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Shakespeare Hoot |  |
Then, you float down the Deschutes River and make fun of the lobster people. Lobster people are those visitors to our area who seem to think high-elevation sun exposure is irrelevant when you are on vacation or intoxicated or both. Residents know to liberally apply sunscreen or to rely on the pine pollen coating their body to protect them from ultraviolet radiation. Bend, Oregon is in the high desert next to the Cascade Mountains and we have a LOT of pine trees. This time of year, the pollen flies. My white car (well, what I thought was white until I was informed by the salesman, in no uncertain terms, that the paint hue is blizzard pearl) (whatever), looks like it has jaundice. If you plop down on an outdoor seat cushion, you are immediately surrounded by a yellow poof cloud. Every road is a yellow brick road. Also, unlike my own personal decision (due to middle-agedness and a fondness for cookies) that certain body parts on my own person are no longer suitable for public viewing, these lobster people, well rather, bloated lobster people, have a less stringent sense of modesty. Let’s just say that due to their own buoyancy, personal flotation devices are superfluous. So after dodging the bobbing tourists, you then go home and set off fireworks in your driveway. Nothing says “America” like buying a product made in China and burning it. When it finally gets dark around 10:00 pm, the firework are launched from Pilot Butte, a nonresidential hill (and one of only three extinct volcanoes within city limits) (whatever) that lies in the middle of town. We note the time of the first visible flames and distribute the betting-pool money. As I have written before, the holiday would not be complete without setting the Butte on fire. All park traffic is forbidden days before the event. They clear out extra brush and the fire department soaks whatever is left. Several fire trucks surround the propulsion site prior to nightfall. The pyrotechnics are then set off and inevitably, somehow, some way, the Butte catches fire. This year was no exception. By now, given the extensive protection initiated and maintained around the area, one must conclude Pilot Butte consists of flammable dirt. Or possibly, pine pollen can burn. However, this year, my family had a different celebration. We tiptoed around the yard and whispered inside the house all day. We didn’t want to spook our visitor. We share our living space with abundant wildlife. Deer stop by in groups of a few does and fawns or our regular bachelor herd of two stags. Yeah, right. “Bachelors.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And who can forget the black and white “kitty” who greeted Scooby, the psychotic Jack Russell Terrier, with a perfume shower that lingered for six months? I can’t. Neither can Scooby. Bears and cougars are rare but they do live here. So do other predators. One year we had a hawk who decided our backyard was her own personal buffet. That included Christmas morning when she ate her breakfast just outside the living room window with our Christmas tree on the other side of the glass. Without getting too graphic, let’s just say the breakfast did not want to be eaten, especially on Christmas Day, next to a living room window that had a Christmas tree on the other side of the glass. Ew. But this July 4th, my son was the first to spot the quite large barred owl in the backyard. He and I froze in the living room and stared in awe at the owl. Being the friendly sort, we both waved. The owl looked at us and concluded, quite rightly, we were no threat and obviously, too dumb to eat. Also too dumb to eat were the many squirrels and birds who continued to run around and up the trees where the owl was taking its daily nap. It was foolish of us to try to be silent because owls can hear the pitter-patter of teeny mice feet. But foolish we were because having an owl in your backyard is so completely awesome we did not want it to end. The owl was determined to be a barred owl. Credit my son with this extremely painful pun: since it was a “bard” owl, his name was Shakespeare. I’m really sorry but I warned you it would hurt. Shakespeare stayed the entire day and did not leave until we went inside to eat dinner. So, like the other Shakespeare, he was not only a bit of a ham, he knew to leave when the audience did. Or maybe it was that after spending a day with a yard full of morons, he decided to hunt for more challenging prey. Like a KFC two-piece.
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