[ . . . ] down a neglected sidewalk heaving with tree roots, through a taller, thicker hedge and then—sweating, out of breath, hating all cats for all eternity—I rounded a corner and —
Blammo. / / / I collided with a man. / / / I’m sorry, I spluttered. I was trying to catch a— / / / The man held up a finger. Shhhh, he whispered, and then pointed to the sky. / / / My eyes followed the line of his finger. Perched in a tall bare maple sat an extraordinary bird. It was small, round as a sparrow, but the colors! A bright purple-blue head, red breast, yellow and green wings. / / / A painted bunting, male, whispered the man. The famed rainbow bird. / / / The bird dipped its head, hopped farther along the branch and then began to sing, a high, bright, chirpy sound that seemed full of purpose, like a cartoon character trying to make a point. It was silly and charming and completely entrancing. / / / Together the man and I silently listened and watched for one minute, two, and then without warning the bird lifted off and flew away in a tiny swirl of color and wind. / / / Wow, I said. That was intense. / / / They don’t normally come this far north, the man replied, his eyes still trained on the place the bird had been. This is a real event bird. I’ll have to notify the blogosphere. / / / Event bird? / / / Once in a migratory season, if you’re lucky. He winked. Today, we’re very lucky.
There was a gentleness to the man, a way he moved and spoke., slowly and with grace, that temporarily hypnotized me. I blinked. I opened my mouth and shut it again, not because I felt anxious, embarrassed or self-conscious but because I wanted to prolong this wondrous encounter. A moment of shared contemplation and reverence. The famed rainbow bird. This was an event.
Well, the man said, have a nice one. And he walked away. / / / Wait! I yelled, just before he turned the corner. / / / The man turned. Yes? / / / Who are you? / / / I’m a birdwatcher, he said. We are many. You’ll see us around. Bye now. And he turned and was gone.
Today we’re very lucky, the birdwatcher had said. I examined the empty tree, bare but for little green buds beginning to sprout all over. I had never in my life felt lucky. In fact, deep in my soul I imagined myself the unluckiest person who had ever lived. I never won contests, raffles, card games, prizes at the fair or tic-tac-toe. I often stepped on bees, got stuck in traffic, picked the slowest line at the grocery store, missed the plane or train or bus I was trying to catch. Of course, I objectively, I was a very, very lucky person and it was important to remind myself of this fact or else risk a self-absorption so complete that I might actually disappear into my own navel.
I am not unlucky, I said aloud. I have a home; I have parents who love me, despite their recent abandonment; I have food; I have strong legs and a brain that works (usually) and my teeth are fairly straight thanks to four years of painful orthodontics, and my breasts, while small, manage to remain perky even at my advanced age [blogger’s not: 29 years old] and tendency not to wear a bra.
Reciting aloud the list of items that made me feel lucky—bedroom slippers, fond memories of Fred [blogger’s note: a potted fern], an electric toothbrush—I wandered down the street. Comfortable purple socks, a snow globe from that trip to San Francisco, a mesmerizing little scar on my right thumb, a jar of pennies, my knack for crosswords—
Aphrodite.
She was sitting on the northwest corner of Del Ray Avenue and Marino Drive. I’d never been to this part of Murbridge before and to my list of things I added: the capacity to enjoy a good surprise. / / / There you are, I said. Are you waiting for me? / / / Aphrodite meowed, picked herself up and, with a twitch of her tail and a backward glance, walked into a bush.
Cat, you are killing me, I said. At that moment, I did not care about returning Aphrodite to her owner. But curiosity got the better of me. I followed her through the dense undergrowth, spiky branches scratching my shins, a leaf in my mouth, a mosquito up my nose. At last I emerged into a placid, verdant landscape.
I pulled up. An expansive lawn stretched gently upward toward an imposing stone mansion flanked by longer, lower, more modern buildings, painted white. The ground beneath my feet was squishy from the spring thaw, but the earth closer to the house must have been firm because across it sat a dozen wheelchairs and in those wheelchairs sat elderly women. One woman appeared to be snoozing, another read a book in her lap and the remainder cooed and clucked and stroked the cats surrounding them. There were a dozen felines at least, different colors and sizes, curled up around the wheelchairs or sitting placidly in the women’s laps. I saw a calico, a tabby, one black with white ears and, of course, Aphrodite. She was sitting in the lap of a white-haired woman who was hand-feeding her sardines from a can.
So this was where they went, all the cats. A grassy den of treats and cuddles. A feline Shangri-la. The women didn’t appear to notice me; they were too busy petting, cooing, and feeding. I wondered: What is this place? A hospital? A home for wayward elderly women and wandering cats? I didn’t remember any kind of senior citizen facility in Murbridge. My parents had never mentioned one. Why go all the way to Arizona when they could have camped out here? Besides, I didn’t see any nurses. Didn’t nursing homes generally employ nurses?
Slowly I wandered up the lawn. Aphrodite most definitely noticed me now. Her ears stiffened, her eyes widened. She assumed [ … ]”
Excerpt from the award winning new novel Community Board by Tara Conklin. Which references or was inspired by the authors experiences, perhaps with the Nextdoor social network during periods of COVID pandemic isolation. But the community board depicted is rather spare and I don’t recall references to images or styling & whatnot. Text Focused. Harkening back to modern internet forums, the slightly pre-World Wide Web Bulletin Board Systems which; I knew about the precursor, Community Memory (from reading Jenny O’Dell’s book How to Do Nothing before reading about it on Wikipedia, and various types of Internet forums, but I guess I had a misconception (only a very thin notion to begin with) of what ‘BBS’ means. All of which, you know refer back to physical bulletin boards…. The only-local-visibility of things is a feature of the Nextdoor network and early sharing systems but was initially I guess regarded as a bug or a hindrance, not a useful or desirable feature, as Internet Forums opened their doors to the world and technological limitations on breadth of visibility and interaction were never replaced with deliberate local localized boundaries.
Lost in Mist 