The Empty Nest

The deck we built on the back of our house turned two on Memorial Day.  My wife and I waited so long to get one, though it was on our minds from the day we moved in eighteen years ago.  Dan turned two that first summer and Lucy started school that fall.  Obviously there were a lot of expenses with the children and both Kathy and I had just started new careers.  Finally, in 2014, we had the money at a time when no other big-ticket items were breaking down.

Fortunately, we’ve enjoyed it as much as we hoped we would.  After a long day at work, it is the place I want to be in warm weather.  Frequently, my wife will find me there when she gets home at five-thirty. I’ve changed out of my work clothes and enjoyed an adult beverage by then.  Flash, the geriatric guard dog, stands sentry at the back steps, occasionally rising to walk his beat, peering through his cloudy cataracts at threats both real and imagined.

What I had not anticipated was the amount of time we would spend in complete silence, just enjoying the breeze and the sounds of nature.  Our television alternative in those quiet hours is an Art Fair birdhouse, built for the small, picked-on members of the avian community.  Its tiny aperture is ringed by metal decorations, so the larger birds don’t peck away a larger entry and consume the eggs or baby birds.  A pair of wrens moved in and started a family. We watched avidly as a Real Housewife of Washtenaw County brought bedding and sustenance to her young, while Daddy perched nearby, putting the fear of God into any creature that ventured too close (Kathy included).  We waited eagerly for the big day, when we would see the young wrens emerge and leave the nest.

That is not to say this was the only bird family in the yard.  There were many.  One family we had to shoo away, as the piercing sound of blue jays at dawn was more than my wife and I wanted to hear.  When they attempted…several times…to build a nest under the eaves outside our bedroom window, we impeded their progress.  When they didn’t get the hint, we stuck a small mirror in the place they kept returning to.  The reflection of ‘another’ blue jay in their preferred spot finally made them move elsewhere. 

There was also a nest of robins near the porch, the adults robust and industrious.  The cacophony from their family room rivaled a euchre game at my parent’s house.  Because of their size, their sound and fury, you tended not to worry about the robins.  But sometimes appearances are deceiving.

While we were still waiting to see the baby wrens, we saw one of the baby robins laying on the ground, near the trunk of the tree.  It was clearly not fully mature, its feathers still of the fluffy, white variety, though its body was of a fair size.  The adult robins seemed concerned, but not overly so.  They would perch nearby and look at the baby pleading for help before returning to the task of feeding the rest of their young in the nest.

Any of you that know me are aware that I am no ornithologist.  In fact, my idea of ‘outdoorsy’ would be a day game at Comerica Park.  But I didn’t want to sit there and watch the little robin die.  We have always used laundry detergent that is fragrance-free, so I slipped on a pair of latex gloves and found a T-shirt we used as a rag and wrapped it around the errant nestling.  The adult robins watched with interest, but nothing more.  My thinking was, if this bird is just a day or so away from flying, maybe it has a chance, if the adults will feed it.  We beckoned the dog inside and waited, peeking out the window, watching for cats and other predators.  At around dusk, our patience was rewarded.  The robins began bringing food to the bird on the ground.  Our spirits buoyed, we went to bed hopeful.   

Alas, it was not to be.  The temperature sank to fifty-seven degrees that night and there was dew on the ground.  The cold had claimed the baby bird.  Though we’d known there was little chance that we could interfere with the cruelty of nature, we were glad we had tried.  We mused on the corollaries to human parenting.  Though we rarely see emotion from non-domesticated animals, we wondered if they remember the ones they have to leave behind for the safety of the others, while discussing the human parents who’ve had to make tough decisions.   At the moment a child is born, we hope and pray that our baby isn’t taken from us by violence, a random illness, an accident, or an ill-timed, poorly planned escapade.  Yet it happens.  Every day, good parents bury children.  The next day they have to get out of bed and take care of their other children and themselves.  Cruelty of nature, indeed.

A couple of days passed, as well as the mini-funk we were in over the baby robin.  That was when we noticed that the wrens were gone.  Gone!  As in, not a trace.  The birdhouse was intact, with nothing but fluff left inside.  No signs of violence were seen.  The family had decamped, leaving no forwarding address.  While we’d watched and worried over the baby robin, another family had moved on.  Perhaps one morning before I was even out of bed, Mama Wren had announced that ‘today’s the day’ and marched her young charges to the door of their house, imploring them to do what they had been born to do, and they did it.  When everything happens as it is supposed to, we seldom take notice, do we?

A month has gone by since then.  Though it is still mid-summer, the shadows have shifted subtly, suggesting that this year will be like the last.  The leaves will fall, the air will chill and next year the cycle will begin again.  But something will be different in our human nest next year, as our baby bird prepares to take flight, testing his wings, applying knowledge both learned and inherited.  We feed them, we warm them, we teach them to the limit of our abilities and watch them go. It is heartbreaking and heartwarming.  The idea is foreign to us at times, and yet it is what we were born to do.

