The Mockingbird's Madrigal

       I went out on the porch at a quarter to seven this morning, and looking down the block I could see that he was already there.  OR could it possibly be that he was still there since last evening?  I sat on the porch in my new outdoor swivel chair and sure enough, in a moment he was at it again: calling loudly and persistently, sometimes singing out his call. in an urgent voice.  A bird in the throes of love?  Not exactly, something far more poignant -- a bird in the throes of seeking love.
      If you have never seen a performance of the male mockingbird courtship display, believe me, it is something to behold.  He sits on the high branch of a tree or, as in the present case, atop a telephone pole so that he has a panoramic, Vista-Vision view of the neighborhood, and more importantly, he can easily be seen by his audience.  Then, after a series of loud announcements aimed at the lady birds who are out there watching, he miraculously propels himself straight up into the air in a vertical trajectory, as if he were a small jet-propelled rocket, to a height of three feet or more.  Then, mid-air, he performs some acrobatic movements worthy of Cirque de Soleil before descending in a straight vertical plunge to his starting position, landing there on his feet.  He is, in effect, saying with this performance, to female members of the species in the audience:  "Hey!  Look at me!  ain't I someptin?"  He repeats this display over and over again so that the message becomes: "See how persistent I am!  And what stamina, huh? Why, I'm an Olympic athlete!  A good catch! " 

     Frankly, he looks a bit silly when he does this mid-air"loop-dee-loop".  We have no way of knowing if the females also think so, but since mockingbirds are monogamous creatures who mate for life, this is not a matter of mere entertainment, but one of the utmost seriousness.  For in advertising his persistence and stamina, the male is also saying to his audience: "These are the qualities you'll find in me when we have babies to feed." 

     But where, I wonder, is his audience.  I don't see any female mockingbirds anywhere.  There are just a couple of bored mourning doves watching from the porch railing, and those two, I've noticed, will watch anything, like people addicted to watching T.V. even when there's nothing on the screen.  And yet, hour after hour, in this lusty month of June, this male mockingbird wears himself out calling, calling, a bit more plaintively now to my ears, and repeating his acrobatic performances. Will he ever quit?
     My heart has begun to ache for this bird.  To tell you the truth, I've seen better performances:  males that have reached a greater height on the ascent, who did little somersaults during those seconds they were in mid-air and who returned on a dime to their starting position.  This fellow seems to just flutter his wings a bit mid-air and sometimes he even cheats on the descent, flying around the pole before returning to start.  But oh, his persistence!  I'm worn out just watching him.  And lately, I've begun to wonder if I'm his only audience and that -- unwittingly, of course -- his message isn't meant for me.  I don't mean that he is trying to attract me as a mate, but rather that he is giving me a much needed lesson in perseverance.  Because what I hear him telling me is this: "Finding your soul mate is the main priority of this life.  No matter how hard it is, no matter how long it takes you, you have to keep trying.  Don't quit seeking.  DON'T EVER QUIT!!!

Maxine F.

June 2019

The Liver and Peas Story

            My first job after college was a teaching position at St. Anthony’s, a Catholic elementary school in Greenwich Village. As a beginning schoolteacher my time management skills were rather poor. Parent-teacher night had arrived, and my report cards were not yet ready. I had two choices: finish the report cards in the classroom, meet with parents in the school hall, and eat a late night supper when I got home, or rush home, finish the report cards and eat a quick snack, and then rush back to school to meet with parents. This choice was not possible. There just wasn’t enough time. I was about to settle down with choice number one when Sister Annette approached me with an invitation.

            “Steve, why don’t you just come over to the convent? Finish your work there and then you can eat dinner with us.” I didn’t know what to say at first, but after a moment’s consideration I knew this made the most sense, so I took Sister Annette up on her offer.

            At the convent, I was set up in a little room with a desk. I wouldn’t exactly call it an office, but it was reasonably comfortable and quiet. As I finished recording grades and writing comments. I could hear some of the nuns praying. At this point my mind started to wander. My natural curiosity made me wonder about the nuns daily routines and rituals outside of school. Before long I was asking myself what kinds of foods they ate. Did they ever eat hamburgers, hot dogs, and French fries, and drink soda? Or, did they eat only bland foods such as unseasoned skinless chicken with boiled green beans like my grandmother ate when I was a boy? She had a bad heart and suffered from colitis, and faithfully stuck to a strict diet.

