Happy New Year and Other Foibles

Well, the sticky knobs on all the drawers and cabinets have been wiped clean after all the baking and eating and, dare I say, drinking of the last couple of weeks. And when I say they have been wiped clean, I mean that I have wiped them clean. They have not wiped themselves.

That sounds vaguely gross.

Also, it’s disingenuous, suggesting that I have done all the work over the holidays. This is untrue and to prove it, here’s a picture of a gorgeous tarte soleil the husband and our Yankee friend Tom made for New Year’s:

Recipe from www.smittenkitchen.com 

Anyway, 2018 is gone, no point in regrets. 2019 is upon me, no point trying to deny the march of time. That’s pretty much the way life goes, isn’t it? If I can free myself of regret and fear, well, then I will be golden.

Failing that, if I can accept regret and fear, then I’ll be pretty good.  Silver, I suppose. 

I’m not big on resolutions, at least not this year. I’m big on carrying on with the things I’m doing that do some good and cutting back on things I’m doing that are less helpful.

One thing I would like to stop doing is calling the garage door man. I keep calling him—this has now happened three times—and he keeps coming over and discovering that the garage door works absolutely fine. He’s very nice about it. He doesn’t even charge me for it. He just points out what stupidity has prevented me from understanding why the door isn’t going up. Or down. Depending on which you want it to do. It’s kind of like a toddler; it goes up when it ought to go down and vice versa, and it’s always when you’re running late. Last time this happened, right before the dawn of this new year in which I will be more aware of the garage door mechanism, the issue was that somehow someone had pushed the lock option on the garage door button.

This is a public service announcement to those of you who live in suburbs and have garages: if you push the lock option on your wall button, the car button attached to your car’s visor will not operate. The button on the wall of the garage will still work, however, and this will cause you much confusion. Also annoyance. Also, potentially amusing moments of playing chicken with the garage doors, running into the garage to press the button, then running out forgetting the safety mechanism in the overhead door that causes it to go up if it detects anything under it. Anything being, for example, a frustrated driver rushing to get a late child to school. Neither of you will be amused that the door has flown upward again. That's why I said "potentially" amusing. Because it won't be amusing. Next you’re playing a whole song and dance with the other garage door and the button in the car that does work the other side of the garage. It’s a whole fandango. 


Now you know. You are welcome. However, I cannot help you figure out if you have pushed the lock option. Because somehow, mysteriously, I, or the husband, or someone else in my house, did this, and we did not know. Fortunately, the garage door man did know. And was more amused than peeved to be called over on yet another bootless run to our neocolonial revival.

So, I would like to do less of that shit in 2019.


Eventually, I will fully understand the garage door, and then the garage door will finally break and I’ll have to learn a whole new fandango. But that’s sounding a bit Bombeckian for the start of a new year, so let’s back away from the cynicism.

Instead, let’s aim for this Tibetan proverb:

To live well and longer

Eat half

Walk double

Laugh triple

And love without measure

I don’t know if that’s actually Tibetan or a proverb, but I like it. I saw it shared on Facebook by a friend from college.

Readers, here’s wishing you all a happy, healthy 2019.

The Imperative to Find the Good

The other week began with the 13-year-old saying, “You know, it’s like we actually live in a dystopia.” 

"Why is that?" I asked her, wondering if it was time to find her a therapist.

Because, she said, among other things there are these:

• You have to say the Pledge of Alliegance in School
• Levels of intelligence determine how well you do in society
• There are rebellious elements like feminists or BlackLivesMatter activists
• The police abuse their power. (And so does the government, I might add)

This is kind of bleak, don’t you think? Even for a thirteen year old? Especially for a thirteen year old? No - even for a 13-year-old. So world weary and knowledgable already. Come to think of it, though, I  had things all pretty figured out at that age myself. And I was quite the cynic, too. I used to say, “I’m inexperienced, but I’m not naive.” I might have been alluding to sex related activities, but that’s no surprise in a teenager, is it? And I certainly felt that way about EVERYTHING. Dystopian novels are very popular amongst the cynical, young adult, a.k.a. teenaged, crowd. Their world-weary cynicism might actually be the reason for the large number of these novels, rather than the effect of it. 

So after I reconsidered her cynicism and put it in perspective, I was able to think about what she was saying. I thought the child’s observation was interesting. I tend to think dystopian novels are warnings of what COULD happen. Her comments made me think that dystopian novels, like all true novels, are painting life as it is. At least the author is painting life as she feels it is.  Dystopian novels are pointing out what has happened, what is happening, and what we might not want to have happen. 

