Exhibit A
Tired of cleaning up the bird droppings on our garden patio, I innocently moved the bird feeder to the branch of another tree. Next thing I knew I was starring in a Hitchcock retrospective. Five birds perched deftly atop the garden fence started the rumpus with a surprisingly well-harmonized round of boos. There was even a sprinkling of derisive whistles from a few who undoubtedly spent some part of the winter in Spain or Italy watching European football.
The crow, of course, started the heckling. This was not at all surprising considering his reputation as chief backyard trouble-maker. He’s always chasing the little birds from the feeder and intimidating any other that dares to approach. I’m convinced that even those unwelcome squirrels and chipmunks are afraid of him.
“Throw the bum out”, he squawked. “Haven’t you learned anything from that charming wife of yours, you fool?” he delicately inquired.
Then the cardinal weighed in. This I did not expect. The red bird usually keeps to himself, busily gathering the seed that has fallen to the ground throughout the day. “You better watch your back and your head, Dude.”
As my blood pressure rose, pine needles rained down upon me, the work of dozens of agitated birds who were furiously flapping their wings and jumping up and down on the branches of three large trees. It takes lots of little feet to shake those needles loose, but this aggrieved, well-organized faction was resolute and had mounted a formidable protest.
I’d had enough. I picked up the garden hose sprayer, set the dial on shower, gave them all a good soaking, and snickered as they took flight.
“That was cold,” the frog croaked from a rock on the side of the fish pond.
“Don’t you start with me, you bulging-eyed, slimy excuse for an amphibian,” I hissed, indignantly, as I made my way back into the house.
As I closed the door behind me, I was grateful for our tall fences and the good neighbors they make.
Exhibit B
Having regained my composure, I set about getting ready for work. All systems were proceeding smoothly—as they must on these nails-against-the-blackboard daily commutes into D.C. from my Maryland residence—until the Quaker Oats mêlée in the microwaveable bowl. (And all these years I thought they were opposed to war and other acts of violence! Apparently this group of agitators never received the memo.)
The oats were so thick against the glass window of the microwave I could not even assess the number of casualties within. With great hesitation I opened the door. I soon discovered that one contingent had oozed up and over the top of the bowl, down the sides, and had mushroomed out and over the borders of the rotating plate. Others had taken flight, affixing themselves to every surface like flies on flypaper. Some had managed to swim through the water and infiltrate the heating element. In the short space of three minutes, these unexpected ground, aerial, and naval hostilities had wiped out what I thought was going to be a simple, healthy breakfast.
My embarrassing performance earlier in the garden still fresh in my mind, I decided to ignore this minor setback. I contented myself with a lovely bowl of fruit with a wallop of a dollop of genuine maple syrup, all topped off with one half teaspoon of cooked oatmeal, the only survivors from the morning’s fracas.
Exhibit C
Following an unusually stress-free commute to the office, I rolled up to my computer and logged on. As I waited for the machine to boot up, my cell phone rang. It was my son, who is home from college for the summer. He said he was not feeling well. When he and his older brother (now married and living in New England) were young, any time my wife or I would travel overseas, one of the boys would come down with some illness before boarding passes were handed out. After reviewing a series of stomach-friendly menu options, we began our search for a cause.
Not enough sleep? That was certainly a possibility, considering my son’s predilection for late-night, dry land electronic surfing and tubing. After a long pause, he casually wondered aloud whether the bacon cheeseburger with the large order of cheese fries he consumed at the diner at midnight might offer some clues.
“Yes, your Honor, I rest my case with this single brief, which I would like to submit to the court at this time without further debate.”
After wishing him a speedy recovery and a good day, I couldn’t help but wonder whether those wacky birds, hell-bent on revenge and perhaps even a wee bit jealous that our empty nest was temporarily inhabited for the summer, might have been up to another one of their dirty avian tricks.
Exhibit D
Three strikes before noon, and I began to wonder whether I was already out on this first day without adult supervision. Not necessarily! I could still reach first base this afternoon on a third strike passed ball and then make it home safely, where the perfect bike ride awaited me. When I shut down my computer for the day, the temperature was in the high 70s, the humidity was low, there was an unseasonably pleasant wind, the sky was Carolina Blue, and the sun had no intention of pulling down the shade until 8:30 p.m.
Two consecutive ankle surgeries several years back eventually forced me to give up both competitive adult basketball and recreational running in favor of cycling, which is now the centerpiece of my aerobic routine. I’ve never been much of a pool swimmer. Perhaps I’ve never completely shaken those haunting childhood memories of swim lessons, when I spent endless weeks as a “Minnow”, while my friends were rapidly becoming “Guppies” and “Gold fish” and even “Sharks”. Or, perhaps it’s those attractive goggles, which always fill with fog no matter how I adjust them. They also always leave at least one dark circle around the eye, reminiscent of Petey, the dog from the Our Gang comedy series of the 20s and 30s. The bike is now the only thing standing between me and learning how to play golf, that "Good Walk Spoiled" as the author John Feinstein refers to it.
