COVID Senior Lockdown, Day 49

Happy Cinco de Mayo! And a belated Star Wars Day.

The goldfinches are finally popping, turning from their winter green-bronze into bright yellow bursts of joy. And, we have another new bird! He showed up yesterday and was still here this morning, feeding on the driveway seed along with the sparrows and the baby cowbirds. He’s a Rufous-Sided Towhee, Rufous not to be confused with Rufus, the 70s band that launched Chaka Khan. In birdworld, it means red, most often a brownish red. And that’s what this fellow has: a brown-grey head and back, brown-red sides, and a bright white belly. I think he’s a juvenile, ‘cause the grown-ups have darker tops. Cute. Never had one before.

I think I mentioned that we’re packing up the house to sell and move to a happy retirement all alone in isolation and fear on Maryland’s beautiful Eastern Sure. I found myself wondering whether we have a statue of St. Joseph. Common (a relative term) belief has it that burying a statue of St. Joseph upside-down (Kinky. Don’t ask.) in your yard assures your house will sell sooner. I think we need all the help we can get.

I forgot to mention, we saw the Salute to Health Workers Flyover the other day by the Navy Blue Angels and Air Force Thunderbirds. Mrs. F loves flyovers. They make her cry every time. So, when we heard about it and saw the map, we picked a spot and drove into the eastern suburbs of Baltimore. The shopping center parking lot we chose was full of flyover fans of all ages. It was a gorgeous spring day, sunny and warm, so unlike most of the weather of late, and the mood was festive. Out! Finally! And around other people! Aunt Marge! Is that you? Parents rejoicing, children hyperventilating. A county cop rolled through, assessed our positions, and let it ride. Common sense prevails once in a while. Thank you, officer. Everybody kept The Distance. And the planes were, as always, super impressive.

In packing up another room yesterday, I was wrapping and putting my Orioles bronze statues away, the ones they gave away when they put up the Hall of Famer statues at the ballpark some years back. I had to fit the manager into a box in an undignified position, which led me to wonder: If you bury Earl Weaver upside down, do you get a good ball team sooner?

A Big OK Boomer Thanks to Mrs. F’s old friend Arizona Laura One (Yes, there is a Two.). In a text exchange yesterday she used the term “wigging out.” Really!

Sister Gonzaga: Mr. F, please define “Wigging Out.”
Me: Yes, Sister. Wigging Out. Circa 1965. Becoming overly excited, losing control. Synonyms: freaking out, flipping out.
Sister G: Very good, Mr. F. Can you use “wigging out” in a sentence?
Me: Yes, Sister. “The guy ahead of me in the drive-thru line was wigging out because his fries were cold.”
Sister G: Mr. F, were you driving?
Me: Yes, Sister.
Sister G: Mr. F, you’re twelve. Report to the Principal’s office.
Me: Yes, Sister.

Ah, memories.