We can change it, of course. Because now that I’m no longer a world-weary teenaged cynic I have a pitiless imperative to find the good in the world. I believe in change. I even believe in our constitution and our legal system. Else why go on?

So speaking of good in the world, and accomplishment, well-being, and success, let me remind you of the spectacular failure we had with our parakeet Scout. About a year ago, if memory serves me, we had our pet bird for a week. (That's a link to the full, sad story of Scout, if you want a refresher.)

Despite that painful episode, which has left us with a fully-equipped parakeet condo that any self-respecting bird would absolutely love, the 13-year-old is still interested in birds. Not so much that she has wanted another parakeet. Nor does she want to get rid of the parakeet condo. The rest of us are right on the fence about this with her. Or at least I am. The 16-year-old remains traumatized and says, “How could you even think about another bird?” Since we still have the dog, she means. Which we do. And he is very cute. 

Nevertheless, the 13-year-old remains interested in birds. Lately, she has begun focusing on bigger birds. Possibly because the dog would leave them alone. She is interested in falcons, to be precise. Last spring her school had a guest falconer and his birds and she decided she would like to learn falconry. She wrote to the visiting falconer, who did not deign to respond. After futile Internet searching by us for falconry schools, I called up the bird store where we got our poor parakeet Scout. Even thought they don’t sell falcons, I thought maybe they would have a lead. After all, they are bird fanatics. They host weekly Saturday afternoon Bird Socials. You can bring your pet bird and mingle. 

Without reminding the bird lady of exactly who we were (irresponsible former parakeet owners), I asked if they knew anyone who studied falconry, and lo and behold, they did. They didn’t want to give out his name, so they took mine and said they would give it to him when he returned from his vacation. 

That was the end of it, I figured. How likely was it that the bird lady would remember to give a stranger’s number to this falconer? Furthermore, how likely was it that this falconer would then bother to call?

Well, a few weeks later -  knock me over with a feather - the husband, the 13-year-old, and I were driving about an hour north to meet Tyler the falconer and his red-winged hawk, Phoenix. 

At first, I watched. Then Tyler asked if the husband and I would like to take a turn feeding Phoenix. The husband leapt up right away. I hung back. There was so much to dislike about feeding the bird. Tyler had spared no details describing how filthy Phoenix's talons were. Germs, death, grossitude were all potential results of a scratch. Then there was the raw chicken that Phoenix was eating.

But then I remembered one of those trite sayings you see around the Internet and read in articles about old people talking about their regrets in life - That you rarely regret things you do, but often regret things you don't do.

Things you did not do when you had the chance. Like having a red-tailed hawk land on your arm and eat raw chicken out of your hand. 

Then we all trooped into the house and washed our hands. And nobody got sick.

The whole experience was proof that there is goodness in the world. Even in every dystopian young adult novel I've read, there is someone and someplace that is a refuge and repository of the good. And the heroine's job is to find that place and person, and bring back the good. Else why go on? 

From the bird store lady who gave Tyler our message, to Tyler, who followed up. And again, to Tyler (and to Phoenix), who showed the 13-year-old everything he knew about falconry. This included the huge, enclosed aviary in his backyard. Aviary might not be the right name for it, but it was a large, enclosed area fenced on all sides for Phoenix to perch. This also included the kangaroo leather and carving tools Tyler uses to make jesses for the bird's legs, to keep him attached to his leash; and it also included a sharp, heavy stake he carries with him when he hunts with his bird in the dead of winter, and has to be prepared to finish off any bunny or other wild animal he flushes from he underbrush. Finish off, as in kill the rest of the way, if Phoenix doesn't get it right away. 

If I may be so bold as to say it, I am proud of myself of feeding that beautiful, wild bird, and I am proud of myself for zipping my lip on the way home about how much work it seemed like. And I am most proud of my daughter, who said a few hours later, that she admired what Tyler was doing, and she thought Phoenix was beautiful; but falconry was not for her.

We wrote thank-you's to Tyler for his time and his kindness. We are holding onto that parakeet condo for now. Just the other day, I found a list the 13-year-old and a friend made, describing how when they went off to college, they would be roommates, and they would get a bird - and a cat.

So looks like some lessons are still unlearned.