Blog #225                                July 1, 2021

 

Last week I was again at the Zoo, entertaining the tourists and pointing the way to all the attractions.  As I was walking to my station at the South Entrance, I passed the flamingos – beautiful, classic birds brilliantly salmon-hued and elegantly haughty.  Haughty, our Weekly Word, means arrogantly superior, and they are certainly that.  There was a group of young girls with their mothers enjoying the gorgeous birds, and I approached.  “Hi,” I said.  “Would you like to hear a story about these flamingos?”  It seems that whenever I offer to tell a story, young people gather to me, open their eyes as wide as possible and make not a sound.  Here’s what I told them:  A hundred years ago, the Zoo decided to bring flamingos here and everybody loved them.  Do you know why?  That’s right, because they’re pink.  Everyone came to see the pink birds that stood on one leg.  All the visitors tried to stand on one leg like the birds and marveled at how pretty-in-pink they were.  But then something horrible happened.  After a few weeks, the birds began to fade in color and after a few weeks more, they were pure white, not pink.  Nobody wanted to see the flamingos anymore, so the Zoo people decided to find out what happened – and they did.  Do you know why the flamingos turned white?  No?  Well, it turns out that flamingos eat mostly little shrimp-like creatures with red shells, and the red from the shrimp shells gets into their bodies and turns their feathers pink.  The zookeepers had been feeding the flamingos seeds and grains with no red coloring.  As soon as the flamingos started eating shrimp again, they once again became pink and everybody came back to see them.

 

Did you like that story?  So did the little girls.  And the best part is that it’s all true.   When I was finished, the girls asked if I could stay with them the whole time they were at the Zoo and be their own personal guide. 

 

Hi there, and welcome back.  I hope you’re doing well.  Working at the Zoo is such an ego trip for me.  At the Zoo, I am The Man, the guy in charge, the person with all the answers, the Pied Piper to all the little kids.  At home, I am the man, a third-class citizen in a two-person family, unable to make a decision or do anything right.  Of all creatures that breathe and move on earth, says the Iliad, none is more to be pitied than a man.  In truth though, I’m not sure what I would do if I didn’t have my wife to take charge and lead the way.  Without her, I’d be like a goldfish in a bowl of Jell-o, unable to match his clothes or find his way or do anything except write poetry or read old books. 

 

After a plane trip, several car rides, a ferry boat and a tram, here we are at Bald Head Island.  All those different modes of travel just reminded me of the sign they used to have at the Parkmoor restaurant in St. Louis.  The sign showed people crowding in on trucks and planes and horses and skis and dozens of other conveyances just to get to Parkmoor and eat the greasy burgers and onion rings.  Great sign; great food; long gone.

 

At Bald Head, off the coast of North Carolina, you rent a house, go to the beach, play tennis and pickle ball, eat at the two or three restaurants and go the beach again.  Plus, you shop at the grocery store at least twice a day.  There’s only one store and it’s quaint and over-priced, but every morning I head out on the golf-cart (no cars are allowed on the island) with one or more grandchildren and a list. Grocery shopping for women is a routine chore, but for men it is Hunting and Gathering.  We are as proud of that chicken cut up and wrapped in cellophane as if we had chased it down, strangled it and plucked it ourselves.  And stalking and killing a wooly mammoth could not have been more dangerous than choosing the right barbecue sauce.  But, we did okay.  We bought too much chicken and the olives were the wrong color but, hey, it’s jungle out there.

 

Bald Head Island is indeed remote and very reclusive.  Everyone leaves the keys in their golf-carts.  Nobody locks the doors to their houses.  Forget your troubles, forget politics, enjoy the beach and beat your body to shreds.  In the first 24 hours, I played tennis and pickle-ball, walked ¾ of a mile to the beach, enjoyed the surf and walked back, listened to eight children and seven other adults playing games and yelling and screaming, and shopped twice at the Shop and Do-Not-Save.  I am both exhausted and happy.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice (Hamlet).  While Pops is gone, wasting his time with silly grandchildren, my neighbors are taking care of me.  They come over to play and feed me, and I always say thanks, B&B, but I don’t think they understand me.  The only one who understands everything I meow is Pops.  He understands perfectly when I say I’m thirsty or Scratch my head or Get out of my chair.  Purr.

 

Tomorrow is Carol’s birthday and she’ll be celebrating here with her husband (the irreplaceable moi), her three daughters, their partners and all eight grandchildren.  What could be a better birthday present, except maybe a cute sweatshirt she located at a local shop.  Happy Birrthday, Sugar Plum.

 

We did have a little rain at Bald Head, but nothing like last year. 

 

We certainly cannot complain

Of the one or two days we had rain

It was only last year

We were huddled in fear

In a horrible big hurricane.

 

As some of you loyal readers may remember, last year we were struck by Hurricane Isaias and suffered a frightening night on the island.  But not this year.  So far, everything has been great – fun and games and food, the beach, the pool, sports, tired muscles.  Forget all your troubles.  But I haven’t forgotten you.  Stay well, count your blessings and – wait, I have to go to the grocery store.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com