Merry Christmas, everyone! Hope you were with loved ones enjoying the magic of the season! I know I was exactly where I wanted to be - in my home (the kitchen, mostly) with my wonderful husband and sweet girls and my parents. We have so many blessings to celebrate and thoroughly enjoyed the day.
As you age, you begin to realize that giving truly is better than receiving. Particularly when people give you things you don't like. Kidding, of course. But the old adage it is better to give than to receive really does hold true. This year, everyone seemed happy with the things I had gotten for them. The girls excitedly riped through the wrapping paper and were overjoyed by the treasures inside. My mom was very excited about the John Prine tickets I got for her in addition to a DVD and a decorative piece for their house. Dad seemed happy with his gifts from me, although to him the best gift is being with his family on Christmas.
There were no disasters when it came to what I had gotten for Mike this year which is always a welcome change when I think back to The Year Of The Teapot. I cannot remember what year it was, but I'm thinking it was Christmas of 2007. Mike and I were home for Christmas with our girls and my brother and his (now former) wife and daughter were in town as well. As usual, there was no shortage of sarcasm in the room the entire day. At one point we began saying that what we would really prefer to the gifts we had been given would be the cash equivalent so we could go out and get what we really wanted. Each eagerly-awaited package would be opened and then a shout of "CASH!" would follow indicating that it was a nice effort, but that we'd still prefer the cash used to purchase it. All of this was in good fun of course, as it always is. Until...
Mike was opening his final gift from me. I had gotten him a teapot from Williams Sonoma because he and I had both recently begun drinking tea at night. He had mentioned an interest in having one, so I got him a nice one from a nice store. Although it wasn't terribly creative or expensive, I still thought that it was a thoughtful gift and thus would be well-received.
So Mike was unwrapping it and began to see the box as the paper was ripped away.
"Oh, yeah, a tea pot", he said sarcastically, thinking (or perhaps hoping)that this box was a decoy and his real gift would be something quite different.
"No, Mike, it really is a teapot", I said gently, hoping that he would not get his hopes up that there was something better inside the box.
"Right, Maggie. Sure. It's a teapot.", he went on to say. Now he was trying to break the tape at either end of the box so he could reach in a pull out his real gift.
"Mike, I'm serious. It is a teapot. Listen to me." I said emphatically. Now I was beginning to have tears stream down my face. For one thing, I cry over everything, so of course this would happen during all of this. But another thing was that this was happening in front of my parents. In front of my brother. When Mike discovered that this gift really was a teapot he was going to feel SO bad for making fun of it. I wanted so badly for him to quickly remove both feet from his mouth and close it before he tried to insert them again.
"Maggie, I know it's not a teapot", he said with almost a tone of irritation. I mean, WHO would give their husband a teapot for Christmas? The very thought of it is ridiculous! It was as though he wanted me to drop my act and just admit that the teapot box was hiding something wonderful inside.
Sadly, it was not. This banter went on for what seemed like 17 days. I was crying and then laughing because I couldn't stop crying. He got a look of confusion on his face; not knowing exactly what was happening and whether or not this was all some kind of joke.
He reached into the box, saw that it was a beautiful, stainless steel teapot and immediately said, "Well, I love it. It's really nice. I mean, we DO drink a lot of tea. It's a very thoughtful gift. I just wasn't expecting..."
He understood now why I was crying. The realization was hitting him and it was not lost on him that he and I are not the only ones in the room. He thought he'd hurt my feelings (which, he sort of had). But truly I just felt so bad for him because in the moments leading up to this, he was basically indicating that no person in his or her right mind would ever give this as a gift. Not that he had anything against teapots (he and I both do, now). I guess it was just something that a (straight) man in his early thirties wouldn't really get too jazzed about. Who could blame him?
I was able to dry my tears and pull myself together, of course. We went on to have a scrumptious meal as we do every Christmas and still enjoyed a sarcasm-filled afternoon. As a result of this little blunder though, my brother nicknamed Mike "Teapot", but it didn't really stick. Mike has gone on to be overly appreciative of any gift I gift him which was a nice side benefit of having to live through this experience.
