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V o l . 12 N o . 2 As the pandemic deepens, on some days the Andersons are the only voices besides Melville and NPR in my head. As I make my way through Melville’s cavernous sentences, the sounds of the Anderson children splashing, shouting, and whining by day are replaced by the tinkling of wine glasses and what sounds like lovemaking in the hot tub by night—dear God no more children.
pandemic turned me into a misanthrope? Certainly, the Andersons have. One day I surprise myself by shouting out loud, “I want none of your happy shallow life Andersons, none of it.” There was a moment of silence on the other side of the fence, as if they were considering what I said, before the cacophony began again. Brady and Bethany are growing taller. When they jump high on the trampoline, their heads pop over the hedge and they smile at me with frightening toothy grins. In the end, I exact a double-edged sword type of revenge. I adopt Fergus, a corgi that barks at nothing and howls at the moon. He ruins the Anderson’s most intimate moments, and mine too.
Mike Bates
Murres Can't Dance Inscription
Carolyn Adams
By now it is clear that Mr. Anderson runs the show. He is in charge of the equipment. Mrs. Anderson is his helpmate in his home building projects. He instructs her on how to drain the hot tub and hose the deck. She must be his second wife; no first wife would put up with so much mansplaining. What deal was struck with the devil, that Mr. Anderson took on the role of the shepherd and overseer of the family, and Mrs. Anderson the patient listener? By August, I hear a tinge of anger in Mrs. Anderson’s voice. Is it the beginning of rage? Will it lead to a showdown? My therapist once gave me a book about women who, seemingly without warning, leave their husbands after years of marriage. The husbands all had the same incredulous reaction, “I just asked her to make me a sandwich, she got up, picked up her purse, and walked out the door.” I want to yell, Run, Mrs. Anderson. Just run. Run while your legs are still strong enough to carry you, run before you boil over, run before you end up in a made for TV movie.” I've been caught up in a bad soap opera. Not one authentic word coming from the other side of the hedge. Everyone is playing their part, every line scripted, a parody of a happy life. Why don’t I believe all this happy togetherness? Why is it my version of hell? Why am I waiting for this happy family to implode? Has the
The murres returned to the rock yesterday. You know, that species of marine bird often referred to as the penguin of the northern hemisphere, the common murre? And that massive intertidal monolith, the looming hulk of basalt rising some two hundred thirty-five feet in the shape of a French haystack above the Oregon coast that serves as a marine rookery during the summer months? Those birds returned to that rock yesterday, and the spectacle was magnificent. I’ll admit there may have been a time when my response would have been the same as yours, somewhere between “say what?” and “so what?” To hear the common murre described with reference to the beloved penguin might very well be a disservice to penguins as far as I was concerned. The common murre might look a little bit like the penguin all dressed up in a cheap imitation of black tie, and it might dive deep beneath the ocean surface for food, just like the penguin, but everybody knows that murres can’t dance. Pop culture notwithstanding, the common murre can do something a penguin can’t. The murre can fly, if you want to call it that. They’re not exactly aerodynamic, and their narrow wings have to beat furiously just to keep the silly birds airborne. Think hummingbird, and you start to get the picture. But where hummingbirds are highly maneuverable, the murre, not so much. The murre’s neck is long and its tail short, so its wings give the impression in flight of being set back on the thorax, behind the bird’s center of gravity, as though pushing the bird through the air rather than providing lift.