I found a wren feather on the ground near their old house and stuck it in the brim of my hat.  I suppose you could call it a feather in my cap.  I may watch from the sidelines feigning disinterest or I may chirp my disapproval on the wire.  But I will never forget the precious gifts that came from my wife’s eggs, nor will I forget the wonderful times we had in our nest.  Freebird, fly!

You Can Try For A Pick-Up, But There's No Carry-Out

My wife and I visited with some old friends of hers on a recent Friday night.  Kathy is close to her friends, as she is to her family, regardless of the relationship’s vintage.  It might be one of the things I love most about her as I still have many friends that date back to high school days.  Whether you consider yourself hot shit or a piece of shit, old friends have the ability to buck you up or knock you down…they knew you when.  If you don’t receive an attitude adjustment meeting with people you’ve known for decades, you must be the most level-headed person there is.

I was a little tired after a particularly grueling workday, but I didn’t have designs on cancelling my participation in the outing.  I didn’t know any of the attendees particularly well, but we’ve crossed paths repeatedly over the course of my nearly twenty-five year marriage to Miss Kitty.  They are, by and large, a great bunch of folks, easy to talk to, down-to-earth Michiganders that just like to get together and howl.  I’ve never been an opponent of the howl.

Of course, when it’s a couples party and the event is in honor of a vacationing sister, all bets are off for the fellows.  Some play pool, others try to join in the conversations and others just don’t attend.  Fortunately, my personality and interests dovetail with those of the fairer sex so, in the party situation, I am usually one of the girls.  Kath and I are able to hang together for a third to a half of the evening.

So, imagine my surprise when a male friend from her old neighborhood, a complete stranger to me, begins hitting on my wife.  About my age, no worse for the years; married longer than Kathy and I, I learned later.  But he was definitely hitting on my wife.

Now let me begin by saying that Kath and I are not jealous people.  Secure in our relationship, comfortable with our roles, we don’t spend time searching cell phones for unknown numbers or trolling social media to find out who’s been talking to our significant other.  We know who we are and trust each other deeply.  That said, you could make a case that we are ‘territorial.’ If we are in an uncharted territory, we will quickly lay boundaries for anyone that thought they were headed for open road.  Metaphorical traffic cones will be placed, directing the errant traveler to the ‘No Chance’ exit, never to be heard from again.  Usually.

So, sitting among the girls, naturally, I see the boys come in and out.  Sometimes to join the conversation, sometimes asking for a lighter, but they are typically exchanges that last a couple of minutes or less.  We’re beyond the age of babysitters, so the questions tend to be of a banal nature.  Did you turn the alarm on?  Did we feed Spanky before we kenneled him?

Imagine my surprise when one of the fellows begins trying the eighties lines and the eighties stories on my wife.  As I am sitting at her right elbow, he’s on the same side as my good ear, so I can hear everything he says…and he is totally trying to pick up my girl.  Keeping the eighties theme, he is trying to make her remember things that happened over thirty years ago, a story file that is easily massaged for maximum effectiveness.  Kath was receptive…because she is friendly.  She has been to dozens of theater cast parties and understood little of what we call ‘the creative process.’  Yet, she is still an engaged partner in numerous conversations with feverish actors (myself included).

Let me also add that Kath has lost twenty-five pounds this year, yes, a pound for every year we’ve been married, and she looks great.  She feels great.  She walks with a renewed confidence in new clothes that cover her smaller, stronger, toned body.  This is on top of the fact that she was always a “Hi-How-Ya-Doin’” sort at a party, quick with a quip and up for breaking any existing rules.  I had certainly noticed the difference in her, but apparently I wasn’t alone.

Old Neighborhood Guy, having started a conversation, placed his beer on the table between me and my wife, keeping his hand on the label.  Tired as I was, I immediately recognized the move.  When he turned his back to me completely, my suspicion was confirmed.  This dude was boxing me out.  Desperate to empty my bladder, I stayed.  He made landfall with his elbow on the table, putting his whole body between Kathy’s and mine.  I stared at the back of his head and recited a litany of dirty words in my mind, but I also found my inner caveman in that moment.  Inner-Caveman was most unhappy.

When O.N.G. lifted his hand for an elaborate re-creation of long ago glories, he returned to find my arm and my beer where he had once laid his.  When he decamped for a visit to the rest room, he returned to find the spot where he previously held court gone, ‘Occupato’ as they say in Guadalajara.   I told Kath during a quiet moment that the guy was hitting on her.  She brushed me off with a flip of her hand and a dismissive look.  He’s married!  she said.  He’s like a brother to me!  she protested.  I shrugged and moved on, talking to some of the other husbands at the built-in bar. 