The moral of this story is to never make fun of a gift until you are absolutely certain that what you are making fun of is not what you are opening. Also, that it is better to give than to receive. Oh yeah, and stainless steel teapots are very handy for hitting someone over the head.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
UPDATE - Socks, Highwaters and Owls, Oh My!
Just an exciting update to share with my (two) readers:
This past weekend, I met my sister (well, we had met before...) in Atlanta for a day of shopping and a night of food and beverages with friends. Mary, being one of my faithful blog followers, had read my post about my hideous fashion taste and decided to intervene. Of course, she was already aware of my lack of taste since we see each other several times a year, but I guess when she read it and knew that others probably were making fun of me, she decided now was the time to offer her counsel. Normally when we take this trip, it is to finish up any last-minute Christmas shopping. But this year she was on a mission. She was going to help me find and buy some decent looking, non-"mom" jeans. And guess what - she was successful!!
First we had lunch at Houston's (sssssslurp!) With a friend of mine from college. We had a great time despite the fact that I am not a friend mixer. You will never be invited to my house and be introduced to someone you do not know. I HATE being the common person that links a bunch of people who don't know each other. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. I almost passed out at my own wedding reception because I had people from every corner of my life {family, high school, college, work, all of my former lovers (as if!)} in one room together. Ugh! At any rate, Alisha is a college friend and had actually met my sister before when they both served as bridesmaids at my wedding. She is a pretty easy person to know, so I was able to relax and enjoy my meal. She also treated us to a glass of champagne to get our little shopping spree off on the right foot.
Somehow my bill for the lunch was $85.00. I'm still unsure as to how that happened, but apparently the champagne worked because I didn't seem to care much. I just paid it, hugged Alisha, and off Mary and I went. We went to Lenox and I was immediately reminded of why I hate Atlanta. There are ENTIRELY too many people in the city of Atlanta - and most of them were in Lenox Mall that day. We first went to Macy's to find some jeans. Of course, Macy's in as big as the entire mall in Chattanooga so finding the perfect pair of jeans for my misshapen legs was not going to be easy. Our first order of business, however, was to find the restroom.
Because it had been so long since either of us was in this mall, we weren't sure where the restrooms were. So, we followed the signs whose arrows were purportedly pointing us toward the facilities. We were following one sign when I looked up and saw another sign showing the restrooms were in the opposite direction. Frustrated, we shrugged it off and assumed we had just gotten mixed-up somehow. After a few minutes of walking in this new direction, we realized we had ended up in the exact same spot we had just been in. No restrooms. We were growing more frustrated and our bladders more full with every step we took in the wrong direction. Then we saw another sign that we started to follow claiming that the restrooms were in yet another direction. Long story short, about an hour later, our bladders were empty. I hate Atlanta.
Anyway, we found the section with the jeans and I have to say I hated everything I saw. The wash was so dark that it looked absolutely ridiculous. The jeans looked like Wrangler jeans that people wore back in my horse-riding days. I feared I would look like a cowgirl if I purchased them. But, my sister loving told me to shut up and let her handle it. She gathered what had to be 27 pairs of jeans and we trotted to the nearest fitting room. With skepticism, I tried on the first pair. I tried as hard as I could to pull them up to my belly button but 1. they were too tight; and 2. they were not designed to go up to my belly button**.
"These are WAY too tight", I told my sister. Her response? "Those look GREAT on you!". What?! They aren't roomy! They're touching the floor! I can still see my belly button! I look ridiculous! But no, she advised, this was how they were supposed to fit. This was how they were supposed to look. You have got to be kidding me! These jeans fit so snugly that every time I pulled them off, they clung to my granny panties and took them down with them. I made sure to position myself each time I slid a pair off so that my sister caught a nice glimpse of my "assets". She had been making fun of my taste and fashion sense this entire time, so I retaliated by giving her a nice shot of my cottage-cheese-resembling hiney. That'll show her... Of course, she then became concerned by the size and length of my underwear and, perhaps, has now formed a new mission - to get me out of granny panties and into, gulp, thongs!!! Eeek!
