Buddy and I were stalked by a pelican recently.
We were on a secluded Mattole River sand bar, enjoying the short seasonal window when the water is warm and placid enough to swim but not yet clogged with algae. Well, I was enjoying it. My senior dog (15 this year!) has become adventure-averse, but he dutifully whined from the shore as I waded out into the delicious deep in my underwear and sports bra.
The water, the wind, the sun, the day were perfect. It was Memorial Day weekend and I had resolved to carpe some diem. I had a funeral to attend the next day for our beloved Eleanore Jordan, gone at 37. If grief is bittersweet, its sweetness is often clarity of purpose and priority. There were a dozen other things I should or could have been doing, but standing with my bare toes in the gravel of the riverbed, letting the solitude do its work on me, I felt she would have approved. Also, there was a giant bird just a few yards downstream, hunched on a rock with the bearing of a put-out parent at a Chappell Roan concert
I am no wildlife expert, but I suspected Mr. Pelican was quite a bit inland from where he should be, probably hoping to score some salmon, and after squinting with my middle-aged eyes to confirm I was seeing what I thought I was seeing, I went on with my plans: splashing, sun-bathing, snacking, and reading. I had just gotten to the good part in my novel (see recommendations, below) when Buddy started barking and growling. I looked up and saw our chaperone had left his rock and was striding towards us. Suckers are big. I called Buddy to me and carefully backed away. Mr. Pelican continued his march. I backed away further, pulling my shirt on. So, yes, the image you should have in your head here is of a middle-aged woman in her underwear and her elderly dog running away from a pelican. I couldn’t decide what he wanted — my snacks, the river to himself — so I tried displaying my dominance by yelling and flapping my arms around. He extended his wings in the universal signal of, “You want to go? Let’s go.” We retreated further. After a few moments he seemed confident we knew who was boss and returned to the water. I gathered up my things without pausing to put on my shoes, and hustled Buddy away towards the trail. As we began to scurry up the bank, I looked back to see Mr. Pelican had left the water and was again striding towards us, as though to make sure we left.
Dad was skeptical of my bird encounter — “Are you sure it wasn’t an egret?” — so the next morning I went back down to the water to see if I could snap a picture of him. Sure enough, he was still there, looking grumpy. I took some photos from a safe distance and when he noticed me and fluffed out his feathers, I fled. I read up on pelicans and learned that it’s unusual for them to hunt alone; they usually flock and feast together. I wondered if a recent windstorm had driven him off course. A friend told me sadly that pelicans are coming further and further inland looking for food and are often crazed by hunger. Dad had a different theory: that he was kicked out of his flock due to his crappy attitude. I found the whole encounter buoying. Being an adult with a house and a job and an a body to maintain is such a drag sometimes — if you put yourself in situations where you can get chased by a wild animal occasionally you’re probably doing a good job at seizing the day.
What I’m doing:
Painting my house. Let me know if you’d like to come over and supervise me on a ladder. I didn’t survive being chased by a bird to break my beautiful body doing something as mundane as priming siding. Also contemplating doing stand-up again. I went to a friend’s show the other night and found myself saying, “I used to do that. It was fun. It was….20 years ago? WTF?” That’s what happens when you keep saying you’ll get back to something you used to love when you have the time or the guts. The time spends itself and your guts become intolerant to garlic/gluten/cheese/dammit and all of a sudden it’s been 20 YEARS.
What I’m writing: This, for now? I needed to do something to keep me writing on the regular and to stay in touch with people without relying on social media, which I use but abhor for so many ethical reasons. I’m also working on a short piece for the Journal about speed-dating, which I tried recently, and as always covering the Humboldt County Fair Association for The Enterprise. (Only in print. Only in The Enterprise!)
What I’m reading: Okay, when I first decided to start this blog/newsletter, I wanted to talk about how much I disliked Yesteryear, despite having devoured it in just a few days. It was a fast, fun read and the twist ending was so infuriating! I handed it to my favorite bookseller with haste after finishing. Get it out of my house! There’s already a lot of opinions about it you can find online, but I have to underscore my biggest problem, which is that the author had a plot point around making hats for chickens, that the chicken then wore for weeks (???????????!!!) Bullshit, if you’ve ever interacted with a chicken. Also, just because I never pass up a chance to say it, Where the Crawdads Sing was also totally overrated. Different author but similar issues with the “twist” and I will never not try to stop people from wasting their time and money on it.
So I chased the sour taste of Yesteryear out of my mouth with Yellowface by R.F. Kuang, the book I got so sucked into I didn’t even notice I was about to get my ass kicked by a tiny feathered dinosaur. I don’t think anyone expects a novel about the literary industry to be such a nail-biter. 100% recommend and I want to read all of Kuang’s work now.
I also just got my pre-order of David Sedaris’ latest collection, The Land and Its People and breezed through it in a week. Great fun, as always. I’m going to try and finally see him in person this year. So now I’m finishing up this recent collection of Daphne DuMaurier short stories, with an introduction written by Stephen King. The cover art reminds me of the V.C. Andrews books I read when I was much too young. Rebecca is still one of my favorite books – I wrote about its Netflix adaptation a few years ago – but I was less familiar with her short stories. They are wonderfully wicked. Her short story The Birds, which inspired the Hitchcock adaptation, is notably different and more thrilling than the movie. And, yes, I just now realized the irony of hyping up a literary work about bird attacks.
My friend and fellow local writer Neil Tarpey just released his first novel, Darkness in the Redwoods. I had the pleasure of being in a writing group with Neil a few years ago and reading early drafts of DITR, so I was touched a pleased to get an autographed copy of the book during Arts Alive this week. Along with having the coolest URL ever (tarpeydiem.com), Neil provides an excellent example of what writing requires: Focus, discipline, fortitude, optimism. I’m so proud of him!