            “Wouldn’t it be funny,” I joked to myself, “if tonight’s dinner is liver and peas? What are the odds of that ever happening?” I shouldn’t have asked.

            When it comes to food, I am easy to please. Simple dishes are fine with me. I have no problem eating leftovers two and even three days in a row. I am perfectly willing to prepare sandwiches for the family if my wife doesn’t feel like cooking. I’ll try most foods once I build up the courage. In the Philippines for instance, I ate fresh octopus just minutes after my brother-in-law caught it. Of course, we also drank rum and that helped wash it down.

            I wasn’t always so tolerant of different foods. In fact, growing up I was a very picky eater. My mother was so worried that I wasn’t getting proper nutrition that she gave me Sustagen from the drugstore. It’s a powder that’s mixed with water to make a nutrition shake. Back then, it was an ongoing joke with my sisters and cousins. We all laugh about it now though.

            Then and now there have been just two foods in this world that I truly hate. Those two foods are liver and peas. “Blech!” I can’t stand the acrid gamey smell of liver nor its chewy rubbery taste. And as for peas, why they are considered sweet I’ll never know. They don’t taste sweet to me! Over the years I’ve learned to tolerate peas a little if they are mixed with other foods as in a stew, but by themselves I can’t stand them. I’ll eat broccoli, asparagus, you name it; but not peas.

            Finally, I completed my report cards and joined the nuns in their dining room. There was a communal atmosphere in the air. There was no hierarchy here. Everyone was equal regardless of their vocation outside the convent. We said Grace and prepared to eat. Sure enough, the meal that evening was liver and peas! Outwardly, I acted nonchalant, but in reality I was stunned. I knew I was going to need more than a prayer to get through this meal. But, what could I do? I couldn’t not eat. That would have been ungrateful and disrespectful. So, I forced myself to eat the liver and peas- every bit on my plate. I guess that was my penance for not having the report cards ready on time.

Steve T.

August 2019

WORMS

The worms are driving me crazy. Why won’t they stop? Why are there so many of them? Is that even necessary?

Why do they crawl over and under each other? Why does it sound like skittering when they have no legs? Why is it so loud?

I cover my ears but the sound never really goes away. As I squeeze my eyes shut, I press the palms of my hands against my ears even harder. All this does is make their image clearer, their sound sharper.
The sound is now rushing water-the skittering noise gone. It’s fitting because it gives the illusion that I’m drowning. But is it really an illusion? My eyes and ears begin to hurt-even my hands-from pressing so hard. My heart is pounding and I’m taking quick, short breaths.

That’s when the whispering starts. Though the worms do not appear to speak, I know, deep in my heart, that this sound is coming from them. At first, the whispers are hurried and overlapping. They are children climbing over each other to get to a treasured toy. They’re indistinct and very loud, if whispers can be described this way.
As I grow steadily more unnerved, my breathing more rapid, my heart beating in a frenzy-the whispers suddenly take on a crystal clear quality. Though my ears are covered, they get through to me anyway, because I can hear them in my head.
The worms whisper terrible, awful things to me. They are shards of glass-these words-stabbing me everywhere. They are my feelings about myself, my worries about my family and future, and my fears about my children.

I want to scream, to make it all stop. But I can’t do that. I’m in our only bathroom. My husband is rushing me to get out so he can take a shower. My son is yelling at me because he needs help with his therapy assignment. And my daughter is crying because I don’t have time to play with her right now.

So I imagine closing the worms off in a box and locking it with a key. It’s a temporary fix but it must be done. I’m far too busy to give in to my despair.

Jessica S.

Aug. 2019

Cliché Encounters of the Inter-Species Kind

“Ya know, they say that reading in poor light is bad for your eyes.”

          “It’s an old wives tale,” I answered with a dismissive shrug.

          “Where does that come from?” he continued.

          “What?”

          “Old wives tale.”

          For a bartender, what he lacked in customer service he made up for in the occasional curious conversation. It had been the first semi-intelligent thing I had heard since stepping inside the dimly lit tavern. Turning to the next empty page in my tattered memo pad, I jotted down the three words and said sans interest – lest he think there might be a generous gratuity later – “It’s just an old saying.”

          “But where’d it come from?”

          That was something I had intended to find out. There were many old sayings out there that defied explanation. I may not be from the old school, but based on the lore of the past, old wives had no time for telling tales. Spinning yarns, yes, but storytelling? They were too busy doing whatever it was they did with yarn, like darning socks for instance.