I tried on a few more pairs and honestly did begin to see that my grotesquely-shaped rear end and thighs did kind of look better in these jeans. What's more - I actually began to look taller. She informed me that our next stop would be to find a fun pair of boots that I could wear with these jeans. I had never considered using the word "fun" to describe clothing or footwear. I had never gotten past referring to clothes as "comfortable" or "roomy". Apparently, comfort has no place in clothes that you wear out of the house. Who would have thought it?
We did find some boots and even some new casual shoes to replace the clogs I have been wearing for... I'm going to say eight years now (but it's really probably closer to 10). I have to say that I really do like my new purchases. I have been proudly wearing all of it ever since I returned. I must admit, I was a little disappointed that no one commented on how cute my jeans were at a party I went to this week. However, it has occurred to me since then that no one would comment on it because it's not like I'm setting any new trends. I have just finally caught up with the one that is currently out there. Why would anyone comment on a person looking normal?!
My trip to Atlanta was a success not only because of my new clothes but also because I had a great time with Mary and the friends we were able to see while we were there. Plus, I was inadvertently groped as I tried to make my way through the massive crowd in Lenox mall - so there's that. I only got lost twice trying to make my way around the city (I hate Atlanta) and I managed to squeeze in getting a couple of gifts for others on my list. I am thankful for my sister for intervening on my behalf and helping to bring me out of my fashion rut. Never fear - I'm not totally out of it. You, too, can help in the area of shirts, scarves, jackets, underwear, my hair, bathing suits, skirts, pumps, make-up, running clothes, party clothes, pajamas, jewelry, purses, bras that actually match my underwear, home decor, etc., etc. All help is welcomed and certainly appreciated.
**The jeans that are designed to go up to a person's belly button can be found at your nearest Sears.
This past weekend, I met my sister (well, we had met before...) in Atlanta for a day of shopping and a night of food and beverages with friends. Mary, being one of my faithful blog followers, had read my post about my hideous fashion taste and decided to intervene. Of course, she was already aware of my lack of taste since we see each other several times a year, but I guess when she read it and knew that others probably were making fun of me, she decided now was the time to offer her counsel. Normally when we take this trip, it is to finish up any last-minute Christmas shopping. But this year she was on a mission. She was going to help me find and buy some decent looking, non-"mom" jeans. And guess what - she was successful!!
First we had lunch at Houston's (sssssslurp!) With a friend of mine from college. We had a great time despite the fact that I am not a friend mixer. You will never be invited to my house and be introduced to someone you do not know. I HATE being the common person that links a bunch of people who don't know each other. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. I almost passed out at my own wedding reception because I had people from every corner of my life {family, high school, college, work, all of my former lovers (as if!)} in one room together. Ugh! At any rate, Alisha is a college friend and had actually met my sister before when they both served as bridesmaids at my wedding. She is a pretty easy person to know, so I was able to relax and enjoy my meal. She also treated us to a glass of champagne to get our little shopping spree off on the right foot.
Somehow my bill for the lunch was $85.00. I'm still unsure as to how that happened, but apparently the champagne worked because I didn't seem to care much. I just paid it, hugged Alisha, and off Mary and I went. We went to Lenox and I was immediately reminded of why I hate Atlanta. There are ENTIRELY too many people in the city of Atlanta - and most of them were in Lenox Mall that day. We first went to Macy's to find some jeans. Of course, Macy's in as big as the entire mall in Chattanooga so finding the perfect pair of jeans for my misshapen legs was not going to be easy. Our first order of business, however, was to find the restroom.
Because it had been so long since either of us was in this mall, we weren't sure where the restrooms were. So, we followed the signs whose arrows were purportedly pointing us toward the facilities. We were following one sign when I looked up and saw another sign showing the restrooms were in the opposite direction. Frustrated, we shrugged it off and assumed we had just gotten mixed-up somehow. After a few minutes of walking in this new direction, we realized we had ended up in the exact same spot we had just been in. No restrooms. We were growing more frustrated and our bladders more full with every step we took in the wrong direction. Then we saw another sign that we started to follow claiming that the restrooms were in yet another direction. Long story short, about an hour later, our bladders were empty. I hate Atlanta.