As many parties do, the assembled end up huddled around the bar.  In the absence of a kitchen, the bar will do.  Kath and one or two of the other women were behind the bar, creating new libations and searching for the Tiger game on the satellite TV.  We came across a tribute to Gordie Howe, at which point O.N.G. re-appears, demanding the floor to tell his story of meeting Gordie, not just once, but twice.  It was a…good story.  I don’t want to nitpick but, as a writer, it could have used some editing.  It only mattered what Kathy thought, as he told the whole thing to her, swirling the single-malt in his rocks glass.  I don’t think she was terribly impressed.  I’ve seen the same look when I attempted to act out the opening nine pages of a first-draft.

With the mood effectively killed by the sense-numbing story, the girls disappeared from behind the bar to dance in a circle to music that isn’t often heard outside of Oldies radio.  The men dissipated as well, seriously regarding cigars they’d lit and extinguished throughout the evening.  As I remained at the bar, nursing my third Dr. Pepper, O.N.G. reappeared, elbowing me in the ribs as yet another Gordie Howe tribute was offered on the big screen.  “Hey, you know, I met him twice,” he stated.

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” I responded.  My face registered no emotion in the mirror behind the bar, but my Inner-Caveman just roared.

The Splinter and The Lip

After the passing of Muhammad Ali, I began thinking about another departed sports hero, Ted Williams.  ‘The Louisville Lip’ and ‘The Splendid Splinter’ had more in common than a stranglehold on Sports Illustrated covers.

Both were among the greatest in their respective sports at a time when competition was keen.  The heavyweight division was never stronger than it was in Ali’s era.  As formidable as Sonny Liston was, Ali’s TKO and KO wins over ‘The Bear’ remain tainted by allegations of a mafia fix.  With Liston’s personal troubles before and after the Ali fights, it is not hard to make a good argument in that direction.  Yet Ali held the championship twice in the seventies in a time that Joe Frazier and Ken Norton and George Foreman demanded a shot at the title.  Williams prowled the outfield for the Red Sox at a time when the Yankees dominated the headlines and the World Series.  Win or lose, Williams clocked in everyday, took his licks and did his damnedest to win.  I don’t think anyone who has ever read or seen an interview given by Williams would doubt his commitment to the game. 

  Neither Ali nor Williams ever pleaded injury when their efforts didn’t produce the hoped-for outcome, such was their fierce pride.  You would have to be an idiot to think they didn’t occasionally, or often, ply their trade while in pain.

They shared a great pride in their abilities.  When Williams began to decline as a hitter (almost imperceptibly to the layman), he would mutter to himself in batting practice, “I am Ted Fucking Williams and I am the greatest fucking hitter in the game.”  Prior to his bout with Ernie Terrell, Ali's opponent was quoted as saying, “His Mama called him (Cassius) Clay, I’m going to call him Clay.”  Yet in the ring, as Ali turned Terrell’s face into hamburger, Ali taunted, “What’s my name?  What’s my name?”

Each gave up a piece of their athletic prime for the U.S. military.  Williams, because he chose to serve, Ali because he refused.  Williams could have made appearances for the U.S.O. or coached a baseball team comprised of soldiers.  But he wanted to be a pilot and flew missions during the Korean conflict.  Ali refused induction, knowing he also could have been an ‘attraction’ for the Army and entertainment for the troops, though he refused the easiest path as well.  He chose to endure the scorn of the press and much of conservative America, insisting, “Ain’t no Vietnamese ever called me nigger.” 

Both had an up-and-down relationship with the press, Ali having a slightly better experience because his career was longer and his words, incendiary or not, made better copy.  Even if Williams had had his own Howard Cosell, a journalist he could speak expansively to at times and pick on at other occasions, I don’t think Williams would’ve become the icon Ali did.  Williams lacked that gift of gab.

In terms of an exit, Williams got the best of that deal.  On a late September day in 1960, Ted hit a game-winning home run and walked off the field for the last time as a player.  Ali stuck around for years after becoming the champion for a third time, finally leaving the boxing game as a loser in a lopsided decision to a middling heavyweight named Trevor Berbick in the Bahamas in 1982.  Yet Ali had been to the mountaintop three times while Williams never won the World Series for the BoSox.  Would Williams have mortgaged his batting titles and his position in the Baseball Hall of Fame for one World Series ring?  I think he might have.

If there is a specific afterlife for sports heroes, a heavenly arena or stadium where the cigar smoke hangs in the air and the floors are still sticky with beer, that would be where I would like to imagine Ali and Williams meeting.  Would they shake hands and congratulate the other for all that had been accomplished?  I think they would.  They were true to their sport and true to themselves.  Float like a long fly ball, sting like a bee.