East Point

Who in their small, circumscribed little lives haven’t thought about this? That having nothing to do and plenty of time to do it in can actually be a good thing. It’s time to stop worrying about it. There’s nothing to do here and that’s great! Live like a mouse! It’s your time.

Once again we had an opportunity to visit the East Point. The usual long, paralyzing death march. It’s true. I have a tendency to exaggerate occasionally. It’s called hyperbole. The place brings back memories.

I remember the Cowbirds one afternoon. There must have been a hundred of them. There were so many I thought, wow, maybe we’re going to have Cowbirds around here now. I never saw one before or since. They look a bit like sparrows, the females anyway, except they’re not sparrows and they’re a little bigger.  The males have black heads and brown bodies. The females famously lay their eggs in other birds’ nests. I thought that was pretty outrageous the first time I heard it.

Then there was that other afternoon with the Sparrowhawk. The more common name now is American Kestrel, but I like Sparrowhawk and not because I’ve got anything against Americans.  It was a female and not a great deal bigger than a sparrow but it was so close I had no problem identifying it for what it was. Sparrowhawk.  It’s the smallest raptor.  It’s impressive.

It was sitting on a branch in the middle of a thick bush above the beach on Tumbo Channel.  Somehow she didn’t notice me standing by the bush about four feet away. There was no one else around, as usual. She just sat there on that branch for a long time and I  kept standing where I was, not moving. If I’d have moved a muscle to take a picture, for instance, it would have flown away.  But neither of us moved. It was our special time. I’ve never seen a Sparrowhawk again either. It’s like that here.

Perhaps I’m worried about going nuts. Losing my sanity. I should be worried. Who isn’t worried? About a lot of things. But I have my burrow. And my family. They come and go but I don’t speak for everyone. My brain is working fine. It’s small, but a lot of things are small. And if I should pack it, and not come home one evening, it’s probably because some owl got me. I like owls. I know it’s nothing personal. But those talons of theirs are sharp. Just like the Sparrowhawk’s.

Maybe my problem is I want something so bad and I don’t know if I can get it here. Can I get it? I can try. I can do something. But I just don’t know. I wish I did. Time will tell.

There’s a wonderful permanence to East Point. I wish I knew why. It’s always here. It doesn’t matter if few know about it. It’s free. They took out the phone booth. All that’s left is a concrete pad up by the parking lot. I don’t think anybody had a problem with the phone going. Particularly when nobody can remember what it was even about. A phone booth? What for?

Some called it the phone booth at the end of the universe. It looked good at night if there was a bit of mist. It was a lit phone booth and you could see it from a distance. It was picturesque, as only a lost phone booth can be. There was an aura of mystery about it. I remember using it a couple of times, trying to make contact.  I’ve no idea why now. I sometimes wonder if I know what I’m doing.


Have a pleasant visit..