Anyway, we found the section with the jeans and I have to say I hated everything I saw. The wash was so dark that it looked absolutely ridiculous. The jeans looked like Wrangler jeans that people wore back in my horse-riding days. I feared I would look like a cowgirl if I purchased them. But, my sister loving told me to shut up and let her handle it. She gathered what had to be 27 pairs of jeans and we trotted to the nearest fitting room. With skepticism, I tried on the first pair. I tried as hard as I could to pull them up to my belly button but 1. they were too tight; and 2. they were not designed to go up to my belly button**.
"These are WAY too tight", I told my sister. Her response? "Those look GREAT on you!". What?! They aren't roomy! They're touching the floor! I can still see my belly button! I look ridiculous! But no, she advised, this was how they were supposed to fit. This was how they were supposed to look. You have got to be kidding me! These jeans fit so snugly that every time I pulled them off, they clung to my granny panties and took them down with them. I made sure to position myself each time I slid a pair off so that my sister caught a nice glimpse of my "assets". She had been making fun of my taste and fashion sense this entire time, so I retaliated by giving her a nice shot of my cottage-cheese-resembling hiney. That'll show her... Of course, she then became concerned by the size and length of my underwear and, perhaps, has now formed a new mission - to get me out of granny panties and into, gulp, thongs!!! Eeek!
I tried on a few more pairs and honestly did begin to see that my grotesquely-shaped rear end and thighs did kind of look better in these jeans. What's more - I actually began to look taller. She informed me that our next stop would be to find a fun pair of boots that I could wear with these jeans. I had never considered using the word "fun" to describe clothing or footwear. I had never gotten past referring to clothes as "comfortable" or "roomy". Apparently, comfort has no place in clothes that you wear out of the house. Who would have thought it?
We did find some boots and even some new casual shoes to replace the clogs I have been wearing for... I'm going to say eight years now (but it's really probably closer to 10). I have to say that I really do like my new purchases. I have been proudly wearing all of it ever since I returned. I must admit, I was a little disappointed that no one commented on how cute my jeans were at a party I went to this week. However, it has occurred to me since then that no one would comment on it because it's not like I'm setting any new trends. I have just finally caught up with the one that is currently out there. Why would anyone comment on a person looking normal?!
My trip to Atlanta was a success not only because of my new clothes but also because I had a great time with Mary and the friends we were able to see while we were there. Plus, I was inadvertently groped as I tried to make my way through the massive crowd in Lenox mall - so there's that. I only got lost twice trying to make my way around the city (I hate Atlanta) and I managed to squeeze in getting a couple of gifts for others on my list. I am thankful for my sister for intervening on my behalf and helping to bring me out of my fashion rut. Never fear - I'm not totally out of it. You, too, can help in the area of shirts, scarves, jackets, underwear, my hair, bathing suits, skirts, pumps, make-up, running clothes, party clothes, pajamas, jewelry, purses, bras that actually match my underwear, home decor, etc., etc. All help is welcomed and certainly appreciated.
**The jeans that are designed to go up to a person's belly button can be found at your nearest Sears.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Peace Be With You
Did you know that doves symbolize peace? Of course you did - that's why people release them at weddings and funerals. We had an encounter with one a few weeks ago that I have been told is blog-worthy, so I am now sharing our story.
We were on our way back from a Japanese Steakhouse (see Fortune Cookie) and pulled into the driveway when I noticed a big, white bird perched at the top of our front door. My first thought was that it looked out of place - we never see birds like this flying around the neighborhood. This had to be someone's pet. My second thought was that it kind of looked from that angle like the barn owl at the Chattanooga Zoo which is obviously a very crappy zoo if the most exotic animal they have there is a barn owl...
Once we had parked in the garage and hustled the kids into the house, I went out on the front porch to take a closer look at our little visitor. I was careful to be very quiet and slow so as not to spook him away from our stoop. Being that this was a few days before Thanksgiving, I was feeling especially sentimental and decided I need to help this bird out. It had flown to me for a reason, dammit, and I would not let it down. All the while, Mike was making comments about how it would make a lovely addition to our Thanksgiving feast. Feeling undeterred, I went inside and called a neighbor to see if she knew who might be missing their pet.
