses to concede that he’s lost the election. That there isn’t a real crisis with the planet and the lack of rain here and the too much rain elsewhere. That there isn’t systemic racism and protests running rampant in our streets.

            Yeah, I can pretend that none of this exists. And, yet, it’s there. Hangin’ over me. I feel its heaviness in an unconscious way. It invades my dreams with tidal waves and unmasked crowds.

            As I head across Clinton Street, a murder of big black crows swoops into someone’s cluttered yard. A bonanza of litter and dead furniture and sickly-looking plants. The crows caw and fight over a piece of trash. One triumphs, picking it up in his hard yellow beak and flying up and over the telephone lines to savor it in solitude.

            I think back to the dishwasher and the dirty dishes and part of me gets why this happens. Sometimes whoever had loaded the dishwasher with the dirty dishes cleans them off so well before they’re loaded that honestly you can’t tell if they’ve been washed or not. So, unloading the dishwasher makes sense. It’s just being a helpful member of the household, right?

            Yet, I know that this probably wasn’t the case that was being discussed. And I feel sorry for all parties involved, even Sorta Mean Bird Woman. (I forget why I call her that. She has a bird-like aspect and she isn’t very nice.)

            Okay, maybe I don’t feel that sorry for her.

            Oh, what does it matter! I walk on, the sun bright, the trees dripping with silver water droplets from the night’s little bit of rain. Another crow caws at his ‘friends’ before jumping in front of me with his treasure of trash in his beak.

            I smile to myself as I head up toward McBryde, waving to a Random Dog Walking Lady who seems to recognize me. Her wave is hopeful and friendly, and I think, I wonder what her story is.

            I’ll never know…..

Kill Her or Killer?

“I’ve been looking at Zillow.  I get their listings in my email all the time. And I saw this houseboat in Alameda for $350,000, 2 bedroom, 2 bath, and I was thinking how great that would be if you lived on a houseboat and you could just jump into the bay….”

            “I don’t want to live on a houseboat.” I am so cranky. The bay is too cold to swim in---56 degrees today---and I’m sick of walking because of the goddamn pandemic and there’s another surge now so the hopes that the indoor pools would open by the time it gets cold for the winter are utterly and completely dashed, drowned, kaput.

            “It’s too cold!” I mutter as we tromp up 31^st street, the crisp morning air should be a delicious wake up for me, but instead, I’m just very very cranky. We usually swim in Keller Cove on Wednesday mornings, but not today. Like I said, the water is too cold.

            “Arrrfff arrrrfffff arrrfffff!” a yap emits from behind a screen door. Disheveled blue robe man, with wild grey hair sticking up on all sides, thick glasses, ratty slippers, appears on the porch, jabbing a huge American flag in our faces.

            “Kill her!” he hollers.

            Kill her? What have I done? I know I’m cranky, but is murder the only solution?

            “Stop barking!” he commands, jousting with the flag, like he’s landed at Iwo Jima and is gonna plant it in our faces.

            I start laughing. What else can I do? The scene is so hilarious. “KILLER!” he commands again and this time I think he’s saying ‘Killer’. Like the dog’s name is Killer?

            Good name for a yapper, esp. one that belongs to a patriotic soldier dressed in blue.

            “Well, I just thought that it’d be a cool thing to have the bay right there,” Ian continues, totally oblivious to the Killer scene?

I turn toward him as we continue our march up the street, leaving Flag Man behind. “Wait a minute,” I interrupt, “we need to analyze that Killer Bathrobe Man situation first.”

Ian’s game for any analysis. “I think the dog’s name is killer and he was just telling it to stop barking.”

            “Okay, but what if he was telling the dog, whose name is inconsequential, to Kill Her, meaning me?”

            “Why would he do that?”

            “I don’t know. He could feel my cranky energy and thought I deserved to die by the teeth of a vicious little beast? Or he was in attack mode in his mind, landing in enemy territory and saw us coming up the street and thought we were the enemy? Or…..”

            Ian shakes his head, mulling over my speculations. And, I admit, it’s all a bit ridiculous. But what was up? Why joust the flag at us? Were we somehow unamerican? Did he know we voted for Biden and not Trump, his hero? Why do I think he was a Trump supporter? The flag? What is it about the American flag that seems so threatening to me?

            I remember when I came back from China. And 911 had just happened. And everywhere I went there were American flags flying---off people’s cars; in people’s house windows; on every street corner. It was scary. I wanted to go back to China. Or at least put the Chinese flag in my window.

            Of course, I didn’t.  Rabid Patriotism is nothing to take lightly. People kill over it.

            And, here I am back to Kill her.