          I felt the onset of writer’s cramp as my hand worked furiously to keep up with the influx of phrases in overdrive. For medicinal purposes only, I ordered a shot of Jack Daniels, tossed it back and tossed down the Bic pen. It had been months since my last case and I was desperately grabbing at straws to find another one. Shaking off what could soon be writer’s cramp, I wrote that one down, slid a couple of coins across the bar and decided to make tracks, pausing just long enough to record that chestnut too. At this rate, there would be quite a few additional nonsensical clichés before I reached the door.

          Just shy of noon, the thought to hit the beach seemed like the perfect remedy to calm my restless mind. The unexpected blast of bright sunlight in my eyes upon stepping outside suggested a quick pit stop for a much needed pair of shades. I briefly considered going out of my way to visit the local mom and pop drugstore – do my part to keep ‘em in business – however the desire to smell the salty air and feel warm sand between my toes was overwhelming. I opted for the always-inconvenient big box chain store instead and made a beeline across the street pausing briefly to reach again for my accoutrements, the word beeline nagging at my frontal lobe.

I waited at the back of the checkout line in CVS, or maybe it was Walgreens or Duane Reade, my thoughts turning briefly to the life of the everyday traveling salesman who wakes up each morning uncertain whether he had laid his head down the night before in a Marriott or Hampton Inn or Day’s Inn. Irritably, I scanned the tag on the overpriced Foster Grant’s in my hand, while at the coveted checkout counter the cashier slid a box of pampers back and forth across a scanner that scanned nothing. I eyed the perplexed look on her face and wondered if this were to go on much longer that I might require purchasing a pair of night-vision goggles instead. Finally, with no answer coming from her part-time brain, she turned to a co-worker for assistance.

          “Can you help me with the help button?”

          “Help, with the Help button,” I bellowed in exasperation.  “We already gave you a Change button. Wasn’t that help enough? Quick,” I continued. “The total is $2.68. I give you a five-dollar bill. How much do I get in return?”

          The calming effect of the ocean breeze provided pause for reflection. I had not intended to make her cry. Chalk it up to empty-case syndrome. A quick dip in the warm Atlantic would do wonders. Heading towards the shoreline, my inquisitive intellect immediately registered the lack of beachgoers taking in the natural healing properties the ocean purportedly provides.

          Another old wives tale I wondered?

          “I wouldn’t go in there, mister,” a small voice warned.

          “Why not, son?”

          “Jellyfish.”

          My disappointment was twofold. Jellyfish did not only spoil the fun for ocean lovers, but living on Long Island where summer is long awaited and too short-lived, their arrival seemingly signifies the end of the carefree season. I beat a hasty retreat for the snack bar where a cool frosty beverage would help to dull the pain.  Equipped with a flat, tepid micro-brew and a day old dry pretzel, I searched in vain for a vacant table on the sun-scorched sand, glaring at the multitude of disillusioned tanned hard bodies gorging themselves on fried and fatty foods.

It began with a quick hit and fade from above, a brazen gull swooping in and absconding with a large piece of my salted treat, laughing loudly, boasting proudly like a playground bully in dire need of detention. Before I had time to utter an expletive, startled screams arose all around me. Like fighter jets in tight formation, Seagulls swarmed down in a coordinated attack upon the unsuspecting crowd, filling their beaks with culinary beach fare. I absorbed the scene in slow motion, my mind whirling with the realization that these birds harbored intelligence far beyond any everyday human preconceptions. My senses keenly attuned, circuits sizzled and synapses connected forming a ghastly conclusion too horrific to bear. I extracted the pen and pad from my silky stretched Speedo’s. The seagulls were in complete collusion with the jellyfish! During the winter months, they would head south like most birds do, but while their feathered friends were soaking up the sun; the seagulls were divulging vital jet-stream information to the vile, yet oddly beautiful sea creatures, devising a timeline for their Northeast incursion. Upon arrival, the ethereally undulating jellyfish wielding their featherlike feelers would force swimmers out of the water and straight to concession stands where the seagulls lay in wait. It was pure evil at its most rudimentary level, a fowl proof plan! What the jellyfish receive in return, I have yet to comprehend but am determined to decipher. In the interim, I must put on the back burner my investigation of absurd idioms, axioms and phrases, grab the bull by the horns and work my fingers to the bone to save the free world from what could become total inter-species annihilation!
                     Or something like that. 

No more rest for the weary. I’m on the case.

Tom M.

August 2019