My neighbor was unaware of any neighbors who had a pet bird, but she did suggest sending out an email to all members of the neighborhood Ladies' Association in case someone was aware of an anxious family searching frantically for their bird. I even took some photos (in case there were multiple families with missing birds) so that someone might possibly recognize our little friend and help us get him safely home. All the while, Mike was wondering aloud why we didn't won a BB Gun and wondering who we could call at this hour who would have one. I paid him no attention. Fate had brought this bird to me. It was now my mission to get him back to his warm, safe home. After all, I'd want someone to extend the same courtesy to our dog Dudley if he was ever lost, right? So I viewed this as me simply paying it forward. I called animal control (trying to find someone who could provide food and shelter for the night) as well as the local Nature Center to see if it was their bird who had gone missing. Since it was after hours, I wasn't able to get anywhere with either agency, so the bird was going to have to sleep outside in the cold. Can you imagine? A bird having to sleep outside exposed to the elements!
That night and the next day, I received several calls and emails as well as several Facebook comments about this little guy but sadly, no owner stepped forward. I know nothing about birds (after all, I thought that the bird needed to get home because it wasn't safe for him to be outdoors). At first, I thought it was a cockatiel and was actually telling people that's what it was. Imagine my embarrassment when I was told that cockatiels are native to Australia and are actually parrots. I know what a parrot looks like, and this wasn't a parrot. I also had never heard the bird say anything like "g'day, mate", so I didn't think he was Australian. I had one neighbor who said that it looked like an albino pigeon. A pigeon? I'm doing all of this for a pigeon?! Who's the pigeon now?
The same neighbor who told me this was a pigeon also called him a dove. I didn't realize that a dove is a pigeon, but saying I was doing this for a beautiful, white dove sounded a lot more benevolent than going to these lengths for a stupid, dirty pigeon. This neighbor also happened to have a bird cage and told me that if we could catch it, he and his wife would take it to the local nature center for us. At this point, it had been 24 hours and the bird hadn't budged, which means - you guessed it - bird droppings all over the door and porch. All the while, Mike is threatening to shoo it away, but I again guilted him into inaction by reminding him we'd want someone else to take care of our Dudley.
Begrudgingly, Mike decided to appease me and try and catch the bird and hand him off to our neighbors with the cage. It just so happened that he had been at a meeting the second night we had our dove as a guest and at that meeting was a representative from Animal Control. He mentioned to her that we had someone's pet cockatiel perched at out front door and she volunteered to help us corral it. Imagine her disgust when she arrived at our house and saw not an Australian bird throwing shrimp on the barbie but a stupid, lost pigeon. She good-naturedly tried to help Mike catch it, but it spread it's beautiful, white wings and flew to a higher point on our roof - safely away from the door and from any human interaction, but also perfectly positioned to still be able to effectively defecate on our front stairs.
So, this was night two with the dove, it was going to be colder outside this night than the previous night, and now he was way too high for us to catch. I worried about my little friend. Worried that he would fly away and end up somewhere where no one would care about him. Worried that he was used to being indoors and would get cold in the night. Worried that he missed his owner or that his owner missed him. I filled a box with some towels and lay it on the front porch in case he needed warmth during the night. (Mike later explained that birds don't sleep on the ground, but complimented me on my valiant efforts anyway.) I wondered about his little birdie life. Where had he come from before he was placed in my charge? Who had he been? Was he released at someone's wedding? Was he a pet in a old lady's house where he sang to her while she knitted all day? Was he a carrier pigeon who had gotten lost on his way to deliver the Salahi's their invitation to the White House State Dinner? Where did he belong? And, would I be able to get him there?
On the third day, I awoke and did not see him right away. He was not at his new perch on the roof and had not come back to the front door. Later in the day, however, he returned to the front door and back where we had a chance at catching him. I have a neighbor who offered to come over with a fishing net to try and catch him for us. Unfortunately, Mike thought he had a better idea. Mike, who had had enough of all of this at this point, simply got Dudley's crate, got on a step ladder and climbed up until he was eyeball to teeny, tiny eyeball with the dove. He opened the crate and - best I can tell - expected the bird to simply get up, accept his fate, and waltz into the crate. Instead, the dove spread his beautiful, white wings again and moved to another point on the roof. By now Mike was furious with the bird and I was furious with Mike. If he had just waited for our neighbor, this could have all been over.