            What is it about the energy today from this cartoonish little man that was so threatening, but at the same time, hilarious?

            We are in very strange times. The election is over, but Trump refuses to concede. The pandemic surges continue to climb and kill (again, the theme of killing comes up), and the racial unrest and protests continue in the streets.

            There is a lot to be worried about.

            And, I can’t swim! I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I feel like killing someone.

            “I know a houseboat may be just a fantasy…..”

            “Where would I put the grand piano?” I demand.

            “That’s a good point…”

            We cross Clinton as a big black car guns its accelerator, speeding toward us way too fast.  

            Kill Her! I think as I scurry across the street, my heart racing. The woman with the two Scottie dogs walks by, completely oblivious to everything. A couple of crows swoop down and pick up trash off the asphalt. I sigh aloud as we march up 31^st street. 

And it's just another day, another walk, another story in the neighborhood. I'm not killed yet. Maybe a houseboat isn't such a bad idea.....I grin to myself, gazing up at the puffy Constable clouds as we cross Esmond and head toward McBryde. 

        

Yipee!!!!

 

“Have you heard the news?” I’ve been keeping my excitement inside, hoping to run into a fellow like-minded soul on my walk this morning. I have to be careful. There could be Trump supporters in my neighborhood that are mad as hell. The election is a fraud. They stole the election. I am the enemy who voted against their misogynist hero.

          

 

So, when I spied friendly dog walking woman—every day she greets me with a big warm smile--I have a good feeling about her. She must be someone who voted for Biden and Harris. She didn't seem like someone who would vote for Trump. Though you never can tell. I will never assume again that everyone in my neighborhood is a Democrat after I had the conversation with my neighbor across the street, a woman!--who had voted for Trump. You just can't tell. 

            But, I feel pretty confident about Warm Smile Woman. So,  ask her if she’s heard. “No,” she answered now, grinning at me.

            “Biden won!” I proclaim, grinning broadly under my mask.

            “WHAT!!! OH MY GOD!!!! THAT IS SO AWESOME!” I could see the relief spread throughout her, her shoulders relaxing, her eyes sparkling. Yes, we were kindred political souls. I knew it!

            “I stopped checking my phone,” she continued. “I had no idea. I’m so glad that it was you who told me. I feel like I know you. I see you every morning and my name is Evie by the way. And my dog’s name is Nash….”

            “I’m Carol! Nice to finally know your name.”

            “Yes!” she continues to beam at me. “And I get my new internet today too!”

            “WOW! This is a good day for you! And Kamala too! A woman VP! How awesome is that?”

            “Yes, it certainly is!” she agrees, the internet man approaching us now from his van.

            “I’ll leave you to it,” I say, walking on, the air crisp and breezy.

            “Thanks again for letting me know,” she smiles again. That warm welcoming smile. I’m so happy to have been the one to let her know the good news.

            Cuz, it’s been a long week. We’ve been on pins and needles for days. The night of the election when it was obvious that the count was going to be close and that there were still so many ballots to count (Trump declaring that the counting must stop???), I had gone to bed anxious and upset. Would this horror of a man win again? It just couldn’t happen, could it? But I hadn’t thought it would happen 4 years ago and it did.

            So, this week, I’ve been trying to not obsess over it. Trying not to check my phone every hour.  Limiting myself to twice a day---evening and morning.

            This morning I got up and checked. The AP map showed Biden with 280 electoral votes! He needed 270 to win! It must be over. He must have won.

            I make coffee. Turn on the TV. The pundits are on. Yes, Biden’s won. And Trump is playing golf. He refuses to concede. There’s no law that requires him to. But John Dickerson says that if Trump won’t leave on the day Biden is sworn in, the White House Security will escort him out.

            Will it come to this? Gosh, I hope not. But I wouldn’t put it past Trump. He threatens recounts. He threatens lawsuits and, in fact, has already filed these against key states—Pennsylvania, Nevada, Arizona. He is taking these false election results to the Supreme Court. They’ll make him president again. He’s made sure of this with the rush job to put Amy Coney Barrett, the scary conservative pro-lifer (yet against the ACA—how can you be pro-baby but anti adult life?)  will make him president.

            Yet, this morning, as I walk, after my jubilant chat with Evie, I feel lighter. There is a bluer tinge to the sky. It’s a new day. A new era. A new paradigm.

            Thank Fucking Gawd! I think as I cross the street and head up to McBryde. A big crow swoops down in front of me. Picks up a piece of something in his hard yellow beak. I grin. “Hello, Mr. Crow! Happy day to you!”

            He caws at me and take off, soaring over the telephone wires into the blue blue sky.