In contrast to those swim lessons, I fondly recall cycling as an adolescent. My first real bike was a 700-pound gorilla of a Schwin. It was an arresting beauty, red and white, and loaded with two gears: go and stop. It had massive tires, silver mud shields, and a thick central bar, perfect for transporting friends. It was a classic American-made bike, with red, white and blue tassels that dangled from the hand grips. I explored the boundaries of my world on that beast of a machine, starting with my own paper route.
I delivered a county newspaper, which was printed every Thursday. My Dad fastened a wire basket to my handlebars. That basket and the banded papers that filled it added another 50 pounds to my ride. Every two weeks I collected $.96 from each of my customers. There sure were plenty of thrifty Dads on my route. I can still vividly remember each one standing before me with one hand firmly griping a crisp dollar bill, while the other hand, opened and fully extended towards me, eagerly awaited the $0.04 in change. Only the sight of four shiny Lincolns could loosen those vise-like grips. Interestingly, Moms always let me keep the change. Some even gave me a dollar and a quarter. Although the male-to-male transaction put a serious dent into my tip earnings, there was a big upside.
To carry around all that coin, I had to have a heavy metal change maker, which I fastened to my belt. It was the kind that all those perspiring, ambulatory ice cream vendors on the Jersey shore used to carry along with their hulking ice boxes, which weighed almost as much as my bike. At least I didn’t have to drive through the sand. Once filled with quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies, the machine weighed another 200 pounds, which now had me tipping the scales at 950. Add another 130 pounds of body weight, and we’re looking at a one-ton operation. The thrill of clicking those metal triggers and watching those coins drop into my hand, however, made lugging all that weight tolerable.
Bikes were also great get-away vehicles when trouble loomed, which was frequent in my suburban Philadelphia neighborhood, and which came in different forms. There was the grouch who threatened to call the cops every time we started a crabapple fight in his yard with the crabapples from his tree. There was the victimized neighbor who wanted to talk to the owner of the baseball that had crashed through his new dining room window, which he just had installed. Finally, there was the enraged driver who fell for the imaginary rope trick, in which two of us on one side of the road and two on the other pretended to be engaged in a heated tug of war, at dusk. I could always count on my bike for safe passage.
In any case, just five minutes into my highly anticipated ride on this glorious summer day in July 2009, a deflating hiss followed on the heels of a jarring “pop”. This couldn’t be! This was a brand new, top-of-the-line tire touted as the most durable on the market. Be that as it may, not even 48 hours earlier I had a similar blowout on the exact same tire at the end of an evening ride. My wife and son came to my rescue in response to my cell phone-generated SOS, and the local bike shop technicians replaced the tube the very next day.
Before today’s calamity, I never had occasion to change a bicycle tire on my own. I wasn’t too worried. After all, I spent one entire summer during college changing automobile tires at a full-service tire center. I had 2 spare tubes and my tire changing tools at home, which was only 5 minutes away. Unlike the Schwin of my childhood, which only today’s governor of California could lift, even I could carry my featherweight TREK to my garage, which I did. How hard could this be? Answer: like asking an equine veterinarian to switch her practice overnight to small animal dentistry.
Automobile tires are life-size, tire centers employ large machines, and technicians use large tools that make lots of noise. All this equipment is probably made in Texas. In contrast, bicycle tires, parts, and repair tools are made in Oz, with the exception of the seat, of course, which is made in Hell. Although not a betting man by nature, I am willing to wager that Hell’s residents don’t mind so much the eternal flames—eventually everybody becomes accustomed to them, I suppose. What must be the most annoying part of living there is having to eat meals, watch TV, and play cards sitting on all those bicycle seats. Eternity lasts a long time.
Once in my driveway, removing the tire and the tube from around the rim proved easy enough. I inserted the new tube in the tire, threaded the needle through the hole in the rim, carefully positioned the tube and tire within the rim, and proceeded to add air pressure. Before I could pat myself on the back for a job well done, however, my son-turned assistant, now fully recovered from his earlier malaise, asked me about the ugly bulge of rubber extending beyond the rim at one point on the tire. I believe his exact words were: “Is that the way the tire is supposed to look?” Before I could answer or release some air, the tire exploded, along with my hopes of that perfect ride.
In the Japanese maple directly above this bungled effort hovered that scoundrel of a crow. When our eyes met, he flew off into the stunning Carolina Blue sky, leaving an audible trail of cackling behind. I paid no attention to his hooting, because at that moment all that I could hear was that humiliating poolside command of my childhood: “Back into the pool, Minnow, until you learn to float.”
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