Day Four - Bird back at the door. Poop everywhere. Mike losing patience. Marriage crumbling due to the fact that I was neglecting Mike's wishes and still trying to save this God-forsaken fowl. But this time, Mike acquiesced and agreed to have our neighbor come over with his net and catch the bird. Which he did, in one fell swoop. He then transported the bird from his net to the cage and off he went. So the bird was saved! Drama over! But questions remained. Who was he? And how did he get here?
Well, he was identified as a White Homing Pigeon named Clarence (okay, his name wasn't Clarence, but I kinda felt like he needed a name for the purpose of this story). He had a tag on his leg that showed him as having originated in Beaver Falls, PA. My neighbor contacted the breeder in Beaver Falls and was given the name of the owner in Riceville, TN. The owner indicated that the he was being trained to be released at weddings and funerals and had become lost and disoriented on his first training flight when a hawk scared him. The bird was less than a year old and had been missing for about a month. He was very appreciative of us and of our neighbors' efforts in bringing him safely home.
So, there you have it. A Thanksgiving and perhaps even a Christmas miracle. I found a bird of peace and was able to bring about a peaceful resolution to his plight. I was given a duty and I accomplished it to the best of my ability. I still will glance out my front door to see if he's back and I get a little tear in the corner of my eye when I catch the sight of some of his droppings that remain on our porch. I think about Clarence, and I hope he's doing well. I am now ready to accept the next Christmas miracle that comes my way - only this time, I hope it's in the form of an Ann Taylor gift certificate.
We were on our way back from a Japanese Steakhouse (see Fortune Cookie) and pulled into the driveway when I noticed a big, white bird perched at the top of our front door. My first thought was that it looked out of place - we never see birds like this flying around the neighborhood. This had to be someone's pet. My second thought was that it kind of looked from that angle like the barn owl at the Chattanooga Zoo which is obviously a very crappy zoo if the most exotic animal they have there is a barn owl...
Once we had parked in the garage and hustled the kids into the house, I went out on the front porch to take a closer look at our little visitor. I was careful to be very quiet and slow so as not to spook him away from our stoop. Being that this was a few days before Thanksgiving, I was feeling especially sentimental and decided I need to help this bird out. It had flown to me for a reason, dammit, and I would not let it down. All the while, Mike was making comments about how it would make a lovely addition to our Thanksgiving feast. Feeling undeterred, I went inside and called a neighbor to see if she knew who might be missing their pet.
My neighbor was unaware of any neighbors who had a pet bird, but she did suggest sending out an email to all members of the neighborhood Ladies' Association in case someone was aware of an anxious family searching frantically for their bird. I even took some photos (in case there were multiple families with missing birds) so that someone might possibly recognize our little friend and help us get him safely home. All the while, Mike was wondering aloud why we didn't won a BB Gun and wondering who we could call at this hour who would have one. I paid him no attention. Fate had brought this bird to me. It was now my mission to get him back to his warm, safe home. After all, I'd want someone to extend the same courtesy to our dog Dudley if he was ever lost, right? So I viewed this as me simply paying it forward. I called animal control (trying to find someone who could provide food and shelter for the night) as well as the local Nature Center to see if it was their bird who had gone missing. Since it was after hours, I wasn't able to get anywhere with either agency, so the bird was going to have to sleep outside in the cold. Can you imagine? A bird having to sleep outside exposed to the elements!
That night and the next day, I received several calls and emails as well as several Facebook comments about this little guy but sadly, no owner stepped forward. I know nothing about birds (after all, I thought that the bird needed to get home because it wasn't safe for him to be outdoors). At first, I thought it was a cockatiel and was actually telling people that's what it was. Imagine my embarrassment when I was told that cockatiels are native to Australia and are actually parrots. I know what a parrot looks like, and this wasn't a parrot. I also had never heard the bird say anything like "g'day, mate", so I didn't think he was Australian. I had one neighbor who said that it looked like an albino pigeon. A pigeon? I'm doing all of this for a pigeon?! Who's the pigeon now?
