THE OWL

 An owl must live in the trees at the edge of our woods. I hear it who-ing every evening right before the channel 10 lady airs tomorrow’s weather forecast. She, (the news lady, not the owl), along with sharing her predictions for climate shifts, unknowingly announces our dinner. At my house, we are like Pavlov’s dogs, conditioned to respond to recurring signals: garbage truck = breakfast, noon whistle = lunch, weather lady = dinner.

 

Without those landmarks, would we starve? Surely not! We must retain some prehistoric mechanism, some native response to hunger, regardless of the time of day. But I am not so certain. 

The year of quarantine has deepened the ruts of living at our house. My routine varies so slightly that each day is an echo of the one before it and a prediction of the one to come. 

This is the worrisome part: I’m beginning to like that rut. It’s as comfortable as the thin tee-shirt that I sleep in. I know there are other nighties in the drawer but I reach for the same pale pink shirt with the long sleeves that need folding up twice to keep out of toothpaste, the one with a vest pocket that usually holds a slightly used tissue. The tissue invariably goes through the wash with the shirt and resurrects in shreds marking the entire laundry load and showering paper dander all over the black tile floor.

We humans are social animals; our survival depends on sharing, and I always believed myself to be a “people person.” Get me to a dinner party, a performance, an event. I can usually bluff my way through a crowd of strangers, sometimes convincing them and myself that it’s all good, that I find them intoxicatingly interesting, that we share fundamental facts upon which we can enjoy conversation and humor. 

But I wonder if these skills must be exercised, like our stomach muscles, doing social sit ups to keep the smile intact and the brain cogs whirring? If we see no one for weeks, months, years, do we become mute, indifferent to the quirks and tics of fellow travelers? 

Are we in danger of becoming social novices? A Covid casualty of a different kind?

I have a friend who keeps making new clothes for herself. She’s a fine knitter and seamstress and throughout the “Year of the Troubles,” she’s maintained her sanity by working at frenzy focus on this new wardrobe.  I smile at her obsession. Her life “pre-Covid” was one of modest social engagement. Judging by the trousseau she continues to construct, anyone might guess that she’s about to launch on a major travel season! 

Within the next several months, her life may resume something labeled “normal.” Likely, it will mean an occasional dinner out, a monthly evening with friends, a movie, a haircut appointment. What about all those new sweaters? the skirts of many colors? Even before their final pressing, are they destined for Goodwill? Second Hand Rose? There are worse ways to mark this year. 

As I sat at the table today, I caught sight of wide white wings sailing through the trees at the edge of the woods. I think it was the owl. I’ve never seen an owl in flight at my house. It was worth the wait. 

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The white lilies are from Trader Joe's...the best $9 I've spent in months!