COVID Senior Lockdown, Day 47

Love is in the air. Literally.

The other afternoon, the Missus and I were enjoying an end-of-day cocktail on the deck. It was a warm (finally!) spring evening. We watched four ducks flying evasive patterns. I thought they were two pairs of two. She thought they were three chasing one. Both are possible with ducks. Either way, it was a mating dance. Those birds did things with their wings in mid-air you don’t see unless they’re being sex addled show-offs.

Then yesterday, we took a little drive around the neighborhood. Fear not; we never interacted with any actual people. On our way back, a panicked movement caught her eye. Stop, she cried. There in a roadside rain puddle was a blur of fluttering brown wings. Clearly a small bird in distress. Ever the animal friend, she leaped from the truck. As she approached, a drenched sparrow flew from the puddle. Then the other one. Lots of birdie romance going on around here. But in the pool? As Hedley Lamarr would say, kinkyyyy.

Later, as we enjoyed the end-of-day round outside, we saw in the next yard a pair of ducks, a guy and a girl. Looks like one of those fellows got lucky. They were just standing in the grass, next to a rain pool, chatting amiably. It looked quite innocent, except for the cigarettes. The Missus named them George and Katie, after the older couple who used to live in that house. That’s what she has named every mating pair that has ever taken up residence in our yard or theirs, and there have been plenty over the years.

Sorry about the longer than normal gaps between posts lately. I keep blaming it on being busy, but the truth is it’s lack of inspiration. As with all great columnists, as well as lousy ones like me, the fodder for these things comes from sticky notes. You see something that might be the germ of a punchline, you jot it down. You have a clever turn of phrase or an old movie quote pop into your head, you scribble it and tack it to the pile. See something, stick something. Mrs. F is also an excellent muse, tossing me notes with her own takes on stuff, many of which end up in these pages. Lately, though, when I sit down to write funny, touching, or heroic tales of Life in COVIDland, I find that the scribbles are increasingly sardonic, bitter, even angry. It’s human nature to chafe against these kinds of restrictions, this enforced behavior that feels so…antisocial and counterproductive. Especially after two weeks has turned into nearly two months. So, I’ve resorted to reporting on bird sex while fighting the urge to write a rant. For example:

Have you heard recent announcements (like, on radio and TV) urging people to fill out their Census forms because it will help your community get enough vaccine, teachers, and hospitals? Technically, true. Census data, which is required by the Constitution every ten years (although they collect infinitely more personal info now than the Founding Fathers ever would have approved) is used to apportion federal resources according to population-related factors. My objection is that these spots, which have only surfaced in the last couple of weeks, clearly are intended to mislead citizens into a sense of urgency by implying that their Census reports have a chance in hell of affecting the COVID crisis. It takes years for that info to get crunched, for districts to get redistricted, for spend plans to be modified and for actual results to reach actual human beings. Maybe we’ll have enough vaccines for the next mysterious Chinese disease.

See what I mean? And that was one of the nice ones.

- Guy