The same neighbor who told me this was a pigeon also called him a dove. I didn't realize that a dove is a pigeon, but saying I was doing this for a beautiful, white dove sounded a lot more benevolent than going to these lengths for a stupid, dirty pigeon. This neighbor also happened to have a bird cage and told me that if we could catch it, he and his wife would take it to the local nature center for us. At this point, it had been 24 hours and the bird hadn't budged, which means - you guessed it - bird droppings all over the door and porch. All the while, Mike is threatening to shoo it away, but I again guilted him into inaction by reminding him we'd want someone else to take care of our Dudley.
Begrudgingly, Mike decided to appease me and try and catch the bird and hand him off to our neighbors with the cage. It just so happened that he had been at a meeting the second night we had our dove as a guest and at that meeting was a representative from Animal Control. He mentioned to her that we had someone's pet cockatiel perched at out front door and she volunteered to help us corral it. Imagine her disgust when she arrived at our house and saw not an Australian bird throwing shrimp on the barbie but a stupid, lost pigeon. She good-naturedly tried to help Mike catch it, but it spread it's beautiful, white wings and flew to a higher point on our roof - safely away from the door and from any human interaction, but also perfectly positioned to still be able to effectively defecate on our front stairs.
So, this was night two with the dove, it was going to be colder outside this night than the previous night, and now he was way too high for us to catch. I worried about my little friend. Worried that he would fly away and end up somewhere where no one would care about him. Worried that he was used to being indoors and would get cold in the night. Worried that he missed his owner or that his owner missed him. I filled a box with some towels and lay it on the front porch in case he needed warmth during the night. (Mike later explained that birds don't sleep on the ground, but complimented me on my valiant efforts anyway.) I wondered about his little birdie life. Where had he come from before he was placed in my charge? Who had he been? Was he released at someone's wedding? Was he a pet in a old lady's house where he sang to her while she knitted all day? Was he a carrier pigeon who had gotten lost on his way to deliver the Salahi's their invitation to the White House State Dinner? Where did he belong? And, would I be able to get him there?
On the third day, I awoke and did not see him right away. He was not at his new perch on the roof and had not come back to the front door. Later in the day, however, he returned to the front door and back where we had a chance at catching him. I have a neighbor who offered to come over with a fishing net to try and catch him for us. Unfortunately, Mike thought he had a better idea. Mike, who had had enough of all of this at this point, simply got Dudley's crate, got on a step ladder and climbed up until he was eyeball to teeny, tiny eyeball with the dove. He opened the crate and - best I can tell - expected the bird to simply get up, accept his fate, and waltz into the crate. Instead, the dove spread his beautiful, white wings again and moved to another point on the roof. By now Mike was furious with the bird and I was furious with Mike. If he had just waited for our neighbor, this could have all been over.
Day Four - Bird back at the door. Poop everywhere. Mike losing patience. Marriage crumbling due to the fact that I was neglecting Mike's wishes and still trying to save this God-forsaken fowl. But this time, Mike acquiesced and agreed to have our neighbor come over with his net and catch the bird. Which he did, in one fell swoop. He then transported the bird from his net to the cage and off he went. So the bird was saved! Drama over! But questions remained. Who was he? And how did he get here?
Well, he was identified as a White Homing Pigeon named Clarence (okay, his name wasn't Clarence, but I kinda felt like he needed a name for the purpose of this story). He had a tag on his leg that showed him as having originated in Beaver Falls, PA. My neighbor contacted the breeder in Beaver Falls and was given the name of the owner in Riceville, TN. The owner indicated that the he was being trained to be released at weddings and funerals and had become lost and disoriented on his first training flight when a hawk scared him. The bird was less than a year old and had been missing for about a month. He was very appreciative of us and of our neighbors' efforts in bringing him safely home.
So, there you have it. A Thanksgiving and perhaps even a Christmas miracle. I found a bird of peace and was able to bring about a peaceful resolution to his plight. I was given a duty and I accomplished it to the best of my ability. I still will glance out my front door to see if he's back and I get a little tear in the corner of my eye when I catch the sight of some of his droppings that remain on our porch. I think about Clarence, and I hope he's doing well. I am now ready to accept the next Christmas miracle that comes my way - only this time, I hope it's in the form of an Ann Taylor gift certificate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)